Malcolm

by George MacDonald

Note from Editor

Malcolm - a story full of mystery, hatred, spiritual insight, and goodness. A woman is buried in an old Scottish sea town. Did her life in some way bear on that of Malcolm, a well-loved, strong, noble-hearted youth? On the one who raised him—a blind piper with sixth sense and an ancient vendetta? On the lovely, free-spirited daughter of the marquis who captivates him?

This book, written in 1875 by a son of Scotland, gives an authentic glimpse into life on the Moray Firth two centuries ago. That includes dialogue in broad Scots, which at times seems a completely different language. So some definitions are placed in the text^{in blue superscript}—untidy but convenient.

An abridged version of Malcolm for the modern reader was published as The Fisherman’s Lady by Michael Phillips (Bethany House, 1982).

For this ebook, a MacDonald-lover combined two different scans of Malcolm. Where those differed, a digital image of the book was consulted. Neither scan preserved italics, so the digital image was used to manually add them. (The texts were from Project Gutenberg and The Internet Archive, two efforts to digitize books and provide access for all. The digital image [https://archive.org/download/malcolm00macd_0/malcolm00macd_0_jp2.zip] was also from The Internet Archive.) Additional proof-reading and formatting was given. Occasional phrases that seemed impossibly thick were trimmed; one can see what was removed on the editor’s MacDonald page at interactingwithjesus.org/macdonald (trimmed text is visible as HTML comments when one views the source code of the “read in browser” versions). Similar “MacDonald-lover editions” of MacDonald’s other titles are available.

About Broad Scots

Books that George MacDonald set in his native Scotland, such as this one, often contain sections of dialogue in broad Scots. Such portions will slow down the reader. But they need not stop us!

The meaning of many of those Scots words can be deduced from the context. For instance, those with an apostrophe:

  a’ can mean “all”

  s’ - “shall”

  ’at - “that”

  ’t - “it”

  i’ - “in” or “into”

  ’s - “us”, “his”, “as”, “is”, or “has”

  ca’ - “call”

  wi’ - “with”

  w’y - “way”

Words in a slightly different form than normal English can also be deduced from the context. For instance:

  aboot - “about”

  dinna - “do not”

  frae - “from”

  gie - “give”

  hae - “have”

  lang - “long”

  lane - “alone”

  maist - “most”

  ’maist - “almost”

  muckle - “much”

  ower - “over”

  sae - “so”

  the day - “today”

  the night - “tonight”

  twa - “two” or “few”

  wad - “would”

  wadna - “would not”

  wha - “who”

  whaur - “where”

Some of the broad Scots words show even more difference. So for the first several occurrences of these words (and for some in the previous lists), I put the definition there in the text^{in superscript}. For instance:

  abune - “above”

  ae - “one”

  ayont - “beyond”

  begud - “began”

  doobt - “know (suspect)” (or “doubt”)

  gang - “go”

  gait - “way”

  haud - “hold”

  intil’t - “into it”

  ken - “know”

  kenna - “know not”

  kent - “knew”

  or - “before” (or “or”)

  nor - “than” (or “nor”)

  sic - “such”

  till - “to”

  win - “get” or “reach”

  wull - “will” or “wild (willful)”

Other Scots words seem a completely different language. So for these words I continued longer in putting the definition in the text in superscript. For instance:

  bairn - “child”

  bairnie - “small child”

  bude to - “had to”

  gar - “make”

  gart - “made”

  gien - “if” (also “given”)

  greit - “weep”

  ilka - “every”

  lave - “rest (remainder)”

  ohn - “without”

  speir - “ask”

  syne - “then” or “ago”

Malcolm

by George MacDonald

[from the 1877 Edition]

Extracts from some Press Notices of “Malcolm.”

“His characters are drawn with great delicacy and firmness of touch. [Every one] bears evidence to the Author’s keenness of observation and skill in vivid portraiture.” —Examiner
“A story which will be extensively read, and its sequel eagerly looked for.” —Spectator
“Contains quite a wealth of clearly marked characters.” —Guardian
“Full of high teaching; the Author’s individuality is pervasive, he colours all that he touches with the fine light of his character and most often generously transforms it. Such is the force of his sympathy that he generally makes the common-place poetic.” —Nonconformist

Chapter 1 - Miss Horn

“Na, na^{by no means}; I hae^have nae^no feelin’s, I’m thankfu’ to say. I never kent^knew ony^any guid^good come o’^of them. They’re a terrible sicht^sight i’ⁱⁿ the gait^way.”

“Naebody^nobody ever thoucht^thought o’^of layin’ ’t^it to yer chairge^charge, mem^ma’am.”

“‘Deed^indeed, I aye had eneuch^enough adu^{ado, trouble} to du^do the thing I had to du, no to say the thing ’at^that naebody^nobody wad^would du^do but mysel’. I hae^have had nae^no leisur’^leisure for feelin’s an’^and that,” insisted Miss Horn.

But here a heavy step descending the stair just outside the room attracted her attention, and checking the flow of her speech perforce, with three ungainly strides she reached the landing.

“Watty Witherspail! Watty!” she called after the footsteps down the stair.

“Yes, mem,” answered a gruff voice from below.

“Watty, whan^when ye fess^{fetch, bring} the bit boxie, jist pit^put a hemmer an’^and a puckle^{a few} nails i’^{in, into} your pooch^pouch to men’ the hen-hoose door. The tane^{the one} maun^must be atten’t till^{attended to} as weel’s the tither^{the other}.”

The “bit boxie” was the coffin of her third cousin Griselda Campbell, whose body lay on the room on her left hand as she called down the stair. Into that on her right Miss Horn now re-entered, to rejoin Mrs Mellis, the wife of the principal draper in the town, who had called ostensibly to condole with her, but really to see the corpse.

“Aih! she was taen^taken yoong!” sighed the visitor, with long-drawn tones and a shake of the head, implying that therein lay ground of complaint, at which poor mortals dared but hint.

“No that yoong,” returned Miss Horn. “She was upo’ the edge o’^of aucht^eight an’^and thirty.”

“Weel^well, she had a sair^sore time o’^of ’t^it.”

“No that sair^sore, sae^so far as I see—an’ wha^who sud^should ken^know better? She’s had a bien^cosy doon sittin’^{place to live}, and sud^should hae^have had as lang’s I was to the fore^here. Na, na^{by no means}; it was nowther^neither sae^so young nor yet sae^so sair^sore.”

“Aih! but she was a patient cratur^creature wi’^with a’^all flesh,” persisted Mrs Mellis, as if she would not willingly be foiled in the attempt to extort for the dead some syllable of acknowledgment from the lips of her late companion.

“‘Deed^indeed she was that!—a wheen^little ower^over patient wi’^with some. But that cam’^came o’^of haein^having mair^more hert^heart nor^than brains. She had feelin’s gien^if ye like—and to spare. It’s a pity she hadna^{had not} the jeedgment to match, for she never misdoobted^suspected onybody eneuch^enough. But I wat^promise it disna^{does not} maitter^matter noo^now, for she’s gane^gone whaur^where it’s less wantit. For ane^{a single person} ’at^that has the hairmlessness o’^of the doo^dove ’n this ill-wulled warl’^{ill-willed world}, there’s a feck^group o’^of ten ’at^that has the wisdom o’^of the serpent. An’^and the serpents mak^{make, do} sair^{sore, sad} wark^work wi’^with the doos^doves—lat^let alane^alone them ’at^that flees into the verra^very mouws^mouths o’^of them.”

“Weel^well, ye’re jist richt there,” said Mrs Mellis. “An’^and as ye say, she was aye some easy to perswaud^persuade. I hae^have nae^no doubt she believed to the verra^very last he wad^would come back and mairry^marry her.”

“Come back and mairry^marry her! Wha^who or what div^do ye mean? I jist tell ye Mistress Mellis—gien^if ye daur^dare to hint at ae^one word o’^of sic^such clavers^gossip, it’s this side o’^of this door o’^of mine ye s’^shall be less acquant^acquainted wi’^with.”

As she spoke, the hawk-eyes of Miss Horn glowed on each side of her hawk-nose, which grew more and more hooked as she glared, while her neck went craning forward as if she were on the point of making a swoop on the offender. Mrs Mellis’s voice trembled with something like fear as she replied:

“Gude^God guide ’s^us, Miss Horn! What hae^have I said to gar^{cause, make} ye look at me sae^so by ordinar^{out of the ordinary} ’s^as that?”

“Said!” repeated Miss Horn, in a tone that revealed both annoyance with herself and contempt for her visitor. “There’s no a claver^gossip in a’^all the countryside but ye maun^must fess^fetch ’t^it hame^home aneth^beneath yer oxter^armpit, as gin^{as if} ’t^it were the prodigal afore he repentit^repented. Ye s’^shall get sma thanks for sic^such like here. An’^and her lyin’ there as she’ll lie till the jeedgment-day, puir^poor thing!”

“I’m sure I meant no offence, Miss Horn,” said her visitor. “I thocht^thought a’^{all, every} body kent^knew ’at^that she was ill about him.”

“Aboot^about wha^who, i’^{in, into} the name o’^of the father o’ lees^lies?”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, aboot^about that lang-leggit doctor ’at^that set oat^out for the Ingies^Indies, an’^and dee’d^died afore he wan^went across the equautor. Only fouk said he was nae^no mair^more deid^dead nor^than a halvert worm^{worm cut in half}, an’^and wad^would be hame^home whan^when she was merried^married.”

“It’s a’^all lees^lies frae^from heid^head to fut^foot, an’^and frae^from hert^heart to skin.”

“Weel^well, it was plain to see she dwyned^{pined, wasted} awa^away efter he gaed^went, an’^and never was hersel’ again—ye dinna^{do not} deny that?”

“It’s a’^all havers^nonsense,” persisted Miss Horn, but in accents considerably softened. “She cared na^not mair^more aboot^about the chield^lad nor^than I did mysel’. She dwyned^{wasted away}, I grant ye, an’^and he gaed^went awa^away, I grant ye; but the win’^wind blaws an’^and the water rins^runs, an the tane^{the one} has little to du^do wi’^with the tither^{the other}.”

“Weel^well, weel; I’m sorry I said onything to offen’ ye, an’^and I canna^cannot say mair^more. Wi’^with yer leave, Miss Horn, I’ll jist gang^go an’^and tak’^{take, seize} a last leuk^{look, watch, appearance} at her, puir^poor thing!”

“‘Deed^indeed, ye s’^shall du^do naething o’^of the kin’^kind! I s’^shall lat^{let, allow} nobody glower at her ’at^that wad^would gang^go an spairge^spread sic^such havers^nonsense about her, Mistress Mellis. To say ’at^that sic^such a doo^dove as my Grizel, puir^poor, saft-hertit^soft-hearted, winsome thing, wad^would hae^have lookit^looked twice at ony^any sic^such a serpent as him! Na, na^{by no means}, mem! Gang yer wa’s^{go your way, go on} hame^home, an’^and come back straucht^{straighten, straight} frae^from yer prayers the morn’s mornin’^tomorrow. By that time she’ll be quaiet^quiet in her coffin, an’^and I’ll be quaiet^quiet i’^{in, into} my temper. Syne^then I’ll lat^let ye see her—maybe.—I wiss^wish I was weel^well rid o’^of the sicht^sight o’ her, for I canna^cannot bide it. Lord, I canna bide it.”

These last words were uttered in a murmured aside, inaudible to Mrs Mellis, to whom, however, they did not apply, but to the dead body. She rose notwithstanding in considerable displeasure, and with a formal farewell walked from the room, casting a curious glance as she left it in the direction of that where the body lay, and descended the stairs as slowly as if on every step she deliberated whether the next would-bear her weight. Miss Horn, who had followed her to the head of the stair, watched her out of sight below the landing, when she turned and walked back once more into the parlour, but with a lingering look towards the opposite room, as if she saw through the closed door what lay white on the white bed.

“It’s a God’s-mercy I hae^have no feelin’s,” she said to herself. “To even^compare my bonny Grizel to sic^such a lang^long kyte-clung^starved chiel as yon! Aih, puir^poor Grizel! She’s gane^gone frae^from me like a knotless threid^thread.”

Chapter 2 - Barbara Catanach

Miss Horn was interrupted by the sound of the latch of the street door, and sprung from her chair in anger.

“Canna^cannot they lat^let her sleep for five meenutes?” she cried aloud, forgetting that there was no fear of rousing her any more.—“It’ll be Jean come in frae^from the pump,” she reflected, after a moment’s pause; but, hearing no footstep along the passage to the kitchen, concluded—“It’s no her, for she gangs^{goes, walks} aboot^about the hoose^{house, home} like the fore half o’^of a new-shod cowt^colt;” and went down the stair to see who might have thus presumed to enter unbidden.

In the kitchen, the floor of which was as white as scrubbing could make it, and sprinkled with sea-sand—under the gaily painted Dutch clock, which went on ticking as loud as ever, though just below the dead—sat a woman about sixty years of age, whose plump face to the first glance looked kindly, to the second, cunning, and to the third, evil. To the last look the plumpness appeared unhealthy, and its colour also was pasty. Her deep-set, black-bright eyes, glowing from under the darkest of eyebrows, which met over her nose, had something of a fascinating influence—so much of it that at a first interview one was not likely for a time to notice any other of her features. She rose as Miss Horn entered, buried a fat fist in a soft side, and stood silent.

“Weel^well?” said Miss Horn interrogatively, and was silent also.

“I thocht^thought ye micht^might want a cast^scrap o’^of my callin’,” said the woman.

“Na, na^{by no means}; there’s no a han’ ’at^that s’^shall lay finger upo’ the bairn^child but mine ain^own,” said Miss Horn. “I had it a’^all ower^over, my lee lane^{all by myself}, afore the skreigh o’ day^{the crack of dawn}. She’s lyin’ quaiet^quiet noo^now—verra^very quaiet^quiet—waitin’ upo’ Watty Witherspail. Whan^when he fesses^fetches hame^home her bit boxie^{little box}, we s’^shall hae^have her laid canny^carefully intill^into ’t^it, an’^and hae^have dune^done wi’^with ’t^it.”

“Weel^well, mem, for a leddy-born, like yersel’, I maun^must say, ye tak^{take, seize} it unco^very composed!”

“I’m no awaur^aware, Mistress Catanach, o’ ony^any necessity laid upo’ ye to say yer min’^mind i’^{in, into} this hoose^{house, home}. It’s no expeckit^expected. But what for sud^should I no tak’^{take, seize} it wi’^with composur’? We’ll hae^have to tak’ oor^our ain^own turn er^{ere, before} lang^long and gang^go oot^out like a lang-nibbit can’le^{long-tapered candle}—ay, an lea’^leave jist sic^such a memory ahin’^behind some o’ ’s^us, Bawby.”

“I kenna^{do not know} gien^if ye mean me, Miss Horn,” said the woman; “but it’s no that muckle^much o’ a memory I expec’ to lea’ ahin’ me.”

“The less the better,” muttered Miss Horn; but her unwelcome visitor went on:

“Them ’at^that ’s^is maist^most i’^{in, into} my debt kens^knows least aboot^about it; and then mithers^mothers canna^cannot be said to hae^have muckle^{much, enormous} to be thankfu’ for. It’s God’s trowth^truth, I ken^know waur^worse nor^than ever I did, mem. A body in my trade canna^cannot help fa’in’ amo’^among ill company whiles^{at times}, for we’re a’^all born in sin, an’^and brocht^brought furth^forth in ineequity^iniquity, as the Buik^{book; Bible} says; in fac’, it’s a’^all sin thegither: we come o’ sin an’^and we gang^{go, depart} for sin; but ye ken^know the likes o’ me maunna^{must not} clype^{tell tales}. A’^all the same, gien^if ye dinna^{do not} tak^{take, seize} the help o’ my han’, ye winna^{will not} refuse me the sicht^sight o’ my een^eyes, puir^poor thing!”

“There’s nane^none sall^shall luik^look upon her deid^dead ’at^that wasna^{was not} a pleesur’ till her livin’; an’^and ye ken^know weel^well eneuch^enough, Bawby, she cudna^{could not} thole^bear the sicht^sight o’ you.”

“An’ guid^good rizzon^reason had she for that, gien^if a’^all ’at^that gangs^{goes, walks} throu’ my heid^head er^{ere, before} I fa’ asleep i’^{in, into} the lang^long mirk^dark nichts^nights be a hair better nor^than ane^one o’ the auld^old wives’ fables.”

“What mean ye?” demanded Miss Horn, sternly and curtly.

“I ken^know what I mean mysel’. I wad^would fain^gladly hae^have gotten a fancy oot^out o’ my heid^head that’s been there this mony^many a lang^long day; but please yersel’, mem, gien^if ye winna^{will not} be neebourly.”

“Ye s’^shall no gang^go near her—no to save ye frae^from a’^all the ill dreams that ever gethered aboot^about a sin-stappit^sin-stuffed bowster^{pillow, bolster}!” cried Miss Horn, and drew down her long upper-lip in a strong arch.

“Ca cannie! ca cannie^{push carefully}!,” said Bawby. “Dinna^{do not} anger me ower^over sair^sore, for I am but mortal. Fowk^folk tak^{take, seize} a heap frae^from you, Miss Horn, ’at^that they’ll tak^{take, seize} frae^from nane^none ither^other, for your temper’s weel^well kent^known, an’ little made o’; but it’s an ill-faured thing to anger the howdie^midwife—sae^so muckle^much lies upo’ her; an, I’m no i’^{in, into} the tune to put up wi’^with muckle^much the nicht^tonight. I wonner^{wonder, marvel} at ye bein’ sae^so oonneebourlike^{unneighborlike}—at sic^such a time tu^too, wi’^with a corp^{body, corpse} i’^{in, into} the hoose^house!”

“Gang^go awa—gang oot^out o’t: it’s my hoose,” said Miss Horn, in a low, hoarse voice, restrained from rising to tempest pitch only by the consciousness of what lay on the other side of the ceiling above her head. “I wad^would as sune^soon lat^let a cat intill^into the deid-chaumer to gang^go loupin’^leaping ower^over the corp^corpse as I wad^would lat^let yersel’ intill^into ’t^it Bawby Catanach; an’ there’s till ye!”

At this moment the opportune entrance of Jean afforded fitting occasion to her mistress for leaving the room without encountering the dilemma of either turning the woman out—a proceeding which the latter, from the way in which she set her short, stout figure square on the floor, appeared ready to resist—or of herself abandoning the field in discomfiture: she turned and marched from the kitchen with her head in the air, and the gait of one who had been insulted on her own premises.

She was sitting in the parlour, still red-faced and wrathful, when Jean entered, and, closing the door behind her, drew near to her mistress, bearing a narrative, commenced at the door, of all she had seen, heard, and done, while “oot^out an’ aboot^about i’^{in, into} the toon^{town, village}.” But Miss Horn interrupted her the moment she began to speak.

“Is that wuman^woman furth^forth the hoose^house, Jean?” she asked, in the tone of one who waited her answer in the affirmative as a preliminary condition of all further conversation.

“She’s gane^gone, mem,” answered Jean—adding to herself in a wordless thought, “I’m no sayin’ whaur^where.”

“She’s a wuman^woman I wadna^{would not} hae^have ye throng^{be intimate} wi’^with, Jean.”

“I ken^know no ill o’ her, mem,” returned Jean.

“She’s eneuch^enough to corrup’ a kirkyaird^churchyard!” said her mistress, with more force than fitness.

Jean, however, was on the shady side of fifty, more likely to have already yielded than to be liable to a first assault of corruption; and little did Miss Horn think how useless was her warning, or where Barbara Catanach was at that very moment. Trusting to Jean’s cunning, as well she might; she was in the dead-chamber, and standing over the dead. She had folded back the sheet—not from the face, but from the feet—and raised the night dress of fine linen in which the love of her cousin had robed the dead for the repose of the tomb.

“It wad hae been tellin’ her^{would have been right of her},” she muttered, “to hae^have spoken to Bawby fair! I’m no used to be fa’en^fallen foul o’ that gait^way. I s’^shall be even wi’^with her yet, I’m thinkin’—the auld^old speldin’^{a fish that has been split and dried}! Losh! and Praise be thankit! there it ’s^is! It’s there!—a wee darker, but the same—jist whaur^where I could ha’ laid the pint^point o’ my finger upo’ ’t^it i’^{in, into} the mirk^{darkness, night}!—Noo^now lat^let the worms eat it,” she concluded, as she folded down the linen of shroud and sheet—“an’ no mortal ken^know o’ ’t^it but mysel’ an’ him ’at^that bude till^{had to} hae^have seen ’t^it, gien^if he was a hair better nor^than the Glenkindie’s villain i’^{in, into} the auld^old ballant^ballad!”

The instant she had rearranged the garments of the dead, she turned and made for the door with a softness of step that strangely contrasted with the ponderousness of her figure, and indicated great muscular strength, opened it with noiseless circumspection to the width of an inch, peeped out from the crack, and seeing the opposite door still shut, stepped out with a swift, noiseless swing of person and door simultaneously, closed the door behind her, stole down the stairs, and left the house. Not a board creaked, not a latch clicked as she went. She stepped into the street as sedately as if she had come from paying to the dead the last offices of her composite calling, the projected front of her person appearing itself aware of its dignity as the visible sign and symbol of a good conscience and kindly heart.

Chapter 3 - The Mad Laird

When Mistress Catanach arrived at the opening of a street which was just opposite her own door, and led steep toward the sea-town, she stood, and shading her eyes with her hooded hand, although the sun was far behind her, looked out to sea. It was the forenoon of a day of early summer. The larks were many and loud in the skies above her—for, although she stood in a street, she was only a few yards from the green fields—but she could hardly have heard them, for their music was not for her. To the northward, whither her gaze—if gaze it could be called—was directed, all but cloudless blue heavens stretched over an all but shadowless blue sea; two bold, jagged promontories, one on each side of her, formed a wide bay; between that on the west and the sea-town at her feet, lay a great curve of yellow sand, upon which the long breakers, born of last night’s wind, were still roaring from the north-east, although the gale had now sunk to a breeze—cold and of doubtful influence. From the chimneys of the fishermen’s houses below, ascended a yellowish smoke, which, against the blue of the sea, assumed a dull green colour as it drifted vanishing towards the south-west. But Mrs Catanach was looking neither at nor for anything: she had no fisherman husband, or any other relative at sea; she was but revolving something in her unwholesome mind, and this was her mode of concealing an operation which naturally would have been performed with down-bent head and eyes on the ground.

While she thus stood a strange figure drew near, approaching her with step almost as noiseless as that with which she had herself made her escape from Miss Horn’s house. At a few yards’ distance from her it stood, and gazed up at her countenance as intently as she seemed to be gazing on the sea. It was a man of dwarfish height and uncertain age, with a huge hump upon his back, features of great refinement, a long thin beard, and a forehead unnaturally large, over eyes which, although of a pale blue mingled with a certain mottled milky gleam, had a pathetic, dog-like expression. Decently dressed in black, he stood with his hands in the pockets of his trowsers, gazing immovably in Mrs Catanach’s face.

Becoming suddenly aware of his presence, she glanced downward, gave a great start and a half scream, and exclaimed in no gentle tones:

“Preserve ’s^us! Whaur^where come ye frae^from?”

It was neither that she did not know the man, nor that she meant any offence: her words were the mere embodiment of the annoyance of startled surprise; but their effect was peculiar.

Without a single other motion he turned abruptly on one heel, gazed seaward with quick-flushed cheeks and glowing eyes, but, apparently too polite to refuse an answer to the evidently unpleasant question, replied in low, almost sullen tones:

“I dinna^{do not} ken^know whaur^where I come frae^from. Ye ken^know ’at^that I dinna^{do not} ken^know whaur^where I come frae^from. I dinna^{do not} ken^know whaur^where ye come frae^from. I dinna^{do not} ken^know whaur^where onybody comes frae^from.”

“Hoot^pshaw!, laird! Nae^no offence!” returned Mrs Catanach. “It was yer ain^own wyte^fault. What gart^{caused, made} ye stan’ glowerin’ at a body that gait^way, ohn telled^{without telling} them ’at^that ye was there?”

“I thocht^thought ye was luikin’^looking whaur^where ye cam^came frae^from,” returned the man in tones apologetic and hesitating.

“‘Deed^indeed I fash^trouble wi’^with nae^no sic^such freits^omens,” said Mrs Catanach.

“Sae^so lang’s ye ken^know whaur^where ye’re gaein’ till^{going to},” suggested the man.

“Toots! I fash^trouble as little wi’^with that either, and ken^know jist as muckle^much about the tane^{the one} as the tither^{the other},” she answered with a low oily laugh.

“I ken^know mair^more nor^than that mysel’, but no muckle^much,” said the man. “I dinna^{do not} ken^know whaur^where I cam^came frae^from, and I dinna^{do not} ken^know whaur^where I’m gaun^going till; but I ken^know ’at^that I’m gaun^going whaur^where I cam^came frae^from. That stan’s to rizzon^reason, ye see; but they telled me ’at^that ye kenned^knew a’^all about whaur^where we a’^all cam^came frae^from.”

“Deil^not a bit o’ ’t^it!” persisted Mrs Catanach, in tones of repudiation. “What care I whaur^where I cam^came frae^from, sae^so lang’s—”

“Sae^so lang’s what, gien^if ye please?” pleaded the man, with a childlike entreaty in his voice.

“Weel^well—gien^if ye wull^will hae’t—sae^so lang’s I cam^came frae^from my mither^mother,” said the woman, looking down on the inquirer with a vulgar laugh.

The hunchback uttered a shriek of dismay, and turned and fled; and as he turned, long, thin, white hands flashed out of his pockets, pressed against his ears, and intertwined their fingers at the back of his neck. With a marvellous swiftness he shot down the steep descent towards the shore.

“The deil’s in’t ’at^that I bude to^{had to} anger him!” said the woman, and walked away, with a short laugh of small satisfaction.

The title she had given the hunchback was no nickname. Stephen Stewart was laird^{landed proprietor, lord} of the small property and ancient house of Kirkbyres, of which his mother managed the affairs—hardly for her son, seeing that, beyond his clothes, and five pounds a year of pocket-money, he derived no personal advantage from his possessions. He never went near his own house, for, from some unknown reason, plentifully aimed at in the dark by the neighbours, he had such a dislike to his mother that he could not bear to hear the name of mother, or even the slightest allusion to the relationship.

Some said he was a fool; others a madman; some both; none, however, said he was a rogue; and all would have been willing to allow that whatever it might be that caused the difference between him and other men, throughout the disturbed mind blew ever and anon the air of a sweet humanity.

Along the shore, in the direction of the great rocky promontory that closed in the bay on the west, with his hands still clasped over his ears, as if the awful word were following him, he flew rather than fled. It was nearly low water, and the wet sand afforded an easy road to his flying feet. Betwixt sea and shore, a sail in the offing the sole other moving thing in the solitary landscape, like a hunted creature he sped, his footsteps melting and vanishing behind him in the half quicksand.

Where the curve of the water line turned northward at the root of the promontory, six or eight fishing-boats were drawn up on the beach in various stages of existence. One was little more than half built, the fresh wood shining against the background of dark rock. Another was newly tarred; its sides glistened with the rich shadowy brown, and filled the air with a comfortable odour. Another wore age-long neglect on every plank and seam; half its props had sunk or decayed, and the huge hollow leaned low on one side; old pools of water overgrown with a green scum, lay in the hollows between its rotting timbers, and the upper planks were baking and cracking in the sun. Near where they lay a steep path ascended the cliff, whence through grass and ploughed land, it led across the promontory to the fishing village of Scaurnose, which lay on the other side of it. There the mad laird, or Mad Humpy, as he was called by the baser sort, often received shelter, chiefly from the family of a certain Joseph Mair, one of the most respectable inhabitants of the place.

But the way he now pursued lay close under the cliffs of the headland, and was rocky and difficult. He passed the boats, going between them and the cliffs, at a footpace, with his eyes on the ground, and not even a glance at the two men who were at work on the unfinished boat. One of them was his friend, Joseph Mair. They ceased their work for a moment to look after him.

“That’s the puir^poor laird again,” said Joseph, the instant he was beyond hearing. “Something’s wrang^wrong wi’^with him. I wonder what’s come ower^over him!”

“I haena^{have not} seen him for a while noo^now,” returned the other. “They tell me ’at his mither^mother made him ower^over to the deil^devil afore he cam^came to the light; and sae^so, aye as his birthday comes roun’^around, Sawtan^Satan gets the pooer^power ower^over him. Eh, but he’s a fearsome sicht^sight whan^when he’s ta’en that gait^way!” continued the speaker. “I met him ance^once i’^{in, into} the gloamin’^{twilight, dusk}, jist ower^over by the toon^{town, village}, wi’^with his een^eyes glowerin’ like uily^oily lamps, an’ the slaver rinnin’ doon^down his lang^long baird. I jist laup^laugh as gien^if I had seen the muckle^{much, enormous} Sawtan^Satan himsel’.”

“Ye nott na^{needed not} hae^have dune^done that,” was the reply. “He’s jist as hairmless, e’en at the warst^worst, as ony^any lamb. He’s but a puir^poor cratur^creature wha’s tribble’s ower^over strang^{strong, violent} for him—that’s a’^all. Sawtan^Satan has as little to du^do wi’^with him as wi’^with ony^any man I ken^know.”

Chapter 4 - Phemy Mair

With eyes that stared as if they and not her ears were the organs of hearing, this talk was heard by a child of about ten years of age, who sat in the bottom of the ruined boat, like a pearl in a decaying oyster shell, one hand arrested in the act of dabbling in a green pool, the other on its way to her lips with a mouthful of the seaweed called dulse. She was the daughter of Joseph Mair just mentioned—a fisherman who had been to sea in a man-of-war, in consequence of which his to-name or nickname was Blue Peter. Having been found capable on the ship, he was employed as carpenter’s mate, and came to be very handy with his tools; and having saved a little money by serving in another man’s boat, he was now building one for himself.

He was a dark-complexioned, foreign-looking man, with gold rings in his ears, which he said enabled him to look through the wind “ohn^without his een^eyes watered.” Unlike most of his fellows, he was a sober and indeed thoughtful man, ready to listen to the voice of reason from any quarter; they were, in general, men of hardihood and courage, encountering as a mere matter of course such perilous weather as the fishers on a great part of our coasts would have declined to meet, and during the fishing-season were diligent in their calling, and made a good deal of money; but when the weather was such that they could not go to sea, when their nets were in order, and nothing special requiring to be done, they would have bouts of hard drinking, and spend a great portion of what ought to have been their provision for the winter.

Their women were in general coarse in manners and rude in speech; often of great strength and courage, and of strongly marked character. They were almost invariably the daughters of fishermen, for a wife taken from among the rural population would have been all but useless in regard of the peculiar duties required of her. If these were less dangerous than those of their husbands, they were quite as laborious, and less interesting. The most severe consisted in carrying the fish into the country for sale, in a huge creel or basket, which when full was sometimes more than a man could lift to place on the woman’s back. With this burden, kept in its place by a band across her chest, she would walk as many as twenty miles, arriving at some inland town early in the forenoon, in time to dispose of her fish for the requirements of the day. I may add that, although her eldest child was probably born within a few weeks after her marriage, infidelity was almost unknown amongst them.

In some respects, although in none of its good qualities, Mrs. Mair was an exception from her class. Her mother had been the daughter of a small farmer, and she had well-to-do relations in an inland parish; but how much these facts were concerned in the result it would be hard to say: certainly she was one of those elect whom Nature sends into the world for the softening and elevation of her other children. She was still slight and graceful, with a clear complexion, and the prettiest teeth possible; the former two she must have lost long before had it not been that, while her husband’s prudence had rendered hard work less imperative, he had a singular care over her good looks; and that a rough, honest, elder sister of his lived with them, whom it would have been no kindness to keep from the hardest work, seeing it was only through such that she could have found a sufficiency of healthy interest in life. While Janet Mair carried the creel, Annie only assisted in making the nets, and in cleaning and drying the fish, of which they cured considerable quantities; these, with her household and maternal duties, afforded her ample occupation. Their children were well trained, and being of necessity, from the narrowness of their house-accommodation, a great deal with their parents, heard enough to make them think after their faculty.

The mad laird was, as I have said, a visitor at their house oftener than anywhere else. On such occasions he slept in a garret accessible by a ladder from the ground floor, which consisted only of a kitchen and a closet. Little Phemy Mair was therefore familiar with his appearance, his ways, and his speech; and she was a favourite with him, although hitherto his shyness had been sufficient to prevent any approach to intimacy with even a child of ten.

When the poor fellow had got some little distance beyond the boats, he stopped and withdrew his hands from his ears: in rushed the sound of the sea, the louder that the caverns of his brain had been so long closed to its entrance. With a moan of dismay he once more pressed his palms against them, and thus deafened, shouted with a voice of agony into the noise of the rising tide: “I dinna^{do not} ken^know whaur^where I come frae^from!” after which cry, wrung from the grief of human ignorance, he once more took to his heels, though with far less swiftness than before, and fled stumbling and scrambling over the rocks.

Scarcely had he vanished from view of the boats, when Phemy scrambled out of her big mussell-shell. Its upheaved side being toward the boat at which her father was at work, she escaped unperceived, and so ran along the base of the promontory, where the rough way was perhaps easier to the feet of a child content to take smaller steps and climb or descend by the help of more insignificant inequalities. She came within sight of the laird just as he turned into the mouth of a well-known cave and vanished.

Phemy was one of those rare and blessed natures which have endless courage because they have no distrust, and she ran straight into the cave after him, without even first stopping to look in.

It was not a very interesting cave to look into. The strata of which it was composed, upheaved almost to the perpendicular, shaped an opening like the half of a Gothic arch divided vertically and leaning over a little to one side, which opening rose to the full height of the cave, and seemed to lay bare every corner of it to a single glance. In length it was only about four or five times its width. The floor was smooth and dry, consisting of hard rock. The walls and roof were jagged with projections and shadowed with recesses, but there was little to rouse any frightful fancies.

When Phemy entered, the laird was nowhere to be seen. But she went straight to the back of the cave, to its farthest visible point. There she rounded a projection and began an ascent which only familiarity with rocky ways could have enabled such a child to accomplish. At the top she passed through another opening, and by a longer and more gently sloping descent reached the floor of a second cave, as level and nearly as smooth as a table. On her left hand, what light managed to creep through the tortuous entrance was caught and reflected in a dull glimmer from the undefined surface of a well of fresh water which lay in a sort of basin in the rock: on a bedded stone beside it sat the laird, with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and his hump upheaved above his head, like Mount Sinai over the head of Christian in the Pilgrim’s Progress.

As his hands were still pressed on his ears, he heard nothing of Phemy’s approach, and she stood for a while staring at him in the vague glimmer, apparently with no anxiety as to what was to come next.

Weary at length—for the forlorn man continued movelessly sunk in his own thoughts, or what he had for such—the eyes of the child began to wander about the darkness, to which they had already got so far accustomed as to make the most of the scanty light. Presently she fancied she saw something glitter, away in the darkness—two things: they must be eyes!—the eyes of an otter or of a pole-cat, in which creatures the caves along the shore abounded. Seized with sudden fright, she ran to the laird and laid her hand on his shoulder, crying, “Leuk^look, laird, leuk!”

He started to his feet and gazed bewildered at the child, rubbing his eyes once and again. She stood between the well and the entrance, so that all the light there was, gathered upon her pale face.

“Whaur^where do ye come frae?” he cried.

“I cam^came frae the auld^old boat,” she answered.

“What do ye want wi’^with me?”

“Naething, sir; I only cam^came to see hoo^how ye was gettin’ on. I wadna^{would not} hae^have disturbit ye, sir, but I saw the twa^{two, a few} een^eyes o’ a wullcat^wildcat, or sic^such like, glowerin’ awa^away yonner^yonder i’^{in, into} the mirk^{darkness, night}, an’ they fleyt^{terrified, frightened} me ’at I grippit^gripped ye.”

“Weel^well, weel; sit ye doon^down, bairnie^{little child},” said the mad laird in a soothing voice; “the wullcat sanna^{shall not} touch ye. Ye’re no fleyt^frightened at me, are ye?”

“Eh, na^{not, by no means}!” answered the child. “What for sud^should I be fleyt at you, sir? I’m Phemy Mair.”

“Eh, bairnie^{little child}! it’s you, is’t?” he returned in tones of satisfaction, for he had not hitherto recognised her. “Sit ye doon^down, sit ye doon, an’ we’ll see about it a’^all.”

Phemy obeyed, and seated herself on the nearest projection.

The laird placed himself beside her, and once more buried his face, but not his ears, in his hands. Nothing entered them, however, but the sound of the rising tide, for Phemy sat by him in the faintly glimmering dusk, as without fear felt, so without word spoken.

The evening crept on, and the night came down, but all the effect of the growing darkness was that the child drew gradually nearer to her uncouth companion, until at length her hand stole into his, her head sank upon his shoulder, his arm went round her to hold her safe, and thus she fell fast asleep. After a while, the laird gently roused her and took her home, on their way warning her, in strange yet to her comprehensible utterance, to say nothing of where she had found him, for if she exposed his place of refuge, wicked people would take him, and he should never see her again.

Chapter 5 - Lady Florimel

All the coast to the east of the little harbour was rock, bold and high, of a grey and brown hard stone, which after a mighty sweep, shot out northward, and closed in the bay on that side with a second great promontory. The long curved strip of sand on the west, reaching to the promontory of Scaurnose, was the only open portion of the coast for miles. Here the coasting vessel gliding past gained a pleasant peep of open fields, belts of wood and farm houses, with now and then a glimpse of a great house amidst its trees. In the distance one or two bare solitary hills, imposing in aspect only from their desolation, for their form gave no effect to their altitude, rose to the height of over a thousand feet.

On this comparatively level part of the shore, parallel with its line, and at some distance beyond the usual high-water-mark, the waves of ten thousand northern storms had cast up a long dune or bank of sand, terminating towards the west within a few yards of a huge solitary rock of the ugly kind called conglomerate, which must have been separated from the roots of the promontory by the rush of waters at unusually high tides, for in winter they still sometimes rounded the rock, and running down behind the dune, turned it into a long island. The sand on the inland side of the dune, covered with short sweet grass, browsed on by sheep, and with the largest and reddest of daisies, was thus occasionally swept by wild salt waves, and at times, when the northern wind blew straight as an arrow and keen as a sword from the regions of endless snow, lay under a sheet of gleaming ice.

The sun had been up for some time in a cloudless sky. The wind had changed to the south, and wafted soft country odours to the shore, instead of sweeping to inland farms the scents of seaweed and broken salt waters, mingled with a suspicion of icebergs. From what was called the Seaton, or sea-town, of Portlossie, a crowd of cottages occupied entirely by fisherfolk, a solitary figure was walking westward along this grass at the back of the dune, singing. On his left hand the ground rose to the high road; on his right was the dune, interlaced and bound together by the long clasping roots of the coarse bent^{reed-like grass}, without which its sands would have been but the sport of every wind that blew. It shut out from him all sight of the sea, but the moan and rush of the rising tide sounded close behind it. At his back rose the town of Portlossie, high above the harbour and the Seaton, with its houses of grey and brown stone, roofed with blue slates and red tiles. It was no highland town—scarce one within it could speak the highland tongue, yet down from its high streets on the fitful air of the morning now floated intermittently the sound of bagpipes—borne winding from street to street, and loud blown to wake the sleeping inhabitants and let them know that it was now six of the clock.

He was a youth of about twenty, with a long, swinging, heavy-footed stride, which took in the ground rapidly—a movement unlike that of the other men of the place, who always walked slowly, and never but on dire compulsion ran. He was rather tall, and large-limbed. His dress was like that of a fisherman, consisting of blue serge trowsers, a shirt striped blue and white, and a Guernsey frock, which he carried flung across his shoulder. On his head he wore a round blue bonnet, with a tuft of scarlet in the centre.

His face was more than handsome—with large features, not finely cut, and a look of mingled nobility and ingenuousness—the latter amounting to simplicity, or even innocence; while the clear outlook from his full and well-opened hazel eyes indicated both courage and promptitude. His dark brown hair came in large curling masses from under his bonnet. It was such a form and face as would have drawn every eye in a crowded thoroughfare.

About the middle of the long sandhill, a sort of wide embrasure was cut in its top, in which stood an old-fashioned brass swivel gun: when the lad reached the place, he sprang up the sloping side of the dune, seated himself on the gun, drew from his trowsers a large silver watch, regarded it steadily for a few minutes, replaced it, and took from his pocket a flint and steel, wherewith he kindled a bit of touch-paper, which, rising, he applied to the vent of the swivel. Followed a great roar.

It echoes had nearly died away, when a startled little cry reached his keen ear, and looking along the shore to discover whence it came, he spied a woman on a low rock that ran a little way out into the water. She had half risen from a sitting posture, and apparently her cry was the result of the discovery that the rising tide had overreached and surrounded her. There was no danger whatever, but the girl might well shrink from plunging into the clear beryl depth in which swayed the seaweed clothing the slippery slopes of the rock. He rushed from the sand-hill, crying, as he approached her, “Dinna^{do not} be in a hurry, mem; bide till I come to ye,” and running straight into the water struggled through the deepening tide, the distance being short and the depth almost too shallow for swimming. In a moment he was by her side, scarcely saw the bare feet she had been bathing in the water, heeded as little the motion of the hand which waved him back, caught her in his arms like a baby, and had her safe on the shore ere she could utter a word; nor did he stop until he had carried her to the slope of the sand-hill, where he set her gently down, and without a suspicion of the liberty he was taking, and filled only with a passion of service, was proceeding to dry her feet with the frock which he had dropped there as he ran to her assistance.

“Let me alone, pray,” cried the girl with a half-amused indignation, drawing back her feet and throwing down a book she carried that she might the better hide them with her skirt. But although she shrank from his devotion, she could neither mistake it nor help being pleased with his kindness. Probably she had never before been immediately indebted to such an ill-clad individual of the human race, but even in such a costume she could not fail to see he was a fine fellow. Nor was the impression disturbed when he opened his mouth and spoke in the broad dialect of the country, for she had no associations to cause her to misinterpret its homeliness as vulgarity.

“Whaur’s yer stockin’s, mem?” he said.

“You gave me no time to bring them away, you caught me up so—rudely,” answered the girl half querulously, but in such lovely speech as had never before greeted his Scotish ears.

Before the words were well beyond her lips he was already on his way back to the rock, running, as he walked, with great, heavy-footed strides. The abandoned shoes and stockings were in imminent danger of being floated off by the rising water, but he dashed in, swam a few strokes, caught them up, waded back to the shore, and, leaving a wet track all the way behind him but carrying the rescued clothing at arm’s length before him, rejoined their owner. Spreading his frock out before her, he laid the shoes and stockings upon it, and, observing that she continued to keep her feet hidden under the skirts of her dress, turned his back and stood.

“Why don’t you go away?” said the girl, venturing one set of toes from under their tent, but hesitating to proceed further in the business.

Without word or turn of head he walked away.

Either flattered by his absolute obedience, and persuaded that he was a true squire, or unwilling to forego what amusement she might gain from him, she drew in her half-issuing foot, and, certainly urged in part by an inherent disposition to tease, spoke again.

“You’re not going away without thanking me?” she said.

“What for, mem?” he returned simply, standing stock-still again with his back towards her.

“You needn’t stand so. You don’t think I would go on dressing while you remained in sight?”

“I was as guid’s awa’, mem,” he said, and turning a glowing face, looked at her for a moment, then cast his eyes on the ground.

“Tell me what you mean by not thanking me,” she insisted.

“They wad^would be dull thanks, mem, that war thankit afore I kenned^knew what for.”

“For allowing you to carry me ashore, of course.”

“Be thankit, mem, wi’ a’^all my hert^heart. Will I gang^go doon^down o’ my knees?”

“No. Why should you go on your knees?”

“‘Cause ye’re ’maist ower^over bonny to luik^look at stan’in’, mem, an’ I’m feared for angerin’ ye.”

“Don’t say ma’am to me.”

“What am I to say, than, mem?—I ask yer pardon, mem.”

“Say my lady. That’s how people speak to me.”

“I thocht^thought ye bude to^{had to} be somebody by ordinar’^{out of the ordinary}, my leddy^lady! That’ll be hoo^how ye’re so terrible bonny,” he returned, with some tremulousness in his tone. “But ye maun^must put on yer hose, my leddy^lady, or ye’ll get yer feet cauld^cold, and that’s no guid^good for the likes o’ you.”

The form of address she prescribed, conveyed to him no definite idea of rank. It but added intensity to the notion of her being a lady, as distinguished from one of the women of his own condition in life.

“And pray what is to become of you,” she returned, “with your clothes as wet as water can make them?”

“The saut^salt water kens^knows me ower^{over, too} weel^well to do me ony^any ill,” returned the lad. “I gang^go weet^wet to the skin mony^many a day frae mornin’ till nicht^{night, evening}, and mony^many a nicht^night frae nicht^evening till mornin’—at the heerin’^herring fishin’, ye ken, my leddy^lady.”

One might well be inclined to ask what could have tempted her to talk in such a familiar way to a creature like him—human indeed, but separated from her by a gulf more impassable far than that which divided her from the thrones, principalities, and powers of the upper regions. And how is the fact to be accounted for, that here she put out a dainty foot, and reaching for one of her stockings, began to draw it gently over the said foot? Either her sense of his inferiority was such that she regarded his presence no more than that of a dog, or, possibly, she was tempted to put his behaviour to the test. He, on his part, stood quietly regarding the operation, either that, with the instinct of an inborn refinement, he was aware he ought not to manifest more shamefacedness than the lady herself, or that he was hardly more accustomed to the sight of gleaming fish than the bare feet of maidens.

“I’m thinkin’, my leddy^lady,” he went on, in absolute simplicity, “that sma’ fut^foot o’ yer ain^own has danced mony^many a braw^{beautiful, fine} dance on mony^many a braw flure^floor.”

“How old do you take me for then?” she rejoined, and went on drawing the garment over her foot by the shortest possible stages.

“Ye’ll no be muckle^much ower^over twenty,” he said.

“I’m only sixteen,” she returned, laughing merrily.

“What will ye be or ye behaud^behold!” he exclaimed, after a brief pause of astonishment.

“Do you ever dance in this part of the country?” she asked, heedless of his surprise.

“No that muckle^much, at least amo’^among the fisher-fowks, excep’ it be at a weddin’. I was at ane^one last nicht^{night, evening}.”

“And did you dance?”

“‘Deed^indeed did I, my leddy^lady. I danced the maist^most o’ the lasses clean

aff^off o’ their legs.”

“What made you so cruel?”

“Weel^well, ye see, mem,—I mean my leddy^lady,—fowk^folk said I was ill aboot^about the bride; an’ sae^so I bude to^{had to} dance ’t^it oot^out o’ their heids^heads.”

“And how much truth was there in what they said?” she asked, with a sly glance up in the handsome, now glowing face.

“Gien^if there was ony^any, there was unco^very little,” he replied. “The chield’s^{lad is} walcome till her for me. But she was the bonniest lassie we had.—It was what we ca’ a penny weddin’,” he went on, as if willing to change the side of the subject.

“And what’s a penny wedding?”

“It’s a’^all kin’^kind o’ a custom amo’^among the fishers. There’s some gey^very puir^poor fowk^folk amon’ ’s^us, ye see, an’ when a twa^two o’ them merries, the lave^{rest, remainder} o’ ’s wants to gie^give them a bit o’ a start like. Sae^so we a’^all gang^go to the weddin’ an’ eats an’ drinks plenty, an’ pays for a’^all ’at we hae^have; and they mak’^{make, do} a guid^good profit out o’ ’t^it, for the things doesna cost them nearhan’ sae^so muckle^much as we pay. So they hae a guid^good han’fu’ ower^over for the plenishin’.”

“And what do they give you to eat and drink?” asked the girl, making talk.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, skate^fish an’ mustard to eat, an’ whusky^whisky to drink,” answered the lad, laughing. “But it’s mair^more for the fun. I dinna^{do not} care muckle^much about whusky^whisky an’ that kin’^kind o’ thing mysel’. It’s the fiddles an the dancin’ ’at I like.”

“You have music, then?”

“Ay; jist the fiddles an’ the pipes.”

“The bagpipes, do you mean?”

“Ay; my gran’father plays them.”

“But you’re not in the Highlands here: how come you to have bagpipes?”

“It’s a stray bag, an’ no more. But the fowk^folk here likes the cry o’ ’t^it well eneuch^enough, an’ hae ’t^it to wauk^wake them ilka^each mornin’. Yon was my gran’father ye heard afore I fired the gun. Yon was his pipes waukin’^waking them, honest fowk^folk.”

“And what made you fire the gun in that reckless way? Don’t you know it is very dangerous?”

“Dangerous mem—my leddy^lady, I mean! There was naething intill^into ’t^it but a pennyworth o’ blastin’ pooder. It wadna^{would not} blaw^blow the froth aff^off o’ the tap^top o’ a jaw^billow.”

“It nearly blew me out of my small wits, though.”

“I’m verra^very sorry it frichtit^frightened ye. But, gien^if I had seen ye, I bude to^{had to} fire the gun.”

“I don’t understand you quite; but I suppose you mean it was your business to fire the gun.”

“Jist that, my leddy^lady.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause it’s been decreet i’^{in, into} the toon-cooncil that at sax^six o’ the clock ilka^{every, each} mornin’ that gun’s to be fired—at least sae^so lang’s my lord, the marquis, is at Portlossie Hoose. Ye see it’s a royal brugh, this, an’ it costs but aboot^about a penny, an’ it’s gran’ like to hae a sma’ cannon to fire. An’ gien^if I was to neglec’ it, my gran’father wad^would gang^go on skirlin’—what’s the English for skirlin’, my leddy^lady—skirlin’ o’ the pipes?”

“I don’t know. But from the sound of the word I should suppose it stands for screaming.”

“Aye, that’s it; only screamin’s no sae^so guid^good as skirlin’. My gran’father’s an auld^old man, as I was gaein’^going on to say, an’ has hardly breath eneuch^enough to fill the bag; but he wad^would be efter dirkin’^knifing onybody ’at said sic^such a thing, and till he heard that gun he wad^would gang^go on blawin’^blowing though he sud^should burst himsel.’ There’s naebody^nobody kens^knows the smeddum^{spirit, mettle, liveliness} in an auld^old hielan’ man!”

By the time the conversation had reached this point, the lady had got her shoes on, had taken up her book from the sand, and was now sitting with it in her lap. No sound reached them but that of the tide, for the scream of the bagpipes had ceased the moment the swivel was fired. The sun was growing hot, and the sea, although so far in the cold north, was gorgeous in purple and green, suffused as with the overpowering pomp of a peacock’s plumage in the sun. Away to the left the solid promontory trembled against the horizon, as if ready to dissolve and vanish between the bright air and the lucid sea that fringed its base with white. The glow of a young summer morning pervaded earth and sea and sky, and swelled the heart of the youth as he stood in unconscious bewilderment before the self-possession of the girl. She was younger than he, and knew far less that was worth knowing, yet had a world of advantage over him—not merely from the effect of her presence on one who had never seen anything half so beautiful, but from a certain readiness of surface thought, combined with the sweet polish of her speech, and an assurance of superiority which appeared to them both to lift her, like one of the old immortals, far above the level of the man whom she favoured with her passing converse. What in her words, as here presented only to the eye, may seem brusqueness or even forwardness, was so tempered, so toned, so fashioned by the naivete with which she spoke, that it sounded in his ears as the utterance of absolute condescension. As to her personal appearance, the lad might well have taken her for twenty, for she looked more of a woman than, tall and strongly built as he was, he looked of a man. She was rather tall, rather slender, finely formed, with small hands and feet, and full throat. Her hair was of a dark brown; her eyes of such a blue that no one could have suggested grey; her complexion fair—a little freckled, which gave it the warmest tint it had; her nose nearly straight, her mouth rather large but well formed; and her forehead, as much of it as was to be seen under a garden-hat, rose with promise above a pair of dark and finely-pencilled eyebrows.

The description I have here given may be regarded as occupying the space of a brief silence, during which the lad stood motionless, like one awaiting further command.

“Why don’t you go?” said the lady. “I want to read my book.”

He gave a great sigh, as if waking from a pleasant dream, took off his bonnet with a clumsy movement which yet had in it a grace worthy of a Stuart court, and descending the dune walked away along the sands towards the sea-town.

When he had gone about a couple of hundred yards, he looked back involuntarily. The lady had vanished. He concluded that she had crossed to the other side of the dune; but when he had gone so far on his way to the village as to clear the eastern end of the sand-hill, and there turned and looked up its southern slope, she was still nowhere to be seen. The old highland stories of his grandfather came crowding to mind, and, altogether human as she had appeared, he almost doubted whether the sea, from which he had thought he rescued her, were not her native element. The book, however, not to mention the shoes and stockings, was against the supposition. Anyhow, he had seen a vision of some order or other, as certainly as if an angel from heaven had appeared to him, for the waters of his mind had been troubled with a new sense of grace and beauty, giving an altogether fresh glory to existence.

Of course no one would dream of falling in love with an unearthly creature, even an angel; at least, something homely must mingle with the glory ere that become possible; and as to this girl, the youth could scarcely have regarded her with a greater sense of far-off-ness had he known her for the daughter of a king of the sea—one whose very element was essentially death to him as life to her. Still he walked home as if the heavy boots he wore were wings at his heels, like those of the little Eurus or Boreas that stood blowing his trumpet for ever in the round open temple which from the top of a grassy hill in the park overlooked the Seaton.

“Sic^such een^eyes!” he kept saying to himself; “an’ sic^such sma’ white han’s! an’ sic^such a bonny fut^foot! Eh hoo^how she wad^would glitter throu’ the water in a bag net! Faith! Gien^if she war to sing ‘come doon^down’ to me, I wad^would gang^go. Wad^would that be to lowse^lose baith^both sowl^soul an’ body, I wonner^{wonder, marvel}? I’ll see what Maister^schoolmaster Graham says to that. It’s a fine question to put till ’im^him: ‘Gien^if a body was to gang^go wi’ a mermaid, wha^who they say has nae^no sowl^soul to be saved, wad^would that be the loss o’ his sowl^soul, as weel’s o’ the bodily life o’ ’im^him?”’

Chapter 6 - Duncan MacPhail

The sea-town of Portlossie was as irregular a gathering of small cottages as could be found on the surface of the globe. They faced every way, turned their backs and gables every way; were divided from each other by every sort of small, irregular space and passage, and looked like a national assembly debating a constitution. Close behind the Seaton, as it was called, ran a highway, climbing far above the chimneys of the village to the level of the town above. Behind this road, and separated from it by a high wall of stone, lay a succession of heights and hollows covered with grass. In front of the cottages lay sand and sea. The place was cleaner than most fishing-villages, but so closely built, so thickly inhabited, and so pervaded with “a very ancient and fishlike smell,” that but for the besom of the salt north wind it must have been unhealthy. Eastward the houses could extend no further for the harbour, and westward no further for a small river that crossed the sands to find the sea—discursively and merrily at low water, but with sullen, submissive mingling when banked back by the tide.

Avoiding the many nets extended long and wide on the grassy sands, the youth walked through the tide-swollen mouth of the river, and passed along the front of the village until he arrived at a house, the small window in the seaward gable of which was filled with a curious collection of things for sale—dusty-looking sweets in a glass bottle; gingerbread cakes in the shape of large hearts, thickly studded with sugar-plums of rainbow colours, invitingly poisonous; strings of tin covers for tobacco-pipes, overlapping each other like fish-scales; toys, and tapes, and needles, and twenty other kinds of things, all huddled together.

Turning the corner of this house, he went down the narrow passage between it and the next, and in at its open door. But the moment it was entered it lost all appearance of a shop, and the room with the tempting window showed itself only as a poor kitchen with an earthen floor.

“Weel^well, hoo^how did the pipes behave themsels the day^today, daddy?” said the youth as he strode in.

“Och^{exclamation of sorrow or regret}, she’ll pe peing a coot poy to-day,” returned the tremulous voice of a grey-headed old man, who was leaning over a small peat-fire on the hearth, sifting oatmeal through the fingers of his left hand into a pot, while he stirred the boiling mess with a short stick held in his right.

It had grown to be understood between them that the pulmonary conditions of the old piper should be attributed not to his internal, but his external lungs—namely, the bag of his pipes. Both sets had of late years manifested strong symptoms of decay, and decided measures had to be again and again resorted to in the case of the latter to put off its evil day, and keep within it the breath of its musical existence. The youth’s question, then, as to the behaviour of the pipes, was in reality an inquiry after the condition of his grandfather’s lungs, which, for their part, grew yearly more and more asthmatic: notwithstanding which Duncan MacPhail would not hear of resigning the dignity of town-piper.

“That’s fine, daddy,” returned the youth. “Wull^{Do you want} I mak^{make, do} oot^out the parritch^{oatmeal porridge}? I’m thinkin ye’ve had eneuch^enough o’ hingin’ ower^over the fire this het^{hot, burning} mornin’.”

“No, sir,” answered Duncan. “She’ll pe perfectly able to make ta parritch^{oatmeal porridge} herself, my poy^boy Malcolm. Ta tay^day will tawn^dawn when her poy must make his own parritch^{oatmeal porridge}, an’ she’ll be wantin’ no more parritch, but haf to trink ta rainwater, and no trop of ta uisge-beatha^whiskey to put into it, my poy Malcolm.”

His grandson was quite accustomed to the old man’s heathenish mode of regarding his immediate existence after death as a long confinement in the grave, and generally had a word or two ready wherewith to combat the frightful notion; but, as he spoke, Duncan lifted the pot from the fire, and set it on its three legs on the deal table in the middle of the room, adding:

“Tere, my man—tere’s ta parritch! And was it ta putter, or ta traicle, or ta pottle o’ peer, she would-be havin’ for kitchie^{a relish added to plain fare} tis fine mornin’?”

This point settled, the two sat down to eat their breakfast; and no one would have discovered, from the manner in which the old man helped himself, nor yet from the look of his eyes, that he was stone blind. It came neither of old age nor disease—he had been born blind. His eyes, although large and wide, looked like those of a sleep-walker—open with shut sense; the shine in them was all reflected light—glitter, no glow; and their colour was so pale that they suggested some horrible sight as having driven from them hue and vision together.

“Haf you eated enough, my son?” he said, when he heard Malcolm lay down his spoon.

“Ay, plenty, thank ye, daddy, and they were richt weel^well made,” replied the lad, whose mode of speech was entirely different from his grandfather’s: the latter had learned English as a foreign language, but could not speak Scotch, his mother-tongue being Gaelic.

As they rose from the table, a small girl, with hair wildly suggestive of insurrection and conflagration, entered, and said, in a loud screetch—“Maister^mister MacPhail, my mither^mother wants a pot o’ bleckin’^{blacking for shoes or other leather}, an’ ye’re to be sure an’ gie^give her’t gweed^{good, genuine}, she says.”

“Fery coot, my chilt, Jeannie; but young Malcolm and old Tuncan hasn’t made teir prayers yet, and you know fery well tat she won’t sell pefore she’s made her prayers. Tell your mother tat she’ll pe bringin’ ta blackin’^blacking when she comes to look to ta lamp.”

The child ran off without response. Malcolm lifted the pot from the table and set it on the hearth; put the plates together and the spoons, and set them on a chair, for there was no dresser; tilted the table, and wiped it hearthward—then from a shelf took down and laid upon it a Bible, before which he seated himself with an air of reverence. The old man sat down on a low chair by the chimney corner, took off his bonnet, closed his eyes and murmured some almost inaudible words; then repeated in Gaelic the first line of the hundred and third psalm—

O m’ anam, beannuich thus’ a nis

—and raised a tune of marvellous wail. Arrived at the end of the line, he repeated the process with the next, and so went on, giving every line first in the voice of speech and then in the voice of song, through three stanzas of eight lines each. And no less strange was the singing than the tune—wild and wailful as the wind of his native desolations, or as the sound of his own pipes borne thereon; and apparently all but lawless, for the multitude of so-called grace-notes, hovering and fluttering endlessly around the centre tone like the comments on a text, rendered it nearly impossible to unravel from them the air even of a known tune. It had in its kind the same liquid uncertainty of confluent sound which had hitherto rendered it impossible for Malcolm to learn more than a few of the common phrases of his grandfather’s mother-tongue.

The psalm over, during which the sightless eyeballs of the singer had been turned up towards the rafters of the cottage—a sign surely that the germ of light, “the sunny seed,” as Henry Vaughan calls it, must be in him, else why should he lift his eyes when he thought upward?—Malcolm read a chapter of the Bible, plainly the next in an ordered succession, for it could never have been chosen or culled; after which they kneeled together, and the old man poured out a prayer, beginning in a low, scarcely audible voice, which rose at length to a loud, modulated chant. Not a sentence, hardly a phrase, of the utterance, did his grandson lay hold of; but there were a few inhabitants of the place who could have interpreted it, and it was commonly believed that one part of his devotions was invariably a prolonged petition for vengeance on Campbell of Glenlyon, the main instrument in the massacre of Glenco.

He could have prayed in English, and then his grandson might have joined in his petitions, but the thought of such a thing would never have presented itself to him. Nay, although, understanding both languages, he used that which was unintelligible to the lad, he yet regarded himself as the party who had the right to resent the consequent schism. Such a conversation as now followed was no new thing after prayers.

“I could fery well wish, Malcolm, my son,” said the old man, “tat you would be learnin’ to speak your own lancuach. It is all fery well for ta Sassenach^{Saxon, i.e., non-Celtic} podies to read ta Piple in English, for it will be pleasing ta Maker not to make tem cawpable of ta Gaelic, no more tan monkeys; but for all tat it’s not ta vord of God. Ta Gaelic is ta lancuach of ta Garden of Aiden, and no doubt but it pe ta lancuach in which ta Shepherd calls his sheep on ta everlastin’ hills. You see, Malcolm, it must be so, for how can a mortal man speak to his God in anything put Gaelic? When Mr Craham—no, not Mr Craham, ta coot man; it was ta new Minister—he speak an’ say to her: ‘Mr MacPhail, you ought to make your prayers in Enclish,’ I was fery wrathful, and I answered and said: ‘Mr Downey, do you tare to suppose tat God doesn’t prefer ta Gaelic to ta Sassenach tongue!’—‘Mr MacPhail,’ says he, ‘it’ll pe for your poy I mean it. How’s ta lad to learn ta way of salvation if you speak to your God in his presence in a strange tongue? So I was opedient to his vord, and ta next efening I tid kneel town in Sassenach and I tid make begin. But, ochone! she wouldn’t go; her tongue would be cleafing to ta roof of her mouth; ta claymore would be sticking rusty in ta scappard; for her heart she was ashamed to speak to ta Hielan’man’s Maker in ta Sassenach tongue. You must pe learning ta Gaelic, or you’ll not pe peing worthy to pe her nain^own son, Malcolm.”

“But daddy, wha’s to learn me?” asked his grandson, gayly.

“Learn you, Malcolm! Ta Gaelic is ta lancuach of Nature, and wants no learning. I nefer did pe learning it, yat I nefer haf to say to myself ‘What is it she would be saying?’ when I speak ta Gaelic; put she always has to set ta tead men—that is ta vords—on their feet, and put tem in pattle-array, when she would pe speaking ta dull mechanic English. When she opens her mouth to it, ta Gaelic comes like a spring of pure water, Malcolm. Ta plenty of it must run out. Try it now, Malcolm. Shust oppen your mouth in ta Gaelic shape, and see if ta Gaelic will not pe falling from it.”

Seized with a merry fit, Malcolm did open his mouth in the Gaelic shape, and sent from it a strange gabble, imitative of the most frequently recurring sounds of his grandfather’s speech.

“Hoo^how will that du^do, daddy?” he asked, after jabbering gibberish for the space of a minute.

“It will not be paad for a peginning, Malcolm. She cannot say it shust pe vorts, or tat tere pe much of ta sense in it; but it pe fery like what ta pabes will say pefore tey pekin to speak it properly. So it’s all fery well, and if you will only pe putting your mouth in ta Gaelic shape often enough, ta sounds will soon pe taking ta shape of it, and ta vorts will be coming trough ta mists, and pefore you know, you’ll pe peing a creat credit to your cranfather, my boy, Malcolm.”

A silence followed, for Malcolm’s attempt had not had the result he anticipated: he had thought only to make his grandfather laugh. Presently the old man resumed, in the kindest voice:

“And tere’s another thing, Malcolm, tat’s much wanting to you: you’ll never pe a man—not to speak of a pard like your cranfather—if you’ll not pe learning to play on ta bagpipes.”

Malcolm, who had been leaning against the chimley-lug^{chimney corner} while his grandfather spoke, moved gently round behind his chair, reached out for the pipes where they lay in a corner at the old man’s side, and catching them up softly, put the mouthpiece to his lips. With a few vigorous blasts he filled the bag, and out burst the double droning bass, while the youth’s fingers, clutching the chanter as by the throat, at once compelled its screeches into shape far better, at least, than his lips had been able to give to the crude material of Gaelic. He played the only reel he knew, but that with vigour and effect.

At the first sound of its notes the old man sprung to his feet and began capering to the reel—partly in delight with the music, but far more in delight with the musician, while, ever and anon, with feeble yell, he uttered the unspellable Hoogh of the Highlander, and jumped, as he thought, high in the air, though his failing limbs, alas! lifted his feet scarce an inch from the floor.

“Aigh! aigh!” he sighed at length, yielding the contest between his legs and the lungs of the lad—“aigh! aigh! she’ll die happy! she’ll die happy! Hear till her poy, how he makes ta pipes speak ta true Gaelic! Ta pest o’ Gaelic, tat! Old Tuncan’s pipes ’ll^will not know how to be talking Sassenach. See to it! see to it! He had put to blow in at ta one end, and out came ta reel at the other. Hoogh! hoogh! Play us ta Righil Thulachan, Malcolm, my chief!”

“I kenna^{do not know} reel, strathspey^{Highland dance like a reel but slower}, nor lilt, but jist that burd alane^{quite alone}, daddy.”

“Give tem to me, my poy!” cried the old piper, reaching out a hand as eager to clutch the uncouth instrument as the miser’s to finger his gold; “hear well to me as I play, and you’ll soon be able to play pibroch or coronach with the best piper between Cape Wrath and ta Mull^mill o’ Cantyre.”

He played tune after tune until his breath failed him, and an exhausted grunt of the drone—in the middle of a coronach, followed by an abrupt pause, revealed the emptiness of both lungs and bag. Then first he remembered his object, forgotten the moment he had filled his bag.

“Now, Malcolm,” he said, offering the pipes to his grandson; “you play tat after.”

He had himself of course, learned all by the ear, but could hardly have been serious in requesting Malcolm to follow him through such a succession of tortuous mazes.

“I haena^{have not} a memory up to that, daddy; but I s’^shall get a haud^{hold, keep} o’ Mr Graham’s flute-music, and maybe that’ll help me a bit.—Wadna^{would not} ye be takin’ hame^home Meg Partan’s blackin’^blacking ’at ye promised her?”

“Surely, my son. She should always be keeping her promises.” He rose, and getting a small stone bottle and his stick from the corner between the projecting inglecheek^{chimney-corner or nook, fireside} and the window, left the house, to walk with unerring steps through the labyrinth of the village, threading his way from passage to passage, and avoiding pools and projecting stones, not to say houses, and human-beings. His eyes, or indeed perhaps rather his whole face, appeared to possess an ethereal sense as of touch, for, without the slightest contact in the ordinary sense of the word, he was aware of the neighbourhood of material objects, as if through the pulsations of some medium to others imperceptible. He could, with perfect accuracy, tell the height of any wall or fence within a few feet of him; could perceive at once whether it was high or low or half tide, and that merely by going out in front of the houses and turning his face with its sightless eyeballs towards the sea; knew whether a woman who spoke to him had a child in her arms or not; and, indeed, was believed to know sooner than ordinary mortals that one was about to become a mother.

He was a strange figure to look upon in that lowland village, for he invariably wore the highland dress: in truth, he had never had a pair of trowsers on his legs, and was far from pleased that his grandson clothed himself in such contemptible garments. But, contrasted with the showy style of his costume, there was something most pathetic in the blended pallor of hue into which the originally gorgeous colours of his kilt had faded—noticeable chiefly on week-days, when he wore no sporran; for the kilt, encountering, from its loose construction, comparatively little strain or friction, may reach an antiquity unknown to the garments of the low country. On Sundays, however, he made the best of himself, and came out like a belated and aged butterfly—with his father’s sporran, or tasselled goatskin purse, in front of him, his grandfather’s dirk^dagger at his side, his great-grandfather’s skene-dhu, or little black-hafted knife, stuck in the stocking of his right leg, and a huge round brooch of brass—nearly half a foot in diameter, and, Mr Graham said, as old as the battle of Harlaw—on his left shoulder. In these adornments he would walk proudly to church, leaning on the arm of his grandson.

“The piper’s gey^considerably brokken—like the day,” said one of the fishermen’s wives to a neighbour as he passed them—the fact being that he had not yet recovered from his second revel in the pipes so soon after the exhaustion of his morning’s duty, and was, in consequence, more asthmatic than usual.

“I doobt^{I suspect} he’ll be slippin’ awa^away some cauld^cold nicht^night,” said the other: “his leevin’^living breath’s ill to get.”

“Ay; he has to warstle^wrestle for’t, puir^poor man! Weel^well, he’ll be missed, the blin’^blind body! It’s exterordinor hoo^how he’s managed to live, and bring up sic^such a fine lad as that Malcolm o’ his.”

“Weel^well, ye see, Providence has been kin’^kind till him as weel ’s^as ither^other blin’^blind craturs^creatures. The toon’s pipin’ ’s^is no to be despised; an’ there’s the cryin’, an’ the chop^{shop, store}, an’ the lamps. ‘Deed^indeed he’s been an eident^diligent cratur^creature—an’ for a blin’^blind man, as ye say, it’s jist exterordinar.”

“Div^do ye min’^remember whan^when first he cam’^came to the toon^town, lass?”

“Ay; what wad^would hinner^hinder me min’in’^remembering that? It’s nae^not sae^so lang^long.”

“Ma’colm ’at’s^{that is, that has} sic^such a fine laad^{lad—term of commendation} noo^now, they tell me wasna^{was not} muckle^much bigger nor^than a gey haddie^{tolerable haddock}.”

“But the auld^old man was an auld^old man than, though nae^no doobt he’s unco’^very failed sin^since syne^then.”

“A dochter’s bairn^child, they say, the laad.”

“Ay, they say, but wha^who kens^knows? Duncan could never be gotten to open his mou’^mouth as to the father or mither^mother o’ ’im^him, an’ sae^so it weel may be as they say. It’s nigh twenty year noo^now, I’m thinkin’ sin^since he made ’s appearance. Ye wasna^{was not} come frae Scaurnose er’^{ere, before} than.”

“Some fowk^folk says the auld^old man’s name’s no MacPhail, an’ he maun^must hae come here in hidin’^hiding for some rouch^rough job or ither^other ’at he’s been mixed up wi’.

“I s’^shall believe nae^no ill o’ sic^such a puir^poor, hairmless body. Fowk^folk ’at maks^{makes, does} their ain^own livin’, wantin’ the een^eyes to guide them, canna^cannot be that far aff^off the straucht^{straighten, straight}. Guid^God guide ’s^us! we hae eneuch^enough to answer for, oor^our ainsels, ohn passed^{without passing} jeedgment upo ane^one anither.”

“I was but tellin’ ye what fowk^folk telled me,” returned the younger woman.

“Ay, ay, lass; I ken that, for I ken there was fowk to tell ye.”

Chapter 7 - Alexander Graham

As soon as his grandfather left the house, Malcolm went out also, closing the door behind him, and turning the key, but leaving it in the lock. He ascended to the upper town, only, however, to pass through its main street, at the top of which he turned and looked back for a few moments, apparently in contemplation. The descent to the shore was so sudden that he could see nothing of the harbour or of the village he had left—nothing but the blue bay and the filmy mountains of Sutherlandshire, molten by distance into cloudy questions, and looking, betwixt blue sea and blue sky, less substantial than either. After gazing for a moment, he turned again, and held on his way, through fields which no fence parted from the road. The morning was still glorious, the larks right jubilant, and the air filled with the sweet scents of cottage flowers. Across the fields came the occasional low of an ox, and the distant sounds of children at play. But Malcolm saw without noting, and heard without seeing, for his mind was full of speculation concerning the lovely girl, whose vision appeared already far-off:—who might she be? whence had she come? whither could she have vanished? That she did not belong to the neighbourhood was certain, he thought; but there was a farm-house near the sea-town where they let lodgings; and, although it was early in the season, she might belong to some family which had come to spend a few of the summer weeks there; possibly his appearance had prevented her from having her bath that morning. If he should have the good fortune to see her again, he would show her a place far fitter for the purpose—a perfect arbour of rocks, utterly secluded, with a floor of deep sand, and without a hole for crab or lobster.

His road led him in the direction of a few cottages lying in a hollow. Beside them rose a vision of trees, bordered by an ivy-grown wall, from amidst whose summits shot the spire of the church; and from beyond the spire, through the trees, came golden glimmers as of vane and crescent and pinnacled ball, that hinted at some shadowy abode of enchantment within; but as he descended the slope towards the cottages the trees gradually rose and shut in everything.

These cottages were far more ancient than the houses of the town, were covered with green thatch, were buried in ivy, and would soon be radiant with roses and honeysuckles. They were gathered irregularly about a gate of curious old iron-work, opening on the churchyard, but more like an entrance to the grounds behind the church, for it told of ancient state, bearing on each of its pillars a great stone heron with a fish in its beak.

This was the quarter whence had come the noises of children, but they had now ceased, or rather sunk into a gentle murmur, which oozed, like the sound of bees from a straw covered beehive, out of a cottage rather larger than the rest, which stood close by the churchyard gate. It was the parish school, and these cottages were all that remained of the old town of Portlossie, which had at one time stretched in a long irregular street almost to the shore. The town cross yet stood, but away solitary on a green hill that overlooked the sands.

During the summer the long walk from the new town to the school and to the church was anything but a hardship: in winter it was otherwise, for then there were days in which few would venture the single mile that separated them.

The door of the school, bisected longitudinally, had one of its halves open, and by it outflowed the gentle hum of the honeybees of learning. Malcolm walked in, and had the whole of the busy scene at once before him. The place was like a barn, open from wall to wall, and from floor to rafters and thatch, browned with the peat smoke of vanished winters. Two thirds of the space were filled with long desks and forms; the other had only the master’s desk, and thus afforded room for standing classes. At the present moment it was vacant, for the prayer was but just over, and the Bible class had not been called up: there Alexander Graham, the schoolmaster, descending from his desk, met and welcomed Malcolm with a kind shake of the hand. He was a man of middle height, but very thin; and about five and forty years of age, but looked older, because of his thin grey hair and a stoop in the shoulders. He was dressed in a shabby black tailcoat, and clean white neckcloth; the rest of his clothes were of parson grey, noticeably shabby also. The quiet sweetness of his smile, and a composed look of submission were suggestive of the purification of sorrow, but were attributed by the townsfolk to disappointment; for he was still but a schoolmaster, whose aim they thought must be a pulpit and a parish. But Mr Graham had been early released from such an ambition, if it had ever possessed him, and had for many years been more than content to give himself to the hopefuller work of training children for the true ends of life: he lived the quietest of studious lives, with an old housekeeper.

Malcolm had been a favourite pupil, and the relation of master and scholar did not cease when the latter saw that he ought to do something to lighten the burden of his grandfather, and so left the school and betook himself to the life of a fisherman—with the slow leave of Duncan, who had set his heart on making a scholar of him. He asserted himself perfectly able to provide for both for ten years to come at least, in proof of which he roused the inhabitants of Portlossie, during the space of a whole month, a full hour earlier than usual, with the most terrific blasts of the bagpipes, and this notwithstanding complaint and expostulation on all sides, so that at length the provost had to interfere; after which outburst of defiance to time, however, his energy had begun to decay so visibly that Malcolm gave himself to the pipes in secret, that he might be ready, in case of sudden emergency, to take his grandfather’s place; for Duncan lived in constant dread of the hour when his office might be taken from him and conferred on a mere drummer, or, still worse, on a certain ne’er-do-weel cousin of the provost, so devoid of music as to be capable only of ringing a bell.

“I’ve had an invitation to Miss Campbell’s funeral—Miss Horn’s cousin, you know,” said Mr Graham, in a hesitating and subdued voice: “could you manage to take the school for me, Malcolm?”

“Yes, sir. There’s naething to hinner^hinder me. What day is ’t^it upo’?”

“Saturday.”

“Verra^very weel, sir. I s’^shall be here in guid^good time.”

This matter settled, the business of the school, in which, as he did often, Malcolm had come to assist, began. Only a pupil of his own could have worked with Mr Graham, for his mode was very peculiar. But the strangest fact in it would have been the last to reveal itself to an ordinary observer. This was, that he rarely contradicted anything: he would call up the opposing truth, set it face to face with the error, and leave the two to fight it out. The human mind and conscience were, he said, the plains of Armageddon, where the battle of good and evil was for ever raging; and the one business of a teacher was to rouse and urge this battle by leading fresh forces of the truth into the field—forces composed as little as might be of the intellect, and as much as possible of the native energies of the heart, imagination, and conscience. In a word, he would oppose error only by teaching the truth.

In early life he had come under the influence of the writings of William Law, which he read as one who pondered every doctrine in that light which only obedience to the truth can open upon it. With a keen eye for the discovery of universal law in the individual fact, he read even the marvels of the New Testament practically. Hence, in training his soldiers, every lesson he gave them was a missile; every admonishment of youth or maiden was as the mounting of an armed champion, and the launching of him with a God-speed into the thick of the fight.

He now called up the Bible-class, and Malcolm sat beside and listened. That morning they had to read one of the chapters in the history of Jacob.

“Was Jacob a good man?” he asked, as soon as the reading, each of the scholars in turn taking a verse, was over.

An apparently universal expression of assent followed; halting its wake, however, came the voice of a boy near the bottom of the class:

“Wasna^{was not} he some dooble^{double dealing}, sir?”

“You are right, Sheltie,” said the master; “he was double. I must, I find, put the question in another shape:—Was Jacob a bad man?”

Again came such a burst of yesses that it might have been taken for a general hiss. But limping in the rear came again the half dissentient voice of Jamie Joss, whom the master had just addressed as Sheltie:

“Pairtly, sir.”

“You think, then, Sheltie, that a man may be both bad and good?”

“I dinna^{do not} ken, sir. I think he may be whiles^{at times} ane^one an’ whiles^{at times} the ither^other, an’ whiles maybe it wad^would be ill to say whilk^which. Oor^our collie’s whiles^sometimes in twa^two min’s^minds whether he’ll du^do what he’s telled or no.”

“That’s the battle of Armageddon, Sheltie, my man. It’s aye ragin’, ohn^without gun roared or bayonet clashed. Ye maun^must up an’ do yer best in’t, my man. Gien^if ye dee^die fechtin’^{fighting, struggling} like a man, ye’ll flee^fly up wi’ a quaiet^quiet face an’ wide open een^eyes; an’ there’s a great Ane^One ’at ’ll^will say to ye, ‘Weel dune^done, laddie!’ But gien^if ye gie^give in to the enemy, he’ll turn ye intill^into a creepin’ thing ’at eats dirt; an’ there ’ll^will no be a hole in a’^all the crystal wa’ o’ the New Jerusalem near eneuch^enough to the grun’^ground to lat^let ye creep throu’.”

As soon as ever Alexander Graham, the polished thinker and sweet-mannered gentleman, opened his mouth concerning the things he loved best, that moment the most poetic forms came pouring out in the most rugged speech.

“I reckon, sir,” said Sheltie, “Jacob hadna^{had not} fouchten^fought oot^out his battle.”

“That’s jist it, my boy. And because he wouldna^{would not} get up and fecht^{fight, struggle} manfully, God had to tak^{take, seize} him in han’. Ye’ve heard tell o’ generals, when their troops war rinnin’ awa’, haein’^having to cut this man doon^down, shute that ane^one, and lick anither, till he turned them a’ richt face aboot^about and drave^drove them on to the foe like a spate! And the trouble God took wi’ Jacob wasna^{was not} lost upon him at last.”

“An’ what cam^came o’ Esau, sir?” asked a pale-faced maiden with blue eyes. “He wasna^{was not} an ill kin’^kind o’ a chield—was he, sir?”

“No, Mappy,” answered the master; “he was a fine chield^{child; term of fondness}, as you say; but he nott^needed mair^more time and gentler treatment to mak^{make, do} onything o’ him. Ye see he had a guid^good hert^heart, but was a duller kin’^kind o’ cratur^creature a’thegither, and cared for naething he could na^{not, by no means} see or hanle. He never thoucht^thought muckle^much aboot^about God at a’. Jacob was anither sort—a poet kin’^kind o’ a man, but a sneck-drawin’^{crafty, wily} cratur^creature for a’ that. It was easier, hooever, to get the slyness oot^out o’ Jacob, than the dulness oot^out o’ Esau. Punishment tellt upo’ Jacob like upon a thin-skinned horse, whauras Esau was mair^more like the minister’s powny, that can hardly be made to unnerstan’ that ye want him to gang^go on. But o’ the ither^other han’, dullness is a thing that can be borne wi’: there’s nay hurry aboot^about that; but the deceitfu’ tricks o’ Jacob war na^{not, by no means} to be endured, and sae^so the tawse^{leather strap} cam^came doon^down upo’ him.”

“An’ what for didna God mak^{make, do} Esau as clever as Jacob?” asked a wizened-faced boy near the top of the class.

“Ah, my Peery!” said Mr Graham, “I canna^cannot tell ye that. A’ that I can tell is, that God hadna^{had not} dune^done makin’^{making, doing} at him, an’ some kin’^kind o’ fowk^folk tak^{take, seize} langer^longer to mak^{make, do} oot^out than ithers^others. An’ ye canna tell what they’re to be till they’re made oot^out. But whether what I tell ye be richt or no, God maun^must hae the verra^very best o’ rizzons^reasons for ’t^it, ower^{over, too} guid^good maybe for us to unnerstan’—the best o’ rizzons for Esau himsel’, I mean, for the Creator luiks^looks efter his cratur^creature first ava’^{of all}.—And now,” concluded Mr Graham, resuming his English, “go to your lessons; and be diligent, that God may think it worth while to get on faster with the making of you.”

In a moment the class was dispersed and all were seated. In another, the sound of scuffling arose, and fists were seen storming across a desk.

“Andrew Jamieson and Poochy, come up here,” said the master in a loud voice.

“He hittit me first,” cried Andrew, the moment they were within a respectful distance of the master, whereupon Mr Graham turned to the other with inquiry in his eyes.

“He had nae^no business to ca’ me Poochy.”

“No more he had; but you had just as little right to punish him for it. The offence was against me: he had no right to use my name for you, and the quarrel was mine. For the present you are Poochy no more: go to your place, William Wilson.”

The boy burst out sobbing, and crept back to his seat with his knuckles in his eyes.

“Andrew Jamieson,” the master went on, “I had almost got a name for you, but you have sent it away. You are not ready for it yet, I see. Go to your place.”

With downcast looks Andrew followed William, and the watchful eyes of the master saw that, instead of quarrelling any more during the day, they seemed to catch at every opportunity of showing each other a kindness.

Mr Graham never used bodily punishment: he ruled chiefly by the aid of a system of individual titles, of the mingled characters of pet-name and nickname. As soon as the individuality of a boy had attained to signs of blossoming—that is, had become such that he could predict not only an upright but a characteristic behaviour in given circumstances, he would take him aside and whisper in his ear that henceforth, so long as he deserved it, he would call him by a certain name—one generally derived from some object in the animal or vegetable world, and pointing to a resemblance which was not often patent to any eye but the master’s own. He had given the name of Poochy, for instance to William Wilson, because, like the kangaroo, he sought his object in a succession of awkward, yet not the less availing leaps—gulping his knowledge and pocketing his conquered marble after a like fashion. Mappy, the name which thus belonged to a certain flaxen-haired, soft-eyed girl, corresponds to the English bunny. Sheltie is the small Scotch mountain-pony, active and strong. Peery means pegtop. But not above a quarter of the children had pet-names. To gain one was to reach the highest honour of the school; the withdrawal of it was the severest of punishments, and the restoring of it the sign of perfect reconciliation. The master permitted no one else to use it, and was seldom known to forget himself so far as to utter it while its owner was in disgrace. The hope of gaining such a name, or the fear of losing it, was in the pupil the strongest ally of the master, the most powerful enforcement of his influences. It was a scheme of government by aspiration. But it owed all its operative power to the character of the man who had adopted rather than invented it. Photographs from a good many different points would be necessary to afford anything like a complete notion of the character of this country schoolmaster.

Towards noon, while he was busy with an astronomical class, explaining, by means partly of the blackboard, partly of two boys representing the relation of the earth and the moon, how it comes that we see but one half of the latter, the door gently opened and the troubled face of the mad laird peeped slowly in. His body followed as gently, and at last—sad symbol of his weight of care—his hump appeared, with a slow half-revolution as he turned to shut the door behind him. Taking off his hat, he walked up to Mr Graham, who, busy with his astronomy, had not perceived his entrance, touched him on the arm, and, standing on tiptoe, whispered softly in his ear, as if it were a painful secret that must be respected, “I dinna^{do not} ken whaur^where I cam^came frae. I want to come to the school.”

Mr Graham turned and shook hands with him, respectfully addressing him as Mr Stewart, and got down for him the armchair which stood behind his desk. But, with the politest bow, the laird declined it, and mournfully repeating the words, “I dinna ken whaur I cam frae,” took a place readily yielded him in the astronomical circle surrounding the symbolic boys.

This was not by any means his first appearance there; for every now and then he was seized with a desire to go to school, plainly with the object of finding out where he came from. This always fell in his quieter times, and for days together he would attend regularly; in one instance he was not absent an hour for a whole month. He spoke so little, however, that it was impossible to tell how much he understood, although he seemed to enjoy all that went on. He was so quiet, so sadly gentle, that he gave no trouble of any sort, and after the first few minutes of a fresh appearance, the attention of the scholars was rarely distracted by his presence.

The way in which the master treated him awoke like respect in his pupils. Boys and girls were equally ready to make room for him on their forms, and any one of the latter who had by some kind attention awakened the watery glint of a smile on the melancholy features of the troubled man, would boast of her success. Hence it came that the neighbourhood of Portlossie was the one spot in the county where a person of weak intellect or peculiar appearance might go about free of insult.

The peculiar sentence the laird so often uttered was the only one he invariably spoke with definite clearness. In every other attempt at speech he was liable to be assailed by an often recurring impediment, during the continuance of which he could compass but a word here and there, often betaking himself in the agony of suppressed utterance, to the most extravagant gestures, with which he would sometimes succeed in so supplementing his words as to render his meaning intelligible.

The two boys representing the earth and the moon, had returned to their places in the class, and Mr Graham had gone on to give a description of the moon, in which he had necessarily mentioned her mountains. But in the course of asking some questions, he found a need of further explanation, and therefore once more required the services of the boy-sun and boy-moon. The moment the latter, however, began to describe his circle around the former, Mr Stewart stepped gravely up to him, and, laying hold of his hand, led him back to his station in the class: then, turning first one shoulder, then the other to the company, so as to attract attention to his hump, uttered the single word Mountain, and took on himself the part of the moon, proceeding to revolve in the circle which represented her orbit. Several of the boys and girls smiled, but no one laughed, for Mr Graham’s gravity maintained theirs. Without remark, he used the mad laird for a moon to the end of his explanation.

Mr Stewart remained in the school all the morning, stood up with every class Mr Graham taught, and in the intervals sat, with book or slate before him, still as a Brahmin on the fancied verge of his re-absorption, save that he murmured to himself now and then,

“I dinna ken whaur I cam frae.”

When his pupils dispersed for dinner, Mr Graham invited him to go to his house and share his homely meal, but with polished gesture and broken speech, Mr Stewart declined, walked away towards the town, and was seen no more that afternoon.

Chapter 8 - The Swivel

Mrs Courthope, the housekeeper at Lossie House, was a good woman, who did not stand upon her dignities, as small rulers are apt to do, but cultivated friendly relations with the people of the sea-town. Some of the rougher of the women despised the sweet outlandish speech she had brought with her from her native England, and accused her of mim-mou’dness, or an affected modesty in the use of words; but not the less was she in their eyes a great lady,—whence indeed came the special pleasure in finding flaws in her—for to them she was the representative of the noble family on whose skirts they and their ancestors had been settled for ages, the last marquis not having visited the place for many years, and the present having but lately succeeded.

Duncan MacPhail was a favourite with her; for the English woman will generally prefer the highland to the lowland Scotsman; and she seldom visited the Seaton without looking in upon him so that when Malcolm returned from the Alton, or Old Town, where the school was, it did not in the least surprise him to find her seated with his grandfather.

Apparently, however, there had been some dissension between them; for the old man sat in his corner strangely wrathful, his face in a glow, his head thrown back, his nostrils distended, and his eyelids working, as if his eyes were “poor dumb mouths,” like Caesar’s wounds, trying to speak.

“We are told in the New Testament to forgive our enemies, you know,” said Mrs Courthope, heedless of his entrance, but in a voice that seemed rather to plead than oppose.

“Inteet she will not be false to her shief and her clan,” retorted Duncan persistently. “She will not forgife Cawmil of Glenlyon.”

“But he’s dead long since, and we may at least hope he repented and was forgiven.”

“She’ll be hoping nothing of the kind, Mistress Kertope,” replied Duncan. “But if, as you say, God will be forgifing him, which I do not belief;—let that pe enough for ta greedy blackguard. Sure, it matters but small whether poor Tuncan MacPhail will be forgifing him or not. Anyhow, he must do without it, for he shall not haf it. He is a tamn fillain and scounrel, and so she says, with her respecs to you, Mistress Kertope.”

His sightless eyes flashed with indignation; and perceiving it was time to change the subject, the housekeeper turned to Malcolm.

“Could you bring me a nice mackerel or whiting for my lord’s breakfast tomorrow morning, Malcolm?” she said.

“Certaintly, mem. I s’^shall be wi ye in guid^good time wi’ the best the sea ’ll^will gie^give me,” he answered.

“If I have the fish by nine o’clock, that will be early enough,” she returned.

“I wad^would na^not like to wait sae lang^long for my brakfast,” remarked Malcolm.

“You wouldn’t mind it much, if you waited asleep,” said Mrs Courthope.

“Can onybody sleep till sic^such a time o’ day as that?” exclaimed the youth.

“You must remember my lord doesn’t go to bed for hours after you, Malcolm.”

“An’ what can keep him up a’ that time? It’s no as gien^if he war efter the herrin’^herring, an’ had the win’^wind an’ the watter^water an’ the netfu’s o’ waumlin^wriggling craturs^creatures to haud^{hold, keep} him waukin’^awake.”

“Oh! he reads and writes, and sometimes goes walking about the grounds after everybody else is in bed,” said Mrs Courthope, “he and his dog.”

“Well, I wad rather be up ear’^early,” said Malcolm; “a heap raither. I like fine to be oot^out i’^{in, into} the quaiet^quiet o’ the mornin’ afore the sun’s up to set the din gaun^going; whan^when it’s a’ clear but no bricht—like the back o’ a bonny sawmon^salmon; an’ air an’ watter^water an’ a’ luiks^looks as gien^if they war waitin’ for something—quaiet^quiet, verra^very quaiet^quiet, but no content.”

Malcolm uttered this long speech, and went on with more like it, in the hope of affording time for the stormy waters of Duncan’s spirit to assuage. Nor was he disappointed; for, if there was a sound on the earth Duncan loved to hear, it was the voice of his boy; and by degrees the tempest sank to repose, the gathered glooms melted from his countenance, and the sunlight of a smile broke out.

“Hear to him!” he cried. “Her poy^boy will be a creat pard^bard some tay^day, and sing pefore ta Stuart kings, when they come pack^back to Holyrood!”

Mrs Courthope had enough of poetry in her to be pleased with Malcolm’s quiet enthusiasm, and spoke a kind word of sympathy with the old man’s delight as she rose to take her leave. Duncan rose also, and followed her to the door, making her a courtly bow, and that just as she turned away.

“It ’ll^will pe a coot ’oman^woman, Mistress Kertope,” he said as he came back; “and it ’ll^will no pe to plame her for forgifing Glenlyon, for he did not kill her creat-crandmother. Put it’ll pe fery paad preeding to request her nainsel^ownself, Tuncan MacPhail, to be forgifing ta rascal. Only she’ll pe put a voman, and it’ll not pe knowing no petter to her.—You’ll be minding you’ll be firing ta cun at six o’clock exackly, Malcolm, for all she says; for my lord peing put shust come home to his property, it might be a fex to him if tere was any mistake so soon. Put inteed, I yonder he hasn’t been sending for old Tuncan to be gifing him a song or two on ta peeps; for he’ll pe hafing ta oceans of fery coot highland plood in his own feins; and his friend, ta Prince of Wales, who has no more rights to it than a maackerel fish, will pe wearing ta kilts at Holyrood. So mind you pe firing ta cun at sax^six, my son.”

For some years, young as he was, Malcolm had hired himself to one or other of the boat-proprietors of the Seaton or of Scaurnose, for the herring-fishing—only, however, in the immediate neighbourhood, refusing to go to the western islands, or any station whence he could not return to sleep at his grandfather’s cottage. He had thus on every occasion earned enough to provide for the following winter, so that his grandfather’s little income as piper, and other small returns, were accumulating in various concealments about the cottage; for, in his care for the future, Duncan dreaded lest Malcolm should buy things for him, without which, in his own sightless judgment, he could do well enough.

Until the herring-season should arrive, however, Malcolm made a little money by line-fishing; for he had bargained, the year before, with the captain of a schooner for an old ship’s-boat, and had patched and caulked it into a sufficiently serviceable condition. He sold his fish in the town and immediate neighbourhood, where a good many housekeepers favoured the handsome and cheery young fisherman.

He would now be often out in the bay long before it was time to call his grandfather, in his turn to rouse the sleepers of Portlossie. But the old man had as yet always waked about the right time, and the inhabitants had never had any ground of complaint—a few minutes one way or the other being of little consequence. He was the cock which woke the whole yard: morning after morning his pipes went crowing through the streets of the upper region, his music ending always with his round. But after the institution of the gun-signal, his custom was to go on playing where he stood until he heard it, or to stop short in the midst of his round and his liveliest reveille the moment it reached his ear. Loath as he might be to stop, that sense of good manners which was supreme in every highlander of the old time forbade the fingering of a note after the marquis’s gun had called aloud.

When Malcolm meant to go fishing, he always loaded the swivel the night before, and about sunset the same evening he set out for that purpose. Not a creature was visible on the border of the curving bay except a few boys far-off on the gleaming sands whence the tide had just receded: they were digging for sand eels—lovely little silvery fishes—which, as every now and then the spade turned one or two up, they threw into a tin pail for bait. But on the summit of the long sand-hill, the lonely figure of a man was walking to and fro in the level light of the rosy west; and as Malcolm climbed the near end of the dune, it was turning far-off at the other: halfway between them was the embrasure with the brass swivel, and there they met. Although he had never seen him before, Malcolm perceived at once it must be Lord Lossie, and lifted his bonnet. The marquis nodded and passed on, but the next moment, hearing the noise of Malcolm’s proceedings with the swivel, turned and said—“What are you about there with that gun, my lad?”

“I’m jist ga’in’ to dicht her oot^{make her ready} an’ lod her^{load her}, my lord,” answered Malcolm.

“And what next? You’re not going to fire the thing?”

“Ay—the morn’s mornin’, my lord.”

“What will that be for?”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, jist to wauk^wake yer lordship.”

“Hm!” said his lordship, with more expression than articulation.

“Will I no lod her?” asked Malcolm, throwing down the ramrod, and approaching the swivel, as if to turn the muzzle of it again into the embrasure.

“Oh, yes! load her by all means. I don’t want to interfere with any of your customs. But if that is your object, the means, I fear, are inadequate.”

“It’s a comfort to hear that, my lord; for I canna^cannot aye be sure o’ my auld^old watch, an’ may weel be oot^out a five minutes or twa^{two, a few} whiles^sometimes. Sae, in future, seem’ it’s o’ sic^such sma’ consequence to yer lordship, I s’^shall jist let her aff^off whan^when it’s convenient. A feow^few minutes winna^{will not} maitter^matter muckle^much to the bailie-bodies^{people in charge}.”

There was something in Malcolm’s address that pleased Lord Lossie—the mingling of respect and humour, probably—the frankness and composure, perhaps. He was not self-conscious enough to be shy, and was so free from design of any sort that he doubted the good will of no one.

“What’s your name?” asked the marquis abruptly.

“Malcolm MacPhail, my lord.”

“MacPhail? I heard the name this very day! Let me see.”

“My gran’father’s the blin’^blind piper, my lord.”

“Yes, yes. Tell him I shall want him at the House. I left my own piper at Ceanglas.”

“I’ll fess^{fetch, bring} him wi’ me the morn^tomorrow, gien^if ye like, my lord, for I’ll be ower^over wi’ some fine troot or ither^other, gien I haena^{have not} the waur^worse luck, the morn’s^tomorrow mornin’: Mistress Courthope says she’ll be aye ready for ane^one to fry to yer lordship’s brakfast. But I’m thinkin’ that’ll be ower^too ear’^early for ye to see him.”

“I’ll send for him when I want him. Go on with your brazen serpent there, only mind you don’t give her too much supper.”

“Jist look at her ribs, my lord! she winna^{will not} rive^rent/tear!” was the youth’s response; and the marquis was moving off with a smile, when Malcolm called after him.

“Gien yer lordship likes to see yer ain^own ferlies^{unusual sights}, I ken whaur some o’ them lie,” he said.

“What do you mean by ferlies?” asked the marquis.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! keeriosities, ye ken. For enstance^instance, there’s some queer caves alang^along the cost—twa^two or three o’ them afore ye come to the Scaurnose. They say the water bude till ha’^{had to have} howkit^{dug, excavated} them ance^once upon a time, an’ they maun^must hae been fu’^{full, very, quite} o’ partans^crabs, an’ lobsters, an’ their frien’s an’ neebours; but they’re heigh an’ dreigh noo^now, as the fule^fool said o’ his minister, an’ naething intill^into them but foumarts^pole-cats, an’ otters, an’ sic^such like.”

“Well, well, my lad, we’ll see,” said his lordship kindly and turning once more, he resumed his walk.

“At yer lordship’s will,” answered Malcolm in a low voice as he lifted his bonnet and again bent to the swivel.

The next morning, he was rowing slowly along in the bay, when he was startled by the sound of his grandfather’s pipes, wafted clear and shrill on a breath of southern wind, from the top of the town. He looked at his watch: it was not yet five o’clock. The expectation of a summons to play at Lossie House, had so excited the old man’s brain that he had waked long before his usual time, and Portlossie must wake also. The worst of it was, that he had already, as Malcolm knew from the direction of the sound, almost reached the end of his beat, and must even now be expecting the report of the swivel, until he heard which he would not cease playing, so long as there was a breath in his body. Pulling, therefore, with all his might, Malcolm soon ran his boat ashore, and in another instant the sharp yell of the swivel rang among the rocks of the promontory. He was still standing, lapped in a light reverie as he watched the smoke flying seaward, when a voice, already well-known to him said, close at his side:

“What are you about with that horrid cannon?”

Malcolm started.

“Ye garred^{made, caused} me loup^{leap, jump}, my leddy^lady!” he returned with a smile and an obeisance.

“You told me,” the girl went on emphatically, and as she spoke she disengaged her watch from her girdle, “that you fired it at six o’clock. It is not nearly six.”

“Didna ye hear the pipes, my leddy^lady?” he rejoined.

“Yes, well enough; but a whole regiment of pipes can’t make it six o’clock when my watch says ten minutes past five.”

“Eh, sic a braw^{beautiful, fine} watch!” exclaimed Malcolm. “What’s a’ thae^{those, these} bonny white k-nots about the face o’ ’t^it?”

“Pearls,” she answered, in a tone that implied pity of his ignorance.

“Jist look at it aside mine!” he exclaimed in admiration, pulling out his great old turnip.

“There!” cried the girl; “your own watch says only a quarter past five.”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, ay! my leddy^lady; I set it by the toon^{town, village} clock ’at hings^hangs i’^{in, into} the window o’ the Lossie Airms^{arms; coat of arms, crest} last nicht^{night, evening}. But I maun^must awa’ an’ luik^look efter my lines, or atween the deil^devil an’ the dogfish my lord’ll fare ill.”

“You haven’t told me why you fired the gun,” she persisted.

Thus compelled, Malcolm had to explain that the motive lay in his anxiety lest his grandfather should over-exert himself, seeing he was subject to severe attacks of asthma.

“He could stop when he was tired,” she objected.

“Ay, gien his pride wad lat^let him,” answered Malcolm, and turned away again, eager to draw his line.

“Have you a boat of your own?” asked the lady.

“Ay; yon’s her, doon^down on the shore yonner^yonder. Wad ye like a row? She’s fine an’ quaiet^quiet.”

“Who? The boat?”

“The sea, my leddy^lady.”

“Is your boat clean?”

“O’ a’ thing^everything but fish. But na^{by no means}, it’s no fit for sic a bonny goon^gown as that. I winna^{will not} lat^let ye gang^go the day^today, my leddy^lady; but gien ye like to be here the morn’s^tomorrow mornin’, I s’^shall be here at this same hoor^hour, an’ hae my boat as clean’s a Sunday sark^shirt.”

“You think more of my gown than of myself,” she returned.

“There’s no fear o’ yersel’, my leddy^lady. Ye’re ower^too weel made to blaud^spoil. But wae’s^{woe is} me for the goon^gown or^before it had been an hoor^hour i’^{in, into} the boat the day^today!—no to mention the fish comin’ walopin’ ower^over the gunnel ane^one efter the ither^other. But ’deed^indeed I maun^must say good mornin’, mem!”

“By all means. I don’t want to keep you a moment from your precious fish.”

Feeling rebuked, without well knowing why, Malcolm accepted the dismissal, and ran to his boat. By the time he had taken his oars, the girl had vanished.

His line was a short one; but twice the number of fish he wanted were already hanging from the hooks. It was still very early when he reached the harbour. At home he found his grandfather waiting for him, and his breakfast ready.

It was hard to convince Duncan that he had waked the royal burgh a whole hour too soon. He insisted that, as he had never made such a blunder before, he could not have made it now.

“It’s ta watch ’at ’ll^will pe telling ta lies, Malcolm, my poy,” he said thoughtfully. “She was once pefore.”

“But the sun says the same ’s^as the watch, daddy,” persisted Malcolm.

Duncan understood the position of the sun and what it signified, as well as the clearest-eyed man in Port Lossie, but he could not afford to yield.

“It was peing some conspeeracy of ta cursit Cawmills, to make her loss her poor pension,” he said. “Put never you mind, Malcolm; I’ll pe making up for ta plunder ta morrow mornin’. Ta coot peoples shall haf teir sleeps a whole hour after tey ought to be at teir works.”

Chapter 9 - The Salmon-trout

Malcolm walked up through the town with his fish, hoping to part with some of the less desirable of them, and so lighten his basket, before entering the grounds of Lossie House. But he had met with little success, and was now approaching the town-gate, as they called it, which closed a short street at right angles to the principal one, when he came upon Mrs Catanach—on her knees, cleaning her doorstep.

“Weel, Malcolm, what fish hae ye?” she said, without looking up.

“Hoo^how kent^knew ye it was me, Mistress Catanach?” asked the lad.

“Kent^knew it was you!” she repeated. “Gien there be but twa^two feet at ance^once in ony^any street o’ Portlossie, I’ll tell ye whase^whose heid’s abune^above them, an’ my een^eyes steekit^closed.”

“Hoot^pshaw!! ye’re a witch, Mistress Catanach!” said Malcolm merrily.

“That’s as may be,” she returned, rising, and nodding mysteriously; “I hae tauld^told ye nae^no mair^more nor^than the trowth^truth. But what garred^{made, caused} ye whup’s^{whip us} a’ oot^out o’ oor^our nakit beds by five o’clock i’ⁱⁿ the mornin’, this mornin’, man! That’s no what ye’re paid for.”

“Deed^indeed, mem, it was jist a mistak’ o’ my puir^poor daddy’s. He had been feart^afraid o’ sleepin’ ower lang^long, ye see, an’ sae had waukit^woke ower sune^soon. I was oot^out efter the fish mysel.”

“But ye fired the gun ’gen the chap^{before the stroke} o’ five.”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, ay! I fired the gun. The puir^poor man wod hae bursten himsel’ gien I hadna^{had not}.”

“Deil^{devil; not} gien he had bursten himsel’—the auld^old heelan’^highland sholt^dog!” exclaimed Mrs Catanach spitefully.

“Ye sanna^{shall not} even^level sic words to my gran’father, Mrs Catanach,” said Malcolm with rebuke.

She laughed a strange laugh.

“Sanna^{shall not}!” she repeated contemptuously. “An’ wha’s your gran’father, that I sud^should tak^{take, seize} tent^heed hoo^how I wag my tongue ower his richtousness?”

Then, with a sudden change of her tone to one of would be friendliness—“But what’ll ye be seekin’ for that bit^little sawmon trooty, man?” she said.

As she spoke she approached his basket, and would have taken the fish in her hands, but Malcolm involuntarily drew back.

“It’s gauin’^going to the Hoose^house to my lord’s brakfast,” he said.

“Hoots^pshaw!! ye’ll jist lea’ the troot wi’ me.—Ye’ll be seekin’ a saxpence^sixpence for ’t^it, 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’^going up to the Hoose!”

“Hoots^pshaw!! there’s naebody^nobody there seen ’t yet. It’s new oot^out o’ the watter^water.”

“But Mistress Courthope was doon^down last nicht^{night, evening}, an’ wantit the best I cud^could heuk^hook.”

“Mistress Courthope! Wha^who cares for her? A mim^prim, cantin’^{chanting [religious]} auld^old body! Gie^give me the trootie, Ma’colm. Ye’re a bonny laad^lad, an it s’^shall be the better for ye.”

“Deed^indeed I cudna^{could not} du^do ’t, Mistress Catanach—though I’m sorry to disobleege ye. It’s bespoken, ye see. But there’s a fine haddie^haddock, an’ a bonny sma’ coddie, an’ a goukmey^{gray gurnard}.”

“Gae^go ’wa’ wi’ yer haddies, an’ yer goukmeys! Ye sanna^{shall not} gowk^fool me wi’ them.”

“Weel, I wadna^{would not} wonner^{wonder, marvel},” said Malcolm, “gien Mrs Courthope wad like the haddie^haddock tu^too, an’ maybe the lave^{rest, remainder} o’ them as weel. Hers is a muckle^huge faimily to haud^{hold, keep} eatin.’ I’ll jist gang^go to the Hoose^house first afore I mak^{make, do} ony^any mair^more offers frae my creel.”

“Ye’ll lea’ the troot wi’ me,” said Mrs Catanach imperiously.

“Na^{by no means}; I canna^cannot du^do that. Ye maun^must see yersel’ ’at I canna.”

The woman’s face grew dark with anger. “It s’^shall be the waur^worse for ye,” she cried.

“I’m no gauin’^going to be fleyt^frightened at ye. Ye’re no sic a witch as that comes till, though ye div^do ken a body’s fit^foot upo’ the flags! My blin’^blind luckie-deddy can du^do mair^more nor^than that!” said Malcolm, irritated by her persistency, threats and evil looks.

“Daur^{dare, challenge} ye me?”’ she returned, her pasty cheeks now red as fire, and her wicked eyes flashing as she shook her clenched fist at him.

“What for no?” he answered coolly, turning his head back over his shoulder, for he was already on his way to the gate.

“Ye s’^shall ken that, ye misbegotten funlin’^foundling!” shrieked the woman, and waddled hastily into the house.

“What ails her?” said Malcolm to himself. “She micht^might ha’ seen ’at I bude to^{had to} gie^give Mrs Courthope the first offer.”

By a winding carriage-drive, through trees whose growth was stunted by the sea-winds, which had cut off their tops as with a keen razor, Malcolm made a slow descent, yet was soon shadowed by timber of a more prosperous growth, rising as from a lake of the loveliest green, spangled with starry daisies. The air was full of sweet odours uplifted with the ascending dew, and trembled with a hundred songs at once, for here was a very paradise for birds. At length he came in sight of a long low wing of the house, and went to the door that led to the kitchen. There a maid informed him that Mrs Courthope was in the hall, and he had better take his basket there, for she wanted to see him. He obeyed, and sought the main entrance.

The house was an ancient pile, mainly of two sides at right angles, but with many gables, mostly having corbel-steps^{a series of stepped masonry projections rising above roof level along the sides of a wall}—a genuine old Scottish dwelling, small-windowed and gray, with steep slated roofs, and many turrets, each with a conical top. Some of these turrets rose from the ground, encasing spiral stone stairs; others were but bartizans^{overhanging corner turrets at the top of a building}, their interiors forming recesses in rooms. They gave the house something of the air of a French chateau, only it looked stronger and far grimmer. Carved around some of the windows, in ancient characters, were Scripture texts and antique proverbs. Two time-worn specimens of heraldic zoology, in a state of fearful and everlasting excitement, stood rampant and gaping, one on each side of the hall-door, contrasting strangely with the repose of the ancient house, which looked very like what the oldest part of it was said to have been—a monastery. It had at the same time, however, a somewhat warlike expression, wherein consisting it would have been difficult to say; nor could it ever have been capable of much defence, although its position in that regard was splendid. In front was a great gravel-space, in the centre of which lay a huge block of serpentine, from a quarry on the estate, being the pivot, as it were, around which all carriages turned.

On one side of the house was a great stone bridge, of lofty span, stretching across a little glen, in which ran a brown stream spotted with foam—the same that entered the frith^froth beside the Seaton; not muddy, however, for though dark it was clear—its brown being a rich transparent hue, almost red, gathered from the peat-bogs of the great moorland hill behind. Only a very narrow terrace-walk, with battlemented parapet, lay between the back of the house, and a precipitous descent of a hundred feet to this rivulet. Up its banks, lovely with flowers and rich with shrubs and trees below, you might ascend until by slow gradations you left the woods and all culture behind, and found yourself, though still within the precincts of Lossie House, on the lonely side of the waste hill, a thousand feet above the sea.

The hall-door stood open, and just within hovered Mrs Courthope, dusting certain precious things not to be handled by a housemaid. This portion of the building was so narrow that the hall occupied its entire width, and on the opposite side of it another door, standing also open, gave a glimpse of the glen.

“Good morning, Malcolm,” said Mrs Courthope, when she turned and saw whose shadow fell on the marble floor. “What have you brought me?”

“A fine salmon-troot, mem. But gien ye had hard^heard hoo^how Mistress Catanach flytit^scolded at me ’cause I wadna^{would not} gie’t to her! You wad hae thocht^thought, mem, she was something no canny—the w’y^way ’at she first beggit^begged, an’ syne^then fleecht^flattered, an syne^then a’ but banned^cursed an’ swore.”

“She’s a peculiar person, that, Malcolm. Those are nice whitings. I don’t care about the trout. Just take it to her as you go back.”

“I doobt gien she’ll take it, mem. She’s an awfu’ vengefu’ cratur^creature, fowk^folk says.”

“You remind me, Malcolm,” returned Mrs Courthope, “that I’m not at ease about your grandfather. He is not in a Christian frame of mind at all—and he is an old man too. If we don’t forgive our enemies, you know, the Bible plainly tells us we shall not be forgiven ourselves.”

“I’m thinkin’ it was a greater nor the Bible said that, mem,” returned Malcolm, who was an apt pupil of Mr Graham. “But ye’ll be meanin’ Cawmill o’ Glenlyon,” he went on with a smile. “It canna^cannot maitter^matter muckle^much to him whether my gran’father forgie^forgive him or no, seein’ he’s been deid^dead this hunner^hundred year.”

“It’s not Campbell of Glenlyon, it’s your grandfather I am anxious about,” said Mrs Courthope. “Nor is it only Campbell of Glenlyon he’s so fierce against, but all his posterity as well.”

“They dinna^{do not} exist, mem. There’s no sic a bein’ o’ the face o’ the yearth, as a descendant o’ that Glenlyon.”

“It makes little difference, I fear,” said Mrs Courthope, who was no bad logician. “The question isn’t whether or not there’s anybody to forgive, but whether Duncan MacPhail is willing to forgive.”

“That I do believe he is, mem; though he wad be as sair^sore astonished to hear ’t as ye are yersel’.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Malcolm.”

“I mean, mem, ’at a blin’^blind man, like my gran’father, canna ken himsel’ richt, seein’ he canna ken ither^other fowk^folk richt. It’s by kennin’^knowing ither fowk^folk ’at ye come to ken yersel, mem—isna’t noo^now?”

“Blindness surely doesn’t prevent a man from knowing other people. He hears them, and he feels them, and indeed has generally more kindness from them because of his affliction.”

“Frae some o’ them, mem; but it’s little kin’ness my gran’father has expairienced frae Cawmill o’ Glenlyon, mem.”

“And just as little injury, I should suppose,” said Mrs Courthope.

“Ye’re wrang^wrong there, mem: a murdered mither^mother maun^must be an unco^{very great} skaith^{hurt, injury} to oye’s oye^{grandson’s grandson}. But supposin’ ye to be richt, what I say’s to the pint^point for a’ that I maun^must jist explain a wee.—When I was a laddie at the schule, I was ance^once tell’t that ane^one o’ the loons^{rascals; boys} was i’ⁱⁿ the wye^way o’ mockin’ my gran’father. Whan^when I hard^heard it, I thocht^thought I cud^could jist rive^rent/tear the hert^heart o’ ’im^him, an’ set my teeth in’t, as the Dutch sodger^soldier did to the Spainiard. But whan^when I got a grip o’ ’im^him, an’ the rascal turned up a frichtit^frightened kin’^kind o’ a dog-like face to me, I jist could not drive my steikit neive^{clenched fist} intil’t. Mem, a face is an awfu’ thing! There’s aye something luikin’^looking oot^out o’ ’t ’at ye canna do as ye like wi’. But my gran’father never saw a face in’s life—lat^let alane^alone Glenlyon’s ’at’s^{that has} been dirt for sae mony^many a year. Gien he war luikin’^looking intil^into the face o’ that Glenlyon even, I do believe he wad no more drive his durk^dagger intill^into him.”

“Drive his dirk^dagger into him!” echoed Mrs Courthope, in horror at the very disclaimer.

“No, I’m sure he wad not,” persisted Malcolm, innocently. “He micht^might not tak^{take, seize} him oot^out o’ a pot^{hole in a riverbed}, but he wad neither durk him nor fling^{kick, throw} him in. I’m no that sure he wadna^{would not} even ran^reach him a han’. Ae^one thing I am certain o’,—that by the time he meets Glenlyon in haven^heaven, he’ll be no that far frae lattin’^letting by-ganes be by-ganes.”

“Meets Glenlyon in heaven!” again echoed Mrs Courthope, who knew enough of the story to be startled at the taken-for-granted way in which Malcolm spoke. “Is it probable that a wretch such as your legends describe him should ever get there?”

“Ye dinna^{do not} think God’s forgien^forgiven him, than, mem?”

“I have no right to judge Glenlyon, or any other man; but, as you ask me, I must say I see no likelihood of it.”

“Hoo^how can ye compleen^complain o’ my puir^poor blin’^blind grandfather for no forgiein’ him, than?—I hae ye there, mem!”

“He may have repented, you know,” said Mrs Courthope feebly, finding herself in less room than was comfortable.

“In sic case,” returned Malcolm, “the auld^old man ’ill^will hear a’ aboot^about it the meenit^minute he wins^gets there; an’ I mak^{make, do} nae^no doobt he’ll du^do his best to perswaud^persuade himsel’.”

“But what if he shouldn’t get there?” persisted Mrs Courthope, in pure benevolence.

“Hoot toot^{tut! [annoyance]}, mem! I wonner^{wonder, marvel} to hear ye! A Cawmill latten^{let, allowed} in, and my gran’father hauden^{held, kept} oot^out! That wad be jist yallow-faced Willie ower again!^{a reference to Lord Stair, the prime mover in the Massacre of Glenco}—Na, na^{by no means}; things gang^go anither gait^way up there. My gran’father’s a rale^{real, true} guid^good man, for a’ ’at he has a wye o’ luikin’^looking at things ’at’s^{that is, that has} mair^more efter the law nor the gospel.”

Apparently Mrs Courthope had come at length to the conclusion that Malcolm was as much of a heathen as his grandfather, for in silence she chose her fish, in silence paid him his price, and then with only a sad Good-day, turned and left him.

He would have gone back by the river-side to the sea-gate, but Mrs Courthope having waived her right to the fish in favour of Mrs Catanach, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so returned the way he had come.

“Here’s yer troot, Mistress Cat’nach,” he called aloud at her door, which generally stood a little ajar. “Ye s’^shall hae’t for the saxpence^sixpence—an’ a guid^good bargain tu^too, for ane^one o’ sic dimensions!”

As he spoke, he held the fish in at the door, but his eyes were turned to the main street, whence the factor’s gig was at the moment rounding the corner into that in which he stood; when suddenly the salmon-trout was snatched from his hand, and flung so violently in his face, that he staggered back into the road: the factor^{manager of property; collects rents, pays wages} had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. His rout rather than retreat was followed by a burst of insulting laughter, and at the same moment, out of the house rushed a large vile-looking mongrel, with hair like an ill-used door-mat and an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ashpit, caught up the trout, and rushed with it towards the gate.

“That’s richt, my bairn^child!” shouted Mrs Catanach to the brute as he ran: “Tak^take it to Mrs Courthope. Tak it back wi’ my compliments.”

Amidst a burst of malign laughter she slammed her door, and from a window sideways watched the young fisherman.

As he stood looking after the dog in wrath and bewilderment, the factor, having recovered from the fit of merriment into which the sudden explosion of events had cast him, and succeeded in quieting his scared horse, said, slackening his reins to move on,

“You sell your fish too cheap, Malcolm.”

“The deil’s i’ the tyke^dog,” rejoined Malcolm, and, seized at last by a sense of the ludicrousness of the whole affair, burst out laughing, and turned for the High Street.

“Na, na^{by no means}, laddie; the deil’s no awa’^{the Devil didn’t leave} in sic a hurry: he bed^remained,” said a voice behind him.

Malcolm turned again and lifted his bonnet. It was Miss Horn, who had come up from the Seaton.

“Did ye see yon^that, mem?” he asked.

“Ay, weel that, as I cam^came up the brae^{hill, high ground by a river}. Dinna^{do not} stan’ there, laddie. The jaud^{worthless woman} ’ll^will be watchin’ ye like a cat watchin’ a mouse. I ken her! She’s a cat-wuman, an’ I canna^cannot bide her. She’s no mowse^{not safe to touch}. She’s in secrets mair^more nor^than guid^good, I s’^shall wad^wager. Come awa’ wi’ me; I want a bit^little fish. I can ill eat an’ her lyin’ deid^{dead; death} i’ the hoose^house—it winna^{will not} gang^go ower; but I maun^must get some strength pitten^put intil^into me afore the berial. It’s a God’s-mercy I wasna^{was not} made wi’ feelin’s, or what wad hae come o’ me! Whaur’s the gude^good o’ greetin^{crying, weeping}? It’s no worth the saut^salt i’ the watter^water o’ ’t, Ma’colm. It’s an ill wardle^world, an micht^might be a bonny ane—gien’t warna^{were not} for ill men.”

“‘Deed^indeed, mem! I’m thinkin’ mair aboot^about ill women, at this prasent,” said Malcolm. “Maybe there’s no sic a thing, but yon’s unco^very like ane^one. As bonny a sawmon troot ’s^as ever ye saw, mem! It’s a’ I’m cawpable o’ to haud^{hold, keep} ohn^without cursed that foul tyke^dog o’ hers.”

“Hoot^pshaw!, laddie! haud^{hold, keep} yer tongue.”

“Ay will I. I’m na gaun^going to du^do ’t, ye ken. But sic a fine troot ’s that—the verra^very ane^one ye wad hae likit^liked, mem!”

“Never ye min’^mind the troot. There’s mair whaur that cam^came frae. What anger’t her at ye?”

“Naething mair nor^than that I bude to^{had to} gie^give Mistress Courthope the first wale^choice o’ my fish.”

“The wuman’s no worth yer notice, ’cep^{except, but} to haud^{hold, keep} oot o’ her gait^way, laddie; an’ that ye had better luik^look till, for she’s no canny^pleasant. Dinna^{do not} ye anger her again gien ye can help it. She has an ill luik^look, an’ I canna bide her.—Hae, there’s yer siller^silver. Jean, tak^take in this fish.”

During the latter part of the conversation they had been standing at the door, while Miss Horn ferreted the needful pence from a pocket under her gown. She now entered, but as Malcolm waited for Jean to take the fish, she turned on the threshold, and said:

“Wad ye no like to see her, Ma’colm?—A guid^good frien’ she was to you, sae lang’s she was here,” she added after a short pause.

The youth hesitated.

“I never saw a corp^corpse i’ my life, mem, an’ I’m jist some feared,” he said, after another brief silence.

“Hoot^pshaw!, laddie!” returned Miss Horn, in a somewhat offended tone.—“That’ll be what comes o’ haein’^having feelin’s. A bonny corp^corpse ’s^is the bonniest thing in creation,—an’ that quaiet^quiet!—Eh! sic a heap o’ them as there has been sin’^{since, ago, since then} Awbel^Abel,” she went on—“an ilk^{every, each} ane^one them luikin^looking, as gien there never had been anither but itsel’! Ye oucht^ought to see a corp^corpse, Ma’colm. Ye’ll hae’t to du^do afore ye’re ane^one yersel’, an’ ye’ll never see a bonnier nor^than my Grizel.”

“Be ’t to yer wull^wish, mem,” said Malcolm resignedly.

At once she led the way, and he followed her in silence up the stair and into the dead-chamber.

There on the white bed lay the long, black, misshapen thing she had called “the bit boxie:” and with a strange sinking at the heart, Malcolm approached it.

Miss Horn’s hand came from behind him, and withdrew a covering; there lay a vision lovely indeed to behold!—a fixed evanescence—a listening stillness,—awful, yet with a look of entreaty, at once resigned and unyielding, that strangely drew the heart of Malcolm. He saw a low white forehead, large eyeballs upheaving closed lids, finely-modelled features of which the tightened skin showed all the delicacy, and a mouth of suffering whereon the vanishing Psyche had left the shadow of the smile with which she awoke. The tears gathered in his eyes, and Miss Horn saw them.

“Ye maun^must lay yer han’ upo’ her, Ma’colm,” she said. “Ye sud^should aye touch the deid^dead, to haud^{hold, keep} ye ohn^without dreamed aboot^about them.”

“I wad be laith^loath,” answered Malcolm; “she wad be ower bonny a dream to miss.—Are they a’ like that?” he added, speaking under his breath.

“Na, ’deed^indeed no!” replied Miss Horn, with mild indignation. “Wad ye expec’ Bawby Cat’nach to luik^look like that, no?—I beg yer pardon for mentionin’ the wuman^woman, my dear,” she added with sudden divergence, bending towards the still face, and speaking in a tenderly apologetic tone; “I ken weel ye canna bide the verra^very name o’ her; but it s’^shall be the last time ye s’ hear ’t to a’ eternity, my doo^{dove, darling}.” Then turning again to Malcolm.—“Lay yer han’ upon her broo^brow, I tell ye,” she said.

“I daurna^{dare not},” replied the youth, still under his breath; “my han’s are no clean. I wadna^{would not} for the warl’^world touch her wi’ fishy han’s.”

The same moment, moved by a sudden impulse, whose irresistibleness was veiled in his unconsciousness, he bent down, and put his lips to the forehead.

As suddenly he started back erect with dismay on every feature.

“Eh, mem!” he cried in an agonised whisper, “she’s dooms^extremely cauld^cold!”

“What sud^should she be?” retorted Miss Horn. “Wad ye hae her beeried warm?”

He followed her from the room in silence, with the sense of a faint sting on his lips. She led him into her parlour, and gave him a glass of wine.

“Ye’ll come to the beerial upo’ Setterday^Saturday?” she asked, half inviting, half enquiring.

“I’m sorry to say, mem, ’at I canna,” he answered. “I promised Maister Graham to tak^take the schule for him, an’ lat^let him gang.”

“Weel, weel! Mr Graham’s obleeged to ye, nae^no doobt, an’ we canna help it. Gie^give my compliments to yer gran’father.”

“I’ll du^do that, mem. He’ll be sair^sore pleased, for he’s unco^very gratefu’ for ony^any sic attention,” said Malcolm, and with the words took his leave.

Chapter 10 - The Funeral

That night the weather changed, and grew cloudy and cold. Saturday morning broke drizzly and dismal. A northeast wind tore off the tops of the drearily tossing billows. All was gray—enduring, hopeless gray. Along the coast the waves kept roaring on the sands, persistent and fateful; the Scaurnose was one mass of foaming white: and in the caves still haunted by the tide, the bellowing was like that of thunder.

Through the drizzle-shot wind and the fog blown in shreds from the sea, a large number of the most respectable of the male population of the burgh, clothed in Sunday gloom deepened by the crape on their hats, made their way to Miss Horn’s, for, despite her rough manners, she was held in high repute. It was only such as had reason to dread the secret communication between closet and house-top that feared her tongue; if she spoke loud, she never spoke false, or backbit in the dark. What chiefly conduced however to the respect in which she was held, was that she was one of their own people, her father having died minister of the parish some twenty years before.

Comparatively little was known of her deceased cousin, who had been much of an invalid, and had mostly kept to the house, but all had understood that Miss Horn was greatly attached to her; and it was for the sake of the living mainly that the dead was thus honoured.

As the prayer drew to a close, the sounds of trampling and scuffling feet bore witness that Watty Witherspail and his assistants were carrying the coffin down the stair. Soon the company rose to follow it, and trooping out, arranged themselves behind the hearse, which, horrid with nodding plumes and gold and black panelling, drew away from the door to make room for them.

Just as they were about to move off, to the amazement of the company and the few onlookers who, notwithstanding the weather, stood around to represent the common people, Miss Horn herself, solitary, in a long black cloak and somewhat awful bonnet, issued, and made her way through the mourners until she stood immediately behind the hearse, by the side of Mr Cairns, the parish minister. The next moment, Watty Witherspail, who had his station at the further side of the hearse, arriving somehow at a knowledge of the apparition, came round by the horses’ heads, and with a look of positive alarm at the glaring infringement of time-honoured customs, addressed her in half whispered tones expostulatory:

“Ye’ll never be thinkin’ o’ gauin’^going yersel’, mem!” he said.

“What for no, Watty, I wad like to ken,” growled Miss Horn from the vaulted depths of her bonnet.

“The like was never hard^heard tell o’!” returned Watty, with the dismay of an orthodox undertaker, righteously jealous of all innovation.

“It’ll be to tell o’ hencefurth,” rejoined Miss Horn, who in her risen anger spoke aloud, caring nothing who heard her. “Daur^dare ye preshume^presume, Watty Witherspaill,” she went on, “for no rizzon^reason but that I ga’e you the job, an’ unnertook to pay ye for’t—an’ that far abune^above its market value,—daur^dare ye preshume^presume, I say, to dictate to me what I’m to du^do an’ what I’m no to du^do anent^concerning the maitter^matter in han’? Think ye I hae been a mither^mother to the puir^poor yoong thing for sae mony^many a year to lat^let her gang awa’ her lane^{on her own, her alone} at the last wi’ the likes o’ you for company!”

“Hoot^pshaw!, mem! there’s the minister at yer elbuck^elbow.”

“I tell ye, ye’re but a wheen^few rouch^rough men-fowk! There’s no a wuman^woman amon’ ye to haud^{hold, keep} things dacent^decent, ’cep^{except, but} I gang mysel’. I’m no beggin’ the minister’s pardon ather. I’ll gang. I maun^must see my puir^poor Grizel till her last bed.”

“I dread it may be too much for your feelings, Miss Horn,” said the minister, who being an ambitious young man of lowly origin, and very shy of the ridiculous, did not in the least wish her company.

“Feelin’s!” exclaimed Miss Horn, in a tone of indignant repudiation; “I’m gauin’^going to du^do what’s richt. I s’ gang, and gien ye dinna like my company, Mr Cairns, ye can gang hame^home, an’ I s’ gang withoot ye. Gien she sud^should happen to be luikin^looking doon^down, she sanna^{shall not} see me wantin’ at the last o’ her. But I s’ mak’^{make, do} no wark^{work, labour; show of affection} aboot^about it. I s’ no putt mysel’ ower forret.”

And ere the minister could utter another syllable, she had left her place to go to the rear. The same instant the procession began to move, corpse-marshalled, towards the grave; and stepping aside, she stood erect, sternly eyeing the irregular ranks of two and three and four as they passed her, intending to bring up the rear alone. But already there was one in that solitary position: with bowed head, Alexander Graham walked last and single. The moment he caught sight of Miss Horn, he perceived her design, and, lifting his hat, offered his arm. She took it almost eagerly, and together they followed in silence, through the gusty wind and monotonous drizzle.

The school-house was close to the churchyard. An instant hush fell upon the scholars when the hearse darkened the windows, lasting while the horrible thing slowly turned to enter the iron gates,—a deep hush, as if a wave of the eternal silence which rounds all our noises had broken across its barriers. The mad laird, who had been present all the morning, trembled from head to foot; yet rose and went to the door with a look of strange, subdued eagerness. When Miss Horn and Mr Graham had passed into the churchyard, he followed.

With the bending of uncovered heads, in a final gaze of leave taking, over the coffin at rest in the bottom of the grave, all that belonged to the ceremony of burial was fulfilled; but the two facts that no one left the churchyard, although the wind blew and the rain fell, until the mound of sheltering earth was heaped high over the dead, and that the hands of many friends assisted with spade and shovel, did much to compensate for the lack of a service.

As soon as this labour was ended, Mr Graham again offered his arm to Miss Horn, who had stood in perfect calmness watching the whole with her eagle’s-eyes. But although she accepted his offer, instead of moving towards the gate, she kept her position in the attitude of a hostess who will follow her friends. They were the last to go from the churchyard. When they reached the schoolhouse she would have had Mr Graham leave her, but he insisted on seeing her home. Contrary to her habit she yielded, and they slowly followed the retiring company.

“Safe at last!” half-sighed Miss Horn, as they entered the town—her sole remark on the way.

Rounding a corner, they came upon Mrs Catanach standing at a neighbour’s door, gazing out upon nothing, as was her wont at times, but talking to some one in the house behind her. Miss Horn turned her head aside as she passed. A look of low, malicious, half-triumphant cunning lightened across the puffy face of the howdy^midwife. She cocked one bushy eyebrow, setting one eye wide open, drew down the other eyebrow, nearly closing the eye under it, and stood looking after them until they were out of sight. Then turning her head over her shoulder, she burst into a laugh, softly husky.

“What ails ye, Mistress Catanach?” cried a voice from within.

“Sic a couple ’s^as yon twasum wad mak^{make, do}!” she replied, again bursting into gelatinous laughter.

“Wha^who, than? I canna lea’ my milk parritch^{oatmeal porridge} to come an’ luik^look.”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! jist Meg Horn, the auld^old kail-runt^{stem of cabbage or kale}, an’ Sanny^{Sandy; Scotsman} Graham, the stickit^{stuck, gored; failing in one’s profession} minister. I wad like weel to be at the beddin’ o’ them. Eh! the twa^two heids^heads o’ them upon ae^one bowster^{pillow, bolster}!”

And chuckling a low chuckle, Mrs Catanach moved for her own door.

As soon as the churchyard was clear of the funeral-train, the mad laird peeped from behind a tall stone, gazed cautiously around him, and then with slow steps came and stood over the new-made grave, where the sexton was now laying the turf, “to mak^{make, do} a’ snod^trim for the Sawbath.”

“Whaur is she gane^gone till?” he murmured to himself—He could generally speak better when merely uttering his thoughts without attempt at communication.—“I dinna ken whaur I cam frae, an’ I dinna ken whaur she’s gane^gone till; but whan^when I gang mysel’, maybe I’ll ken baith^both.—I dinna ken, I dinna ken, I dinna ken whaur I cam frae.”

Thus muttering, so lost in the thoughts that originated them that he spoke the words mechanically, he left the churchyard and returned to the school, where, under the superintendence of Malcolm, everything had been going on in the usual Saturday fashion—the work of the day which closed the week’s labours, being to repeat a certain number of questions of the Shorter Catechism (which, alas! included the answers), and next to buttress them with a number of suffering texts of Scripture dragged into the service. Before Mr Graham returned, every one had done his part except Sheltie, who, excellent at asking questions for himself, had a very poor memory for the answers to those of other people, and was in consequence often a keepie-in. He did not generally heed it much, however, for the master was not angry with him on such occasions, and they gave him an opportunity of asking in his turn a multitude of questions of his own.

When he entered, he found Malcolm reading The Tempest and Sheltie sitting in the middle of the waste schoolroom, with his elbows on the desk before him, and his head and the Shorter Catechism between them; while in the farthest corner sat Mr Stewart, with his eyes fixed on the ground, murmuring his answerless questions to himself.

“Come up, Sheltie,” said Mr Graham, anxious to let the boy go. “Which of the questions did you break down in today?”

“Please, sir, I cudna^{could not} rest i’ my grave till the resurrection,” answered Sheltie, with but a dim sense of the humour involved in the reply.

“‘What benefits do believers receive from Christ at death?’” said Mr Graham, putting the question with a smile.

“‘The souls of believers are at their death made perfect in holiness, and do immediately pass into glory; and their bodies, being still united to Christ, do rest in their graves till the resurrection,’” replied Sheltie, now with perfect accuracy; whereupon the master, fearing the outbreak of a torrent of counter-questions, made haste to dismiss him.

“That’ll do, Sheltie,” he said. “Run home to your dinner.”

Sheltie shot from the room like a shell from a mortar.

He had barely vanished when Mr Stewart rose and came slowly from his corner, his legs appearing to tremble under the weight of his hump, which moved fitfully up and down in his futile attempts to utter the word resurrection. As he advanced, he kept heaving one shoulder forward, as if he would fain bring his huge burden to the front, and hold it out in mute appeal to his instructor; but before reaching him he suddenly stopped, lay down on the floor on his back, and commenced rolling from side to side, with moans and complaints. Mr Graham interpreted the action into the question—How was such a body as his to rest in its grave till the resurrection—perched thus on its own back in the coffin? All the answer he could think of was to lay hold of his hand, lift him, and point upwards. The poor fellow shook his head, glanced over his shoulder at his hump, and murmured “Heavy, heavy!” seeming to imply that it would be hard for him to rise and ascend at the last day.

He had doubtless a dim notion that all his trouble had to do with his hump.

Chapter 11 - The Old Church

The next day, the day of the Resurrection, rose glorious from its sepulchre of sea-fog and drizzle. It had poured all night long, but at sunrise the clouds had broken and scattered, and the air was the purer for the cleansing rain, while the earth shone with that peculiar lustre which follows the weeping which has endured its appointed night. The larks were at it again, singing as if their hearts would break for joy as they hovered in brooding exultation over the song of the future; for their nests beneath hoarded a wealth of larks for summers to come. Especially about the old church—half-buried in the ancient trees of Lossie House, the birds that day were jubilant; their throats seemed too narrow to let out the joyful air that filled all their hollow bones and quills: they sang as if they must sing, or choke with too much gladness. Beyond the short spire and its shining cock, rose the balls and stars and arrowy vanes of the House, glittering in gold and sunshine.

The inward hush of the Resurrection, broken only by the prophetic birds, the poets of the groaning and travailing creation, held time and space as in a trance; and the centre from which radiated both the hush and the carolling expectation seemed to Alexander Graham to be the churchyard in which he was now walking in the cool of the morning. It was more carefully kept than most Scottish church-yards, and yet was not too trim. Nature had a word in the affair—was allowed her part of mourning, in long grass and moss and the crumbling away of stone. The wholesomeness of decay, which both in nature and humanity is but the miry road back to life, was not unrecognized here; there was nothing of the hideous attempt to hide death in the garments of life. The master walked about gently, now stopping to read some well-known inscription and ponder for a moment over the words; and now wandering across the stoneless mounds, content to be forgotten by all but those who loved the departed. At length he seated himself on a slab by the side of the mound that rose but yesterday.

“What are these stones,” he said to himself, “but monuments to oblivion? They are not memorials of the dead, but memorials of the forgetfulness of the living. How vain it is to send a poor forsaken name, like the title page of a lost book, down the careless stream of time! Let me serve my generation, and let God remember me!”

The morning wore on; the sun rose higher and higher. He drew from his pocket the Nosce Teipsum of Sir John Davies, and was still reading, in quiet enjoyment of the fine logic of the lawyer-poet, when he heard the church key, in the trembling hand of Jonathan Auld, the sexton, jar feebly battling with the reluctant lock. Soon the people began to gather, mostly in groups and couples. At length came solitary Miss Horn, whom the neighbours, from respect to her sorrow, had left to walk alone. But Mr Graham went to meet her, and accompanied her into the church.

It was a cruciform building, as old as the vanished monastery, and the burial place of generations of noble blood; the dust of royalty even lay under its floor. A knight of stone reclined cross-legged in a niche with an arched Norman canopy in one of the walls, the rest of which was nearly encased in large tablets of white marble, for at his foot lay the ashes of barons and earls whose title was extinct, and whose lands had been inherited by the family of Lossie. Inside as well as outside of the church the ground had risen with the dust of generations, so that the walls were low; and heavy galleries having been erected in parts, the place was filled with shadowy recesses and haunted with glooms. From a window in the square pew where he sat, so small and low that he had to bend his head to look out of it, the schoolmaster could see a rivulet of sunshine, streaming through between two upright grave-stones, and glorifying the long grass of a neglected mound that lay close to the wall under the wintry drip from the eaves: when he raised his head, the church looked very dark. The best way there to preach the Resurrection, he thought, would be to contrast the sepulchral gloom of the church, its dreary psalms and drearier sermons, with the sunlight on the graves, the lark-filled sky, and the wind blowing where it listed. But although the minister was a young man of the commonest order, educated to the church that he might eat bread, hence a mere willing slave to the beck of his lord and master, the patron, and but a parrot in the pulpit, the schoolmaster not only endeavoured to pour his feelings and desires into the mould of his prayers, but listened to the sermon with a countenance that revealed no distaste for the weak and unsavoury broth ladled out to him to nourish his soul withal. When however the service—though whose purposes the affair could be supposed to serve except those of Mr Cairns himself, would have been a curious question—was over, he did breathe a sigh of relief; and when he stepped out into the sun and wind which had been shining and blowing all the time of the dreary ceremony, he wondered whether the larks might not have had the best of it in the God praising that had been going on for two slow-paced hours. Yet, having been so long used to the sort of thing, he did not mind it half so much as his friend Malcolm, who found the Sunday observances an unspeakable weariness to both flesh and spirit.

On the present occasion, however, Malcolm did not find the said observances dreary, for he observed nothing but the vision which radiated from the dusk of the small gallery forming Lossie-pew, directly opposite the Norman canopy and stone crusader. Unconventional, careless girl as Lady Florimel had hitherto shown herself to him, he saw her sit that morning like the proudest of her race, alone, and, to all appearance, unaware of a single other person’s being in the church besides herself. She manifested no interest in what was going on, nor indeed felt any—how could she? never parted her lips to sing; sat during the prayer; and throughout the sermon seemed to Malcolm not once to move her eyes from the carved crusader. When all was over, she still sat motionless—sat until the last old woman had hobbled out. Then she rose, walked slowly from the gloom of the church, flashed into the glow of the churchyard, gleamed across it to a private door in the wall, which a servant held for her, and vanished. If a moment after, the notes of a merry song invaded the ears of those who yet lingered, who could dare suspect that proudly sedate damsel thus suddenly breaking the ice of her public behaviour?

For a mere school-girl she had certainly done the lady’s part well. What she wore I do not exactly know; nor would it perhaps be well to describe what might seem grotesque to such prejudiced readers as have no judgment beyond the fashions of the day. But I will not let pass the opportunity of reminding them how sadly old-fashioned we of the present hour also look in the eyes of those equally infallible judges who have been in dread procession towards us ever since we began to be—our posterity—judges who perhaps will doubt with a smile whether we even knew what love was, or ever had a dream of the grandeur they are on the point of grasping. But at least bethink yourselves, dear posterity: we have not ceased because you have begun.

Out of the church the blind Duncan strode with long, confident strides. He had no staff to aid him, for he never carried one when in his best clothes; but he leaned proudly on Malcolm’s arm, if one who walked so erect could be said to lean. He had adorned his bonnet the autumn before with a sprig of the large purple heather, but every bell had fallen from it, leaving only the naked spray, pitiful analogue of the whole withered exterior of which it formed part. His sporran, however, hid the stained front of his kilt, and his Sunday coat had been new within ten years—the gift of certain ladies of Portlossie, some of whom, to whose lowland eyes the kilt was obnoxious, would have added a pair of trowsers, had not Miss Horn stoutly opposed them, confident that Duncan would regard the present as an insult. And she was right; for rather than wear anything instead of the philibeg^kilt, Duncan would have plaited himself one with his own blind fingers out of an old sack. Indeed, although the trews were never at any time unknown in the Highlands, Duncan had always regarded them as effeminate, and especially in his lowland exile would have looked upon the wearing of them as a disgrace to his highland birth.

“Tat wass a fery coot sairmon to-day, Malcolm,” he said, as they stepped from the churchyard upon the road.

Malcolm, knowing well whither conversation on the subject would lead, made no reply. His grandfather, finding him silent, iterated his remark, with the addition—“Put how could it pe a paad one, you’ll pe thinking, my poy, when he’d pe hafing such a text to keep him straight.”

Malcolm continued silent, for a good many people were within hearing, whom he did not wish to see amused with the remarks certain to follow any he could make. But Mr Graham, who happened to be walking near the old man on the other side, out of pure politeness made a partial response.

“Yes, Mr MacPhail,” he said, “it was a grand text.”

“Yes, and it wass’ll pe a cran’ sairmon,” persisted Duncan. “‘Fenchence is mine—I will repay.’ Ta Lord loves fenchence. It’s a fine thing, fenchence. To make ta wicked know tat tey’ll pe peing put men! Yes; ta Lord will slay ta wicked. Ta Lord will gif ta honest man fenchence upon his enemies. It wass a cran’ sairmon!”

“Don’t you think vengeance a very dreadful thing, Mr MacPhail?” said the schoolmaster.

“Yes, for ta von tat’ll pe in ta wrong—I wish ta fenchence was mine!” he added with a loud sigh.

“But the Lord doesn’t think any of us fit to be trusted with it, and so keeps it to himself, you see.”

“Yes, and tat’ll pe pecause it ’ll^will pe too coot to be gifing to another. And some people would be waik of heart, and be letting teir enemies co.”

“I suspect it’s for the opposite reason, Mr MacPhail:—we would go much too far, making no allowances, causing the innocent to suffer along with the guilty, neither giving fair play nor avoiding cruelty,—and indeed”

“No fear!” interrupted Duncan eagerly,—“no fear, when ta wrong wass as larch as Morven^{mountain in northern Scotland}!”

In the sermon there had not been one word as to St Paul’s design in quoting the text. It had been but a theatrical setting forth of the vengeance of God upon sin, illustrated with several common tales of the discovery of murder by strange means—a sermon after Duncan’s own heart; and nothing but the way in which he now snuffed the wind with head thrown back and nostrils dilated, could have given an adequate idea of how much he enjoyed the recollection of it.

Mr Graham had for many years believed that he must have some personal wrongs to brood over,—wrongs, probably, to which were to be attributed his loneliness and exile; but of such Duncan had never spoken, uttering no maledictions except against the real or imagined foes of his family.* *[Note - What added to the likelihood of Mr Graham’s conjecture was the fact, well enough known to him, though to few lowlanders besides, that revenge is not a characteristic of the Gael. Whatever instances of it may have appeared, and however strikingly they may have been worked up in fiction, such belong to the individual and not to the race. A remarkable proof of this occurs in the history of the family of Glenco itself. What remained of it after the massacre in 1689, rose in 1745, and joined the forces of Prince Charles Edward. Arriving in the neighbourhood of the residence of Lord Stair, whose grandfather had been one of the chief instigators of the massacre, the prince took special precautions lest the people of Glenco should wreak inherited vengeance on the earl. But they were so indignant at being supposed capable of visiting on the innocent the guilt of their ancestors, that it was with much difficulty they were prevented from forsaking the standard of the prince, and returning at once to their homes. Perhaps a yet stronger proof is the fact, fully asserted by one Gaelic scholar at least, that their literature contains nothing to foster feelings of revenge.]

The master placed so little value on any possible results of mere argument, and had indeed so little faith in any words except such as came hot from the heart, that he said no more, but, with an invitation to Malcolm to visit him in the evening, wished them good day, and turned in at his own door.

The two went slowly on towards the sea-town. The road was speckled with home goers, single and in groups, holding a quiet Sunday pace to their dinners. Suddenly Duncan grasped Malcolm’s arm with the energy of perturbation, almost of fright, and said in a loud whisper:

“Tere’ll be something efil not far from her, Malcolm, my son! Look apout, look apout, and take care how you’ll pe leading her.”

Malcolm looked about, and replied, pressing Duncan’s arm, and speaking in a low voice, far less audible than his whisper,

“There’s naebody^{no one} near, daddy—naebody but the howdie-wife.”

“What howdie-wife do you mean, Malcolm?”

“Hoot^pshaw!! Mistress Catanach, ye ken. Dinna lat^let her hear ye.”

“I had a feeshion, Malcolm—one moment, and no more; ta darkness closed arount it: I saw a ped, Malcolm, and—”

“Wheesht, wheesht; daddy!” pleaded Malcolm importunately. “She hears ilka^{every, each} word ye’re sayin’. She’s awfu’ gleg^{quick, quick-witted}, and she’s as poozhonous^poisonous as an edder^adder. Haud^{hold, keep} yer tongue, daddy; for guid-sake^god-sake haud^{hold, keep} yer tongue.”

The old man yielded, grasping Malcolm’s arm, and quickening his pace, though his breath came hard, as through the gathering folds of asthma. Mrs. Catanach also quickened her pace, and came gliding along the grass by the side of the road, noiseless as the adder to which Malcolm had likened her, and going much faster than she seemed. Her great round body looked a persistent type of her calling, and her arms seemed to rest in front of her as upon a ledge. In one hand she carried a small bible, round which was folded her pocket-handkerchief, and in the other a bunch of southern-wood and rosemary. She wore a black silk gown, a white shawl, and a great straw bonnet with yellow ribbons in huge bows, and looked the very pattern of Sunday respectability; but her black eyebrows gloomed ominous, and an evil smile shadowed about the corners of her mouth as she passed without turning her head or taking the least notice of them. Duncan shuddered, and breathed yet harder, but seemed to recover as she increased the distance between them. They walked the rest of the way in silence, however; and even after they reached home, Duncan made no allusion to his late discomposure.

“What was’t ye thocht^thought ye saw, as we cam^came frae the kirk^church, daddy?” asked Malcolm when they were seated at their dinner of broiled mackerel and boiled potatoes.

“In other times she’ll pe hafing such feeshions often, Malcolm, my son,” he returned, avoiding an answer. “Like other pards of her race she would pe seeing—in the speerit, where old Tuncan can see. And she’ll pe telling you, Malcolm—peware of tat voman; for ta voman was thinking pad thoughts; and tat will pe what make her shutter and shake, my son, as she’ll pe coing py.”

Chapter 12 - The Churchyard

On Sundays, Malcolm was always more or less annoyed by the obtrusive presence of his arms and legs, accompanied by a vague feeling that, at any moment, and no warning given, they might, with some insane and irrepressible flourish, break the Sabbath on their own account, and degrade him in the eyes of his fellow townsmen, who seemed all silently watching how he bore the restraints of the holy day. It must be conceded, however, that the discomfort had quite as much to do with his Sunday clothes as with the Sabbath-day, and that it interfered but little with an altogether peculiar calm which appeared to him to belong in its own right to the Sunday, whether its light flowed in the sunny cataracts of June, or oozed through the spongy clouds of November. As he walked again to the Alton, or Old Town in the evening, the filmy floats of white in the lofty blue, the droop of the long dark grass by the side of the short brown corn, the shadows pointing like all lengthening shadows towards the quarter of hope, the yellow glory filling the air and paling the green below, the unseen larks hanging aloft—like air-pitcher plants that overflowed in song—like electric jars emptying themselves of the sweet thunder of bliss in the flashing of wings and the trembling of melodious throats; these were indeed of the summer but the cup of rest had been poured out upon them; the Sabbath brooded like an embodied peace over the earth, and under its wings they grew sevenfold peaceful—with a peace that might be felt, like the hand of a mother pressed upon the half-sleeping child. The rusted iron cross on the eastern gable of the old church stood glowing lustreless in the westering sun; while the gilded vane, whose business was the wind, creaked radiantly this way and that, in the flaws from the region of the sunset: its shadow flickered soft on the new grave, where the grass of the wounded sod was drooping. Again seated on a neighbour stone, Malcolm found his friend.

“See,” said the schoolmaster as the fisherman sat down beside him, “how the shadow from one grave stretches like an arm to embrace another! In this light the churchyard seems the very birthplace of shadows: see them flowing out of the tombs as from fountains, to overflow the world! Does the morning or the evening light suit such a place best, Malcolm?”

The pupil thought for a while.

“The evenin’ licht^light, sir,” he answered at length; “for ye see the sun’s deein’ like, an’ deith’s like a fa’in asleep, an’ the grave’s the bed, an’ the sod’s the bedclaes, an’ there’s a lang^long nicht to the fore^remaining.”

“Are ye sure o’ that, Malcolm?”

“It’s the wye folk thinks an’ says aboot^about it, sir.”

“Or maybe doesna think, an’ only says?”

“Maybe, sir; I dinna ken.”

“Come here, Malcolm,” said Mr Graham, and took him by the arm, and led him towards the east end of the church, where a few tombstones were crowded against the wall, as if they would press close to a place they might not enter.

“Read that,” he said, pointing to a flat stone, where every hollow letter was shown in high relief by the growth in it of a lovely moss. The rest of the stone was rich in gray and green and brown lichens, but only in the letters grew the bright moss; the inscription stood as it were in the hand of nature herself—“He is not here; he is risen.”

While Malcolm gazed, trying to think what his master would have him think, the latter resumed.

“If he is risen—if the sun is up, Malcolm—then the morning and not the evening is the season for the place of tombs; the morning when the shadows are shortening and separating, not the evening when they are growing all into one. I used to love the churchyard best in the evening, when the past was more to me than the future; now I visit it almost every bright summer morning, and only occasionally at night.”

“But, sir, isna^{is not} deith^death a dreidfu’ thing?” said Malcolm.

“That depends on whether a man regards it as his fate, or as the will of a perfect God. Its obscurity is its dread; but if God be light, then death itself must be full of splendour—a splendour probably too keen for our eyes to receive.”

“But there’s the deein’^dying itsel’: isna that fearsome? It’s that I wad be fleyed^frightened at.”

“I don’t see why it should be. It’s the want of a God that makes it dreadful, and you will be greatly to blame, Malcolm, if you haven’t found your God by the time you have to die.”

They were startled by a gruff voice near them. The speaker was hidden by a corner of the church.

“Ay, she’s weel happit^covered,” it said. “But a grave never luiks^looks richt wantin’ a stane^stone, an’ her auld^old cousin wad hear o’ nane^none bein’ laid ower her. I said it micht^might be set up at her heid^head, whaur she wad never fin’^find the weicht^weight o’ ’t; but na, na! nane^none o’ ’t for her! She’s ane^one ’at maun^must tak^take her ain^own gait^way, say the ither^other thing wha^who likes.”

It was Wattie Witherspail who spoke—a thin shaving of a man, with a deep, harsh, indeed startling voice.

“An’ what ailed her at a stane^stone?” returned the voice of Jonathan Auldbuird, the sexton. “—Nae^no doobt it wad be the expense?”

“Amna I tellin’ ye what it was? Deil^not a bit o’ the expense cam^came intil^into the calcalation! The auld^old maiden’s nane^none sae close as fowk^folk ’at disna^{does not} ken her wad mak^{make, do} her oot. I ken her weel. She wadna^{would not} hae a stane^stone laid upon her as gien she wanted to haud^{hold, keep} her doon^down, puir^poor thing! She said, says she, ‘The yerd’s eneuch^enough upo’ the tap^top o’ her, wantin’ that!’”

“It micht^might be some sair^{sore, difficult}, she wad be thinkin’ doobtless, for sic a waik^weak worn cratur^creature to lift whan^when the trump was blawn^blown,” said the sexton, with the feeble laugh of one who doubts the reception of his wit.

“Weel, I div^do whiles^{at times} think,” responded Wattie,—but it was impossible from his tone to tell whether or not he spoke in earnest,—“’at maybe my boxies is a wheen^little ower weel made for the use they’re pitten^put till. They sudna^{should not} be that ill to rive^rent/tear—gien a’ be true ’at the minister says. Ye see, we dinna ken whan^when that day may come, an’ there may na be time for the wat^wet an’ the worm to ca^push the boords apairt.”

“Hoots^pshaw!, man! it’s no your lang^long nails nor yet yer heidit^headed screws ’ll^will haud^{hold, keep} doon^down the redeemt, gien the jeedgement war^were the morn’s^tomorrow mornin’,” said the sexton; “an’ for the lave^{rest, remainder}, they wad be glaid^glad eneuch^enough to bide whaur they are; but they’ll a’ be howkit^{dug, excavated} oot,—fear na ye that.”

“The Lord grant a blessed uprisin’ to you an’ me, Jonathan, at that day!” said Wattie, in the tone of one who felt himself uttering a more than ordinarily religious sentiment and on the word followed the sound of their retreating footsteps.

“How closely together may come the solemn and the grotesque! the ludicrous and the majestic!” said the schoolmaster. “Here, to us lingering in awe about the doors beyond which lie the gulfs of the unknown—to our very side come the wright and the grave digger with their talk of the strength of coffins and the judgment of the living God!”

“I hae whiles^{at times} thoucht^thought mysel’, sir,” said Malcolm, “it was gey^very strange like to hae a wuman^woman o’ the mak^make o’ Mistress Catanach sittin’ at the receipt o’ bairns^children, like the gate-keeper o’ the warl’, wi’ the hasp o’ ’t in her han’: it doesna promise ower weel for them ’at she lats^lets in. An’ noo^now ye hae pitten’t intilⁱⁿ my heid^head that there’s Wattie Witherspail an’ Jonathan Auldbuird for the porters to open an’ lat^let a’ that’s left o’ ’s^us oot again! Think o’ sic like haein’^having sic a han’ in sic solemn maitters^matters!”

“Indeed some of us have strange porters,” said Mr Graham, with a smile, “both to open to us and to close behind us! yet even in them lies the human nature, which, itself the embodiment of the unknown, wanders out through the gates of mystery, to wander back, it may be, in a manner not altogether unlike that by which it came.”

In contemplative moods, the schoolmaster spoke in a calm and loftily sustained style of book-English—quite another language from that he used when he sought to rouse the consciences of his pupils, and strangely contrasted with that in which Malcolm kept up his side of the dialogue.

“I houp^hope, sir,” said the latter, “it’ll be nae^no sort o’ a celestial Mistress Catanach ’at ’ll^will be waiting for me o’^on the ither^other side; nor yet for my puir^poor daddy, wha^who cud^could ill bide bein’ wamled^dangled aboot^about upo’ her knee.”

Mr Graham laughed outright.

“If there be one to act the nurse,” he answered, “I presume there will be one to take the mother’s part too.”

“But speakin’ o’ the grave, sir,” pursued Malcolm, “I wiss^wish ye cud^could drop a word ’at micht^might be o’ some comfort to my daddy. It’s plain to me, frae words he lats^lets fa’ noo^now an’ than, that, instead o’ lea’in’ the warl’^world ahint^behind him whan^when he dees^dies, he thinks to lie smorin’^smothering an’ smocherin’^suffocating i’ the mools, clammy an’ weet^wet, but a’ there, an’ trimlin’^trembling at the thocht^thought o’ the suddent awfu’ roar an’ din o’ the brazen trumpet o’ the archangel. I wiss^wish ye wad luik^look in an’ say something till him some nicht^{night, evening}. It’s nae^no guid^good mentionin’ ’t to the minister; he wad only gie^give a lauch^laugh an’ gang awa’. An’ gien ye cud^could jist slide in a word aboot^about forgiein’ his enemies, sir! I made licht^light o’ the maitter^matter to Mistress Courthope, ’cause she only maks^{makes, does} him waur^worse. She does weel wi’ what the minister pits^puts intill^into her, but she has little o’ her ain^own to mix’t up wi’, an’ sae has but sma’ weicht^weight wi’ the likes o’ my gran’father. Only ye winna^{will not} lat^let him think ye called on purpose.”

They walked about the churchyard until the sun went down in what Mr Graham called the grave of his endless resurrection—the clouds on the one side bearing all the pomp of his funeral, the clouds on the other all the glory of his uprising; and when now the twilight trembled filmy on the borders of the dark, the master once more seated himself beside the new grave, and motioned to Malcolm to take his place beside him: there they talked and dreamed together of the life to come, with many wanderings and returns; and little as the boy knew of the ocean depths of sorrowful experience in the bosom of his companion whence floated up the breaking bubbles of rainbow-hued thought, his words fell upon his heart—not to be provender for the birds of flitting fancy and airy speculation, but the seed—it might be decades ere it ripened—of a coming harvest of hope. At length the master rose and said, “Malcolm, I’m going in: I should like you to stay here half an hour alone, and then go straight home to bed.”

For the master believed in solitude and silence. Say rather, he believed in God. What the youth might think, feel, or judge, he could not tell; but he believed that when the Human is still, the Divine speaks to it, because it is its own.

Malcolm consented willingly. The darkness had deepened, the graves all but vanished; an old setting moon appeared, boatlike over a great cloudy chasm, into which it slowly sank; blocks of cloud, with stars between, possessed the sky; all nature seemed thinking about death; a listless wind began to blow, and Malcolm began to feel as if he were awake too long, and ought to be asleep—as if he were out in a dream—a dead man that had risen too soon or lingered too late—so lonely, so forsaken! The wind, soft as it was, seemed to blow through his very soul. Yet something held him, and his half-hour was long over when he left the churchyard.

As he walked home, the words of a German poem, a version of which Mr Graham had often repeated to him, and once more that same night, kept ringing in his heart:

Uplifted is the stone,

  And all mankind arisen!

We men remain thine own,

  And vanished is our prison!

What bitterest grief can stay

  Before thy golden cup,

When earth and life give way,

  And with our Lord we sup.

To the marriage Death doth call.

  The maidens are not slack;

The lamps are burning all—

  Of oil there is no lack.

Afar I hear the walking

  Of thy great marriage-throng

And hark! the stars are talking

  With human tone and tongue!

Courage! for life is hasting

  To endless life away;

The inner fire, unwasting,

  Transfigures our dull clay.

See the stars melting, sinking,

  In life-wine, golden-bright

We, of the splendour drinking,

  Shall grow to stars of light.

Lost, lost are all our losses;

  Love set for ever free;

The full life heaves and tosses

  Like an eternal sea!

One endless living story!

  One poem spread abroad!

And the sun of all our glory

  Is the countenance of God.

Chapter 13 - The Marquis of Lossie

The next morning rose as lovely as if the mantle of the departing Resurrection-day had fallen upon it. Malcolm rose with it, hastened to his boat, and pulled out into the bay for an hour or two’s fishing. Nearly opposite the great conglomerate rock at the western end of the dune, called the Bored Craig because of a large hole that went right through it, he began to draw in his line. Glancing shoreward as he leaned over the gunwale, he spied at the foot of the rock, near the opening, a figure in white, seated, with bowed head. It was of course the mysterious lady, whom he had twice before seen thereabout at this unlikely if not untimely hour; but with yesterday fresh in his mind, how could he fail to see in her an angel of the resurrection waiting at the sepulchre to tell the glad news that the Lord was risen?

Many were the glances he cast shoreward as he re-baited his line, and, having thrown it again into the water, sat waiting until it should be time to fire the swivel. Still the lady sat on, in her whiteness a creature of the dawn, without even lifting her head. At length, having added a few more fishes to the little heap in the bottom of his boat, and finding his watch bear witness that the hour was at hand, he seated himself on his thwart, and rowed lustily to the shore, his bosom filled with the hope of yet another sight of the lovely face, and another hearing of the sweet English voice and speech. But the very first time he turned his head to look, he saw but the sloping foot of the rock sink bare into the shore. No white-robed angel sat at the gate of the resurrection; no moving thing was visible on the far-vacant sands. When he reached the top of the dune, there was no living creature beyond but a few sheep feeding on the thin grass. 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.

“What hae ye in yer bit^{small, little} basket the day^today, Ma’colm?” she said, with a peculiar smile, which was not sweet enough to restore vanished confidence.

“Naething guid^good for dogs,” answered Malcolm, and was walking past.

But she made a step forward, and, with a laugh meant to indicate friendly amusement, said,

“Let’s see what’s intill’t, ony gait^{anyway, anyhow}.—The doggie’s awa^away on ’s^his traivels^travels the day^today.”

“‘Deed^indeed, Mistress Catanach,” persisted Malcolm, “I canna say I like to hae my ain^own fish flung i’ my face, nor yet to see ill-faured tykes^dogs rin^run awa’ wi’ ’t afore my verra^very een^eyes.”

After the warning given him by Miss Horn, and the strange influence her presence had had on his grandfather, Malcolm preferred keeping up a negative quarrel with the woman.

“Dinna ca’ ill names,” she returned: “my dog wad tak^take it waur^worse to be ca’d an ill-faured tyke^dog, nor to hae fish flung in his face. Lat’s see what’s i’ yer basket, I say.”

As she spoke, she laid her hand on the basket, but Malcolm drew back, and turned away towards the gate.

“Lord safe us!” she cried, with a yelling laugh; “ye’re no feared at an auld^old wife like me?”

“I dinna ken; maybe ay an’ maybe no—I wadna^{would not} say. But I dinna want to hae onything to du^do wi’ ye, mem.”

“Ma’colm MacPhail,” said Mrs Catanach, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper, while every trace of laughter vanished from her countenance, “ye hae had mair to du^do wi’ me nor^than ye ken, an’ aiblins^{perhaps, possibly} ye’ll hae mair yet nor^than ye can weel help. Sae caw canny^{so proceed carefully}, my man.”

“Ye may hae the layin’ o’ me oot,” said Malcolm, “but it sanna^{shall not} be wi’ my wull^will; an’ gien I hae ony^any life left i’ me, I s’ gie^give ye a fleg^fright.”

“Ye may get a war^worse yersel’: I hae frichtit^frightened the deid^dead afore noo^now. Sae gang yer wa’s^{go your way} to Mistress Coorthoup, wi’ a flech^flea i’ yer lug^ear. I wuss^wish ye luck—sic luck as I wad wuss^wish ye I—”

Her last words sounded so like a curse, that to overcome a cauld^cold creep, Malcolm had to force a laugh.

The cook at the House bought all his fish, for they had had none for the last few days, because of the storm; and he was turning to go home by the river-side, when he heard a tap on a window, and saw Mrs Courthope beckoning him to another door.

“His lordship desired me to send you to him, Malcolm, the next time you called,” she said.

“Weel, mem, here I am,” answered the youth.

“You’ll find him in the flower-garden,” she said. “He’s up early today for a wonder.”

He left his basket at the top of the stairs that led down the rock to the level of the burn^water, and walked up the valley of the stream.

The garden was a curious old-fashioned place, with high hedges, and close alleys of trees, where two might have wandered long without meeting, and it was some time before he found any hint of the presence of the marquis. At length, however, he heard voices, and following the sound, walked along one of the alleys till he came to a little arbour, where he discovered the marquis seated, and, to his surprise, the white-robed lady of the sands beside him. A great deer-hound at his master’s feet was bristling his mane, and baring his eye-teeth with a growl, but the girl had a hold of his collar.

“Who are you?” asked the marquis rather gruffly, as if he had never seen him before.

“I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” said Malcolm, “but they telled me yer lordship wantit to see me, and sent me to the flooer^flower garden. Will I gang, or will I bide?”

The marquis looked at him for a moment, frowningly, and made no reply. But the frown gradually relaxed before Malcolm’s modest but unflinching gaze, and the shadow of a smile slowly usurped its place. He still kept silent, however.

“Am I to gang or bide, my lord?” repeated Malcolm.

“Can’t you wait for an answer?”

“As lang’s yer lordship likes—Will I gang an’ walk aboot^about, mem—my leddy^lady, till his lordship’s made up his min’^mind? Wad that please him, duv^do ye think?” he said, in the tone of one who seeks advice.

But the girl only smiled, and the marquis said, “Go to the devil.”

“I maun^must luik^look to yer lordship for the necessar’ directions,” rejoined Malcolm.

“Your tongue’s long enough to inquire as you go,” said the marquis.

A reply in the same strain rushed to Malcolm’s lips, but he checked himself in time, and stood silent, with his bonnet in his hand, fronting the two. The marquis sat gazing as if he had nothing to say to him, but after a few moments the lady spoke—not to Malcolm, however.

“Is there any danger in boating here, papa?” she said.

“Not more, I daresay, than there ought to be,” replied the marquis listlessly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I should so like a row! I want to see how the shore looks to the mermaids.”

“Well, I will take you some day, if we can find a proper boat.”

“Is yours a proper boat?” she asked, turning to Malcolm with a sparkle of fun in her eyes.

“That depen’s on my lord’s definition o’ proper.”

“Definition!” repeated the marquis.

“Is ’t ower lang^long a word, my lord?” asked Malcolm.

The marquis only smiled.

“I ken what ye mean. It’s a strange word in a fisher-lad’s mou’^mouth, ye think. But what for should na a fisher-lad hae a smatterin’ o’ loagic, my lord? For Greek or Laitin there’s but sma’ opportunity o’ exerceese in oor^our pairts^parts; but for loagic, a fisher-body may aye haud^{hold, keep} his han’ in that. He can aye be tryin’ ’t upo’ ’s wife, or ’s guid-mother, or upo’ ’s boat, or upo’ the fish whan^when they winna^{will not} tak^take. Loagic wad save a heap o’ cursin’ an’ ill words—amo’ the fisher-fowk, I mean, my lord.”

“Have you been to college?”

“Na, my lord—the mair’s the pity! But I’ve been to the school sin’^since ever I can min’^remember.”

“Do they teach logic there?”

“A kin’^kind o’ ’t. Mr Graham sets us to try oor^our han’ whiles^sometimes—jist to mak^make ’s a bit gleg^{quick and keen}, ye ken.”

“You don’t mean you go to school still?”

“I dinna gang reg’lar; but I gang as aften^often as Mr Graham wants me to help him, an’ I aye gether^gather something.”

“So it’s schoolmaster you are as well as fisherman? Two strings to your bow!—Who pays you for teaching?”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! naebody^nobody. Wha^who wad pay me for that?”

“Why, the schoolmaster.”

“Na, but that wad be an affront, my lord!”

“How can you afford the time for nothing?”

“The time comes to little, compairt wi’ what Mr Graham gies^gives me i’ the lang^long forenichts^{fore-nights, early evenings}—i’ the winter time, ye ken, my lord, whan^when the sea’s whiles^{at times} ower contumahcious^{perverse, contrary} to be meddlet^meddled muckle^much wi’.”

“But you have to support your grandfather.”

“My gran’father wad be ill-pleased to hear ye say ’t, my lord. He’s terrible independent; an’ what wi’ his pipes, an’ his lamps, an’ his shop, he could keep’s baith^both. It’s no muckle^much the likes o’ us wants. He winna^{will not} lat^let me gang far to the fishin’, so that I hae the mair time to read an’ gang to Mr Graham.”

As the youth spoke, the marquis eyed him with apparently growing interest.

“But you haven’t told me whether your boat is a proper one,” said the lady.

“Proper eneuch^enough, mem, for what’s required o’ her. She taks^takes guid^good fish.”

“But is it a proper boat for me to have a row in?”

“No wi’ that goon^gown on, mem, as I telled ye afore.”

“The water won’t get in, will it?”

“No more than’s easy gotten oot again.”

“Do you ever put up a sail?”

“Whiles^sometimes—a wee bit o’ a lug-sail.”

“Nonsense, Flow!” said the marquis. “I’ll see about it.”

Then turning to Malcolm,—“You may go,” he said. “When I want you I will send for you.”

Malcolm thought with himself that he had sent for him this time before he wanted him; but he made his bow, and departed—not without disappointment, for he had expected the marquis to say something about his grandfather going to the House with his pipes, a request he would fain have carried to the old man to gladden his heart withal.

Lord Lossie had been one of the boon companions of the Prince of Wales—considerably higher in type, it is true, yet low enough to accept usage for law, and measure his obligation by the custom of his peers: duty merely amounted to what was expected of him, and honour was his sole divinity. Still he had a heart, and it would speak,—so long at least, as the object affecting it was present. But, alas! it had no memory. Like the unjust judge, he might redress a wrong that cried to him, but out of sight and hearing it had for him no existence. To a man he would not have told a deliberate lie—except, indeed, a woman was in the case; but to women he had lied enough to sink the whole ship of fools. Nevertheless, had the accusing angel himself called him a liar, he would have instantly offered him his choice of weapons.

There was in him by nature, however, a certain generosity which all the vice he had shared in had not quenched. Overbearing, he was not yet too overbearing to appreciate a manly carriage, and had been pleased with what some would have considered the boorishness of Malcolm’s behaviour—such not perceiving that it had the same source as the true aristocratic bearing—namely, a certain unselfish confidence which is the mother of dignity.

He had, of course, been a spendthrift. Hence he had never been out of difficulties, and when, a year or so agone, he succeeded to his brother’s marquisate, he was, notwithstanding his enlarged income, far too much involved to hope any immediate rescue from them. His new property, however, would afford him a refuge from troublesome creditors; there he might also avoid expenditure for a season, and perhaps rally the forces of a dissolute life; the place was not new to him, having, some twenty years before, spent nearly twelve months there, of which time the recollections were not altogether unpleasant: weighing all these things he had made up his mind, and here he was at Lossie House.

The marquis was about fifty years of age, more worn than his years would account for, yet younger than his years in expression, for his conscience had never bitten him very deep. He was middle-sized, broad-shouldered but rather thin, with fine features of the aquiline Greek type, light-blue hazy eyes, and fair hair, slightly curling and streaked with gray. His manners were those of one polite for his own sake. To his remote inferiors he was kind—would even encourage them to liberties, but might in turn take greater with them than they might find agreeable. He was fond of animals—would sit for an hour stroking the head of Demon, his great Irish deerhound; but at other times would tease him to a wrath which touched the verge of dangerous. He was fond of practical jokes, and would not hesitate to indulge himself even in such as were incompatible with any genuine refinement: the sort had been in vogue in his merrier days, and Lord Lossie had ever been one of the most fertile in inventing, and loudest in enjoying them. For the rest, if he was easily enraged, he was readily appeased; could drink a great deal, but was no drunkard; and held as his creed that a God had probably made the world and set it going, but that he did not care a brass farthing, as he phrased it, how it went on, or what such an insignificant being as a man did or left undone in it. Perhaps he might amuse himself with it, he said, but he doubted it. As to men, he believed every man loved himself supremely, and therefore was in natural warfare with every other man. Concerning women he professed himself unable to give a definite utterance of any sort—and yet, he would add, he had had opportunities.

The mother of Florimel had died when she was a mere child, and from that time she had been at school until her father brought her away to share his fresh honours. She knew little, that little was not correct, and had it been, would have yet been of small value. At school she had been under many laws, and had felt their slavery: she was now in the third heaven of delight with her liberty. But the worst of foolish laws is, that when the insurgent spirit casts them off, it is but too ready to cast away with them the genial self-restraint which these fretting trammels have smothered beneath them.

Her father regarded her as a child, of whom it was enough to require that she should keep out of mischief. He said to himself now and then that he must find a governess for her; but as yet he had not begun to look for one. Meantime he neither exercised the needful authority over her, nor treated her as a companion. His was a shallow nature, never very pleasantly conscious of itself except in the whirl of excitement, and the glitter of crossing lights: with a lovely daughter by his side, he neither sought to search into her being, nor to aid its unfolding, but sat brooding over past pleasures, or fancying others yet in store for him. But, indeed, what could such a man have done for the education of a young girl? How many of the qualities he understood and enjoyed in women could he desire to see developed in his daughter? There was yet enough of the father in him to expect those qualities in her to which in other women he had been an insidious foe.

So Lady Florimel was running wild, and enjoying it. As long as she made her appearance at meals, and looked happy, her father would give himself no trouble about her. How he himself managed to live in those first days without company—what he thought about or speculated upon, it were hard to say. All he could be said to do was to ride here and there over the estate with his steward, Mr Crathie, knowing little and caring less about farming, or crops, or cattle. He had by this time, however, invited a few friends to visit him, and expected their arrival before long.

“How do you like this dull life, Flory?” he said, as they walked up the garden to breakfast.

“Dull, papa!” she returned. “You never were at a girls’ school, or you wouldn’t call this dull. It is the merriest life in the world. To go where you like, and have miles of room! And such room! It’s the loveliest place in the world, papa!”

He smiled a small, satisfied smile, and stooping stroked his Demon.

Chapter 14 - Meg Partan’s Lamp

Malcolm went down the riverside, not over pleased with the marquis; for, although unconscious of it as such, he had a strong feeling of personal dignity.

As he threaded the tortuous ways of the Seaton towards his own door, he met sounds of mingled abuse and apology. Such were not infrequent in that quarter, for one of the women who lived there was sharp-tongued, and the door of her cottage was generally open. She was known as Meg Partan. Her husband’s real name was of as little consequence in life as it is in my history, for almost everybody in the fishing-villages of that coast was and is known by his to-name, or nickname, a device for distinction rendered absolutely necessary by the paucity of surnames occasioned by the persistent intermarriage of the fisher-folk. Partan is the Scotch for crab, but the immediate recipient of the name was one of the gentlest creatures in the place, and hence it had been surmised by some that, the grey mare being the better horse, the man was thus designated from the crabbedness of his wife; but the probability is he brought the agnomen with him from school, where many such apparently misfitting names are unaccountably generated.

In the present case, however, the apologies were not issuing as usual from the mouth of Davy Partan, but from that of the blind piper. Malcolm stood for a moment at the door to understand the matter of contention, and prepare him to interfere judiciously.

“Gien ye suppose, piper, ’at ye’re peyed to drive fowk^folk oot o’ their beds at sic hoors^hours as yon^these, it’s time the toon-cooncil was informed o’ yer mistak,” said Meg Partan, with emphasis on the last syllable.

“Ta coot peoples up in ta town are not half so hart upon her as you, Mistress Partan,” insinuated poor Duncan, who, knowing himself in fault, was humble; “and it’s tere tat she’s paid,” he added, with a bridling motion, “and not town here pelow.”

“Dinna ye glorifee yersel’ to suppose there’s a fisher, lat^let alane^alone a fisher’s wife, in a’ the haill^whole Seaton ’at wad lippen^trust till an auld^old haiveril^half-wit like you to hae them up i’ the mornin’! Haith^{a mild oath}! I was oot o’ my bed hoors^hours or^before I hard^heard the skirlin’ o’ your pipes. Troth^{truth; exclamation} I ken weel hoo^how muckle^much ower ear’^early ye was! But what fowk^folk taks^takes in han’, fowk^folk sud^should put oot o’ han’ in a proper mainner^manner, and no misguggle^{rumple, mishandle} ’t a’thegither like yon. An’ for what they say i’ the toon^{town, village}, there’s Mistress Catanach—”

“Mistress Catanach is a paad ’oman^woman,” said Duncan.

“I wad advise you, piper, to haud^{hold, keep} a quaiet sough^{quiet tongue} about her. She’s no to be meddlet^meddled wi’, Mistress Catanach, I can tell ye. Gien ye anger her, it’ll be the waur^worse for ye. The neist^next time ye hae a lyin’ in, she’ll be raxin’^reaching ye a hairless pup, or, deed^indeed, maybe a stan’ o’ bagpipes, as the produck.”

“Her nain^own sel’^self will not pe requiring her sairvices, Mistress Partan; she’ll pe leafing tat to you, if you’ll excuse me,” said Duncan.

“Deed^indeed, ye’re richt there! An auld^old speldin’^{dried haddock} like you! Ha! ha! ha!”

Malcolm judged it time to interfere, and stepped into the cottage. Duncan was seated in the darkest corner of the room, with an apron over his knees, occupied with a tin lamp. He had taken out the wick and laid its flat tube on the hearth, had emptied the oil into a saucer, and was now rubbing the lamp vigorously: cleanliness rather than brightness must have been what he sought to produce.

Malcolm’s instinct taught him to side so far with the dame concerning Mrs Catanach, and thereby turn the torrent away from his grandfather.

“‘Deed^indeed ye’re richt there, Mistress Findlay!” he said. “She’s no to be meddlet^meddled wi’. She’s no mowse^{not safe}.”

Malcolm was a favourite with Meg, as with all the women of the place; hence she did not even start in resentment at his sudden appearance, but, turning to Duncan, exclaimed victoriously,—“Hear till her ain^own oye^grandson! He’s a laad^lad o’ sense!”

“Ay, hear to him!” rejoined the old man with pride. “My Malcolm will always pe speaking tat which will pe worth ta hearing with ta ears. Poth of you and me will be knowing ta Mistress Catanach pretty well—eh, Malcolm, my son? We’ll not be trusting her fery too much—will we, my son?”

“No a hair, daddy,” returned Malcolm.

“She’s a dooms clever wife, though; an’ ane^one ’at ye may lippen till^{depend on} i’ the w’y^way o’ her ain^own callin’,” said Meg Partan, whose temper had improved a little under the influence of the handsome youth’s presence and cheery speech.

“She’ll not pe toubting it,” responded Duncan; “put, ach! ta voman ’ll^will be hafing a crim feesage^{grim visage} and a fearsome eye!”

Like all the blind, he spoke as if he saw perfectly.

“Weel, I hae hard^heard fowk^folk say ’at ye bude to^{had to} hae the second sicht^sight,” said Mrs Findlay, laughing rudely; “but wow^{woe; exclamation of grief or satisfaction}! it stan’s ye in sma’^{in short} service gien that be a’ it comes till. She’s a guid-natur’d, sonsy-luikin’^good-looking wife as ye wad see; an’ for her een^eyes, they’re jist sic likes mine ain^own.—Haena^{have not} ye near dune^done wi’ that lamp yet?”

“The week^wick of it ’ll^will pe shust a lettle out of orter,” answered the old man. “Ta pairns has been’ pulling it up with a peen^pin from ta top, and not putting it in at ta hole for ta purpose. And she’ll pe thinking you’ll be cleaning off ta purnt part with a peen yourself, ma’am, and not with ta pair of scissors she tolt you of, Mistress Partan.”

“Gae^gave ’wa’ wi’ yer nonsense!” cried Meg. “Daur^dare ye say I dinna ken hoo^how to trim an uilyie^oil lamp wi’ the best blin’^blind piper that ever cam frae the bare-leggit Heelans?”

“A choke’s a choke, ma’am,” said Duncan, rising with dignity; “put for a laty to make a choke of a man’s pare leks^{bare legs} is not ta propriety!”

“Oot o’ my hoose^house wi’ ye!” screamed the she-Partan. “Wad ye threep^insist upo’ me onything I said was less nor^than proaper^proper. ’At I sud^should say what wadna^{would not} stan’ the licht^light as weels the bare houghs^hollows o’ ony^any heelan’ rascal ’at ever lap^leaped a lawlan’ dyke^{wall of stone or turf}!”

“Hoot toot^{tut! [annoyance]}, Mistress Findlay,” interposed Malcolm, as his grandfather strode from the door; “ye maunna^{must not} forget ’at he’s auld an’ blin’^blind; an’ a’ heelan’ fowk’s some kittle^touchy about their legs.”

“Deil^devil shochle^{shake about, stagger} them!” exclaimed the Partaness; “what care I for ’s legs!”

Duncan had brought the germ of this ministry of light from his native Highlands, where he had practised it in his own house, no one but himself being permitted to clean, or fill, or, indeed, trim the lamp. How first this came about, I do not believe the old man himself knew. But he must have had some feeling of a call to the work; for he had not been a month in Portlossie, before he had installed himself in several families as the genius of their lamps, and he gradually extended the relation until it comprehended almost all the houses in the village.

It was strange and touching to see the sightless man thus busy about light for others. A marvellous symbol of faith he was—not only believing in sight, but in the mysterious, and to him altogether unintelligible means by which others saw! In thus lending his aid to a faculty in which he had no share, he himself followed the trail of the garments of Light, stooping ever and anon to lift and bear her skirts. He haunted the steps of the unknown Power, and flitted about the walls of her temple as we mortals haunt the borders of the immortal land, knowing nothing of what lies behind the unseen veil, yet believing in an unrevealed grandeur. Or shall we say he stood like the forsaken merman, who, having no soul to be saved, yet lingered and listened outside the prayer-echoing church? Only old Duncan had got farther: though he saw not a glimmer of the glory, he yet asserted his part and lot in it, by the aiding of his fellows to that of which he lacked the very conception himself. He was a doorkeeper in the house, yea, by faith the blind man became even a priest in the temple of Light.

Even when his grandchild was the merest baby, he would never allow the gloaming to deepen into night without kindling for his behoof the brightest and cleanest of train-oil lamps. The women who at first looked in to offer their services, would marvel at the trio of blind man, babe, and burning lamp, and some would expostulate with him on the needless waste. But neither would he listen to their words, nor accept their offered assistance in dressing or undressing the child. The sole manner in which he would consent to avail himself of their willingness to help him, was to leave the baby in charge of this or that neighbour while he went his rounds with the bagpipes: when he went lamp-cleaning he always took him along with him.

By this change of guardians Malcolm was a great gainer, for thus he came to be surreptitiously nursed by a baker’s dozen of mothers, who had a fund of not very wicked amusement in the lamentations of the old man over his baby’s refusal of nourishment, and his fears that he was pining away. But while they honestly declared that a healthier child had never been seen in Portlossie, they were compelled to conceal the too satisfactory reasons of the child’s fastidiousness; for they were persuaded that the truth would only make Duncan terribly jealous, and set him on contriving how at once to play his pipes and carry his baby.

He had certain days for visiting certain houses, and cleaning the lamps in them. The housewives had at first granted him as a privilege the indulgence of his whim, and as such alone had Duncan regarded it; but by and by, when they found their lamps burn so much better from being properly attended to, they began to make him some small return; and at length it became the custom with every housewife who accepted his services, to pay him a halfpenny a week during the winter months for cleaning her lamp. He never asked for it; if payment was omitted, never even hinted at it; received what was given him thankfully; and was regarded with kindness, and, indeed, respect, by all. Even Mrs Partan, as he alone called her, was his true friend: no intensity of friendship could have kept her from scolding. I believe if we could thoroughly dissect the natures of scolding women, we should find them in general not at all so unfriendly as they are unpleasant.

A small trade in oil arose from his connection with the lamps, and was added to the list of his general dealings. The fisher-folk made their own oil, but sometimes it would run short, and then recourse was had to Duncan’s little store, prepared by himself of the best; chiefly, now, from the livers of fish caught by his grandson. With so many sources of income, no one wondered at his getting on. Indeed no one would have been surprised to hear, long before Malcolm had begun to earn anything, that the old man had already laid by a trifle.

Chapter 15 - The Slope of the Dune

Looking at Malcolm’s life from the point of his own consciousness, and not from that of the so-called world, it was surely pleasant enough. Innocence, devotion to another, health, pleasant labour with an occasional shadow of danger to arouse the energies, leisure, love of reading, a lofty-minded friend, and, above all, a supreme presence, visible to his heart in the meeting of vaulted sky and outspread sea, and felt at moments in any waking wind that cooled his glowing cheek and breathed into him anew of the breath of life,—lapped in such conditions, bathed in such influences, the youth’s heart was swelling like a rosebud ready to burst into blossom.

But he had never yet felt the immediate presence of woman in any of her closer relations. He had never known mother or sister; and, although his voice always assumed a different tone and his manner grew more gentle in the presence, of a woman, old or young, he had found little individually attractive amongst the fisher-girls. There was not much in their circumstances to bring out the finer influences of womankind in them: they had rough usage, hard work at the curing and carrying of fish and the drying of nets, little education, and but poor religious instruction. At the same time any failure in what has come to be specially called virtue, was all but unknown amongst them; and the profound faith in women, and corresponding worship of everything essential to womanhood, had as yet met with no check. It had never come into Malcolm’s thoughts that there were live women capable of impurity. Mrs. Catanach was the only woman he had ever looked upon with dislike—and that dislike had generated no more than the vaguest suspicion. Let a woman’s faults be all that he had ever known in woman; he yet could look on her with reverence—and the very heart of reverence is love, whence it may be plainly seen that Malcolm’s nature was at once prepared for much delight, and exposed to much suffering. It followed that all the women of his class loved and trusted him; and hence in part it came that, absolutely free of arrogance, he was yet confident in the presence of women. The tradesmen’s daughters in the upper town took pains to show him how high above him they were, and women of better position spoke to him with a kind condescension that made him feel the gulf that separated them; but to one and all he spoke with the frankness of manly freedom.

But he had now arrived at that season when, in the order of things, a man is compelled to have at least a glimmer of the life which consists in sharing life with another.

Malcolm was not of the stuff of which coxcombs are made, and had not begun to think even of the abyss that separated Lady Florimel and himself—an abyss like that between star and star, across which stretches no mediating air—a blank and blind space. He felt her presence only as that of a being to be worshipped, to be heard with rapture, and yet addressed without fear.

Though not greatly prejudiced in favour of books, Lady Florimel had burrowed a little in the old library at Lossie House, and had chanced on the Faerie Queene. She had often come upon the name of the author in books of extracts, and now, turning over its leaves, she found her own. Indeed, where else could her mother have found the name Florimel? Her curiosity was roused, and she resolved—no light undertaking—to read the poem through, and see who and what the lady, Florimel, was. Notwithstanding the difficulty she met with at first, she had persevered, and by this time it had become easy enough. The copy she had found was in small volumes, of which she now carried one about with her wherever she wandered; and making her first acquaintance with the sea and the poem together, she soon came to fancy that she could not fix her attention on the book without the sound of the waves for an accompaniment to the verse—although the gentler noise of an ever-flowing stream would have better suited the nature of Spenser’s rhythm; for indeed, he had composed the greater part of the poem with such a sound in his ears, and there are indications in the poem itself that he consciously took the river as his chosen analogue after which to model the flow of his verse.

It was a sultry afternoon, and Florimel lay on the seaward side of the dune, buried in her book. The sky was foggy with heat, and the sea lay dull, as if oppressed by the superincumbent air, and leaden in hue, as if its colour had been destroyed by the sun. The tide was rising slowly, with a muffled and sleepy murmur on the sand; for here were no pebbles to impart a hiss to the wave as it rushed up the bank, or to go softly hurtling down the slope with it as it sank. As she read, Malcolm was walking towards her along the top of the dune, but not until he came almost above where she lay, did she hear his step in the soft quenching sand.

She nodded kindly, and he descended approaching her.

“Did ye want me, my leddy^lady?” he asked.

“No,” she answered.

“I wasna^{was not} sure whether ye noddit ’cause ye wantit me or no,” said Malcolm, and turned to reascend the dune.

“Where are you going now?” she asked.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! nae^no gait^way in particlar. I jist cam oot to see hoo^how things war luikin^looking.”

“What things?”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! jist the lift^sky, an’ the sea, an’ sic generals.”

That Malcolm’s delight in the presences of Nature—I say presences, as distinguished from forms and colours and all analyzed sources of her influences—should have already become a conscious thing to himself requires to account for it the fact that his master, Graham, was already under the influences of Wordsworth, whom he had hailed as a Crabbe that had burst his shell and spread the wings of an eagle: the virtue passed from him to his pupil.

“I won’t detain you from such important business,” said Lady Florimel, and dropped her eyes on her book.

“Gien ye want my company, my leddy, I can luik^look aboot me jist as weel here as ony^any ither^other gait^way,” said Malcolm.

And as he spoke, he gently stretched himself on the dune, about three yards aside and lower down. Florimel looked half amused and half annoyed, but she had brought it on herself, and would punish him only by dropping her eyes again on her book, and keeping silent. She had come to the Florimel of snow.

Malcolm lay and looked at her for a few moments pondering; then fancying he had found the cause of her offence, rose, and, passing to the other side of her, again lay down, but at a still more respectful distance.

“Why do you move?” she asked, without looking up.

“‘Cause there’s jist a possible air o’ win’^wind frae the nor’east.”

“And you want me to shelter you from it?” said Lady Florimel.

“Na, na, my leddy^lady,” returned Malcolm, laughing; “for as bonny’s ye are, ye wad be but sma’ scoug^shelter.”

“Why did you move, then?” persisted the girl, who understood what he said just about half.

“Weel, my leddy^lady, ye see it’s het^hot, an’ I’m aye amang^among the fish mair or less, an’ I didna ken ’at I was to hae the honour o’ sittin’ doon^down aside ye; sae I thocht^thought ye was maybe smellin’ the fish. It’s healthy eneuch^enough, but some fowk^folk disna^{does not} like it; an’ for a’ that I ken, you gran’ fowk’s senses may be mair ready to scunner^{take offence} than oors^ours. ‘Deed^indeed, my leddy, we wadna need to be particlar^{can’t be particular}, whiles^{at times}, or it wad be the waur^worse for ’s.”

Simple as it was, the explanation served to restore her equanimity, disturbed by what had seemed his presumption in lying down in her presence: she saw that she had mistaken the action. The fact was, that, concluding from her behaviour she had something to say to him, but was not yet at leisure for him, he had lain down, as a loving dog might, to await her time. It was devotion, not coolness. To remain standing before her would have seemed a demand on her attention; to lie down was to withdraw and wait. But Florimel, although pleased, was only the more inclined to torment—a peculiarity of disposition which she inherited from her father: she bowed her face once more over her book, and read through three whole stanzas, without however understanding a single phrase in them, before she spoke. Then looking up, and regarding for a moment the youth who lay watching her with the eyes of the servants in the psalm, she said,—“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“I thocht^thought ye wantit me, my leddy! I beg yer pardon,” answered Malcolm, springing to his feet, and turning to go.

“Do you ever read?” she asked.

“Aften^often that,” replied Malcolm, turning again, and standing stock-still. “An’ I like best to read jist as yer leddyship’s readin’ the noo^{just now, now}, lyin’ o’ the san’-hill, wi’ the haill^whole sea afore me, an’ naething atween me an’ the icebergs but the watter^water an’ the stars an’ a wheen^{few, little} islands. It’s like readin’ wi’ fower^four een^eyes, that!”

“And what do you read on such occasions?” carelessly drawled his persecutor.

“Whiles^sometimes ae^one thing an’ whiles anither—whiles onything I can lay my han’s upo’. I like traivels^travels an’ sic like weel eneuch^enough; an’ history, gien it be na ower dry like. I div^do not like sermons, an’ there’s mair o’ them in Portlossie than onything ither^other. Mr Graham—that’s the schoolmaister—has a gran’ libbrary, but it’s maist^most Laitin an’ Greek, an’ though I like the Laitin weel, it’s no what I wad read i’ the face o’ the sea. When ye’re in dreid^dread o’ wantin’ a dictionar’, that spiles a’.”

“Can you read Latin then?”

“Ay: what for no, my leddy? I can read Virgil middlin’^{fairly well}; an’ Horace’s Ars Poetica, the whilk^which Mr Graham says is no its richt name ava^{at all}, but jist Epistola ad Pisones; for gien they bude to^{had to} gie^give ’t anither it sud^should ha’ been Ars Dramatica. But leddies^ladies dinna care aboot sic things.”

“You gentlemen give us no chance. You won’t teach us.”

“Noo^now, my leddy, dinna begin to mak’^make ghem^game o’ me, like my lord. I cud^could ill bide it frae him, an’ gien ye tak^take till ’t as weel, I maun^must jist haud^{hold, keep} oot o’ yer gait^way. I’m nae^no gentleman, an’ hae ower muckle^much respeck for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at bein’ ca’d ane^one. But as for the Laitin, I’ll be prood^proud to instruck yer leddyship^ladyship whan^when ye please.”

“I’m afraid I’ve no great wish to learn,” said Florimel.

“I daur^dare say no,” said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself to go.

“Do you like novels?” asked the girl.

“I never saw a novelle. There’s no ane^one amo’^among a’ Mr Graham’s buiks^books, an’ I s’ warran’ there’s full twa^two hunner^hundred o’ them. I dinna believe there’s a single novelle in a’ Portlossie.”

“Don’t be too sure: there are a good many in our library.”

“I hadna^{had not} the presumption, my leddy, to coont^count the Hoose^house in Portlossie—Ye’ll hae a sicht^sight o’ buiks^books up there, no?”

“Have you never been in the library?”

“I never set fut^foot i’ the hoose^house—’cep’ i’ the kitchie^kitchen, an’ ance^once or twise^twice steppin’ across the ha’^hall frae the ae^one door to the tither^{the other}. I wad fain^gladly see what kin’^kind o’ a place great fowk like you bides in, an’ what kin’^kind o’ things, buiks^books an’ a’, ye hae aboot ye. It’s no easy for the like o’ huz^{us; emphatic} ’at has but a but an’ a ben^{has only an outer and inner room}, to unnerstan’ hoo^how ye fill sic a muckle place as yon. I wad be aye i’ the libbrary, I think. But,” he went on, glancing involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, “yer leddyship’s sae licht-fittit, ye’ll be ower the haill^whole dwallin’, like a wee bird in a muckle cage. Whan^when I want room, I like it wantin’ wa’s^{without walls}.”

Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained him.

“Do you ever read poetry?”

“Ay, sometimes—whan it’s auld.”

“One would think you were talking about wine! Does age improve poetry as well?”

“I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae^gave me a glaiss^glass the ither^other day, an’ it tastit weel, but whether it was merum or mixtum^{pure or mixed}, I couldna^{could not} tell mair nor a haddick. Doobtless age does gar^{cause, make} poetry smack a wee better; but I said auld only ’cause there’s sae little new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait^way. Mr Graham’s unco^very ta’en wi’ Maister^master Wordsworth—no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken onything aboot him, my leddy?”

“I never heard of him.”

“I wadna^{would not} gie^give an auld Scots ballant^ballad for a barrowfu’^{wheelbarrow full} o’ his. There’s gran’ bits here an’ there, nae^no doobt, but it ’s ower mim mou’ed^{genteel in expression} for me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s ower saft^soft an’ sliddery^slippery like i’ yer mou’^mouth, my leddy.”

“What sort do you like then?”

“I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou’fu’ o’ him. I dinna like the verse ’at ye can murle^crumble oot atween yer lips an’ yer teeth. I like the verse ’at ye maun^must open yer mou’^mouth weel to lat^let gang. Syne^then it’s worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan’ ’t or no.”

“I don’t see how you can say that.”

“Jist hear, my leddy! Here’s a bit I cam upo’ last nicht^{night, evening}:

  ...His volant touch,

Instinct through all proportions, low and high,

Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.

Hear till ’t! It’s gran’—even though ye dinna ken what it means a bit.”

“I do know what it means,” said Florimel. “Let me see: volant means—what does volant mean?”

“It means fleein’^flying, I suppose.”

“Well, he means some musician or other.”

“Of coorse^course: it maun be Jubal—I ken a’ the words but fugue; though I canna tell what business instinct an’ proportions hae there.”

“It’s describing how the man’s fingers, playing a fugue—on the organ, I suppose,—”

“A fugue ’ll^will be some kin’^kind o’ a tune, than? That casts a heap o’ licht^light on’t, my leddy—I never saw an organ: what is ’t like?”

“Something like a pianoforte.”

“But I never saw ane o’ them either. It’s ill makin’^{making, doing} things a’thegither oot o’ yer ain^own heid^head.”

“Well, it’s played with the fingers—like this,” said Florimel. “And the fugue is a kind of piece where one part pursues the other,—”

“An’ syne^then,” cried Malcolm eagerly, “that ane turns roon’^{around, round} an’ rins^runs efter the first;—that ’ll^will be ‘fled and pursued transverse.’ I hae’t! I hae’t! See, my leddy, what it is to hae sic schoolin’, wi’ music an’ a’! The proportions—that’s the relation o’ the notes to ane anither; an’ fugue—that comes frae fugere to flee—‘fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue’ —the tane^{the one} rinnin’ efter the tither^{the other}, roon’ an’ roon’. Ay, I hae’t noo^now!—Resonant—that’s echoing or resounding. But what’s instinct my leddy? It maun be an adjective, I’m thinkin’.”

Although the modesty of Malcolm had led him to conclude the girl immeasurably his superior in learning because she could tell him what a fugue was, he soon found she could help him no further, for she understood scarcely anything about grammar, and her vocabulary was limited enough. Not a doubt interfered, however, with her acceptance of the imputed superiority; for it is as easy for some to assume as it is for others to yield.

“I hae’t! It is an adjective,” cried Malcolm, after a short pause of thought. “It’s the touch that’s instinct. But I fancy there sud^should be a comma efter instinct.—His fingers were sae used till ’t that they could ’maist do the thing o’ themsel’s—Isna^{is not} ’t lucky, my leddy, that I thocht^thought o’ sayin’ ’t ower to you! I’ll read the buik^book frae the beginnin’,—it’s the neist^next to the last, I think,—jist to come upo’ the twa^two lines i’ their ain^own place, ohn^without their expeckin’^expecting me like, an’ see hoo^how gran’ they soon’^soun whan^when a body unnerstan’s them. Thank ye, my leddy.”

“I suppose you read Milton to your grandfather?”

“Ay, sometimes—i’ the lang^long fore-nights.”

“What do you mean by the fore-nights?”

“I mean efter it’s dark an’ afore ye gang to yer bed.—He likes the battles o’ the angels best. As sune^soon ’s it comes to ony^any fechtin’^{fighting, struggling}, up he gets, an’ gangs^{goes, walks} stridin’ aboot the flure^floor; an’ whiles^sometimes he maks^{makes, does} a claucht^{grab, clutch} at ’s claymore; an’ faith! ance^once he maist^almost cawed aff^{knocked off} my heid^head wi’ ’t, for he had made a mistak aboot whaur I was sittin’.”

“What’s a claymore?”

“A muckle heelan’ braidswoord, my leddy. Clay frae gladius verra^very likly^likely; an’ more ’s the Gaelic for great: claymore, great sword. Blin’^blind as my gran’father is, ye wad sweer^swear he had fochten in ’s day, gien ye hard^heard hoo^how he’ll gar’t whurr an’ whustle^whistle aboot ’s heid^head as gien ’t war a bit lath o’ wud^wood.”

“But that’s very dangerous,” said Florimel, something aghast at the recital.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, ay!” assented Malcolm, indifferently,—“Gien ye wad luik^look in, my leddy, I wad lat^let ye see his claymore, an’ his dirk^dagger, an’ his skene dhu, an’ a’.”

“I don’t think I could venture. He’s too dreadful! I should be terrified at him.”

“Dreidfu’ my leddy? He’s the quaietest, kin’liest auld man! that is, providit ye say naething for a Cawmill, or agen^against ony^any ither^other hielanman^{Highland man}. Ye see he comes o’ Glenco, an’ the Cawmills are jist a hate till him—specially Cawmill o’ Glenlyon, wha^who was the warst^worst o’ them a’. Ye sud^should hear him tell the story till ’s pipes, my leddy! It’s gran’ to hear him! An’ the poetry a’ his ain^own!”

Chapter 16 - The Storm

There came a blinding flash, and a roar through the leaden air, followed by heavy drops mixed with huge hailstones. At the flash, Florimel gave a cry and half rose to her feet, but at the thunder, fell as if stunned by the noise, on the sand. As if with a bound, Malcolm was by her side, but when she perceived his terror, she smiled, and laying hold of his hand, sprung to her feet.

“Come, come,” she cried; and still holding his hand, hurried up the dune, and down the other side of it. Malcolm accompanied her step for step, strongly tempted, however, to snatch her up, and run for the bored craig: he could not think why she made for the road—high on an unscalable embankment, with the park-wall on the other side. But she ran straight for a door in the embankment itself, dark between two buttresses, which, never having seen it open, he had not thought of. For a moment she stood panting before it, while with trembling hand she put a key in the lock; the next she pushed open the creaking door and entered. As she turned to take out the key, she saw Malcolm yards away in the middle of the road and in a cataract of rain, which seemed to have with difficulty suspended itself only until the lady should be under cover. He stood with his bonnet in his hand, watching for a farewell glance.

“Why don’t you come in?” she said impatiently.

He was beside her in a moment.

“I didna ken ye wad lat me in,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have you drowned,” she returned, shutting the door.

“Droont^drowned!” he repeated, “It wad tak^take a hantle^{great deal} to droon^drown me. I stack^stuck to the boddom^bottom o’ a whumled^whelmed boat a haill^whole nicht^{night, evening} whan^when I was but fifeteen.”

They stood in a tunnel which passed under the road, affording immediate communication between the park and the shore. The further end of it was dark with trees. The upper half of the door by which they had entered was a wooden grating, for the admission of light, and through it they were now gazing, though they could see little but the straight lines of almost perpendicular rain that scratched out the colours of the landscape. The sea was troubled, although no wind blew; it heaved as with an inward unrest. But suddenly there was a great broken sound somewhere in the air; and the next moment a storm came tearing over the face of the sea, covering it with blackness innumerably rent into spots of white. Presently it struck the shore, and a great rude blast came roaring through the grating, carrying with it a sheet of rain, and, catching Florimel’s hair, sent it streaming wildly out behind her.

“Dinna ye think, my leddy,” said Malcolm, “ye had better mak^make for the hoose^house? What wi’ the win’^wind an’ the weet^{wet, dew, rain} thegither, ye’ll be gettin’ yer deith^death o’ cauld^cold. I s’ gang wi’ ye sae far, gien ye’ll alloo^allow me, jist to haud^{hold, keep} it ohn^without blawn^blown ye awa’.”

The wind suddenly fell, and his last words echoed loud in the vaulted sky. For a moment it grew darker in the silence, and then a great flash carried the world away with it, and left nothing but blackness behind. A roar of thunder followed, and even while it yet bellowed, a white face flitted athwart the grating, and a voice of agony shrieked aloud:

“I dinna ken whaur it comes frae!”

Florimel grasped Malcolm’s arm: the face had passed close to hers—only the grating between, and the cry cut through the thunder like a knife.

Instinctively, almost unconsciously, he threw his arm around her, to shield her from her own terror.

“Dinna be fleyt^terrified, my leddy,” he said. “It’s naething but the mad laird. He’s a quaiet^quiet cratur^creature eneuch^enough, only he disna^{does not} ken whaur he comes frae—he disna ken whaur onything comes frae—an’ he canna bide it. But he wadna^{would not} hurt leevin’^living cratur, the laird.”

“What a dreadful face!” said the girl, shuddering.

“It’s no an ill-faured face,” said Malcolm, “only the storm’s frichtit^frightened him by ord’nar^{out of the ordinary}, an’ it’s unco^very ghaistly the noo^{just now, now}.”

“Is there nothing to be done for him?” she said compassionately.

“No upo’ this side the grave, I doobt^{I suspect}, my leddy,” answered Malcolm.

Here coming to herself the girl became aware of her support, and laid her hand on Malcolm’s to remove his arm. He obeyed instantly, and she said nothing.

“There was some speech,” he went on hurriedly, with a quaver in his voice, “o’ pittin’^putting him intill^into the asylum at Aberdeen, an’ no lattin’^letting him scoor the queentry this gait^way, they said; but it wad hae been sheer cruelty, for the cratur likes naething sae weel as rinnin’ aboot, an’ does no’^not mainner^manner o’ hurt. A verra^very bairn^child can guide him. An’ he has jist as guid^good a richt to the leeberty God gies^gives him as ony^any man alive, an’ mair nor a hantle^{more than many}.”

“Is nothing known about him?”

“A’ thing’s^{everything is} known aboot him, my leddy, ’at ’s known aboot the lave^rest o’ ’s. His father was the laird o’ Gersefell—an’ for that maitter^matter he’s laird himsel’ noo^now. But they say he’s taen^taken sic a scunner^disgust at his mither^mother, that he canna bide the verra^very word o’ mither^mother; he jist cries oot whan he hears ’t.”

“It seems clearing,” said Florimel.

“I doobt^{I suspect} it’s only haudin’^{holding, keeping} up for a wee,” returned Malcolm, after surveying as much of the sky as was visible through the bars; “but I do think ye had better run for the hoose^house, my leddy. I s’ jist follow ye, a feow^few yairds^yards ahin’^behind, till I see ye safe. Dinna ye be feared—I s’ tak guid^good care: I wadna^{would not} hae ye seen i’ the company o’ a fisher-lad like me.”

There was no doubting the perfect simplicity with which this was said, and the girl took no exception. They left the tunnel, and skirting the bottom of the little hill on which stood the temple of the winds, were presently in the midst of a young wood, through which a gravelled path led towards the House. But they had not gone far ere a blast of wind, more violent than any that had preceded it, smote the wood, and the trees, young larches and birches and sycamores, bent streaming before it. Lady Florimel turned to see where Malcolm was, and her hair went from her like a Maenad’s, while her garments flew fluttering and straining, as if struggling to carry her off. She had never in her life before been out in a storm, and she found the battle joyously exciting. The roaring of the wind in the trees was grand; and what seemed their terrified struggles while they bowed and writhed and rose but to bow again, as in mad effort to unfix their earthbound roots and escape, took such sympathetic hold of her imagination, that she flung out her arms, and began to dance and whirl as if herself the genius of the storm. Malcolm, who had been some thirty paces behind, was with her in a moment.

“Isn’t it splendid?” she cried.

“It blaws weel—verra^very near as weel ’s my daddy,” said Malcolm, enjoying it quite as much as the girl.

“How dare you make game of such a grand uproar?” said Florimel with superiority.

“Mak^make ghem^game o’ a blast o’ win’^wind by comparin’ ’t to my gran’father!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Hoot^pshaw!, my leddy! its a coamplement to the biggest blast ’at ever blew to be compairt till an auld man like him. I’m ower used to them to min’^mind them muckle mysel’, ’cep’^{except, but} to fecht^{fight, struggle} wi’ them. But whan I watch the sea-goos^seagulls dartin’ like arrow-heids throu’ the win’^wind, I sometimes think it maun be gran’ for the angels to caw^{drive, push} aboot great flags o’ wings in a mortal warstle^wrestle wi’ sic a hurricane as this.”

“I don’t understand you one bit,” said Lady Florimel petulantly.

As she spoke, she went on, but, the blast having abated, Malcolm lingered, to place a proper distance between them.

“You needn’t keep so far behind,” said Florimel, looking back.

“As yer leddyship^ladyship pleases,” answered Malcolm, and was at once by her side. “I’ll gang till ye tell me to stan’.—Eh, sae different ’s ye look frae the ither^other mornin’!”

“What morning?”

“Whan ye was sittin’ at the fut^foot o’ the bored craig.”

“Bored craig! What’s that?”

“The rock wi’ a hole throu’ it. Ye ken the rock weel eneuch^enough, my leddy. Ye was sittin’ at the fut^foot o’ ’t, readin’ yer buik^book, as white ’s gien ye had been made o’ snaw^snow. It cam to me that the rock was the sepulchre, the hole the open door o’ ’t, an’ yersel’ ane o’ the angels that had faulded his wings an’ was waitin’ for somebody to tell the guid news till, that he was up an awa’.”

“And what do I look like today?” she asked.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! the day^today, ye luik^look like some cratur^creature o’ the storm; or the storm itsel’ takin’ a leevin’^living shape, an’ the bonniest it could; or maybe, like Ahriel, gaein’^going afore the win’^wind, wi’ the blast in ’s feathers, rufflin’ them ’a gaits at ance^{all ways at once}.”

“Who’s Ahriel?”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, the fleein’^flying cratur^creature i’ the Tempest! But in your bonny southern speech, I daursay^{dare say} ye wad ca’ him—or her, I dinna ken whilk^which the cratur^creature was—ye wad ca’ ’t Ayriel?”

“I don’t know anything about him or her or it,” said Lady Florimel.

“Ye’ll hae a’ aboot him up i’ the libbrary there though,” said Malcolm. “The Tempest’s the only ane o’ Shakspere’s plays ’at I hae read, but it’s a gran’ ane, as Maister Graham has empooered me to see.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Florimel, “I’ve lost my book!”

“I’ll gang back an’ luik^look for ’t this meenute, my leddy,” said Malcolm. “I ken ilka^{every, each} fit^foot o’ the road we’ve come, an’ it’s no possible but I fa’ in wi’ ’t.—Ye’ll sune^soon be hame^home noo^now, an’ it’ll hardly be on again afore ye win^go in,” he added, looking up at the clouds.

“But how am I to get it? I want it very much.”

“I’ll jest fess^fetch ’t up to the Hoose^house, an’ say ’at I fan’ ’t whaur I will fin’^find ’t. But I wiss^wish ye wad len’ me yer pocket-nepkin to row^roll ’t in, for I’m feared for blaudin’^soiling ’t afore I get it back to ye.”

Florimel gave him her handkerchief, and Malcolm took his leave, saying.—

“I’ll be up i’ the coorse^course o’ a half hoor^hour at farthest.”

The humble devotion and absolute service of the youth, resembling that of a noble dog, however unlikely to move admiration in Lady Florimel’s heart, could not fail to give her a quiet and welcome pleasure. He was an inferior who could be depended upon, and his worship was acceptable. Not a fear of his attentions becoming troublesome ever crossed her mind. The wider and more impassable the distinctions of rank, the more possible they make it for artificial minds to enter into simply human relations; the easier for the oneness of the race to assert itself, in the offering and acceptance of a devoted service. There is more of the genuine human in the relationship between some men and their servants, than between those men and their own sons.

With eyes intent, and keen as those of a gaze-hound, Malcolm retraced every step, up to the grated door. But no volume was to be seen. Turning from the door of the tunnel, for which he had no Sesame, he climbed to the foot of the wall that crossed it above, and with a bound, a clutch at the top, a pull and a scramble, was in the high road in a moment. From the road to the links^{sandy grass-covered ground} was an easy drop, where, starting from the grated door, he retraced their path from the dune. Lady Florimel had dropped the book when she rose, and Malcolm found it lying on the sand, little the worse. He wrapped it in its owner’s handkerchief, and set out for the gate at the mouth of the river.

As he came up to it, the keeper, an ill-conditioned snarling fellow, who, in the phrase of the Seaton-folk, “rade^rode on the riggin^{ridge, roof} o’ ’s authority,” rushed out of the lodge, and just as Malcolm was entering, shoved the gate in his face.

“Ye comena^{do not come} in wi’oot the leave o’ me,” he cried, with a vengeful expression.

“What’s that for?” said Malcolm, who had already interposed his great boot, so that the spring-bolt could not reach its catch.

“There s’ nae lan’-loupin’ rascals come in here,” said Bykes, setting his shoulder to the gate.

That instant he went staggering back to the wall of the lodge, with the gate after him.

“Stick to the wa’ there,” said Malcolm, as he strode in.

The keeper pursued him with frantic abuse, but he never turned his head. Arrived at the House, he committed the volume to the cook, with a brief account of where he had picked it up, begging her to inquire whether it belonged to the House. The cook sent a maid with it to Lady Florimel, and Malcolm waited until she returned—with thanks and a half-crown. He took the money, and returned by the upper gate through the town.

Chapter 17 - The Accusation

The next morning, soon after their early breakfast, the gate-keeper stood in the door of Duncan MacPhail’s cottage, with a verbal summons for Malcolm to appear before his lordship.

“An’ I’m no to lowse^lose sicht^sight o’ ye till ye hae put in yer appearance,” he added; “sae gien ye dinna come peaceable, I maun gar^{cause, make} ye.”

“Whaur’s yer warrant?” asked Malcolm coolly.

“Ye wad hae the impidence to deman’ my warrant, ye young sorner^{thieving rascal}!” cried Bykes indignantly. “Come yer wa’s^{’Come on in!’}, my man, or I s’ gar^{cause, make} ye smairt for ’t.”

“Haud^{hold, keep} a quaiet sough^{quiet tongue}, an’ gang hame^home for yer warrant,” said Malcolm. “It’s lyin’ there, doobtless, or ye wadna^{would not} hae daured^{dared, challenged} to shaw^show yer face on sic an eeran’.”

Duncan, who was dozing in his chair, awoke at the sound of high words. His jealous affection perceived at once that Malcolm was being insulted. He sprang to his feet, stepped swiftly to the wall, caught down his broadsword, and rushed to the door, making the huge weapon quiver and whir about his head as if it had been a slip of tin-plate.

“Where is ta rascal?” he shouted. “She’ll cut him town! Show her ta lowlan’ thief! She’ll cut him town! Who’ll be insulting her Malcolm?”

But Bykes, at first sight of the weapon, had vanished in dismay.

“Hoot toot^{tut! [annoyance]}, daddy,” said Malcolm, taking him by the arm; “there’s naebody here. The puir^poor cratur^creature couldna^{could not} bide the sough^{sound of wind} o’ the claymore. He fled like the autumn wind over the stubble. There’s Ossian^{a Scottish hero poet} for’t.”

“Ta Lord pe praised!” cried Duncan. “She’ll be confounded her foes. But what would ta rascal pe wanting, my son?”

Leading him back to his chair, Malcolm told him as much as he knew of the matter.

“Ton’t you co for no warrant,” said Duncan. “If my lort marquis will pe senting for you as one chentleman sends for another, then you co.”

Within an hour Bykes reappeared, accompanied by one of the gamekeepers—an Englishman. The moment he heard the door open, Duncan caught again at his broadsword.

“We want you, my young man,” said the gamekeeper, standing on the threshold, with Bykes peeping over his shoulder, in an attitude indicating one foot already lifted to run.

“What for?”

“That’s as may appear.”

“Whaur’s yer warrant?”

“There.”

“Lay ’t doon^down o’ the table, an’ gang back to the door, till I get a sklent^glance at it,” said Malcolm. “Ye’re an honest man, Wull—but I wadna^{would not} lippen^trust a snuff-mull^{snuff box} ’at had mair nor ae^one pinch intill^into ’t wi’ yon cooard cratur^creature ahin’^behind ye.”

He was afraid of the possible consequences of his grandfather’s indignation.

The gamekeeper did at once as he was requested, evidently both amused with the bearing of the two men and admiring it. Having glanced at the paper, Malcolm put it in his pocket, and whispering a word to his grandfather, walked away with his captors.

As they went to the House, Bykes was full of threats of which he sought to enhance the awfulness by the indefiniteness; but Will told Malcolm as much as he knew of the matter—namely, that the head gamekeeper, having lost some dozen of his sitting pheasants, had enjoined a strict watch; and that Bykes having caught sight of Malcolm in the very act of getting over the wall, had gone and given information against him.

No one about the premises except Bykes would have been capable of harbouring suspicion of Malcolm; and the head gamekeeper had not the slightest; but, knowing that his lordship found little enough to amuse him, and anticipating some laughter from the confronting of two such opposite characters, he had gone to the marquis with Byke’s report,—and this was the result. His lordship was not a magistrate, and the so-called warrant was merely a somewhat sternly-worded expression of his desire that Malcolm should appear and answer to the charge.

The accused was led into a vaulted chamber opening from the hall—a genuine portion, to judge from its deep low arched recesses, the emergence of truncated portions of two or three groins, and the thickness of its walls, of the old monastery. Close by the door ascended a right-angled modern staircase.

Lord Lossie entered, and took his seat in a great chair in one of the recesses.

“So, you young jackanapes!” he said, half angry, and half-amused, “you decline to come, when I send for you, without a magistrate’s warrant, forsooth! It looks bad to begin with, I must say!”

“Yer lordship wad never hae had me come at sic a summons as that cankert^cantankerous ted^toad Johnny Bykes broucht^brought me. Gien ye had but hard^heard him! He spak as gien he had been sent to fess^{fetch, bring} me to yer lordship by the scruff o’ the neck, an’ I didna believe yer lordship wad do sic a thing. Ony gait^anyway, I wasna^{was not} gauin’^going to stan’ that. Ye wad hae thocht^thought him a cornel^colonel at the sma’est^smallest, an’ me a wheen^{few, little} heerin’-guts. But it wad hae garred^{made, caused} ye lauch^laugh, my lord, to see hoo^how the body ran whan my blin’^blind gran’father—he canna bide onybody interferin’ wi’ me—made at him wi’ his braid swoord!”

“Ye leein’^{lying, telling lies} rascal!” cried Bykes; “—me feared at an auld spidder, ’at hasna^{has not} breath eneuch^enough to fill the bag o’ ’s pipes!”

“Caw canny^{proceed carefully}, Johnny Bykes. Gien ye say an ill word o’ my gran’father, I s’ gie^give your neck a thraw^twist—an’ that the meenute we ’re oot o’ ’s lordship’s presence.”

“Threits! my lord,” said the gate-keeper, appealing.

“And well merited,” returned his lordship. “—Well, then,” he went on, again addressing Malcolm, “What have you to say for yourself in regard of stealing my brood pheasants?”

“Maister MacPherson,” said Malcolm, with an inclination of his head towards the gamekeeper, “micht^might ha’ fun’^found a fitter neuk^nook to fling that dirt intill^into. ‘Deed^indeed, my lord, it’s sae ridic’lous, it hardly angers me. A man ’at can hae a’ the fish i’ the haill^whole ocean for the takin’ o’ them, to be sic a sneck-drawin’^{crafty, wily} contemptible wratch as tak yer lordship’s bonny hen-craturs frae their chuckies—no to mention the sin o’t!—it’s past an honest man’s denyin’, my lord. An’ Maister MacPherson kens^knows better, for luik^look at him lauchin’^laughing in ’s ain^own sleeve.”

“Well, we’ve no proof of it,” said the marquis; “but what do you say to the charge of trespass?”

“The policies hae aye been open to honest fowk, my lord.”

“Then where was the necessity for getting in over the wall!”

“I beg yer pardon, my lord: ye hae nae proof agen^against me o’ that aither^either.”

“Daur^dare ye tell me,” cried Bykes, recovering himself, “’at I didna see ye wi’ my twa^two een^eyes, loup^leap the dyke^{wall of stone or turf} aneth^{lower than, beneath} the temple—ay, an something flutterin’ unco^{very much} like bird-wings i’ yer han’?”

“Oot or in, Johnny Bykes?”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! oot.”

“I did loup^{leap, jump} the dyke^{wall of stone or turf} my lord; but it was oot, no in.”

“How did you get in then?” asked the marquis.

“I gat^got in, my lord,” began Malcolm, and ceased.

“How did you get in?” repeated the marquis.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! there’s mony^many w’ys^ways o’ winnin’ in, my lord. The last time I cam in but ane, it was ’maist ower the carcass o’ Johnny there, wha^who wad fain^gladly hae hauden^{held, kept} me oot, only he hadna^{had not} my blin’^blind daddy ahint^behind him to ile^oil ’s jints.”

“An’ dinna ye ca’ that brakin’ in?” said Bykes.

“Na; there was naething to brak, ’cep^{except, but} it had been your banes^bones, Johnny; an’ that wad hae been a peety^pity—they’re sae guid for rinnin wi’.”

“You had no right to enter against the will of my gate-keeper,” said his lordship. “What is a gate-keeper for?”

“I had a richt, my lord, sae lang^long ’s I was upo’ my leddy’s business.”

“And what was my lady’s business, pray?” questioned the marquis.

“I faun’^found a buik^book upo’ the links, my lord, which was like to be hers, wi’ the twa^two beasts ’at stans at yer lordship’s door inside the brod^board o’ ’t. An’ sae it turned oot to be whan I took it up to the Hoose. There’s the half-croon she gae^gave me.”

Little did Malcolm think where the daintiest of pearly ears were listening, and the brightest of blue eyes looking down, half in merriment, a quarter in anxiety, and the remaining quarter in interest! On a landing half way up the stair, stood Lady Florimel, peeping over the balusters, afraid to fix her eyes upon him lest she should make him look up.

“Yes, yes, I daresay!” acquiesced the marquis; “but,” he persisted, “what I want to know is, how you got in that time. You seem to have some reluctance to answer the question.”

“Weel, I hev^have, my lord.”

“Then I must insist on your doing so.”

“Weel, I jist winna^{will not}, my lord. It was a’ straucht foret^{straight-forward} an’ fair; an’ gien yer lordship war i’ my place, ye wadna^{would not} say mair yersel’.”

“He’s been after one of the girls about the place,” whispered the marquis to the gamekeeper.

“Speir at^question him, my lord, gien ’t please yer lordship, what it was he

hed^had in ’s han’ whan he lap^leaped the park-wa’,” said Bykes.

“Gien ’t be a’ ane till ’s lordship,” said Malcolm, without looking at Bykes, “it wad be better no to speir^ask, for it gangs^goes sair^sore agen^against me to refeese^refuse him.”

“I should like to know,” said the marquis.

“Ye maun trust me, my lord, that I was efter no ill. I gie^give ye my word for that, my lord.”

“But how am I to know what your word is worth?” returned Lord Lossie, well pleased with the dignity of the youth’s behaviour.

“To ken what a body’s word ’s worth ye maun trust him first, my lord. It’s no muckle trust I want o’ ye: it comes but to this—that I hae rizzons^reasons, guid to me, an’ no ill to you gien ye kent^knew them, for not answerin’ yer lordship’s questions. I’m no denyin’ a word ’at Johnny Bykes says. I never hard^heard the cratur^creature ca’d a leear^liar. He’s but a cantankerous argle-barglous^quarrelsome body—no fit to be a gate-keeper ’cep^{except, but} it was up upo’ the Binn-side, whaur ’maist naebody^{no one} gangs^{goes, walks} oot or in. He wad maybe be safter-hertit till a fellow-cratur syne^then.”

“Would you have him let in all the tramps in the country?” said the marquis.

“De’il^{not a} ane o’ them, my Lord; but I wad hae him no trouble the likes o’ me ’at fesses the fish to your lordship’s brakwast: sic ’s no like to be efter mischeef.”

“There is some glimmer of sense in what you say,” returned his lordship. “But you know it won’t do to let anybody that pleases get over the park-walls. Why didn’t you go out at the gate?”

“The burn^{stream, brook} was atween me an’ hit^{it—‘h’ gives emphasis}, an’ it’s a lang^long road roon’^{around, round}.”

“Well, I must lay some penalty upon you, to deter others,” said the marquis.

“Verra^very well, my lord. Sae lang^long ’s it’s fair, I s’ bide it ohn grutten^{without weeping}.”

“It shan’t be too hard. It’s just this—to give John Bykes the thrashing he deserves, as soon as you’re out of sight of the House.”

“Na, na, my lord; I canna do that,” said Malcolm.

“So you’re afraid of him, after all!”

“Feared at Johnnie Bykes, my lord! Ha! ha!”

“You threatened him a minute ago, and now, when I give you leave to thrash him, you decline the honour!”

“The disgrace, my lord. He’s an aulder^older man, an’ no abune^{not over} half the size. But fegs! gien he says anither word agen^against my gran’father, I will gie^give ’s neck a bit^little thraw^twist.”

“Well, well, be off with you both,” said the marquis rising.

No one heard the rustle of Lady Florimel’s dress as she sped up the stair, thinking with herself how very odd it was to have a secret with a fisherman; for a secret it was, seeing the reticence of Malcolm had been a relief to her; when she shrunk from what seemed the imminent mention of her name in the affair before the servants. She had even felt a touch of mingled admiration and gratitude when she found what a faithful squire he was—capable of an absolute obstinacy indeed, where she was concerned. For her own sake as well as his she was glad that he had got off so well, for otherwise she would have felt bound to tell her father the whole story, and she was not at all so sure as Malcolm that he would have been satisfied with his reasons, and would not have been indignant with the fellow for presuming even to be silent concerning his daughter. Indeed Lady Florimel herself felt somewhat irritated with him, as having brought her into the awkward situation of sharing a secret with a youth of his position.

Chapter 18 - The Quarrel

For a few days the weather was dull and unsettled, with cold flaws, and an occasional sprinkle of rain. But after came a still gray morning, warm and hopeful, and ere noon the sun broke out, the mists vanished, and the day was glorious in blue and gold. Malcolm had been to Scaurnose, to see his friend Joseph Mair, and was descending the steep path down the side of the promontory, on his way home, when his keen eye caught sight of a form on the slope of the dune which could hardly be other than that of Lady Florimel. She did not lift her eyes until he came quite near, and then only to drop them again with no more recognition than if he had been any other of the fishermen. Already more than half-inclined to pick a quarrel with him, she fancied that, presuming upon their very commonplace adventure and its resulting secret, he approached her with an assurance he had never manifested before, and her head was bent motionless over her book when he stood and addressed her.

“My leddy,” he began, with his bonnet by his knee.

“Well?” she returned, without even lifting her eyes, for, with the inherited privilege of her rank, she could be insolent with coolness, and call it to mind without remorse.

“I houp^hope the bit buikie^{little book} wasna muckle the waur^worse, my leddy,” he said.

“‘Tis of no consequence,” she replied.

“Gien it war mine, I wadna^{would not} think sae,” he returned, eyeing her anxiously. “—Here’s yer leddyship’s pocket-nepkin,” he went on. “I hae keepit^kept it ready rowed^rolled up, ever sin’^since my daddy washed it oot. It’s no ill dune for a blin’^blind man, as ye’ll see, an’ I ironed it mysel’ as weel’s I cud^could.”

As he spoke he unfolded a piece of brown paper, disclosing a little parcel in a cover of immaculate post, which he humbly offered her.

Taking it slowly from his hand, she laid it on the ground beside her with a stiff “thank you,” and a second dropping of her eyes that seemed meant to close the interview.

“I doobt^{I suspect} my company’s no welcome the day^today, my leddy,” said Malcolm with trembling voice; “but there’s ae^one thing I maun refar till. Whan I took hame^home yer leddyship’s buik^book the ither^other day, ye sent me half a croon^crown by the han’ o’ yer servan’ lass. Afore her I wasna^{was not} gaein’^going to disalloo onything ye pleased wi’ regaird to me; an’ I thocht^thought wi’ mysel’ it was maybe necessar’ for yer leddyship’s dignity an’ the luik^look o’ things—”

“How dare you hint at any understanding between you and me?” exclaimed the girl in cold anger.

“Lord, mem! what hev^have I said to fess^{fetch, bring} sic a fire flaucht^flying oot o’ yer bonny een^eyes? I thocht^thought ye only did it ’cause ye wad’ na like to luik^look shabby afore the lass—no giein’^giving onything to the lad ’at brocht^brought ye yer ain—an’ lippened to^trusted me to unnerstan’ ’at ye did it but for the luik^look o’ the thing, as I say.”

He had taken the coin from his pocket, and had been busy while he spoke rubbing it in a handful of sand, so that it was bright as new when he now offered it.

“You are quite mistaken,” she rejoined, ungraciously. “You insult me by supposing I meant you to return it.”

“Div^do ye think I cud^could bide to be paid for a turn till a neebor^neighbour, lat alane^alone the liftin’ o’ a buik^book till a leddy?” said Malcolm with keen mortification. “That wad be to despise mysel’ frae keel to truck^{i.e., the whole ship}. I like to be paid for my wark^work, an’ I like to be paid weel: but no a plack^{the smallest coin; worth 1/3 of a penny} by siclike^{beyond such} sall^shall stick to my loof^palm. It can be no offence to gie^give ye back yer half-croon, my leddy.”

And again he offered the coin.

“I don’t in the least see why, on your own principles, you shouldn’t take the money,” said the girl, with more than the coldness of an uninterested umpire. “You worked for it, I’m sure—first accompanying me home in such a storm, and then finding the book and bringing it back all the way to the house!”

“‘Deed^indeed, my leddy, sic a doctrine wad tak a’ grace oot o’ the earth! What wad this life be worth gien a’ was to be peyed for? I wad cut my throat afore I wad bide in sic a warl’^world.—Tak yer half-croon, my leddy,” he concluded, in a tone of entreaty.

But the energetic outburst was sufficing, in such her mood, only to the disgust of Lady Florimel.

“Do anything with the money you please; only go away, and don’t plague me about it,” she said freezingly.

“What can I du wi’ what I wadna^{would not} pass throu’ my fingers?” said Malcolm with the patience of deep disappointment.

“Give it to some poor creature: you know some one who would be glad of it, I daresay.”

“I ken mony^many ane, my leddy, wham^whom it wad weel become yer ain^own bonny han’ to gie^give ’t till; but I’m no gaein’^going to tak’ credit fer a leeberality that wad ill become me.”

“You can tell how you earned it.”

“And profess mysel’ disgraced by takin’ a reward frae a born leddy for what I wad hae dune for ony^any beggar wife i’ the lan’. Na, na, my leddy.”

“Your services are certainly flattering, when you put me on a level with any beggar in the country!”

“In regaird o’ sic service, my leddy: ye ken weel eneuch^enough what I mean. Obleege me by takin’ back yer siller^silver.”

“How dare you ask me to take back what I once gave?”

“Ye cudna^{could not} hae kent^known what ye was doin’ whan ye gae^gave ’t, my leddy. Tak it back, an tak a hunnerweicht aff^off o’ my hert^heart.”

He actually mentioned his heart!—was it to be borne by a girl in Lady Florimel’s mood?

“I beg you will not annoy me,” she said, muffling her anger in folds of distance, and again sought her book.

Malcolm looked at her for a moment, then turned his face towards the sea, and for another moment stood silent. Lady Florimel glanced up, but Malcolm was unaware of her movement. He lifted his hand, and looked at the half-crown gleaming on his palm; then, with a sudden poise of his body, and a sudden fierce action of his arm, he sent the coin, swift with his heart’s repudiation, across the sands into the tide. Ere it struck the water he had turned, and, with long stride but low-bent head, walked away. A pang shot to Lady Florimel’s heart.

“Malcolm!” she cried.

He turned instantly, came slowly back, and stood erect and silent before her.

She must say something. Her eye fell on the little parcel beside her, and she spoke the first thought that came.

“Will you take this?” she said, and offered him the handkerchief.

In a dazed way he put out his hand and took it, staring at it as if he did not know what it was.

“It’s some sair^sore!” he said at length, with a motion of his hands as if to grasp his head between them. “Ye winna^{will not} tak even the washin’ o’ a pocket-nepkin frae me, an’ ye wad gar^{cause, make} me tak a haill^whole half-croon frae yersel’! Mem, ye’re a gran’ leddy an’ a bonny; an ye hae turns aboot ye, gien ’twar but the set o’ yer heid^head, ’at micht^might gar^{cause, make} an angel lat fa’ what he was carryin’, but afore I wad affront ane that wantit naething o’ me but gude^good will, I wad—I wad—raither be the fisher-lad that I am.”

A weak-kneed peroration, truly; but Malcolm was over burdened at last. He laid the little parcel on the sand at her feet, almost reverentially, and again turned. But Lady Florimel spoke again.

“It is you who are affronting me now,” she said gently. “When a lady gives her handkerchief to a gentleman, it is commonly received as a very great favour indeed.”

“Gien I hae made a mistak, my leddy, I micht^might weel mak^make it, no bein’ a gentleman, and no bein’ used to the traitment o’ ane. But I doobt^{I suspect} gien a gentleman wad ha’ surmised what ye was efter wi’ yer nepkin’, gien ye had offert him half a croon^crown first.”

“Oh, yes, he would—perfectly!” said Florimel with an air of offence.

“Then, my leddy, for the first time i’ my life, I wish I had been born a gentleman.”

“Then I certainly wouldn’t have given it you,” said Florimel with perversity.

“What for no, my leddy? I dinna unnerstan’ ye again. There maun be an unco^{very great} differ atween ’s!”

“Because a gentleman would have presumed on such a favour.”

“I’m glaidder nor ever ’at I wasna^{was not} born ane,” said Malcolm, and, slowly stooping, he lifted the handkerchief; “an’ I was aye glaid^glad o’ that, my leddy, ’cause gien I had been, I wad hae been luikin’^looking doon^down upo’ workin’ men like mysel’ as gien they warna^{were not} freely^{quite, very, thoroughly} o’ the same flesh an’ blude^blood. But I beg yer leddyship’s pardon for takin’ ye up amiss. An’ sae lang’s I live, I’ll regaird this as ane o’ her fedders ’at the angel moutit^moulted as she sat by the bored craig. An’ whan I’m deid^dead, I’ll hae ’t laid upo’ my face, an’ syne^then, maybe, I may get a sicht^sight o’ ye as I pass. Guid-day my leddy.”

"Good-day,” she returned kindly. “I wish my father would let me have a row in your boat.”

“It’s at yer service whan ye please, my leddy,” said Malcolm.

One who had caught a glimpse of the shining yet solemn eyes of the youth, as he walked home, would wonder no longer that he should talk as he did—so sedately, yet so poetically—so long-windedly, if you like, yet so sensibly—even wisely.

Lady Florimel lay on the sand, and sought again to read the “Faerie Queene.” But for the last day or two she had been getting tired of it, and now the forms that entered by her eyes dropped half their substance and all their sense in the porch, and thronged her brain with the mere phantoms of things, with words that came and went and were nothing. Abandoning the harvest of chaff, her eyes rose and looked out upon the sea. Never, even from tropical shore, was richer-hued ocean beheld. Gorgeous in purple and green, in shadowy blue and flashing gold, it seemed to Malcolm, as if at any moment the ever newborn Anadyomene^{name for Aphrodite; 'rising from the sea'} might lift her shining head from the wandering floor, and float away in her pearly lustre to gladden the regions where the glaciers glide seawards in irresistible silence, there to give birth to the icebergs in tumult and thunderous uproar. But Lady Florimel felt merely the loneliness. One deserted boat lay on the long sand, like the bereft and useless half of a double shell. Without show of life the moveless cliffs lengthened far into a sea where neither white sail deepened the purple and gold, nor red one enriched it with a colour it could not itself produce. Neither hope nor aspiration awoke in her heart at the sight. Was she beginning to be tired of her companionless liberty? Had the long stanzas, bound by so many interwoven links of rhyme, ending in long Alexandrines, the long cantos, the lingering sweetness long drawn out through so many unended books, begun to weary her at last? Had even a quarrel with a fisher-lad been a little pastime to her? and did she now wish she had detained him a little longer? Could she take any interest in him beyond such as she took in Demon, her father’s dog, or Brazenose, his favourite horse?

Whatever might be her thoughts or feelings at this moment, it remained a fact, that Florimel Colonsay, the daughter of a marquis, and Malcolm, the grandson of a blind piper, were woman and man—and the man the finer of the two this time.

As Malcolm passed on his way one of the three or four solitary rocks which rose from the sand, the skeleton remnants of larger masses worn down by wind, wave, and weather, he heard his own name uttered by an unpleasant voice, and followed by a more unpleasant laugh.

He knew both the voice and the laugh, and, turning, saw Mrs Catanach, seated, apparently busy with her knitting, in the shade of the rock.

“Weel?” he said curtly.

“Weel!—Set ye up!—Wha’s yon^those ye was play actin’ wi’ oot yonner^yonder?”

“Wha^who telled ye to speir^ask, Mistress Catanach?”

“Ay, ay, laad^lad! Ye’ll be abune^above speykin’^speaking till an auld wife efter colloguin’^{talking together} wi’ a yoong ane, an’ sic a ane! Isna^{is not} she bonny, Malkie? Isna hers a winsome shape an’ a lauchin’^laughing ee^eye? Didna she draw ye on, an’ luik^look i’ the hawk’s-een o’ ye, an’ lay herself oot afore ye, an’ ?”

“She did naething o’ the sort, ye ill-tongued wuman^woman!” said Malcolm in anger.

“Ho! ho!” trumpeted Mrs Catanach. “Ill-tongued, am I? An’ what neist^next?”

“Ill-deedit,” returned Malcolm, “—whan ye flang my bonny salmon-troot till yer oogly deevil^devil o’ a dog.”

“Ho! ho! ho! Ill-deedit, am I? I s’ no forget thae^{those, these} bonny names! Maybe yer lordship wad alloo^allow me the leeberty o’ speirin’^asking anither question at ye, Ma’colm MacPhail.”

“Ye may speir^ask ’at ye like, sae lang^long ’s ye canna gar^{cause, make} me stan’ to hearken. Guid-day to ye, Mistress Catanach. Yer company was nane^none o’ my seekin’: I may lea’ ’t whan I like.”

“Dinna ye be ower sure o’ that,” she called after him venomously.

But Malcolm turned his head no more.

As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs Catanach rose, ascended the dune, and propelled her rotundity along the yielding top of it. When she arrived within speaking distance of Lady Florimel, who lay lost in her dreary regard of sand and sea, she paused for a moment, as if contemplating her.

Suddenly, almost by Lady Florimel’s side, as if he had risen from the sand, stood the form of the mad laird.

“I dinna ken whaur I come frae,” he said.

Lady Florimel started, half rose, and seeing the dwarf so near, and on the other side of her a repulsive-looking woman staring at her, sprung to her feet and fled. The same instant the mad laird, catching sight of Mrs Catanach, gave a cry of misery, thrust his fingers in his ears, darted down the other side of the dune and sped along the shore. Mrs. Catanach shook with laughter.

“I hae skailled^dispersed the bonny doos^doves!” she said. Then she called aloud after the flying girl,—

“My leddy! My bonny leddy!”

Florimel paid no heed, but ran straight for the door of the tunnel, and vanished. Thence leisurely climbing to the temple of the winds, she looked down from a height of safety upon the shore and the retreating figure of Mrs. Catanach. Seating herself by the pedestal of the trumpet-blowing Wind, she assayed her reading again, but was again startled—this time by a rough salute from Demon. Presently her father appeared, and Lady Florimel felt something like a pang of relief at being found there, and not on the farther side of the dune making it up with Malcolm.

Chapter 19 - Duncan’s Pipes

A few days after the events last narrated, a footman in the marquis’s livery entered the Seaton, snuffing with emphasized discomposure the air of the village, all-ignorant of the risk he ran in thus openly manifesting his feelings; for the women at least were good enough citizens to resent any indignity offered their town. As vengeance would have it, Meg Partan was the first of whom, with supercilious airs and “clippit” tongue, he requested to know where a certain blind man, who played on an instrument called the bagpipes, lived.

“Spit i’ yer loof^palm an’ caw^search for him,” she answered—a reply of which he understood the tone and one disagreeable word.

With reddening cheek he informed her that he came on his lord’s business.

“I dinna doobt it,” she retorted; “ye luik^look sic-like as rins^runs ither^other fowk’s eeran’s.”

“I should be obliged if you would inform me where the man lives,” returned the lackey—with polite words in supercilious tones.

“What d’ ye want wi’ him, honest man?” grimly questioned the Partaness, the epithet referring to Duncan, and not the questioner.

“That I shall have the honour of informing himself,” he replied.

“Weel, ye can hae the honour o’ informin’ yersel’ whaur he bides,” she rejoined, and turned away from her open door.

All were not so rude as she, however, for he found at length a little girl willing to show him the way.

The style in which his message was delivered was probably modified by the fact that he found Malcolm seated with his grandfather at their evening meal of water-brose and butter; for he had been present when Malcolm was brought before the marquis by Bykes, and had in some measure comprehended the nature of the youth: it was in politest phrase, and therefore entirely to Duncan’s satisfaction in regard of the manner as well as matter of the message, that he requested Mr Duncan MacPhail’s attendance on the marquis the following evening at six o’clock, to give his lordship and some distinguished visitors the pleasure of hearing him play on the bagpipes during dessert. To this summons the old man returned stately and courteous reply, couched in the best English he could command; which, although considerably distorted by Gaelic pronunciation and idioms, was yet sufficiently intelligible to the messenger, who carried home the substance for the satisfaction of his master, and what he could of the form for the amusement of his fellow servants.

Duncan, although he received it with perfect calmness, was yet overjoyed at the invitation. He had performed once or twice before the late marquis, and having ever since assumed the style^title of Piper to the Marquis of Lossie, now regarded the summons as confirmation in the office. The moment the sound of the messenger’s departing footsteps died away, he caught up his pipes from the corner, where, like a pet cat, they lay on a bit of carpet, the only piece in the cottage, spread for them between his chair and the wall, and, though cautiously mindful of its age and proved infirmity, filled the bag full, and burst into such a triumphant onset of battle, that all the children of the Seaton were in a few minutes crowded about the door. He had not played above five minutes, however, when the love of finery natural to the Gael triumphed over his love of music, and he stopped with an abrupt groan of the instrument to request Malcolm to get him new streamers. Whatever his notions of its nature might be, he could not come of the Celtic race without having in him somewhere a strong faculty for colour, and no doubt his fancy regarding it was of something as glorious as his knowledge of it must have been vague. At all events he not only knew the names of the colours in ordinary use, but could describe many of the clan-tartans with perfect accuracy; and he now gave Malcolm complete instructions as to the hues of the ribbons he was to purchase. As soon as he had started on the important mission, the old man laid aside his instrument, and taking his broadsword from the wall, proceeded with the aid of brick-dust and lamp-oil, to furbish hilt and blade with the utmost care, searching out spot after spot of rust, to the smallest, with the delicate points of his great bony fingers. Satisfied at length of its brightness, he requested Malcolm, who had returned long before the operation was over, to bring him the sheath, which, for fear of its coming to pieces, so old and crumbling was the leather, he kept laid up in the drawer with his sporran and his Sunday coat. His next business, for he would not commit it to Malcolm, was to adorn the pipes with the new streamers. Asking the colour of each, and going by some principle of arrangement known only to himself he affixed them, one after the other, as he judged right, shaking and drawing out each to its full length with as much pride as if it had been a tone instead of a ribbon. This done, he resumed his playing, and continued it, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his grandson, until bedtime.

That night he slept but little, and as the day went on grew more and more excited. Scarcely had he swallowed his twelve o’clock dinner of sowens^{fermented oats—a staple dish in Scotland} and oatcake, when he wanted to go and dress himself for his approaching visit. Malcolm persuaded him however to lie down a while and hear him play, and succeeded, strange as it may seem with such an instrument, in lulling him to sleep. But he had not slept more than five minutes when he sprung from the bed, wide awake, crying—“My poy, Malcolm! my son! you haf let her sleep in; and ta creat peoples will be impatient for her music, and cursing her in teir hearts!”

Nothing would quiet him but the immediate commencement of the process of dressing, the result of which was, as I have said, even pathetic, from its intermixture of shabbiness and finery. The dangling brass-capped tails of his sporran in front, the silver-mounted dirk on one side, with its hilt of black oak carved into an eagle’s head, and the steel basket of his broadsword gleaming at the other; his great shoulder-brooch of rudely chased brass; the pipes with their withered bag and gaudy streamers; the faded kilt, oiled and soiled; the stockings darned in twenty places by the hands of sharp-tongued Meg Partan; the brogues patched and patched until it would have been hard to tell a spot of the original leather; the round blue bonnet grown gray with wind and weather; the belts that looked like old harness ready to yield at a pull; his skene dhu sticking out grim and black beside a knee like a lean knuckle:—all combined to form a picture ludicrous to a vulgar nature, but gently pitiful to the lover of his kind, he looked like a half-mouldered warrior, waked from beneath an ancient cairn, to walk about in a world other than he took it to be. Malcolm, in his commonplace Sunday suit, served as a foil to his picturesque grandfather; to whose oft reiterated desire that he would wear the highland dress, he had hitherto returned no other answer than a humorous representation of the different remarks with which the neighbours would encounter such a solecism.

The whole Seaton turned out to see them start. Men, women, and children lined the fronts and gables of the houses they must pass on their way; for everybody knew where they were going, and wished them good luck. As if he had been a great bard with a henchman of his own, Duncan strode along in front, and Malcolm followed, carrying the pipes, and regarding his grandfather with a mingled pride and compassion lovely to see. But as soon as they were beyond the village the old man took the young one’s arm, not to guide him, for that was needless, but to stay his steps a little, for when dressed he would, as I have said, carry no staff; and thus they entered the nearest gate of the grounds. Bykes saw them and scoffed, but with discretion, and kept out of their way.

When they reached the house, they were taken to the servants’ hall, where refreshments were offered them. The old man ate sparingly, saying he wanted all the room for his breath, but swallowed a glass of whisky with readiness; for, although he never spent a farthing on it, he had yet a highlander’s respect for whisky, and seldom refused a glass when offered him. On this occasion, besides, anxious to do himself credit as a piper, he was well pleased to add a little fuel to the failing fires of old age; and the summons to the dining-room being in his view long delayed, he had, before he left the hall, taken a second glass.

They were led along endless passages, up a winding stone stair, across a lobby, and through room after room.

“It will pe some glamour, sure, Malcolm!” said Duncan in a whisper as they went.

Requested at length to seat themselves in an anteroom, the air of which was filled with the sounds and odours of the neighbouring feast, they waited again through what seemed to the impatient Duncan an hour of slow vacuity; but at last they were conducted into the dining-room. Following their guide, Malcolm led the old man to the place prepared for him at the upper part of the room, where the floor was raised a step or two.

Duncan would, I fancy, even unprotected by his blindness, have strode unabashed into the very halls of heaven. As he entered there was a hush, for his poverty-stricken age and dignity told for one brief moment: then the buzz and laughter recommenced, an occasional oath emphasizing itself in the confused noise of the talk, the gurgle of wine, the ring of glass, and the chink of china.

In Malcolm’s vision, dazzled and bewildered at first, things soon began to arrange themselves. The walls of the room receded to their proper distance, and he saw that they were covered with pictures of ladies and gentlemen, gorgeously attired; the ceiling rose and settled into the dim show of a sky, amongst the clouds of which the shapes of very solid women and children disported themselves; while about the glittering table, lighted by silver candelabra with many branches, he distinguished the gaily dressed company, round which, like huge ill-painted butterflies, the liveried footmen hovered. His eyes soon found the lovely face of Lady Florimel, but after the first glance he dared hardly look again. Whether its radiance had any smallest source in the pleasure of appearing like a goddess in the eyes of her humble servant, I dare not say, but more lucent she could hardly have appeared had she been the princess in a fairy tale, about to marry her much-thwarted prince. She wore far too many jewels for one so young, for her father had given her all that belonged to her mother, as well as some family diamonds, and her inexperience knew no reason why she should not wear them. The diamonds flashed and sparkled and glowed on a white rather than fair neck, which, being very much uncollared, dazzled Malcolm far more than the jewels. Such a form of enhanced loveliness, reflected for the first time in the pure mirror of a high-toned manhood, may well be to such a youth as that of an angel with whom he has henceforth to wrestle in deadly agony until the final dawn; for lofty condition and gorgeous circumstance, while combining to raise a woman to an ideal height, ill suffice to lift her beyond love, or shield the lowliest man from the arrows of her radiation; they leave her human still. She was talking and laughing with a young man of weak military aspect, whose eyes gazed unshrinking on her beauty.

The guests were not numerous: a certain bold-faced countess, the fire in whose eyes had begun to tarnish, and the natural lines of whose figure were vanishing in expansion; the soldier, her nephew, a waisted elegance; a long, lean man, who dawdled with what he ate, and drank as if his bones thirsted; an elderly, broad, red-faced, bull-necked baron of the Hanoverian type; and two neighbouring lairds and their wives, ordinary, and well pleased to be at the marquis’s table.

Although the waiting were as many as the waited upon, Malcolm, who was keen-eyed, and had a passion for service—a thing unintelligible to the common mind,—soon spied an opportunity of making himself useful. Seeing one of the men, suddenly called away, set down a dish of fruit just as the countess was expecting it, he jumped up, almost involuntarily, and handed it to her. Once in the current of things, Malcolm would not readily make for the shore of inactivity: he finished the round of the table with the dish, while the men looked indignant, and the marquis eyed him queerly.

While he was thus engaged, however, Duncan, either that his poor stock of patience was now utterly exhausted, or that he fancied a signal given, compressed of a sudden his full-blown waiting bag, and blasted forth such a wild howl of the pibroch, that more than one of the ladies gave a cry and half started from their chairs. The marquis burst out laughing, but gave orders to stop him—a thing not to be effected in a moment, for Duncan was in full tornado, with the avenues of hearing, both corporeal and mental, blocked by his own darling utterance. Understanding at length, he ceased with the air and almost the carriage of a suddenly checked horse, looking half startled, half angry, his cheeks puffed, his nostrils expanded, his head thrown back, the port-vent still in his mouth, the blown bag under his arm, and his fingers on the chanter, on the fret to dash forward again with redoubled energy. But slowly the strained muscles relaxed, he let the tube fall from his lips, and the bag descended to his lap.

He heard the ladies rise and leave the room, and not until the gentlemen sat down again to their wine, was there any demand for the exercise of his art.

Now whether what followed had been pre-arranged, and old Duncan invited for the express purpose of carrying it out, or whether it was conceived and executed on the spur of the moment, which seems less likely, I cannot tell.

While the old man was piping, as bravely as his lingering mortification would permit, the marquis interrupted his music to make him drink a large glass of sherry; after which he requested him to play his loudest, that the gentlemen might hear what his pipes could do. At the same time he sent Malcolm with a message to the butler about some particular wine he wanted. Malcolm went more than willingly, but lost a good deal of time from not knowing his way through the house. When he returned he found things frightfully changed.

As soon as he was out of the room, and while the poor old man was blowing his hardest, in the fancy of rejoicing his hearers with the glorious music of the highland hills, one of the company—it was never known which, for each merrily accused the other—took a penknife, and going softly behind him, ran the sharp blade into the bag, and made a great slit, so that the wind at once rushed out, and the tune ceased without sob or wail. Not a laugh betrayed the cause of the catastrophe: in silent enjoyment the conspirators sat watching his movements. For one moment Duncan was so astounded that he could not think; the next he laid the instrument across his knees, and began feeling for the cause of the sudden collapse. Tears had gathered in the eyes that were of no use but to weep withal, and were slowly dropping.

“She wass afrait, my lort and chentlemans,” he said, with a quavering voice, “tat her pag will pe near her latter end; put she pelieved she would pe living peyond her nainsel^{own self}, my chentlemans.”

He ceased abruptly, for his fingers had found the wound, and were prosecuting an inquiry: they ran along the smooth edges of the cut, and detected treachery. He gave a cry like that of a wounded animal, flung his pipes from him, and sprang to his feet, but forgetting a step below him, staggered forward a few paces and fell heavily. That instant Malcolm entered the room. He hurried in consternation to his assistance. When he had helped him up and seated him again on the steps, the old man laid his head on his boy’s bosom, threw his arms around his neck, and wept aloud.

“Malcolm, my son,” he sobbed, “Tuncan is wronged in ta halls of ta strancher; tey ’ll^will haf stapped his pest friend to ta heart, and och hone! och hone!^{alas! alas!} she’ll pe aall too plint^blind to take fencheance. Malcolm, son of heroes, traw ta claymore of ta pard, and fall upon ta traitors. She’ll pe singing you ta onset, for ta pibroch^{music of bagpipes} is no more.”

His quavering voice rose that instant in a fierce though feeble chant, and his hand flew to the hilt of his weapon.

Malcolm, perceiving from the looks of the men that things were as his grandfather had divined, spoke indignantly:

“Ye oucht^ought to tak shame to ca’ yersel’s gentlefowk, an’ play a puir^poor blin’^blind man, wha^who was doin’ his best to please ye, sic an ill-faured trick.”

As he spoke they made various signs to him not to interfere, but Malcolm paid them no heed, and turned to his grandfather, eager to persuade him to go home. They had no intention of letting him off yet, however. Acquainted—probably through his gamekeeper, who laid himself out to amuse his master—with the piper’s peculiar antipathies, Lord Lossie now took up the game.

“It was too bad of you, Campbell,” he said, “to play the good old man such a dog’s trick.”

At the word Campbell the piper shook off his grandson, and sprang once more to his feet, his head thrown back, and every inch of his body trembling with rage.

“She might haf known,” he screamed, half-choking, “that a cursed tog of a Cawmill was in it!”

He stood for a moment, swaying in every direction, as if the spirit within him doubted whether to cast his old body on the earth in contempt of its helplessness, or to fling it headlong on his foes. For that one moment silence filled the room.

“You needn’t attempt to deny it; it really was too bad of you, Glenlyon,” said the marquis.

A howl of fury burst from Duncan’s labouring bosom. His broadsword flashed from its sheath, and brokenly panting out the words: “Clenlyon! Ta creat dufil! Haf I peen trinking with ta hellhount, Clenlyon?”—he would have run a Malay muck^{‘run amok’ comes from the Malay} through the room with his huge weapon. But he was already struggling in the arms of his grandson, who succeeded at length in forcing from his bony grasp the hilt of the terrible claymore. But as Duncan yielded his weapon, Malcolm lost his hold on him. He darted away, caught his dirk—a blade of unusual length—from its sheath, and shot in the direction of the last word he had heard. Malcolm dropped the sword and sprung after him.

“Gif her ta fillain by ta troat,” screamed the old man. “She ’ll^will stap his pag! She’ll cut his chanter in two! She’ll pe toing it! Who put ta creat cranson of Inverriggen should pe cutting ta troat of ta tog Clenlyon!”

As he spoke, he was running wildly about the room, brandishing his weapon, knocking over chairs, and sweeping bottles and dishes from the table. The clatter was tremendous: and the smile had faded from the faces of the men who had provoked the disturbance. The military youth looked scared; the Hanoverian pig-cheeks were the colour of lead; the long lean man was laughing like a skeleton; one of the lairds had got on the sideboard, and the other was making for the door with the bell-rope in his hand; the marquis, though he retained his coolness, was yet looking a little anxious; the butler was peeping in at the door, with red nose and pale cheekbones, the handle in his hand, in instant readiness to pop out again; while Malcolm was after his grandfather, intent upon closing with him. The old man had just made a desperate stab at nothing half across the table, and was about to repeat it, when, spying danger to a fine dish, Malcolm reached forward to save it. But the dish flew in splinters, and the dirk passing through the thick of Malcolm’s hand, pinned it to the table, where Duncan, fancying he had at length stabbed Glenlyon, left it quivering.

“Tere, Clenlyon,” he said, and stood trembling in the ebb of passion, and murmuring to himself something in Gaelic.

Meantime Malcolm had drawn the dirk from the table, and released his hand. The blood was streaming from it, and the marquis took his own handkerchief to bind it up; but the lad indignantly refused the attention, and kept holding the wound tight with his left hand. The butler, seeing Duncan stand quite still, ventured, with scared countenance, to approach the scene of destruction.

“Dinna gang near him,” cried Malcolm. “He has his skene dhu yet, an’ in grips that’s warst^worst ava^{of all}.”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the black knife was out of Duncan’s stocking, and brandished aloft in his shaking fist.

“Daddy!” cried Malcolm, “ye wadna kill twa^two Glenlyons in ae^one day—wad ye?”

“She would, my son Malcolm!—fifty of ta poars in one preath! Tey are ta children of wrath, and tey haf to pe testructiont.”

“For an auld man ye hae killed enew^enough for ae^one nicht^{night, evening},” said Malcolm, and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. “Ye maun come hame^home the noo^{just now, now}.”

“Is ta tog tead then?” asked Duncan eagerly.

“Ow^oh!, na; he’s breathin’ yet,” answered Malcolm.

“She’ll not can co till ta tog will pe tead. Ta tog may want more killing.”

“What a horrible savage!” said one of the lairds, a justice of the peace. “He ought to be shut up in a madhouse.”

“Gien ye set aboot shuttin’ up, sir, or my lord—I kenna^{do not know} whilk^which—ye’ll hae to begin nearer hame^home,” said Malcolm, as he stooped to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of the weapons. “An’ ye’ll please to haud^{hold, keep} in min’^mind, that nane^none here is an injured man but my gran’father himsel’.”

“Hey!” said the marquis; “what do you make of all my dishes?”

“‘Deed^indeed, my lord, ye may comfort yersel’ that they warna^{were not} dishes wi barns^brains i’ them; for sic ’s some scarce i’ the Hoose o’ Lossie.”

“You’re a long-tongued rascal,” said the marquis.

“A lang^long tongue may whiles^{at times} be as canny^helpful as a lang^long spune, my lord; an’ ye ken what that’s for?”

The marquis burst into laughter.

“What do you make then of that horrible cut in your own hand?” asked the magistrate.

“I mak^make my ain^own business o’ ’t,” answered Malcolm.

While this colloquy passed, Duncan had been feeling about for his pipes: having found them he clasped them to his bosom like a hurt child.

“Come home, come home,” he said; “your own pard has refenched you.”

Malcolm took him by the arm and led him away. He went without a word, still clasping his wounded bagpipes to his bosom.

“You’ll hear from me in the morning, my lad,” said the marquis in a kindly tone, as they were leaving the room.

“I hae no wuss^wish to hear onything mair o’ yer lordship. Ye hae done eneuch^enough this nicht^{night, evening}, my lord, to mak^make ye ashamed o’ yersel’ till yer dyin’ day—gien ye hed^had ony^any pooer^power o’ shame left in ye.”

The military youth muttered something about insolence, and made a step towards him. Malcolm quitted his grandfather, and stepped again into his room.

“Come on,” he said.

“No, no,” interposed the marquis. “Don’t you see the lad is hurt?”

“Lat him come on,” said Malcolm; “I hae ae^one soon’^soun han’. Here, my lord, tak the wapons, or the auld man ’ll^will get a grip o’ them again.”

“I tell you no,” shouted Lord Lossie. “Fred, get out—will you!”

The young gentleman turned on his heel, and Malcolm led his grandfather from the house without further molestation. It was all he could do, however, to get him home. The old man’s strength was utterly gone. His knees bent trembling under him, and the arm which rested on his grandson’s shook as with an ague-fit. Malcolm was glad indeed when at length he had him safe in bed, by which time his hand had swollen to a great size, and the suffering grown severe.

Thoroughly exhausted by his late fierce emotions, Duncan soon fell into a troubled sleep, whereupon Malcolm went to Meg Partan, and begged her to watch beside him until he should return, informing her of the way his grandfather had been treated, and adding that he had gone into such a rage, that he feared he would be ill in consequence; and if he should be unable to do his morning’s duty, it would almost break his heart.

“Eh!” said the Partaness, in a whisper, as they parted at Duncan’s door, “a baad temper ’s a frichtsome thing. I’m sure the times I hae telled him it wad be the ruin o’ ’im^him!”

To Malcolm’s gentle knock Miss Horn’s door was opened by Jean.

“What d’ye^{do you} wint at sic an oontimeous^untimely hoor^hour,” she said, “whan honest fowk’s a’ i’ their nicht-caips?"

“I want to see Miss Horn, gien ye please,” he answered.

“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.

“I hae gotten a sma’ mishanter^mishap, Miss Horn,” he said, as he entered: “an I thocht^thought I cudna^{could not} du better than come to you, ’cause ye can haud^{hold, keep} yer tongue, an’ that’s mair nor mony^many ane the port o’ Portlossie can, mem.”

The compliment, correct in fact as well as honest in intent, was not thrown away on Miss Horn, to whom it was the more pleasing that she could regard it as a just tribute. Malcolm told her all the story, rousing thereby a mighty indignation in her bosom, a great fire in her hawk-nose, and a succession of wild flashes in her hawk-eyes; but when he showed her his hand,

“Lord, Malcolm!” she cried; “it’s a mercy I was made wantin’ feelin’s, or I cudna^{could not} hae bed the sicht^sight. My puir^poor bairn^child!”

Then she rushed to the stair and shouted,

“Jean, ye limmer^{rascal, loose woman}! Jean! Fess^fetch some het^{hot, burning} watter^water, an’ some linen cloots.”

“I hae nane^none o’ naither^neither,” replied Jean from the bottom of the stair.

“Mak up the fire an’ put on some watter^water direckly.—I s’ fin’^find some clooties,” she added, turning to Malcolm, “gien I sud^should rive^rent/tear the tail frae my best Sunday sark^shirt.”

She returned with rags enough for a small hospital, and until the grumbling Jean brought the hot water, they sat and talked in the glimmering light of one long-beaked tallow candle.

“It’s a terrible hoose^house, yon o’ Lossie,” said Miss Horn; “and there’s been terrible things dune intill’t. The auld markis^Marquis was an ill man. I daurna^{dare not} say what he wadna hae dune, gien half the tales be true ’at they tell o’ ’im^him; an’ the last ane was little better. This ane winna^{will not} be sae ill, but it’s clear ’at he’s tarred wi’ the same stick.”

“I dinna think he means onything muckle amiss,” agreed Malcolm, whose wrath had by this time subsided a little, through the quieting influences of Miss Horn’s sympathy. “He’s mair thouchtless, I do believe, than ill-contrived—an’ a’ for ’s fun. He spak unco^very kin’^kind like to me, efterhin^{after, afterwards}, but I cudna^{could not} accep’ it, ye see, efter the w’y^way he had saired^served my daddy. But wadna ye hae thoucht^thought he was auld eneuch^enough to ken better by this time?”

“An auld fule^fool ’s the warst^worst fule^fool ava’,” said Miss Horn. “But naething o’ that kin’^kind, be ’t as mad an’ pranksome as ever sic ploy^{play, sport} could be, is to be made mention o’ aside the things at was mutit^muttered o’ ’s brither^brother. I budena^{must not} come ower them till a young laad^lad like yersel’. They war never said straucht^straight oot, min’^mind ye, but jist mintit^insinuated at, like, wi’ a doon-draw o’ the broos^eyebrows, an’ a wee side shak o’ the heid^head, as gien the body wad say, ‘I cud^could tell ye gien I daur^dare.’ But I doobt mysel’ gien onything was kent^known, though muckle was mair nor suspeckit. An’ whaur there ’s reik^smoke, there maun be fire.”

As she spoke she was doing her best, with many expressions of pity, for his hand. When she had bathed and bound it up, and laid it in a sling, he wished her goodnight.

Arrived at home he found, to his dismay, that things had not been going well. Indeed, while yet several houses off he had heard the voices of the Partan’s wife and his grandfather in fierce dispute. The old man was beside himself with anxiety about Malcolm; and the woman, instead of soothing him, was opposing everything he said, and irritating him frightfully. The moment he entered, each opened a torrent of accusations against the other, and it was with difficulty that Malcolm prevailed on the woman to go home. The presence of his boy soon calmed the old man, however, and he fell into a troubled sleep—in which Malcolm, who sat by his bed all night, heard him, at intervals, now lamenting over the murdered of Glenco, now exulting in a stab that had reached the heart of Glenlyon, and now bewailing his ruined bagpipes. At length towards morning he grew quieter, and Malcolm fell asleep in his chair.

Chapter 20 - Advances

When he woke, Duncan still slept, and Malcolm having got ready some tea for his grandfather, and a little brose^{uncooked porridge} for his own breakfast, sat down again by the bedside, and awaited the old man’s waking. The first sign of it that reached him was the feebly uttered question,—“Will ta tog be tead, Malcolm?”

“As sure ’s ye stabbit him,” answered Malcolm.

“Then she ’ll^will pe getting herself ready,” said Duncan, making a motion to rise.

“What for, daddy?”

“For ta hanging, my son,” answered Duncan coolly.

“Time eneuch for that, daddy, whan they sen’ to tell ye,” returned Malcolm, cautious of revealing the facts of the case.

“Ferry coot!” said Duncan, and fell asleep again.

In a little while he woke with a start.

“She ’ll^will be hafing an efil tream, my son Malcolm,” he said; “or it was ’ll pe more than a tream. Cawmill of Clenlyon, Cod curse him! came to her pedside; and he’ll say to her, ‘MacDhonuill,’ he said, for pein’ a tead man he would pe knowing my name,—‘MacDhonuill,’ he said, ‘what tid you’ll pe meaning py turking my posterity?’ And she answered and said to him, ‘I pray it had peen yourself, you tamned Clenlyon.’ And he said to me, ‘It ’ll pe no coot wishing tat; it would be toing you no coot to turk me, for I’m a tead man.’—‘And a tamned man,’ says herself, and would haf taken him py ta troat, put she couldn’t mofe. ‘Well, I’m not so sure of tat,’ says he, ‘for I ’fe pecked all teir partons.’—‘And tid tey gif tem to you, you tog?’ says herself.—‘Well, I’m not sure,’ says he; ‘anyhow, I’m not tamned fery much yet.’—‘She’ll pe much sorry to hear it,’ says herself. And she took care aalways to pe calling him some paad name, so tat he shouldn’t say she ’ll be forgifing him, whatever ta rest of tem might be toing. ‘Put what troubles me,’ says he, ‘it ’ll not pe apout myself at aall.’—‘Tat ’ll pe a wonter,’ says her nain^own sel’^self: ‘and what may it pe apout, you cuttroat?’—‘It ’ll pe apout yourself,’ says he. ‘Apout herself?’—‘Yes; apout yourself’ says he. ‘I’m sorry for you—for ta ting tat’s to pe tone with him tat killed a man aal pecaase he pore my name, and he wasn’t a son of mine at aall! Tere is no pot in hell teep enough to put him in!’—‘Ten tey must make haste and tig one,’ says herself; ‘for she ’ll pe hangt^hanged in a tay or two.’—So she ’ll wake up, and beholt it was a tream!”

“An’ no sic an ill dream efter a’, daddy!” said Malcolm.

“Not an efil tream, my son, when it makes her aalmost wish that she hadn’t peen quite killing ta tog! Last night she would haf made a puoy of his skin like any other tog’s skin, and totay—no, my son, it wass a fery efil tream. And to be tolt tat ta creat tefil, Clenlyon herself, was not fery much tamned!—it wass a fery efil tream, my son.”

“Weel, daddy—maybe ye ’ll tak it for ill news, but ye killed naebody^{no one}.”

“Tid she’ll not trive her turk into ta tog?” cried Duncan fiercely. “Och hone! och hone^alas!—Then she ’s ashamed of herself for efer, when she might have tone it. And it ’ll hafe to be tone yet!”

He paused a few moments, and then resumed:

“And she’ll not pe coing to be hangt^hanged?—Maype tat will pe petter, for you wouldn’t hafe liket^liked to see your olt cranfather to pe hangt, Malcolm, my son. Not tat she would hafe minted it herself in such a coot caause, Malcolm! Put she tidn’t pe fery happy after she tid think she had tone it, for you see he wasn’t ta fery man his ownself, and tat must pe counted. But she tid kill something: what was it, Malcolm?”

“Ye sent a gran’ dish fleein’^flying,” answered Malcolm. “I s’ warran’ it cost a poun’, to jeedge by the gowd^gold upo’ ’t.”

“She’ll hear a noise of preaking; put she tid stap something soft.”

“Ye stack^stuck yer durk intill^into my lord’s mahogany table,” said Malcolm. “It nott^needed a guid rug^pull to haul’t oot.”

“Then her arm has not lost aal its strength, Malcolm! I pray ta taple had peen ta rips of Clenlyon!”

“Ye maunna^{must not} pray nae sic prayers, daddy. Min’ upo’^remember what Glenlyon said to ye last nicht^{night, evening}. Gien I was you I wadna hae a pot howkit^dug express for mysel’—doon^down yonner^yonder—i’ yon place ’at ye dreamed aboot.”

“Well, I’ll forgife him a little, Malcolm—not ta one tat’s tead, but ta one tat tidn’t do it, you know.—Put how will she pe forgifing him for ripping her poor pag? Och hone! och hone! No more musics for her tying tays, Malcolm! Och hone! och hone! I shall co creeping to ta crafe with no loud noises to defy ta enemy. Her pipes is tumb for efer and efer. Och hone! och hone!”

The lengthening of his days had restored bitterness to his loss.

“I’ll sune^soon set the bag richt, daddy. Or, gien I canna du that, we’ll get a new ane. Mony^many a pibroch^{music written for bagpipes} ’ll come skirlin’ oot o’ that chanter yet er’^{ere, before} a’ be dune.”

They were interrupted by the unceremonious entrance of the same footman who had brought the invitation. He carried a magnificent set of ebony pipes, with silver mountings.

“A present from my lord, the marquis,” he said bumptiously, almost rudely, and laid them on the table.

“Dinna lay them there; tak them frae that, or I’ll fling them yer poothered wig,” said Malcolm. “—It’s a stan’ o’ pipes,” he added, “an’ that a gran’ ane, daddy.”

“Take tem away!” cried the old man, in a voice too feeble to support the load of indignation it bore. “She’ll pe taking no presents from marquis or tuke tat would pe teceifing old Tuncan, and making him trink with ta cursed Clenlyon. Tell ta marquis he ’ll pe sending her cray hairs with sorrow to ta crafe; for she ’ll pe tishonoured for efer and henceforth.”

Probably pleased to be the bearer of a message fraught with so much amusement, the man departed in silence with the pipes.

The marquis, although the joke had threatened, and indeed so far taken a serious turn, had yet been thoroughly satisfied with its success. The rage of the old man had been to his eyes ludicrous in the extreme, and the anger of the young one so manly as to be even picturesque. He had even made a resolve, half-dreamy and of altogether improbable execution, to do something for the fisher fellow.

The pipes which he had sent as an apology to Duncan, were a set that belonged to the house—ancient, and in the eyes of either connoisseur or antiquarian, exceedingly valuable; but the marquis was neither the one nor the other, and did not in the least mind parting with them. Little doubting a propitiation through their means, he was utterly unprepared for a refusal of his gift, and was nearly as much perplexed as annoyed thereat.

For one thing, he could not understand such offence taken by one in Duncan’s lowly position; for although he had plenty of highland blood in his own veins, he had never lived in the Highlands, and understood nothing of the habits or feelings of the Gael. What was noble in him, however, did feel somewhat rebuked, and he was even a little sorry at having raised a barrier between himself and the manly young fisherman, to whom he had taken a sort of liking from the first.

Of the ladies in the drawing-room, to whom he had recounted the vastly amusing joke with all the graphic delineation for which he had been admired at court, none, although they all laughed, had appeared to enjoy the bad recital thoroughly, except the bold-faced countess. Lady Florimel regarded the affair as undignified at the best, was sorry for the old man, who must be mad, she thought, and was pleased only with the praises of her squire of low degree. The wound in his hand the marquis either thought too trifling to mention, or serious enough to have clouded the clear sky of frolic under which he desired the whole transaction to be viewed.

They were seated at their late breakfast when the lackey passed the window on his return from his unsuccessful mission, and the marquis happened to see him, carrying the rejected pipes. He sent for him, and heard his report, then with a quick nod dismissed him—his way when angry, and sat silent.

“Wasn’t it spirited—in such poor people too?” said Lady Florimel, the colour rising in her face, and her eyes sparkling.

“It was damned impudent,” said the marquis.

“I think it was damned dignified,” said Lady Florimel.

The marquis stared. The visitors, after a momentary silence, burst into a great laugh.

“I wanted to see,” said Lady Florimel calmly, “whether I couldn’t swear if I tried. I don’t think it tastes nice. I shan’t take to it, I think.”

“You’d better not in my presence, my lady,” said the marquis, his eyes sparkling with fun.

“I shall certainly not do it out of your presence, my lord,” she returned. “—Now I think of it,” she went on, “I know what I will do: every time you say a bad word in my presence, I shall say it after you. I shan’t mind who’s there—parson or magistrate. Now you’ll see.”

“You will get into the habit of it.”

“Except you get out of the habit of it first, papa,” said the girl, laughing merrily.

“You confounded little Amazon!” said her father.

“But what’s to be done about those confounded pipes?” she resumed. “You can’t allow such people to serve you so! Return your presents, indeed! Suppose I undertake the business?”

“By all means. What will you do?”

“Make them take them, of course. It would be quite horrible never to be quits with the old lunatic.”

“As you please, puss.”

“Then you put yourself in my hands, papa?”

“Yes; only you must mind what you’re about, you know.”

“That I will, and make them mind too,” she answered, and the subject was dropped.

Lady Florimel counted upon her influence with Malcolm, and his again with his grandfather; but careful of her dignity, she would not make direct advances; she would wait an opportunity of speaking to him. But, although she visited the sand-hill almost every morning, an opportunity was not afforded her. Meanwhile, the state of Duncan’s bag and of Malcolm’s hand forbidding, neither pipes were played nor gun was fired to arouse marquis or burgess. When a fortnight had thus passed, Lady Florimel grew anxious concerning the justification of her boast, and the more so that her father seemed to avoid all reference to it.

Chapter 21 - Mediation

At length it was clear to Lady Florimel that if her father had not forgotten her undertaking, but was, as she believed, expecting from her some able stroke of diplomacy, it was high time that something should be done to save her credit. Nor did she forget that the unpiped silence of the royal burgh was the memento of a practical joke of her father, so cruel that a piper would not accept the handsome propitiation offered on its account by a marquis.

On a lovely evening, therefore, the sunlight lying slant on waters that heaved and sunk in a flowing tide, now catching the gold on lifted crests, now losing it in purple hollows, Lady Florimel found herself for the first time, walking from the lower gate towards the Seaton. Rounding the west end of the village, she came to the sea front, where, encountering a group of children, she requested to be shown the blind piper’s cottage. Ten of them started at once to lead the way, and she was presently knocking at the half-open door, through which she could not help seeing the two at their supper of dry oat cake and still drier skim-milk cheese, with a jug of cold water to wash it down. Having just left the gentlemen at their wine, she could not help feeling the contrast between the dinner just over at the House and the meal she now beheld.

At the sound of her knock, Malcolm, who was seated with his back to the door, rose to answer the appeal;—the moment he saw her, the blood rose from his heart to his cheek in similar response. He opened the door wide, and in low, something tremulous tones, invited her to enter; then caught up a chair, dusted it with his bonnet, and placed it for her by the window, where a red ray of the setting sun fell on a huge-flowered hydrangea. Her quick eye caught sight of his bound-up hand.

“How have you hurt your hand?” she asked kindly.

Malcolm made signs that prayed for silence, and pointed to his grandfather. But it was too late.

“Hurt your hand, Malcolm, my son,” cried Duncan, with surprise and anxiety mingled. “How will you pe toing tat?”

“Here’s a bonny yoong leddy come to see ye, daddy,” said Malcolm, seeking to turn the question aside.

“She’ll pe fery clad to see ta ponny young laty, and she’s creatly obleeched for ta honour: put if ta ponny young laty will pe excusing her—what’ll pe hurting your hand, Malcolm!”

“I’ll tell ye efterhin^{after, afterwards}, daddy. This is my Leddy Florimel, frae the Hoose.”

“Hm!” said Duncan, the pain of his insult keenly renewed by the mere mention of the scene of it. “Put,” he went on, continuing aloud the reflections of a moment of silence, “she’ll pe a laty, and it’s not to pe laid to her charch. Sit town, my laty. Ta poor place is your own.”

But Lady Florimel was already seated, and busy in her mind as to how she could best enter on the object of her visit. The piper sat silent, revolving a painful suspicion with regard to Malcolm’s hurt.

“So you won’t forgive my father, Mr MacPhail?” said Lady Florimel.

“She would forgife any man put two men,” he answered, “—Clenlyon, and ta man, whoefer he might pe, who would put upon her ta tiscrace of trinking in his company.”

“But you’re quite mistaken,” said Lady Florimel, in a pleading tone. “I don’t believe my father knows the gentleman you speak of.”

“Chentleman!” echoed Duncan. “He is a tog!—No, he is no tog: togs is coot. He is a mongrel of a fox and a volf!”

“There was no Campbell at our table that evening,” persisted Lady Florimel.

“Ten who tolt Tuncan MacPhail a lie!”

“It was nothing but a joke—indeed!” said the girl, beginning to feel humiliated.

“It wass a paad choke, and might have peen ta hanging of poor Tuncan,” said the piper.

Now Lady Florimel had heard a rumour of some one having been hurt in the affair of the joke, and her quick wits instantly brought that and Malcolm’s hand together.

“It might have been,” she said, risking a miss for the advantage. “It was well that you hurt nobody but your own grandson.”

“Oh, my leddy!” cried Malcolm with despairing remonstrance; “—an’ me haudin’^{holding, keeping} ’t frae him a’ this time! Ye sud^should ha’ considert an auld man’s feelin’s! He’s as blin’^blind ’s a mole, my leddy!”

“His feelings!” retorted the girl angrily. “He ought to know the mischief he does in his foolish rages.”

Duncan had risen, and was now feeling his way across the room. Having reached his grandson, he laid hold of his head and pressed it to his bosom.

“Malcolm!” he said, in a broken and hollow voice, not to be recognized as his, “Malcolm, my eagle of the crag! my hart of the heather! was it yourself she stapped with her efil hand, my son? Tid she’ll pe hurting her own poy!—She’ll nefer wear turk more. Och hone! Och hone!”

He turned, and, with bowed head seeking his chair, seated himself and wept.

Lady Florimel’s anger vanished. She was by his side in a moment, with her lovely young hand on the bony expanse of his, as it covered his face. On the other side, Malcolm laid his lips to his ear, and whispered with soothing expostulation,—

“It’s maist^almost as weel ’s ever daddy. It’s nane^none the waur^worse. It was but a bit o’ a scart^scratch. It’s nae worth twise^twice thinkin’ o’.”

“Ta turk went trough it, Malcolm! It went into ta table! She knows now! O Malcolm! Malcolm! would to Cod she had killed herself pefore she hurted her poy!”

He made Malcolm sit down beside him, and taking the wounded hand in both of his, sunk into a deep silence, utterly forgetful of the presence of Lady Florimel, who retired to her chair, kept silence also, and waited.

“It was not a coot choke,” he murmured at length, “upon an honest man, and might pe calling herself a chentleman. A rache is not a choke^{A rage is not a joke.}. To put her in a rache was not coot. See to it. And it was a ferry paad choke, too, to make a pig hole in her poor pag! Och hone! och hone!—Put I’m clad Clenlyon was not there, for she was too plind to kill him.”

“But you will surely forgive my father, when he wants to make it up! Those pipes have been in the family for hundreds of years,” said Florimel.

“Her own pipes has peen in her own family for five or six chenerations at least,” said Duncan. “—And she was wondering why her poy tidn’t pe mending her pag! My poor poy! Och hone! Och hone!”

“We’ll get a new bag, daddy,” said Malcolm. “It’s been lang^long past men’in’ wi’ auld age.”

“And then you will be able to play together,” urged Lady Florimel.

Duncan’s resolution was visibly shaken by the suggestion. He pondered for a while. At last he opened his mouth solemnly, and said, with the air of one who had found a way out of a hitherto impassable jungle of difficulty:

“If her lord marquis will come to Tuncan’s house, and say to Tuncan it was put a choke and he is sorry for it, then Tuncan will shake hands with ta marquis, and take ta pipes.”

A smile of pleasure lighted up Malcolm’s face at the proud proposal. Lady Florimel smiled also, but with amusement.

“Will my laty take Tuncan’s message to my lord, ta marquis?” asked the old man.

Now Lady Florimel had inherited her father’s joy in teasing; and the thought of carrying him such an overture was irresistibly delightful.

“I will take it,” she said. “But what if he should be angry?”

“If her lord pe angry, Tuncan is angry too,” answered the piper.

Malcolm followed Lady Florimel to the door.

“Put it as saft^soft as ye can, my leddy,” he whispered. “I canna bide to anger fowk mair than maun be.”

“I shall give the message precisely as your grandfather gave it to me,” said Florimel, and walked away.

While they sat at dinner the next evening, she told her father from the head of the table, all about her visit to the piper, and ended with the announcement of the condition—word for word—on which the old man would consent to a reconciliation.

Could such a proposal have come from an equal whom he had insulted, the marquis would hardly have waited for a challenge: to have done a wrong was nothing; to confess it would be disgrace. But here the offended party was of such ludicrously low condition, and the proposal therefore so ridiculous, that it struck the marquis merely as a yet more amusing prolongation of the joke. Hence his reception of it was with uproarious laughter, in which all his visitors joined.

“Damn the old windbag!” said the marquis.

“Damn the knife that made the mischief,” said Lady Florimel.

When the merriment had somewhat subsided, Lord Meikleham, the youth of soldierly aspect, would have proposed whipping the highland beggar, he said, were it not for the probability the old clothes-horse would fall to pieces. Whereupon Lady Florimel recommended him to try it on the young fisherman, who might possibly hold together; whereat the young lord looked both mortified and spiteful.

I believe some compunction, perhaps even admiration, mingled itself, in this case, with Lord Lossie’s relish of an odd and amusing situation, and that he was inclined to compliance with the conditions of atonement, partly for the sake of mollifying the wounded spirit of the highlander. He turned to his daughter and said,—

“Did you fix an hour, Flory, for your poor father to make amende honorable?”

“No, papa; I did not go so far as that.”

The marquis kept a few moments’ grave silence.

“Your lordship is surely not meditating such a breach of manners?” said Mr Morrison, the justice-laird.

“Indeed I am,” said the marquis.

“It would be too great a condescension,” said Mr Cavins; “and your lordship will permit me to doubt the wisdom of it. These fishermen form a class by themselves; they are a rough set of men, and only too ready to despise authority. You will not only injure the prestige of your rank, my lord, but expose yourself to endless imposition.”

“The spirit moves me, and we are commanded not to quench the spirit,” rejoined the marquis with a merry laugh, little thinking that he was actually describing what was going on in him—that the spirit of good concerning which he jested, was indeed not only working in him, but gaining on him, in his resolution of that moment.

“Come, Flory,” said the marquis, to whom it gave a distinct pleasure to fly in the face of advice, “we’ll go at once, and have it over.”

So they set out together for the Seaton, followed by the bagpipes, carried by the same servant as before, and were received by the overjoyed Malcolm, and ushered into his grandfather’s presence.

Whatever may have been the projected attitude of the marquis, the moment he stood on the piper’s floor, the gentleman, in him, got the upper hand, and his behaviour to the old man was not polite merely, but respectful. At no period in the last twenty years had he been so nigh the kingdom of heaven as he was now when making his peace with the blind piper.

When Duncan heard his voice, he rose with dignity and made a stride or two towards the door, stretching forth his long arm to its full length, and spreading wide his great hand with the brown palm upwards: “Her nainsel^{own self} will pe proud to see my lord ta marquis under her roof,” he said.

The visit itself had already sufficed to banish all resentment from his soul.

The marquis took the proffered hand kindly: “I have come to apologise,” he said.

“Not one vord more, my lort, I peg,” interrupted Duncan. “My lort is come, out of his cootness, to pring her a creat kift; for he’ll pe hearing of ta sad accident which pefell her poor pipes one efening lately. Tey was ferry old, my lort, and easily hurt.”

“I am sorry—” said the marquis—but again Duncan interrupted him.

“I am clad, my lort,” he said, “for it prings me ta creat choy. If my lady and your lordship will honour her poor house py sitting town, she will haf ta pleasure of pe offering tem a little music.”

His hospitality would give them of the best he had; but ere the entertainment was over, the marquis judged himself more than fairly punished by the pipes for all the wrong he had done the piper.

They sat down, and, at a sign from his lordship, the servant placed his charge in Duncan’s hands, and retired. The piper received the instrument with a proud gesture of gratification, felt it all over, screwed at this and that for a moment, then filled the great bag gloriously full. The next instant a scream invaded the astonished air fit to rival the skirl produced by the towzie tyke of Kirk-Alloway^{reference to the devil playing bagpipes in a poem by Robert Burns}; another instant, and the piper was on his legs, as full of pleasure and pride as his bag of wind, strutting up and down the narrow chamber like a turkey-cock before his hens, and turning ever, after precisely so many strides, with a grand gesture and mighty sweep, as if he too had a glorious tail to mind, and was bound to keep it ceaselessly quivering to the tremor of the reed in the throat of his chanter.

Malcolm, erect behind their visitors, gazed with admiring eyes at every motion of his grandfather. To one who had from earliest infancy looked up to him with reverence, there was nothing ridiculous in the display, in the strut, in all that to other eyes too evidently revealed the vanity of the piper: Malcolm regarded it all only as making up the orthodox mode of playing the pipes. It was indeed well that he could not see the expression upon the faces of those behind whose chairs he stood, while for moments that must have seemed minutes, they succumbed to the wild uproar which issued from those splendid pipes. On an opposite hillside, with a valley between, it would have sounded poetic; in a charging regiment, none could have wished for more inspiriting battle strains; even in a great hall, inspiring and guiding the merry reel, it might have been in place and welcome; but in a room of ten feet by twelve, with a wooden ceiling, acting like a drumhead, at the height of seven feet and a half!—It was little below torture to the marquis and Lady Florimel. Simultaneously they rose to make their escape.

“My lord an’ my leddy maun be gauin’^going, daddy,” cried Malcolm.

Absorbed in the sound which his lungs created and his fingers modulated, the piper had forgotten all about his visitors; but the moment his grandson’s voice reached him, the tumult ceased; he took the port-vent from his lips, and with sightless eyes turned full on Lord Lossie, said in a low earnest voice,—

“My lort, she ’ll pe ta craandest staand o’ pipes she efer blew, and proud and thankful she’ll pe to her lort marquis, and to ta Lort of lorts, for ta kift. Ta pipes shall co town from cheneration to cheneration to ta ent of time; yes, my lort, until ta loud cry of tem pe trownt in ta roar of ta trump of ta creat archanchel, when he’ll pe setting one foot on ta laand and ta other foot upon ta sea, and Clenlyon shall pe cast into ta lake of fire.”

He ended with a low bow. They shook hands with him, thanked him for his music, wished him goodnight, and, with a kind nod to Malcolm, left the cottage.

Duncan resumed his playing the moment they were out of the house, and Malcolm, satisfied of his well-being for a couple of hours at least—he had been music-starved so long, went also out, in quest of a little solitude.

Chapter 22 - Whence and Whither?

He wandered along the shore on the land side of the mound, with a favourite old book of Scottish ballads in his hand, every now and then stooping to gather a sea-anemone—a white flower something like a wild geranium, with a faint sweet smell, or a small, short-stalked harebell, or a red daisy, as large as a small primrose; for along the coast there, on cliff or in sand, on rock or in field, the daisies are remarkable for size, and often not merely tipped, but dyed throughout with a deep red.

He had gathered a bunch of the finest, and had thrown himself down on the side of the dune, whence, as he lay, only the high road, the park-wall, the temple of the winds, and the blue sky were visible. The vast sea, for all the eye could tell, was nowhere—not a ripple of it was to be seen, but the ear was filled with the night gush and flow of it. A sweet wind was blowing, hardly blowing, rather gliding, like a slumbering river, from the west. The sun had vanished, leaving a ruin of gold and rose behind him, gradually fading into dull orange and lead and blue sky and stars. There was light enough to read by, but he never opened his book. He was thinking over something Mr Graham had said to him a few days before, namely, that all impatience of monotony, all weariness of best things even, are but signs of the eternity of our nature—the broken human fashions of the divine everlastingness.

“I dinna ken whaur it comes frae,” said a voice above him.

He looked up. On the ridge of the mound, the whole of his dwarfed form relieved against the sky and looking large in the twilight, stood the mad laird, reaching out his forehead towards the west with his arms expanded as if to meet the ever coming wind.

“Naebody^nobody kens^knows whaur the win’^wind comes frae, or whaur it gangs^{goes, walks} till,” said Malcolm. “Ye’re no a hair waur^worse aff^off nor ither^other fowk, there, laird.”

“Does’t come frae a guid place, or frae an ill?” said the laird, doubtingly.

“It’s saft^soft an’ kin’ly^kindly i’ the fin’^{find, feel} o’ ’t,” returned Malcolm suggestively, rising and joining the laird on the top of the dune, and like him spreading himself out to the western air.

The twilight had deepened, merging into such night as the summer in that region knows—a sweet pale memory of the past day. The sky was full of sparkles of pale gold in a fathomless blue; there was no moon; the darker sea lay quiet below, with only a murmur about its lip, and fitfully reflected the stars. The soft wind kept softly blowing. Behind them shone a light at the harbour’s mouth, and a twinkling was here and there visible in the town above; but all was as still as if there were no life save in the wind and the sea and the stars. The whole feeling was as if something had been finished in heaven, and the outmost ripples of the following rest had overflowed and were now pulsing faintly and dreamily across the bosom of the labouring earth, with feeblest suggestion of the mighty peace beyond. Alas, words can do so little! even such a night is infinite.

“Ay,” answered the laird; “but it maks^{makes, does} me dowfart^melancholy like, i’ the inside.”

“Some o’ the best things does that,” said Malcolm. “I think a kiss frae my mither^mother wad gar^{cause, make} me greet^{cry, weep}.”

He knew the laird’s peculiarities well; but in the thought of his own mother he had forgotten the antipathy of his companion to the word. Stewart gave a moaning cry, put his fingers in his ears, and glided down the slope of the dune seawards.

Malcolm was greatly distressed. He had a regard for the laird far beyond pity, and could not bear the thought of having inadvertently caused him pain. But he dared not follow him, for that would be but to heighten the anguish of the tortured mind and the suffering of the sickly frame; for, when pursued, he would accomplish a short distance at an incredible speed, then drop suddenly and lie like one dead. Malcolm, therefore, threw off his heavy boots, and starting at full speed along the other side of the dune, made for the bored craig; his object being to outrun the laird without being seen by him, and so, doubling the rock, return with leisurely steps, and meet him. Sweetly the west wind whistled about his head as he ran. In a few moments he had rounded the rock, towards which the laird was still running, but now more slowly. The tide was high and came near its foot, leaving but a few yards of passage between, in which space they approached each other, Malcolm with sauntering step as if strolling homewards. Lifting his bonnet, a token of respect he never omitted when he met the mad laird, he stood aside in the narrow way. Mr Stewart stopped abruptly, took his fingers from his ears, and stared in perplexity.

“It’s a richt bonny nicht^{night, evening}, laird,” said Malcolm.

The poor fellow looked hurriedly behind him, then stared again, then made gestures backward, and next pointed at Malcolm with rapid pokes of his forefinger. Bewilderment had brought on the impediment in his speech, and all Malcolm could distinguish in the babbling efforts at utterance which followed, were the words,—“Twa^two o’ them! Twa o’ them! Twa o’ them!” often and hurriedly repeated.

“It’s a fine, saft-sleekit win’^{soothing wind}, laird,” said Malcolm, as if they were meeting for the first time that night. “I think it maun come frae the blue there, ayont^beyond the stars. There’s a heap o’ wonnerfu’ things there, they tell me; an’ whiles^sometimes a strokin win’^wind an’ whiles a rosy smell, an’ whiles a bricht licht^light, an’ whiles, they say, an auld yearnin’ sang^song ’ill^will brak oot, an’ wanner^wander awa^away doon^down, an’ gang flittin’^flitting an’ fleein’^flying amang^among the sair^sore herts^hearts o’ the men an’ women-fowk ’at canna get things putten^put richt.”

“I think there are two fools of them!” said the marquis, referring to the words of the laird.

He was seated with Lady Florimel on the town side of the rock, hidden from them by one sharp corner. They had seen the mad laird coming, and had recognised Malcolm’s voice.

“I dinna ken whaur I come frae,” burst from the laird, the word whaur drawn out and emphasized almost to a howl; and as he spoke he moved on again, but gently now, towards the rocks of the Scaurnose. Anxious to get him thoroughly soothed before they parted, Malcolm accompanied him. They walked a little way side by side in silence, the laird every now and then heaving his head like a fretted horse towards the sky, as if he sought to shake the heavy burden from his back, straighten out his poor twisted spine, and stand erect like his companion.

“Ay!” Malcolm began again, as if he had in the meantime been thinking over the question, and was now assured upon it, “—the win’^wind maun come frae yont^beyond the stars; for dinna ye min’^{mind, remember}, laird? Ye was at the kirk^church last Sunday—wasna^{was not} ye?”

The laird nodded an affirmative, and Malcolm went on.

“An’ didna ye hear the minister read frae the buik^Bible ’at hoo^how ilka^{every, each} guid an’ ilka perfit gift was frae abune^above, an’ cam frae the Father o’ lichts^lights?”

“Father o’ lichts^lights!” repeated the laird, and looked up at the stars. “I dinna ken whaur I cam frae. I hae nae father. I hae only a ... I hae only a wuman^woman.”

The moment he had said the word, he began to move his head from side to side like a scared animal seeking where to conceal itself.

“The Father o’ lichts^lights is your father an’ mine—The Father o’ a’ o’ ’s^{of all of us},” said Malcolm.

“O’ a’ guid fowk, I daursay^{dare say},” said the laird, with a deep and quivering sigh.

“Mr Graham says—o’ a’body,” returned Malcolm, “guid an’ ill;—o’ the guid to haud^{hold, keep} them guid an’ mak them better—o’ the ill to mak them guid.”

“Eh! gien that war true!” said the laird.

They walked on in silence for a minute. All at once the laird threw up his hands, and fell flat on his face on the sand, his poor hump rising skywards above his head. Malcolm thought he had been seized with one of the fits to which he was subject, and knelt down beside him, to see if he could do anything for him. Then he found he was praying: he heard him—he could but just hear him—murmuring over and over, all but inaudibly, “Father o’ lichts! Father o’ lichts! Father o’ lichts!” It seemed as if no other word dared mingle itself with that cry. Maniac or not—the mood of the man was supremely sane, and altogether too sacred to disturb. Malcolm retreated a little way, sat down in the sand and watched beside him. It was a solemn time—the full tide lapping up on the long yellow sand from the wide sea darkening out to the dim horizon; the gentle wind blowing through the molten darkness; overhead, the great vault without arch or keystone, of dim liquid blue, and sown with worlds so far removed they could only shine; and, on the shore, the centre of all the cosmic order, a misshapen heap of man, a tumulus in which lay buried a live and lovely soul! The one pillar of its house had given way, and the downrushing ruin had so crushed and distorted it, that thenceforth until some resurrection should arrive, disorder and misshape must appear to it the law of the universe, and loveliness but the passing dream of a brain glad to deceive its own misery. To the mind’s eye of Malcolm, the little hump on the sand was heaved to the stars, higher than ever Roman tomb or Egyptian pyramid, in silent appeal to the sweet heavens, a dumb prayer for pity, a visible groan for the resurrection of the body. For a few minutes he sat as still as the prostrate laird.

But bethinking himself that his grandfather would not go to bed until he went back, also that the laird was in no danger, as the tide was now receding, he resolved to go and get the old man to bed, and then return. For somehow he felt in his heart that he ought not to leave him alone. He could not enter into his strife to aid him, or come near him in any closer way than watching by his side until his morning dawned, or at least the waters of his flood assuaged, yet what he could he must: he would wake with him in his conflict.

He rose and ran for the bored craig, through which lay the straight line to his abandoned boots.

As he approached the rock, he heard the voices of Lord Lossie and Lady Florimel, who, although the one had not yet verified her being, the other had almost ruined his, were nevertheless enjoying the same thing, the sweetness of the night, together. Not hearing Malcolm’s approach, they went on talking, and as he was passing swiftly through the bore, he heard these words from the marquis,—“The world’s an ill-baked cake, Flory, and all that a woman, at least, can do, is to cut as large a piece of it as possible, for immediate use.”

The remark being a general one, Malcolm cannot be much blamed if he stood with one foot lifted to hear Florimel’s reply.

“If it’s an ill-baked one, papa,” she returned, “I think it would be better to cut as small a piece of it as will serve for immediate use.”

Malcolm was delighted with her answer, never thinking whether it came from her head or her heart, for the two were at one in himself.

As soon as he appeared on the other side of the rock, the marquis challenged him: “Who goes there?” he said.

“Malcolm MacPhail, my lord.”

“You rascal!” said his lordship, good-humouredly; “you’ve been listening!”

“No muckle, my lord. I heard but a word apiece. An’ I maun say my leddy had the best o’ the loagic.”

“My lady generally has, I suspect,” laughed the marquis. “How long have you been in the rock there?”

“No ae^one meenute, my lord. I flang^kicked aff^off my butes^boots to rin^run efter a freen’, an’ that’s hoo^how ye didna hear me come up. I’m gaein’^going efter them noo^now, to gang hame^home i’ them. Guid nicht^{night, evening}, my lord. Guid nicht, my leddy.”

He turned and pursued his way; but Florimel’s face, glimmering through the night, went with him as he ran.

He told his grandfather how he had left the mad laird lying on his face, on the sands between the bored craig and the rocks of the promontory, and said he would like to go back to him.

“He’ll be hafing a fit, poor man,” said Duncan. “Yes, my son, you must co to him and to your pest for him. After such an honour as we ’fe had this day, we mustn’t pe forgetting our poor neighpours. Will you pe taking to him a trop of uisge-beatha^whiskey?”

“He taks^takes naething o’ that kin’^kind,” said Malcolm.

He could not tell him that the madman, as men called him, lay wrestling in prayer with the Father of lights. The old highlander was not irreverent, but the thing would have been unintelligible to him. He could readily have believed that the supposed lunatic might be favoured beyond ordinary mortals; that at that very moment, lost in his fit, he might be rapt in a vision of the future—a wave of time, far-off as yet from the souls of other men, even now rolling over his; but that a soul should seek after vital content by contact with its maker, was an idea belonging to a region which, in the highlander’s being, lay as yet an unwatered desert, an undiscovered land, whence even no faintest odour had been wafted across the still air of surprised contemplation.

About the time when Malcolm once more sped through the bored craig, the marquis and Lady Florimel were walking through the tunnel on their way home, chatting about a great ball they were going to give the tenants.

He found the laird where he had left him, and thought at first he must now surely be asleep; but once more bending over him, he could hear him still murmuring at intervals, “Father o’ lichts! Father o’ lichts!”

Not less compassionate, and more sympathetic than Eliphaz or Bildad or Zophar [Job’s three friends], Malcolm again took his place near him, and sat watching by him until the gray dawn began in the east. Then all at once the laird rose to his feet, and without a look on either side walked steadily away towards the promontory. Malcolm rose also, and gazed after him until he vanished amongst the rocks, no motion of his distorted frame witnessing other than calmness of spirit. So his watcher returned in peace through the cool morning air to the side of his slumbering grandfather.

No one in the Seaton of Portlossie ever dreamed of locking door or window at night.

Chapter 23 - Armageddon

The home season of the herring-fishery was to commence a few days after the occurrences last recorded. The boats had all returned from other stations, and the little harbour was one crowd of stumpy masts, each with its halliard, the sole cordage visible, rove through the top of it, for the hoisting of a lug-sail, tanned to a rich red brown. From this underwood towered aloft the masts of a coasting schooner, discharging its load of coal at the little quay. Other boats lay drawn up on the beach in front of the Seaton, and beyond it on the other side of the burn. Men and women were busy with the brown nets, laying them out on the short grass of the shore, mending them with netting-needles like small shuttles, carrying huge burdens of them on their shoulders in the hot sunlight; others were mending, calking, or tarring their boats, and looking to their various fittings. All was preparation for the new venture in their own waters, and everything went merrily and hopefully. Wives who had not accompanied their husbands now had them home again, and their anxieties would henceforth endure but for a night—joy would come with the red sails in the morning, lovers were once more together, the one great dread broken into a hundred little questioning fears; mothers had their sons again, to watch with loving eyes as they swung their slow limbs at their labour, or in the evenings sauntered about, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth, and blue bonnet cast carelessly on the head: it was almost a single family, bound together by a network of intermarriages, so intricate as to render it impossible for any one who did not belong to the community to follow the threads or read the design of the social tracery.

And while the Seaton swarmed with “the goings on of life,” the town of Portlossie lay above it still as a country hamlet, with more odours than people about: of people it was seldom indeed that three were to be spied at once in the wide street, while of odours you would always encounter a smell of leather from the saddler’s shop, and a mingled message of bacon and cheese from the very general dealer’s—in whose window hung what seemed three hams, and only he who looked twice would discover that the middle object was no ham, but a violin—while at every corner lurked a scent of gillyflowers and southernwood. Idly supreme, Portlossie the upper looked down in condescension, that is in half-concealed contempt, on the ant-heap below it.

The evening arrived on which the greater part of the boats was to put off for the first assay. Malcolm would have made one in the little fleet, for he belonged to his friend Joseph Mair’s crew, had it not been found impossible to get the new boat ready before the following evening; whence, for this one more, he was still his own master, with one more chance of a pleasure for which he had been on the watch ever since Lady Florimel had spoken of having a row in his boat. True, it was not often she appeared on the shore in the evening; nevertheless he kept watching the dune with his keen eyes, for he had hinted to Mrs Courthope that perhaps her young lady would like to see the boats go out.

Although it was the fiftieth time his eyes had swept the links in vague hope, he could hardly believe their testimony when now at length he spied a form, which could only be hers, looking seaward from the slope, as still as a sphinx on Egyptian sands.

He sauntered slowly towards her by the landward side of the dune, gathering on his way a handful of the reddest daisies he could find; then, ascending the sand-hill, approached her along the top.

“Saw ye ever sic gowans in yer life, my leddy?” he said, holding out his posy.

“Is that what you call them?” she returned.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]} ay, my leddy—daisies ye ca’ them. I dinna ken but yours is the bonnier name o’ the twa^two—gien it be what Mr Graham tells me the auld poet Chaucer maks^makes o’ ’t.”

“What is that?”

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]}, jist the een^eyes o’ the day^today.—the day’s eyes, ye ken. They’re sma’ een^eyes for sic a great face, but syne^then there’s a lot o’ them to mak up for that. They’ve begun to close a’ready, but the mair they close the bonnier they luik^look, wi’ their bits o’ screwed-up mooies^{little mouths}. But saw ye ever sic reid^red anes^ones, or ony^any sic a size, my leddy?”

“I don’t think I ever did. What is the reason they are so large and red?”

“I dinna ken. There canna be muckle nourishment in sic a thin soil, but there maun be something that agrees wi’ them. It’s the same a’ roon’^{around, round} aboot here.”

Lady Florimel sat looking at the daisies, and Malcolm stood a few yards off watching for the first of the red sails, which must soon show themselves, creeping out on the ebb tide. Nor had he waited long before a boat appeared, then another and another—six huge oars, ponderous to toil withal, urging each from the shelter of the harbour out into the wide weltering plain. The fishing-boat of that time was not decked as now, and each, with every lift of its bows, revealed to their eyes a gaping hollow, ready, if a towering billow should break above it, to be filled with sudden death. One by one the whole fleet crept out, and ever as they gained the breeze, up went the red sails, and filled: aside leaned every boat from the wind, and went dancing away over the frolicking billows towards the sunset, its sails, deep-dyed in oak-bark, shining redder and redder in the growing redness of the sinking sun.

Nor did Portlossie alone send out her boats, like huge seabirds warring on the live treasures of the deep; from beyond the headlands east and west, out they glided on slow red wing,—from Scaurnose, from Sandend, from Clamrock, from the villages all along the coast,—spreading as they came, each to its work apart through all the laborious night, to rejoin its fellows only as home drew them back in the clear gray morning, laden and slow with the harvest of the stars. But the night lay between, into which they were sailing over waters of heaving green that for ever kept tossing up roses—a night whose curtain was a horizon built up of steady blue, but gorgeous with passing purple and crimson, and flashing with molten gold.

Malcolm was not one of those to whom the sea is but a pond for fish, and the sky a storehouse of wind and rain, sunshine and snow: he stood for a moment gazing, lost in pleasure. Then he turned to Lady Florimel: she had thrown her daisies on the sand, appeared to be deep in her book, and certainly caught nothing of the splendour before her beyond the red light on her page.

“Saw ye ever a bonnier sicht^sight, my leddy?” said Malcolm.

She looked up, and saw, and gazed in silence. Her nature was full of poetic possibilities; and now a formless thought foreshadowed itself in a feeling she did not understand: why should such a sight as this make her feel sad? The vital connection between joy and effort had begun from afar to reveal itself with the question she now uttered.

“What is it all for?” she asked dreamily, her eyes gazing out on the calm ecstasy of colour, which seemed to have broken the bonds of law, and ushered in a new chaos, fit matrix of new heavens and new earth.

“To catch herrin’^herring,” answered Malcolm, ignorant of the mood that prompted the question, and hence mistaking its purport.

But a falling doubt had troubled the waters of her soul, and through the ripple she could descry it settling into form. She was silent for a moment.

“I want to know,” she resumed, “why it looks as if some great thing were going on. Why is all this pomp and show? Something ought to be at hand. All I see is the catching of a few miserable fish! If it were the eve of a glorious battle now, I could understand it—if those were the little English boats rushing to attack the Spanish Armada, for instance. But they are only gone to catch fish. Or if they were setting out to discover the Isles of the West, the country beyond the sunset!—but this jars.”

“I canna answer ye a’ at ance^once, my leddy,” said Malcolm; “I maun tak time to think aboot it. But I ken brawly^{very well} what ye mean.” Even as he spoke he withdrew, and, descending the mound, walked away beyond the bored craig, regardless now of the far lessening sails and the sinking sun. The motes of the twilight were multiplying fast as he returned along the shore side of the dune, but Lady Florimel had vanished from its crest. He ran to the top: thence, in the dim of the twilight, he saw her slow retreating form, phantom-like, almost at the grated door of the tunnel, which, like that of a tomb, appeared ready to draw her in, and yield her no more.

“My leddy, my leddy,” he cried, “winna^{will not} ye bide for ’t?”

He went bounding after her like a deer. She heard him call, and stood holding the door half-open.

“It’s the battle o’ Armageddon, my leddy,” he cried, as he came within hearing distance.

“The battle of what?” she exclaimed, bewildered. “I really can’t understand your savage Scotch.”

“Hoot^pshaw!, my leddy! the battle o’ Armageddon ’s no ane o’ the Scots battles; it’s the battle atween the richt and the wrang^wrong, ’at ye read aboot i’ the buik^book o’ the Revelations.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” returned Lady Florimel in dismay, beginning to fear that her squire was losing his senses.

“It’s jist what ye was sayin,’ my leddy: sic a pomp as yon bude to^{had to} hing^hang abune^above a gran’ battle some gait^way or ither.”

“What has the catching of fish to do with a battle in the Revelations?” said the girl, moving a little within the door.

“Weel, my leddy, gien I took in han’ to set it furth^forth to ye, I wad hae to tell ye a’ that Mr Graham has been learnin’ me sin^since ever I can min.’ He says ’at the whole economy o’ natur is fashiont unco^very like that o’ the kingdom o’ haven^heaven: its jist a gradation o’ services, an’ the highest en’^end o’ ony animal is to contreebute to the life o’ ane higher than itsel’; sae that it’s the gran’ preevilege o’ the fish we tak, to be aten^eaten by human bein’s, an’ uphaud^uphold what’s abune^above them.”

“That’s a poor consolation to the fish,” said Lady Florimel.

“Hoo^how ken ye that, my leddy? Ye can tell nearhan’ as little aboot the hert^heart o’ a herrin’^herring—sic as it has—as the herrin’ can tell aboot yer ain^own, whilk^which, I’m thinkin’, maun be o’ the lairgest size.”

“How should you know anything about my heart, pray?” she asked, with more amusement than offence.

“Jist by my ain^own,” answered Malcolm.

Lady Florimel began to fear she must have allowed the fisher-lad more liberty than was proper, seeing he dared avow that he knew the heart of a lady of her position by his own. But indeed Malcolm was wrong, for in the scale of hearts, Lady Florimel’s was far below his. She stepped quite within the door, and was on the point of shutting it, but something about the youth restrained her, exciting at least her curiosity; his eyes glowed with a deep, quiet light, and his face, even grand at the moment, had a greater influence upon her than she knew. Instead therefore of interposing the door between them, she only kept it poised, ready to fall-to the moment the sanity of the youth should become a hair’s-breadth more doubtful than she already considered it.

“It’s a’ pairt^part o’ ae^one thing, my leddy,” Malcolm resumed. “The herrin^herring ’s like the fowk ’at cairries the mate an’ the pooder an’ sic like for them ’at does the fechtin’^fighting. The hert^heart o’ the leevin’^living man’s the place whaur the battle’s foucht, an’ it’s aye gaein’^going on an’ on there atween God an’ Sawtan^Satan; an’ the fish they haud fowk up till ’t.”

“Do you mean that the herrings help you to fight for God?” said Lady Florimel with a superior smile.

“Aither^Either for God or for the deevil^devil, my leddy—that depen’s upo’ the fowk themsel’s. I say it hauds^{holds, keeps} them up to fecht^{fight, struggle}, an’ the thing maun be fouchten^fought oot. Fowk to fecht^{fight, struggle} maun live, an’ the herrin’^herring hauds^{holds, keeps} the life i’ them, an’ sae the catchin’ o’ the herrin’^herring comes in to be a pairt^part o’ the battle.”

“Wouldn’t it be more sensible to say that the battle is between the fishermen and the sea, for the sake of their wives and children?” suggested Lady Florimel supremely.

“Na, my leddy, it wadna be half sae sensible, for it wadna justifee^justify the grandur that hings^hangs ower the fecht^{fight, struggle}. The battle wi’ the sea ’s no sae muckle o’ an affair. An’, ’deed^indeed, gien it warna^{were not} that the wives an’ the verra^very weans^{children, infants} hae themsel’s to fecht^{fight, struggle} i’ the same battle o’ guid an’ ill, I dinna see the muckle differ there wad be atween them an’ the fish, nor what for they sudna^{should not} ate^eat ane anither as the craturs^creatures i’ the watter^water du. But gien ’t be the battle I say, there can be no pomp o’ sea or sky ower gran’ for ’t; an’ it’s a weel waured^{spent, expended} gien it but haud the gude^good anes^ones merry an’ strong, an’ up to their work. For that, weel may the sun shine a celestial rosy reid^red, an’ weel may the boatie row, an’ weel may the stars luik doon^down, blinkin’^{shining, twinkling} an’ luikin’^looking again—ilk^each ane duin’^doing its bonny pairt^part to mak a man a richt-hertit guid-willed sodger^soldier!”

“And, pray, what may be your rank in this wonderful army?” asked Lady Florimel, with the air and tone of one humouring a lunatic.

“I’m naething but a raw recruit, my leddy; but gien I hed^had my chice^choice, I wad be piper to my reg’ment.”

“How do you mean?”

“I wad mak sangs^songs. Dinna lauch^laugh at me, my leddy, for they’re the best kin’^kind o’ wapon for the wark^work ’at I ken. But I’m no a makar^poet, an’ maun content mysel’ wi’ duin’^doing my wark.”

“Then why,” said Lady Florimel, with the conscious right of social superiority to administer good counsel,—“why don’t you work harder, and get a better house, and wear better clothes?”

Malcolm’s mind was so full of far other and weightier things that the question bewildered him; but he grappled with the reference to his clothes.

“‘Deed^indeed, my leddy,” he returned, “ye may weel say that, seein’ ye was never aboord a herrin’^herring boat! but gien ye ance^once saw the inside o’ ane fu’^full o’ fish, whaur a body gangs^{goes, walks} slidderin’ aboot, maybe up to the middle o’ ’s leg in wamlin’^{rolling, undulating} herrin^herring,’ an’ the neist^next meenute, maybe, weet^{wet, dew, rain} to the skin wi’ the splash o’ a muckle jaw^wave, ye micht^might think the claes^{clothes, dress} guid eneuch for the wark^work—though ill fit, I confess wi’ shame, to come afore yer leddyship^ladyship.”

“I thought you only fished about close by the shore in a little boat; I didn’t know you went with the rest of the fishermen: that’s very dangerous work—isn’t it?”

“No ower dangerous my leddy. There’s some gangs^{goes, walks} doon ilka^{every, each} sizzon^season; but it’s a’ i’ the w’y^way o’ yer wark^work.”

“Then how is it you’re not gone fishing tonight?”

“She’s a new boat, an’ there’s anither day’s wark^work on her afore we win^go oot.—Wadna ye like a row the nicht^tonight, my leddy?”

“No, certainly; it’s much too late.”

“It’ll be nane^none mirker nor ’tis; but I reckon ye’re richt. I cam ower by jist to see whether ye wadna like to gang wi’ the boats a bit; but yer leddyship^ladyship set me aff^off thinkin’ an’ that pat^put it oot o’ my heid^head.”

“It’s too late now anyhow. Come tomorrow evening, and I’ll see if I can’t go with you.”

“I canna, my leddy—that’s the fash^trouble o’ ’t! I maun gang wi’ Blue Peter the morn’s^tomorrow nicht^{night, evening}. It was my last chance, I’m sorry to say.”

“It’s not of the slightest consequence,” Lady Florimel returned; and, bidding him goodnight, she shut and locked the door.

The same instant she vanished, for the tunnel was now quite dark. Malcolm turned with a sigh, and took his way slowly homeward along the top of the dune. All was dim about him—dim in the heavens, where a thin veil of gray had gathered over the blue; dim on the ocean, where the stars swayed and swung, in faint flashes of dissolving radiance, cast loose like ribbons of seaweed; dim all along the shore, where the white of the breaking wavelet melted into the yellow sand; and dim in his own heart, where the manner and words of the lady had half hidden her starry reflex with a chilling mist.

Chapter 24 - The Feast

To the entertainment which the marquis and Lady Florimel had resolved to give, all classes and conditions in the neighbourhood now began to receive invitations—shopkeepers, there called merchants, and all socially above them, individually, by notes, in the name of the marquis and Lady Florimel, but in the handwriting of Mrs Crathie and her daughters; and the rest generally, by the sound of bagpipes, and proclamation from the lips of Duncan MacPhail. To the satisfaction of Johnny Bykes the exclusion of improper persons was left in the hands of the gate-keepers.

The thing had originated with the factor^{manager of property}. The old popularity of the lords of the land had vanished utterly during the life of the marquis’s brother, and Mr Crathie, being wise in his generation, sought to initiate a revival of it by hinting the propriety of some general hospitality, a suggestion which the marquis was anything but loath to follow. For the present Lord Lossie, although as unready as most men to part with anything he cared for, could yet cast away magnificently, and had always greatly prized a reputation for liberality.

For the sake of the fishermen, the first Saturday after the commencement of the home-fishing was appointed. The few serious ones objected on the ground of the proximity of the Sunday; but their attitude was of little consequence in the eyes of their neighbours since it was well-known they would in no case have accepted such an invitation.

The day dawned propitious. As early as five o’clock Mr Crathie was abroad, booted and spurred—now directing the workmen who were setting up tents and tables; now conferring with house-steward, butler, or cook; now mounting his horse and galloping off to the home-farm or the distillery, or into the town to the Lossie Arms, where certain guests from a distance were to be accommodated, and whose landlady had undertaken the superintendence of certain of the victualling departments; for canny Mr Crathie would not willingly have the meanest guest ask twice for anything he wanted—so invaluable did he consider a good word from the humblest quarter—and the best labours of the French cook, even had he reverenced instead of despising Scotch dishes, would have ill-sufficed for the satisfaction of appetites critically appreciative of hotch-potch^{mutton stew with mixed vegetables}, sheep’s head, haggis^{sheep's pluck, minced with oatmeal, suet, and seasonings, and cooked in the animal's stomach}, and black puddings.

The neighbouring nobility and landed gentlemen, the professionals also, including the clergy, were to eat with the marquis in the great hall. On the grass near the house, tents were erected for the burgesses of the burgh, and the tenants of the marquis’s farms. I would have said on the lawn, but there was no lawn proper about the place, the ground was so picturesquely broken—in parts with all but precipices—and so crowded with trees. Hence its aspect was specially unlike that of an English park and grounds. The whole was Celtic, as distinguished in character from Saxon. Instead of the lake-like lawn, or the wide sweeps of airy room in which expand the mighty boughs of solitary trees, or the filmy gray-blue distances, and the far-off segments of horizon, here were the tree-crowded grass, the close windings of the long glen of the burn, heavily overshadowed, and full of mystery and covert, but leading at last to the widest vantage of outlook—the wild heathery hill down which it drew its sharp furrow; while, in front of the house, beyond hidden river, and plane of tree-tops, and far-sunk shore with its dune and its bored crag and its tortuous caves, lay the great sea, a pouting under-lip, met by the thin, reposeful—shall I say sorrowful?—upper-lip of the sky.

A bridge of stately span, level with the sweep in front, honourable embodiment of the savings of a certain notable countess, one end resting on the same rock with the house, their foundations almost in contact, led across the burn to more and more trees, their roots swathed in the finest grass, through which ran broad carriage-drives and narrower footways, hard and smooth with yellow gravel. Here amongst the trees were set long tables for the fishermen, mechanics, and farm-labourers. Here also was the place appointed for the piper.

As the hour drew near, the guests came trooping in at every entrance. By the sea-gate came the fisher-folk, many of the men in the blue jersey, the women mostly in short print gowns, of large patterns—the married with huge, wide filled caps, and the unmarried with their hair gathered in silken nets:—bonnets there were very few. Each group that entered had a joke or a jibe for Johnny Bykes, which he met in varying, but always surly fashion—in that of utter silence in the case of Duncan and Malcolm, at which the former was indignant, the latter merry. By the town-gate came the people of Portlossie. By the new main entrance from the high road beyond the town, through lofty Greekish gates, came the lords and lairds, in yellow coaches, gigs, and post-chaises. By another gate, far up the glen, came most of the country-folk, some walking, some riding, some driving, all merry, and with the best intentions of enjoying themselves. As the common people approached the house, they were directed to their different tables by the sexton, for he knew everybody.

The marquis was early on the ground, going about amongst his guests, and showing a friendly offhand courtesy which prejudiced every one in his favour. Lady Florimel soon joined him, and a certain frank way she inherited from her father, joined to the great beauty her mother had given her, straightway won all hearts. She spoke to Duncan with cordiality; the moment he heard her voice, he pulled off his bonnet, put it under his arm, and responded with what I can find no better phrase to describe than a profuse dignity. Malcolm she favoured with a smile which swelled his heart with pride and devotion. The bold-faced countess next appeared; she took the marquis’s other arm, and nodded to his guests condescendingly and often, but seemed, after every nod, to throw her head farther back than before. Then to haunt the goings of Lady Florimel came Lord Meikleham, receiving little encouragement, but eager after such crumbs as he could gather. Suddenly the great bell under the highest of the gilded vanes rang a loud peal, and the marquis having led his chief guests to the hall, as soon as he was seated, the tables began to be served simultaneously.

At that where Malcolm sat with Duncan, grace was grievously foiled by the latter, for, unaware of what was going on, he burst out, at the request of a waggish neighbour, with a tremendous blast, of which the company took advantage to commence operations at once, and presently the clatter of knives and forks and spoons was the sole sound to be heard in that division of the feast: across the valley, from the neighbourhood of the house, came now and then a faint peal of laughter, for there they knew how to be merry while they ate; but here, the human element was in abeyance, for people who work hard, seldom talk while they eat. From the end of an overhanging bough a squirrel looked at them for one brief moment, wondering perhaps that they should not prefer cracking a nut in private, and vanished—but the birds kept singing, and the scents of the flowers came floating up from the garden below, and the burn went on with its own noises and its own silences, drifting the froth of its last passion down towards the doors of the world.

In the hall, ancient jokes soon began to flutter their moulted wings, and musty compliments to offer themselves for the acceptance of the ladies, and meet with a reception varied by temperament and experience: what the bold-faced countess heard with a hybrid contortion, half sneer and half smile, would have made Lady Florimel stare out of big refusing eyes.

Those more immediately around the marquis were soon laughing over the story of the trick he had played the blind piper, and the apology he had had to make in consequence; and perhaps something better than mere curiosity had to do with the wish of several of the guests to see the old man and his grandson. The marquis said the piper himself would take care they should not miss him, but he would send for the young fellow, who was equally fitted to amuse them, being quite as much of a character in his way as the other.

He spoke to the man behind his chair, and in a few minutes Malcolm made his appearance, following the messenger.

“Malcolm,” said the marquis kindly, “I want you to keep your eyes open, and see that no mischief is done about the place.”

“I dinna think there’s ane o’ oor^our ain fowk wad dee^do ony mischeef, my lord,” answered Malcolm; “but whan ye keep open yett^gate, ye canna be sure wha^who wins in, specially wi’ sic a gowk^fool as Johnny Bykes at ane o’ them. No ’at he wad wrang^{wrong, injured} yer lordship a hair, my lord!”

“At all events you’ll be on the alert,” said the marquis.

“I wull^{will do} that, my Lord. There’s twa^two or three aboot a’ready ’at I dinna a’thegither like the leuks o’. They’re no like country fowk, an’ they’re no fisher-fowk. It’s no far aff^off the time o’ year whan the gypsies are i’ the w’y^way o’ payin’ ’s a veesit, an’ they may ha’ come in at the Binn yett^gate, whaur there’s nane^none but an auld wife to haud them oot.”

“Well, well,” said the marquis, who had no fear about the behaviour of his guests, and had only wanted a colour for his request of Malcolm’s presence. “In the meantime,” he added, “we are rather short-handed here. Just give the butler a little assistance—will you?”

“Willin’ly, my lord,” answered Malcolm, forgetting altogether, in the prospect of being useful and within sight of Lady Florimel, that he had but half finished his own dinner. The butler, who had already had an opportunity of admiring his aptitude, was glad enough to have his help; and after this day used to declare that in a single week he could make him a better servant than any of the men who waited at table. It was indeed remarkable how, with such a limited acquaintance with the many modes of an artificial life, he was yet, by quickness of sympathetic insight, capable not only of divining its requirements, but of distinguishing, amid the multitude of appliances around, those fitted to their individual satisfaction.

It was desirable, however, that the sitting in the hall should not be prolonged, and after a few glasses of wine, the marquis rose, and went to make the round of the other tables. Taking them in order, he came last to those of the rustics, mechanics, and fisher-folk. These had advanced considerably in their potations, and the fun was loud. His appearance was greeted with shouts, into which Duncan struck with a paean from his pipes; but in the midst of the tumult, one of the oldest of the fishermen stood up, and in a voice accustomed to battle with windy uproars, called for silence. He then addressed their host.

“Ye’ll jist mak ’s prood^proud by drinkin’ a tum’ler^{tumbler, glass [of whisky]} wi’ ’s, yer lordship,” he said. “It’s no ilka^{every, each} day we hae the honour o’ yer lordship’s company.”

“Or I of yours,” returned the marquis with hearty courtesy. “I will do it with pleasure—or at least a glass: my head’s not so well seasoned as some of yours.”

“Gien your lordship’s hed^had hed^hid as mony^many blasts o’ nicht^{night, evening} win’^wind, an’ as mony^many jaups^splashes o’ cauld^cold sea watter^water aboot its lugs^ears as oors^ours, it wad hae been fit to stan’ as muckle o’ the barley bree^whiskey as the stievest^stoutest o’ the lot, I s’ warran’.”

“I hope so,” returned Lord Lossie, who, having taken a seat at the end of the table, was now mixing a tumbler of toddy. As soon as he had filled his glass, he rose, and drank to the fishermen of Portlossie, their wives and their sweethearts, wishing them a mighty conquest of herring, and plenty of children to keep up the breed and the war on the fish. His speech was received with hearty cheers, during which he sauntered away to rejoin his friends.

Many toasts followed, one of which, “Damnation to the dogfish,” gave opportunity to a wag, seated near the piper, to play upon the old man’s well-known foible by adding, “an’ Cawmill o’ Glenlyon;” whereupon Duncan, who had by this time taken more whisky than was good for him, rose, and made a rambling speech, in which he returned thanks for the imprecation, adding thereto the hope that never might one of the brood accursed go down with honour to the grave.

The fishermen listened with respectful silence, indulging only in nods, winks, and smiles for the interchange of amusement, until the utterance of the wish recorded, when, apparently carried away for a moment by his eloquence, they broke into loud applause. But, from the midst of it, a low gurgling laugh close by him reached Duncan’s ear: excited though he was with strong drink and approbation, he shivered, sunk into his seat, and clutched at his pipes convulsively, as if they had been a weapon of defence.

“Malcolm! Malcolm, my son,” he muttered feebly, “tere is a voman will pe laughing! She is a paad voman: she makes me cold!”

Finding from the no-response that Malcolm had left his side, he sat motionless, drawn into himself, and struggling to suppress the curdling shiver. Some of the women gathered about him, but he assured them it was nothing more than a passing sickness.

Malcolm’s attention had, a few minutes before, been drawn to two men of somewhat peculiar appearance, who, applauding louder than any, only pretended to drink, and occasionally interchanged glances of intelligence. It was one of these peculiar looks that first attracted his notice. He soon discovered that they had a comrade on the other side of the table, who apparently, like themselves, had little or no acquaintance with any one near him. He did not like either their countenances or their behaviour, and resolved to watch them. In order therefore to be able to follow them when they moved, as he felt certain they would before long, without attracting their attention, he left the table and making a circuit took up his position behind a neighbouring tree. Hence it came that he was not, at the moment of his need, by his grandfather’s side, whither he had returned as soon as dinner was over in the hall.

Meantime it became necessary to check the drinking by the counter attraction of the dance. Mr Crathie gave orders that a chair should be mounted on a table for Duncan; and the young hinds and fishermen were soon dancing zealously with the girls of their company to his strathspeys and reels. The other divisions of the marquis’s guests made merry to the sound of a small brass band, a harp, and two violins.

When the rest forsook the toddy for the reel, the objects of Malcolm’s suspicion remained at the table, not to drink, but to draw nearer to each other and confer. At length, when the dancers began to return in quest of liquor, they rose and went away loiteringly through the trees. As the twilight was now deepening, Malcolm found it difficult to keep them in sight, but for the same reason he was able the more quickly to glide after them from tree to tree. It was almost moonrise, he said to himself, and if they meditated mischief, now was their best time.

Presently he heard the sound of running feet, and in a moment more spied the unmistakeable form of the mad laird, darting through the thickening dusk of the trees, with gestures of wild horror. As he passed the spot where Malcolm stood, he cried out in a voice like a suppressed shriek,—“It’s my mither^mother! It’s my mither^mother! I dinna ken whaur I come frae.”

His sudden appearance and outcry so startled Malcolm that for a moment he forgot his watch, and when he looked again the men had vanished. Not having any clue to their intent, and knowing only that on such a night the house was nearly defenceless, he turned at once and made for it. As he approached the front, coming over the bridge, he fancied he saw a figure disappear through the entrance, and quickened his pace. Just as he reached it, he heard a door bang, and supposing it to be that which shut off the second hall, whence rose the principal staircase, he followed this vaguest of hints, and bounded to the top of the stair. Entering the first passage he came to, he found it almost dark, with a half-open door at the end, through which shone a gleam from some window beyond: this light was plainly shut off for a moment, as if by some one passing the window. He hurried after noiselessly, for the floor was thickly carpeted—and came to the foot of a winding stone stair. Afraid beyond all things of doing nothing, and driven by the formless conviction that if he stopped to deliberate he certainly should do nothing, he shot up the dark screw like an ascending bubble, passed the landing of the second floor without observing it, and arrived in the attic regions of the ancient pile, under low, irregular ceilings, here ascending in cones, there coming down in abrupt triangles, or sloping away to a hidden meeting with the floor in distant corners. His only light was the cold blue glimmer from here and there a storm-window or a skylight. As the conviction of failure grew on him, the ghostly feeling of the place began to invade him. All was vague, forsaken, and hopeless, as a dreary dream, with the superadded miserable sense of lonely sleepwalking. I suspect that the feeling we call ghostly is but the sense of abandonment in the lack of companion life; but be this as it may, Malcolm was glad enough to catch sight of a gleam as from a candle, at the end of a long, low passage on which he had come after mazy wandering. Another similar passage crossed its end, somewhere in which must be the source of the light: he crept towards it, and laying himself flat on the floor, peeped round the corner. His very heart stopped to listen: seven or eight yards from him, with a small lantern in her hand, stood a short female figure, which, the light falling for a moment on her soft evil countenance, he recognised as Mrs Catanach. Beside her stood a tall graceful figure, draped in black from head to foot. Mrs Catanach was speaking in a low tone, and what Malcolm was able to catch was evidently the close of a conversation.

“I’ll do my best, ye may be sure, my leddy,” she said. “There’s something no canny^{not right} aboot the cratur^creature, an’ doobtless ye was an ill-used wuman^woman, an’ ye’re i’ the richt. But it’s a some fearsome ventur, an’ may be luikit^looked intill^into, ye ken. There I s’ be yer scoug^shelter. Lippen to^{listen to, depend on} me, an’ ye s’ no repent it.”

As she ended speaking, she turned to the door, and drew from it a key, evidently after a foiled attempt to unlock it therewith; for from a bunch she carried she now made choice of another, and was already fumbling with it in the keyhole, when Malcolm bethought himself that, whatever her further intent, he ought not to allow her to succeed in opening the door. He therefore rose slowly to his feet, and stepping softly out into the passage, sent his round blue bonnet spinning with such a certain aim, that it flew right against her head. She gave a cry of terror, smothered by the sense of evil secrecy, and dropped her lantern. It went out. Malcolm pattered with his hands on the floor, and began to howl frightfully. Her companion had already fled, and Mrs Catanach picked up her lantern and followed. But her flight was soft-footed, and gave sign only in the sound of her garments, and a clank or two of her keys.

Gifted with a good sense of relative position, Malcolm was able to find his way back to the hall without much difficulty, and met no one on the way. When he stepped into the open air a round moon was visible through the trees, and their shadows were lying across the sward. The merriment had grown louder; for a good deal of whisky having been drunk by men of all classes, hilarity had ousted restraint, and the separation of classes having broken a little, there were many stragglers from the higher to the lower divisions, whence the area of the more boisterous fun had considerably widened. Most of the ladies and gentlemen were dancing in the chequer of the trees and moonlight, but, a little removed from the rest, Lady Florimel was seated under a tree, with Lord Meikleham by her side, probably her partner in the last dance. She was looking at the moon, which shone upon her from between two low branches, and there was a sparkle in her eyes and a luminousness upon her cheek which to Malcolm did not seem to come from the moon only. He passed on, with the first pang of jealousy in his heart, feeling now for the first time that the space between Lady Florimel and himself was indeed a gulf. But he cast the whole thing from him for the time with an inward scorn of his foolishness, and hurried on from group to group, to find the marquis.

Meeting with no trace of him, and thinking he might be in the flower-garden, which a few rays of the moon now reached, he descended thither. But he searched it through with no better success, and at the farthest end was on the point of turning to leave it and look elsewhere, when he heard a moan of stifled agony on the other side of a high wall which here bounded the garden. Climbing up an espalier, he soon reached the top, and looking down on the other side, to his horror and rage espied the mad laird on the ground, and the very men of whom he had been in pursuit, standing over him and brutally tormenting him, apparently in order to make him get up and go along with them. One was kicking him, another pulling his head this way and that by the hair, and the third punching and poking his hump, which last cruelty had probably drawn from him the cry Malcolm had heard.

Three might be too many for him: he descended swiftly, found some stones, and a stake from a bed of sweet-peas, then climbing up again, took such effectual aim at one of the villains that he fell without uttering a sound. Dropping at once from the wall, he rushed at the two with stick upheaved.

“Dinna be in sic a rage, man,” cried the first, avoiding his blow; “we’re aboot naething ayont^beyond the lawfu’. It’s only the mad laird. We’re takin’ ’im^him to the asylum at Ebberdeen^Aberdeen. By the order o’ ’s ain mither^mother!”

At the word a choking scream came from the prostrate victim. Malcolm uttered a huge imprecation, and struck at the fellow again, who now met him in a way that showed it was noise more than wounds he had dreaded. Instantly the other came up, and also fell upon him with vigour. But his stick was too much for them, and at length one of them, crying out—“It’s the blin’^blind piper’s bastard—I’ll mark him yet!” took to his heels, and was followed by his companion.

More eager after rescue than punishment, Malcolm turned to the help of the laird, whom he found in utmost need of his ministrations—gagged, and with his hands tied mercilessly tight behind his back. His knife quickly released him, but the poor fellow was scarcely less helpless than before. He clung to Malcolm, and moaned piteously, every moment glancing over his shoulder in terror of pursuit. His mouth hung open as if the gag were still tormenting him; now and then he would begin his usual lament and manage to say “I dinna ken.” But when he attempted the whaur, his jaw fell and hung as before. Malcolm sought to lead him away, but he held back, moaning dreadfully; then Malcolm would have him sit down where they were, but he caught his hand and pulled him away, stopping instantly, however, as if not knowing whither to turn from the fears on every side. At length the prostrate enemy began to move, when the laird, who had been unaware of his presence, gave a shriek, and took to his heels. Anxious not to lose sight of him, Malcolm left the wounded man to take care of himself; and followed him up the steep side of the little valley.

They had not gone many steps from the top of the ascent, however, before the fugitive threw himself on the ground exhausted, and it was all Malcolm could do to get him to the town, where, unable to go a pace further, he sank down on Mrs Catanach’s doorstep. A light was burning in the cottage, but Malcolm would seek shelter for him anywhere rather than with her, and, in terror of her quick ears, caught him up in his arms like a child, and hurried away with him to Miss Horn’s.

“Eh sirs!” exclaimed Miss Horn, when she opened the door—for Jean was among the merrymakers—“wha^who ’s this ’at ’s killt noo^now?”

“It’s the laird—Mr Stewart,” returned Malcolm. “He’s no freely^quite killt, but nigh han’.”

“Na! weel I wat^promise! Come in an’ set him doon till we see,” said Miss Horn, turning and leading the way up to her little parlour.

There Malcolm laid his burden on the sofa, and gave a brief account of the rescue.

“Lord preserve ’s, Ma’colm!” cried Miss Horn, as soon as he had ended his tale, to which she had listened in silence, with fierce eyes and threatening nose; “isna^{is not} ’t a mercy I wasna^{was not} made like some fowk, or I couldna^{could not} ha’ bidden^{abided, stayed} to see the puir fallow^{fellow, chap} misguidet^mis-treated that gait^way! It’s a special mercy, Ma’colm MacPhail, to be made wantin’ ony sic thing as feelin’s.”

She was leaving the room as she spoke—to return instantly with brandy. The laird swallowed some with an effort, and began to revive.

“Eh, sirs!” exclaimed Miss Horn, regarding him now more narrowly—“but he’s in an awfu’ state o’ dirt! I maun wash his face an’ han’s, an’ pit^put him till ’s bed. Could ye help aff^off wi’ ’s claes^{clothes, dress}, Ma’colm? Though I haena^{have not} ony feelin’s, I ’m jist some eerie-like at the puir body’s back.”

The last words were uttered in what she judged a safe aside.

As if she had been his mother, she washed his face and hands, and dried them tenderly, the laird submitting like a child. He spoke but one word—when she took him by the hand to lead him to the room where her cousin used to sleep: “Father o’ lichts^lights!” he said, and no more. Malcolm put him to bed, where he lay perfectly still, whether awake or asleep they could not tell.

He then set out to go back to Lossie House, promising to return after he had taken his grandfather home, and seen him also safe in bed.

Chapter 25 - The Night Watch

When Malcolm returned, Jean had retired for the night, and again it was Miss Horn who admitted him, and led him to her parlour. It was a low-ceiled room, with lean spider-legged furniture and dingy curtains. Everything in it was suggestive of a comfort slowly vanishing. An odour of withered rose-leaves pervaded the air. A Japanese cabinet stood in one corner, and on the mantelpiece a pair of Chinese fans with painted figures whose faces were embossed in silk, between which ticked an old French clock, whose supporters were a shepherd and shepherdess in prettily painted china. Long faded as was everything in it, the room was yet very rich in the eyes of Malcolm, whose home was bare even in comparison with that of the poorest of the fisher women: they had a passion for ornamenting their chimneypieces with china ornaments, and their dressers with the most gorgeous crockery that their money could buy—a certain metallic orange being the prevailing hue; while in Duncan’s cottage, where woman had never initiated the taste, there was not even a china poodle to represent the finished development of luxury in the combination of the ugly and the useless.

Miss Horn had made a little fire in the old-fashioned grate, whose bars bellied out like a sail almost beyond the narrow chimney-shelf, and a tea-kettle was singing on the hob, while a decanter, a sugar basin, a nutmeg grater, and other needful things on a tray, suggested negus^{a hot drink}, beyond which Miss Horn never went in the matter of stimulants, asserting that, as she had no feelings, she never required anything stronger. She made Malcolm sit down at the opposite side of the fire, and mixing him a tumbler of her favourite drink, began to question him about the day, and how things had gone.

Miss Horn had the just repute of discretion, for, gladly hearing all the news, she had the rare virtue of not repeating things to the prejudice of others without some good reason for so doing; Malcolm therefore, seated thus alone with her in the dead of the night, and bound to her by the bond of a common well-doing, had no hesitation in unfolding to her all his adventures of the evening. She sat with her big hands in her lap, making no remark, not even an exclamation, while he went on with the tale of the garret; but her listening eyes grew—not larger—darker and fiercer as he spoke; the space between her nostrils and mouth widened visibly; the muscles knotted on the sides of her neck; and her nose curved more and more to the shape of a beak.

“There’s some deevilry there!” she said at length after he had finished, breaking a silence of some moments, during which she had been staring into the fire. “Whaur twa^two ill women come thegither, there maun be the auld man himsel’ atween them.”

“I dinna doobt it,” returned Malcolm. “An’ ane o’ them ’s an ill wuman^woman, sure eneuch; but I ken naething aboot the tither^{the other}—only ’at she maun be a leddy, by the w’y^way the howdy-wife spak till her.”

“The waur^worse token, when a leddy collogues wi’ a wuman^woman aneth^beneath her ain station, an’ ane ’at has keppit^{caught in passing} mony^many a secret in her day, an’ by her callin’ has had mair opportunity—no to say farther—than ither fowk o’ duin’^doing ill things! An’ gien ye dinna ken her, that’s no rizzon^reason ’at I sudna^{should not} hae a groff guiss^{rough guess} at her by the marks ye read aff^off o’ her. I’ll jist hae to tell ye a story sic as an auld wife like me seldom tells till a young man like yersel’.”

“Yer ain bridle sail rule my tongue, mem,” said Malcolm.

“I s’ lippen to^{trust in, depend on} yer discretion,” said Miss Horn, and straightway began.—“Some years ago—an’ I s’ warran’ it’s weel ower twinty—that same wuman^woman, Bawby Cat’nach,—wha^who was nae hame-born wuman, nor had been lang aboot the toon^{town, village}—comin’ as she did frae naebody^nobody kent^knew whaur, ’cep^{except, but} maybe it was the markis^Marquis ’at then was, preshumed to mak up to me i’ the w’y^way o’ frien’ly acquantance—sic as a maiden leddy micht^might hae wi’ a howdy—an’ no ’at she forgot her proaper^proper behaviour to ane like mysel’. But I cudna^{could not} hae bidden^endured the jaud^{worthless woman}, ’cep^{except, but} ’at I had rizzons^reasons for lattin’^letting her jaw wag. She was cunnin’, the auld vratch^wretch,—no that auld—maybe aboot forty,—but I was ower mony^many for her. She had the design to win at something she thoucht^thought I kent^knew, an’ sae, to enteece^entice me to open my pock^{pack, pouch}, she opent hers, an’ tellt me story efter story about this neebour an’ that—a’ o’ them things ’at ouchtna^{ought not} to ha’ been true, an ’at she ouchtna^{ought not} to ha’ loot^{let, allowed} pass her lips gien they war true, seein’ she cam by the knowledge o’ them so as she said she did. But she gat^got naething o’ me—the fat braint cat!—an’ she hates me like the verra^very mischeef.”

Miss Horn paused and took a sip of her negus.

“Ae^one day, I cam upon her sittin’ by the ingle-neuk^{chimney-corner or nook, fireside} i’ my ain kitchen, haudin’^{holding, keeping} a close an’ a laich^low confab wi’ Jean. I had Jean than, an’ hoo I hae keepit^kept the hizzy^{hussy, silly girl}, I hardly ken. I think it maun be that, haein’^having nae feelin’s o’ my ain, I hae ower muckle regaird to ither fowk’s, an’ sae I never likit^liked to pit^put her awa’ wi’oot doonricht^downright provocation. But dinna ye lippen to^{listen to, depend on} Jean, Malcolm—na, na! At that time, my cousin, Miss Grizel Cammell—my third cousin, she was—had come to bide wi’ me—a bonny yoong thing as ye wad see, but in sair^sore ill health; an’ maybe she had her freits^whims, an’ maybe no, but she cudna^{could not} bide to see the wuman^woman Cat’nach aboot the place. An’ in verra^very trowth^truth, she was to mysel’ like ane o’ thae^{those, these} ill-faured birds, I dinna min’ upo’^remember the name them, ’at hings^hangs ower an airmy^army; for wharever there was onybody nae weel, or onybody deid^dead, there was Bawby Cat’nach. I hae hard o’ creepin’ things ’at veesits fowk ’at ’s no weel—an’ Bawby was, an’ is, ane sic like! Sae I was angert^{angered, angry} at seein’ her colloguin’ wi’ Jean, an’ I cried Jean to me to the door o’ the kitchie^kitchen. But wi’ that up jumps Bawby, an’ comin’ efter her, says to me—says she, ‘Eh, Miss Horn! there’s terrible news: Leddy Lossie’s deid^dead;—she ’s been three ooks^weeks deid!’—‘Weel,’ says I, ‘what’s sae terrible aboot that?’ For ye ken I never had ony feelin’s, an’ I cud^could see naething sae awfu’ aboot a body deein’ i’ the ord’nar’^ordinary w’y^way o natur like. ‘We’ll no miss her muckle doon here,’ says I, ‘for I never hard o’ her bein’ at the Hoose sin’^since ever I can.’ ‘But that’s no a’,’ says she; ‘only I wad be laith to speyk aboot it i’ the transe^passageway. Lat me up the stair wi’ ye, an’ I’ll tell ye mair.’ Weel, pairtly ’at I was ta’en by surprise like, an’ pairtly ’at I wasna^{was not} sae auld as I am noo^now, an’ pairtly that I was keerious to hear—ill ’at I likit^liked her—what neist^next the wuman^woman wad say, I did as I ouchtna^{ought not}, an’ turned an’ gaed^went up the stair, an’ loot^let her follow me. Whan she cam’^came in, she pat tu^{put to, closed} the door ahint^behind her, an’ turnt to me, an’ said—says she: ‘An wha^who ’s deid^dead forbye^{besides, as well}, think ye?’—‘I hae hard o’ naebody^nobody,’ I answered. ‘Wha^who but the laird o’ Gersefell!’ says she. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, honest ma^man!’ says I; for a’body likit^liked Mr Stewart. ‘An’ what think ye o’ ’t?’ says she, wi’ a runklin o’ her broos^eyebrows, an’ a shak o’ her heid^head, an’ a settin o’ her roon’^round nieves^hands upo’ the fat hips o’ her. ‘Think o’ ’t?’ says I; ‘what sud^should I think o’ ’t, but that it’s the wull^will o’ Providence?’ Wi’ that she leuch^laughed till she wabblet a’ ower like cauld^cold skink^{shank of beef}, an’ says she—‘Weel, that’s jist what it is no, an’ that lat me tell ye, Miss Horn!’ I glowert^stared at her, maist^almost frichtit^frightened into believin’ she was the witch fowk ca’d her. ‘Wha’s son ’s the hump-backit cratur’^creature,’ says she, ‘’at comes in i’ the gig whiles wi’ the groom-lad, think ye?’—‘Wha’s but the puir man’s ’at ’s deid^dead?’ says I. ‘Deil^not a bit o’ ’t!’ says she, ‘an’ I beg yer pardon for mentionin’ o’ him,’ says she. An’ syne^then she screwt up her mou’^mouth, an’ cam closs^close up till me—for I wadna sit doon mysel’, an’ less wad I bid her, an’ was sorry eneuch by this time ’at I had broucht^brought her up the stair—an’ says she, layin’ her han’ upo’ my airm^arm wi’ a clap^pat, as gien her an’ me was to be freen’s upo’ sic a gran’ foondation o’ dirt as that!—says she, makin’ a laich^low toot-moot o’ ’t,—‘He’s Lord Lossie’s!’ says she, an’ maks^makes a face ’at micht^might hae turnt a cat sick—only by guid luck I had nae feelin’s. ‘An’ nae suner’s my leddy deid^died nor her man follows her!’ says she. ‘An’ what do ye mak o’ that?’ says she. ‘Ay, what do ye mak o’ that?’ says I till her again. ‘Ow^{oh! [surprise]}! what ken I?’ says she, wi’ anither ill leuk^look; an’ wi’ that she leuch^laughed an’ turned awa^away, but turned back again or she wan to the door, an’ says she—‘Maybe ye didna ken ’at she was broucht^brought to bed hersel’ aboot a sax^six ooks^weeks ago?’—‘Puir leddy!’ said I, thinkin’ mair o’ her evil report nor o’ the pains o’ childbirth. ‘Ay,’ says she, wi’ a deevilich^devilish kin’^kind o’ a lauch^laugh, like in spite o’ hersel’, ‘for the bairn’s deid^dead, they tell me—as bonny a ladbairn as ye wad see, jist ooncoamon! An’ whaur div^do ye think she had her doon-lying? Jist at Lossie Hoose!’ Wi’ that she was oot at the door wi’ a swag o’ her tail, an’ doon the stair to Jean again. I was jist at ane mair^{all agog} wi’ anger at mysel’ an’ scunner^disgust at her, an’ in twa^two min’s^minds to gang efter her an’ turn her oot o’ the hoose, her an’ Jean thegither. I could hear her snicherin’ till hersel’ as she gaed^went doon the stair. My verra^very stamack^stomach turned at the poozhonous^poisonous ted^{term of disgust}.

“I canna say what was true or what was fause^false i’ the scandal o’ her tale, nor what for she tuik^took the trouble to cairry ’t to me, but it sune^soon cam to be said ’at the yoong laird was but half-wittet as weel’s humpit, an’ ’at his mither^mother cudna^{could not} bide him. An’ certain it was ’at the puir wee chap cud^could as little bide his mither^mother. Gien she cam near him ohn^without luikit^looked for, they said, he wad gie^give a great skriech, and rin^run as fast as his wee weyver^spider legs cud^could wag aneth^beneath the wecht o’ ’s humpie—an’ whiles her after him wi’ onything she cud^could lay her han’ upo’, they said—but I kenna^{do not know}. Ony gait^anyway, the widow hersel’ grew waur^worse and waur i’ the temper, an’ I misdoobt me sair^{sorely suspect} was gey^very hard upo’ the puir wee objeck—fell^very cruel til ’m^him, they said—till at len’th, as a’ body kens^knows, he forhooit^forsook the hoose a’thegither. An’ puttin’ this an’ that thegither, for I hear a hantle^{great deal} said ’at I say na ower again, it seems to me ’at her first scunner^disgust at her puir misformt bairn^child, wha^who they say was humpit whan he was born an’ maist^almost cost her her life to get lowst^loosed o’ him—her scunner at ’im^him ’s been growin’ an’ growin’ till it’s grown to doonricht^downright hate.”

“It’s an awfu’ thing ’at ye say, mem, an’ I doobt^{I suspect} it’s ower true. But hoo can a mither^mother hate her ain bairn^child?” said Malcolm.

“‘Deed^indeed it’s nae wonner^{wonder, marvel} ye sud^should speir^ask, laddie! for it’s weel kent^known ’at maist^most mithers^mothers, gien there be a shargar^runt or a crookit^crooked ane amo’^among their bairns^children, mak mair o’ that ane nor o’ a’ the lave^{rest, remainder} putten^put thegither—as gien they wad mak it up till ’im^him, for the fair play o’ the warl^world. But ye see in this case, he’s aiblins^perhaps the child o’ sin—for a leear^liar may tell an ill trowth^truth, ye see; sae to her he’s jist her sin rinnin’ aboot the warl^world incarnat; an’ that canna be pleesant to luik upo’.”

“But excep’ she war ashamed o’ ’t, she wadna tak it sae muckle to hert^heart to be remin’t o’ ’t.”

“Mony^many ane’s ashamed o’ the consequences ’at’s^{that is} no ashamed o’ the deed^deed. Mony^many ane cud^could du the sin ower again, ’at canna bide the sicht^sight or even the word o’ ’t. I hae seen a body ’t wad steal a thing as sune’s luik at it gang daft wi’ rage at bein’ ca’d a thief. An’ maybe she wadna care gien ’t warna^{were not} for the oogliness o’ ’im^him. Sae be he was a bonny sin, I’m thinkin’ she wad hide him weel eneuch. But seein’ he ’s naither^neither i’ the image o’ her ’at bore ’im^him nor him ’at got ’im^him, but beirs^bears on ’s back, for ever in her sicht^sight, the sin ’at was the gettin’ o’ ’m^him, he’s a’ hump to her, an’ her hert’s aye howkin a grave for ’im^him to lay ’im^him oot o’ sicht^sight intill^into: she bore ’im^him, an’ she wad beery^bury ’im^him. An’ I’m thinkin’ she beirs^bears the markis^Marquis—gien sae it be sae—deid^dead an’ gane^gone as he is—a grutch^grudge yet, for passin’ sic an offspring upo’ her, an’ syne^then no merryin’^{marrying, getting married} her efter an’ a’, an’ the ro’d^{road, course, way} clear o’ baith^both ’at stude^stood atween them. It was said ’at the man ’at killt ’im^him in a twasum fecht^duel, sae mony^many a year efter, was a freen’ o’ hers.”

“But wad fowk du sic awfu’ ill things, mem—her a merried^married woman, an’ him a merried^married man?”

“There’s nae sayin’, laddie, what a hantle^{large quantity} o’ men and some women wad du. I hae muckle to be thankfu’ for ’at I was sic as no man ever luikit^looked twice at. I wasna^{was not} weel-faured eneuch; though I had bonny hair, an’ my mither^mother aye said ’at her Maggy hed^had guid sense; whatever else she micht^might or micht^might not hae. But gien I cud^could hae gotten a guid man, siclike’s is scarce, I cud^could hae lo’ed^loved him weel eneuch. But that’s naither^neither here nor there, an’ has naething to du wi’ onybody ava^{at all}. The pint^point I had to come till was this: the wuman^woman ye saw haudin’^keeping a toot moot^{‘all whispers’} wi’ that Cat’nach wife, was nane^none ither, I do believe, than Mistress Stewart, the puir laird’s mither^mother. An’ I hae as little doobt that whan ye tuik^took ’s pairt^part, ye broucht^brought to noucht a plot o’ the twasum^{two together} against him. It bodes guid to naebody^{no one} whan there’s a conjunc^conjuncture o’ twa^two sic wanderin’ stars o’ blackness as yon twa.”

“His ain mither^mother!” exclaimed Malcolm, brooding in horror over the frightful conjecture.

The door opened, and the mad laird came in. His eyes were staring wide, but their look and that of his troubled visage showed that he was awake only in some frightful dream. “Father o’ lichts!” he murmured once and again, but making wild gestures, as if warding off blows. Miss Horn took him gently by the hand. The moment he felt her touch, his face grew calm, and he submitted at once to be led back to bed.

“Ye may tak yer aith^oath upo’ ’t, Ma’colm,” she said when she returned, “she means naething but ill by that puir cratur^creature; but you and me—we’ll ding^defeat her yet, gien’t be his wull^will. She wants a grip o’ ’m^him for some ill rizzon^reason or ither—to lock him up in a madhoose, maybe, as the villains said, or ’deed^indeed, maybe, to mak awa’ wi’ him a’thegither.”

“But what guid wad that du her?” said Malcolm.

“It’s ill to say, but she wad hae him oot o’ her sicht^sight, ony gait^anyway.”

“She can hae but little sicht^sight o’ him as ’tis,” objected Malcolm.

“Ay! but she aye kens^knows he’s whaur she doesna ken, puttin’ her to shame, a’ aboot the country, wi’ that hump o’ his. Oot o’ fowk’s sicht^sight wad be to her oot a’ thegither.”

A brief silence followed.

“Noo^now,” said Malcolm, “we come to the question what the twa limmers^rascals could want wi’ that door.”

“Dear kens^{God knows}! It bude to^{had to} be something wrang^wrong—that’s a’ ’at mortal can say; but ye may be sure o’ that—I hae hard tell,” she went on reflectingly—“o’ some room or ither i’ the hoose ’at there’s a fearsome story aboot, an’ ’at ’s never opent on no accoont. I hae hard a’ aboot it, but I canna min’^{I cannot think or remember} upo’ ’t noo^now, for I paid little attention till ’t at the time, an’ it’s mony^many a year sin’^since syne^then. But it wad be some deevilich ploy o’ their ain they wad be efter: it’s little the likes o’ them wad heed sic auld warld tales.”

“Wad ye hae me tell the markis^Marquis?” asked Malcolm.

“Na, I wad no; an’ yet ye maun du ’t. Ye hae no business to ken o’ onything wrang^wrong in a body’s hoose, an’ no tell them—forbye^{as well as} ’at he pat^put ye in chairge^charge. But it ’ll du naething for the laird; for what cares the markis^Marquis for onything or onybody but himsel’?”

“He cares for ’s dauchter^daughter,” said Malcolm.

“Ow^{oh! [surprise]} ay!—as sic fowk ca’ carin’. There’s no a bla’guard i’ the haill^whole queentry he wadna sell her till, sae be he was o’ an auld eneuch faimily, and had rowth^plenty o’ siller^silver. Haith^{a mild oath}! noo a days the last ’ill^will come first, an’ a fish-cadger wi’ siller ’ill^will be coontit^counted a better bargain nor a lord wantin ’t: only he maun hae a heap o’ ’t, to cower^cover the stink o’ the fish.”

“Dinna scorn the fish, mem,” said Malcolm: “they’re innocent craturs^creatures, an’ dinna smell waur^worse nor they can help; an’ that’s mair nor ye can say for ilka^{every, each} lord ye come athort^{across, over, through}.”

“Ay, or cadger^peddlar aither^either,” rejoined Miss Horn. “They’re aft^often eneuch jist sic like, the main differ lyin’ in what they’re defiled wi’; an’ ’deed^indeed whiles there’s no differ there, or maist^almost ony gait^anyway, maybe, but i’ the set o’ the shoothers^shoulders, an’ the wag o’ the tongue.”

“An’ what ’ll we du wi’ the laird?” said Malcolm.

“We maun first see what we can du wi’ him. I wad try to keep him mysel’, that is, gien he wad bide—but there’s that jaud^{worthless woman} Jean! She’s aye gabbin’, an’ claikin’^clucking, an’ cognostin’^plotting wi’ the enemy, an’ I canna lippen till^{trust in, depend on} her. I think it wad be better ye sud^should tak chairge^charge o’ ’m^him yersel’, Malcolm. I wad willin’ly beir^bear ony expense—for ye wadna be able to luik efter him an’ du sae weel at the fishin’, ye ken.”

“Gien ’t had been my ain line-fishin’, I could aye ha’ taen^taken him i’ the boat wi’ me; but I dinna ken for the herrin’^herring. Blue Peter wadna objeck, but it’s some much work, an’ for a waikly body like the laird to be oot a’ nicht^{night, evening} some nichts^nights, sic weather as we hae to encoonter whiles, micht^might be the deid^death o’ ’m^him.”

They came to no conclusion beyond this, that each would think it over, and Malcolm would call in the morning. Ere then, however, the laird had dismissed the question for them. When Miss Horn rose, after an all but sleepless night, she found that he had taken the affairs again into his own feeble hands, and vanished.

Chapter 26 - Not at Church

It being well-known that Joseph Mair’s cottage was one of the laird’s resorts, Malcolm, as soon as he learned his flight, set out to inquire whether they knew anything of him there.

Scaurnose was perched almost on the point of the promontory, where the land made its final slope, ending in a precipitous descent to the shore. Beneath lay rocks of all sizes and of fantastic forms, some fallen from the cape in tempests perhaps, some softly separated from it by the slow action of the winds and waves of centuries. A few of them formed, by their broken defence seawards, the unsafe natural harbour which was all the place enjoyed.

If ever there was a place of one colour it was this village: everything was brown; the grass near it was covered with brown nets; at the doors were brown heaps of oak-bark, which, after dyeing the nets, was used for fuel; the cottages were roofed with old brown thatch; and the one street and the many closes were dark brown with the peaty earth which, well mixed with scattered bark, scantily covered the surface of its huge foundation rock. There was no pavement, and it was the less needed that the ways were rarely used by wheels of any description. The village was but a roost, like the dwellings of the sea birds which also haunted the rocks.

It was a gray morning with a gray sky and a gray sea; all was brown and gray, peaceful and rather sad. Brown-haired, gray-eyed Phemy Mair sat in the threshold, intently rubbing in her hands a small object like a moonstone. That she should be doing so on a Sunday would have shocked few in Scaurnose at that time, for the fisher-folk then made but small pretensions to religion; and for his part Joseph Mair could not believe that the Almighty would be offended “at seein’ a bairn^child sittin’ douce^{sober, quiet, respectable} wi’ her playocks, though the day^today was his.”

“Weel, Phemy, ye’re busy!” said Malcolm.

“Ay,” answered the child, without looking up. The manner was not courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet.

“What are ye doin’ there?” he asked.

“Makin’ a string o’ beads, to weir^wear at aunty’s merriage.”

“What are ye makin’ them o’?” he went on.

“Haddicks’ een^{haddocks’ eyes}.”

“Are they a’ haddicks’?”

“Na, there’s some cods’ amo’^among them; but they’re maistly^{mostly, most of all} haddicks’. I pikes them out afore they’re sautit^salted, an’ biles^boils them; an’ syne^then I polish them i’ my han’s till they’re rale^real bonny.”

“Can ye tell me onything about the mad laird, Phemy?” asked Malcolm, in his anxiety too abruptly.

“Ye can gang an’ speir at^question my father: he’s oot aboot,” she answered, with a sort of marked coolness, which, added to the fact that she had never looked him in the face, made him more than suspect something behind.

“Div^do ye ken onything aboot him?” he therefore insisted.

“Maybe I div^do, an’ maybe I divna^{do not},” answered the child, with an expression of determined mystery.

“Ye’ll tell me whaur ye think he is, Phemy?”

“Na, I winna^{will not}.”

“What for no?”

“Ow, jist for fear ye sud^should ken.”

“But I’m a freen’ till him.”

“Ye may think ay, an’ the laird may think no.”

“Does he think you a freen’, Phemy?” asked Malcolm, in the hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation.

“Ay, he kens^knows I’m a freen’,” she replied.

“An’ do ye aye ken whaur he is?”

“Na, no aye. He gangs^{goes, walks} here an’ he gangs^{goes, walks} there—jist as he likes. It’s whan naebody^nobody kens^knows whaur he is, that I ken, an’ gang till him.”

“Is he i’ the hoose?”

“Na, he’s no i’ the hoose.”

“Whaur is he than, Phemy?” said Malcolm coaxingly. “There’s ill fowk aboot ’at’s^{that is} efter deein’^doing him an ill turn.”

“The mair need no to tell!” retorted Phemy.

“But I want to tak care ’o ’im^him. Tell me whaur he is, like a guid lassie, Phemy.”

“I’m no sure. I may say I dinna ken.”

“Ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna^{does not}: noo^now naebody^nobody kens^knows.”

“Hoo ken ye that?”

“‘Cause he’s run awa^away.”

“Wha frae? His mither^mother?”

“Na, na; frae Miss Horn.”

“I ken naething aboot her; but gien naebody kens^knows, I ken whaur he is weel eneuch.”

“Whaur than? Ye’ll be duin’^doing him a guid turn to tell me.”

“Whaur I winna^{will not} tell, an’ whaur you nor nae ither body s’ get him. An’ ye needna^{need not} speir^ask, for it wadna be richt to tell; an’ gien ye gang on speirin’^asking, you an’ me winna^{will not} be lang freen’s.”

As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with wide-opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm dared not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong.

“Ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye?” he said kindly.

“My father wadna speir^ask. My father’s a guid man.”

“Weel, Phemy, though ye winna^{will not} trust me—supposin’ I was to trust you?”

“Ye can du that gien ye like.”

“An’ ye winna^{will not} tell?”

“I s’ mak nae promises. It’s no trustin’, to gar^{cause, make} me promise.”

“Weel, I wull^will trust ye.—Tell the laird to haud weel oot o’ sicht^sight for a while.”

“He’ll du that,” said Phemy.

“An’ tell him gien onything befa’ him, to sen’ to Miss Horn, for Ma’colm MacPhail may be oot wi’ the boats.—Ye winna^{will not} forget that?”

“I’m no lickly to forget it,” answered Phemy, apparently absorbed in boring a hole in a haddock’s eye with a pin so bent as to act like a brace and bit.

“Ye’ll no get yer string o’ beads in time for the weddin’, Phemy,” remarked Malcolm, going on to talk from a desire to give the child a feeling of his friendliness.

“Ay will I—fine that,” she rejoined.

“Whan is ’t to be?”

“Ow, neist^next Setterday^Saturday. Ye’ll be comin’ ower?”

“I haena^{have not} gotten a call.”

“Ye ’ll be gettin ane.

“Div^do ye think they’ll gie^give me ane?”

“As sune^soon ’s onybody.—Maybe by that time I’ll be able to gie^give ye some news o’ the laird.”

“There’s a guid lassie!”

“Na, na; I’m makin’ nae promises,” said Phemy.

Malcolm left her and went to find her father, who, although it was Sunday, was already “oot aboot,” as she had said. He found him strolling in meditation along the cliffs. They had a little talk together, but Joseph knew nothing of the laird.

Malcolm took Lossie House on his way back, for he had not yet seen the marquis, to whom he must report his adventures of the night before. The signs of past revelling were plentifully visible as he approached the house. The marquis was not yet up, but Mrs Courthope undertaking to send him word as soon as his lordship was to be seen, he threw himself on the grass and waited—his mind occupied with strange questions, started by the Sunday coming after such a Saturday—among the rest, how God could permit a creature to be born so distorted and helpless as the laird, and then permit him to be so abused in consequence of his helplessness. The problems of life were beginning to bite. Everywhere things appeared uneven. He was not one to complain of mere external inequalities: if he was inclined to envy Lord Meikleham, it was not because of his social position: he was even now philosopher enough to know that the life of a fisherman was preferable to that of such a marquis as Lord Lossie—that the desirableness of a life is to be measured by the amount of interest and not by the amount of ease in it, for the more ease the more unrest; neither was he inclined to complain of the gulf that yawned so wide between him and Lady Florimel; the difficulty lay deeper: such a gulf existing, by a social law only less inexorable than a natural one, why should he feel the rent invading his individual being? in a word, though Malcolm put it in no such definite shape: Why should a fisher-lad find himself in danger of falling in love with the daughter of a marquis? Why should such a thing, seeing the very constitution of things rendered it an absurdity, be yet a possibility?

The church bell began, rang on, and ceased. The sound of the psalms came, softly mellowed, and sweetly harmonized, across the churchyard through the gray Sabbath air, and he found himself, for the first time, a stray sheep from the fold. The service must have been half through before a lackey, to whom Mrs Courthope had committed the matter when she went to church, brought him the message that the marquis would see him.

“Well, MacPhail, what do you want with me?” said his lordship as he entered.

“It’s my duty to acquaint yer lordship wi’ certain proceedin’s ’at took place last night,” answered Malcolm.

“Go on,” said the marquis.

Thereupon Malcolm began at the beginning, and told of the men he had watched, and how, in the fancy of following them, he had found himself in the garret, and what he saw and did there.

“Did you recognize either of the women?” asked Lord Lossie.

“Ane o’ them, my lord,” answered Malcolm. “It was Mistress Catanach, the howdie^midwife.”

“What sort of a woman is she?”

“Some fowk canna bide her, my lord. I ken no ill to lay till her chairge^charge, but I winna^{will not} lippen till^{listen to, trust in} her. My gran’father—an’ he’s blin’^blind, ye ken—jist trimles^trembles whan she comes near him.”

The marquis smiled.

“What do you suppose she was about?” he asked.

“I ken nae mair than the bonnet I flang^threw in her face, my lord; but it could hardly be guid she was efter. At ony rate, seein’ yer lordship pat^put me in a mainner^manner in chairge^charge, I bude to^{had to} haud her oot o’ a closed room—an’ her gaein’^going creepin’ aboot yer lordship’s hoose like a worm.”

“Quite right. Will you pull the bell there for me?”

He told the man to send Mrs Courthope; but he said she had not yet come home from church.

“Could you take me to the room, MacPhail?” asked his lordship.

“I’ll try, my lord,” answered Malcolm. As far as the proper quarter of the attics, he went straight as a pigeon; in that labyrinth he had to retrace his steps once or twice, but at length he stopped, and said confidently—“This is the door, my lord.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure’s death, my lord.”

The marquis tried the door and found it immovable. “You say she had the key?”

“No, my lord: I said she had keys, but whether she had the key, I doobt if she kent^knew hersel’. It may ha’ been ane o’ the bundle yet to try.”

“You’re a sharp fellow,” said the marquis. “I wish I had such a servant about me.”

“I wad mak a some rouch^rough ane, I doobt^{I suspect},” returned Malcolm, laughing.

His lordship was of another mind, but pursued the subject no farther.

“I have a vague recollection,” he said, “of some room in the house having an old story or legend connected with it. I must find out. I daresay Mrs Courthope knows. Meantime you hold your tongue. We may get some amusement out of this.”

“I wull^will, my lord, like a deid^dead man an’ beeryt.”

“You can—can you?”

“I can, my lord.”

“You’re a rare one!” said the marquis.

Malcolm thought he was making game of him as heretofore, and held his peace.

“You can go home now,” said his lordship. “I will see to this affair.”

“But jist be canny^careful middlin’^meddling wi’ Mistress Catanach, my lord: she’s no mowse^{no joking matter}.”

“What! you’re not afraid of an old woman?”

“Deil^not a bit, my lord!—that is, I’m no feart^{afraid, scared} at a dogfish or a rottan^rat, but I wud^would tak tent^{care, heed} an’ grip them the richt gait^way, for they hae teeth. Some fowk think Mistress Catanach has mair teeth nor she shaws^shows.”

“Well, if she’s too much for me, I’ll send for you,” said the marquis good-humouredly.

“Ye canna get me sae easy, my lord: we’re efter the herrin’ noo.”

“Well, well, we’ll see.”

“But I wantit to tell ye anither thing my lord,” said Malcolm, as he followed the marquis down the stairs.

“What is that?”

“I cam upo’ anither plot—a mair serious ane, bein’ against a man ’at can ill haud aff^off o’ himsel’, an’ cud^could waur^worse bide onything than yer lordship—the puir mad laird.”

“Who’s he?”

“Ilka^{every, each} body kens^knows him, my lord! He’s son to the leddy o’ Kirkbyres.”

“I remember her—an old flame of my brother’s.”

“I ken naething aboot that, my lord; but he’s her son.”

“What about him, then?”

They had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impatient, Malcolm confined himself to the principal facts.

“I don’t think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail,” said his lordship, seriously. “His mother must know best.”

“I’m no sae sure o’ that, my lord! To say naething o’ the ill guideship^{usage, treatment}, which micht^might hae garred^made a minister sweer^swear, it wud^would be a cruelty naething short o’ deev’lich to lock up a puir hairmless cratur^creature like that, as innocent as he ’s ill-shapit.”

“He’s as God made him,” said the marquis.

“He ’s no as God wull^will mak him,” returned Malcolm.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the marquis.

“It stan’s to rizzon^reason, my lord,” answered Malcolm, “that what’s ill-made maun be made ower again. There’s a day comin’ whan a’ ’at’s^{that is, that has} wrang^wrong ’ll be set richt, ye ken.”

“And the crooked made straight,” suggested the marquis laughing.

“Doobtless, my lord. He’ll be strauchtit oot bonny that day,” said Malcolm with absolute seriousness.

“Bah! You don’t think God cares about a misshapen lump of flesh like that!” exclaimed his lordship with contempt.

“As muckle’s aboot yersel’, or my leddy,” said Malcolm. “Gien he didna, he wadna be nae God ava’^{at all}.”

The marquis laughed again: he heard the words with his ears, but his heart was deaf to the thought they clothed; hence he took Malcolm’s earnestness for irreverence, and it amused him.

“You’ve not got to set things right, anyhow,” he said. “You mind your own business.”

“I’ll try, my lord: it’s the business o’ ilka^each man, whaur he can, to lowse^loose the weichty birns^burdens, an’ lat the forfouchten^oppressed gang free [Isaiah 58]. Guid-day to ye, my lord.”

So saying the young fisherman turned, and left the marquis laughing in the hall.

Chapter 27 - Lord Gernon

When his housekeeper returned from church, Lord Lossie sent for her.

“Sit down, Mrs Courthope,” he said; “I want to ask you about a story I have a vague recollection of hearing when I spent a summer at this house some twenty years ago. It had to do with a room in the house that was never opened.”

“There is such a story, my lord,” answered the housekeeper. “The late marquis, I remember well, used to laugh at it, and threaten now and then to dare the prophecy; but old Eppie persuaded him not—or at least fancied she did.”

“Who is old Eppie?”

“She’s gone now, my lord. She was over a hundred then. She was born and brought up in the house, lived all her days in it, and died in it; so she knew more about the place than any one else.”

“Is ever likely to know,” said the marquis, superadding a close to her sentence. “And why wouldn’t she have the room opened?” he asked.

“Because of the ancient prophecy, my lord.”

“I can’t recall a single point of the story.”

“I wish old Eppie were alive to tell it,” said Mrs Courthope.

“Don’t you know it then?”

“Yes, pretty well; but my English tongue can’t tell it properly. It doesn’t sound right out of my mouth. I’ve heard it a good many times too, for I had often to take a visitor to her room to hear it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it. But I couldn’t help remarking that it had grown a good bit even in my time. The story was like a tree: it got bigger every year.”

“That’s the way with a good many stories,” said the marquis. “But tell me the prophecy at least.”

“That is the only part I can give just as she gave it. It’s in rhyme. I hardly understand it, but I’m sure of the words.”

“Let us have them then, if you please.”

Mrs Courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the following lines:

“The lord quha^who wad^would sup on 3 thowmes^{thumbs, i.e. inches} o’ cauld^cold airn^iron,

The ayr^heir quha wad kythe^{make known, reveal} a bastard and carena^{not care},

The mayd^{damsel, maid} quha wad tyne^{lose, forfeit} her man and her bairn^child,

Lift the sneck, and enter, and fearna.”

“That’s it, my lord,” she said, in conclusion. “And there’s one thing to be observed,” she added, “—that that door is the only one in all the passage that has a sneck, as they call it.”.

“What is a sneck?” asked his lordship, who was not much of a scholar in his country’s tongue.

“What we call a latch in England, my lord. I took pains to learn the Scotch correctly, and I’ve repeated it to your lordship, word for word.”

“I don’t doubt it,” returned Lord Lossie, “but for the sense, I can make nothing of it.—And you think my brother believed the story?”

“He always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to give in to old Eppie’s entreaties.”

“You mean that he was more near believing it than he liked to confess?”

“That’s not what I mean, my lord.”

“Why do you say pretended then?”

“Because when the news of his death came, some people about the place would have it that he must have opened the door some time or other.”

“How did they make that out?”

“From the first line of the prophecy.”

“Repeat it again.”

“The lord quha^who wad^would sup on 3 thowmes^{thumbs, i.e. inches} o’ cauld^cold airn^iron,” said Mrs Courthope with emphasis, adding, “The three she always said was a figure 3.”

“That implies it was written somewhere!”

“She said it was legible on the door in her day—as if burnt with a red-hot iron.”

“And what does the line mean?”

“Eppie said it meant that the lord of the place who opened that door, would die by a sword-wound. Three inches of cold iron, it means, my lord.”

The marquis grew thoughtful; his brother had died in a sword duel. For a few moments he was silent.

“Tell me the whole story,” he said at length.

Mrs Courthope again reflected, and began. I will tell the story, however, in my own words, reminding my reader that if he regards it as an unwelcome interruption, he can easily enough avoid this bend of the river of my narrative by taking a short cut across to the next chapter.

In an ancient time there was a lord of Lossie who practised unholy works. Although he had other estates, he lived almost entirely at the House of Lossie—that is, after his return from the East, where he had spent his youth and early manhood. But he paid no attention to his affairs: a steward managed everything for him, and Lord Gernon (for that was the outlandish name he brought from England, where he was born while his father was prisoner to Edward Longshanks) trusted him for a great while without making the least inquiry into his accounts, apparently contented with receiving money enough to carry on the various vile experiments which seemed his sole pleasure in life. There was no doubt in the minds of the people of the town—the old town that is, which was then much larger, and clustered about the gates of the House—that he had dealings with Satan, from whom he had gained authority over the powers of nature; that he was able to rouse and lay the winds, to bring down rain, to call forth the lightnings and set the thunders roaring over town and sea; nay, that he could even draw vessels ashore on the rocks, with the certainty that not one on board would be left alive to betray the pillage of the wreck: this and many other deeds of dire note were laid to his charge in secret. The town cowered at the foot of the House in terror of what its lord might bring down upon it—as a brood of chickens might cower if they had been hatched by a kite, and saw, instead of the matronly head and beak of the hen of their instinct, those of the bird of prey projected over them. Scarce one of them dared even look from the door when the thunder was rolling over their heads, the lightnings flashing about the roofs and turrets of the House, the wind raving in fits between as if it would rave its last, and the rain falling in sheets—not so much from fear of the elements, as for horror of the far more terrible things that might be spied careering in the storm. And indeed Lord Gernon himself was avoided in like fashion, although rarely had any one the evil chance of seeing him, so seldom did he go out of doors. There was but one in the whole community—and that was a young girl, the daughter of his steward—who declared she had no fear of him: she went so far as to uphold that Lord Gernon meant harm to nobody, and was in consequence regarded by the neighbours as unrighteously bold.

He worked in a certain lofty apartment on the ground floor—with cellars underneath, reserved, it was believed, for frightfullest conjurations and interviews; where, although no one was permitted to enter, they knew from the smoke that he had a furnace, and from the evil smells which wandered out, that he dealt with things altogether devilish in their natures and powers. They said he always washed there—in water medicated with distilments to prolong life and produce invulnerability; but of this they could of course know nothing. Strange to say, however, he always slept in the garret, as far removed from his laboratory as the limits of the house would permit; whence people said he dared not sleep in the neighbourhood of his deeds, but sought shelter for his unconscious hours in the spiritual shadow of the chapel, which was in the same wing as his chamber. His household saw nearly as little of him as his retainers: when his tread was heard, beating dull on the stone turnpike, or thundering along the upper corridors in the neighbourhood of his chamber or of the library—the only other part of the house he visited, man or maid would dart aside into the next way of escape—all believing that the nearer he came to finding himself the sole inhabitant of his house, the better he was pleased. Nor would he allow man or woman to enter his chamber any more than his laboratory. When they found sheets or garments outside his door, they removed them with fear and trembling, and put others in their place.

At length, by means of his enchantments, he discovered that the man whom he had trusted had been robbing him for many years: all the time he had been searching for the philosopher’s stone, the gold already his had been tumbling into the bags of his steward. But what enraged him far more was, that the fellow had constantly pretended difficulty in providing the means necessary for the prosecution of his idolized studies: even if the feudal lord could have accepted the loss and forgiven the crime, here was a mockery which the man of science could not pardon. He summoned his steward to his presence, and accused him of his dishonesty. The man denied it energetically, but a few mysterious waftures of the hand of his lord, set him trembling, and after a few more, his lips, moving by a secret compulsion, and finding no power in their owner to check their utterance, confessed all the truth, whereupon his master ordered him to go and bring his accounts. He departed all but bereft of his senses, and staggered home as if in a dream. There he begged his daughter to go and plead for him with his lord, hoping she might be able to move him to mercy; for she was a lovely girl, and supposed by the neighbours, judging from what they considered her foolhardiness, to have received from him tokens of something at least less than aversion.

She obeyed, and from that hour disappeared. The people of the house averred afterwards that the next day, and for days following, they heard, at intervals, moans and cries from the wizard’s chamber, or some where in its neighbourhood—certainly not from the laboratory; but as they had seen no one visit their master, they had paid them little attention, classing them with the other and hellish noises they were but too much accustomed to hear.

The steward’s love for his daughter, though it could not embolden him to seek her in the tyrant’s den, drove him, at length, to appeal to the justice of his country for what redress might yet be possible: he sought the court of the great Bruce, and laid his complaint before him. That righteous monarch immediately despatched a few of his trustiest men-at-arms, under the protection of a monk whom he believed a match for any wizard under the sun, to arrest Lord Gernon and release the girl. When they arrived at Lossie House, they found it silent as the grave. The domestics had vanished; but by following the minute directions of the steward, whom no persuasion could bring to set foot across the threshold, they succeeded in finding their way to the parts of the house indicated by him. Having forced the laboratory and found it forsaken, they ascended, in the gathering dusk of a winter afternoon, to the upper regions of the house. Before they reached the top of the stair that led to the wizard’s chamber, they began to hear inexplicable sounds, which grew plainer, though not much louder, as they drew nearer to the door. They were mostly like the grunting of some small animal of the hog-kind, with an occasional one like the yelling roar of a distant lion; but with these were now and then mingled cries of suffering, so fell and strange that their souls recoiled as if they would break loose from their bodies to get out of hearing of them. The monk himself started back when first they invaded his ear, and it was no wonder then that the men-at-arms should hesitate to approach the room; and as they stood irresolute, they saw a faint light go flickering across the upper part of the door, which naturally strengthened their disinclination to go nearer.

“If it weren’t for the girl,” said one of them in a scared whisper to his neighbour, “I would leave the wizard to the devil and his dam.”

Scarcely had the words left his mouth, when the door opened, and out came a form—whether phantom or living woman none could tell. Pale, forlorn, lost, and purposeless, it came straight towards them, with wide unseeing eyes. They parted in terror from its path. It went on, looking to neither hand, and sank down the stair. The moment it was beyond their sight, they came to themselves and rushed after it; but although they searched the whole house, they could find no creature in it, except a cat of questionable appearance and behaviour, which they wisely let alone. Returning, they took up a position whence they could watch the door of the chamber day and night.

For three weeks they watched it, but neither cry nor other sound reached them. For three weeks more they watched it, and then an evil odour began to assail them, which grew and grew, until at length they were satisfied that the wizard was dead. They returned therefore to the king and made their report, whereupon Lord Gernon was decreed dead, and his heir was enfeoffed^{put in possession of land in exchange for a pledge of service}. But for many years he was said to be still alive; and indeed whether he had ever died in the ordinary sense of the word, was to old Eppie doubtful; for at various times there had arisen whispers of peculiar sounds, even strange cries, having been heard issue from that room—whispers which had revived in the house in Mrs Courthope’s own time. No one had slept in that part of the roof within the memory of old Eppie: no one, she believed, had ever slept there since the events of her tale; certainly no one had in Mrs Courthope’s time. It was said also, that, invariably, sooner or later after such cries were heard, some evil befell either the Lord of Lossie, or some one of his family.

“Show me the room, Mrs Courthope,” said the marquis, rising, as soon as she had ended.

The housekeeper looked at him with some dismay.

“What!” said his lordship, “you an Englishwoman and superstitious!”

“I am cautious, my lord, though not a Scotchwoman,” returned Mrs Courthope. “All I would presume to say is—Don’t do it without first taking time to think over it.”

“I will not. But I want to know which room it is.”

Mrs Courthope led the way, and his lordship followed her to the very door, as he had expected, with which Malcolm had spied Mrs Catanach tampering. He examined it well, and on the upper part of it found what might be the remnants of a sunk inscription, so far obliterated as to convey no assurance of what it was. He professed himself satisfied, and they went down the stairs together again.

Chapter 28 - A Fisher-Wedding

When the next Saturday came, all the friends of the bride or bridegroom who had “gotten a call” to the wedding of Annie Mair and Charley Wilson, assembled respectively at the houses of their parents. Malcolm had received an invitation from both, and had accepted that of the bride.

Whisky and oat-cake having been handed round, the bride, a short but comely young woman, set out with her father for the church, followed by her friends in couples. At the door of the church, which stood on the highest point in the parish, a centre of assault for all the winds that blew, they met the bridegroom and his party: the bride and he entered the church together, and the rest followed. After a brief and somewhat bare ceremony, they issued—the bride walking between her brother and the groomsman, each taking an arm of the bride, and the company following mainly in trios. Thus arranged they walked eastward along the highroad, to meet the bride’s first-foot.

They had gone about halfway to Portlossie, when a gentleman appeared, sauntering carelessly towards them, with a cigar in his mouth. It was Lord Meikleham. Malcolm was not the only one who knew him: Lizzy Findlay, only daughter of the Partan, and the prettiest girl in the company, blushed crimson: she had danced with him at Lossie House, and he had said things to her, by way of polite attention, which he would never have said had she been of his own rank. He would have lounged past, with a careless glance, but the procession halted by one consent, and the bride, taking a bottle and glass which her brother carried, proceeded to pour out a bumper of whisky, while the groomsman addressed Lord Meikleham.

“Ye ’re the bride’s first fut^foot, sir,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Lord Meikleham.

“Here’s the bride, sir: she’ll tell ye.”

Lord Meikleham lifted his hat. “Allow me to congratulate you,” he said.

“Ye ’re my first fut^foot,” returned the bride eagerly yet modestly, as she held out to him the glass of whisky.

“This is to console me for not being in the bridegroom’s place, I presume; but notwithstanding my jealousy, I drink to the health of both,” said the young nobleman, and tossed off the liquor.—“Would you mind explaining to me what you mean by this ceremony?” he added, to cover a slight choking caused by the strength of the dram^{glass of whisky}.

“It’s for luck, sir,” answered Joseph Mair. “A first fut^foot wha wadna bring ill luck upon a new-merried couple, maun aye du as ye hae dune this meenute—tak a dram frae the bride.”

“Is that the sole privilege connected with my good fortune?” said Lord Meikleham. “If I take the bride’s dram, I must join the bride’s regiment—My good fellow,” he went on, approaching Malcolm, “you have more than your share of the best things of this world.”

For Malcolm had two partners, and the one on the side next Lord Meikleham, who, as he spoke, offered her his arm, was Lizzy Findlay.

“No as shares gang, my lord,” returned Malcolm, tightening his arm on Lizzie’s hand. “Ye mauna gang wi’ ane o’ oor^our customs to gang agane anither. Fisher-fowk ’s ready eneuch to pairt^part wi’ their whusky^whisky, but no wi’ their lasses!—Na, haith^{a mild oath}!”

Lord Meikleham’s face flushed, and Lizzy looked down, very evidently disappointed; but the bride’s father, a wrinkled and brown little man, with a more gentle bearing than most of them, interfered.

“Ye see, my lord—gien it be sae I maun ca’ ye, an’ Ma’colm seems to ken—we’re like by oorsel’s for the present, an’ we’re but a rouch^rough set o’ fowk for such like ’s yer lordship to haud word o’ mou’^mouth wi’; but gien it wad please ye to come ower the gait^way ony time i’ the evenin’, an’ tak yer share o’ what’s gauin’^going, ye sud be walcome, an’ we wad coont^count it a great honour frae sic ’s yer lordship.”

“I shall be most happy,” answered Lord Meikleham; and taking off his hat he went his way.

The party returned to the home of the bride’s parents. Her mother stood at the door with a white handkerchief in one hand, and a quarter of oatcake in the other. When the bride reached the threshold she stood, and her mother, first laying the handkerchief on her head, broke the oatcake into pieces upon it. These were distributed among the company, to be carried home and laid under their pillows.

The bridegroom’s party betook themselves to his father’s house, where, as well as at old Mair’s, a substantial meal of tea, bread and butter, cake, and cheese, was provided. Then followed another walk, to allow of both houses being made tidy for the evening’s amusements.

About seven, Lord Meikleham made his appearance, and had a hearty welcome. He had bought a showy brooch for the bride, which she accepted with the pleasure of a child. In their games, which had already commenced, he joined heartily, gaining high favour with both men and women. When the great clothesbasket full of sweeties, the result of a subscription among the young men, was carried round by two of them, he helped himself liberally with the rest; and at the inevitable game of forfeits met his awards with unflinching obedience; contriving ever through it all that Lizzy Findlay should feel herself his favourite. In the general hilarity, neither the heightened colour of her cheek, nor the vivid sparkle in her eyes attracted notice. Doubtless some of the girls observed the frequency of his attentions, but it woke nothing in their minds beyond a little envy of her passing good fortune.

Meikleham was handsome and a lord; Lizzy was pretty though a fisherman’s daughter: a sort of Darwinian selection had apparently found place between them; but as the same entertainment was going on in two houses at once, and there was naturally a good deal of passing and repassing between them, no one took the least notice of several short absences from the company on the part of the pair.

Supper followed, at which his lordship sat next to Lizzy, and partook of dried skate and mustard, bread and cheese, and beer. Every man helped himself. Lord Meikleham and a few others were accommodated with knives and forks, but the most were independent of such artificial aids. Whisky came next, and Lord Meikleham being already, like many of the young men of his time, somewhat fond of strong drink, was not content with such sipping as Lizzy honoured his glass withal.

At length it was time, according to age-long custom, to undress the bride and bridegroom and put them to bed—the bride’s stocking, last ceremony of all, being thrown amongst the company, as by its first contact prophetic of the person to be next married. Neither Lizzy nor Lord Meikleham, however, had any chance of being thus distinguished, for they were absent and unmissed.

As soon as all was over, Malcolm set out to return home. As he passed Joseph Mair’s cottage, he found Phemy waiting for him at the door, still in the mild splendour of her pearl-like necklace.

“I tellt the laird what ye tellt me to tell him, Malcolm,” she said.

“An’ what did he say, Phemy?” asked Malcolm.

“He said he kent^knew ye was a freen’.”

“Was that a’?”

“Ay; that was a’.”

“Weel, ye’re a guid lassie.”

“Ow! middlin’,” answered the little maiden.

Malcolm took his way along the top of the cliffs, pausing now and then to look around him. The crescent moon had gone down, leaving a starlit night, in which the sea lay softly moaning at the foot of the broken crags. The sense of infinitude which comes to the soul when it is in harmony with the peace of nature, arose and spread itself abroad in Malcolm’s being, and he felt with the Galilaeans of old, when they forsook their nets and followed him who called them, that catching fish was not the end of his being, although it was the work his hands had found to do. The stillness was all the sweeter for its contrast with the merriment he had left behind him, and a single breath of wind, like the waft from a passing wind, kissed his forehead tenderly, as if to seal the truth of his meditations.

Chapter 29 - Florimel and Duncan

In the course of a fortnight, Lord Meikleham and his aunt, the bold-faced countess, had gone, and the marquis, probably finding it a little duller in consequence, began to pay visits in the neighbourhood. Now and then he would be absent for a week or two—at Bog o’ Gight, or Huntly Lodge, or Frendraught, or Balvenie, and although Lady Florimel had not much of his society, she missed him at meals, and felt the place grown dreary from his being nowhere within its bounds.

On his return from one of his longer absences, he began to talk to her about a governess; but, though in a playful way, she rebelled utterly at the first mention of such an incubus. She had plenty of material for study, she said, in the library, and plenty of amusement in wandering about with the sullen Demon, who was her constant companion during his absences; and if he did force a governess upon her, she would certainly murder the woman, if only for the sake of bringing him into trouble. Her easygoing father was amused, laughed, and said nothing more on the subject at the time.

Lady Florimel did not confess that she had begun to feel her life monotonous, or mention that she had for some time been cultivating the acquaintance of a few of her poor neighbours, and finding their odd ways of life and thought and speech interesting. She had especially taken a liking to Duncan MacPhail, in which, strange to say, Demon, who had hitherto absolutely detested the appearance of any one not attired as a lady or gentleman, heartily shared. She found the old man so unlike anything she had ever heard or read of—so full of grand notions in such contrast with his poor conditions; so proud yet so overflowing with service—dusting a chair for her with his bonnet, yet drawing himself up like an offended hidalgo^nobleman if she declined to sit in it—more than content to play the pipes while others dined, yet requiring a personal apology from the marquis himself for a practical joke! so full of kindness and yet of revenges—lamenting over Demon when he hurt his foot, yet cursing, as she overheard him once, in fancied solitude, with an absolute fervour of imprecation, a continuous blast of poetic hate which made her shiver; and the next moment sighing out a most wailful coronach on his old pipes. It was all so odd, so funny, so interesting! It nearly made her aware of human nature as an object of study. But Lady Florimel had never studied anything yet, had never even perceived that anything wanted studying, that is, demanded to be understood.

What appeared to her most odd, most inconsistent, and was indeed of all his peculiarities alone distasteful to her, was his delight in what she regarded only as the menial and dirty occupation of cleaning lamps and candlesticks; the poetic side of it, rendered tenfold poetic by his blindness, she never saw.

Then he had such tales to tell her—of mountain, stream, and lake; of love and revenge; of beings less and more than natural—brownie and Boneless, kelpie^{water-sprite, river-horse} and fairy; such wild legends also, haunting the dim emergent peaks of mist-swathed Celtic history; such songs—come down, he said, from Ossian himself—that sometimes she would sit and listen to him for hours together.

It was no wonder then that she should win the heart of the simple old man speedily and utterly; for what can bard desire beyond a true listener—a mind into which his own may, in verse or tale or rhapsody, in pibroch or coronach, overflow? But when, one evening, in girlish merriment, she took up his pipes, blew the bag full, and began to let a highland air burst fitfully from the chanter, the jubilation of the old man broke all the bounds of reason. He jumped from his seat and capered about the room, calling her all the tenderest and most poetic names his English vocabulary would afford him; then abandoning the speech of the Sassenach, as if in despair of ever uttering himself through its narrow and rugged channels, overwhelmed her with a cataract of soft-flowing Gaelic, returning to English only as his excitement passed over into exhaustion—but in neither case aware of the transition.

Her visits were the greater comfort to Duncan, that Malcolm was now absent almost every night, and most days a good many hours asleep; had it been otherwise, Florimel, invisible for very width as was the gulf between them, could hardly have made them so frequent. Before the fishing-season was over, the piper had been twenty times on the verge of disclosing every secret in his life to the high-born maiden.

“It’s a pity you haven’t a wife to take care of you, Mr MacPhail,” she said one evening. “You must be so lonely without a woman to look after you!”

A dark cloud came over Duncan’s face, out of which his sightless eyes gleamed.

“She’ll haf her poy, and she’ll pe wanting no wife,” he said sullenly. “Wifes is paad.”

“Ah!” said Florimel, the teasing spirit of her father uppermost for the moment, “that accounts for your swearing so shockingly the other day?”

“Swearing was she? Tat will pe wrong. And who was she’ll pe swearing at?”

“That’s what I want you to tell me, Mr MacPhail.”

“Tid you’ll hear me, my laty?” he asked in a tone of reflection, as if trying to recall the circumstance.

“Indeed I did. You frightened me so that I didn’t dare come in.”

“Ten she’ll pe punished enough. Put it wass no harm to curse ta wicket Cawmill.”

“It was not Glenlyon—it wasn’t a man at all; it was a woman you were in such a rage with.”

“Was it ta rascal’s wife, ten, my laty?” he asked, as if he were willing to be guided to the truth that he might satisfy her, but so much in the habit of swearing, that he could not well recollect the particular object at a given time.

“Is his wife as bad as himself then?”

“Wifes is aalways worser.”

“But what is it makes you hate him so dreadfully? Is he a bad man?”

“A fery pad man, my tear laty! He is tead more than a hundert years.”

“Then why do you hate him so?”

“Och hone^alas! Ton’t you’ll never hear why?”

“He can’t have done you any harm.”

“Not done old Tuncan any harm! Tidn’t you’ll know what ta tog would pe toing to her aancestors of Glenco? Och hone! Och hone! Gif her ta tog’s heart of him in her teeth, and she’ll pe tearing it—tearing it—tearing it!” cried the piper in a growl of hate, and with the look of a maddened tiger, the skin of his face drawn so tight over the bones that they seemed to show their whiteness through it.

“You quite terrify me,” said Florimel, really shocked. “If you talk like that, I must go away. Such words are not fit for a lady to hear.”

The old man heard her rise: he fell on his knees, and held out his arms in entreaty.

“She’s pegging your pardons, my laty. Sit town once more, anchel^angel from hefen, and she’ll not say it no more. Put she’ll pe telling you ta story, and then you’ll pe knowing tat what ’ll not pe fit for laties to hear, as coot laties had to pear!”

He caught up the Lossie pipes, threw them down again, searched in a frenzy till he found his own, blew up the bag with short thick pants, forced from them a low wail, which ended in a scream—then broke into a kind of chant, the words of which were something like what follows: he had sense enough to remember that for his listener they must be English. Doubtless he was translating as he went on. His chanter all the time kept up a low pitiful accompaniment, his voice only giving expression to the hate and execration of the song.

  Black rise the hills round the vale of Glenco;

Hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky;

Cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits;

Bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer;

False are the vapours that trail o’er the correi^{hollow between hills}:

Blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain,

Harder than crystals in the rock’s bosom,

Colder than ice borne down in the torrents,

More bitter than hail windswept o’er the correi,

Falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice,

Is the heart of the Campbell, the hell-hound Glenlyon.

  Is it blood that is streaming down into the valley?

Ha! ’tis the red-coated blood-hounds of Orange.

  To hunt the red-deer, is this a fit season?

Glenlyon, said Ian, the son of the chieftain:

What seek ye with guns and with gillies so many?

  Friends, a warm fire, good cheer, and a drink,

Said the liar of hell, with the death in his heart.

  Come home to my house—it is poor, but your own.

  Cheese of the goat, and flesh of black cattle,

And dew of the mountain to make their hearts joyful,

They gave them in plenty, they gave them with welcome;

And they slept on the heather, and skins of the red-deer.

  Och hone for the chief! God’s curse on the traitors!

Och hone for the chief—the father of his people!

He is struck through the brain, and not in the battle!

  Och hone for his lady! the teeth of the badgers

Have torn the bright rings from her slender fingers!

They have stripped her and shamed her in sight of her clansmen!

They have sent out her ghost to cry after her husband.

  Nine men did Glenlyon slay, nine of the true hearts!

His own host he slew, the laird of Inverriggen.

  Fifty they slew—the rest fled to the mountains.

In the deep snow the women and children

Fell down and slept, nor awoke in the morning.

  The bard of the glen, alone among strangers,

Allister, bard of the glen and the mountain,

Sings peace to the ghost of his father’s father,

Slain by the curse of Glenco, Glenlyon.

  Curse on Glenlyon! His wife’s fair bosom

Dry up with weeping the fates of her children!

Curse on Glenlyon! Each drop of his heart’s blood

Turn to red fire and hum through his arteries!

The pale murdered faces haunt him to madness!

The shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of Glenco

Ring in his ears through the caves of perdition!

Man, woman, and child, to the last-born Campbell,

Rush howling to hell, and fall cursing Glenlyon—

The liar who drank with his host and then slew him!

While he chanted, the whole being of the bard seemed to pour itself out in the feeble and quavering tones that issued from his withered throat. His voice grew in energy for a while as he proceeded, but at last gave way utterly under the fervour of imprecation, and ceased. Then, as if in an agony of foiled hate, he sent from chanter and drone a perfect screech of execration, with which the instrument dropped from his hands, and he fell back in his chair, speechless.

Lady Florimel started to her feet, and stood trembling for a moment, hesitating whether to run from the cottage and call for help, or do what she might for the old man herself. But the next moment he came to himself, saying, in a tone of assumed composure:

“You’ll pe knowing now, my laty, why she’ll pe hating ta very name of Clenlyon.”

“But it was not your grandfather that Glenlyon killed, Mr MacPhail—was it?”

“And whose grandfather would it pe then, my lady?” returned Duncan, drawing himself up.

“The Glenco people weren’t MacPhails. I’ve read the story of the massacre, and know all about that.”

“He might haf been her mother’s father, my laty.”

“But you said father’s father, in your song.”

“She said Allister’s father’s father, my laty, she pelieves.”

“I can’t quite understand you, Mr MacPhail.”

“Well, you see, my laty, her father was out in the forty-five, and fought ta redcoats at Culloden. Tat’s his claymore on ta wall there—a coot plade—though she’s not an Andrew Ferrara. She wass forched in Clenco, py a cousin of her own, Angus py name, and she’s a fery coot plade: she ’ll can well whistle ta pibroch of Ian Loin apout ta ears of ta Sassenach. Her crandfather wass with his uncle in ta pattle of Killiecrankie after Tundee—a creat man, my laty, and he died there; and so tid her cranduncle, for a fillain of a Mackay, from Lord Reay’s cursed country—where they aalways wass repels, my laty—chust as her uncle was pe cutting town ta wicket Cheneral Mackay, turned him round, without gifing no warnings, and killed ta poor man at won plow.”

“But what has it all to do with your name? I declare I don’t know what to call you.”

“Call her your own pard, old Tuncan MacPhail, my sweet laty, and haf ta patience with her, and she’ll pe telling you aall apout eferyting, only you must gif her olt prams time to tumple temselfs apout. Her head grows fery stupid.—Yes, as she was saying, after ta ploody massacre at Culloden, her father had to hide himself away out of sight, and to forge himself—I mean to put upon himself a name tat tidn’t mean himself at aal. And my poor mother, who pored me—pig old Tuncan—ta fery tay of ta pattle, would not be hearing won wort of him for tree months tat he was away; and when he would pe creep pack like a fox to see her one fine night when ta moon was not pe up, they’ll make up an acreement to co away together for a time, and to call temselfs MacPhails. But py and py tey took their own nems again.”

“And why haven’t you your own name now? I’m sure it’s a much prettier name.”

“Pecause she’ll pe taking the other, my tear laty.”

“And why?”

“Pecause—pecause ... She will tell you another time. She’ll pe tired to talk more apout ta cursed Cawmills this fery tay.”

“Then Malcolm’s name is not MacPhail either?”

“No, it is not, my lady.”

“Is he your son’s son, or your daughter’s son.”

“Perhaps not, my laty.”

“I want to know what his real name is. Is it the same as yours? It doesn’t seem respectable not to have your own names.”

“Oh yes, my laty, fery respectable. Many coot men has to porrow nems of teir neighpours. We’ve all cot our fery own names, only in pad tays, my laty, we ton’t aalways know which tey are exactly; but we aal know which we are each other, and we get on fery coot without the names. We lay tem py with our Sappath clothes for a few tays, and they come out ta fresher and ta sweeter for keeping ta Sappath so long, my laty. And now she’ll pe playing you ta coronach of Clenco, which she was make herself for her own pipes.”

“I want to know first what Malcolm’s real name is,” persisted Lady Florimel.

“Well, you see, my laty,” returned Duncan, “some people has names and does not know them; and some people hasn’t names, and will pe supposing they haf.”

“You are talking riddles, Mr MacPhail, and I don’t like riddles,” said Lady Florimel, with an offence which was not altogether pretended.

“Yes surely—oh, yes! Call her Tuncan MacPhail, and neither more or less, my laty—not yet,” he returned, most evasively.

“I see you won’t trust me,” said the girl, and rising quickly, she bade him goodnight, and left the cottage.

Duncan sat silent for a few minutes, as if in distress: then slowly his hand went out feeling for his pipes, wherewithal he consoled himself till bedtime.

Having plumed herself upon her influence with the old man, believing she could do anything with him she pleased, Lady Florimel was annoyed at failing to get from him any amplification of a hint in itself sufficient to cast a glow of romance about the youth who had already interested her so much. Duncan also was displeased, but with himself; for disappointing one he loved so much. With the passion for confidence which love generates, he had been for some time desirous of opening his mind to her upon the matter in question, and had indeed, on this very occasion, intended to lead up to a certain disclosure; but just at the last he clung to his secret, and could not let it go.

Compelled thereto against the natural impulse of the Celtic nature, which is open and confiding, therefore in the reaction cunning and suspicious, he had practised reticence so long, that he now recoiled from a breach of the habit which had become a second, false nature. He felt like one who, having caught a bird, holds it in his hand with the full intention of letting it go, but cannot make up his mind to do it just yet, knowing that, the moment he opens his hand, nothing can make that bird his again.

A whole week passed, during which Lady Florimel did not come near him, and the old man was miserable. At length one evening, for she chose her time when Malcolm must be in some vague spot between the shore and the horizon, she once more entered the piper’s cottage. He knew her step the moment she turned the corner from the shore, and she had scarcely set her foot across the threshold before he broke out:

“Ach, my tear laty! and tid you’ll think old Tuncan such a stoopit old man as not to ’ll pe trusting ta light of her plind eyes? Put her laty must forgif her, for it is a long tale, not like anything you ’ll pe in ta way of peliefing; and aalso, it’ll pe put ta tassel to another long tale which tears ta pag of her heart, and makes her feel a purning tevil in ta pocket of her posom. Put she’ll tell you ta won half of it that pelongs to her poy Malcolm. He ’s a pig poy now, put he wasn’t aalways. No. He was once a fery little smaal chylt, in her old plind aarms. Put tey wasn’t old ten. Why must young peoples crow old, my laty? Put she’ll pe clad of it herself; for she’ll can hate ta petter.”

Lady Florimel, incapable either of setting forth the advantages of growing old, or of enforcing the duty, which is the necessity, of forgiveness, answered with some commonplace; and as, to fortify his powers of narration, a sailor would cut himself a quid, and a gentleman fill his glass, or light a fresh cigar, Duncan slowly filled his bag. After a few strange notes as of a spirit wandering in pain, he began his story. But I will tell the tale for him, lest the printed oddities of his pronunciation should prove wearisome. I must mention first, however, that he did not commence until he had secured a promise from Lady Florimel that she would not communicate his revelations to Malcolm, having, he said, very good reasons for desiring to make them himself so soon as a fitting time should have arrived.

Avoiding all mention of his reasons either for assuming another name or for leaving his native glen, he told how, having wandered forth with no companion but his bagpipes, and nothing he could call his own beyond the garments and weapons which he wore, he traversed the shires of Inverness and Nairn and Moray, offering at every house on his road, to play the pipes, or clean the lamps and candlesticks, and receiving sufficient return, mostly in the shape of food and shelter, but partly in money, to bring him all the way from Glenco to Portlossie: somewhere near the latter was a cave in which his father, after his flight from Culloden, had lain in hiding for six months, in hunger and cold, and in constant peril of discovery and death, all in that region being rebels—for as such Duncan of course regarded the adherents of the houses of Orange and Hanover; and having occasion, for reasons, as I have said, unexplained, in his turn to seek, like a hunted stag, a place far from his beloved glen, wherein to hide his head, he had set out to find the cave, which the memory of his father would render far more of a home to him now than any other place left him on earth.

On his arrival at Portlossie, he put up at a small public-house in the Seaton, from which he started the next morning to find the cave—a somewhat hopeless as well as perilous proceeding; but his father’s description of its situation and character had generated such a vivid imagination of it in the mind of the old man, that he believed himself able to walk straight into the mouth of it; nor was the peril so great as must at first appear, to one who had been blind all his life. But he searched the whole of the east side of the promontory of Scaurnose, where it must lie, without finding such a cave as his father had depicted. Again and again he fancied he had come upon it, but was speedily convinced of his mistake. Even in one who had his eyesight, however, such a failure would not surprise those who understand how rapidly as well as constantly the whole faces of some cliffs are changing by the fall of portions—destroying the very existence of some caves, and utterly changing the mouths of others.

From a desire of secrecy, occasioned by the haunting dread of its approaching necessity, day and night being otherwise much alike to him, Duncan generally chose the night for his wanderings amongst the rocks, and probings of their hollows. One night, or rather morning, for he believed it was considerably past twelve o’clock, he sat weary in a large open cave, listening to the sound of the rising tide, and fell fast asleep, his bagpipes, without which he never went abroad, across his knees. He came to himself with a violent start, for the bag seemed to be moving, and its last faint sound of wail was issuing. Heavens! there was a baby lying upon it.—For a time he sat perfectly bewildered, but at length concluded that some wandering gipsy had made him a too ready gift of the child she did not prize. Some one must be near. He called aloud, but there was no answer. The child began to cry. He sought to soothe it, and its lamentation ceased. The moment that its welcome silence responded to his blandishments, the still small “Here I am” of the Eternal Love whispered its presence in the heart of the lonely man: something lay in his arms so helpless that to it, poor and blind and forsaken of man and woman as he was, he was yet a tower of strength. He clasped the child to his bosom, and rising forthwith set out, but with warier steps than heretofore, over the rocks for the Seaton.

Already he would have much preferred concealing him lest he should be claimed—a thing, in view of all the circumstances, not very likely—but for the child’s sake, he must carry him to The Salmon, where he had free entrance at any hour—not even the public-house locking its doors at night.

Thither then he bore his prize, shielding him from the night air as well as he could, with the bag of his pipes. But he waked none of the inmates; lately fed, the infant slept for several hours, and then did his best both to rouse and astonish the neighbourhood.

Closely questioned, Duncan told the truth, but cunningly, in such manner that some disbelieved him altogether, while others, who had remarked his haunting of the rocks ever since his arrival, concluded that he had brought the child with him and had kept him hidden until now. The popular conviction at length settled to this, that the child was the piper’s grandson—but base-born, whom therefore he was ashamed to acknowledge, although heartily willing to minister to and bring up as a foundling. The latter part of this conclusion, however, was not alluded to by Duncan in his narrative: it was enough to add that he took care to leave the former part of it undisturbed.

The very next day, he found himself attacked by a low fever; but as he had hitherto paid for everything he had at the inn, they never thought of turning him out when his money was exhausted; and as he had already by his discreet behaviour, and the pleasure his bagpipes afforded, made himself not a few friends amongst the simple-hearted people of the Seaton, some of the benevolent inhabitants of the upper town, Miss Horn in particular, were soon interested in his favour, who supplied him with everything he required until his recovery. As to the baby, he was gloriously provided for; he had at least a dozen foster-mothers at once—no woman in the Seaton who could enter a claim founded on the possession of the special faculty required, failing to enter that claim—with the result of an amount of jealousy almost incredible.

Meantime the town-drummer fell sick and died, and Miss Horn made a party in favour of Duncan. But for the baby, I doubt if he would have had a chance, for he was a stranger and interloper; the women, however, with the baby in their forefront, carried the day. Then his opponents retreated behind the instrument, and strove hard to get the drum recognised as an essential of the office. When Duncan recoiled from the drum with indignation, but without losing the support of his party, the opposition had the effrontery to propose a bell: that he rejected with a vehemence of scorn that had nearly ruined his cause. Straightway assuming the position of chief party in the proposed contract, he declared that no noise of his making should be other than the noise of bagpipes; that he would rather starve than beat drum or ring bell; if he served in the case, it must be after his own fashion—and so on. Hence it was no wonder, some of the bailies being not only small men and therefore conceited, but also ones who despised everything highland, and the bagpipes especially, if the affair did for awhile seem hopeless. But the more noble-minded of the authorities approved of the piper none the less for his independence, a generosity partly rooted, it must be confessed, in the amusement which the annoyance of their weaker brethren afforded them—whom at last they were happily successful in outvoting, so that the bagpipes superseded the drum for a season.

It may be asked whence it arose that Duncan should now be willing to quit his claim to any paternal property in Malcolm, confessing that he was none of his blood.

One source of the change was doubtless the desire of confidences between himself and Lady Florimel, another, the growing conviction, generated it may be by the admiration which is born of love, that the youth had gentle blood in his veins; and a third, that Duncan had now so thoroughly proved the heart of Malcolm as to have no fear of any change of fortune ever alienating his affections, or causing him to behave otherwise than as his dutiful grandson.

It is not surprising that such a tale should have a considerable influence on Lady Florimel’s imagination: out of the scanty facts which formed but a second volume, she began at once to construct both a first and a third. She dreamed of the young fisherman that night, and reflecting in the morning on her interaction with him, recalled sufficient indications in him of superiority to his circumstances, noted by her now, however, for the first time, to justify her dream: he might indeed well be the last scion of a noble family.

I do not intend the least hint that she began to fall in love with him. To balance his good looks, and the nobility in both his moral and physical carriage, the equally undeniable clownishness of his dialect and tone had huge weight, while the peculiar straightforwardness of his behaviour and address not unfrequently savoured in her eyes of rudeness; besides which objectionable things, there was the persistent odour of fish about his garments—in itself sufficient to prevent such a catastrophe. The sole result of her meditations was the resolve to get some amusement out of him by means of a knowledge of his history superior to his own.

Chapter 30 - The Revival

Before the close of the herring-fishing, one of those movements of the spiritual waters, which in different forms, and under different names, manifest themselves at various intervals of space and of time, was in full vortex. It was supposed by the folk of Portlossie to have begun in the village of Scaurnose, but by the time it was recognized as existent, no one could tell whence it had come, any more than he could predict whither it was going. Of its spiritual origin it may be also predicated with confidence that its roots were far more interwoven than human analysis could disentangle.

One notable fact bearing on its nature was, that it arose amongst the people themselves, without the intervention or immediate operation of the clergy, who indeed to a man were set against it. Hence the flood was at first free from the efforts of men to rouse a galvanic life by working on the higher feelings through the sympathies of large assemblages, and the excitement of late hours, prolonged prayers and exhortations, and sometimes even direct appeal to individuals in public presence. The end of these things is death, for the reaction is towards spiritual hardness and a more confirmed unbelief: when the excitement has died away, those at least in whom the spiritual faculty is for the time exhausted, presume that they have tasted and seen, and found that nothing is there.

But where such a movement has originated amongst the people, the very facts adduced to argue its falsehood from its vulgarity, are to me so many indications on the other side; for I could ill believe in a divine influence which did not take the person such as he was; did not, while giving him power from beyond him, leave his individuality uninjured, yea intensify it, subjecting the very means of its purification, the spread of the new leaven, to the laws of time and growth. To look at the thing from the other side, the genuineness of the man’s reception of it will be manifest in the meeting of his present conditions with the new thing—in the show of results natural to one of his degree of development. The genuine influence shows itself such in showing that it has laid hold of the very man, at the very stage of growth he had reached. The dancing of David before the ark, the glow of St. Stephen’s face, and the wild gestures and rude songs of miners and fishers and negroes, may all be signs of the presence of the same spirit in temples various. Children will rush and shout and hollo for the same joy which sends others of the family to weep apart.

Of course the one infallible test as to whether any such movement is of man without God, or of God within the man, is the following life; only a large space for fluctuation must be allowed where a whole world of passions and habits has to be subjected to the will of God through the vice regency of a human will hardly or only just awakened, and as yet unconscious of itself.

The nearest Joseph Mair could come to the origin of the present movement was the influence of a certain Stornoway fisherman, whom they had brought back with them on their return from the coasts of Lewis—a man of Celtic fervour and faith, who had agreed to accompany them probably in the hope of serving a set of the bravest and hardest-working men in the world, who yet spent a large part of their ease in drinking up the earnings of fierce and perilous labour. There were a few amongst them, he found, already prepared to receive the word, and to each of these he spoke in private. They spoke to one another, then each to his friend outside the little circle. Next a few met to pray. These drew others in, and at length it was delivered from mouth to mouth that on the following Sunday, at a certain early hour in the morning, a meeting would be held in the Bailie’s Barn, a cave large enough to receive all the grown population of Scaurnose.

The news of this gathering of course reached the Seaton, where some were inclined to go and see, others to go and hear; most of even the latter class, however, being at the same time more than inclined to mock at the idea of a popular religious assembly.

Not so Duncan MacPhail, who, notwithstanding the more than half Pagan character of his ideas, had too much reverence to mock at anything in the form of religion, to all the claims of which he was even eager to assent: when the duty of forgiveness was pressed upon him too hard, he would take his last refuge in excepting to the authority of the messenger. He regarded the announcement of the meeting with the greater respect that the man from Stornoway was a MacLeod, and so of his mother’s clan.

It was now the end of August, when the sky is of a paler blue in the day time, and greener about the sunset. The air had in it a touch of cold, which, like as a faint acid affects a sweet drink, only rendered the warmth more pleasant. On the appointed morning, the tide was low, and the waves died gently upon the sand, seeming to have crept away from the shore to get nearer to the sunrise. Duncan was walking along the hard wet sand towards the promontory, with Mr Graham on one side of him and Malcolm on the other. There was no gun to fire this morning; it was Sunday, and all might repose undisturbed: the longer sleep in bed, possibly the shorter in church.

“I wish you had your sight but for a moment, Mr MacPhail,” said the schoolmaster. “How this sunrise would make you leap for joy.”

“Ay!” said Malcolm, “it wad gar^{cause, make} daddy grip till ’s pipes in twa hurries.”

“And what should she’ll pe wanting her pipes for?” asked Duncan.

“To praise God wi’,” answered Malcolm.

“Ay; ay;” murmured Duncan thoughtfully. “Tey are tat.”

“What are they?” asked Mr Graham gently.

“For to praise Cod,” answered Duncan solemnly.

“I almost envy you,” returned Mr Graham, “when I think how you will praise God one day. What a glorious waking you will have!”

“Ten it ’ll pe your opinion, Mr Craham, tat she’ll pe sleeping her sound sleep, and not pe lying wite awake in her coffin all ta time?”

“A good deal better than that, Mr MacPhail!” returned the schoolmaster cheerily. “It’s my opinion that you are, as it were, asleep now, and that the moment you die, you will feel as if you had just woke up, and for the first time in your life. For one thing, you will see far better then than any of us do now.”

But poor Duncan could not catch the idea; his mind was filled with a preventing fancy.

“Yes; I know; at ta tay of chutchment,” he said. “Put what ’ll pe ta use of ketting her eyes open pefore she ’ll pe up? How should she pe seeing with all ta earth apove her—and ta cravestone too tat I know my poy Malcolm will pe laying on ta top of his old cranfather to keep him waarm, and let peoples pe know tat ta plind piper will be lying town pelow wite awake and fery uncomfortable?”

“Excuse me, Mr MacPhail, but that’s all a mistake,” said Mr Graham positively. “The body is but a sort of shell that we cast off when we die, as the corn casts off its husk when it begins to grow. The life of the seed comes up out of the earth in a new body, as St Paul says,”

“Ten,” interrupted Duncan, “she’ll pe crowing up out of her crave like a seed crowing up to pe a corn or a parley?”

The schoolmaster began to despair of ever conveying to the piper the idea that the living man is the seed sown, and that when the body of this seed dies, then the new body, with the man in it, springs alive out of the old one—that the death of the one is the birth of the other. Far more enlightened people than Duncan never imagine, and would find it hard to believe, that the sowing of the seed spoken of might mean something else than the burying of the body; not perceiving what yet surely is plain enough, that that would be the sowing of a seed already dead, and incapable of giving birth to anything whatever.

“No, no,” he said, almost impatiently, “you will never be in the grave: it is only your body that will go there, with nothing like life about it except the smile the glad soul has left on it. The poor body when thus forsaken is so dead that it can’t even stop smiling. Get Malcolm to read to you out of the book of the Revelation how there were multitudes even then standing before the throne. They had died in this world, yet there they were, well and happy.”

“Oh, yes!” said Duncan, with no small touch of spitefulness in his tone, “—twang-twanging at teir fine colden herps! She’ll not be thinking much of ta herp for a music-maker! And peoples tells her she’ll not pe hafing her pipes tere! Och hone^alas! Och hone!—She’ll chust pe lying still and not pe ketting up, and when ta work is ofer, and eferypody cone away, she’ll chust pe ketting up, and taking a look apout her, to see if she’ll pe finding a stand o’ pipes that some coot highlandman has peen left pehint him when he tied lately.”

“You’ll find it rather lonely—won’t you?”

“Yes; no toubt, for they’ll aal be cone up. Well, she’ll haf her pipes; and she could not co where ta pipes was looked town upon by all ta creat people—and all ta smaal ones too.”

They had now reached the foot of the promontory, and turned northwards, each of his companions taking an arm of the piper to help him over the rocks that lay between them and the mouth of the cave, which soon yawned before them like a section of the mouth of a great fish. Its floor of smooth rock had been swept out clean, and sprinkled with dry sea-sand. There were many hollows and projections along its sides rudely fit for serving as seats, to which had been added a number of forms extemporized of planks and thwarts. No one had yet arrived when they entered, and they went at once to the further end of the cave, that Duncan, who was a little hard of hearing, might be close to the speakers. There his companions turned and looked behind them: an exclamation, followed by a full glance at each other, broke from each.

The sun, just clearing the end of the opposite promontory, shone right into the mouth of the cave, from the midst of a tumult of gold, in which all the other colours of his approach had been swallowed up. The triumph strode splendent over sea and shore, subduing waves and rocks to a path for its mighty entrance into that dark cave on the human coast. With his back to the light stood Duncan in the bottom of the cave, his white hair gleaming argentine, as if his poor blind head were the very goal of the heavenly progress. He turned round.

“Will it pe a fire? She feels something warm on her head,” he said, rolling his sightless orbs, upon which the splendour broke waveless, casting a grim shadow of him on the jagged rock behind.

“No,” answered Mr Graham; “it is the sun you feel. He’s just out of his grave.”

The old man gave a grunt.

“I often think,” said the schoolmaster to Malcolm, “that possibly the reason why we are told so little about the world we are going to, is, that no description of it would enter our minds any more than a description of that sunrise would carry a notion of its reality into the mind of your grandfather.”

“She’s obleeched to you, Mr Craham!” said the piper with offence. “You take her fery stupid. You’re so proud of your eyes, you think a plind man cannot see at aall! Chm!”

But the folk began to assemble. By twos and threes, now from the one side, now from the other, they came dropping in as if out of the rush of the blinding sunshine, till the seats were nearly filled, while a goodly company gathered about the mouth of the cave, there to await the arrival of those who had called the meeting. Presently MacLeod, a small thin man, with iron-gray hair, keen, shrewd features, large head, and brown complexion, appeared, and made his way to the further end of the cave, followed by three or four of the men of Scaurnose, amongst whom walked a pale-faced, consumptive lad, with bowed shoulders and eyes on the ground: he it was who, feebly clambering on a ledge of rock, proceeded to conduct the worship of the assembly. His parents were fisher-people of Scaurnose, who to make a minister of him had been half-starving the rest of their family; but he had broken down at length under the hardships of endless work and wretched food. From the close of the session in March, he had been teaching in Aberdeen until a few days before, when he came home, aware that he was dying, and full of a fervour betraying anxiety concerning himself rather than indicating the possession of good news for others. The sun had now so far changed his position, that, although he still shone into the cave, the preacher stood in the shadow, out of which gleamed his wasted countenance, pallid and sombre and solemn, as first he poured forth an abject prayer for mercy, conceived in the spirit of a slave supplicating the indulgence of a hard master, and couched in words and tones that bore not a trace of the filial; then read the chapter containing the curses of Mount Ebal, and gave the congregation one of Duncan’s favourite psalms to sing; and at length began a sermon on what he called the divine justice. Not one word was there in it, however, concerning God’s love of fair dealing, either as betwixt himself and man, or as betwixt man and his fellow; the preacher’s whole notion of justice was the punishment of sin; and that punishment was hell, and hell only; so that the whole sermon was about hell from beginning to end—hell appalling, lurid, hopeless. And the eyes of all were fixed upon him with that glow from within which manifests the listening spirit. Some of the women were as pale as himself from sympathetic horror, doubtless also from a vague stirring of the conscience, which, without accusing them of crime, yet told them that all was not right between them and their God; while the working of the faces of some of the men betrayed a mind not at all at ease concerning their prospects. It was an eloquent and powerful utterance, and might doubtless claim its place in the economy of human education; but it was at best a pagan embodiment of truths such as a righteous pagan might have discovered, and breathed nothing of the spirit of Christianity, being as unjust towards God as it represented him to be towards men: the God of the preacher was utterly unlike the father of Jesus. Urging his hearers to flee from the wrath to come, he drew such a picture of an angry Deity as in nothing resembled the revelation in the Son.

“Fellow sinners,” he said in conclusion, “haste ye and flee from the wrath to come. Now is God waiting to be gracious—but only so long as his Son holds back the indignation ready to burst forth and devour you. He sprinkles its flames with the scarlet wool and the hyssop of atonement; he stands between you and justice, and pleads with his incensed Father for his rebellious creatures. Well for you that he so stands and so pleads! Yet even he could not prevail for ever against such righteous anger; and it is but for a season he will thus entreat; the day will come when he will stand aside and let the fiery furnace break forth and slay you. Then, with howling and anguish, with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, ye shall know that God is a God of justice, that his wrath is one with his omnipotence, and his hate everlasting as the fires of hell. But do as ye will, ye cannot thwart his decrees, for to whom he will he showeth mercy, and whom he will he hardeneth.”

Scarcely had he ceased, when a loud cry, clear and keen, rang through every corner of the cave. Well might the preacher start and gaze around him! for the cry was articulate, sharply modelled into the three words—“Father o’ lichts!” Some of the men gave a scared groan, and some of the women shrieked. None could tell whence the cry had come, and Malcolm alone could guess who must have uttered it.

“Yes,” said the preacher, recovering himself, and replying to the voice, “he is the Father of lights, but only to them that are in Christ Jesus;—he is no father, but an avenging deity, to them over whom the robe of his imputed righteousness is not cast. Jesus Christ himself will not be gracious for ever. Kiss ye the Son, lest even he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little.”

“Father o’ lichts!” rang the cry again, and louder than before.

To Malcolm it seemed close behind him, but he had the self-possession not to turn his head. The preacher took no farther notice. MacLeod stood up, and having, in a few simple remarks, attempted to smooth some of the asperities of the youth’s address, announced another meeting in the evening, and dismissed the assembly with a prayer.

Malcolm went home with his grandfather. He was certain it was the laird’s voice he had heard, but he would attempt no search after his refuge that day, for dread of leading to its discovery by others.

That evening most of the boats of the Seaton set out for the fishing ground as usual, but not many went from Scaurnose. Blue Peter would go no more of a Sunday, hence Malcolm was free for the night, and again with his grandfather walked along the sands in the evening towards the cave.

The sun was going down on the other side of the promontory before them, and the sky was gorgeous in rose and blue, in peach and violet, in purple and green, barred and fretted, heaped and broken, scattered and massed—every colour edged and tinged and harmonized with a glory as of gold, molten with heat, and glowing with fire. The thought that his grandfather could not see, and had never seen such splendour, made Malcolm sad, and very little was spoken between them as they went.

When they arrived, the service had already commenced, but room was made for them to pass, and a seat was found for Duncan where he could hear. Just as they entered, Malcolm spied, amongst those who preferred the open air at the mouth of the cavern, a face which he was all-but certain was that of one of the three men from whom he had rescued the laird.

MacLeod was to address them. He took for his text the words of the Saviour, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,” and founded upon them a simple, gracious, and all but eloquent discourse, very different in tone and influence from that of the young student. It must be confessed that the Christ he presented was very far-off, and wrapped in a hazy nimbus of abstraction; that the life he lived being only alluded to, and that not for the sake of showing what he was, and hence what God is, but to illustrate the conclusions of men concerning him; and yet there was that heart of reality in the whole thing which no moral vulgarity of theory, no tyranny of stupid logic over childlike intuitions, could so obscure as to render it inoperative. From the form of the Son of Man, thus beheld from afar, came a warmth like the warmth from the first approach of the far-off sun in spring, sufficing to rouse the earth from the sleep of winter—in which all the time the same sun has been its warmth and has kept it from sleeping unto death.

MacLeod was a thinker—aware of the movements of his own heart, and able to depict the phases of the heart’s weariness and oppression and restlessness with such truth and sympathy that many listened with a vague feeling of exposure to a supernatural insight. The sermon soon began to show its influence; for a sense of the need of help is so present to every simple mind, that, of all messages, the offer of help is of easiest reception; some of the women were sobbing, and the silent tears were flowing down the faces of others; while of the men many were looking grave and thoughtful, and kept their eyes fixed on the speaker. At length, towards the close, MacLeod judged it needful to give a word of warning.

“But, my friends,” he said, and his voice grew low and solemn, “I dare not make an end without reminding you that, if you stop your ears against the gracious call, a day will come when not even the merits of the Son of God will avail you, but the wrath of the—”

“Father o’ Lichts!” once more burst ringing out, like the sudden cry of a trumpet in the night.

MacLeod took no notice of it, but brought his sermon at once to a close, and specified the night of the following Saturday for next meeting. They sung a psalm, and after a slow, solemn, thoughtful prayer, the congregation dispersed.

But Malcolm, who, anxious because of the face he had seen as he entered, had been laying his plans, after begging his grandfather in a whisper to go home without him for a reason he would afterwards explain, withdrew into a recess whence he could watch the cave, without being readily discovered.

Scarcely had the last voices of the retreating congregation died away, when the same ill-favoured face peeped round the corner of the entrance, gave a quick glance about, and the man came in. Like a snuffing terrier, he went peering in the dimness into every hollow, and behind every projection, until he suddenly caught sight of Malcolm, probably by a glimmering of his eyes.

“Hillo^hello, Humpy!” he cried in a tone of exultation, and sprang up the rough ascent of a step or two to where he sat.

Malcolm half rose, and met him with a well-delivered blow between the eyes. He fell, and lay for a moment stunned. Malcolm sat down again and watched him. When he came to himself, he crept out, muttering imprecations. He knew it was not Humpy who dealt that blow.

As soon as he was gone, Malcolm in his turn began searching. He thought he knew every hole and corner of the cave, and there was but one where the laird, who, for as near him as he heard his voice the first time, certainly had not formed one of the visible congregation, might have concealed himself: if that was his covert, there he must be still, for he had assuredly not issued from it.

Immediately behind where he had sat in the morning, was a projection of rock, with a narrow cleft between it and the wall of the cavern, visible only from the very back of the cave, where the roof came down low. But when he thought of it, he saw that even here he could not have been hidden in the full light of the morning from the eyes of some urchins who had seated themselves as far back as the roof would allow them, and they had never looked as if they saw anything more than other people. Still, if he was to search at all, here he must begin. The cleft had scarcely more width than sufficed to admit his body, and his hands told him at once that there was no laird there. Could there be any opening further? If there was, it could only be somewhere above. Was advance in that direction possible?

He felt about, and finding two or three footholds, began to climb in the dark, and had reached the height of six feet or so, when he came to a horizontal projection, which, for a moment only, barred his further progress. Having literally surmounted this, that is, got on the top of it, he found there a narrow vertical opening: was it but a shallow recess, or did it lead into the heart of the rock?

Carefully feeling his way both with hands and feet, he advanced a step or two, and came to a place where the passage widened a little, and then took a sharp turn and became so narrow that it was with difficulty he forced himself through. It was, however, but one close pinch, and he found himself, as his feet told him, at the top of a steep descent. He stood for a moment hesitating, for prudence demanded a light. The sound of the sea was behind him, but all in front was still as the darkness of the grave. Suddenly up from unknown depths of gloom, came the tones of a sweet childish voice, singing The Lord’s my Shepherd.

Malcolm waited until the psalm was finished, and then called out:

“Mr Stewart! I’m here—Malcolm MacPhail. I want to see ye. Tell him it’s me, Phemy.”

A brief pause followed; then Phemy’s voice answered:

“Come awa’ doon. He says ye s’ be welcome.”

“Canna ye shaw^show a licht^light than; for I dinna ken a fit^foot o’ the ro’d^{road, way},” said Malcolm.

The next moment a light appeared at some little distance below, and presently began to ascend, borne by Phemy, towards the place where he stood. She took him by the hand without a word, and led him down a slope, apparently formed of material fallen from the roof, to the cave already described. The moment he entered it, he marked the water in its side, the smooth floor, the walls hollowed into a thousand fantastic cavities, and knew he had come upon the cave in which his great-grandfather had found refuge so many years before. Changes in its mouth had rendered entrance difficult, and it had slipped by degrees from the knowledge of men.

At the bottom of the slope, by the side of the well, sat the laird. Phemy set the little lantern she carried on its edge. The laird rose and shook hands with Malcolm and asked him to be seated.

“I’m sorry to say they’re efter ye again, laird,” said Malcolm after a little ordinary chat.

Mr Stewart was on his feet instantly.

“I maun awa’. Tak care o’ Phemy,” he said hurriedly.

“Na, na, sir,” said Malcolm, laying his hand on his arm; “there’s nae sic hurry. As lang’s I’m here ye may sit still; an’, as far’s I ken, naebody’s fun’^found the w’y^way in but mysel’, an’ that was yer ain wyte^fault, laird. But ye hae garred^{made, caused} mair fowk nor me luik, an’ that’s the pity o’ ’t.”

“I tauld^told ye, sir, ye sudna^{should not} cry oot,” said Phemy.

“I couldna^{could not} help it,” said Stewart apologetically.

“Weel, ye sudna^{should not} ha’ gane^gone near them again,” persisted the little woman.

“Wha kent^knew but they kent^knew whaur I cam frae?” also persisted the laird.

“Sit ye doon, sir, an’ lat’s hae a word aboot it,” said Malcolm cheerily.

The laird cast a doubting look at Phemy.

“Ay, sit doon,” said Phemy.

Mr Stewart yielded, but nervous starts and sudden twitches of the muscles betrayed his uneasiness: it looked as if his body would jump up and run without his mind’s consent.

“Hae ye ony w’y^way o’ winnin’ oot o’ this, forbye^besides the mou’^mouth o’ the cave there?” asked Malcolm.

“Nane^none ’at I ken o’,” answered Phemy. “But there’s heaps o’ hidy-holes i’ the inside o’ ’t.”

“That’s a’ very weel; but gien they keppit^{closed off} the mou’^mouth an’ took their time till ’t, they bude to grip^{would have caught} ye.”

“There may be, though,” resumed Phemy. “It gangs^{goes, walks} back a lang road. I hae never been in sicht^sight o’ the end o’ ’t. It comes doon verra^very laich^low in some places, and gangs^{goes, walks} up heich again in ithers^others, but nae sign o’ an en’^end till ’t.”

“Is there ony soon’^soun o’ watter^water intill^into ’t?” asked Malcolm.

“Na, nane^none ’at ever I hard. But I’ll tell ye what I hae hard: I hae hard the flails gaein’^going thud, thud, abune^over my heid^head.”

“Hoot toot^{tut! [annoyance]}, Phemy!” said Malcolm; “we’re a guid mile an’ a half frae the nearest ferm-toon^{farm settlement}, an’ that I reckon, ’ll be the Hoose-ferm.”

“I canna help that,” persisted Phemy. “Gien ’t wasna^{was not} the flails, whiles ane, an’ whiles twa, I dinna ken what it cud^could hae been. Hoo far it was I canna say, for it’s ill measurin’ i’ the dark, or wi’ naething but a bowat^lantern i’ yer han’; but gien ye ca’d it mair, I wadna won’er^{ere, before}.”

“It’s a michty howkin^{a lot of earth to dig}!” said Malcolm; “but for a’ that it wadna haud ye frae the grip o’ thae^{those, these} scoonrels: wharever ye ran they cud^could rin^run efter ye.”

“I think we cud sort^{deal with} them,” said Phemy. “There’s ae^one place, a guid bit farrer^farther in, whaur the rufe^roof comes doon to the flure^floor, leavin’ jist ae^one sma’ hole to creep throu’: it wad be fine to hae a gey^very muckle stane^stone handy, jist to row^roll athort^{across, over, through} it, an’ gar’t luik as gien ’t was the en’^end o’ a’thing. But the hole’s sae sma’ at the laird has ill gettin’ his puir back throu’ ’t.”

“I couldna^{could not} help won’erin’ hoo he wan throu’ at the tap^top there,” said Malcolm.

At this the laird laughed almost merrily, and rising, took Malcolm by the hand and led him to the spot, where he made him feel a rough groove in the wall of the rocky strait: into this hollow he laid his hump, and so slid sideways through.

Malcolm squeezed himself through after him, saying,—

“Noo ye’re oot, laird, hadna^{had not} ye better come wi’ me hame^home to Miss Horn’s, whaur ye wad be as safe’s gien ye war in h’aven itsel’?”

“Na, I canna gang to Miss Horn’s,” he replied.

“What for no, laird?”

Pulling Malcolm down towards him, the laird whispered in his ear,

“‘Cause she’s fleyt^{terrified, frightened} at my back.”

A moment or two passed ere Malcolm could think of a reply both true and fitting. When at length he spoke again there was no answer, and he knew that he was alone.

He left the cave and set out for the Seaton; but, unable to feel at peace about his friends, resolved, on the way, to return after seeing his grandfather, and spend the night in the outer cave.

Chapter 31 - Wandering Stars

He had not been gone many minutes, when the laird passed once more through the strait, and stood a moment waiting for Phemy; she had persuaded him to go home to her father’s for the night.

But the next instant he darted back, with trembling hands, caught hold of Phemy, who was following him with the lantern, and stammered in her ear,—

“There’s somebody there! I dinna ken whaur they come frae.”

Phemy went to the front of the passage and listened, but could hear nothing, and returned.

“Bide ye whaur ye are, laird,” she said; “I’ll gang doon, an’ gien I hear or see naething, I’ll come back for ye.”

With careful descent, placing her feet on the well-known points unerringly, she reached the bottom, and peeped into the outer cave. The place was quite dark. Through its jaws the sea glimmered faint in the low light that skirted the northern horizon; and the slow pulse of the tide upon the rocks, was the sole sound to be heard. No: another in the cave close beside her!—one small solitary noise, as of a pebble yielding under the pressure of a standing foot! She held her breath and listened, her heart beating so loud that she feared it would deafen her to what would come next. A good many minutes, half an hour it seemed to her, passed, during which she heard nothing more; but as she peeped out for the twentieth time, a figure glided into the field of vision bounded by the cave’s mouth. It was that of a dumpy woman. She entered the cave, tumbled over one of the forms, and gave a cry coupled with an imprecation.

“The deevil^devil roast them ’at laid me sic a trap!” she said. “I hae broken the shins the auld markis^Marquis laudit!”

“Hold your wicked tongue!” hissed a voice in return, almost in Phemy’s very ear.

“Ow! ye ’re there, are ye, mem!” rejoined the other, in a voice that held internal communication with her wounded shins.

“Coupit^tumbled ye the crans like me?”

The question, Englished, was, “Did you fall heels over head like me?” but was capable of a metaphorical interpretation as well.

“Hold your tongue, I say, woman! Who knows but some of the saints may be at their prayers within hearing?”

“Na, na, mem, there’s nae risk o’ that; this is no ane o’ yer creepy caves whaur otters an wullcats hae their habitations; it’s a muckle open-mou’d place, like them ’at prays intill^into ’t—as toom^empty an’ clear-sidit as a tongueless bell. But what for ye wad hae ’s come here to oor^our cracks^conversation, I canna faddom^fathom. A body wad think ye had an ill thoucht^thought i’ yer heid^head—eh, mem?”

The suggestion was followed by a low, almost sneering laugh. As she spoke, the sounds of her voice and step had been advancing, with cautious intermittent approach.

“I hae ye noo,” she said, as she seated herself at length beside the other. “The gowk^fool, Geordie Bray!” she went on, “—to tak it intill’s oogly heid^head ’at the cratur wad be hurklin’^crouching here! It’s no the place for ane ’at has to hide ’s heid^head for verra shame o’ slippin’ aff^off the likes o’ himsel’ upo’ sic a braw^{beautiful, fine} mither^mother! Could he get nae ither door to win^go in at, haith^{a mild oath}!”

“Woman, you ’ll drive me mad!” said the other.

“Weel, hinney^honey,” returned the former, suddenly changing her tone, “I’m mair an’ mair convenced ’at yon’s the verra laad^lad for yer purpose. For ae^one thing, ye see, naebody kens^knows whaur he cam frae, as the laird, bonny laad, wad say, an’ naebody can contradick a word—the auld man less than onybody, for I can tell him what he kens^knows to be trowth^truth. Only I winna muv^move till I ken whaur he comes frae.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer not knowing for certain? You could swear with the better grace.”

“Deil^not a bit! It maitters^matters na to me whilk^which side o’ my teeth I chow^chew wi’. But I winna sweir^swear till I ken the trowth^truth—’at I may haud off o’ ’t. He’s the man, though, gien we can get a grip o’ ’im^him! He luiks^looks the richt thing, ye see, mem. He has a glisk^{slight look} o’ the markis^Marquis tu^too—divna^{do not} ye think, mem?”

“Insolent wretch!”

“Caw canny^{proceed carefully}, mem—’thing maun be considered. It wad but gar^make the thing luik the mair likly^likely. Fowk gangs^{goes, walks} the len’th o’ sayin’ ’at Humpy himsel’ ’s no the sin^son o’ the auld laird, honest man!”

“It’s a wicked lie,” burst with indignation from the other.

“There may be waur^worse things nor a bit lee^lie. Ony gait^anyway, ae^one thing’s easy priven^proven: ye lay verra dowie^poorly for a month or sax^six ooks^weeks ance^once upon a time at Lossie Hoose, an’ that was a feow^few years, we needna^{do not need, need not} speir^ask hoo mony^many, efter ye was lichtened o’ the tither^{the other}. Whan they hear that at that time ye gae^gave birth till a lad-bairn, the whilk^which was stown^stolen awa’, an’ never hard tell o’ till noo—‘It may weel be,’ fowk’ll say: ‘them ’at has drunk wad drink again!’ It wad affoord rizzons^reasons, ye see, an’ guid anes^ones, for the bairn^child bein’ putten^put oot a’ sicht^sight, and wad mak the haul story mair nor likly^likely i’ the jeedgment o’ a’ ’at hard it.”

“You scandalous woman! That would be to confess to all the world that he was not the son of my late husband!”

“They say that o’ him ’at is, an’ hoo muckle the waur^worse are ye? Lat them say ’at they like, sae lang ’s we can shaw^show ’at he cam o’ your body, an’ was born i’ wedlock? Ye hae yer Ian’s^lands ance^once mair, for ye hae a sin ’at can guide them—and ye can guide him. He’s a bonny lad—bonny eneuch to be yer leddyship’s—and his lordship’s: an’ sae, as I was remarkin’, i’ the jeedgment a’ ill-thouchtit fowk, the mair likly^likely to be heir to auld Stewart o’ Kirkbyres!”

She laughed huskily.

“But I maun hae a scart^scratch a’ yer pen, mem, afore I wag tongue aboot it,” she went on. “I ken brawly^{very well} hoo to set it gauin’^going! I sanna^{shall not} be the first to ring the bell. Na, na; I s’ set Miss Horn’s Jean jawin’, an’ it ’ll be a’ ower the toon^{town, village} in a jiffy—at first in a kin o’ a sough^{sound of wind} ’at naebody ’ill^will unnerstan’: but it ’ll grow looder an’ plainer. At the lang last it ’ll come to yer leddyship’s hearin: an’ syne^then ye hae me taen^taken up an’ questoned afore a justice o’ the peace, that there may be no luik o’ ony compack atween the twa o’ ’s. But, as I said afore, I’ll no muv^move till I ken a’ aboot the lad first, an’ syne^then get a scart^scratch o’ yer pen, mem.”

“You must be the devil himself!” said the other, in a tone that was not of displeasure.

“I hae been tellt that afore, an’ wi’ less rizzon^reason,” was the reply—given also in a tone that was not of displeasure.

“But what if we should be found out?”

“Ye can lay ’t a’ upo’ me.”

“And what will you do with it?”

“Tak it wi’ me,” was the answer, accompanied by another husky laugh.

“Where to?”

“Speir^ask nae questons, an’ ye’ll be tellt nae lees^lies. Ony gait^anyway, I s’ lea’ nae track ahin’^behind me. An’ for that same sake, I maun hae my pairt^part i’ my han’ the meenute the thing’s been sworn till. Gien ye fail me, ye’ll sune^soon see me get mair licht^light upo’ the subjec’, an’ confess till a great mistak. By the Michty^{mighty God}, but I’ll sweir^swear the verra contrar the neist^next time I’m hed^had up! Ay, an’ ilka^{every, each} body ’ill^will believe me. An’ whaur’ll ye be than, my leddy? For though I micht^might mistak, ye cudna^{could not}! Faith! they’ll hae ye ta’en up for perjury.”

“You’re a dangerous accomplice,” said the lady.

“I’m a tule ye maun tak by the han’le, or ye’ll rue the edge,” returned the other quietly.

“As soon then as I get a hold of that misbegotten elf—”

“Mean ye the yoong laird, or the yoong markis^Marquis, mem?”

“You forget, Mrs Catanach, that you are speaking to a lady!”

“Ye maun hae been unco^very like ane ae^one nicht, ony gait^anyway, mem. But I’m dune wi’ my jokin’.”

“As soon, I say, as I get my poor boy into proper hands, I shall be ready to take the next step.”

“What for sod^should ye pit^put it aff^off till than? He canna du muckle ae^one w’y^way or ither.”

“I will tell you. His uncle, Sir Joseph, prides himself on being an honest man, and if some busybody were to tell him that poor Stephen, as I am told people are saying, was no worse than harsh treatment had made him—for you know his father could not bear the sight of him till the day of his death—he would be the more determined to assert his guardianship, and keep things out of my hands. But if I once had the poor fellow in an asylum, or in my own keeping—you see—”

“Weel, mem, gien I be potty, ye’re panny!” exclaimed the midwife with her gelatinous laugh. “Losh, mem!” she burst out after a moment’s pause, “gien you an’ me was to fa’ oot, there wad be a stramash^{uproar, brawl}! He! he! he!”

They rose and left the cave together, talking as they went; and Phemy, trembling all over, rejoined the laird.

She could understand little of what she had heard, and yet, enabled by her affection, retained in her mind a good deal of it. After events brought more of it to her recollection, and what I have here given is an attempted restoration of the broken mosaic. She rightly judged it better to repeat nothing of what she had overheard to the laird, to whom it would only redouble terror; and when he questioned her in his own way concerning it, she had little difficulty, so entirely did he trust her, in satisfying him with a very small amount of information. When they reached her home, she told all she could to her father; whose opinion it was, that the best, indeed the only thing they could do, was to keep, if possible, a yet more vigilant guard over the laird and his liberty.

Soon after they were gone, Malcolm returned, and little thinking that there was no one left to guard, chose a sheltered spot in the cave, carried thither a quantity of dry sand, and lay down to sleep, covered with his tarpaulin coat. He found it something chilly, however, and did not rest so well but that he woke with the first break of day.

The morning, as it drew slowly on, was a strange contrast, in its gray and saffron, to the gorgeous sunset of the night before.

The sea crept up on the land as if it were weary, and did not care much to flow any more. Not a breath of wind was in motion, and yet the air even on the shore seemed full of the presence of decaying leaves and damp earth. He sat down in the mouth of the cave, and looked out on the still, half-waking world of ocean and sky before him—a leaden ocean, and a dull misty sky; and as he gazed, a sadness came stealing over him, and a sense of the endlessness of labour—labour ever returning on itself and making no progress. The mad laird was always lamenting his ignorance of his origin: Malcolm thought he knew whence he came—and yet what was the much good of life? Where was the end to it all? People so seldom got what they desired! To be sure his life was a happy one, or had been—but there was the poor laird! Why should he be happier than the laird? Why should the laird have a hump and he have none? If all the world were happy but one man, that one’s misery would be as a cairn on which the countless multitudes of the blessed must heap the stones of endless questions and enduring perplexities.

It is one thing to know from whom we come, and another to know from Whom we come.

Then his thoughts turned to Lady Florimel. All the splendours of existence radiated from her, but to the glory he could never draw nearer; the celestial fires of the rainbow fountain of her life could never warm him; she cared about nothing he cared about; if they had a common humanity they could not share it; to her he was hardly human. If he were to unfold before her the deepest layers of his thought, she would look at them curiously, as she might watch the doings of an ant or a spider. Had he no right to look for more? He did not know, and sat brooding with bowed head.

Unseen from where he sat, the sun drew nearer the horizon, the light grew; the tide began to ripple up more diligently; a glimmer of dawn touched even the brown rock in the farthest end of the cave.

Where there was light there was work, and where there was work for any one, there was at least justification of his existence. That work must be done, if it should return and return in a never broken circle. Its theory could wait. For indeed the only hope of finding the theory of all theories, the divine idea, lay in the going on of things.

In the meantime, while God took care of the sparrows by himself, he allowed Malcolm a share in the protection of a human heart capable of the keenest suffering—that of the mad laird.

Chapter 32 - The Skipper’s Chamber

One day towards the close of the fishing-season, the marquis called upon Duncan; and was received with a cordial unembarrassed welcome.

“I want you, Mr MacPhail,” said his lordship, “to come and live in that little cottage, on the banks of the burn, which one of the under gamekeepers, they tell me, used to occupy. I’ll have it put in order for you, and you shall live rent-free as my piper.”

“I thank your lortship’s crace,” said Duncan, “and she would pe proud of ta honour, put it ’ll pe too far away from ta shore for her poy’s fishing.”

“I have a design upon him too,” returned the marquis. “They’re building a little yacht for me—a pleasure-boat, you understand—at Aberdeen, and I want Malcolm to be skipper. But he is such a useful fellow, and so thoroughly to be depended upon, that I should prefer his having a room in the house. I should like to know he was within call any moment I might want him.”

Duncan did not clutch at the proposal. He was silent so long that the marquis spoke again.

“You do not quite seem to like the plan, Mr MacPhail,” he said.

“If aal wass here as it used to wass in ta Highlants, my lort,” said Duncan, “when every clansman wass son or prother or father to his chief tat would pe tifferent; put my poy must not co and eat with serfants who haf nothing put teir waches to make tem love and opey your lortship. If her poy serfs another man, it must pe pecause he loves him, and looks upon him as his chief, who will shake haands with him and take ta father’s care of him; and her poy must tie for him when ta time comes.”

Even a feudal lord cannot be expected to have sympathized with such grand patriarchal ideas; they were much too like those of the kingdom of heaven; and feudalism itself had by this time crumbled away—not indeed into monthly, but into half-yearly wages. The marquis, notwithstanding, was touched by the old man’s words, matter-of fact as his reply must sound after them.

“I would make any arrangements you or he might wish,” he said. “He should take his meals with Mrs Courthope, have a bedroom to himself and be required only to look after the yacht, and now and then do some bit of business I couldn’t trust any one else with.”

The highlander’s pride was nearly satisfied.

“So,” he said, “it ’ll pe his own henchman my lort will pe making of her poy?”

“Something like that. We’ll see how it goes. If he doesn’t like it, he can drop it. It’s more that I want to have him about me than anything else. I want to do something for him when I have a chance. I like him.”

“My lort will pe toing ta laad a creat honour,” said Duncan. “Put,” he added, with a sigh, “she ’ll pe lonely, her nainsel!”

“He can come and see you twenty times a day—and stop all night when you particularly want him. We’ll see about some respectable woman to look after the house for you.”

“She ’ll haf no womans to look after her,” said Duncan fiercely.

“Oh, very well!—of course not, if you don’t wish it,” returned the marquis, laughing.

But Duncan did not even smile in return. He sat thoughtful and silent for a moment, then said:

“And what ’ll pecome of her lamps and her shop?”

“You shall have all the lamps and candlesticks in the house to attend to and take charge of,” said the marquis, who had heard of the old man’s whim from Lady Florimel; “and for the shop, you won’t want that when you’re piper to the Marquis of Lossie.”

He did not venture to allude to wages more definitely.

“Well, she’ll pe talking to her poy apout it,” said Duncan, and the marquis saw that he had better press the matter no further for the time.

To Malcolm the proposal was full of attraction. True, Lord Lossie had once and again spoken so as to offend him, but the confidence he had shown in him had gone far to atone for that. And to be near Lady Florimel!—to have to wait on her in the yacht and sometimes in the house!—to be allowed books from the library perhaps!—to have a nice room, and those lovely grounds all about him!—It was tempting!

The old man also, the more he reflected, liked the idea the more. The only thing he murmured at was, being parted from his grandson at night. In vain Malcolm reminded him that during the fishing-season he had to spend most nights alone; Duncan answered that he had but to go to the door, and look out to sea, and there was nothing between him and his boy; but now he could not tell how many stone walls might be standing up to divide them. He was quite willing to make the trial, however, and see if he could bear it. So Malcolm went to speak to the marquis.

He did not altogether trust the marquis, but he had always taken a delight in doing anything for anybody—a delight rooted in a natural tendency to ministration, unusually strong, and specially developed by the instructions of Alexander Graham conjoined with the necessities of his blind grandfather; while there was an alluring something, it must be confessed, in the marquis’s high position—which let no one set down to Malcolm’s discredit: whether the subordination of class shall go to the development of reverence or of servility, depends mainly on the individual nature subordinated. Still, as he pondered over the matter on his way, he shrunk a good deal from placing himself at the beck and call of another; it threatened to interfere with that sense of personal freedom which is yet dearer perhaps to the poor than to the rich. But he argued with himself that he had found no infringement of it under Blue Peter; and that, if the marquis were really as friendly as he professed to be, it was not likely to turn out otherwise with him.

Lady Florimel anticipated pleasure in Malcolm’s probable consent to her father’s plan; but certainly he would not have been greatly uplifted by a knowledge of the sort of pleasure she expected. For some time the girl had been suffering from too much liberty. Perhaps there is no life more filled with a sense of oppression and lack of freedom than that of those under no external control, in whom Duty has not yet gathered sufficient strength to assume the reins of government and subject them to the highest law. It was amusement she hoped for from Malcolm’s becoming in a sense one of the family at the House—to which she believed her knowledge of the extremely bare outlines of his history would largely contribute.

He was shown at once into the presence of his lordship, whom he found at breakfast with his daughter.

“Well, MacPhail,” said the marquis, “have you made up your mind to be my skipper?”

“Willin’ly, my lord,” answered Malcolm.

“Do you know how to manage a sail-boat? Shall you want any help?”

“That depen’s upo’ saiveral things—her ain size, the wull^will o’ the win’^wind, an’ whether or no yer lordship or my leddy can tak the tiller.”

“We can’t settle about that then till she comes. I hear she’ll soon be on her way now. But I cannot have you dressed like a farmer!” said his lordship, looking sharply at the Sunday clothes which Malcolm had donned for the visit.

“What was I to du, my lord?” returned Malcolm apologetically. “The only ither claes^clothes I hae, are verra fishy, an’ neither yersel’ nor my leddy cud bide them i’ the room aside ye.”

“Certainly not,” responded the marquis, as in a leisurely manner he devoured his omelette: “I was thinking of your future position as skipper of my boat. What would you say to a kilt now?”

“Na, na, my lord,” rejoined Malcolm; “a kilt’s no seafarin’ claes^clothes. A kilt wadna du ava’^{at all}, my lord.”

“You cannot surely object to the dress of your own people,” said the marquis.

“The kilt ’s weel eneuch upon a hillside,” said Malcolm, “I dinna doobt; but faith! seafarin’, my lord, ye wad want the trews as weel.”

“Well, go to the best tailor in the town, and order a naval suit—white ducks and a blue jacket—two suits you’ll want.”

“We s’ gar^make ae^one shuit^suit sair ’s^{satisfy us} to begin wi’, my lord. I ’ll jist gang to Jamie Sangster, wha maks^makes a’ my claes—no ’at their mony!—an’ get him to mizzur me. He’ll mak them weel eneuch for me. You’re aye sure o’ the worth o’ yer siller^silver frae him.”

“I tell you to go to the best tailor in the town, and order two suits.”

“Na, na, my lord; there’s nae need. I canna affoord it forbye^besides. We’re no a’ made o’ siller^silver like yer lordship.”

“You booby! do you suppose I would tell you to order clothes I did not mean to pay for?”

Lady Florimel found her expectation of amusement not likely to be disappointed.

“Hoots^pshaw!, my lord!” returned Malcolm, “that wad never du. I maun pey^pay for my ain claes^clothes. I wad be in a constant terror o’ blaudin’^spoiling o’ them gien I didna, an’ that wad be eneuch to mak a body meeserable. It wad be a’ the same, forbye^besides, oot an’ oot, as weirin’ a leevry^uniform!”

“Well, well! please your pride, and be damned to you!” said the marquis.

“Yes, let him please his pride, and be damned to him!” assented Lady Florimel with perfect gravity.

Malcolm started and stared. Lady Florimel kept an absolute composure. The marquis burst into a loud laugh. Malcolm stood bewildered for a moment.

“I’m thinkin’ I ’m gaein’^going daft^delirious!” he said at length, putting his hand to his head. “It’s time I gaed^went. Guid mornin’, my lord.”

He turned and left the room, followed by a fresh peal from his lordship, mingling with which his ear plainly detected the silvery veins of Lady Florimel’s equally merry laughter.

When he came to himself and was able to reflect, he saw there must have been some joke involved: the behaviour of both indicated as much; and with this conclusion he heartened his dismay.

The next morning Duncan called on Mrs Partan, and begged her acceptance of his stock in trade, as, having been his lordship’s piper for some time, he was now at length about to occupy his proper quarters within the policies. Mrs Findlay acquiesced, with an air better suited to the granting of slow leave to laboursome petition, than the accepting of such a generous gift; but she made some amends by graciously expressing a hope that Duncan would not forget his old friends now that he was going amongst lords and ladies, to which Duncan returned as courteous answer as if he had been addressing Lady Florimel herself.

Before the end of the week, his few household goods were borne in a cart through the sea-gate dragonised by Bykes, to whom Malcolm dropped a humorous “Weel Johnny!” as he passed, receiving a nondescript kind of grin in return. The rest of the forenoon was spent in getting the place in order, and in the afternoon, arrayed in his new garments, Malcolm reported himself at the House. 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^concerning yon cat-prowl aboot the hoose, my lord.”

“No. You haven’t discovered anything more—have you?”

“Na, my lord; I haena^{have not} had a chance. But ye may be sure she had nae guid design in ’t.”

“I don’t suspect her of any.”

“Weel, my lord, hae ye ony objection to lat me sleep up yonner^yonder?”

“None at all—only you’d better see what Mrs Courthope has to say to it. Perhaps you won’t be so ready after you hear her story.”

“But I hae yer lordship’s leave to tak ony room I like?”

“Certainly. Go to Mrs Courthope, and tell her I wish you to choose your own quarters.”

Having straightway delivered his lordship’s message, Mrs Courthope, wondering a little thereat, proceeded to show him those portions of the house set apart for the servants. He followed her from floor to floor—last to the upper regions, and through all the confused rambling roofs of the old pile, now descending a sudden steep-yawning stair, now ascending another where none could have been supposed to exist—oppressed all the time with a sense of the multitudinous and intricate, such as he had never before experienced, and such as perhaps only the works of man can produce, the intricacy and variety of those of nature being ever veiled in grand simplicity.

I find no part of an ancient house so full of interest as the garret-region. It has all the mystery of the dungeon-cellars with a far more striking variety of form, and a bewildering curiosity of adaptation, the peculiarities of roof-shapes and the consequent complexities of their relations and junctures being so much greater than those of foundation-plans. Then the sense of lofty loneliness in the deeps of air, and at the same time of proximity to things aerial—doves and martins, vanes and gilded balls and lightning conductors, the waves of the sea of wind, breaking on the chimneys for rocks, and the crashing roll of the thunder—is in harmony with the highest spiritual instincts; while the clouds and the stars look, if not nearer, yet more germane, and the moon gazes down on the lonely dweller in uplifted places, as if she had secrets with such. The cellars are the metaphysics, the garrets the poetry of the house.

Mrs Courthope was more than kind, for she was greatly pleased at having Malcolm for an inmate. She led him from room to room, suggesting now and then a choice, and listening amusedly to his remarks of liking or disliking, and his marvel at strangeness or extent. At last he found himself following her along the passage in which was the mysterious door, but she never stayed her step, or seemed to intend showing one of the many rooms opening upon it.

“Sic a bee’s-byke^beehive o’ rooms!” said Malcolm, making a halt. “Wha sleeps here?”

“Nobody has slept in one of these rooms for I dare not say how many years,” replied Mrs Courthope, without stopping; and as she spoke she passed the fearful door.

“I wad like to see intil^into this room,” said Malcolm.

“That door is never opened,” answered Mrs Courthope, who had now reached the end of the passage, and turned, lingering as in act while she spoke to move on.

“And what for that?” asked Malcolm, continuing to stand before it.

“I would rather not answer you just here. Come along. This is not a part of the house where you would like to be, I am sure.”

“Hoo ken ye that, mem? An’ hoo can I say mysel’ afore ye hae shawn^shown me what the room ’s like? It may be the verra place to tak my fancy. Jist open the door, mem, gien ye please, an lat’s hae a keek^{look, peep} intill^into ’t.”

“I daren’t open it. It’s never opened, I tell you. It’s against the rules of the house. Come to my room, and I’ll tell you the story about it.”

“Weel, ye ’ll lat me see intil^into the neist^next—winna ye? There’s nae law agane openin’ hit^{it—‘h’ gives emphasis}—is there?” said Malcolm, approaching the door next to the one in dispute.

“Certainly not; but I’m pretty sure, once you’ve heard the story I have to tell, you won’t choose to sleep in this part of the house.”

“Lat’s luik, ony gait^anyway.”

So saying, Malcolm took upon himself to try the handle of the door. It was not locked: he peeped in, then entered. It was a small room, low-ceiled, with a deep dormer-window in the high pediment of a roof, and a turret-recess on each side of the window. It seemed very light after the passage, and looked down upon the burn. It was comfortably furnished, and the curtains of its tent-bed were chequered in squares of blue and white.

“This is the verra place for me, mem,” said Malcolm, reissuing;—“that is,” he added, “gien ye dinna think it’s ower gran’ for the likes o’ me ’at ’s no been used to onything half sae guid.”

“You’re quite welcome to it,” said Mrs Courthope, all-but-confident he would not care to occupy it after hearing the tale of Lord Gernon.

She had not moved from the end of the passage while Malcolm was in the room—somewhat hurriedly she now led the way to her own. It seemed half a mile off to the wondering Malcolm, as he followed her down winding stairs, along endless passages, and round innumerable corners. Arrived at last, she made him sit down, and gave him a glass of home-made wine to drink, while she told him the story much as she had already told it to the marquis, adding a hope to the effect that, if ever the marquis should express a wish to pry into the secret of the chamber, Malcolm would not encourage him in a fancy, the indulgence of which was certainly useless, and might be dangerous.

“Me!” exclaimed Malcolm with surprise. “—As gien he wad heed a word I said!”

“Very little sometimes will turn a man either in one direction or the other,” said Mrs Courthope.

“But surely, mem, ye dinna believe in sic fule^fool auld warld stories as that! It’s weel eneuch for a tale, but to think o’ a body turnin’ ‘ae fit^foot oot o’ ’s gait^way for ’t, blecks^perplexes me.”

“I don’t say I believe it,” returned Mrs Courthope, a little pettishly; “but there’s no good in mere foolhardiness.”

“Ye dinna surely think, mem, ’at God wad lat onything depen’ upo’ whether a man opent a door in ’s ain hoose or no! It’s agane a’ rizzon^reason!” persisted Malcolm.

“There might be reasons we couldn’t understand,” she replied. “To do what we are warned against from any quarter, without good reason, must be foolhardy at best.”

“Weel, mem, I maun hae the room neist^next the auld warlock’s, ony gait^anyway, for in that I’m gauin’^going to sleep, an’ in nae ither in a’ this muckle hoose.”

Mrs Courthope rose, full of uneasiness, and walked up and down the room.

“I’m takin’ upo’ me naething ayont^beyond his lordship’s ain word,” urged Malcolm.

“If you’re to go by the very word,” rejoined Mrs Courthope, stopping and looking him full in the face, “you might insist on sleeping in Lord Gernon’s chamber itself.”

“Weal, an’ sae I micht^might,” returned Malcolm.

The hinted possibility of having to change bad for so much worse, appeared to quench further objection.

“I must get it ready myself then,” she said resignedly, “for the maids won’t even go up that stair. And as to going into any of those rooms!”

“‘Deed no, mem! ye sanna^{shall not} du that,” cried Malcolm. “Sayna a word to ane o’ them. I s’ wadger I’m as guid’s the auld warlock himsel’ at makin’ a bed. Jist gie^give me the sheets an’ the blankets, an’ I’ll du ’t as trim ’s ony lass i’ the hoose.”

“But the bed will want airing,” objected the housekeeper.

“By a’ accoonts, that’s the last thing it’s likly^likely to want—lyin’ neist^next door to yon chaumer^{chamber, room}. But I hae sleepit mony ’s the time er’^{ere, before} noo upo’ the tap^top o’ a boat-load o’ herrin’^herring, an’ gien that never did me ony ill, it’s no likly^likely a guid bed ’ll kill me gien it sud be a wee mochy^{rather full of moths}.”

Mrs Courthope yielded and gave him all that was needful, and before night Malcolm had made his new quarters quite comfortable. He did not retire to them, however, until he had seen his grandfather laid down to sleep in his lonely cottage.

About noon the next day the old man made his appearance in the kitchen. How he had found his way to it, neither he nor any one else could tell. There happened to be no one there when he entered, and the cook when she returned stood for a moment in the door, watching him as he felt flitting about with huge bony hands whose touch was yet light as the poise of a butterfly. Not knowing the old man, she fancied at first he was feeling after something in the shape of food, but presently his hands fell upon a brass candlestick. He clutched it, and commenced fingering it all over. Alas! it was clean, and with a look of disappointment he replaced it. Wondering yet more what his quest could be, she watched on. The next instant he had laid hold of a silver candlestick not yet passed through the hands of the scullery maid; and for a moment she fancied him a thief, for he had rejected the brass and now took the silver; but he went no farther with it than the fireplace, where he sat down on the end of the large fender, and, having spread his pocket-handkerchief over his kilted knees, drew a similar rag from somewhere, and commenced cleaning it.

By this time one of the maids who knew him had joined the cook, and also stood watching him with amusement. But when she saw the old knife drawn from his stocking, and about to be applied to the nozzle, to free it from adhering wax, it seemed more than time to break the silence.

“Eh! that’s a siller^silver can’lestick, Maister MacPhail,” she cried, “an’ ye maunna^{must not} tak a knife till ’t, or ye’ll scrat it a’ dreidfu’.”

An angry flush glowed in the withered cheeks of the piper, as, without the least start at the suddenness of her interference, he turned his face in the direction of the speaker.

“You take old Tuncan’s finkers for persons of no etchucation, mem! As if tey couldn’t know ta silfer from ta prass! If tey wass so stupid, her nose would pe telling tem so. Efen old Tuncan’s knife ’ll pe knowing petter than to scratch ta silfer—or ta prass either; old Tuncan’s knife would pe scratching nothing petter tan ta skin of a Cawmill.”

Now the candlestick had no business in the kitchen, and if it were scratched, the butler would be indignant; but the girl was a Campbell, and Duncan’s words so frightened her that she did not dare interfere. She soon saw, however, that the piper had not over-vaunted his skill: the skene left not a mark upon the metal; in a few minutes he had melted away the wax he could not otherwise reach, and had rubbed the candlestick perfectly bright, leaving behind him no trace except an unpleasant odour of train oil from the rag. From that hour he was cleaner of lamps and candlesticks, as well as blower of bagpipes, to the House of Lossie; and had everything provided necessary to the performance of his duties with comfort and success.

Before many weeks were over, he had proved the possession of such a talent for arrangement and general management, at least in everything connected with illumination, that the entire charge of the lighting of the house was left in his hands,—even to that of its stores of wax and tallow and oil; and great was the pleasure he derived, not only from the trust reposed in him, but from other more occult sources connected with the duties of his office.

Chapter 33 - The Library

Malcolm’s first night was rather troubled,—not primarily from the fact that but a thin partition separated him from the wizard’s chamber, but from the deadness of the silence around him; for he had been all his life accustomed to the near noise of the sea, and its absence had upon him the rousing effect of an unaccustomed sound. He kept hearing the dead silence—was constantly dropping, as it were into its gulf; and it was no wonder that a succession of sleepless fits, strung together rather than divided by as many dozes little better than startled rousings, should at length have so shaken his mental frame as to lay it open to the assaults of nightly terrors, the position itself being sufficient to seduce his imagination, and carry it over to the interests of the enemy.

But Malcolm had early learned that a man’s will must, like a true monarch, rule down every rebellious movement of its subjects, and he was far from yielding to such inroads as now assailed him: still it was long before he fell asleep, and then only to dream without quite losing consciousness of his peculiar surroundings. He seemed to know that he lay in his own bed, and yet to be somehow aware of the presence of a pale woman in a white garment, who sat on the side of the bed in the next room, still and silent, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes on the ground. He thought he had seen her before, and knew, notwithstanding her silence, that she was lamenting over a child she had lost. He knew also where her child was,—that it lay crying in a cave down by the seashore; but he could neither rise to go to her, nor open his mouth to call. The vision kept coming and coming, like the same tune played over and over on a barrel organ, and when he woke seemed to fill all the time he had slept.

About ten o’clock he was summoned to the marquis’s presence, and found him at breakfast with Lady Florimel.

“Where did you sleep last night?” asked the marquis.

“Neist^next door to the auld warlock,” answered Malcolm.

Lady Florimel looked up with a glance of bright interest: her father had just been telling her the story.

“You did!” said the marquis. “Then Mrs Courthope—did she tell you the legend about him?”

“Ay did she, my lord.”

“Well, how did you sleep?”

“Middlin’ only.”

“How was that?”

“I dinna ken, ’cep^{except, but} it was ’at I was fule^fool eneuch to fin’^find the place gey^considerably eerie like.”

“Aha!” said the marquis. “You’ve had enough of it! You won’t try it again!”

“What ’s that ye say, my lord?” rejoined Malcolm. “Wad ye hae a man turn ’s back at the first fleg^fright? Na, na, my lord; that wad never du!”

“Oh! then, you did have a fright?”

“Na, I canna say that aither^either. Naething waur^worse cam near me nor a dream ’at plaguit^{plagued, troubled} me—an’ it wasna sic an ill ane efter a’.”

“What was it?”

“I thocht^thought there was a bonny leddy sittin’ o’ the bed i’ the neist^next room, in her nichtgoon like, an’ she was greitin’^{crying, weeping} sair^sore in her heirt, though she never loot^let a tear fa’ doon. She was greitin’^{crying, weeping} about a bairnie^{little child} she had lost, an’ I kent^knew weel whaur the bairnie^{little child} was—doon in a cave upo’ the shore, I thoucht^thought—an’ was jist yirnin’ to gang till her an’ tell her, an’ stop the greitin’^{crying, weeping} o’ her hert^heart, but I cudna^{could not} muv^move han’ nor fit^foot, naither^neither cud I open my mou’^mouth to cry till her. An’ I gaed^went dreamin’ on at the same thing ower an’ ower, a’ the time I was asleep. But there was naething sae frichtsome aboot that, my lord.”

“No, indeed,” said his lordship.

“Only it garred^{made, caused} me greit^{cry, weep} tu^too, my lord, ’cause I cudna^{could not} win^get at her to help her.”

His lordship laughed, but oddly, and changed the subject.

“There’s no word of that boat yet,” he said. “I must write again.”

“May I show Malcolm the library, papa?” asked Lady Florimel.

“I wad fain^gladly see the buiks^books,” added Malcolm.

“You don’t know what a scholar he is, papa!”

“Little eneuch o’ that!” said Malcolm.

“Oh yes! I do,” said the marquis, answering his daughter. “But he must keep the skipper from my books and the scholar from my boat.”

“Ye mean a scholar wha wad skip yer buiks^books, my lord! Haith! sic wad be a skipper wha wad ill scull yer boat!” said Malcolm, with a laugh at the poor attempt.

“Bravo!” said the marquis, who certainly was not over-critical. “Can you write a good hand?”

“No ill, my lord.”

“So much the better! I see you ’ll be worth your wages.”

“That depen’s on the wages,” returned Malcolm.

“And that reminds me you’ve said nothing about them yet.”

“Naither^neither has yer lordship.”

“Well, what are they to be?”

“Whatever ye think proper, my lord. Only dinna gar^{cause, make} me gang to Maister Crathie for them.”

The marquis had sent away the man who was waiting when Malcolm entered, and during this conversation Malcolm had of his own accord been doing his best to supply his place. The meal ended, Lady Florimel desired him to wait a moment in the hall.

“He’s so amusing, papa!” she said. “I want to see him stare at the books. He thinks the schoolmaster’s hundred volumes a grand library! He’s such a goose! It’s the greatest fun in the world watching him.”

“No such goose!” said the marquis; but he recognized himself in his child, and laughed.

Florimel ran off merrily, as bent on a joke, and joined Malcolm.

“Now, I’m going to show you the library,” she said.

“Thank ye, my leddy; that will be gran’!” replied Malcolm.

He followed her up two staircases, and through more than one long narrow passage: all the ducts of the house were long and narrow, causing him a sense of imprisonment—vanishing ever into freedom at the opening of some door into a great room. But never had he had a dream of such a room as that at which they now arrived. He started with a sort of marvelling dismay when she threw open the door of the library, and he beheld ten thousand volumes at a glance, all in solemn stillness. It was like a sepulchre of kings. But his astonishment took a strange form of expression, the thought in which was beyond the reach of his mistress.

“Eh, my leddy!” he cried, after staring for a while in breathless bewilderment, “it’s jist like a byke^{hive, swarm, crowd} o’ frozen bees! Eh! gien they war a’ to come to life an’ stick their stangs o’ trowth^truth intill^into a body, the waukin’^waking up wad be awfu’!—It jist gars^{makes, causes} my heid^head gang roon’^{around, round}!” he added, after a pause.

“It is a fine thing,” said the girl, “to have such a library.”

“‘Deed is ’t, my leddy! It’s ane o’ the preevileeges o’ rank,” said Malcolm. “It taks^takes a faimily that hauds^{holds, keeps} on throu’ centeries in a hoose whaur things gether^gather, to mak sic an unaccoontable getherin’ o’ buiks^books as that. It’s a gran’ sicht—worth livin’ to see.”

“Suppose you were to be a rich man some day,” said Florimel, in the condescending tone she generally adopted when addressing him, “it would be one of the first things you would set about—wouldn’t it—to get such a library together?”

“Na, my leddy; I wad hae mair wut^{sense, good judgment}. A leebrary canna be made a’ at ance^once, ony mair nor a hoose, or a nation, or a muckle tree: they maun a’ tak time to grow, an’ sae maun a leebrary. I wadna even ken what buiks^books to gang an’ speir^ask for. I daursay^{dare say}, gien I war to try, I cudna^{could not} at a moment’s notice tell ye the names o’ mair nor a twa score o’ buiks^books at the ootside^outside. Fowk maun mak acquantance amo’^among buiks^books as they wad amo’^among leevin’^living fowk.”

“But you could get somebody who knew more about them than yourself to buy for you.”

“I wad as sune^soon think o’ gettin’ somebody to ate^eat my denner^dinner for me.”

“No, that’s not fair,” said Florimel. “It would only be like getting somebody who knew more of cookery than yourself, to order your dinner for you.”

“Ye ’re richt, my leddy; but still I wad as sune^soon think o’ the tane^{the one} ’s the tither^{the other}. What wad come o’ the like o’ me, div^do ye think, broucht^brought up upo’ meal-brose, an’ herrin’, gien ye was to set me doon to sic a denner^dinner as my lord, yer father, wad ait^eat ilka^{every, each} day, an’ think naething o’? But gien some fowk hed^had the buyin’ o’ my buiks^books, I’m thinkin’ the first thing I wad hae to du, wad be to fling^{kick, throw} the half o’ them into the burn.”

“What good would that do?”

“Clear awa’ the rubbitch. Ye see, my leddy, it’s no buiks^books, but what buiks^books. Eh! there maun be mony ane o’ the richt sort here, though. I wonner^{wonder, marvel} gien Mr Graham ever saw them. He wad surely hae made mention o them i’ my hearin’!”

“What would be the first thing you would do, then, Malcolm, if you happened to turn out a great man after all?” said Florimel, seating herself in a huge library chair, whence, having arranged her skirt, she looked up in the young fisherman’s face.

“I doobt^{I suspect} I wad hae to sit doon, an’ turn ower the change a feow^few times afore I kent^knew aither^either mysel’ or what wad become me,” he said.

“That’s not answering my question,” retorted Florimel.

“Weel, the second thing I wad du,” said Malcolm, thoughtfully, and pausing a moment, “wad be to get Mr Graham to gang wi’ me to Ebberdeen^Aberdeen, an’ cairry me throu’ the classes there. Of coorse^course, I wadna try for prizes; that wadna be fair to them ’at cudna^{could not} affoord a tutor at their lodgin’s.”

“But it’s the first thing you would do that I want to know,” persisted the girl.

“I tell’t ye I wad sit doon an’ think aboot it.”

“I don’t count that doing anything.”

“‘Deed, my leddy! thinkin ’s the hardest wark^work I ken.”

“Well, what is it you would think about first?” said Florimel—not to be diverted from her course.

“Ow, the third thing I wad du—”

“I want to know the first thing you would think about.”

“I canna say yet what the third thing wad be. Fower^four year at the college wad gie me time to reflec upon a hantle^{great deal} o’ things.”

“I insist on knowing the first thing you would think about doing,” cried Florimel, with mock imperiousness, but real tyranny.

“Weel, my leddy, gien ye wull^will hae ’t—but hoo great a man wad ye be makin’ o’ me?”

“Oh!—let me see;—yes—yes—the heir to an earldom.—That’s liberal enough—is it not?”

“That ’s as muckle as say I wad come to be a yerl^earl some day, sae be I didna dee^die upo’ the ro’d^road?”

“Yes—that’s what it means.”

“An’ a yerl’s neist^next door till a markis^Marquis—isna he?”

“Yes—he’s in the next lower rank.”

“Lower?—Ay!—No that muckle, maybe?”

“No,” said Lady Florimel consequentially; “the difference is not so great as to prevent their meeting on a level of courtesy.”

“I dinna freely^quite ken what that means; but gien ’t be yer leddyship’s wull^wish to mak a yerl^earl o’ me, I’m no to raise ony objections.”

He uttered it definitively, and stood silent.

“Well?” said the girl.

“What’s yer wull, my leddy?” returned Malcolm, as if roused from a reverie.

“Where’s your answer?”

“I said I wad be a yerl^earl to please yer leddyship^ladyship.—I wad be a flunky for the same rizzon^reason, gien ’t was to wait upo’ yersel’ an’ nae ither.”

“I ask you,” said Florimel, more imperiously than ever, “what is the first thing you would do, if you found yourself no longer a fisherman, but the son of an earl?”

“But it maun be that I was a fisherman—to the en’^end o’ a’ creation, my leddy.”

“You refuse to answer my question?”

“By no means, my leddy, gien ye wull hae an answer.”

“I will have an answer.”

“Gien ye wull^will hae ’t than—But—”

“No buts, but an answer!”

“Weel—it’s yer ain wyte^fault, my leddy!—I wad jist gang doon upo’ my k-nees, whaur I stude^stood afore ye, and tell ye a heap o’ things ’at maybe by that time ye wad ken weel eneuch a’ready .”

“What would you tell me?”

“I wad tell ye ’at yer een^eyes war like the verra leme^gleam o’ the levin^{the lightning} itsel’; yer cheek like a white rose i’ the licht^light frae a reid^red ane; yer hair jist the saft^soft lattin’^letting gang o’ his han’s whan the Maker cud du nae mair; yer mou’^mouth jist fashioned to drive fowk daft ’at daurna^{dare not} come nearer nor luik at it; an’ for yer shape, it was like naething in natur’ but itsel’.—Ye wad hae’t my leddy!” he added apologetically—and well he might, for Lady Florimel’s cheek had flushed, and her eye had been darting fire long before he got to the end of his Celtic outpouring. Whether she was really angry or not, she had no difficulty in making Malcolm believe she was. She rose from her chair—though not until he had ended—swept halfway to the door, then turned upon him with a flash.

“How dare you?” she said, her breed well obeying the call of the game.

“I’m verra sorry, my leddy,” faltered Malcolm, trying to steady himself against a strange trembling that had laid hold upon him, “—but ye maun alloo^allow it was a’ yer ain wyte^fault.”

“Do you dare to say I encouraged you to talk such stuff to me?”

“Ye did gar^{cause, make} me, my leddy.”

Florimel turned and undulated from the room, leaving the poor fellow like a statue in the middle of it, with the books all turning their backs upon him.

“Noo,” he said to himself, “she’s aff^off to tell her father, and there’ll be a bonny bane^bone to pyke^pick atween him an’ me! But haith! I’ll jist tell him the trowth^truth o’ ’t, an’ syne^then he can mak a kirk^church an’ a mill o’ ’t, gien he likes.”

With this resolution he stood his ground, every moment expecting the wrathful father to make his appearance and at the least order him out of the house. But minute passed after minute, and no wrathful father came. He grew calmer by degrees, and at length began to peep at the titles of the books.

When the great bell rang for lunch, he was embalmed rather than buried in one of Milton’s prose volumes—standing before the shelf on which he had found it—the very incarnation of study.

My reader may well judge that Malcolm could not have been very far gone in love, seeing he was thus able to read. I remark in return that it was not merely the distance between him and Lady Florimel that had hitherto preserved his being from absorption and his will from annihilation, but also the strength of his common sense, and the force of his individuality.

Chapter 34 - Milton, and the Bay Mare

For some days Malcolm saw nothing more of Lady Florimel; but with his grandfather’s new dwelling to see to, with the carpenter’s shop and the blacksmith’s forge open to him, and an eye to detect whatever wanted setting right, the hours did not hang heavy on his hands. At length, whether it was that she thought she had punished him sufficiently for an offence for which she was herself only to blame, or that she had indeed never been offended at all and had only been keeping up her one-sided game, she began again to indulge the interest she could not help feeling in him, an interest heightened by the mystery which hung over his birth, and by the fact that she knew that concerning him of which he was himself ignorant. At the same time, as I have already said, she had no little need of an escape from the ennui which, now that the novelty of a country life had worn off did more than occasionally threaten her. She began again to seek his company under the guise of his help, half requesting, half commanding his services; and Malcolm found himself admitted afresh to the heaven of her favour. Young as he was, he read himself a lesson suitable to the occasion.

One afternoon the marquis sent for him to the library, but when he reached it his master was not yet there. He took down the volume of Milton in which he had been reading before, and was soon absorbed in it again.

“Faith! it’s a big shame,” he cried at length almost unconsciously, and closed the book with a slam.

“What is a big shame?” said the voice of the marquis close behind him.

Malcolm started, and almost dropped the volume.

“I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” he said; “I didna hear ye come in.”

“What is the book you were reading?” asked the marquis.

“I was jist readin’ a bit o’ Milton’s Eikonoklastes,” answered Malcolm, “—a buik^book I hae hard^heard tell o’, but never saw wi’ my ain een^eyes afore.”

“And what’s your quarrel with it?” asked his lordship.

“I canna mak oot what sud set a great man like Milton sae sair^sore agane a puir cratur like Cherles.”

“Read the history, and you’ll see.”

“Ow! I ken something aboot the politics o’ the time, an’ I ’m no sayin’ they war that wrang^wrong to tak the heid^head frae him, but what for sud Milton hate the man efter the king was deid^dead?”

“Because he didn’t think the king dead enough, I suppose.”

“I see!—an’ they war settin’ him up for a saint. Still he had a richt to fair play.—Jist hearken, my lord.”

So saying, Malcolm reopened the volume, and read the well-known passage, in the first chapter, in which Milton censures the king as guilty of utter irreverence, because of his adoption of the prayer of Pamela in the Arcadia.

“Noo, my lord,” he said, half-closing the book, “what wad ye expec’ to come upo’, efter sic a denunciation as that, but some awfu’ haithenish thing? Weel, jist hearken again, for here’s the verra prayer itsel’ in a futnote.”

His lordship had thrown himself into a chair, had crossed one leg over the other, and was now stroking his knee.

“Noo, my lord,” said Malcolm again, as he concluded, “what think ye o’ the jeedgment passed?”

“Really I have no opinion to give about it,” answered the marquis. “I’m no theologian. I see no harm in the prayer.”

“Hairm^harm in ’t, my lord! It’s perfetly gran’! It ’s sic a prayer as cudna^{could not} weel be aiqualt^equaled. It vexes me to the verra hert^heart o’ my sowl^soul that a michty^mighty man like Milton—ane whase^whose bein’ was a crood^{crowd; cooing} o’ hermonies—sud ca’ that the prayer o’ a haithen wuman^woman till a haithen God. ‘O all seein’ Licht^light, an’ eternal Life o’ a’ things!’—Ca’s he that a haithen God?—or her ’at prayed sic a prayer a haithen wuman^woman?”

“Well, well,” said the marquis, “I don’t want it all over again. I see nothing to find fault with, myself, but I don’t take much interest in that sort of thing.”

“There’s a wee bitty o’ Laitin, here i’ the note, ’at I canna freely^quite mak oot,” said Malcolm, approaching Lord Lossie with his finger on the passage, never doubting that the owner of such a library must be able to read Latin perfectly: Mr Graham would have put him right at once, and his books would have been lost in one of the window-corners of this huge place. But his lordship waved him back.

“I can’t be your tutor,” he said, not unkindly. “My Latin is far too rusty for use.”

The fact was that his lordship had never got beyond Maturin Cordier’s Colloquies.

“Besides,” he went on, “I want you to do something for me.”

Malcolm instantly replaced the book on its shelf, and approached his master, saying—

“Wull^will yer lordship lat me read whiles, i’ this gran’ place? I mean whan I’m no wantit ither gaits^ways, an’ there ’s naebody here.”

“To be sure,” answered the marquis; “—only the scholar mustn’t come with the skipper’s hands.”

“I s’ tak guid care o’ that, my lord. I wad as sune^soon think o’ han’lin’ a book wi’ wark-like han’s as I wad o’ branderin’^broiling a mackeral ohn^without cleaned it oot.”

“And when we have visitors, you’ll be careful not to get in their way.”

“I wull^{will do} that, my lord.”

“And now,” said his lordship rising, “I want you to take a letter to Mrs Stewart of Kirkbyres.—Can you ride?”

“I can ride the bare back weel eneuch for a fisher-loon,” said Malcolm; “but I never was upon a saiddle^saddle i’ my life.”

“The sooner you get used to one the better. Go and tell Stoat to saddle the bay mare. Wait in the yard: I will bring the letter out to you myself.”

“Verra weel, my lord!” said Malcolm. He knew, from sundry remarks he had heard about the stables, that the mare in question was a ticklish one to ride, but would rather have his neck broken than object.

Hardly was she ready, when the marquis appeared, accompanied by Lady Florimel—both expecting to enjoy a laugh at Malcolm’s expense. But when the mare was brought out, and he was going to mount her where she stood, something seemed to wake in the marquis’s heart, or conscience, or wherever the pigmy Duty slept that occupied the all-but sinecure of his moral economy: he looked at Malcolm for a moment, then at the ears of the mare hugging her neck, and last at the stones of the paved yard.

“Lead her on to the turf, Stoat,” he said.

The groom obeyed, all followed, and Malcolm mounted. The same instant he lay on his back on the grass, amidst a general laugh, loud on the part of marquis and lady, and subdued on that of the servants. But the next he was on his feet, and, the groom still holding the mare, in the saddle again: a little anger is a fine spur for the side of even an honest intent. This time he sat for half a minute, and then found himself once more on the grass. It was but once more: his mother earth had claimed him again only to complete his strength. A third time he mounted—and sat. As soon as she perceived it would be hard work to unseat him, the mare was quiet.

“Bravo!” cried the marquis, giving him the letter.

“Will there be an answer, my lord?”

“Wait and see.”

“I s’ gar^{cause, make} you pey^pay for’t, gien we come upon a broon rig^{plowed field} atween this an’ Kirkbyres,” said Malcolm, addressing the mare, and rode away.

Both the marquis and Lady Florimel, whose laughter had altogether ceased in the interest of watching the struggle, stood looking after him with a pleased expression, which, as he vanished up the glen, changed to a mutual glance and smile.

“He’s got good blood in him, however he came by it,” said the marquis. “The country is more indebted to its nobility than is generally understood.”

Chapter 35 - Kirkbyres

Malcolm felt considerably refreshed after his tussle with the mare and his victory over her, and much enjoyed his ride of ten miles. It was a cool autumn afternoon. A few of the fields were being reaped, one or two were crowded with stooks, while many crops of oats yet waved and rustled in various stages of vanishing green. On all sides kine were lowing; overhead rooks were cawing; the sun was nearing the west, and in the hollows a thin mist came steaming up. Malcolm had never in his life been so far from the coast before: his road led southwards into the heart of the country.

The father of the late proprietor of Kirkbyres had married the heiress of Gersefell, an estate which marched with his own, and was double its size, whence the lairdship was sometimes spoken of by the one name, sometimes by the other. The combined properties thus inherited by the late Mr Stewart were of sufficient extent to justify him, although a plain man, in becoming a suitor for the hand of the beautiful daughter of a needy baronet in the neighbourhood—with the already somewhat tarnished condition of whose reputation, having come into little contact with the world in which she moved, he was unacquainted. Quite unexpectedly she also, some years after their marriage, brought him a property of considerable extent, a fact which doubtless had its share in the birth and nourishment of her consuming desire to get the estates into her own management.

Towards the end of his journey, Malcolm came upon a bare moorland waste, on the long ascent of a low hill,—very desolate, with not a tree or house within sight for two miles. A ditch, half full of dark water, bordered each side of the road, which went straight as a rod through a black peat moss lying cheerless and dreary on all sides—hardly less so where the sun gleamed from the surface of some stagnant pool filling a hole whence peats had been dug, or where a patch of cotton-grass waved white and lonely in the midst of the waste expanse. At length, when he reached the top of the ridge, he saw the house of Kirkbyres below him; and, with a small modern lodge near by, a wooden gate showed the entrance to its grounds. Between the gate and the house he passed through a young plantation of larches and other firs for a quarter of a mile, and so came to an old wall with an iron gate in the middle of it, within which the old house, a gaunt meagre building—a bare house in fact, relieved only by four small turrets or bartizans, one at each corner—lifted its grey walls, pointed gables, and steep roof high into the pale blue air. He rode round the outer wall, seeking a back entrance, and arrived at a farm yard, where a boy took his horse. Finding the kitchen door open, he entered, and having delivered his letter to a servant girl, sat down to wait the possible answer.

In a few minutes she returned and requested him to follow her. This was more than he had calculated upon, but he obeyed at once. The girl led him along a dark passage, and up a winding stone-stair, much worn, to a room richly furnished, and older fashioned, he thought, than any room he had yet seen in Lossie House.

On a settee, with her back to a window, sat Mrs Stewart, a lady tall and slender, with well-poised, easy carriage, and a motion that might have suggested the lithe grace of a leopard. She greeted him with a bend of the head and a smile, which, even in the twilight and her own shadow, showed a gleam of ivory, and spoke to him in a hard sweet voice, wherein an ear more experienced than Malcolm’s might have detected an accustomed intent to please. Although he knew nothing of the so-called world, and hence could recognize neither the Parisian air of her dress nor the indications of familiarity with fashionable life prominent enough in her bearing, he yet could not fail to be at least aware of the contrast between her appearance and her surroundings. Yet less could the far stronger contrast escape him, between the picture in his own mind of the mother of the mad laird, and the woman before him; he could not by any effort cause the two to coalesce.

“You have had a long ride, Mr MacPhail,” she said; “you must be tired.”

“What wad tire me, mem?” returned Malcolm. “It’s a fine caller^{refreshing, cool} evenin’, an’ I hed^had ane o’ the marquis’s best mears to carry me.”

“You’ll take a glass of wine, anyhow,” said Mrs Stewart. “Will you oblige me by ringing the bell?”

“No, I thank ye, mem. The mear wad be better o’ a mou’fu’^mouthful o’ meal an’ watter^water, but I want naething mysel’.”

A shadow passed over the lady’s face. She rose and rang the bell, then sat in silence until it was answered.

“Bring the wine and cake,” she said, then turned to Malcolm. “Your master speaks very kindly of you. He seems to trust you thoroughly.”

“I’m verra glaid^glad to hear ’t, mem; but he has never had muckle cause to trust or distrust me yet.”

“He seems even to think that I might place equal confidence in you.”

“I dinna ken. I wadna hae ye lippen to^{listen to, depend on} me owre muckle,” said Malcolm.

“You do not mean to contradict the good character your master gives you?” said the lady, with a smile and a look right into his eyes.

“I wadna hae ye lippen till^{trust in, depend on} me afore ye had my word,” said Malcolm.

“I may use my own judgment about that,” she replied, with another winning smile. “But oblige me by taking a glass of wine.”

She rose and approached the decanters.

“‘Deed no, mem. I’m no used till ’t, an’ it micht^might jummle^jumble my jeedgement,” said Malcolm, who had placed himself on the defensive from the first, jealous of his own conduct as being the friend of the laird.

At his second refusal the cloud again crossed the lady’s brow, but her smile did not vanish. Pressing her hospitality no more, she resumed her seat.

“My lord tells me,” she said, folding a pair of lovely hands on her lap, “that you see my poor unhappy boy sometimes.”

“No sae dooms^absolutely unhappy, mem!” said Malcolm; but she went on without heeding the remark.

“And that you rescued him not long ago from the hands of ruffians.”

Malcolm made no reply.

“Everybody knows,” she continued, after a slight pause, “what an unhappy mother I am. It is many years since I lost the loveliest infant ever seen, while my poor Stephen was left to be the mockery of every urchin in the street!”

She sighed deeply, and one of the fair hands took a handkerchief from a work-table near.

“No in Portlossie, mem,” said Malcolm. “There’s verra feow^few o’ them so hard-hertit or so ill-mainnert. They’re used to seein’ him at the schuil^school, whaur he shaws^shows himsel’ whiles; an’ he ’s a great favourite wi’ them, for he’s ane o’ the best craturs^creatures livin’.”

“A poor, witless, unmanageable being! He’s a dreadful grief to me,” said the widowed mother, with a deep sigh.

“A bairn^child could manage him,” said Malcolm in strong contradiction.

“Oh, if I could but convince him of my love! but he won’t give me a chance. He has an unaccountable dread of me, which makes him as well as me wretched. It is a delusion which no argument can overcome, and seems indeed an essential part of his sad affliction. The more care and kindness he needs, the less will he accept at my hands. I long to devote my life to him, and he will not allow me. I should be but too happy to nurse him day and night. Ah, Mr MacPhail, you little know a mother’s heart! Even if my beautiful boy had not been taken from me, Stephen would still have been my idol, idiot as he is—and will be as long as he lives. And—”

“He ’s nae idiot, mem,” interposed Malcolm.

“And just imagine,” she went on, “what a misery it must be to a widowed mother, poor companion as he would be at the best, to think of her boy roaming the country like a beggar! sleeping she doesn’t know where! eating wretched food! and—”

“Guid parritch^{oatmeal porridge} an’ milk, an’ brose^{boiling water and meal} an’ butter,” said Malcolm parenthetically; “—whiles herrin’ an’ yallow haddies^{yellow haddocks}.”

“It’s enough to break a mother’s heart! If I could but persuade him to come home for a week so as to have a chance with him! But it’s no use trying: ill-disposed people have made mischief between us, telling wicked lies, and terrifying the poor fellow almost to death. It is quite impossible except I get some one to help me—and there are so few who have any influence with him!”

Malcolm thought she must surely have had chances enough before he ran away from her; but he could not help feeling softened towards her.

“Supposin’ I was to get ye speech o’ ’im, mem?” he said.

“That would not be of the slightest use. He is so prejudiced against me, he would only shriek, and go into one of those horrible fits.”

“I dinna see what’s to be dune than,” said Malcolm.

“I must have him brought here—there is no other way.”

“An’ whaur wad be the guid o’ that, mem? By yer ain shawin’, he wad rin^run oot o’ ’s verra body to win^get awa’ frae ye.”

“I did not mean by force,” returned Mrs Stewart. “Some one he has confidence in must come with him. Nothing else will give me a chance. He would trust you now; your presence would keep him from being terrified—at his own mother, alas! through you he would learn to trust me; and if a course of absolute indulgence did not bring him to live like other people—that of course is impossible—it might at least induce him to live at home, and cease to be a byword to the neighbourhood.”

Her tone was so refined, and her voice so pleading; her sorrow was so gentle; and she looked, in the dimness, to Malcolm’s imagination at least, so young and handsome, that the strong castle of his prejudices was swaying as if built on reeds; and had it not been that he was already the partizan of her son, and therefore in honour bound to give him the benefit of every doubt, he would certainly have been gained over to work her will. He knew absolutely nothing against her—not even that she was the person he had seen in Mrs Catanach’s company in the garret of Lossie House. But he steeled himself to distrust her, and held his peace.

“It is clear,” she resumed after a pause, “that the intervention of some friend of both is the only thing that can be of the smallest use. I know you are a friend of his—a true one, and I do not see why you should not be a friend of mine as well—Will you be my friend too?”

She rose as she said the words, and approaching him, bent on him out of the shadow the full strength of eyes whose light had not yet begun to pale before the dawn we call death, and held out a white hand glimmering in the dusk: she knew only too well the power of a still fine woman of any age over a youth of twenty.

Malcolm, knowing nothing about it, yet felt hers, and was on his guard. He rose also, but did not take her hand.

“I have had only too much reason,” she added, “to distrust some who, unlike you, professed themselves eager to serve me; but I know neither Lord Lossie nor you will play me false.”

She took his great rough hand between her two soft palms, and for one moment Malcolm was tempted—not to betray his friend, but to simulate a yielding sympathy, in order to come at the heart of her intent, and should it prove false, to foil it the more easily. But the honest nature of him shrunk from deception, even where the object of it was good: he was not at liberty to use falsehood for the discomfiture of the false even; a pretended friendship was of the vilest of despicable things, and the more holy the end, the less fit to be used for the compassing of it—least of all in the cause of a true friendship.

“I canna help ye, mem,” he said; “I daurna^{dare not}. I hae sic a regaird for yer son ’at afore I wad du onything to hairm^harm him, I wad hae my twa han’s chappit^struck frae the shackle-bane^wrist.”

“Surely, my dear Mr MacPhail,” returned the lady in her most persuasive tones, and with her sweetest smile, “you cannot call it harming a poor idiot to restore him to the care of his own mother!”

“That’s as it turnt oot,” rejoined Malcolm. “But I’m sure o’ ae thing, mem, an’ that is, ’at he’s no sae muckle o’ an eediot as some fowk wad hae him.”

Mrs Stewart’s face fell, she turned from him, and going back to her seat hid her face in her handkerchief.

“I’m afraid,” she said sadly, after a moment, “I must give up my last hope: you are not disposed to be friendly to me, Mr MacPhail; you too have been believing hard things of me.”

“That’s true; but no frae hearsay alane^alone,” returned Malcolm. “The luik o’ the puir fallow^{fellow, chap} whan he but hears the chance word mither, ’s a sicht no to be forgotten. He grips his lugs^ears atween ’s twa han’s, an’ rins^runs like a colley wi’ a pan at ’s tail. That couldna^{could not} come o’ naething.”

Mrs Stewart hid her face on the cushioned arm of the settee, and sobbed. A moment after she sat erect again, but languid and red-eyed, saying, as if with sudden resolve:

“I will tell you all I know about it, and then you can judge for yourself. When he was a very small child, I took him for advice to the best physicians in London and Paris: all advised a certain operation which had to be performed for consecutive months, at intervals of a few days. Though painful it was simple, yet of such a nature that no one was so fit to attend to it as his mother. Alas! instead of doing him any good, it has done me the worst injury in the world: my child hates me!”

Again she hid her face on the settee.

The explanation was plausible enough, and the grief of the mother surely apparent! Malcolm could not but be touched.

“It’s no ’at I’m no willin’ to be your freen’, mem; but I’m yer son’s freen’ a’ready, an’ gien he war to hear onything ’at gart^{caused, made} him mislippen^distrust till me, it wad gang to my hert^heart.”

“Then you can judge what I feel!” said the lady.

“Gien it wad hale^heal your hert^heart to hurt mine, I wad think aboot it, mem; but gien it hurtit^hurt a’ three o’ ’s, and did guid to nane^none, it wad be a misfit a’thegither. I’ll du naething till I’m doonricht^downright sure it’s the pairt^part o’ a freen’.”

“That’s just what makes you the only fit person to help me that I know. If I were to employ people in the affair, they might be rough with the poor fellow.”

“Like eneuch, mem,” assented Malcolm, while the words put him afresh on his guard.

“But I might be driven to it,” she added.

Malcolm responded with an unuttered vow.

“It might become necessary to use force—whereas you could lead him with a word.”

“Na; I’m naither^neither sic witch nor sic traitor.”

“Where would be the treachery when you knew it would be for his good?”

“That’s jist what I dinna ken, mem,” retorted Malcolm. “Luik ye here, mem,” he continued, rousing himself to venture an appeal to the mother’s heart; “—here’s a man it has pleased God to mak no freely^quite like ither fowk. His min’^mind though cawpable o’ a hantle^{great deal} mair nor a body wad think ’at didna ken him sae weel as I du, is certainly weyk^weak—though maybe the weykness lies mair i’ the tongue than i’ the brain o’ ’im efter a’—an’ he’s been sair^sore frichtit^frightened wi’ some guideship^management or ither; the upshot o ’t a’ bein’, ’at he’s unco^very timoursome, and ready to bursten himsel’ rinnin’ whan there’s nane^none pursuin’. But he’s the gentlest o’ craturs^creatures—a doonricht^downright gentleman, mem, gien ever there was ane—an’ that kin’ly wi’ a’ cratur, baith^both man an’ beast! A verra bairn^child cud guide him—ony gait but ane.”

“Anywhere but to his mother!” exclaimed Mrs Stewart, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and sobbed as she spoke. “There is a child he is very fond of, I am told,” she added, recovering herself.

“He likes a’ bairns^children,” returned Malcolm, “an’ they ’re maistly^{mostly, most of all} a’ freen’ly wi’ him. But there’s but jist ae thing ’at maks^makes life endurable till ’im. He suffers a hantle^{a great deal} wi’ that puir back o’ his, an’ wi’ his breath tu^too whan he’s frichtit^frightened, for his hert^heart gangs^{goes, walks} loupin like a sawmon in a bag-net. An’ he suffers a hantle^{great deal}, forbye^besides, in his puir feeble min’^mind, tryin’ to unnerstan’ the guid things ’at fowk tells him, an’ jaloosin’^guessing it’s his ain wyte^fault ’at he disna^{does not} unnerstan’ them better an’ whiles he thinks himsel’ the child o’ sin and wrath, an’ that Sawtan^Satan has some special propriety in him, as the carritchis^catechism says—”

“But,” interrupted the lady hurriedly, “you were going to tell me the one comfort he has.”

“It’s his leeberty, mem—jist his leeberty; to gang whaur he lists like the win’^wind; to turn his face whaur he wull^will i’ the mornin’, an’ back again at nicht gien he likes; to wan’er—”

“Back where?” interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly.

“Whaur he likes, mem—I cudna^{could not} say whaur wi’ ony certainty. But aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin’, an’ watch the stars sheenin’!—There’s a sicht o’ oondevelopit releegion in him, as Maister Graham says; an’ I div^do not believe ’at the Lord ’ll see him wranged^wronged mair nor ’s for ’s guid. But it’s my belief, gien ye took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him.”

“Then you won’t help me!” she cried despairingly. “They tell me you are an orphan yourself—and yet you will not take pity on a childless mother!—worse than childless, for I had the loveliest boy once—he would be about your age now, and I have never had any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my son, and I will bless you—love you.”

As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground.

“‘Deed, mem, I can an’ wull promise ye naething!” he said. “Are ye to play a man fause^false ’cause he’s less able to tak care o’ himsel’ than ither fowk? Gien I war sure ’at ye cud mak it up, an’ ’at he would be happy wi’ ye efterhin^{after, afterwards}, it micht be anither thing; but excep’ ye garred^{made, caused} him, ye cudna^{could not} get him to bide lang eneuch for ye to try—an’ syne^{even then} he wad dee^die afore ye hed^had convenced him. I doobt^{I suspect}, mem, ye hae lost yer chance wi’ him and maun du yer best to be content withoot him—I’ll promise ye this muckle, gien ye like—I s’ tell him what ye hae said upo’ the subjec’.”

“Much good that will be!” replied the lady, with ill-concealed scorn.

“Ye think he wadna unnerstan’ ’t; but he unnerstan’s wonnerfu’.”

“And you would come again, and tell me what he said?’ she murmured, with the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope.

“Maybe ay, maybe no—I winna promise.—Hae ye ony answer to sen’ back to my lord’s letter, mem?”

“No; I cannot write; I cannot even think. You have made me so miserable!”

Malcolm lingered.

“Go, go;” said the lady dejectedly. “Tell your master I am not well. I will write tomorrow. If you hear anything of my poor boy, do take pity upon me and come and tell me.”

The stiffer partizan Malcolm appeared, the more desirable did it seem in Mrs Stewart’s eyes to gain him over to her side. Leaving his probable active hostility out of the question, she saw plainly enough that, if he were called on to give testimony as to the laird’s capacity, his witness would pull strongly against her plans; while, if the interests of such a youth were wrapped up in them, that fact in itself would prejudice most people in favour of them.

Chapter 36 - The Blow

“Well, Malcolm,” said his lordship, when the youth reported himself, “how’s Mrs Stewart?”

“No ower weel pleased, my lord,” answered Malcolm.

“What!—you haven’t been refusing to—?”

“Deed hev^have I, my lord!”

“Tut! tut!—Have you brought me any message from her?”

He spoke rather angrily.

“Nane^none but that she wasna^{was not} weel, an’ wad write the morn^tomorrow.”

The marquis thought for a few moments.

“If I make a personal matter of it, MacPhail—I mean—you won’t refuse me if I ask a personal favour of you?”

“I maun ken what it is afore I say onything, my lord.”

“You may trust me not to require anything you couldn’t undertake.”

“There micht be twa opinions, my lord.”

“You young boor! What is the world coming to? By Jove!”

“As far ’s I can gang wi’ a clean conscience, I’ll gang,—no ae step ayont^beyond,” said Malcolm.

“You mean to say your judgment is a safer guide than mine?”

“No, my lord; I micht weel follow yer lordship’s jeedgment, but gien there be a conscience i’ the affair, it’s my ain conscience I’m bun’ to follow, an’ no yer lordship’s, or ony ither man’s. Suppose the thing ’at seemed richt to yer lordship, seemed wrang^wrong to me, what wad ye hae me du than?”

“Do as I told you, and lay the blame on me.”

“Na, my lord, that winna haud: I bude to^{had to} du what I thoucht^thought richt, an’ lay the blame upo’ naebody, whatever cam o’ ’t.”

“You young hypocrite! Why didn’t you tell me you meant to set up for a saint before I took you into my service?”

“‘Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord. Surely a body micht ken himsel’ nae sant^saint, an’ yet like to haud his han’s clean!”

“What did Mrs Stewart tell you she wanted of you?” asked the marquis almost fiercely, after a moment’s silence.

“She wantit me to get the puir laird to gang back till her; but I sair^sorely misdoobt^{doubt, disbelieve, suspect}, for a’ her fine words, it ’s a closed door, gien it bena^{be not, is not} a lid, she wad hae upon him; an’ I wad suner^sooner be hangt^hanged nor hae a thoom^thumb i’ that haggis^{a Scottish dish}.”

“Why should you doubt what a lady tells you?”

“I wadna be ower ready, but I hae hard^heard things, ye see, an’ bude to^{had to} be upo’ my gaird^{guard, watch}.”

“Well, I suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot—”

His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment; but Malcolm’s manner revealed nothing except waiting watchfulness.

“—I must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for her,” he concluded.

“Ye winna du that, my lord,” cried Malcolm, in a tone of entreaty; but his master chose to misunderstand him.

“Who’s to prevent me, I should like to know?” he said.

Malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered—but calmly:

“Me, my lord. I wull. At ony rate, I s’ du my best.”

“Upon my word!” exclaimed Lord Lossie, “you presume sufficiently on my good nature, young man!”

“Hear me ae moment, my lord,” returned Malcolm. “I’ve been turnin’ ’t ower i’ my min’^mind, an’ I see, plain as the daylicht, that I’m bun’, bein’ yer lordship’s servan’ an’ trustit by yer lordship, to say that to yersel’ the whilk^which I was nowise bun’ to say to Mistress Stewart. Sae, at the risk o’ angerin’ ye, I maun tell yer lordship, wi’ a’ respec’, ’at gien I can help it, there sall^shall no han’, gentle^{of high birth} or semple^{of low birth}, be laid upo’ the laird against his ain wull.”

The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too, and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right.

“Go to the devil you booby!” he said—even more in impatience than in wrath.

“I’m thinkin’ I needna^{do not need, need not} budge,” retorted Malcolm, angry also.

“What do you mean by that insolence?”

“I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. He canna be far frae yer lordship’s lug^ear this meenute.”

All the marquis’s gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. He started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and struck him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by the door.

“Hoot^pshaw!, my lord!” he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton handkerchief, “ye sudna^{should not} hae dune that: ye’ll blaud^{spoil, injure, soil} the carpet!”

“You precious idiot!” cried his lordship, already repenting the deed; “why didn’t you defend yourself?”

“The quarrel was my ain, an’ I cud du as I likit^liked, my lord.”

“And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a hand, even to defend yourself!” said the marquis, vexed both with Malcolm and with himself.

“Because I saw I was i’ the wrang^wrong, my lord. The quarrel was o’ my ain makin’: I hed^had no richt to lowse^lose my temper an’ be impident. Sae I didna daur^dare defen’ mysel’. An’ I beg yer lordship’s pardon. But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, ’cause I took a flewet^blow in guid pairt^part whan I kent^knew mysel’ i’ the wrang, ’at that’s hoo I wad cairry mysel’ gien ’twas for the puir laird. Faith! I s’ gar^{cause, make} ony man ken a differ there!”

“Go along with you—and don’t show yourself till you’re fit to be seen. I hope it’ll be a lesson to you.”

“It wull, my lord,” said Malcolm. “But,” he added, “there was nae occasion to gie me sic a dirdum^{heavy blow}: a word wad hae pitten^put me mair i’ the wrang.”

So saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face. The marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because Malcolm, without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so quietly. Malcolm would, however, have had very much more the worse of it had he defended himself, for his master had been a bruiser in his youth, and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot their cunning so far as to leave him less than a heavy overmatch for one unskilled, whatever his strength or agility.

For some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and down the room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfortable.

“The great lout!” he kept saying to himself; “why did he let me strike him?”

Malcolm went to his grandfather’s cottage. In passing the window, he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his knees, looking troubled. When he entered, he held out his arms to him.

“Tere ’ll pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son!” he cried. “You’ll pe hafing a hurt! She knows it. She has it within her, though she couldn’t chust see it. Where is it?”

As he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face. “God pless her sowl^soul! you are plooding, Malcolm!” he cried the same moment.

“It’s naething to greit^{cry, weep} aboot, daddy. It’s hardly mair nor the flype o’ a sawmon’s tail.”

“Put who ’ll pe tone it?” asked Duncan angrily.

“Ow, the maister^master gae^gave me a bit flewet^{cuff, stroke}!” answered Malcolm with indifference.

“Where is he?” cried the piper, rising in wrath. “Take her to him, Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. She will trife her turk into his wicked pody.”

“Na, na, daddy,” said Malcolm; “we hae hed^had eneuch o’ durks a’ready!”

“Tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, Malcolm? My prave poy!”

“No, daddy; I took my licks like a man, for I deserved them.”

“Deserfed to pe peaten, Malcolm—to pe peaten like a tog? Ton’t tell her tat! Ton’t preak her heart, my poy.”

“It wasna^{was not} that muckle, daddy. I only telled him auld Horny was at ’s lug^ear.”

“And she’ll make no toubt it was true,” cried Duncan, emerging sudden from his despondency.

“Ay, sae he was, only I had nae richt to say ’t.”

“Put you striked him pack, Malcolm? Ton’t say you tidn’t gif him pack his plow. Ton’t tell it to her, Malcolm!”

“Hoo cud I hit my maister^master, an’ mysel’ i’ the wrang^wrong, daddy?”

“Then she ’ll must to it herself,” said Duncan quietly, and, with the lips compressed of calm decision, turned towards the door, to get his dirk from the next room.

“Bide ye still, daddy,” said Malcolm, laying hold of his arm, “an’ sit ye doon till ye hear a’ aboot it first.”

Duncan yielded, for the sake of better instruction in the circumstances; over the whole of which Malcolm now went. But before he came to a close, he had skilfully introduced and enlarged upon the sorrows and sufferings and dangers of the laird, so as to lead the old man away from the quarrel, dwelling especially on the necessity of protecting Mr Stewart from the machinations of his mother. Duncan listened to all he said with marked sympathy.

“An’ gien the markis^Marquis daur^dare to cross me in ’t,” said Malcolm at last, as he ended, “lat him leuk^look till himsel’, for it’s no at a buffet or twa I wad stick, gien the puir laird was intill^into ’t.”

This assurance, indicative of a full courageous intent on the part of his grandson, for whose manliness he was jealous, greatly served to quiet Duncan; and he consented at last to postpone all quittance, in the hope of Malcolm’s having the opportunity of a righteous quarrel for proving himself no coward. His wrath gradually died away, until at last he begged his boy to take his pipes, that he might give him a lesson. Malcolm made the attempt, but found it impossible to fill the bag with his swollen and cut lips, and had to beg his grandfather to play to him instead. He gladly consented, and played until bedtime; when, having tucked him up, Malcolm went quietly to his own room, avoiding supper and the eyes of Mrs Courthope together. He fell asleep in a moment, and spent a night of perfect oblivion, dreamless of wizard lord or witch lady.

Chapter 37 - The Cutter

Some days passed during which Malcolm contrived that no one should see him: he stole down to his grandfather’s early in the morning, and returned to his own room at night. Duncan told the people about that he was not very well, but would be all better in a day or two. It was a time of jubilation to the bard, and he cheered his grandson’s retirement with music, and with wild stories of highland lochs and moors, chanted or told.

Malcolm’s face was now much better, though the signs of the blow were still plain enough upon it, when a messenger came one afternoon to summon him to the marquis’s presence.

“Where have you been sulking all this time?” was his master’s greeting.

“I havena been sulkin’, my lord,” answered Malcolm. “Yer lordship tauld^told me to haud oot o’ the gait^way till I was fit to be seen, an’ no a sowl^soul has set an ee^eye upo’ me till this verra moment ’at yer lordship has me in yer ain.”

“Where have you been then?”

“I’ my ain room at nicht, and doon at my gran’father’s as lang’s fowk was aboot—wi’ a bit dauner^stroll up the burn i’ the mirk^{darkness, night}.”

“You couldn’t encounter the shame of being seen with such a face—eh?”

“It micht ha’ been thoucht^thought a disgrace to the tane^{the one} or the tither^{the other} o’ ’s, my lord—maybe to baith^both.”

“If you don’t learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring you to worse.”

“My lord, I confessed my faut^{fault, blame}, and I pat^put up wi’ the blow. But if it hadna^{had not} been that I was i’ the wrang—weel, things micht hae differt.”

“Hold your tongue, I tell you. You’re an honest, good fellow, and I’m sorry I struck you. There!”

“I thank yer lordship.”

“I sent for you because I’ve just heard from Aberdeen that the boat is on her way round. You must be ready to take charge of her the moment she arrives.”

“I wull be that, my lord. It doesna shuit^suit me at a’ to be sae lang upo’ the solid: I’m like a cowt^colt upon a toll-ro’d.”

The next morning he got a telescope, and taking with him his dinner of bread and cheese, and a book in his pocket, went up to the Temple of the Winds, to look out for the boat. Every few minutes he swept the offing, but morning and afternoon passed, and she did not appear. The day’s monotony was broken only by a call from Demon. Malcolm looked landwards, and spied his mistress below amongst the trees, but she never looked in his direction.

He had just become aware of the first dusky breath of the twilight, when a tiny sloop appeared, rounding the Deid Heid, as they called the promontory which closed in the bay on the east. The sun was setting, red and large, on the other side of the Scaurnose, and filled her white sails with a rosy dye, as she came stealing round in a fair soft wind. The moon hung over her, thin, and pale, and ghostly, with hardly shine enough to show that it was indeed she, and not the forgotten scrap of a torn up cloud. As she passed the point and turned towards the harbour, the warm amethystine hue suddenly vanished from her sails, and she looked white and cold, as if the sight of the Death’s Head had scared the blood out of her.

“It ’s hersel’!” cried Malcolm in delight. “Aboot the size a o’ muckle herrin’ boat, but nae mair like ane than Lady Florimel ’s like Meg Partan! It ’ll be jist gran’ to hae a cratur sae near leevin’^living to guide an’ tak yer wull o’! I had nae idea she was gaein’^going to be onything like sae bonny. I’ll no be fit to manage her in a squall though. I maun hae anither han’. An’ I winna hae a laddie aither^either. It maun be a grown man, or I winna tak in han’ to haud her abune^above the watter^water. I wull no. I s’ hae Blue Peter himsel’ gien I can get him. Eh! jist luik at her—wi’ her bit gaff-tappie^gaff-topsail set, and her jib an a’, booin’^bowing an’ booin’^bowing, an’ comin’ on ye as gran’ ’s ony born leddy!”

He shut up his telescope, ran down the hill, unlocked the private door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting her on the harbour-wall.

She was a little cutter—and a lovely show to eyes capable of the harmonies of shape and motion. She came walking in, as the Partan, whom Malcolm found on the pierhead, remarked, “like a leddy closin’ her parasol as she cam.” Malcolm jumped on board, and the two men who had brought her round, gave up their charge.

She was full-decked, with a dainty little cabin. Her planks were almost white—there was not a board in her off which one might not, as the Partan expanded the common phrase, “ait^eat his parritch^{oatmeal porridge}, an’ never fin’^find a mote in ’s mou’^mouth.” Her cordage was all so clean, her standing rigging so taut, everything so shipshape, that Malcolm was in raptures. If the burn had only been navigable so that he might have towed the graceful creature home and laid her up under the very walls of the House! It would have perfected the place in his eyes. He made her snug for the night, and went to report her arrival.

Great was Lady Florimel’s jubilation. She would have set out on a “coasting voyage,” as she called it, the very next day, but her father listened to Malcolm.

“Ye see, my lord,” said Malcolm, “I maun ken a’ aboot her afore I daur^dare tak ye oot in her. An’ I canna unnertak’ to manage her my lane^{on my own}. Ye maun jist gie me anither man wi’ me.”

“Get one,” said the marquis.

Early in the morning, therefore, Malcolm went to Scaurnose, and found Blue Peter amongst his nets. He could spare a day or two, and would join him. They returned together, got the cutter into the offing, and, with a westerly breeze, tried her every way. She answered her helm with readiness, rose as light as a bird, made a good board, and seemed every way a safe boat.

“She’s the bonniest craft ever lainched!” said Malcolm, ending a description of her behaviour and qualities rather too circumstantial for his master to follow.

They were to make their first trip the next morning—eastward, if the wind should hold, landing at a certain ancient ruin on the coast, two or three miles from Portlossie.

Chapter 38 - The Two Dogs

Lady Florimel’s fancy was so full of the expected pleasure, that she woke soon after dawn. She rose and anxiously drew aside a curtain of her window. The day was one of God’s odes written for men. The sun was still revelling in the gift of himself. A thin blue mist went up to greet him, like the first of the smoke from the altars of the morning. The fields lay yellow below; the rich colours of decay hung heavy on the woods, and seemed to clothe them as with the trappings of a majestic sorrow; but the spider webs sparkled with dew.

The sun, like a householder leaving his house for a time, was burning up a thousand outworn things before he went; hence the smoke of the dying hearth of summer was going up to the heavens; but there was a heart of hope left, for, when farthest away, the sun is never gone, and the snow is the earth’s blanket against the frost.

Below Lady Florimel’s oriel window, under the tall bridge, the burn lay dark in a deep pool, with a slow-revolving eddy, in which one leaf, attended by a streak of white froth, was performing solemn gyrations; away to the north the great sea was merry with waves and spotted with their broken crests; heaped against the horizon, it looked like a blue hill dotted all over with feeding sheep; but, today, she never thought why the waters were so busy—to what end they foamed and ran, flashing their laughter in the face of the sun: the mood of nature was in harmony with her own, and she felt no need to discover any higher import in its merriment. How could she, when she sought no higher import in her own—had not as yet once suspected that every human gladness—even to the most transient flicker of delight—is the reflex—from a potsherd it may be—but of an eternal sun of joy?—Every faintest glimmer, all that is not utter darkness, is from the shining face of the Father of Lights.—Not a breath stirred the ivy leaves about her window; but out there, on the wide blue, the breezes were frolicking; and in the harbour the new boat must be tugging to get free! She dressed in haste, called her staghound, and set out the nearest way, that is by the town-gate, for the harbour. She must make acquaintance with her new plaything.

Mrs Catanach in her nightcap looked from her upper window as she passed, like a great spider from the heart of its web, and nodded significantly after her, with a look and a smile such as might mean, that for all her good looks she might have the heartache some day. But she was to have the first herself, for that moment her ugly dog, now and always with the look of being fresh from an ash pit, rushed from somewhere, and laid hold of Lady Florimel’s dress, frightening her so, that she gave a cry. Instantly her own dog, which had been loitering behind, came tearing up, five lengths at a bound, and descended like an angel of vengeance upon the offensive animal, which would have fled, but found it too late. Opening his huge jaws, Demon took him across the flanks, much larger than his own, as if he had been a rabbit. His howls of agony brought Mrs Catanach out in her petticoats. She flew at the hound, which Lady Florimel was in vain attempting to drag from the cur, and seized him by the throat.

“Take care; he is dangerous!” cried the girl.

Finding she had no power upon him, Mrs Catanach forsook him, and, in despairing fury, rushed at his mistress. Demon saw it with one flaming eye, left the cur—which, howling hideously, dragged his hind quarters after him into the house—and sprang at the woman. Then indeed was Lady Florimel terrified, for she knew the savage nature of the animal when roused. Truly, with his eyes on fire as now, his long fangs bared, the bristles on his back erect, and his moustache sticking straight out, he might well be believed, much as civilization might have done for him, a wolf after all! His mistress threw herself between them, and flung her arms tight round his neck.

“Run, woman! Run for your life!” she shrieked. “I can’t hold him long.”

Mrs Catanach fled, cowed by terror. Her huge legs bore her huge body, a tragicomic spectacle, across the street to her open door. She had hardly vanished, flinging it to behind her, when Demon broke from his mistress, and going at the door as if launched from a catapult, burst it open and disappeared also.

Lady Florimel gave a shriek of horror, and darted after him.

The same moment the sound of Duncan’s pipes as he issued from the town-gate, at which he always commenced instead of ending his reveille now, reached her, and bethinking herself of her inability to control the hound, she darted again from the cottage, and flew to meet him, crying aloud,—“Mr MacPhail! Duncan! Duncan! stop your pipes and come here directly.”

“And who may pe calling me?” asked Duncan, who had not thoroughly distinguished the voice through the near clamour of his instrument.

She laid her hand trembling with apprehension on his arm, and began pulling him along.

“It’s me,—Lady Florimel,” she said. “Come here directly. Demon has got into a house and is worrying a woman.”

“Cod haf mercy!” cried Duncan. “Take her pipes, my laty, for fear anything paad should happen to tem.”

She led him hurriedly to the door. But ere he had quite crossed the threshold he shivered and drew back.

“Tis is an efil house,” he said. “She ’ll not can co in.” A great floundering racket was going on above, mingled with growls and shrieks, but there was no howling.

“Call the dog then. He will mind you, perhaps,” she cried—knowing what a slow business an argument with Duncan was—and flew to the stair.

“Temon! Temon!” cried Duncan, with agitated voice. Whether the dog thought his friend was in trouble next, I cannot tell, but down he came that instant, with a single bound from the top of the stair, right over his mistress’s head as she was running up, and leaping out to Duncan, laid a paw upon each of his shoulders, panting with out lolled tongue. But the piper staggered back, pushing the dog from him. “It is plood!” he cried; “ta efil woman’s plood!”

“Keep him out, Duncan dear,” said Lady Florimel. “I will go and see. There! he’ll be up again if you don’t mind!”

Very reluctant, yet obedient, the bard laid hold of the growling animal by the collar; and Lady Florimel was just turning to finish her ascent of the stair and see what dread thing had come to pass, when, to her great joy, she heard Malcolm’s voice, calling from the farther end of the street—“Hey, daddy! What’s happened ’at I dinna hear the pipes?”

She rushed out, the pipes dangling from her hand, so that the drone trailed on the ground behind her.

“Malcolm! Malcolm!” she cried; and he was by her side in scarcely more time than Demon would have taken.

Hurriedly and rather incoherently, she told him what had taken place. He sprang up the stair, and she followed.

In the front garret—with a dormer-window looking down into the street—stood Mrs Catanach facing the door, with such a malignant rage in her countenance that it looked demoniacal. Her dog lay at her feet with his throat torn out.

As soon as she saw Malcolm, she broke into a fury of vulgar imprecation—most of it quite outside the pale of artistic record.

“Hoots^pshaw!! for shame, Mistress Catanach!” he cried, “Here’s my leddy ahin’^behind me, hearin’ ilka^{every, each} word!”

“Deil^devil stap her lugs^ears wi’ brunstane^brimstone! What but a curse wad she hae frae me? I sweir^swear by God I s’ gar^make her pey^pay for this, or my name’s no—” She stopped suddenly.

“I thocht^thought as muckle,” said Malcolm with a keen look.

“Ye’ll think twise^twice, ye deil’s buckie^{trifle of no value}, or ye think richt! Wha are ye to think? What sud my name be but Bawby Catanach? Ye’re unco^very upsettin’^{ambitious, stuck-up} sin’^since ye turned my leddy’s flunky! Sorrow taik ye baith^both! My dawtit^dear Beauty!—worriet by that hell-tyke o’ hers!”

“Gien ye gang on like that, the markis^Marquis ’ll hae ye drummed oot o’ the toon^{town, village} or^before twa days be ower,” said Malcolm.

“Wull he than?” she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the teeth she had left. “Ye’ll be far benⁱⁿ wi’ the markis^Marquis, nae doobt! An’ yon donnert^stupid auld deevil^devil ye ca’ yer gran’father ’ill^will be fain^gladly eneuch to be drummer, I’ll sweir^swear.”

“My leddy, she’s ower ill-tongued for you to hearken till,” said Malcolm, turning to Florimel who stood in the door white and trembling. “Jist gang doon, an’ tell my gran’father to sen’ the dog up. There’s surely some gait^way o’ garrin’^{making, causing} her haud her tongue!”

Mrs Catanach threw a terrified glance towards Lady Florimel.

“Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind!” replied Florimel. “For shame!”

“Hoots^pshaw!, my leddy!” returned Malcolm; “I only said it to try the effec’ o’ ’t. It seems no that ill.”

“Ye son o’ a deevil’s soo^sow!” cried the woman; “I s’ hae amen’s o’ ye for this, gien I sud ro’st my ain hert^heart to get it.”

“‘Deed, but ye’re duin that fine a’ready! That foul brute o’ yours has gotten his arles^{just deserts, thrashing} tu^too. I wonner^wonder what he thinks o’ sawmon-troot noo!—Eh, mem?”

“Have done, Malcolm,” said Florimel. “I am ashamed of you. If the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her house.”

“Hear till her!” cried Mrs Catanach contemptuously. “The woman!”

But Lady Florimel took no heed. She had already turned and was going down the stair. Malcolm followed in silence; nor did another word from Mrs Catanach overtake them.

Arrived in the street, Florimel restored his pipes to Duncan—who, letting the dog go, at once proceeded to fill the bag—and, instead of continuing her way to the harbour, turned back, accompanied by Malcolm, Demon, and Lady Stronach’s Strathspey^{a slow Scottish dance}.

“What a horrible woman that is!” she said with a shudder.

“Ay is she; but I doobt^{I suspect} she wad be waur^worse gien she didna brak oot that gait whiles,” rejoined Malcolm.

“How do you mean?”

“It frichts fowk at her, an’ maybe sometimes pits^puts ’t oot o’ her pooer^power to du waur. Gien ever she seek to mak it up wi’ ye, my leddy, I wad hae little to say till her, gien I was you.”

“What could I have to say to a low creature like that?”

“Ye wadna ken what she micht be up till, or hoo she micht set aboot it, my leddy. I wad hae ye mistrust her a’thegither. My daddy has a fine moral nose for vermin, an’ he canna bide her, though he never had a glimp o’ the fause^false face o’ her, an’ in trowth^truth never spak till her.”

“I will tell my father of her. A woman like that is not fit to live amongst civilized people.”

“Ye’re richt there, my leddy; but she wad only gang some ither gait amo’^among the same. Of coorse ye maun tell yer father, but she’s no fit for him to tak ony notice o’.”

As they sat at breakfast, Florimel did tell her father. His first emotion, however—at least the first he showed—was vexation with herself.

“You must not be going out alone—and at such ridiculous hours,” he said. “I shall be compelled to get you a governess.”

“Really, papa,” she returned, “I don’t see the good of having a marquis for a father, if I can’t go about as safe as one of the fisher-children. And I might just as well be at school, if I’m not to do as I like.”

“What if the dog had turned on you!” he said.

“If he dared!” exclaimed the girl, and her eyes flashed.

Her father looked at her for a moment, said to himself—“There spoke a Colonsay!” and pursued the subject no further.

When they passed Mrs Catanach’s cottage an hour after, on their way to the harbour, they saw the blinds drawn down, as if a dead man lay within: according to after report, she had the brute already laid out like a human being, and sat by the bedside awaiting a coffin which she had ordered of Watty Witherspail.

Chapter 39 - Colonsay Castle

The day continued lovely, with a fine breeze. The whole sky and air and sea were alive—with moving clouds, with wind, with waves flashing in the sun. As they stepped on board amidst the little crowd gathered to see, Lady Florimel could hardly keep her delight within the bounds of so-called propriety. It was all she could do to restrain herself from dancing on the little deck half swept by the tiller. The boat of a schooner which lay at the quay towed them out of the harbour. Then the creature spread her wings like a bird—mainsail and gaff-topsail, staysail and jib—leaped away to leeward, and seemed actually to bound over the waves. Malcolm sat at the tiller, and Blue Peter watched the canvas.

Lady Florimel turned out to be a good sailor, and her enjoyment was so contagious as even to tighten certain strings about her father’s heart which had long been too slack to vibrate with any simple gladness. Her questions were incessant—first about the sails and rigging, then about the steering; but when Malcolm proceeded to explain how the water reacted on the rudder, she declined to trouble herself with that.

“Let me steer first,” she said, “and then tell me how things work.”

“That is whiles the best plan,” said Malcolm. “Jist lay yer han’ upo’ the tiller, my leddy, an’ luik oot at yon pint^point they ca’ the Deid Heid yonner^yonder. Ye see, whan I turn the tiller this gait, her heid fa’s aff^off frae the pint^point; an’ whan I turn’t this ither gait, her heid turns till ’t again: haud her heid jist aboot a twa yairds^yards like aff o’ ’t.”

Florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own hand ruling the cutter—so overjoyed indeed, that, instead of steering straight, she would keep playing tricks with the rudder—fretting the mouth of the sea-palfrey, as it were. Every now and then Malcolm had to expostulate.

“Noo, my leddy, caw^drive canny^careful. Dinna steer sae wull^wild. Haud her steddy.—My lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or I’ll be forced to tak the tiller frae her.”

But by and by she grew weary of the attention required, and, giving up the helm, began to seek the explanation of its influence, in a way that delighted Malcolm.

“Ye’ll mak a guid skipper some day,” he said: “ye spier^ask the richt questions, an’ that’s ’maist as guid ’s kennin’^knowing the richt answers.”

At length she threw herself on the cushions Malcolm had brought for her, and, while her father smoked his cigar, gazed in silence at the shore. Here, instead of sands, low rocks, infinitively broken and jagged, filled all the tidal space—a region of ceaseless rush and shattered waters. High cliffs of gray and brown rock, orange and green with lichens here and there, and in summer crowned with golden furze, rose behind—untouched by the ordinary tide, but at high water lashed by the waves of a storm.

Beyond the headland which they were fast nearing, the cliffs and the sea met at half-tide.

The moment they rounded it—

“Luik there, my lord,” cried Malcolm, “—there’s Colonsay Castel, ’at yer lordship gets yer name, I’m thinkin’, an’, ony gait^anyway, ane o’ yer teetles^titles frae. It maun be mony a hunner^hundred year sin’^since ever Colonsay baid^bided intill’t^{into it}!”

Well might he say so! for they looked but saw nothing—only cliff beyond cliff rising from a white-fringed shore. Not a broken tower, not a ragged battlement invaded the horizon!

“There’s nothing of the sort there!” said Lady Florimel.

“Ye maunna^{must not} luik for tooer^tower or pinnacle, my leddy, for nane^none will ye see: their time’s lang ower. But jist taik the sea-face o’ the scaur^cliff i’ yer ee^eye, an’ traivel^travel alang^along ’t oontil ye come till a bit ’at luiks^looks like mason-wark. It scarce rises abune^above the scaur in ony but ae pairt^part, an’ there it ’s but a feow^few feet o’ a wa’.”

Following his direction, Lady Florimel soon found the ruin. The front of a projecting portion of the cliff was faced, from the very water’s edge as it seemed, with mason-work; while on its side, the masonry rested here and there upon jutting masses of the rock, serving as corbels or brackets, the surface of the rock itself completing the wall-front. Above, grass-grown heaps and mounds, and one isolated bit of wall pierced with a little window, like an empty eyesocket with no skull behind it, was all that was visible from the sea of the structure which had once risen lordly on the crest of the cliff.

“It is poor for a ruin even!” said Lord Lossie.

“But jist consider hoo auld the place is, my lord!—as auld as the time o’ the sea-rovin’ Danes, they say. Maybe it’s aulder^older nor King Alfred! Ye maun regaird it only as a foondation; there’s stanes^stones eneuch lyin’ aboot to shaw^show ’at there maun hae been a gran’ supperstructur on ’t ance^once. I some think it has been ance^once disconneckit frae the lan’, an’ jined^joined on by a drawbrig. Mony a lump o’ rock an’ castel thegither has rowed^rolled doon the brae^{hill, hillside} upon a’ sides, an’ the ruins may weel hae filled up the gully at last. It’s a wonnerfu’ auld place, my lord.”

“What would you do with it if it were yours, Malcolm?” asked Lady Florimel.

“I wad spen’ a my spare time patchin’^patchin ’t up to gar^{cause, make} ’t stan’ oot agane the wither. It’s crum’let awa’ a heap sin’^since I min’^{mind, remember}.”

“What would be the good of that? A rickle of old stones!” said the marquis.

“It’s a growth ’at there winna be mony mair like,” returned Malcolm. “I wonner^{wonder, marvel} ’at yer lordship!”

He was now steering for the foot of the cliff. As they approached, the ruin expanded and separated, grew more massy, and yet more detailed. Still it was a mere root clinging to the soil.

“Suppose you were Lord Lossie, Malcolm, what would you do with it?” asked Florimel, seriously, but with fun in her eyes.

“I wad win^get at the boddom^bottom o’ ’t first.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Ye’ll see whan ye win^get in till ’t. There ’s a heap o’ voutit^vaulted places inside yon blin’^blind face. Du ye see yon wee bit squaur^square winnock^window? That lats^lets the licht^light in till ane o’ them. There maybe vouts aneath vouts, for them ’at ye can win^get intill ’s half fu’^full o’ yird^earth an’ stanes^stones. I wad hae a’ that cleart oot, an syne^then begin frae the verra foondation, diggin’, an’ patchin’^patchin, an’ buttressin’, till I got it a’ as soun’ as a whunstane^{whinstone, hard basaltic rock}; an’ whan I cam to the tap^top o’ the rock, there the castel sud tak to growin’ again; an’ grow it sud, till there it stude^stood, as near what it was as the wit an’ the han’ o’ man cud set it.”

“That would ruin a tolerably rich man,” said the marquis.

“Ony gait^anyway it’s no the w’y^way fowk ruins themsel’s nooadays, my lord. They’ll pu’^pull doon an auld hoose ony day to save themsel’s blastin’-poother. There’s that gran’ place they ca’ Huntly Castel!—a suckin’^nursing bairn^child to this for age, but wi’ wa’s^walls, they tell me, wad stan’ for thoosan’s o’ years: wad ye believe ’t? There’s a sowlless chiel’^{young fellow} o’ a factor^{manager of property} there diggin’ park-wa’s an’ a grainery oot o’ ’t, as gien ’twar a quarry o’ blue stane^stone! An’ what ’s ten times mair exterord’nar, there’s the Duke o’ Gordon jist lattin’^letting the gype^fool tak ’s wull o’ the hoose a’ his grace’s ain forbears! I wad maist^almost as sune^soon lat a man speyk ill o’ my daddy!”

“But this is past all rebuilding,” said his lordship. “It would be barely possible to preserve the remains as they are.”

“It wad be ill to du, my lord, ohn^without set it up again. But jist think what a gran’ place it wad be to bide in!”

The marquis burst out laughing.

“A grand place for gulls and kittiwakes and sea-crows!" he said. “But where is it, pray, that a fisherman like you gets such extravagant notions?—How do you come to think of such things?”

“Thoucht’s free, my lord. Gien a thing be guid to think, what for sudna^{should not} a fisher-lad think it? I hae read a heap aboot auld castles an’ sic like i’ the history o’ Scotlan’, an’ there’s mony an auld tale an’ ballant^ballad aboot them.—Jist luik there, my leddy: ye see yon awfu’ hole i’ the wa,’ wi’ the verra inside o’ the hill, like, rushin’ oot at it?—I cud tell ye a fearfu’ tale aboot that same.”

“Do let us have it,” said Florimel eagerly, setting herself to listen.

“Better wait till we land,” said the marquis lazily.

“Ay, my lord; we’re ower near the shore to begin a story.—Slack the mainsheet, Peter, an’ stan’ by the jib-doonhaul.—Dinna rise, my leddy; she’ll be o’ the grun’^ground in anither meenute.”

Almost immediately followed a slight grating noise, which grew loud, and before one could say her speed had slackened, the cutter rested on the pebbles, with the small waves of the just turned tide flowing against her quarter. Malcolm was overboard in a moment.

“How the deuce are we to land here?” said the marquis.

“Yes!” followed Florimel, half-risen on her elbow, “how the deuce are we to land here?”

“Hoot^pshaw!, my leddy!” said Malcolm, “sic words ill become yer bonny mou’^mouth.”

The marquis laughed.

“I ask you how we are to get ashore?” said Florimel with grave dignity, though an imp was laughing in the shadows of her eyes.

“I’ll sune^soon lat ye see that, my leddy,” answered Malcolm; and leaning over the low bulwark he had her in his arms almost before she could utter an objection. Carrying her ashore like a child—indeed, to steady herself, she had put an arm round his shoulders—he set her down on the shingle, and turning in the act, left her as if she had been a burden of nets, and waded back to the boat.

“And how, pray, am I to go?” asked the marquis. “Do you fancy you can carry me in that style?”

“Ow na, my lord! that wadna be dignifeed for a man. Jist loup^{leap, jump} upo’ my back.”

As he spoke he turned his broad shoulders, stooping.

The marquis accepted the invitation, and rode ashore like a schoolboy, laughing merrily.

They were in a little valley, open only to the sea, one boundary of which was the small promontory whereon the castle stood. The side of it next them, of stone and live rock combined, rose perpendicular from the beach to a great height; whence, to gain the summit, they had to go a little way back, and ascend by a winding path till they reached the approach to the castle from the landward side.

“Noo, wad na this be a gran’ place to bide at, my lord?” said Malcolm, as they reached the summit—the marquis breathless, Florimel fresh as a lark. “Jist see sic an outluik! The verra place for pirates like the auld Danes! Naething cud escape the sicht o’ them here. Yon’s the hills o’ Sutherlan’. Ye see yon ane like a cairn? that’s a great freen’ to the fisher-fowk to tell them whaur they are. Yon’s the laich^low co’st o’ Caithness. An’ yonner’s the north pole, only ye canna see sae far. Jist think, my lord, hoo gran’ wad be the blusterin’ blap o’ the win’^wind aboot the turrets, as ye stude^stood at yer window on a winter’s day, luikin^looking oot ower the gurly^boisterous twist o’ the watters, the air fu’^full o’ flichterin snaw^snow, the cloods^clouds a mile thick abune^above yer heid, an’ no a leevin cratur but yer ain fowk nearer nor the fairm-toon ower the broo^brow yonner^yonder!”

“I don’t see anything very attractive in your description,” said his lordship. “And where,” he added, looking around him, “would be the garden?”

“What cud ye want wi’ a gairden, an’ the sea oot afore ye there? The sea’s bonnier than ony gairden. A gairden’s maist^almost aye the same, or it changes sae slow, wi’ the ae flooer^flower gaein’^going in, an’ the ither flooer comin’ oot, ’at ye maist^almost dinna nottice the odds^change. But the sea’s never twa days the same. Even lauchin’^laughing she never lauchs^laughs twise^twice wi’ the same face, an’ whan she sulks, she has a hunner^hundred w’ys^ways o’ sulkin’.”

“And how would you get a carriage up here?” said the marquis.

“Fine that, my lord. There’s a ro’d^road up as far’s yon neuk^{nook, corner}. An’ for this broo^brow, I wad clear awa^away the lowse^loose stanes^stones, an’ lat the nait’ral^natural gerse grow sweet an’ fine, an’ turn a lot o’ bonny heelan’ sheep on till’t. I wad keep yon ae bit o’ whuns^{furze; gorse}, for though they’re rouch^rough i’ the leaf; they blaw^blow sae gowden^golden. Syne^then I wad gether^gather a’ the bits o’ drains frae a’ sides, till I had a bonny stream o’ watter^water aff^off o’ the sweet corn-lan’, rowin’^rolling doon here whaur we stan’, an’ ower to the castel itsel’, an’ throu’ coort^court an’ kitchie^kitchen, gurglin’ an’ rinnin’, an’ syne^then oot again an’ doon the face o’ the scaur^cliff, splashin’ an’ loupin’^leaping like mad. I wad lea’ a’ the lave^{rest, remainder} to Natur’ hersel’. It wad be a gran’ place, my lord! An’ whan ye was tired o’ ’t, ye cud jist rin^run awa’ to Lossie Hoose, an’ hide ye i’ the how there for a cheenge. I wad like fine to hae the sortin’ o’ ’t for yer lordship.”

“I daresay!” said the marquis.

“Let’s find a nice place for our luncheon, papa, and then we can sit down and hear Malcolm’s story,” said Florimel.

“Dinna ye think, my lord, it wad be better to get the baskets up first?” interposed Malcolm.

“Yes, I think so. Wilson can help you.”

“Na, my lord; he canna lea’ the cutter. The tide’s risin, an’ she’s ower near the rocks.”

“Well, well; we shan’t want lunch for an hour yet, so you can take your time.”

“But ye maun tak tent^heed, my lord, hoo ye gang amo’^among the ruins. There’s awkward kin’^kind o’ holes aboot thae^{those, these} vouts^vaults, an’ jist whaur ye think there’s nane^none. I dinna a’thegither like yer gaein’^going wantin’ me.”

“Nonsense! Go along,” said the marquis.

“But I’m no jokin’,” persisted Malcolm.

“Yes, yes; we’ll be careful,” returned his master impatiently, and Malcolm ran down the hill, but not altogether satisfied with the assurance.

Chapter 40 - The Deil’s Winnock

Florimel was disappointed, for she longed to hear Malcolm’s tale. But amid such surroundings it was not so very difficult to wait. They set out to have a peep at the ruins, and choose a place for luncheon.

From the point where they stood, looking seawards, the ground sunk to the narrow isthmus supposed by Malcolm to fill a cleft formerly crossed by a drawbridge, and, beyond it, rose again to the grassy mounds in which lay so many of the old bones of the ruined carcass.

Passing along the isthmus, where on one side was a steep descent to the shore of the little bay, and on the other the live rock hewn away to wall, shining and sparkling with crystals of a clear irony brown, they next clambered up a rude ascent of solid rock, and so reached what had been the centre of the seaward portion of the castle. Here they came suddenly upon a small hole at their feet, going right down. Florimel knelt, and peeping in, saw the remains of a small spiral stair. The opening seemed large enough to let her through, and, gathering her garments tight about her, she was halfway buried in the earth before her father, whose attention had been drawn elsewhere, saw what she was about. He thought she had fallen in, but her merry laugh reassured him, and ere he could reach her, she had screwed herself out of sight. He followed her in some anxiety, but, after a short descent, rejoined her in a small vaulted chamber, where she stood looking from the little square window Malcolm had pointed out to them as they neared the shore. The bare walls around them were of brown stone, wet with the drip of rains, and full of holes where the mortar had yielded and stones had fallen out. Indeed the mortar had all-but vanished; the walls stood and the vaults hung chiefly by their own weight. By breaches in the walls, where once might have been doors, Florimel passed from one chamber to another and another, each dark, brown, vaulted, damp, and weather-eaten, while her father stood at the little window she had left, listlessly watching the two men on the beach far below landing the lunch, and the rippled sea, and the cutter rising and falling with every wave of the flowing tide.

At length Florimel found herself on the upper end of a steep sloping ridge of hard, smooth earth, lying along the side of one chamber, and leading across to yet another beyond, which, unlike the rest, was full of light. The passion of exploration being by this time thoroughly roused in her, she descended the slope, half sliding, half creeping. When she thus reached the hole into the bright chamber, she almost sickened with horror, for the slope went off steeper, till it rushed, as it were, out of a huge gap in the wall of the castle, laying bare the void of space, and the gleam of the sea at a frightful depth below: if she had gone one foot further, she could not have saved herself from sliding out of the gap. It was the very breach Malcolm had pointed out to them from below, and concerning which he had promised them the terrible tale. She gave a shriek of terror, and laid hold of the broken wall. To heighten her dismay to the limit of mortal endurance, she found at the very first effort, partly, no doubt, from the paralysis of fear, that it was impossible to reascend; and there she lay on the verge of the steeper slope, her head and shoulders in the inner of the two chambers, and the rest of her body in the outer, with the hideous vacancy staring at her. In a few moments it had fascinated her so that she dared not close her eyes lest it should leap upon her. The wonder was that she did not lose her consciousness, and fall at once to the bottom of the cliff.

Her cry brought her father in terror to the top of the slope.

“Are you hurt, child?” he cried, not seeing the danger she was in.

“It’s so steep, I can’t get up again,” she said faintly.

“I’ll soon get you up,” he returned cheerily, and began to descend.

“Oh, papa!” she cried, “don’t come a step nearer. If you should slip, we should go to the bottom of the rock together. Indeed, indeed, there is great danger! Do run for Malcolm.”

Thoroughly alarmed, yet mastering the signs of his fear, he enjoined her to keep perfectly still while he was gone, and hurried to the little window. Thence he shouted to the men below, but in vain, for the wind prevented his voice from reaching them. He rushed from the vaults, and began to descend at the first practicable spot he could find, shouting as he went.

The sound of his voice cheered Florimel a little, as she lay forsaken in her misery. Her whole effort now was to keep herself from fainting, and for this end, to abstract her mind from the terrors of her situation: in this she was aided by a new shock, which, had her position been a less critical one, would itself have caused her a deadly dismay. A curious little sound came to her, apparently from somewhere in the dusky chamber in which her head lay. She fancied it made by some little animal, and thought of the wild cats and otters of which Malcolm had spoken as haunting the caves; but, while the new fear mitigated the former, the greater fear subdued the less. It came a little louder, then again a little louder, growing like a hurried whisper, but without seeming to approach her. Louder still it grew, and yet was but an inarticulate whispering. Then it began to divide into some resemblance of articulate sounds. Presently, to her utter astonishment, she heard herself called by name.

“Lady Florimel! Lady Florimel!” said the sound plainly enough.

“Who’s there?” she faltered, with her heart in her throat hardly knowing whether she spoke or not.

“There’s nobody here,” answered the voice. “I’m in my own bedroom at home, where your dog killed mine.”

It was the voice of Mrs Catanach, but both words and tone were almost English.

Anger, and the sense of a human presence, although an evil one, restored Lady Florimel’s speech.

“How dare you talk such nonsense?” she said.

“Don’t anger me again,” returned the voice. “I tell you the truth. I’m sorry I spoke to your ladyship as I did this morning. It was the sight of my poor dog that drove me mad.”

“I couldn’t help it. I tried to keep mine off him, as you know.”

“I do know it, my lady, and that’s why I beg your pardon.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said.”

“Yes, there is, my lady: I want to make you some amends. I know more than most people, and I know a secret that some would give their ears for. Will you trust me?”

“I will hear what you’ve got to say.”

“Well, I don’t care whether you believe me or not: I shall tell you nothing but the truth. What do you think of Malcolm MacPhail, my lady?”

“What do you mean by asking me such a question?”

“Only to tell you that by birth he is a gentleman, and comes of an old family.”

“But why do you tell me?” said Florimel. “What have I to do with it?”

“Nothing, my lady—or himself either. I hold the handle of the business. But you needn’t think it’s from any favour for him. I don’t care what comes of him. There’s no love lost between him and me. You heard yourself this very day, how he abused both me and my poor dog who is now lying dead on the bed beside me!”

“You don’t expect me to believe such nonsense as that!” said Lady Florimel.

There was no reply. The voice had departed; and the terrors of her position returned with gathered force in the desolation of redoubled silence that closes around an unanswered question. A trembling seized her, and she could hardly persuade herself that she was not slipping by slow inches down the incline.

Minutes that seemed hours passed. At length she heard feet and voices, and presently her father called her name, but she was too agitated to reply except with a moan. A voice she was yet more glad to hear followed—the voice of Malcolm, ringing confident and clear.

“Haud awa’, my lord,” it said, “an’ lat me come at her.”

“You’re not going down so!” said the marquis angrily. “You’ll slip to a certainty, and send her to the bottom.”

“My lord,” returned Malcolm, “I ken what I’m aboot, an’ ye dinna. I beg ’at ye’ll haud ootby^{stay out of the way}, an’ no upset the lassie, for something maun depen’ upon hersel’. Jist gang awa’ back into that ither vout, my lord. I insist upo’ ’t.”

His lordship obeyed, and Malcolm, who had been pulling off his boots as he spoke, now addressed Mair.

“Here, Peter!” he said, “haud on to the tail o’ that rope like grim deith^death.—Na, I dinna want it roon’^{around, round} me; it’s to gang roon’ her. But dinna ye haul, for it micht hurt her, an’ she’ll lippen to^{listen to} me and come up o’ hersel.”

“Dinna be feart^{afraid, scared}, my bonny leddy: there’s nae danger—no ae grain. I’m comin’.”

With the rope in his hand, he walked down the incline, and kneeling by Florimel, close to the broken wall, proceeded to pass the rope under and round her waist, talking to her, as he did so, in the tone of one encouraging a child.

“Noo, my leddy! Noo, my bonny leddy! Ae meenute, an’ ye’re as safe’s gien ye lay i’ yer minnie’s lap!”

“I daren’t get up, Malcolm! I daren’t turn my back to it! I shall drop right down into it if I do!” she faltered, beginning to sob.

“Nae fear o’ that! There! ye canna fa’ noo, for Blue Peter has the other en’^end, and Peter’s as strong ’s twa pownies. I’m gaein^going to tak aff^off yer shune^shoes neist^next.”

So saying, he lowered himself a little through the breach, holding on by the broken wall with one hand, while he gently removed her sandal shoes with the other. Drawing himself up again, he rose to his feet, and taking her hand, said,

“Noo, my leddy, tak a gude^good grip o’ my han’, an’ as I lift ye, gie a scram’le wi’ yer twa bit feet, an’ as sune’s ye fin’^find them aneth^beneath ye, jist gang up as gien ye war clim’in’ a gey stey brae^{rather steep ascent}. Ye cudna^{could not} fa’ gien ye tried yer warst^worst.”

At the grasp of his strong hand the girl felt a great gush of confidence rise in her heart; she did exactly as he told her, scrambled to her feet, and walked up the slippery way without one slide, holding fast by Malcolm’s hand, while Joseph kept just feeling her waist with the loop of the rope as he drew it in. When she reached the top, she fell, almost fainting, into her father’s arms; but was recalled to herself by an exclamation from Blue Peter: just as Malcolm relinquished her hand, his foot slipped. But he slid down the side of the mound only some six or seven feet to the bottom of the chamber, whence his voice came cheerily, saying he would be with them in a moment. When, however, ascending by another way, he rejoined them, they were shocked to see blood pouring from his foot: he had lighted amongst broken glass, and had felt a sting, but only now was aware that the cut was a serious one. He made little of it, however, bound it up, and, as the marquis would not now hear of bringing the luncheon to the top, having, he said, had more than enough of the place, limped painfully after them down to the shore.

Knowing whither they were bound, and even better acquainted with the place than Malcolm himself, Mrs Catanach, the moment she had drawn down her blinds in mourning for her dog, had put her breakfast in her pocket, and set out from her back door, contriving mischief on her way. Arrived at the castle, she waited a long time before they made their appearance, but was rewarded for her patience, as she said to herself, by the luck which had so wonderfully seconded her cunning. From a broken loophole in the foundation of a round tower, she now watched them go down the hill. The moment they were out of sight, she crept like a fox from his earth, and having actually crawled beyond danger of discovery, hurried away inland, to reach Portlossie by footpaths and byways, and there show herself on her own doorstep.

The woman’s consuming ambition was to possess power over others—power to hurt them if she chose—power to pull hidden strings fastened to their hearts or consciences or history or foibles or crimes, and so reduce them, in her knowledge, if not in theirs, to the condition of being, more or less, her slaves. Hence she pounced upon a secret as one would on a diamond in the dust, any fact even was precious, for it might be allied to some secret—might, in combination with other facts, become potent. How far this vice may have had its origin in the fact that she had secrets of her own, might be an interesting question.

As to the mysterious communication she had made to her, Lady Florimel was not able to turn her mind to it—nor indeed for some time was she able to think of anything.

Chapter 41 - The Clouded Sapphires

Before they reached the bottom of the hill, however, Florimel had recovered her spirits a little, and had even attempted a laugh at the ridiculousness of her late situation; but she continued very pale. They sat down beside the baskets—on some great stones, fallen from the building above. Because of his foot, they would not allow Malcolm to serve them, but told Mair and him to have their dinner near, and called the former when they wanted anything.

Lady Florimel revived still more after she had had a morsel of partridge and a glass of wine, but every now and then she shuddered: evidently she was haunted by the terror of her late position, and, with the gladness of a discoverer, the marquis bethought himself of Malcolm’s promised tale, as a means of turning her thoughts aside from it. As soon, therefore, as they had finished their meal he called Malcolm, and told him they wanted his story.

“It’s some fearsome,” said Malcolm, looking anxiously at the pale face of Lady Florimel.

“Nonsense!” returned the marquis; for he thought, and perhaps rightly, that if such it would only serve his purpose the better.

“I wad raither tell ’t i’ the gloamin’^{twilight, dusk} roon’^{around, round} a winter fire,” said Malcolm, with another anxious look at Lady Florimel.

“Do go on,” she said. “I want so much to hear it!”

“Go on,” said the marquis; and Malcolm, seating himself near them, began.

I need not again tell my reader that he may take a short cut if he pleases.

“There was ance^once a great nobleman—like yersel’, my lord, only no sae douce^pleasant—an’ he had a great followin’, and was thoucht^thought muckle o’ in a’ the country, frae John o’ Groat’s to the Mull^mill o’ Gallowa’. But he was terrible prood^proud, an’ thoucht^thought naebody was to compare wi’ him, nor onything ’at onybody had, to compare wi’ onything ’at he had. His horse war aye swifter, an’ his kye^{cattle, cows} aye better milkers nor ither fowk’s; there war nae deer sae big nor had sic muckle horns as the reid^red deer on his heelan’ hills; nae gillies^{fishing and hunting guides} sae strang’s his gillies; and nae castles sae weel biggit^built or sae auld as his! It may ha’ been a’ verra true for onything I ken, or onything the story says to the contrar’; but it wasna heumble^humble or Christian-like o’ him to be aye at it, ower an’ ower, aye gloryin’—as gien he had a’thing sae by-ord’nar’^{out of the ordinary} ’cause he was by-ord’nar’ himsel’ an’ they a’ cam till him by the verra natur’ o’ things. There was but ae thing in which he was na fawvoured, and that was, that he had nae son to tak up what he left. But it maittered the less that the teetle^title as weel’s the lan’s wad, as the tale tells, gang a’ the same till a lass-bairn—an’ a lass-bairn he had.”

“That is the case in the Lossie family,” said the marquis.

“That’s hoo I hae hard the tale, my lord; but I wad be sorry sud a’ it conteens^contains meet wi’ like corroboration.—As I say, a dochter^daughter there was, an’ gien a’ was surpassin’, she was surpassin’ a’. The faimily piper, or sennachy, as they ca’d him—I wadna wonner^{wonder, marvel}, my lord, gien thae^{those, these} gran’ pipes yer boonty gae^gave my gran’father, had been his!—he said in ane o’ his sangs^songs, ’at the sun blinkit whanever she shawed hersel’ at the hoose-door. I s’ warran’ ae thing—’at a’ the lads blinkit whan she luikit^looked at them, gien sae be she cud ever be said to condescen’ sae far as to luik at ony; for gien ever she set ee^eye upo’ ane, she never loot^let it rist^rest: her ee^eye aye jist slippit^slipped ower a face as gien the face micht or micht not be there—she didna ken or care. A’body said she had sic a hauchty leuk^look as was never seen on human face afore; an’ for freen’ly luik, she had nane^none for leevin’^living cratur, ’cep’^{except, but} it was her ain father, or her ain horse ’at she rade^rode upo’. Her mither was deid.

“Her father wad fain^gladly hae seen her merriet^married afore he dee’d^died, but the pride he had gien her was like to be the en’^end o’ a’, for she coontit^counted it naething less than a disgrace to pairt^part wi’ maiden leeberty. ‘There’s no man,’ she wad say, whan her father wad be pressin’ upo’ the subjec’,—‘there’s no mortal man, but yersel’, worth the turn o’ my ee^eye.’ An’ the father, puir man, was ower weel pleased wi’ the flattery to be sae angry wi’ her as he wad fain^gladly hae luikit^looked. Sae time gaed^went on, till frae a bonny lassie she had grown a gran’ leddy, an’ cud win^go up the hill nae forder^further, but bude to^{had to} gang doon o’ the ither side; an’ her father was jist near-han’ daft wi’ anxiety to see her wad^wed. But no! never ane wad she hearken till!

“At last there cam to the hoose—that’s Colonsay Castel, up there—ae day, a yoong man frae Norrawa’, the son o’ a great nobleman o’ that country; an’ wi’ him she was some ta’en. He was a fine man to leuk^look at, an’ he pat^put them a’ to shame at onything that nott^needed stren’th or skeel. But he was as heumble^humble as he was fit, an’ never teuk^took ony credit till himsel’ for onything ’at he did or was; an’ this she was ill-pleased wi’, though she cudna^{could not} help likin’ him, an’ made nae banes^bones o’ lattin’^letting him see ’at he wasna a’thegither a scunner^disgust till her.

“Weel, ae mornin’, verra ear’^early, she gaed^went oot intill her gairden, an luikit^looked ower the hedge; an’ what sud she see but this same yoong nobleman tak the bairn^child frae a puir traivellin’^traveling body, help her ower a dyke^{wall of stone or turf}, and gie her her bairn^child again! He was at her ain side in anither meenute, but he was jist that meenute ahint^behind his tryst, an’ she was in a cauld^cold rage at him. He tried to turn her hert^heart, sayin’—wad she hae had him no help the puir thing ower the dyke^{wall of stone or turf}, her bairnie^{little child} bein’ but a fortnicht auld, an’ hersel’ unco^very weak-like? But my leddy made a mou’^mouth as gien she was scunnert^{disgusted, loathed} to hear sic things made mention o’. An’ was she to stan’ luikin’^looking ower the hedge, an’ him convoyin’ a beggar-wife an’ her brat! An’ syne to come to her ohn^without ever washen his han’s! ‘Hoot^pshaw!, my leddy,’ says he, ‘the puir thing was a human cratur!’—‘Gien she had been a God’s angel,’ says she, ‘ye had no richt to keep me waitin’.’—‘Gien she had been an angel,’ says he, ‘there wad hae been little occasion, but the wuman^woman stude^stood in want o’ help!’—‘Gien ’t had been to save her life, ye sudna^{should not} hae keepit^kept me waitin’,’ says she. The lad was scaret^scared at that, as weel he micht, an’ takin’ aff ’s bannet, he lowtit^bowed laich^low, an’ left her. But this didna shuit^suit my leddy; she wasna to be left afore she said gang! sae she cried him back, an’ he cam, bannet in han’; an’ she leuch^laughed, an’ made as gien she had been but tryin’ the smeddum^{spirit, mettle, liveliness} o’ ’im, an’ thoucht^thought him a true k-nicht. The puir fallow^{fellow, chap} pluckit^plucked up at this, an’ doon he fell upo’s knees, an’ oot wi’ a’ ’at was in ’s hert^heart,—hoo ’at he lo’ed^loved her mair nor tongue cud tell, an’ gien she wad hae him, he wad be her slave for ever.

“‘Ye s’ be that,’ says she, an’ leuch^laughed him to scorn. ‘Gang efter yer beggar-wife,’ she says; ‘I’m sick o’ ye.’

“He rase^rose, an’ teuk^took up ’s bannet, an’ loupit^leaped the hedge, an’ gae^gave a blast upo’ ’s horn, an’ gethered his men, an’ steppit aboord his boat, ower by Puffie Heid yonner^yonder, an’ awa^away to Norrowa’ ower the faem^foam, ‘an was never hard tell o’ in Scotlan’ again. An’ the leddy was hauchtier, and cairried her heid heicher^higher nor ever—maybe to hide a scaum^{slight mark of burning} she had taen^taken, for a’ her pride.

“Sae things gaed^went on as afore, till at len’th the tide o’ her time was weel past the turn, an’ a streak o’ the snaw^snow in her coal-black hair. For, as the auld sang^song says, Her hair was like the craw^crow, An’ her ble^complexion was like the snaw^snow, An’ her bow bendit lip Was like the rose hip, An’ her ee^eye was like the licht’nin’, Glorious an’ fricht’nin.’

“But a’ that wad sune^soon be ower!

“Aboot this time, ae day i’ the gloamin’^{twilight, dusk}, there cam on sic an awfu’ storm, ’at the fowk o’ the castel war frichtit^frightened ’maist oot o’ their wits. The licht’nin’^lightning cam oot o’ the yerd^{yard, garden}, an’ no frae the lift^{sky, heavens} at a’; the win’^wind roared as gien ’t had been an incarnat rage; the thunner rattlet an’ crackit, as gien the mune^moon an’ a’ the stars had been made kettledrums o’ for the occasion; but never a drap^drop o’ rain or a stane^stone o’ hail fell; naething brak oot but blue licht^light an’ roarin’ win’^wind. But the strangest thing was, that the sea lay a’ the time as oonconcerned as a sleepin’ bairn^child; the win’^wind got nae mair grip o’ ’t nor gien a’ the angels had been poorin’ ile^oil oot o’ widows’ cruses upo’ ’t; the verra tide came up quaieter nor ord’nar; and the fowk war sair^sorely perplext as weel’s frichtit^frightened.

“Jist as the clock o’ the castel chappit^struck the deid o’ the nicht^tonight, the clamour o’ v’ices was hard throu’ the thunner an’ the win,’ an’ the warder—luikin’^looking doon frae the heich^high bartizan o’ the muckle tooer^tower, saw i’ the fire-flauchts^flashes, a company o’ riders appro’chin’ the castel, a’ upo’ gran’ horses, he said, that sprang this gait an’ that, an shot fire frae their een^eyes. At the drawbrig they blew a horn ’at rowtit^bellowed like a’ the bulls o’ Bashan, an’ whan the warder challencht them, claimt hoose-room for the nicht^tonight. Naebody had ever hard o’ the place they cam frae; it was sae far awa^away ’at as sune^soon ’s a body hard the name o’ ’t, he forgot it again; but their beasts war as fresh an’ as fu’^full o’ smeddum^{spirit, mettle, liveliness} as I tell ye, an’ no a hair o’ ane o’ them turnt. There was jist a de’il’s dizzen^dozen o’ them an whaurever ye began to count them, the thirteent had aye a reid^red baird^beard.

“Whan the news was taen^taken to the markis^Marquis—the yerl^earl, I sud say—he gae^gave orders to lat them in at ance^once; for whatever fau’ts he had, naither^neither fear nor hainin’^{penuriousness, stingyness} was amang^among them. Sae in they cam, clatterin’ ower the drawbrig, ’at gaed^went up an’ down aneth^beneath them as gien it wad hae cast them.

“Richt fremt^strange fowk they luikit^looked whan they cam intill the coortyaird—a’ spanglet wi’ bonny bricht stanes^stones o’ a’ colours. They war like nae fowk ’at ever the yerl^earl had seen, an’ he had been to Jeroozlem in ’s day, an’ had fouchten^fought wi’ the Saracenes. But they war coorteous men an’ weel-bred—an’ maistly^{mostly, most of all} weel-faured tu^too—ilk^{every, each} ane luikin’^looking a lord’s son at the least. They had na a single servin’-man wi’ them, an’ wad alloo^allow nane o’ the fowk aboot the place to lay han’ upo’ their beasts; an’ ilk^{every, each} ane as he said na, wad gie the stallion aneth^beneath him a daig wi’ ’s spurs, or a kick i’ the ribs, gien he was aff o’ ’s back, wi’ the steel tae^toe o’ his bute; an’ the brute wad lay his lugs^ears i’ the how o’ ’s neck, an’ turn his heid asklent^{to the side, askance}, wi’ ae white ee^eye gleyin’^gleaming oot o’ ’t, an’ lift a hin’ leg wi’ the glintin’ shue^shoe turnt back, an’ luik like Sawtan^Satan himsel’ whan he daurna^{dare not}.

“Weel, my lord an’ my leddy war sittin’ i’ the muckle ha’, for they cudna gang to their beds in sic a byous^{extraordinary} storm, whan him ’at was the chief o’ them was ushered in by the seneschal, that’s the steward, like, booin’^bowing afore him, an’ ca’in’ him the Prence, an’ nae mair, for he cudna min’^{mind, remember} the name o’ ’s place lang eneuch to say ’t ower again.

“An’ sae a prence he was! an’, forbye^besides that, jist a man by himsel’ to luik at!—i’ the prime o’ life, maybe, but no freely^{quite, thoroughly} i’ the first o’ ’t, for he had the luik as gien he had had a hard time o’ ’t, an’ had a white streak an’ a craw’s fit here and there—the liklier to please my leddy, wha lookit^looked doon upo’ a’body yoonger nor hersel’. He hae a commandin’, maybe some owerbeirin’ luik—ane at a man micht hae bristled up at, but a leddy like my leddy wad welcome as worth bringin’ doon. He was dressed as never man had appears in Scotlan’ afore—glorious withoot—for yer ee^eye cud licht^light nowhaur but there was the glitter o’ a stane^stone, sae ’at he flashed a’ ower, ilka^{every, each} motion he made. He cairret a short swoord at his side—no muckle langer^longer nor my daddy’s dirk, as gien he never foucht but at closs quarters—the whilk^which had three sapphires—blue stanes^stones, they tell me—an muckle anes^ones, lowin’^flaming i’ the sheath o’ ’t, an’ a muckler^{bigger, greater} ane still i’ the heft; only they war some drumly^clouded, the leddy thoucht^thought, bein’ a jeedge o’ hingars-at-lugs^earrings an’ sic vainities.

“That may be ’s it may, but in cam the prence, wi’ a laich^low boo^bow, an’ a gran upstrauchtin’^{straightening up} again; an’ though, as I say, he was flashin’ a’ ower, his mainner^manner was quaiet^quiet as the munelicht,—jist grace itsel’. He profest himsel unco’^very indebtit for the shelter accordit him; an’ his een^eyes aye soucht^sought the leddy’s, an’ his admiration o’ her was plain in ilka luik an’ gestur’, an’ though his words were feow^few, they a’ meant mair nor they said. Afore his supper cam in, her hert^heart was at his wull.

“They say that whan a wuman’s late o’ fa’in’ in love—ye’ll ken my lord—I ken naething aboot it—it ’s the mair likly^likely to be an oonrizzonin’ an ooncontrollable fancy; in sic maitters^matters it seems wisdom comesna wi’ gray hairs: within ae hoor^hour the leddy was enamoured o’ the stranger in a fearfu’ w’y^way. She poored^poured oot his wine till him wi’ her ane han’; an’ the moment he put the glaiss^glass till ’s lips, the win’^wind fell an’ the lichtnin’ devallt^ceased. She set hersel’ to put questions till him, sic as she thoucht^thought he wad like to answer—a’ aboot himsel’ an’ what he had come throu’. An’ sic stories as he tellt! She atten’t till him as she had never dune to guest afore, an’ her father saw ’at she was sair^sorely taen^taken wi’ the man. But he wasna a’thegither sae weel pleased, for there was something aboot him—he cudna say what—’at garred^{made, caused} him grue^shudder. He wasna a man to hae fancies, or stan’ upo’ freits^{superstitions}, but he cudna help the creep that gaed^went doon his backbane ilka time his ee^eye encoontert that o’ the prence—it was aye sic a strange luik the prence cuist^cast upon him—a luik as gien him an’ the yerl^earl had been a’ready ower weel acquant^acquainted, though the yerl^earl cudna min’^{mind, remember} ’at ever he had set ee^eye upo’ him. A’ the time, hooever, he had a kin’^kind o’ suspicion ’at they bude to^{had to} be auld acquantances, an’ sair he soucht^sought to mak him oot, but the prence wad never lat a body get a glimp o’ his een ’cep’^{except, but} the body he was speykin’^speaking till—that is gien he cud help it, for the yerl^earl did get twa or three glimps o’ them as he spak till ’s dauchter^daughter; an’ he declaret^declared efterhin^{after, afterwards} to the king’s commissioner, that a pale blue kin’ o’ a licht^light cam frae them, the whilk^which the body he was conversin’ wi’, an’ luikin’^looking straucht^straight at, never saw.

“Weel, the short and the lang o’ ’t that nicht was, that they gaed^went a’ to their beds.

“I’ the mornin’, whan the markis^Marquis—the yerl^earl, I sud say—an’ his dochter^daughter cam doon the stair, the haill^whole menyie^company was awa^away. Never a horse or horse was i’ the stable, but the yerl’s ain beasts—no ae hair left ahin’^behind to shaw^show that they had been there! an’ i’ the chaumers allotted to their riders, never a pair o’ sheets had been sleepit in.

“The yerl^earl an my leddy sat doon to brak their fast—no freely^{quite, thoroughly} i’ the same humour, the twa o’ them, as ye may weel believe. Whan they war aboot half throu’, wha sud come stridin’ in, some dour an’ ill-pleased like, but the prence himsel’! Baith^both yerl^earl an’ leddy startit^started up: ’at they sud hae sitten doon till a meal ohn^without even adverteest^informing their veesitor that sic was their purpose! They made muckle adu wi’ apologies an’ explanations, but the prence aye booed^bowed an’ booed^bowed, an’ said sae little, that they thocht^thought him mortal angert^{angered, angry}, the whilk^which was a great vex to my leddy, ye may be sure. He had a withert-like luik, an’ the verra diamonds in ’s claes^{clothes, dress} war douf^dull like. A’thegither he had a burnt-oot kin’ o’ aissy^ashy leuk^look.

“At len’th the butler cam in, an’ the prence signed till him, an’ he gaed^went near, an’ the prence drew him doon, an’ toot-mootit^{low conversation} in ’s lug^ear—an’ his breath, the auld man said, was like the grave: he hadna^{had not} had ’s mornin’, he said, an’ tell’t him to put the whusky^whisky upo’ the table. The butler did as he was tauld^told, an’ set doon the decanter, an’ a glaiss^glass aside it; but the prence bannt^cursed him jist fearfu’, an’ ordert him to tak awa^away that playock^play-thing, and fess^{fetch, bring} a tum’ler^tumbler.

“I’m thinkin’, my lord, that maun be a modern touch,” remarked Malcolm here, interrupting himself: “there wasna glaiss^glass i’ thae^{those, these} times—was there?”

“What do I know!” said the marquis. “Go on with your story.”

“But there’s mair intill ’t than that,” persisted Malcolm. “I doobt gien there was ony whusky^whisky i’ thae^{those, these} times aither^either; for I hard a gentleman say the ither day ’at hoo he had tastit the first whusky^whisky ’at was ever distillt in Scotlan’, an’ horrible stuff it was, he said, though it was ’maist as auld as the forty-five.”

“Confound your long wind! Go on,” said the marquis peremptorily.

“We s’ ca’ ’t whusky^whisky, than, ony gait^anyway,” said Malcolm, and resumed.

“The butler did again as he was bidden, an’ fiess^fetched a tum’ler^tumbler, or mair likely a siller^silver cup, an’ the prence took the decanter, or what it micht be, an’ filled it to the verra brim. The butler’s een ’maist startit^started frae ’s heid, but naebody said naething. He liftit^lifted it, greedy like, an’ drank aff the whusky^whisky as gien ’t had been watter^water. ‘That’s middlin’^tolerable,’ he said, as he set it o’ the table again. They luikit^looked to see him fa’ doon deid, but in place o’ that he begoud^began to gether^gather himsel’ a bit, an’ says he, ‘We brew the same drink i’ my country, but a wee mair pooerfu’.’ Syne he askit for a slice o’ boar-ham an’ a raw aipple’; an’ that was a’ he ate. But he took anither waucht^{large draught} o’ the whusky^whisky, an’ his een grew brichter, an’ the stanes^stones aboot him began to flash again; an’ my leddy admired him the mair, that what wad hae felled ony ither man ony waukened him up a bit. An’ syne he telled them hoo, laith^loath to be fashous^{troublesome, vexing}, he had gi’en orders till ’s menyie^company to be aff afore the mornin’ brak, an’ wait at the neist^next cheenge-hoose till he jined^joined them. ‘Whaur,’ said the leddy, ‘I trust ye’ll lat them wait, or else sen’ for them.’ But the yerl^earl sat an’ said never a word. The prence gae^gave him ae glower, an’ declared that his leddy’s word was law to him; he wad bide till she wulled him to gang. At this her een shot fire ’maist like his ain, an’ she smilit as she had never smilit afore; an’ the yerl^earl cudna bide the sicht o’ ’t, but daurna^{dare not} interfere: he rase^rose an’ left the room an’ them thegither.

“What passed atwixt the twa, there was nane to tell: but or an hoor^hour was by, they cam oot upo’ the gairden-terrace thegither, han’ in han’, luikin’^looking baith^both o’ them as gran’ an’ as weel pleased as gien they had been king and queen. The lang an’ the short o’ ’t was, that the same day at nicht the twa was merried^married. Naither^neither o’ them wad hear o’ a priest. Say what the auld yerl^earl cud, they wad not hear o’ sic a thing, an’ the leddy was ’maist mair set agane ’t nor the prence. She wad be merried^married accordin’ to Scots law, she said, an’ wad hae nae ither ceremony, say ’at he likit^liked!

“A gran’ feast was gotten ready, an’ jist the meenute afore it was cairriet^carried to the ha’, the great bell o’ the castel yowlt^tolled oot, an’ a’ the fowk o’ the hoose was gaithered i’ the coortyaird, an’ oot cam the twa afore them, han’ in han’, declarin’ themsel’s merried^married fowk, the whilk^which, accordin’ to Scots law, was but ower guid a merriage. Syne they sat doon to their denner^dinner, an’ there they sat—no drinkin’ muckle, they say, but merrily enjoyin’ themsel’s, the leddy singin’ a sang^song noo an’ again, an’ the prence sayin’ he ance^once cud sing, but had forgotten the gait o’ ’t: but never a prayer said, nor a blessin’ askit—oontil the clock chappit^struck twal^twelve, whaurupon the prence and the prencess rase^rose to gang to their bed—in a room whaur the king himsel’ aye sleepit whan he cam to see them. But there wasna ane o’ the men or the maids ’at wad hae daured^{dared, challenged} be their lanes^{lone, alone} wi’ that man, prence as he ca’d himsel’.

“A meenute, or barely twa, was ower, whan a cry cam frae the king’s room—a fearfu’ cry—a lang lang skreigh^shriek. The men an’ the maids luikit^looked at ane anither wi’ awsome luiks^looks; an’ ‘He’s killin’ her!’ they a’ gaspit at ance^once.

“Noo she was never a favourite wi’ ony ane o’ her ain fowk, but still they couldna^{could not} hear sic a cry frae her ohn^without run to the yell.”

“They fand^found him pacin’ up and doon the ha’, an’ luikin’^looking like a deid man in a rage o’ fear. But when they telled him, he only leuch^laughed at them, an’ ca’d them ill names, an’ said he had na hard a cheep^{chirp, word}. Sae they tuik^took naething by that, an’ gaed^went back trimlin’^trembling.

“Twa o’ them, a man an’ a maid to haud hert^heart in ane anither, gaed^went up to the door o’ the transe^{passage within a house} ’at led to the king’s room; but for a while they hard naething. Syne cam the soon’^soun o’ moanin’ an’ greitin’^{crying, weeping} an’ prayin’.

“The neist^next meenute they war back again amo’^among the lave^{rest, remainder}, luikin’^looking like twa corps^{bodies, corpses}. They had opent the door o’ the transe to hearken closer, an’ what sud they see there but the fiery een an’ the white teeth o’ the prence’s horse, lyin’ athort^{across, over, through} the door o’ the king’s room, wi’ ’s hied^head atween ’s fore feet, an keepin’ watch like a tyke^dog!

“Er’^{ere, before} lang they bethoucht themsels, an twa o’ them set oot an aff thegither for the priory—that’s whaur yer ain hoose o’ Lossie noo stan’s, my lord, to fess^{fetch, bring} a priest. It wad be a guid twa hoor^hour or they wan back, an’ a’ that time, ilka noo an’ than, the moaning an’ the beggin’ an’ the cryin’ wad come again. An’ the warder upo’ the heich tooer^{high tower} declared ’at ever sin’^since midnicht the prence’s menyie, the haill^whole twal^twelve o’ them, was careerin’ aboot the castel, noon’ an noon’, wi’ the een o’ their beasts lowin’^flaming, and their heids^heads oot, an’ their manes up, an their tails fleein’^flying ahint^behind them. He aye lost sicht o’ them whan they wan to the edge o’ the scaur^cliff, but roon’^{around, round} they aye cam again upo’ the ither side, as gien there had been a ro’d^road whaur there wasna even a ledge.

“The moment the priest’s horse set fut^foot upo’ the drawbrig, the puir leddy gae^gave anither ougsome^{fearsome, dreadful} cry, a hantle^{great deal} waur nor the first, an’ up gat^got a suddent roar an’ a blast o’ win’^wind that maist^almost cairried the castel there aff o’ the cliff intill the watter^water, an’ syne cam a flash o’ blue licht^light an’ a rum’lin’. Efter that, a’ was quaiet^quiet: it was a’ ower afore the priest wan^came athort^{across, over, through} the coortyaird an’ up the stair. For he crossed himsel’ an’ gaed^went straucht^straight for the bridal chaumer^chamber. By this time the yerl^earl had come up, an’ followed cooerin’ ahin’^behind the priest.

“Never a horse was i’ the transe; an’ the priest, first layin’ the cross ’at hang frae ’s belt agane the door o’ the chaumer^{chamber, room}, flang^flung ’t open wi’oot ony ceremony, for ye ’ll alloo^allow there was room for nane.

“An’ what think ye was the first thing the yerl^earl saw?—A great hole i’ the wa’ o’ the room, an’ the starry pleuch^{the constellation Ursa Major} luikin’^looking in at it, an’ the sea lyin’ far doon afore him—as quaiet^quiet as the bride upo’ the bed—but a hantle^{great deal} bonnier to luik at; for ilka steek^{stitch [as in clothing]} that had been on her was brunt^burned aff, an’ the bonny body o’ her lyin’ a’ runklet^{wrinkled, crumpled}, an’ as black ’s a coal frae heid to fut^foot; an’ the reek^{smoke, mist, fog, smell} ’at rase^rose frae ’t was heedeous. I needna^{need not} say the bridegroom wasna there. Some fowk thoucht^thought it a guid sign that he hadna^{had not} cairried the body wi’ him; but maybe he was ower suddent scared by the fut^foot o’ the priest’s horse upo’ the drawbrig, an’ dauredna^{dared not} bide his oncome. Sae the fower-fut stane-wa’^stonewall had to flee afore him, for a throu-gang^passage to the Prence o’ the Pooer^power o’ the Air. An’ yon’s the verra hole to this day, ’at ye was sae near ower weel acquaint wi’ yersel’, my leddy. For the yerl^earl left the castel, and never a Colonsay has made his abode there sin’^since syne. But some say ’at the rizzon^reason the castel cam to be desertit a’thegither was, that as aften^often as they biggit^built up the hole, it fell oot again as sure ’s the day o’ the year cam roon’^{around, round} whan it first happened. They say, that at twal^twelve o’clock that same nicht, the door o’ that room aye gaed^went tu^too, an’ that naebody daur^dare touch ’t, for the heat o’ the han’le o’ ’t; an’ syne cam the skreighin’ an’ the moanin’, an’ the fearsome skelloch^scream at the last, an’ a rum’le like thun’er^{ere, before}, an’ i’ the mornin’ there was the wa’ oot! The hole’s bigger noo, for a’ the decay o’ the castel has taen^taken to slidin’ oot at it, an’ doobtless it’ll spread an’ spread till the haill^whole structur vainishes; at least sae they say, my lord; but I wad hae a try at the haudin’^{holding, keeping} o’ ’t thegither for a’ that. I dinna see ’at the deil^devil sud hae ’t a’ his ain gait, as gien we war a’ fleyt^{terrified, frightened} at him. Fowk hae threepit^insisted upo’ me that there i’ the gloamin’^{twilight, dusk} they hae seen an’ awsome face luikin’^looking in upo’ them throu’ that slap i’ the wa’; but I never believed it was onything but their ain fancy, though for a’ ’at I ken, it may ha’ been something no canny^{not a good omen}. Still, I say, wha ’s feart^{afraid, scared}? The Ill Man has no pooer^power ’cep^{except, but} ower his ain kin. We ’re tellt to resist him an’ he’ll flee frae ’s.”

“A good story, and well told,” said the marquis kindly. “Don’t you think so, Florimel?”

“Yes, papa,” Lady Florimel answered; “only he kept us waiting too long for the end of it.”

“Some fowk, my leddy,” said Malcolm, “wad aye be at the hin’er^hinder en’^end o’ a’thing. But for mysel’, the mair pleased I was to be gaein’^going ony gait^anyway, the mair I wad spin oot the ro’d^road till ’t.”

“How much of the story may be your own invention now?” said the marquis.

“Ow, nae that muckle, my lord; jist a feow^few extras an’ partic’lars ’at micht weel hae been, wi’ an adjective, or an adverb, or sic like, here an’ there. I made ae mistak’ though; gien ’t was yon hole yonner^yonder, they bude till hae gane^{had to have gone} doon an’ no up the stair to their chaumer^{chamber, room}.”

His lordship laughed, and, again commending the tale, rose: it was time to re-embark—an operation less arduous than before, for in the present state of the tide it was easy to bring the cutter so close to a low rock that even Lady Florimel could step on board.

As they had now to beat to windward, Malcolm kept the tiller in his own hand. 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. At first she was sorry that she had not told her father of it, and had the ruin searched; but when she thought of the communication the woman had made to her, she came to the conclusion that it was, for various reasons—not to mention the probability that he would have set it all down to the workings of an unavoidably excited nervous condition—better that she should mention it to no one but Duncan MacPhail.

When they arrived at the harbour-quay, they found the carriage waiting, but neither the marquis nor Lady Florimel thought of Malcolm’s foot, and he was left to limp painfully home. As he passed Mrs Catanach’s cottage, he looked up: there were the blinds still drawn down; the door was shut, and the place was silent as the grave. By the time he reached Lossie House, his foot was very much swollen. When Mrs Courthope saw it, she sent him to bed at once, and applied a poultice.

Chapter 42 - Duncan’s Disclosure

The night long Malcolm kept dreaming of his fall; and his dreams were worse than the reality, inasmuch as they invariably sent him sliding out of the breach, to receive the cut on the rocks below. Very oddly this catastrophe was always occasioned by the grasp of a hand on his ankle. Invariably also, just as he slipped, the face of the Prince appeared in the breach, but it was at the same time the face of Mrs Catanach.

The next morning, Mrs Courthope found him feverish, and insisted on his remaining in bed—no small trial to one who had never been an hour ill in his life; but he was suffering so much that he made little resistance.

In the enforced quiescence, and under the excitements of pain and fever, Malcolm first became aware how much the idea of Lady Florimel had at length possessed him. But even in his own thought he never once came upon the phrase, in love, as representing his condition in regard of her: he only knew that he worshipped her, and would be overjoyed to die for her. The youth had about as little vanity as could well consist with individual coherence; if he was vain at all, it was neither of his intellectual nor personal endowments, but of the few tunes he could play on his grandfather’s pipes. He could run and swim, rare accomplishments amongst the fishermen, and was said to be the best dancer of them all; but he never thought of such comparison himself. The rescue of Lady Florimel made him very happy: he had been of service to her; but so far was he from cherishing a shadow of presumption, that as he lay there he felt it would be utter content to live serving her for ever, even when he was old and wrinkled and gray like his grandfather: he never dreamed of her growing old and wrinkled and gray.

A single sudden thought sufficed to scatter—not the devotion, but its peace. Of course she would marry some day, and what then? He looked the inevitable in the face; but as he looked, that face grew an ugly one. He broke into a laugh: his soul had settled like a brooding cloud over the gulf that lay between a fisher-lad and the daughter of a peer! But although he was no coxcomb, neither had fed himself on romances, as Lady Florimel had been doing of late, and although the laugh was quite honestly laughed at himself, it was nevertheless a bitter one. For again came the question: Why should an absurdity be a possibility? It was absurd, and yet possible: there was the point. In mathematics it was not so: there, of two opposites to prove one an absurdity, was to prove the other a fact. Neither in metaphysics was it so: there also an impossibility and an absurdity were one and the same thing. But here, in a region of infinitely more import to the human life than an eternity of mathematical truth, there was at least one absurdity which was yet inevitable—an absurdity—yet with a villainous attendance of direst heat, marrow-freezing cold, faintings, and ravings.

Had it been a purely logical question he was dealing with, he might not have been quite puzzled; but to apply logic here, as he was attempting to do, was like—not like attacking a fortification with a penknife, for a penknife might win its way through the granite ribs of Cronstadt^{primary maritime defense outpost for the old Russian capital}—it was like attacking an eclipse with a broomstick: there was a solution to the difficulty; but as the difficulty itself was deeper than he knew, so the answer to it lay higher than he could reach—was in fact at once grander and finer than he was yet capable of understanding.

His disjointed meditations were interrupted quite by the entrance of the man to whom alone of all men he could at the time have given a hearty welcome. The schoolmaster seated himself by his bedside, and they had a long talk. I had set down this talk, but came to the conclusion I had better not print it: ranging both high and wide, and touching on points of vital importance, it was yet so odd, that it would have been to too many of my readers but a Chimera tumbling in a vacuum—as they will readily allow when I tell them that it started from the question—which had arisen in Malcolm’s mind so long ago, but which he had not hitherto propounded to his friend—as to the consequences of a man’s marrying a mermaid; and that Malcolm, reversing its relations, proposed next, the consequences of a man’s being in love with a ghost or an angel.

“I’m dreidfu’ tired o’ lyin’ here i’ my bed,” said Malcolm at length when, neither desiring to carry the conversation further, a pause had intervened. “I dinna ken what I want. Whiles I think its the sun, whiles the win’^wind, and whiles the watter^water. But I canna rist^rest. Haena^{have not} ye a bit ballant^ballad ye could say till me Mr Graham? There’s naething wad quaiet^quiet me like a ballant^ballad.”

The schoolmaster thought for a few minutes, and then said, “I’ll give you one of my own, if you like, Malcolm. I made it some twenty or thirty years ago.”

“That wad be a trate, sir,” returned Malcolm; and the master, with perfect rhythm, and a modulation amounting almost to melody, repeated the following verses:

The water ran doon frae the heich hope-heid,^{head of the valley}

  Wi’ a Rin^run, burnie^{little stream}, rin^run;

It wimpled, an’ waggled, an’ sang a screed^{recite rapidly}

  O’ nonsense, an’ wadna blin,^cease

  Wi’ its Rin, burnie, rin.

Frae the hert^heart o’ the warl’^world, wi’ a swirl an’ a sway,

  An’ a Rin, burnie, rin,

That water lap^leaped clear frae the dark till the day,

  An’ singin’ awa’ did spin,

  Wi’ its Rin, burnie, rin.

Ae wee bit mile frae the heich hope-heid,

  Wi’ a Rin, burnie, rin,

‘Mang her yows an’ her lambs the herd-lassie stude^stood

  An’ she loot^let a tear fa’ in,

  Wi’ a Rin, burnie, rin.

Frae the hert o’ the maiden that tear-drap rase^rose,

  Wi’ a Rin, burnie rin;

Wearily clim’in’ up narrow ways,

  There was but a drap^drop to fa’ in,

  Sae slow did that burnie rin.

Twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope-heid,

  Wi’ a Rin, burnie, rin,

Doon creepit^{crept, crawled} a cowerin’ streakie o’ reid^red,

  An’ meltit awa’ within,

  Wi’ a Rin, burnie, rin.

Frae the hert o’ a youth cam the tricklin’ reid^red,

  Wi’ a Rin, burnie, rin;

It ran an’ ran till it left him deid,

  An’ syne it dried up i’ the win’,

  An’ that burnie nae mair did rin.

Whan the wimplin’ horn that frae three herts^hearts gaed^went

  Wi’ a Rin, burnie, rin,

Cam to the lip o’ the sea sae braid^broad,

  It curled an’ grued^shivered wi’ pain o’ sin—

  But it took that burnie^{little stream} in.

“It’s a bonny, bonny sang^song,” said Malcolm; “but I canna say I a’thegither like it.”

“Why not?” asked Mr Graham, with an inquiring smile.

“Because the ocean sudna^{should not} mak a mou’^mouth at the puir earth-burnie^{little stream} that cudna help what ran intill ’t.”

“It took it in though, and made it clean, for all the pain it couldn’t help either.”

“Weel, gien ye luik at it that gait!” said Malcolm.

In the evening his grandfather came to see him, and sat down by his bedside, full of a tender anxiety which he was soon able to alleviate.

“Wownded in ta hand and in ta foot!” said the seer: “what can it mean? It must mean something, Malcolm, my son.”

“Weel, daddy, we maun jist bide till we see,” said Malcolm cheerfully.

A little talk followed, in the course of which it came into Malcolm’s head to tell his grandfather the dream he had had so much of the first night he had slept in that room—but more for the sake of something to talk about that would interest one who believed in all kinds of prefigurations, than for any other reason.

Duncan sat moodily silent for some time, and then, with a great heave of his broad chest, lifted up his head, like one who had formed a resolution, and said:

“The hour has come. She has long peen afrait to meet it, put it has come, and Allister will meet it.—She ’ll not pe your cran’father, my son.”

He spoke the words with perfect composure, but as soon as they were uttered, burst into a wail, and sobbed like a child.

“Ye’ll be my ain father than?” said Malcolm.

“No, no, my son. She’ll not pe anything that’s your own at aal!”

And the tears flowed down his channelled cheeks.

For one moment Malcolm was silent, utterly bewildered. But he must comfort the old man first, and think about what he had said afterwards.

“Ye’re my ain daddy, whatever ye are!” he said. “Tell me a’ aboot it, daddy.”

“She ’ll tell you all she ’ll pe knowing, my son, and she nefer told a lie efen to a Cawmill.”

He began his story in haste, as if anxious to have it over, but had to pause often from fresh outbursts of grief. It contained nothing more of the essential than I have already recorded, and Malcolm was perplexed to think why what he had known all the time should affect him so much in the telling. But when he ended with the bitter cry—“And now you’ll pe loving her no more, my poy: my chilt, my Malcolm!” he understood it.

“Daddy! daddy!” he cried, throwing his arms round his neck and kissing him, “I lo’e^love ye better nor ever. An’ weel I may!”

“But how can you, when you ’ve cot none of ta plood in you, my son?” persisted Duncan.

“I hae as muckle as ever I had, daddy.”

“Yes, put you ’ll tidn’t know.”

“But ye did, daddy.”

“Yes, and inteet she cannot tell why she ’ll pe loving you so much herself aal ta time!”

“Weel, daddy, gien ye cud lo’e^love me sae weel, kennin’^knowing me nae bluid’s bluid^blood o’ yer ain—I canna help it: I maun lo’e^love ye mair nor ever, noo’^now at I ken ’t tu^too.—Daddy, daddy, I had nae claim upo’ ye, an’ ye hae been father an’ gran’father an’ a’ to me!”

“What could she do, Malcolm, my poy? Ta chilt had no one, and she had no one, and so it wass. You must pe her own poy after all! And she ’ll not pe wondering put.—It might pe.—Yes, inteed not!”

His voice sank to the murmurs of a half-uttered soliloquy, and as he murmured he stroked Malcolm’s cheek.

“What are ye efter noo daddy?” asked Malcolm.

The only sign that Duncan heard the question was the complete silence that followed. When Malcolm repeated it, he said something in Gaelic, but finished the sentence thus, apparently unaware of the change of language:

“—only how else should she pe lovin you so much, Malcolm, my son?”

“I ken what Maister Graham would say, daddy,” rejoined Malcolm, at a half guess.

“What would he say, my son? He’s a coot man, your Maister Graham.—It could not pe without ta sem fathers, and ta sem chief.”

“He wad say it was ’cause we war a’ o’ ae bluid—’cause we had a’ ae father.”

“Oh yes, no toubt! We aal come from ta same first paarents; put tat will be a fery long way off, pefore ta clans cot tokether. It ’ll not pe holding fery well now, my son. Tat waas pefore ta Cawmills.”

“That’s no what Maister Graham would mean, daddy,” said Malcolm. “He would mean that God was the father o’ ’s a’, and sae we cudna help lo’in’^loving ane anither.”

“No; tat cannot pe right, Malcolm; for then we should haf to love eferybody. Now she loves you, my son, and she hates Cawmill of Clenlyon. She loves Mistress Partan when she’ll not pe too rude to her, and she hates tat Mistress Catanach. She’s a paad woman, ’tat she’ll pe certain sure, though she’ll nefor saw her to speak to her. She’ll haf claaws to her poosoms.”

“Weel, daddy, there was naething ither to gar^{cause, make} ye lo’e^love me. I was jist a helpless human bein’, an’ sae for that, an’ nae ither rizzon^reason, ye tuik^took a’ that fash^trouble wi’ me! An’ for mysel’, I’m deid sure I cudna lo’e^love ye better gien ye war twise^twice my gran’father.”

“He’s her own poy!” cried the piper, much comforted; and his hand sought his head, and lighted gently upon it. “Put, maype,” he went on, “she might not haf loved you so much if she hadn’t peen tinking sometimes—”

He checked himself. Malcolm’s questions brought no conclusion to the sentence, and a long silence followed.

“Supposin’ I was to turn oot a Cawmill?” said Malcolm, at length.

The hand that was fondling his curls withdrew as if a serpent had bit it, and Duncan rose from his chair.

“Wass it her own son to pe speaking such an efil thing?” he said, in a tone of injured and sad expostulation.

“For onything ye ken, daddy—ye canna tell but it mith^might be.”

“Ton’t preathe it, my son!” cried Duncan in a voice of agony, as if he saw unfolding a fearful game the arch-enemy had been playing for his soul. “Put it cannot pe,” he resumed instantly, “for ten how should she pe loving you, my son?”

“‘Cause ye was in for that afore ye kent^knew wha the puir beastie was.”

“Ta tarling chilt! she could not haf loved him if he had peen a Cawmill. Her soul would haf chumped pack from him as from ta snake in ta tree. Ta hate in her heart to ta plood of ta Cawmill, would have killed ta chilt of ta Cawmill plood. No, Malcolm! no, my son!”

“Ye wadna hae me believe, daddy, that gien ye had kent by mark o’ hiv^hoof an’ horn, that the cratur they laid i’ yer lap was a Cawmill—ye wad hae risen up, an’ lootin it lie whaur it fell?”

“No, Malcolm; I would haf put my foot upon it, as I would on ta young fiper in ta heather.”

“Gien I was to turn oot ane o’ that ill race, ye wad hate me, than, daddy—efter a’! Ochone, daddy! Ye wad be weel pleased to think hoo ye stack^stuck yer durk throu’ the ill han’ o’ me, an’ wadna rist^rest till ye had it throu’ the waur hert.—I doobt^suspect I had better up an’ awa’, daddy, for wha’ kens^knows what ye mayna^{may not} du to me?”

Malcolm made a movement to rise, and Duncan’s quick ears understood it. He sat down again by his bedside and threw his arms over him.

“Lie town, lie town, my poy. If you ket up, tat will pe you are a Cawmill. No, no, my son! You are ferry cruel to your own old daddy. She would pe too much sorry for her poy to hate him. It will pe so treadful to pe a Cawmill! No, no, my poy! She would take you to her poosom, and tat would trive ta Cawmill out of you. Put ton’t speak of it any more, my son, for it cannot pe.—She must co now, for her pipes will pe waiting for her.”

Malcolm feared he had ventured too far, for never before had his grandfather left him except for work. But the possibility he had started might do something to soften the dire endurance of his hatred.

His thoughts turned to the new darkness let in upon his history and prospects. All at once the cry of the mad laird rang in his mind’s ear: “I dinna ken whaur I cam frae!”

Duncan’s revelation brought with it nothing to be done—hardly anything to be thought—merely room for most shadowy, most unfounded conjecture—nay, not conjecture—nothing but the vaguest of castle-building! In merry mood, he would henceforth be the son of some mighty man, with a boundless future of sunshine opening before him; in sad mood, the son of some strolling gipsy or worse—his very origin better forgotten—a disgrace to the existence for his share in which he had hitherto been peacefully thankful.

Like a lurking phantom-shroud, the sad mood leaped from the field of his speculation, and wrapped him in its folds: sure enough he was but a beggar’s brat!—How henceforth was he to look Lady Florimel in the face? Humble as he had believed his origin, he had hitherto been proud of it: with such a high minded sire as he deemed his own, how could he be other? But now! Nevermore could he look one of his old companions in the face! They were all honourable men; he a base-born foundling!

He would tell Mr Graham of course; but what could Mr Graham say to it? The fact remained. He must leave Portlossie.

His mind went on brooding, speculating, devising. The evening sunk into the night, but he never knew he was in the dark until the housekeeper brought him a light. After a cup of tea, his thoughts found pleasanter paths. One thing was certain: he must lay himself out, as he had never done before, to make Duncan MacPhail happy. With this one thing clear to both heart and mind, he fell fast asleep.

Chapter 43 - The Wizard’s Chamber

He woke in the dark, with that strange feeling of bewilderment which accompanies the consciousness of having been waked: is it that the brain wakes before the mind, and like a servant unexpectedly summoned, does not know what to do with its master from home? or is it that the master wakes first, and the servant is too sleepy to answer his call? Quickly coming to himself, however, he sought the cause of the perturbation now slowly ebbing. But the dark into which he stared could tell nothing; therefore he abandoned his eyes, took his station in his ears, and thence sent out his messengers. But neither, for some moments, could the scouts of hearing come upon any sign.

At length, something seemed doubtfully to touch the sense—the faintest suspicion of a noise in the next room—the wizard’s chamber: it was enough to set Malcolm on the floor.

Forgetting his wounded foot and lighting upon it, the agony it caused him dropped him at once on his hands and knees, and in this posture he crept into the passage. As soon as his head was outside his own door, he saw a faint gleam of light coming from beneath that of the next room. Advancing noiselessly, and softly feeling for the latch, his hand encountered a bunch of keys depending from the lock, but happily did not set them jingling. As softly he lifted the latch, 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. Suddenly she turned her face to the door, as if apprehending a presence; as suddenly, he closed it, and turned the key in the lock. To do so he had to use considerable force, and concluded its grating sound had been what waked him.

Having thus secured the prowler, he crept back to his room, considering what he should do next. The speedy result of his cogitations was that he indued his nether garments, though with difficulty from the size of his foot, thrust his head and arms through a jersey, and set out on hands and knees for an awkward crawl to Lord Lossie’s bedroom.

It was a painful journey, especially down the two spiral stone-stairs, which led to the first floor where he lay. As he went, Malcolm resolved, in order to avoid rousing needless observers, to enter the room, if possible, before waking the marquis.

The door opened noiselessly. A night-light, afloat in a crystal cup, revealed the bed, and his master asleep, with one arm lying on the crimson quilt. He crept in, closed the door behind him, advanced halfway to the bed, and in a low voice called the marquis.

Lord Lossie started up on his elbow, and without a moment’s consideration seized one of a brace of pistols which lay on a table by his side, and fired. The ball went with a sharp thud into the thick mahogany door.

“My lord! my lord!” cried Malcolm, “it’s only me!”

“And who the devil are you?” returned the marquis, snatching up the second pistol.

“Malcolm, yer ain henchman, my lord.”

“Damn you! what are you about then? Get up. What are you after there—crawling like a thief?”

As he spoke he leaped from the bed, and seized Malcolm by the back of the neck.

“It’s a mercy I wasna mair like an honest man,” said Malcolm, “or that bullet wad hae been throu’ the hams o’ me. Yer lordship’s a wheen^little ower rash.”

“Rash! you rascal!” cried Lord Lossie; “when a fellow comes into my room on his hands and knees in the middle of the night! Get up, and tell me what you are after, or, by Jove! I’ll break every bone in your body.”

A kick from his bare foot in Malcolm’s ribs fitly closed the sentence.

“Ye are ower rash, my lord!” persisted Malcolm. “I canna get up. I hae a fit the size o’ a sma’ buoy!”

“Speak, then, you rascal!” said his lordship, loosening his hold, and retreating a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his hand.

“Dinna ye think it wad be better to lock the door, for fear the shot sud bring ony o’ the fowk?” suggested Malcolm, as he rose to his knees and leaned his hands on a chair.

“You’re bent on murdering me—are you then?” said the marquis, beginning to come to himself and see the ludicrousness of the situation.

“Gien I had been that, my lord, I wadna hae waukent ye up first.”

“Well, what the devil is it all about?—You needn’t think any of the men will come. They’re a pack of the greatest cowards ever breathed.”

“Weel, my lord, I hae gruppit^nabbed her at last, an’ I bude to^{had 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^under 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?”

“That’s what I wad fain^want yer lordship kent: I dinna.”

“None of your riddles! Explain yourself;—and make haste; I want to go to bed again.”

“‘Deed, yer lordship maun jist pit^put on yer claes^clothes, an’ come wi’ me.”

“Where to?”

“To the warlock’s chaumer^{chamber, room}, my lord—whaur that ill wuman^woman remains ‘in durance vile,’ as Spenser wad say—but no sae vile’s hersel’, I doobt^{I suspect}.”

Thus arrived at length, with a clear road before him, at the opening of his case, Malcolm told in few words what had fallen out. As he went on, the marquis grew interested, and by the time he had finished, had got himself into dressing-gown and slippers.

“Wadna ye tak yer pistol?” suggested Malcolm slyly.

“What! to meet a woman?” said his lordship.

“Ow na! but wha kens^knows there michtna^{might not} be anither murderer aboot? There micht be twa in ae nicht.”

Impertinent as was Malcolm’s humour, his master did not take it amiss: he lighted a candle, told him to lead the way, and took his revenge by making joke after joke upon him as he crawled along. With the upper regions of his house the marquis was as little acquainted, as with those of his nature, and required a guide.

Arrived at length at the wizard’s chamber, they listened at the door for a moment, but heard nothing; neither was there any light visible at its lines of junction. Malcolm turned the key, and the marquis stood close behind, ready to enter. But the moment the door was unlocked, it was pulled open violently, and Mrs Catanach, looking too high to see Malcolm who was on his knees, aimed a good blow at the face she did see, in the hope, no doubt, of thus making her escape. But it fell short, being countered by Malcolm’s head in the softest part of her person, with the result of a clear entrance. The marquis burst out laughing, and stepped into the room with a rough joke. Malcolm remained in the doorway.

“My lord,” said Mrs Catanach, gathering herself together, and rising little the worse, save in temper, for the treatment he had commented upon, “I have a word for your lordship’s own ear.”

“Your right to be there does stand in need of explanation,” said the marquis.

She walked up to him with confidence.

“You shall have an explanation, my lord,” she said, “such as shall be my full quittance for intrusion even at this untimely hour of the night.”

“Say on then,” returned his lordship.

“Send that boy away then, my lord.”

“I prefer having him stay,” said the marquis.

“Not a word shall cross my lips till he’s gone,” persisted Mrs Catanach. “I know him too well! Awa’ wi’ ye, ye deil’s buckie^{trifle of no value}!” she continued, turning to Malcolm; “I ken mair aboot ye nor ye ken aboot yersel’, an’ deil^devil hae’t I ken o’ guid^good to you or yours! But I s’ gar^{cause, make} ye lauch^laugh o’ the vrang^wrong side o’ your mou’^mouth yet, my man.”