Malcolm by George MacDonald — Free Audiobook

1 01 - Miss Horn 6:12

Malcolm by George MacDonald. Chapter One. Miss Horne. Nah, nah. I had no feelings, I'm thankful to say. I never cant any good come o' them. They're a terrible sight in the gate. "'Nobody ever thought I layin' it to your charge, ma'am. Deed, I had enough a-do to do the thing I had to do, not to say the thing that nobody would do but myself. I had no leisure for feelin's in 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! Wattie!' she called after the footsteps down the stair. "'Yes, ma'am.' answered a gruff voice from below.

Wattie, when you fess the bit boxy, just pit a hammer and a puckle nails in your poach to mend the hen-house door. The tain mon be a tenet till as well as the tither. The bit boxy was the coffin of her third cousin Griselda Campbell, whose body lay in the room on her left hand as she called down the stair. Into that on her right Miss Horne 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. "'Ay, she was tain young,' 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. "'Not that young,' returned Miss Horne.

"'She was upon the edge at aught in thirty.' "'Well, she had a ser time, o't.' "'Not that ser, so far as I can see. And who should ken better? She's had a been done sittin', and shoulda had as long as I was to the fore. Nah, nah." It was neither so young nor yet so ser. Ay, but she was a patient creature with 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 she was that, a ween oar patient with some. But that came a hand in my heart and a brains. She had feelings, gin you like, and to spare, but I never took oar any of the stock. It's a pity she had not the judgment to match.

For she never misdoubted anybody enough. But I wot it disnot matter now, for she's gone where it's less wanted. For when it has the harmlessness of the dove in this ill-walled world, there's a thicket ten that has the wisdom of the serpent, and the serpent makes sir work with the doves, let alone them it flees into the very mouths of them." Well, you're just right there," said Mrs. Mellis. And as you say, she was aye some easy to persuade. I had no doubt she believed to the very last he would come back and marry her. "'Come back and marry her. Who or what d'you mean? I just tell you, Mistress Mellis, and at will you're named. Can you dare to hint at one word of such clavours? It's this side of this door of mine you's to be less acquaint with.' As she spoke, the hawk eyes of Miss Horne 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 very like fear as she replied, "'Good guidance, Miss Horne. What have I said, to guard you look at me so by ordinary as that?' "'Sid,' repeated Miss Horne, in a tone that revealed both annoyance with herself and contempt for her visitor. "'There's not a clever in all the countryside but ye monfesset hall beneath your oxter, as gannet were the prodigal afore he repented. You should get small thanks for such like here, and her lying there as she lied till the Judgment Day, poor thing.' "'I'm sure I meant no offence, Miss Horne,' said her visitor." I thought Obadi cant it she was ill about him. About who in the name of the father of lies? Oh, about that long-legged doctor that set up for the Ingees, and died afore he won across the equator.

Only folks said he was no more dead nor a halvert worm, and would be home when she was married. It's all lies frae head to foot and frae heart to skin. Well, it was plain to see she'd wind away after he go'd, and never was herself again. You do not deny that. It's all havers. Persisted Miss Horne, but in accents considerably softened. She cared no more about the child, nor I did myseal. She dwined, I grant ye, and he go'd away, I grant ye. But the wind blows and the water runs, and the tain has little to do with the tither. Well, well, I'm sorry I said anything to offend ye, and I cannot say mer. With your leave, Miss Horne, I'll just gang and take a last look at her poor thing. Deed ye should do nothing of the kind.

I shall let nobody glower at her, it would gang and spare just a cavers about her, Mistress Millis. To say it, such a dove as my grizzail, poor soft-hearted, winsome thing, woulda look twice at any sicker serpent as him. Nah, nah, mem. Go on your ways home, and come back straight for your prayers the morn's morning. By that time she'll be quiet in her coffin, and I'll be quiet in my temper. Sign I'll let you see her. Maybe. I wish I was well rid of the sight of her, for I can abide it. Lord, I can abide 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 ascended the stairs as slowly as if on every step she deliberated whether the next would bear her weight.

Miss Horne, 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 parlor. 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 had no feelings,' she said to herself. "'To even my bonnie Griselle, to sic a long kite-clong chile is yawn. Ay, poor Griselle.

2 02 - Barbara Catanach 7:55

Barbara Carnar Miss Horne was interrupted by the sound of the latch of the street door, and sprung from her chair in anger. "'Canna they let her sleep for five minutes?' she cried aloud, forgetting that there was no fear of rousing her any more. "'It'll be Jean, come in frae the pomp.' She reflected after a moment's pause, but hearing no footstep along the passage to the kitchen concluded, "'It's not her, for she gains about the host like the forehalf of a new shod 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, Said 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, suggesting a doughy indentation to the finger, and its color 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 Horne entered, buried a fat fist in a soft side, and stood silent. "'Well,' said Miss Horne interrogatively, and was silent also. "'I thought you might want a cast of my calling,' said the woman. "'Na, na, there's not a hannet shall lay finger upon the bairn but mine an,' said Miss Horne. "'I had it all ower my lee lawn afore this gray day.

She's layin' quiet now.'" Very quiet, waiting upon Watty with her spale. When he fesses home her bit boxy, we shall have laid canny until it, and he had done with it. Well, ma'am, for a lady born like yoursell, I maun say you take it uncle composed. I'm not aware, mistress Cattenaw, or any necessity laid upon you to say you're mine in this hoss. It's not expect it. But what for should I not take it with composure? We'll have to take our own turn ere long, as composed as we have the skill of, and gang out like a long nibbett kennel. "'Aye, and leave just sick of memory ahine some o' us, Bobby.' "'I cannot ginyamene me, Miss Horn,' said the woman. "'But it's not that muckle or memory I expect to lie ahine me.' "'The less the better,' muttered Miss Horn, but her unwelcome visitor went on.

"'Them it's most in my debt, kens least about it. And then mithers cannot be said to have muckle to be thankful for. It's God's truth. I ken warn whatever I did, mem.' A body in my trade cannot help fawn among ill-company wiles, for we're all born in sin, and brought forth in iniquity, as the book says. In fact, it's all sin together. We come a sin, and we gang for sin, but ye ken the likes o' me monoclype. All the same, can ye do not take the help o' my han, ye will not refuse me the sight o' my ain, poor thing. There's none to look upon her dead, it was not a pleasure till her livin, and ye ken will enough, Bobby, she could not thaw the sight o' you." "'And good reason had she for that. "'Gin' all it gings through my head ere I fall asleep in the long, murk nights "'be a hair better nor one of the old wives' fables "'at folk says the holy book makes to light all.' "'What mean ye?' demanded Miss Horne, sternly and curtly.

"'I ken what I mean, mysil, "'and one that's not content with that but ill be a howdy. "'Midwife.' "'I would fain ha' gotten a fancy out o' my head "'that's been there this many a lang day. "'But please yoursil, mem, "'gin ye winna be neighborly.' "'You see no gang near her, not to save you frae all the ill dreams that ever gathered about a sin-stabit bolster,' cried Miss Horn, and drew down her long upper lip in a strong arch. "'Ca canny, ca canny,' said Bobby. "'Dinna anger me o'er, sir, for I am but mortal. Folk take a heap frae you, Miss Horn, at they'll take frae nen either, frae your tempers will, Kent and little Maido. But it's an ill-fared thing to anger the Howdy. Some muckle lies upon her.'" And I'm not in the tune to put up with Muckle the night.

I wonder it ye bein' so un-neighbor-like. It's sick a time, too, wi' the corp in the hoas. G'ang away. G'ang out o' it. It's my hoas," said Miss Horne, 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 would as soon let a cat into the dead chamber to gang lope nor the corp, or maybe were, as I would let your cell into the bobby cat, and ah? And there's Tilly. 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 parlor, 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 outen aboten the tone. But Miss Horne interrupted her the moment she began to speak. "'Is that woman forth the host, 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 gone, ma'am.' answered Jean, adding to herself in a wordless thought. I'm not sayin' where.

She's a woman I wouldna' how you throng with, Jean. I kenna illa her ma'am, returned Jean. She's enough to cur up a kirkyard, 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 Horne think how useless was her warning. Or where Barbara Cattanoff 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 woulda been tellin' her, she muttered, to a spoken Bobby fair. I'm no use to be fallin' foul of that gate. "'I to be even with her yet, I'm thinking.' The old Spelden. "'Losh, and praise be thanked. There it is. It's there. A wee darker, but the same. Just where I could a laid the pint of my finger upon it in the murk.' "'No, let the worms eat it,' she concluded, as she folded down the linen of shroud and sheet. And no mortal kennel it but myself, and him it bode till a seen it, g'n he was a hair better nor Glen Candy's man in the old ballant.'" 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.

3 03 - The Mad Laird 8:52

THE MAD LAIRD When Mistress Karna 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 northeast, 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 color as it drifted vanishing towards the southwest. But Mrs. Cardona 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 trousers, gazing immovably in Mrs. Cadenault'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 us! Where come ye frae?' 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.

"'You ken, or I dinna ken where I come frae. I dinna ken where ye come frae. I dinna ken where anybody comes frae.' "'Hoot, laird. No offence,' returned Mrs. Cadenaw. "'It was your own way. What guard you stand glowerin at the body that gate? On tell them that you was there.' "'I thought you was lookin' where you came frae,' returned the man, in tones apologetic and hesitating. "'Deed I fash wid no such freights,' said Mrs. Cadenaw. "'So long as ye ken where ye goin till,' suggested the man. "'Toots, I fast as little with that either, and ken just as muckle about the tain as the tither,' she answered with a low, oily, guttural laugh of contemptuous pity. "'I ken mere no that mysail, but no muckle,' said the man.

"'I dinna ken where I ken frae, and I dinna ken where I'm goin till. But I ken at I'm goin where I ken frae. That stands to reason, you see. But they tell me at ye ken all about where we all come frae.'" "'Deal a bit of it,' persisted Mrs. Cadenault, in tones of repudiation. "'What care I, where I come frae, so long as—' "'So long as what, gin you please?' pleaded the man, with a childlike entreaty in his voice. "'Well, gin you will have it, so long as I came frae—' "'My mither,' 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 marvelous swiftness he shot down the steep descent towards the shore. The deal's in it, and I booed to anger him, said the woman, and walked away, with a short laugh of small satisfaction. The style she had given the hunchback was no nickname. Stephen Stewart was Laird of the small property and ancient house of Kirkbyers, 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 neighbors, 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 disturbing element, 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 odor. 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, disclosing the squalid desolation of its lean, ribbed, and naked interior, producing all the phantasmic effect of a great swampy desert.

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 Skarnoz, 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 Mare, 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 foot pace, 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 Mare. They ceased their work for a moment to look after him. That's the poor Laird again, said Joseph, the instant he was beyond hearing. Something's wrong with him. I wonder what's come o'er him. I ha'n't seen him for a while now, returned the other. They tell me that his mother made him over to the devil afore he came to the light, and so, as his birthday comes round, Satan gets the power over him. Yeah, but he's a fearsome sight when he's tae in that gate," continued the speaker. I met him once in the gloaming, just oar by the tone, with his eyeing glowering like oily lamps, and this lever running down his long beard. I just lope as gin I had seen the muckle satin' himsel.

"'You not not ha done that,' was the reply. He's just as harmless, e'en at the worst, as any lamb. He's but a poor creature, whose troubles are strong for him, that's all. Certain has as little to do with him as with any man I can.

4 04 - Phemy Mair 10:03

Thee Meyre 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 Dulce. She was the daughter of Joseph Mare just mentioned, a fisherman who had been to sea in a man of war, in consequence of which his tow-name, or nickname, was Blue Peter. Where, having been found capable, he was employed as carpenter's mate, and came to be very handy with his tools. 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, on his ain water. 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 hardyhood 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. Mare 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, at least, of which advantages 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 Mare 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 Feamy Mare was therefore familiar with his appearance, his ways, and his speech.

And she was a favorite 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 ken what I come frae!' 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 Femi scrambled out of her big muscle 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. Femi 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 Fimi 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 Femi'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 wonder 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 polecat, 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, "'Look, laird! Look!' 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.

"'Where do you come frae?' he cried. "'I came frae the old boat,' she answered. "'What do you want with me?' "'Nothing, sir. I only came to see who you was gettin' on.' I wouldn't have disturbed you, sir, but I saw the toatine of a wool cat or such like, glowering away, yonnering in the murk, and they flate me, and I gripped you." "'Well, well, sit you down, Bairnie,' said the mad laird in a soothing voice. "'The wool cat's anna touch you. You're no flate at me, are you?' "'Eh, nah,' answered the child. "'What for should I be flate at you, sir? I'm the me mere.' "'Eh, Bairnie, it's you, is it?' He returned in tones of satisfaction, for he had not hitherto recognized her. Sit ye down, sit ye down, and we'll see about it all.

Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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.

5 05 - Lady Florimel 18:29

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 Skarnos, 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 farmhouses, with now and then a glimpse of a great house amidst its trees. In the distance one or two bare, solitary hills, imposing an aspect only from their desolation, for their form gave no effect to their altitude. The river 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 in 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 odors to the shore, in place of sweeping to inland farms the scents of seaweed and broken salt waters, mingled with the suspicion of icebergs. From what was called the Seaton, or Sea Town, of Port Lossie, 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 course bent, 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 Port Lossie, high above the harbor and the Seton, with its houses of gray 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, born 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 trousers, 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 center. 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 sand hill, 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 trousers 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. Its 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 sandhill, crying as he approached her, 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 sandhill, 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. Drawing back her feet, and throwing down a book she had 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. "'What is your stockings, ma'am?' 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 Scottish 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 forgo what amusement she might gain from him, she drew in her half-issuing foot, and certainly urged in part by an inherited 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 good as away, 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 would be dull thanks, mem, that were thanked afore I kind what for.' For allowing you to carry me ashore, of course. Be thanked, mem, with all my heart. Will I gang down on my knees? No, why should you go on your knees? Cause you're most ore bonnie to look at standing, mem, and I'm feared for angering you. Don't say mem to me. What am I to say then, mem? I ask your pardon, mem. Say, my lady. That's how people speak to me.

I thought you would to be somebody bi-ordinary, m'lady. That'll be how you're so terrible, bonnie. He returned, with some tremulousness in his tone. But you ma'en put on your hose, my lady, or you'll get your feet cold, and that's no good for the likes of you. The form of a dress 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 salt water kens me o'er well to do me any ill, returned the lad. I gang wit to the skin money a day for a mornin' till night, and money a night for a night till mornin', at the hairin' fishin' ye ken, my 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 behavior 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 thinking, my lady, he went on in absolute simplicity, that small footy rain has danced many a brawl dance on many a brawl floor. How old 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 muckler twenty, he said. I'm only sixteen, she returned, laughing merrily. "'What will you be or you 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. "'Not that, Muckle. At least among the fisher folks, except it be at a wedding. I was at one last night.' "'And did you dance?' "'Deed did I, milady. I danced the most of the lasses clean off of their legs.' "'What made you so cruel?' "'Well, you see, ma'am—I mean, milady.

Folks said I was ill about the bride.' And so I bowed to dance it out of their heads. And how much truth was there in what they said? She asked, with a sly glance up in the handsome, now glowing face. G'en there was any, there was Uncle Little, he replied. The child's welcome tiller for me, but she was the bonniest lassie we had. It was what we call a pennywedding, he went on, as if willing to change the side of the subject. And what's a pennywedding? It's a kind of a custom among the fishers. "'There's some gay poor folk among us, you see, and when a two of them marries, the lay of us wants to give them a bit of a start-like. So we all gain to the wedding and eats and drinks plenty, and pays for all that we have, and they make a good profit out of it, for the things does not cost them near handsome uncle as we pay.

So they have a good handful or for the plenition.' "'And what do they give you to eat and drink?' asked the girl, making talk. "'Oh, skate and mustard to eat, and whiskey to drink,' answered the lad, laughing. But it's mere for the fun.' I didn't care muckle about whiskey and that kind of thing, myself. It's the fiddles and the dance in it I like. You have music, then? Aye, just the fiddles and the pipes. The bagpipes, do you mean? Aye, my grandfather plays them. But you're not in the Highlands here. How come you'd have bagpipes? It's a stray bag and no more. But the folk here likes the cry of it well enough, and have it to wake the milk a morning. Yon was my grandfather you heard afore I fired the gun.

Yon was his pipes waking them, honest folk. And what made you fire the gun in that reckless way? Don't you know it is very dangerous? Dangerous, ma'am, my lady, I mean. There was nothing into it but a penny worth of blast and powder. It would not blow the froth off of the top of a jaw. It nearly blew me out of my small wits, though. I'm very sorry it frighted you, but g'en I had seen you, I bode to fire the gun. I don't understand you quite. But I suppose you mean it was your business to fire the gun. Just that, my lady. Why? "'Cause it's been decreed in the Town Council that at six o' the clock you'll come morning that gun's to be fired. At least, so long as my lord the Marquess is at Port Lossy-House.

You see, it's a royal baruch this, and it costs but about a penny. And it's gran-like to have a small cannon to fire. And gin I was to neglect it, my grandfather would gang on skirlin.' "'What's the English for skirlin, my lady?' "'Skirlin of 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 screaming's not so good as skirling. My grandfather's an old man, as I was going on to say, and has hardly breath enough to fill the bag. But he would be after dirk and anybody at Sid's sake a thing. Until he heard that gun he would gang on blow on though he should burst himself. There's nobody kens the smederman an old Highland 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 and 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 insurance 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 favored 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 naivety 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 gray, her complexion fair, a little freckled, which gave it the warmest tent 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-penciled 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. 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 sandhill, 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-offness 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 Boreus that stood blowing his trumpet forever in the round, open temple, which from the top of a grassy hill in the park overlooked the Seton. "'Sick ain,' he kept saying to himself, "'and sic small white hands, and sic a bonny foot.

"'A'ho she would glitter through the water in a bagnet. "'Faith, "'gin she were to sing, "'Come down to me, I would gain. "'Would that be to lose beth soul and body, I wanner? "'I'll see what Mr. Graham says to that.' It's a fine question to put to them. G'en a body was to gang with a mermaid. Oh, they say it has no soul to be saved. Would that be the loss o his soul, as weal as o the bodily life o him?

6 06 - Duncan MacPhail 18:25

Duncan MacPhail. The sea-town of Port Lossie 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. Only of the roofs could you predict the position. were divided from each other by every sort of small, irregular space and passage, and looked like a national assembly debating a constitution. Close beside the Seton, as it was called, ran a highway, climbing far above the chimneys of the village to the level of the city. The But so closely built, so thickly inhabited, and so pervaded with a very ancient and fish-like 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 harbor, 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 colors, 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 the shop, and the room with the tempting window showed itself only as a poor kitchen with an earthen floor. Weel, how did the pipes behave themselves the day, Daddy? Said the youth as he strode in. "'Ach, she'll be bein' a good boy to-day,' returned the tremulous voice of a gray-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 to his external lungs, namely—' The bag of his pipes. Both sets had of late years manifested strong symptoms of decay, and decided measures had 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 behavior 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 Towne Piper.

That's fine, Daddy, returned the youth. Will I make out the parrige? I'm thinking you've had enough of hanging o'er the fire this ha'p mornin'. No, sir, answered Duncan. She'll be perfectly able to make to parrige herself my boy Malcolm. Da' day will dawn when her boy must make his own parrige, and she'll be wantin' no more parrige, but have to drink da' rainwater. And no drop of the ish could be her to put into it my boy 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, There, my man, there's the parish.

And was it to butter or to tracle or to bottle a beer she would be havin' for Kitchi this 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 sleepwalker, open with shut scents. The shine in them was all reflected light. Glitter, no glow. And their color was so pale that they suggested some horrible sight as having driven from them hue and vision together. "'Have you eaten enough, my son,' he said, when he heard Malcolm lay down his spoon.

"'Aye, plenty, thank you, Daddy, and they were right 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 screech, Maester MacPhail, my mother wants a pot of lecon, and you're to be sure and give her it good, she says. Very good, my child, Jeannie. But young Malcolm and old Duncan hasn't made their prayers yet, and you know very well that she won't sail before she's made her prayers. "'Til you are muttered that she'll be bringing the blacken when she comes to look to the 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, and raised a tune of marvelous 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 called. 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 Glenlion, the main instrument in the massacre of Glencoe. 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 very well wish, Malcolm, my son, said the old man, that you would be learning to speak your own language. It is all very well for to Sassanac, Saxon, that is, non-Celtic, parties to read the Bible in English, for it will be pleasing to make or not to make them capable of the Gaelic, no more than monkeys. But for all that it is not the word of God. The Gaelic is the language of the Garden of Aden, and no doubt but it be the language in which the shepherd calls his sheep unto everlasting hills.

You see, Malcolm, it must be so. For how can a mortal man speak to his god in anything but Gaelic? When Mr. Crem—no, not Mr. Crem, the good man—it was the new minister—he speak and say to her, Mr. MacPhail, you ought to make your prayers in English. I was very wrathful, and I answered and said, Mr. Downey, do you dare to suppose that God doesn't prefer the Gaelic to the Sassanac tongue? Mr. McPhail, says he, it'll be for your boy, I mean it. Who's the lad to learn the way of salvation if you speak to your God and his presence in a strange tongue? So I was obedient to his word, and the next evening I did kneel down in the Sassanac, and I did make begin. But oh no, she wouldn't go. Her tongue would be cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

The claymore would be sticking Rusty in the scabbard. For her heart she was ashamed to speak to the Highland Man's Maker in the Sassnack tongue. You must be learning the Gaelic, or you'll not be being worthy to be her name's son, Malcolm. But Daddy, who's to learn me? asked his grandson, Gaeli. Learn you, Malcolm. The Gaelic is the language of nature, and wants no learning. I never did be learning it, yet I never have to say to myself, What is it she would be saying when I speak the Gaelic? But she always has to set the dead men, that is, the words, on their feet, and put them in battle array when she would be speaking the dull, mechanic English. When she opens her mouth to it, the Gaelic comes like a spring of pure water, Malcolm.

The plenty of it must run out. Try it now, Malcolm. Just open your mouth in the Gaelic shape, and see if the Gaelic will not be fallen 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. "'Who will that do, Daddy?' he asked, after jabbering gibberish for the space of a minute. "'It will not be bad for a beginning, Malcolm. She cannot say it just be words, or that there be much of the sense in it, but it be very like what the babes will say before they begin to speak it properly.' So it's all very well, and if you will only be putting your mouth in the Gaelic shape often enough, the sounds will soon be taken to shape of it, and the birds will be coming through the mists, and before you know, you'll be being a great credit to your grandfather, my boy, Malcolm."

A silence followed, for Malcolm's attempt had not had the result he anticipated. He had only thought to make his grandfather laugh. Presently the old man resumed, in the kindest voice. And there's another thing, Malcolm, that's much wanting to you. You'll never be a man, not to speak of a bard like your grandfather, if you'll not be learning to play on the bagpipes. Malcolm, who had been leaning against the chimney lug 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 vigor 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 Everon anon, with feeble yell, he uttered the unspellable, whew, 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. Aye, aye, he sighed at length, yielding the contest between his legs and the lungs of the lad. Aye, aye, she'll die happy. She'll die happy. Hear, tell her boy, how he makes the pipes sing the true Gaelic. The best the Gaelic, dat. Old Tonkin's pipes'll not know how to be talkin' Sassenach.

See to it, see to it. He had but to blow in at the one end, and out came the reel at the other. Whew! Whew! Playeth the reel, Hulachan, Malcolm, my chief. I cannot reel, stratsby, nor lilt, but just that bird alone, daddy. Give tem to me, my boy. cried the old piper, reaching out a hand as eager to clutch the uncouth instrument as the miser's to finger his goal. Hear well to me as I play, and you'll soon be able to play Pibrach or Koranach with the best piper between Cape Wrath and Molokantair. He played tune after tune until his breath failed him, and an exhausted grunt of the drone, in the middle of a Koranach, 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 dat 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 hadna a memory up to that, Daddy, but I should get a hold of Mr. Graham's flute music, and maybe that'll help me a bit. Wouldn't you be taking her Meg Parton's blackenet you 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 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 neighborhood 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 trousers 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 colors of his kilt had faded. Noticeable chiefly on weekdays when he wore no sporen. For the kilt, encountering from its loose construction, comparatively little strain or friction, may reach an antiquity unknown to the garments of the Lowcountry. And while perfectly decent, Yet look ancient exceedingly.

On Sundays, however, he made the best of himself, and came out like a belated and aged butterfly, with his father's sporin, or tasseled goat-skin purse, in front of him, his grandfather's dirk at his side, His great-grandfather's skein-do, 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 pipers gay broken like the day, said one of the fisherman's wives to a neighbor 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 doubt he'll be slipping away some cold night,' said the other. "'He's leaving breaths ill to get.' "'Ay, he has to worsel for it, poor man. "'Well, he'll be missed the blind body. "'It's extraordinary how he's managed to live, "'and bring up such a fine lad as that Malcolm of his.'" Well, you see, Providence has been kind to him, as well as other blind creatures. The town's piping is not to be despised, and there's the crying and the chop and the lamps. Deed, he's been an ident creature, and for a blind man, as you say, it's just extraordinary. Do you mind when first he came to the town, lass? Aye, what would hinder me mind in that? It's not so long. Malcolm, it's a fine lad, no. They tell me wasn't a muckle bigger nor a gay haddy.

Tolerable haddock. But the old man was an old man then, though na doubt his uncle failed since sign. A daughter's bairn, they say, the lad. Aye, they say, but who kens? Duncan could never be gotten to open his mouth as to the father and mother of him, and so it well may be, as they say. It's nigh twenty year now, I'm thinkin', sen he made his appearance. Ye wasn't a come from Scaronosa then. Some folks says the old man's name's no McPhail. And he maunna come here an' hidin' for some rough job or other that he's been mixed up with. Ise to believe not ill is such a poor, harmless body. Folk it makes their own livin', wantin' the aim to guide them, cannot be that far off the straight. God guide us.

We have enough to answer for our own selves, on past judgment upon one another. I was but tellin' ye what folk tell'd me," returned the younger woman. Aye, aye, lass, I ken that. For I ken there was folk to tell ye.

7 07 - Alexander Graham 19:24

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 harbor 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 heeding, 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 neighborhood was certain, he thought. But there was a farmhouse 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 arbor 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 summit shot the spire of the church. And from beyond the spire, through the trees, came golden glimmers as of vein 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 ironwork, 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 Port Lossie. 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 gray 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 gray. 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 favorite 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, and would never, indeed, had Gaelic been amongst his studies, have been won by the most laborsome petition.

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 Port Lossy 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-well 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 nothing to hinder me. What day is it upon? Saturday. Very well, sir. I should be here in 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 planes of Armageddon, where the battle of good and evil was forever 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 hireling troops 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's 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 he some double, 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 yeses 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. Partly, sir. You think, then, Sheltie, that a man may be both bad and good? I dinna ken, sir. I think he may be wiles one, and wiles the other, and wiles maybe it would be ill to say, Wilk. Or call his wiles into his mind whether he'll do what he's telled or no. That's the Battle of Armageddon, Sheltie, my man. It's eye-ragin', on gun-roared or bayonet-clashed. You maun up and do your best in it, my man. G'en you die fightin' like a man.

You'll flee up wi' a quiet face and a wide-open ain. And there's a great one it'll say to you, well done, laddie. But g'en you gee in to the enemy. He'll turn you into a creepin' thing at each dirt. And there'll no be a hole in all the crystal wall of the New Jerusalem near enough to the ground to let you creep through. 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 Shalti, "'Jacob had not fought in all his battle.' "'That's just it, my boy. And because he wouldn't get up and fight manfully, God had to take him in hand.

You've heard tale of generals, when their troops were running away, having to cut this man down, shoot that one and lick another, till he turned them all right face about and drave them onto the foe like a spate.' And the trouble God took with Jacob was not lost upon him at last. And what came of Esau, sir? asked a pale-faced maiden with blue eyes. He was not an ill kind of a child, was he, sir? No, Mappy, answered the master. He was a fine child, as you say, but he not maired time and gentler treatment to make anything of him. You see, he had a good heart, but was a duller kind of a creature altogether, and cared for nothing he could not see or handle. He never thought muckle about God at all.

Jacob was another sort, a poet kind of a man, but a snake-drawn creature for all that. It was easier, however, to get the slyness out of Jacob than the dullness out of Esau. Punishment telt upon Jacob like upon a thin-skinned horse, whereas Esau was mere like the minister's pony that can hardly be made to understand that you want him to gang on. But on the other hand, dullness is a thing that can be born with. There's nae hurry about that. But the deceitful tricks of Jacob were not to be endured. And so the toss came down upon him. And what for did not God make Esau as clever as Jacob? asked a wizened-faced boy near the top of the class. Ah, my pity, said Mr. Graham, I cannot tell you that. All that I can tell is that God had not done making at him, and some kind of folk take longer to make out than others.

And ye cannot tell what they're to be till they're made out. But whether what I tell you be right or no, God mone ha the very best reasons for it, or good, maybe, for us to understand. The best reasons for he saw himself, I mean, for the Creator looks after his creature first of all. And now, concluded Mr. Graham, resuming his English, go to your lessons and be diligent, that God may think it worthwhile 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 Jameson and Poochie, come up here. Said the master in a loud voice. He hit at 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 no business to call me Poochie. No more he had, but you had just as little right to punish him for it. The offense was against me. He had no right to use my name for you, and the quarrel was mine. For the present, you are Poochie 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 Jameson, 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 quarreling 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 behavior 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 Poochie, 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. Piri means peg-top. But not above a quarter of the children had pet names. To gain one was to reach the highest honor 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, for the scheme had been suggested by a certain passage in the Book of the Revelation. Without having read a word of Swedenborg, he was a believer in the absolute correspondence of the inward and outward, and thus, long before the younger Darwin arose, had suspected a close relationship. Remote identity, indeed, in nature and history between the animal and human worlds. But 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.

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, 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 neighborhood of Port Lossie 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 the enormous height of her mountains as compared with those of the earth. 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 Earth 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 reabsorption.

Save that he murmured to himself now and then, I dinna ken what I ken free. 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, walking away towards the town, and was seen no more that afternoon.

8 08 - The Swivel 14:55

THE SWIVEL Mrs. Courthope, the housekeeper at Lossy 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-moudness, 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 favorite with her, for the Englishwoman will generally prefer the Highland to the Lowland Scotsman, and she seldom visited the Seton 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. Indeed, she will not be false to her chief and her clan, retorted Duncan persistently. She will not forgive Carmel of Glenlion. 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 Cartope, replied Duncan. But if, as ye say, God will be forgiving him, which I do not believe, let that be enough for the greedy blackguard. Sure, it matters but small whether poor Duncan MacPhail will be forgiving him or not. Anyhow, he must do without it, for he shall not have it. He is a damn villain and scoundrel, and so she says with her respects to you, Mistress Curtope."

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. "'Certainly, mem. I should be with ye in good time, wi' the best the sea'll give me,' he answered. "'If I have the fish by nine o'clock, that will be early enough,' she returned. "'I would not like to wait so long for my breakfast,' remarked Malcolm. "'You wouldn't mind it much if you waited asleep,' said Mrs. Courthope. "'Can anybody sleep till sick a time a day as that?' exclaimed the youth. "'You must remember my lord doesn't go to bed for hours after you, Malcolm.' "'And what can keep him up all that time?

It's not as gin he were after the hair, and had the wind in the water, and the netfuls of wommling creatures to hold him waken.' "'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 would rather be up-air,' said Malcolm, a heap rather. I like fine to be out in the quiet o' the mornin', afford the suns up to set the din go'n, when it's all clear but no bright, like the back of a bunny salmon, and air and water and all looks as gin they were waitin' for somethin'. Quiet, very 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 boy will be a great bard some day, and sing before the Stuart Kings when they come 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 be a good woman, Mistress Curtope, he said as he came back, and it'll no be to blame her for forgiving Glenlion, for he did not kill her great-grandmother.

But it'll be very bad breeding to request her name's self, Duncan MacPhail, to be forgiven to rascal. Only she'll be but a woman, and it'll no be no no better to her. You'll be mindin' you'll be firin' de gun at six o'clock exactly, Malcolm, for all she says. For my lord bein' but just come home to his property, it might be effects to him if de was any mistake so soon. But, indeed, I wonder he hasn't been sending through old Duncan to be givin' him a song or two and pipes, for he'll be havin' de oceans of fairy good highland blood in his own veins. And his friend, de Prince of Wales, who has no more rights to it than a mackerel fish, will be wearin' de kilts at Holyrood. So mind, you be firing the gun at six, my son.

For some years, young as he was, Malcolm had hired himself to one or other of the boat proprietors of the Seton or of Scournose for the herring fishing, only, however, in the immediate neighborhood, 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 neighborhood, where a good many housekeepers favored 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 Port Lossie. 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 give over, that sense of good manners which was supreme in every Highlander of the old time interdicted the fingering of a note after the Marquess'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 just going to date her out and load her, my lord, answered Malcolm. And what next? You're not going to fire the thing. Aye, the morn's mornin', my lord. What will that be for? Oh, just to wake your lordship. Hmph, said his lordship, with more expression than articulation. Will I no load 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 cannot I be sure of my old watch, and may well be out of five minutes or two whiles. So, in future, seem it's a such small consequence to your lordship. I suggest let her off when it's convenient. A few minutes, when I met her muckle to the Bailey bodies." There was something in Malcolm's address that pleased Lord Lossie. The mingling of respect and humor, 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 grandfather's a blind piper, my lord.' "'Yes, yes. Tell him I shall want him at the house. I left my own piper at Kianglus.' "'I'll fess him wi' me in the morn, g'n ye like, my lord, for I'll be o'er wi' some fine trout or other, g'n I han out the war luck the morn's mornin'. Mistress Courtope says she'll be aye ready for one to fry to your lordship's breakfast. But I'm thinkin' that'll be o'er air for you 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.' "'Just look at her ribs, my lord.

She winna rive,' was the youth's response, and the Marquis was moving off with a smile when Malcolm called after him. "'Gin your lordship likes to see you rain fairlies, I can't whar some of them lie," he said. "'What do you mean by furlies?' asked the marquis. "'Oh, curiosities ye ken. For instance, there's some queer caves along the coast, two or three of them afore ye come to the Scarnoes. They say the water booed till a hock at them once upon a time, and they maun a been full o' partens and lobsters, and their friends and neighbours. But they're high and dry, no,' as the fool said to his minister, "'and nothing into them but faux marts and otters and sick-like.'" "'Well, well, my lad, we'll see,' said his lordship kindly, and turning once more he resumed his walk.

"'At your lordship's wool,' 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 Port Lossie 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. "'You guard me, look, my 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. Didn't ye hear the pipes, my 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, sick-a-brow watch, exclaimed Malcolm. What's all the bonny white knots about the facelet? Pearls, she answered, in a tone that implied pity of his ignorance. Just 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. Oh, aye, my lady. I set it by the town clock it hangs in the window of the Lossy Arms last night. But I'm on a way and look after my lines, or between the dale and 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 overexert himself, seeing he was subject to severe attacks of asthma.

He could stop when he was tired, she objected. Aye, Guinness Pride would let him, answered Malcolm, and turned away again, eager to draw his line. Have you a boat of your own? asked the lady. Aye, yawns her, down on the shore yawn her. Would you like a row? She's fine and quiet. Who, the boat? The sea, my lady? Is your boat clean? Of all things but fish. But, nah, it's not fit for so bonnie gone as that. I wouldn't let you gain the day, my lady. But, gin you like to be here the morn's mornin', I so be here at the same hour, and have my boat as clean as a Sunday sark. You think more of my gown than of myself," she returned. There's no fear o' yourself, my lady. You're o'er well made to blod. But woe's me for the gown, or it had been an hour in the boat the day.

"'Not to mention the fish come and wallop in order the gunwale, one after the other. But deed, I'm on say good morning, 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 harbor. 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 borough an hour too soon. He insisted that, as he had never made such a blunder before, he could not have made it now.

"'It's the watch I'll be telling the lies, Malcolm, my boy,' he said thoughtfully. "'She was once before.' "'But the sun says the same as the watch, Daddy,' persisted Malcolm." Duncan understood the position of the son and what it signified, as well as the clearest-eyed man in Port Lossie, but he could not afford to yield. It was being some conspiracy at a cursed commals to make her lose her poor pension, he said, but never you mind, Malcolm. I'll be making up for to plunder to-morrow morning. To good people shall have their sleeps a whole hour after they ought to be at their works.

9 09 - The Salmon Trout 19:42

The Salmon Trout. Malcolm walked up through the town with his fish, hoping to part with some of the less desirable of them, and sew light in 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. Cattinah, on her knees, cleaning her doorstep. "'Well, Malcolm, what fish ha' ye?' she said, without looking up. "'Who kent ye it was me, Mistress Cattinah?' asked the lad. "'Kent it was you,' she repeated. "'Gin there be but two feet at once in any street of Port Lossie. I'll tell ye whose head's abon them.' And my e'en sticked.

Eyes closed. "'Hoot! You're a witch, Mistress Katana,' said Malcolm merrily. "'That's as may be,' she returned, rising, and nodding mysteriously. "'I had told you no mere nor the truth. But what guard you whoop us all out of our naked beds by five o'clock in the mornin' this mornin', man, that's not what you paid for.' "'Deed, ma'am, it was just a mistake in my poor daddy's. He had been feared to sleep in our long, you see, and so had waked our soon.' I was out after the fish myself. But ye fired the gun, g'n the chap of five. Oh, aye, I fired the gun. The poor man would a burst in himself, g'n I had not. Deal g'n I had burst in himself, the ol' Highland shult, exclaimed Mrs. Cattena spitefully.

You sona even sick words to my grandfather, Mrs. Cattena, said Malcolm with rebuke. She laughed a strange laugh. Sona, she repeated contemptuously. And who's your grandfather that I should take, tent who I wag my tongue, or his righteousness? Then, with a sudden change of her tone to one of would-be friendliness. But what'll you be seeking for that bit of salmon, trouty 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 going to the host, my lord's breakfast, he said. Hoots, you'll just leave the trout with me. You'll be seeking a sexpence for it, I reckon. She persisted, again approaching the basket. "'I tell you, Mistress Catanah,' said Malcolm, drawing back now in the fear that if once she had it she would not yield it again.

"'It's gone up to the hoes. Hoes, there's nobody there seen it yet. It's new out of the water.' But Mistress Courthope was done last night, and wanted the best I could hook. Mistress Courthope, who cares for her? A mim, cat and old body. Gimme that trollty Malcolm. You're a bonny lad, and it's to be the better for you." "'Deed, I could not do it, Mistress Catanaw, though I'm sorry to disoblade ye. It's bespoken, ye see. But there's a fine haddy, and a bonny small coddy, and a gawk me.' "'Go away with your haddies and your gawk mees! You say not gawk me with em!' "'Well, I wouldna wonder,' said Malcolm. "'Gin Mrs. Courthope would like the haddy too, and maybe the life of them as well. Heresy's a muckle family to hold eatin'.

"'I'll just gang to the hoes first afore I make any mair offers for my creel. Ye lead the trope with me.'" Said Mrs. Cadena, imperiously. Nah, I cannot do that. You maun see your cell at I cannot. The woman's face grew dark with anger. It will be the war for ye, she cried. I'm not going to be flayed at ye. You're no sick of witches that, comes till, though ye did can a body's foot upon the flags. My blind lucky daddy can do mair'na that, said Malcolm, irritated by her persistency, threats, and evil looks. Dare 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 now? he answered coolly, turning his head back over his shoulder, for he was already on his way to the gate.

Ye se ken that, ye misbegotten phone-lin, screeched the woman, and waddled hastily into the house. What ails her? said Malcolm to himself. She might hae seen it I bode to 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 odors, 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 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 partisans, 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 defense, although its position in that regard was splendid. In front was a great gravel space, In the center of which lay a huge block of serpentine from a quarry on the estate, filling the office of goal, 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 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.

When she turned and saw whose shadow fell on the marble floor. What have you brought me? A fine salmon trout, mem. But g'en ye had heard how Mistress Katana flighted at me, cause I wouldn't have gied to her. Ye would have thought, mem, she was somethin' not canny. The way at first she begged, and sein fliecht, and sein obband and 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 don't g'en she'll take it, mem. She's an awful vengeful creature, folks says. You remind me, Malcolm," returned Mrs. Cordhope, 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 thinking it was a greater know the Bible said that, ma'am," returned Malcolm, who was an apt pupil of Mr. Graham. But you'll be meanin' Camel a Glenlion," he went on with a smile. It cannot make her muckle to him whether my grandfather forgie him or no, seeing he is being dead this hunter year. It's not Campbell of Glenlion. It's your grandfather I am anxious about," said Mrs. Courthope. Nor is it only Campbell of Glenlion he's so fierce against, but all his posterity as well. They didn't exist, ma'am. There's no sick of being on the face of the earth as a descendant of that Glenlion.

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, ma'am, though he would be as ser astonished to hear it as ye are yersel. I don't know what you mean by that, Malcolm. I mean, ma'am, at a blind man like my grandfather cannot ken himself right, seeing he cannot ken other folk right. It's by ken and other folk at ye come to ken yoursel, ma'am, isn't it, no? 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.

Frai some of them, mem. But it's little kindness my grandfather has experienced frai Kamala Glenlion, mem. And just as little injury, I should suppose," said Mrs. Courthope. You're wrong there, mem. A murdered mither maun be an uncle scathe to oie's oie. Grandson's grandson. But supposing you to be right, what I say is to the point for all that. I'm on just explain a wee. When I was a laddie at the school, I was once tellt that one of the loons was in the way of mocking my grandfather. When I heard it, I thought I could just rive the heart of him, and sip my teeth in it as the Dutch soldier did to the Spaniard. But when I got a grip o' him, and the rascal turned up a frighted, kinda dog-like face to me, I just couldn't drive my sticked knave into it.

Clenched fist. Mem, a face is an awful thing. There's aye something lookin' out o' it, a' ye cannot do as ye like with. But my grandfather never saw a face in his life, let alone Glen Lyons that's been dirt for so many a year. Can he were lookin' into the face of that Glen Lyon, even, I do believe he would no more drive his dirt into him." Drive his dirt into him? echoed Mrs. Cord Hope, in horror at the very disclaimer. No, I'm sure he would not, persisted Malcolm, innocently. He might not take him out of a pot, hole in a riverbed, but he would neither jerk him nor fling him in. I'm not that sure he would not even rack some a hand. One thing I am certain of, that by the time he meets Glenlion in heaven, he'll be not that far frae letting bygones be bygones.

Meet Glenlion 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? You do not think God's forgin' him then, ma'am? "'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.' "'How can ye complain o' my poor blind grandfather for no forgin' him, then? I ha' ye there, ma'am.' "'He may have repented, you know,' said Mrs. Courthope feebly, finding herself in less room than was comfortable. "'In sick case,' returned Malcolm, "'the old man'll hear about it the minute he wins there, and I make no doubt he'll do his best to persuade himself.'" "'But what if he shouldn't get there?' persisted Mrs.

Courthope, in pure benevolence. "'Hoot toot, ma'am. I want her to hear ye. A comma lettin' in on my grandfather holdin' out. That would be just yellow-faced Willie Ur again.' Lord Stare, the prime mover in the massacre of Glencoe. "'Nah, nah. Things gang another gate up there. My grandfather's a real good man, for all he has a way o' lookin' at things that's mere after 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 riverside to the sea-gate, but Mrs.

Courthope having waved her right to the fish in favor of Mrs. Cattena, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so returned the way he had come. He called aloud at her door, which generally stood a little ajar. Youse a have it for the sixpence, and a good bargain, too, for one a six 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 had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. His route, 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 doormat and an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ash pit, caught up the trout and rushed with it towards the gate.

"'That's right, my bairn,' shouted Mrs. Catanata the brute as he ran. Take it to Mrs. Courthope. Take it back with 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 devil's in the tyke,' 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.

"'Nah, nah, laddie. The devil's no o'way in Sikahiri. He bade,' said a voice behind him. Malcolm turned again and lifted his bonnet. It was Miss Horne, who had come up from the seatin'. "'Did you see yon, ma'am?' he asked. "'I will that as I came up the bray.' "'Dina stan there, laddie. The Jedi'll be watchin' you like a cat watchin' a mouse. I ken her. She's a catwoman, and I can abide her. She's no mouse. She's in secrets, mere nor good, I swad. Come away wi me. I want a bit fish. I can ill eat and her layin dead in the hoes. It wa na gang ower. But I maun get some strength pittin' in to me afore the burial. It's a God's mercy I wasna made wi feelings. Or what wad ha come o me? Where's the good a greetin'?

"'It's not worth the salt in the water of it, Malcolm. It's an ill world. It might be a bonny one, gannit warna for ill men.' "'Deed, mem, I'm thinking mere about ill women at this present,' said Malcolm. "'Maybe there's no sick thing, but yon's onco like one.' "'As bonny a salmon-trot as ever ye saw, mem, it's all I'm capable of to hold on curse that foul tyke of hers. "'Hoot, laddie, hold your tongue.' "'Aye, will I. I'm not going to do it, ye ken.' But sick of fine trot as that. The very one you would a liked, ma'am. Never you mind the trot. There's mair where that came frae. What angered her at ye? Nothin' mair nor that I bowed to give Mistress Courthope the first whale o' my fish. The woman's no worth your notice, cept to hold o'er gate, laddie.

And that ye'd better look till, for she's no canny. D'na ye anger her again, gin ye can help it. She has an ill look, and I cannot bite her. Here, there's your siller. Jean, take in this fish. During the latter part of the conversation, they had been standing at the door, while Miss Horne 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, "'What do you know like to see her, Malcolm? A good friend she was to you, so long as she was here,' she added after a short pause. The youth hesitated. "'I never saw a corp in my life, ma'am, and I'm just some firt,' he said. After another brief silence, "'Hoot laddie," returned Miss Horne, in a somewhat offended tone.

"'That'll be what comes o' havin' feelin's. A bonny corpse the bonniest thing in creation. And that quiet. Eh, sick a heap o' them as there has been, sent Abel,' she went on, "'an ilk one o' them lookin' as gin there ad never been a nether but its'il. Ye ought to see a corp, Malcolm. You'll have it to do afore ye one yoursel, and ye'll never see a bonny or no migrat'il. Be it to your will, 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 boxy, 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-modeled features of which the Titan's 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 Horne saw them. Yaman, lay your hand upon her, Malcolm. She said. You said I touched the dead, to hold you own dreamed about them. I would be loath, answered Malcolm. She would be or bonnie a dream to miss. Are they all like that?

he added, speaking under his breath. Na, deed no, replied Miss Horne with mild indignation. What do you expect Bobby Cattnaw to look like that now? I beg your pardon for mentioning the woman, my dear. She added, with sudden divergence, bending towards the still face, and speaking in a tenderly apologetic tone. I can weel ye cannot bide the vera name o' her, but it's to be the last ye'se hear it to all eternity, my dole. Then turning again to Malcolm. Lay your hand upon her brow, I tell ye, she said. I dare na, replied the youth, still under his breath. My hands are no clean. I would not for the world touch her with fishy hands. 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. "'Em, em,' he cried in an agonized whisper. "'She's dooms cold.' "'What should she be?' retorted Miss Horn. "'Would you hae her buried 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. "'You'll come to the burial upon Saturday?' she asked, half inviting, half inquiring. "'I'm sorry to say, ma'am, but I canna,' he answered. I promised Mr. Graham to take the school for him, and let him gang. "'Well, well, Mr. Graham's obliged to you, no doubt, and we canna help it. Give my compliments to your grandfather.' "'I'll do that, ma'am.

He'll be ser pleased, for he's uncle grateful for any sick attention.' said Malcolm, and with the words took his leave.

10 10 - The Funeral 11:34

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 Skarnos 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 borough, clothed in Sunday gloom deepened by the crape on their hats, made their way to Miss Horns. 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 housetop that feared her tongue. If she spoke loud, she never spoke false, or back bit 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 Horne was greatly attached to her, and it was for the sake of the living, mainly, that the dead was thus honored. As the prayer drew to a close, the sounds of trampling and scuffling feet bore witness that Waddy 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 paneling, 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 commonalty, Miss Horn herself, solitary, in a long black coat 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, Waddy 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.

"'You'll never be thinking o' go on your cell, ma'am,' he said. "'What for no, Waddy, I would like to ken,' growled Miss Horn from the vaulted depths of her bonnet. "'The like was never heard tell of.' Returned Wattie, with the dismay of an orthodox undertaker, righteously jealous of all innovation. It'll be to tell a hintsforth, rejoined Miss Horne, who in her risen anger spoke aloud, caring nothing who heard her. Dare ye presume, Wattie Witherspail, she went on, for no reason but that I gave ye the job and undertook to pay ye for it, and that far abon its market value. Dare ye presume, I say, to dictate to me what to do and what not to do and empty mater in hand? Think ye I have been a mither to the poor young thing for so many a year to let her gain away her loan at the last with the likes of you for company.

Hoot, ma'am, there is the minister at your elbuk. I tell ye, but ye're a ween rough menfolk. There's not a woman among ye to hold things decent, cept by gain my sale. I'm not big in the minister's pardon, either. I'll gain. I'm on see my poor grizel till her last bid." 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. "'Feelings,' exclaimed Miss Horne, in a tone of indignant repudiation. "'I'm going to do it, right? I say gang, and gin ye dinna like my company, Mr. Cairns, you can gang home, and I say gang without ye. Gin she should happen to be lookin' down.

She sunna't see me wantin' at the last of her. But I say make no work about it. I say no put myself ower for it.' 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-martialed 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 Horne 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 schoolhouse 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 Horne 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 labor was ended, Mr. Graham again offered his arm to Miss Horn, who had stood in perfect calmness watching the hole 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. Kattena, standing at a neighbor's door, gazing out upon nothing, as was her want at times. But talking to someone in the house behind her. Miss Horne turned her head aside as she passed. A look of low, malicious, half-triumphant cunning lightened across the puffy face of the howdy. 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 with the general flabbiness of her corporeal conditions. "'What ails you, Mistress Katana?' cried a voice from within. "'Sick a couple as yon twosome would make,' she replied, again bursting into gelatinous laughter. "'Who, then? I cannot leave my milk-parridge to come and look.' "'Oh, just Mighorn the old Kale Runt, and Sonny Graham the sticket minister. I would like Will to be at the bedden of them. Eh, the two heads of them upon one bolster.' And chuckling a low chuckle, Mrs. Cattinot 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 make a snort for the Sabbath.

"'What is she gone till?' he murmured to himself. He could generally speak better when merely uttering his thoughts, without attempt at communication. I dinna ken whar I come frae, and I dinna ken whar she's gone til. But when I gang mysel, maybe I'll ken both. I dinna ken, I dinna ken, I dinna ken whar I come 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 labors being to repeat a certain number of questions of the shorter catechism, which term, alas, included the answers, and next, to buttress them with a number of suffering caryatids, as it were, texts of scripture, I mean, first petrified, and then dragged into the service.

Before Mr. Graham returned, everyone 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 keepy-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 to-day?' "'Please, sir, I could not rest in my grave till the resurrection,' answered Sheltie. But with a dim sense of the humor 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.

11 11 - The Old Church 16:08

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 veins 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 center from which radiated both the hush and the caroling 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 churchyards, and yet was not too trim. Nature had a word in the affair, was allowed her part of morning, in long grass and moss and the crumbling away of stone.

The wholesomeness of decay, which both in nature and in 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. It was sculptured with symbols of decay, needless surely where the originals lay about the mouth of every newly opened grave, and as surely ill befitting the precincts of a church whose indwelling gospel is of life victorious over death.

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 Te Ipsum 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 neighbors, 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 Lossi. 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 gravestones, 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 endeavored to pour his feelings and desires into the mold of his prayers, but listened to the sermon with a countenance that revealed no distaste for the weak and unsavory broth ladled out 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 Lossy 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 courtyard, 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 behavior? For a mere schoolgirl, 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 sporen, however, hid the stained front of his kilt, and his Sunday coat had been new within ten years, the gift of certain ladies of Port Lossy.

Some of whom, to whose lowland eyes the kilt was obnoxious, would have added a pair of trousers, 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 filibag, Duncan would have plated himself one with his own blind fingers out of an old sack. Indeed, Although the truths 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. That was a very good sermon today, 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, "'But how could it be a bad when you'll be thinkin', my boy, when he'd be havin' 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 a remark 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 was'll be a grand sermon, persisted Duncan. Vengeance is mine. I will repay. The Lord loves vengeance. It's a fine thing, vengeance. To make the wicked know that they'll be being but men.

Yes, the Lord will slay the wicked. The Lord will give the honest man vengeance upon his enemies. It was a grand sermon. Don't you think vengeance a very dreadful thing, Mr. MacPhail? said the schoolmaster. Yes, for the one that'll be in the wrong. I wish the vengeance 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 that'll be because it be too good to be given to another, and some people would be weak of heart and be letting their enemies go. 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 the wrong was as large as Morven. 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 had 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.

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 gale. 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 Glencoe itself. What remained of it after the massacre in 1689 rose in 1745 and joined the forces of Prince Charles Edward. Arriving in the neighborhood 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 Glencoe should wreak inherited vengeance on the Earl.

But they were too 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, "'There'll be something evil not far from her, Malcolm, my son. Look about, look about, and take care how you'll be 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 nobody near, Daddy.

Nobody but the howdy wife.' "'What howdy wife do you mean, Malcolm?' "'Hoot, Mistress Cattenaw, you can. Didn't let her hear you.' I had a vision, Malcolm. One moment and no more. The darkness closed around it. I saw a bed, Malcolm, and—' Whish, whish, Daddy,' pleaded Malcolm importunately. She hears Ilka word you're saying. She's awful, Gleg, and she's as poisonous as an edder. Hold your tongue, Daddy. For good's sake, hold your 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. Katana 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 and 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 it you thought you saw as we came frae the kirk, Daddy?' asked Malcolm when they were seated at their dinner of broiled mackerel and boiled potatoes. "'In other times she'll be having such visions often, Malcolm, my son,' he returned, avoiding an answer. "'Like other bards of her race, she would be seeing, in the spirit, where old Duncan can see.'" And she'll be telling you, Malcolm, beware of dat woman, for da woman was thinking bad thoughts, and dat will be what make her shudder and shake, my son, as she'll be going by.

12 12 - The Churchyard 12:45

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, bright 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 lusterless in the westering sun, while the gilded vein, 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 neighbor's 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 evening light, sir, he answered at length. For you see the sun's day in like, and death's like a fallen asleep, and the grave's the bed, and the sod's the bedclothes, and there's a long night to the fore. Are you sure of that, Malcolm? It's the way folk thinks and says about it, sir. Or maybe does not think, and only says. Maybe, sir. I didn't 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 letter 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, isn't death a dreadful 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 splendor. A splendor probably too keen for our eyes to receive. But there's the day in itself. Isn't it that fearsome? It's that I would be flayed 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. "'Aye, she's well hapt,' it said. "'But a grave never looks right, wantin' a stone, "'and her old cousin would hear a nun bein' laid o'er her.

"'I said it might be set up at her head, "'where she would never find the way to it. "'But nah, nah, none o' it for her. "'She's one at Montacre and Gate, "'say the other thing, who likes.'" It was Waddy Witherspail who spoke, a thin shaving of a man, with a deep, harsh, indeed startling voice. And what ailed her at a stone? returned the voice of Jonathan Oldbird, the sexton. Now doubt it would be the expense. I'm not a-tellin' you what it was. Deal a bit o' the expense came into the calculation. The old maidens none so close as focused in a kin her would make her out. I kin her will. She wouldn't have a stone laid upon her as gin she wanted to hold her down, poor thing. She says, says she, the yard's enough upon the top o' her, wantin' that.

"'It might be some sair she would be thinkin' doubtless, for such a weak-worn creature to lift when the trump was blown,' said the sexton, with the feeble laugh of one who doubts the reception of his wit. "'Well, I did wiles think,' responded Waddy, but it was impossible from his tone to tell whether or not he spoke in earnest. "'It may be my boxies as a wean or weel maid for the use they're puttin' till. They shouldna be that ill to rive. Can all be true at the minister says. You see, we dinna kin when that day may come.' And there may not be time for the wot and the worm to call the boards apart. Oh, it's man. It's not your long nails, nor yet your hated screws that'll hold down the redeemed.

G'en the judgment where the morn's mornin', said the sexton. And for the lave they would be glad enough to bide where they are. But they'll all be hoked out. Fear nigh ye that. The Lord grant a blessed uprising to you and me, Jonathan, at that day. Said Wadi, 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 right and the gravedigger with their talk of the strength of coffins and the judgment of the living God.

"'I ha' wiles thought mysell, sir,' said Malcolm. "'It was gay strange like to have a woman o' the make o' mistress Catanah sittin' at the Resita Bairns, like the gatekeeper o' the other world, with a haspot in her hand. It doesna promise o' a wail for them at she lets in. "'And know ye have puttin' into my head at there's Wotty Witherspail and Jonathan Oldbird for the porters to open and let all that's left of us out again. Think a' suck like havin' suck a hand in six solemn maiters.' 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 hope, sir,' said the latter. "'It'll be no sort of a celestial mistress, Katna, "'at'll be waitin' for me on the other side. "'Nor yet for my poor daddy, "'who could ill buy it bein' womble about upon 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 speaking of the grave, sir, pursued Malcolm, I wish you could drop a word it might be of some comfort to my daddy.

It's plain to me, frae words that he lets fall now and then, that instead of leaving the world a-hint him when he days, he thinks to lie smorring and smottering in the moles, clammy and wit, but all there, and trembling at the thought of the sudden awful roar and din of the brazen trumpet of the archangel. I wish you would look in and say something to him some night. It's not good mentioning it to the minister. He would only give a laugh and gang away. "'And gin you could just slide in a word about forgiveness enemies, sir. I made light of the matter to Mistress Courthope, "'cause she only makes him whir. She does well with what the minister puts into her, "'but she has little of her own to mix it up with, "'and so has but small weight with the likes of my grandfather.

"'Only you will not let him think you cold 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 wonderings 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 his 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 splendor drinking shall grow to stars of light. Lost, lost are all our losses, love set forever 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.

13 13 - The Marquis of Lossie 16:45

XIII. THE MARQUESS OF LAWSY.

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 rebated 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 bare 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, rode back to the Seton, 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. Katana 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 have ye in your bit basket the day, Malcolm?' she said with a peculiar smile, which was not sweet enough to restore vanished confidence.

"'Nothing 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 until at any gate. The dog is away on us travels the day.' "'Deed, Mistress Catanaw,' persisted Malcolm. "'I cannot say I like to have my own fish flung in my face, "'nor yet to see ill-fired tykes run away with it for my very aim.' After the warning given him by Miss Horne, and the strange influence her presence had had on his grandfather, Malcolm preferred keeping up a negative quarrel with the woman. "'Dinna call ill names,' she returned. "'My dog would take it were to be called an ill-fired tyke, nor to have fish flung in his face.

Let's see what's in your basket, I say.' As she spoke, she laid her hand on the basket, but Malcolm drew back and turned away towards the gate. "'Lord save us,' she cried with a yelling laugh. "'You're no feared at an old wife like me.' "'I dinna kin. Maybe aye and maybe no. I wouldna say. But I dinna want to have anything to do with you, ma'am.' "'Malcolm MacPhail,' said Mrs. Cardinot, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper, while every trace of laughter vanished from her countenance. "'Ye hae hae hae mair to do wi' me, nor ye ken. In Aeblins ye'll hae mair yet, nor ye ken weel help. So caw cannie, my man.' "'Ye may hae hae the layin' o' me out,' said Malcolm, "'but it saunna be wi' my wool.

And gin I hae any life left in me, I should give ye a flig. Ye may get a war yourself. I hae frighted the dead for now.' So gang your ways to Mistress Courthope, with a flake in your lug. I wish you luck, such luck as I would wish you." Her last words sounded so like a curse, that to overcome a 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 riverside, 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. Well, ma'am, 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, 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 arbor, where he discovered the Marquis seated, and to his surprise, the white-robed lady of the sands beside him. A great deerhound 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 your lordship's pardon,' said Malcolm. "'But they told me your lordship wanted to see me, and sent me to the 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 long as your lordship likes. Will I gang and walk about mem, my lady, till his lordship's made up as mine? Would that please him, do you 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'm on look to your lordship for the necessary 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 dare say, 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 depends on my lord's definition of proper. Definition, repeated the Marquis. Is it or long a word, my lord? asked Malcolm. The Marquis only smiled. I ken what you mean. It's a strange word in a fisher lad's mouth, you think? But what for should not a fisher lad have a smattering of logic, my lord? For Greek or Latin there's but small opportunity at exercise in our parts. But for logic, a fisher body may I hold his hand in that. He can I be trying it upon his wife, or his good mother, or upon his boat, or upon the fish when they will not take.

Logic would save a heap of cursing and ill words. Among the fisher folk, I mean, my lord. Have you been to college? Nah, my lord. The more is the pity. But I been to the school, so I never reckon mine. Do they teach logic there? A kind o' it. Mr. Graham sets us to try our hand wiles, just to make us a bit glig ye can. You don't mean you go to school still? I didn't gang regular, but I gang as often as Mr. Graham wants me to help him, and I eye a gither something. So, it's schoolmaster you are as well as fisherman. Two strings to your bow. Who pays you for teaching? Oh, nobody. Who would pay me for that? Why, the schoolmaster. No, but that would be an affront, my lord. How can you afford the time for nothing?

The time comes to little, compared with what Mr. Brown gives me in the long four nights. In the wintertime you can, my lord, when the sea's wiles or contumacious to be meddled, muckle with. But you have to support your grandfather. My grandfather would ill be pleased to hear you say it, my lord. He's terrible independent, and what with his pipes and his lamps and his shop, he could keep his birth. It's not muckle the likes of us wants. He went out let me gang fire to the fishin', so that I had the mayor time to read and 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 enough, ma'am, for what's required of her.

She takes good fish. But is it a proper boat for me to have a row in?' "'Not with that goin' on, ma'am, as I telled ye afore. The water won't get in, will it?' "'No more than's easy gotten out again. Do you ever put up a sail? Whiles, a wee bit o' a lug sail.' "'Nonsense, Flory,' 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 The flitting shadow of the garment of truth 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 behavior, 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, and so much the better, being otherwise what he was, for a cautious and frugal voluptuary is about the lowest style of man.

Hence, he had never been out of difficulties, and when, a year or so agone, he succeeded to his brother's marquisit, 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 grey. 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 deer-hound. 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 sword 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 honors. 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. Lost in the dull flow of life along the lazy reach to whose mire its once tumultuous torrent had now descended. 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. But had he not done what in him lay to destroy his right of claiming such from her? 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 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.

Crathy. 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.

14 14 - Meg Partan's Lamp 10:12

MEG PARTON'S LAMP Malcolm went down the riverside, not overpleased with the Marquess, for, although unconscious of it as such, he had a strong feeling of personal dignity. As he threaded the tortuous ways of the Seton 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 a termagant, and the door of her cottage was generally open. She was known as Meg Parton. 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 tow name. Parton 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 Parton, 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. "'Gin' ye suppose, Piper, at ye're paid to drive Foko to their beds at Secours at Yon, it's time the town council was informed o' your mistake," said Meg Parton, with emphasis on the last syllable. "'To good peoples up into town are not half so hard upon her as you, Mistress Parton,' insinuated poor Duncan, who, knowing himself in fault, was humble.

"'And it's dear dat she's paid,' he added with a bridling motion, "'and not town here below.'" Didn't you glorify yourself to suppose there's a fisher, let alone a fisher's wife, in all the hall seating that would lip until an old haver like you to hay them up in the morning? Haith, I was out of my bed, or is or I heard the scurling of your pipes. Troth, I can't wail how muckle or ere you was. But what folk takes in hand, folks should put out a hand in a proper manner, and don't misguggle it altogether like yon. And for what they say in the town, there is Mistress Katana. Mistress Katana is a bad woman, said Duncan. I would advise you, Piper, to hold a quiet self about her. She's no to be meddled with, Mistress Carton, I can tell ye.

G'n ye anger her. It'll be the war for ye. The next time ye have a lying in, she'll be raxing ye a hairless pup, or deed, maybe a stand of bagpipes as the product. Her name's cell will not be requiring her services, Mistress Parton. She'll be leaving that to you if you'll excuse me," said Duncan. Deed, you're right there. An old spelden like you. 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. Cattena, and thereby turn the torrent away from his grandfather. "'Deed ye right there, Mistress Findlay,' he said. "'She's not to be meddled with. She's no mos.' Malcolm was a favorite 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 til Ron, are ye? He's a lad of sense.' "'Aye, hear to him.'" Rejoined the old man with pride. My Malcolm will always be speaking that which will be worth the hearing with the ears. Both of you and me will be known to Mistress Katana pretty well, eh, Malcolm, my son? We'll not be trusting her fairy too much, will we, my son?

Not a hair, daddy, returned Malcolm. She's a tomb's clever wife, though, and one that you may lip until in the way of her own calling, said Meg Parton, whose temper had improved a little under the influence of the handsome youth's presence and cheery speech. She'll not be dotin' it, responded Duncan. But, ah, da woman'll be havin' a crimf visage and a fearsome eye. Like all the blind, he spoke as if he saw perfectly. Well, I a-heard folks say it you both da have the second sight, said Mrs. Findlay, laughing rudely. But, wow, it stands ye in small service, ginnat be all it comes to. She's a good-natured, sonsy-lookin' wife, as you would see. And for her een, they're just sick likes m'n own. "'Han't you near done with that lamp yet?' "'To wick of it'll be just a little out of order,' answered the old man.

"'To parents has been pulling it up with a pin from the top, and not putting it in it a hole for the purpose. And she'll be thinking you'll be cleaning off the burnt part with the pin you're sealed, ma'am, and not with a pair of scissors she told you of, Mistress Parton.' "'Go away with your nonsense,' cried Meg. "'Dar you say I didn't ken how to trim an oily lamp with the best blind piper it ever came for the bare-legged Highlands.' "'A joke's a joke, ma'am.' Said Duncan, rising with dignity. But for a lady to make a choke of a man's bare legs is not a propriety. Out of my house with ye, screamed the sheep-heartened. Would ye thrip upon me anything I said was less nor proper? And I should say what would not stand the light as wales the bare house of any Highland rascal that ever lap a lull and dyke?

Hoot-toot, Mistress Finlay, interposed Malcolm, as his grandfather strode from the door. Ye mauna forget that he's old and blind, and all Highland folks some kittle about their legs. "'D'you shookle them,' exclaimed the Pardinus. "'What care I for his legs?' Duncan had brought the germ of this Ministry of Light from his native Highlands, where he had practiced 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 Port Lossie 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 marvelous 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 bare 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 neighbor 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 Port Lossie, they were compelled to conceal the two 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 burned 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. Parton, 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 fisherfolk made their own oil, but sometimes it would run short, and then recourse was had to Duncan's little store. He was 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.

15 15 - The Slope of the Dune 17:49

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 labor 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 which essentially belonged to a nature, touched to fine issues, had as yet met with no check.

It had never come into Malcolm's thoughts that there were live women capable of impurity. Mrs. Cattenaugh 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. When once through the thousand unknown paths of creation the human being is so far divided from God that his individuality is secured, it has become yet more needful that the crust gathered around him in the process should be broken. And the love between man and woman arising from a difference deep in the heart of God and essential to the very being of each, for by no words can I express my scorn of the evil fancy that the distinction between them is solely or even primarily physical, is one of his most powerful forces for blasting the wall of separation, and first step towards the universal harmony of Twain making one.

That love should be capable of ending in such vermiculite results as too often appear is no more against the loveliness of the divine idea than that the forms of man and woman, the spirit gone from them, should degenerate to such things as may not be looked upon. There is no plainer sign of the need of a god than the possible fate of love. The celestial cupido may soar aloft on seraph wings that assert his origin, or fall down on the belly of a snake and creep to hell. But 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 favor of books, Lady Florimel had burrowed a little in the old library at Lossie House, and had chanced on the Fairy Queen. 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 Spencer'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 color 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 above almost where she lay did she hear his step in the soft, quenching sand. She nodded kindly, and he descended, approaching her. "'Did you want me, m'lady?' he asked. "'No,' she answered. "'I wasn't sure whether you nodded "'cause you wanted me or no,' said Malcolm, and turned to re-ascend the dune.

"'Where are you going now?' she asked. "'Oh, no gate in particular.' I just came out to see how things were lookin'. What things? Oh, just the lift and the sea and sick generals. That Malcolm's delight in the presences of nature—I say, presences, as distinguished from forms and colors 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 crab that had burst his shell. And spread the wings of an eagle, and 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.

Can you want my company, my lady? I can look about me just as well here as any other gate, said Malcolm. And as he spoke, he gently stretched himself on the dune, about three yards a side 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 offense, 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 just a possible air to wind for the northeast.

"'And you want me to shelter you from it?' said Lady Florimel. "'Nah, nah, my lady,' returned Malcolm, laughing. "'For as bonny as you are, you would be but small skog. Shelter.' "'Why did you move, then?' persisted the girl, who understood what he said just about half. "'Well, my lady, you see it's hot, and I'm eye among the fish, more or less, and I didna ken it I was to have the honour of sitting down a side ye. So I thought you was maybe smelling the fish. It's healthy enough, but some folk doesna like it.' "'And for all that I can, you granfolk's senses may be mer' ready to scunner than ours. Deed, my lady, we wadna need to be p'edickler wiles, or it wad be the war for us.'" 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 behavior 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 thought you wanted me, my lady.

I beg your pardon,' answered Malcolm, springing to his feet and turning to go. "'Do you ever read?' she asked. "'Aff and that?' replied Malcolm, turning again. And standing stock still. And I like best to read, just as your ladyship's readin' the know, lyin' on the sandhill with the hell's sea afore me, and nothin' atween me and the icebergs but the water and the stars and the ween islands. It's like readin' with Thorine, that. And what do you read on such occasions? Carelessly drawled his persecutor. Wiles one thing, and wiles another. Wiles anything I can lay my hands upon. I like trevels and sicklike wellin' all. And history, ginnit me na' or dry. I do not like sermons, and there's more of them in Port Lossy than anything other.

Mr. Graham, that's the schoolmaster, has a grand library, but it's most Latin and Greek, and though I like the Latin well, it's not what I would read in the face of the sea. When you're in dread of wanting a dictionary, that spoils all. Can you read Latin, then? Aye, what for no, my lady? I can read Virgil Midland and Horace's Ars Poetica. The wilk Mr. Graham says is not its right name of all, but just Epistola ad Pisones. For gin they bod to give it another. It shoulda been Ars Dramatica. But ladies dinna care about such things. You gentlemen give us no chance. You won't teach us. No, my lady. Dinna begin to make game o' me like my lord. I could ill-bide it fra him, and gin you take till as well I'm on just hold o'er to your gate.

I'm no gentleman, and how ormuckle respect for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at being called one. But as for the Latin, I'll be proud to instruct your ladyship when you please. I'm afraid I've no great wish to learn," said Florimel. I dare say no," said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself to go. Do you like novels? asked the girl. I never saw a novel. There's not one among all Mr. Graham's books, and I so warrant there's full two hundred of them. I didn't believe there's a single novel in all Port Lossy. Don't be too sure. There are a good many in our library. I had not the presumption, my lady, to count the horse in Port Lossie. You'll have a sight of books up there, no? Have you never been in the library?

I never set foot in the horse, sep in the kitchen, and once or twice stepping across the hall frae the one door to the tither. I would fain see what kind o' a place great folk like you bides in, and what kind o' things, books and all you have about you. It's not easy for the like a horse that has but a butt and a ben, outer and inner room, to understand how you fill such a muckle place as you own. "'I would be aye in the library, I think.' "'But,' he went on, glancing involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, "'yer ladyship's so light-footed, ye'll be o'er the whole dwellin, like a wee bird in a muckle cage. When I want room, I like it wantin' walls.' Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained him.

"'Do you ever read poetry? Ay, sometimes, when it's old. One would think you were talking about wine.' Does age improve poetry as well? I ken nothing about wine, my lady. Miss Horne gave me a glass the other day, and it tasted well, but whether it was merum or mixedum, I could not tell merum or a haddock. Doubtless age does guard poetry smack a wee better, but I said old only cause there's so little new poetry that I care about comes my gate. Mr. Graham's uncle taken with Mr. Wordsworth, not an ill name for a poet. Do ye ken anything about him, my lady? I never heard of him. I wouldn't give an old Scots balance for a barrel full of his. There's grand bits here and there, no doubt, but it's oar mim-mode for me.

What do you mean by that? It's oar soft and slittery-like in your mouth, my lady. What sort do you like, then? I like Milton Wale. You get a fine mouth full of him. I do not like the verse that you can merle out between your lips and your teeth. I like the verse that you mun open your mouth wale to let gang. Sign it's worth your while, whether you understand it or no. I don't see how you can say that. Just here, my lady. Here's a bit I came upon last night. His volant touch, instinct through all proportions, low and high, fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue. Here, Telet, it's grand, even though you didn't 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 flame, I suppose. Well— He means some musician or other. Of course. It mon be jubel. I ken all the words but fugue, though I cannot tell what business instinct and proportions ha' there. It's describing how the man's fingers, playing a fugue, on the organ, I suppose. A fugue'll be some kind o' a tune, then. That casts a heap o' light on it, my lady. I never saw an organ. What is it like? Something like a pianoforte. But I never saw one o' them, either. It's ill makin' things all together out o' yer own 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. And sign," cried Malcolm eagerly, that one turns round and runs after the first.

That'll be fled and pursued transverse. I have it. I have it. See, my lady, what it is to have such schoolin', with music and all. The proportions. That's the relation o' the notes to one another. And fugue. That comes for a fugue here, to flee. Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue. The tain runnin' after the tither, round and round. Aye, I have it, no. Resonant, that's echoing or resounding. But what's instinct, m'lady? 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 have it. It is an adjective,' cried Malcolm, after a short pause of thought. "'It's the touch that's instinct. But I fancy there should be a comma after instinct. His fingers were so used to it that they could most do the thing of themselves.' "'Isn't it lucky, my lady, that I thought a say in a tour to you? I'll read the book from the beginning—it's the nest to the last, I think—just to come upon the two lines in their own place, on their expectin' me like, and see how grand they'll son when a body understands them. Thank you, my lady.' "'I suppose you read Milton to your grandfather?' "'Aye, sometimes.

In the long four nights.' "'What do you mean by the four nights?' "'I mean after it's dark, and afore you getting to your bed. He likes the battles of the angels best.' As soon as it comes to any fighting, up he gets and gang striding about the floor, and whiles he makes a clot as Claymore. In faith, once he must have called off my head with it, for he had made a mistake about where I was sitting. What's a Claymore? A muckle-hale and broadsword, my lady. Clay, for a gladius very likely, and more is the Gaelic for great. Claymore, great sword. Blind as my grandfather is, You would swear he had foughten in his day, gin you heard how he'll got it word and whistle about his head, as gin it word a bit leather wood.

But that's very dangerous," said Florimel, something aghast at the recital. Oh, aye," assented Malcolm, indifferently. Gin you would look in, my lady. I would let you see his claymore, and his dirk, and his skein-doo and all. I don't think I could venture. He's too dreadful. I should be terrified at him. Dreadful, my lady. He's the quietest, kindliest old man. That is, provided you say nothing for a commal, or again any other Highlandman. You see, he comes a Glencoe, and the commals are just a hate to him, specially commal a Glenlion, who is the worst of them all. You should hear him tell the story till his pipes, m'lady. It's grand to hear him, and the poetry is all his own.

16 16 - The Storm 12:00

XVI.

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, He 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 didn't think you would let me in, he said. I wouldn't have you drowned, she returned, shutting the door.

He repeated, It would take a handle to drown me. I stuck to the bottom o' a wombled boat a whole night when I was but fifteen. 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 colors 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 Floormel's hair, sent it streaming wildly out behind her. "'Dinna ye think, my lady,' said Malcolm, "'ye had better make for the house. What with the wind and the weight together, you'll be gettin yer death a cold. I's a gang with ye so far, gin ye'll allow me, just to hold it on blown ye away.' The wind suddenly fell, and his last words echoed loud in the vaulted way. 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 dunna ken wherit 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 flayed, my lady,' he said. "'It's nothing but the mad laird. He's a quiet creature enough. Only he doesna ken whar he comes frae. He doesna ken whar anything comes frae, and he cannot bite it. But he wouldna hurt leaving creature the laird.' "'What a dreadful face!' said the girl, shuddering. "'It's not an ill-fired face,' said Malcolm. Only the storm's frighted him by ordinary, and it's Uncle Gastly the know.' "'Is there nothing to be done for him?' she said compassionately.

"'No upon this side the grave, I doubt, my lady,' 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, "'of putting him into the asylum at Aberdeen, and no letting him score the country this gate,' they said, "'but it would have been sheer cruelty, for the creature likes nothing so well as running about, and does no manner a hurt.'" A very bairn can guide him, and he has just as good a right to the liberty God gives him as any man alive, and mair nor a hantle. Is nothing known about him? A thing's known about him, my lady, it's known about the lay of us.

His father was the laird of Gersfail, and for that matter he's laird himsill now. But they say he's taein sick as scunner at his mother, that he cannot bide the very word a mither. He just cries out when he hears it. It seems clearing," said Florimel. "'I doubt it's only holdin' up for a wee,' returned Malcolm, after surveying as much of the sky as was visible through the bars. "'But I do think ye'd better run for the house, my lady. I sa just follow ye, a few yards a-hein, till I see ye safe. Didn't ye be feared. I sa take good care. I wouldn't ha ha ye seen in 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 and 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 earth-bound 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 blows well. Very near as well as 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. "'Make game of a blaster wind by comparing it to my grandfather,' exclaimed Malcolm. "'Hoot, my lady! It's a compliment to the biggest blaster ever blew to be compared to an old man like him. I'm more used to them to mine them, uncle myself, cept to fight with them. But when I watch the seagulls darting like arrowheads through the wind, I sometimes think in mon be grand for the angels to call about great flags o' wings and a mortal worsel whist like 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 your ladyship pleases, answered Malcolm, and was at once by her side. I'll gain till you tell me to stand. Eh, so different as you look for the other morning. What morning? When you was sittin' at the foot of the Bored Craig. Bored Craig? What's that? The rock with a hole through it. "'You ken the rock well enough, my lady. You was sittin' at the foot o' it, readin' your book, as white as guinea had been made of snow. It came to me that the rock was the sepulchre, the hole the open door o' it, and your cell one o' the angels that had folded his wings and was waitin' for somebody to tell the good news till that he was up and away.' "'And what do I look like to-day?' she asked.

"'Oh, the day! You look like some creature o' the storm, or the storm it'sill, takin' a livin' shape, an' the bonniest it could.' Or maybe, like Ariel, gurn afore the wind, with a blast in his feathers, ruffling them all gates at once. Who's Ariel? Oh, the flying creature in the tempest. But in your bonnie southern speech, I dare say you would call him—or her—I didn't ken Wilk the creature was—you would call it Ariel? I don't know anything about him, or her, or it," said Lady Florimel. You'll have all about him up in the library there, though," said Malcolm. The Tempest's the only one of Shakespeare's plays that I had read, but it's a grand one, as Maester Graham has implored me to see. "'Oh, dear!' exclaimed Florimel.

"'I've lost my book!' "'I'll gang back and look for it this minute, my lady,' said Malcolm. "'I can ilk a foot of the road we've come, and it's not possible but I fall in with it. You'll soon be home now, and it'll hardly be on again afore you went in,' he added, looking up at the clouds. "'But how am I to get it? I want it very much.' "'I'll just fess it up to the house, and say it I found it, whar I will find it. But I wist you would lend me your pocket-napkin to row it in, for I'm feared for bloodnit, whar I get it back to you.' Florimel gave him her handkerchief, and Malcolm took his leave, saying, "'I'll be up in the course of a half hour at the 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 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 Seton folk, Rushed out of the lodge, and just as Malcolm was entering, shoved the gate in his face. "'Ye come no in without the leave of 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 no landloping rascals coming here,' said Bikes, 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 wall 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.

17 17 - The Accusation 11:20

THE ACCUSATION. The next morning, soon after their early breakfast, the gatekeeper stood in the door of Duncan MacPhail's cottage, with a verbal summons for Malcolm to appear before his lordship. "'An' I'm not to lose sight o' you till you'd put in your appearance,' he added. "'Sagin' you dinna cum peaceable. I'm on guard ye.'" "'Quart your warrant,' asked Malcolm coolly. "'Ye would have the impotence to demand my warrant, ye young sorner,' cried Bikes indignantly. "'Come your ways, my man, or I should guard ye smart for it.' "'Hold a quiet soft and gang home for your warrant,' said Malcolm. "'It's lying there, doubtless, or you wouldn't have dared to show your face on second errand.' 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 de rascal?' he shouted. "'She'll cut him down! Short the lowland thief! She'll cut him down! Who'll be insulting her, Malcolm?' But Bikes, at first sight of the weapon, had vanished in dismay. "'Who toot, Daddy?' said Malcolm, taking him by the arm. There's nobody here. The poor creature couldn't abide the soft of the claymore. He fled like the autumn wind over the stubble. There's Ossian for it. "'Da lord be praised,' cried Duncan.

"'She'll be confounded her foes. But what would da rascal be want in my son?' Leading him back to his chair, Malcolm told him as much as he knew of the matter. "'Don't you go for no warrant,' said Duncan. "'If my lord Marquis will be sent in for you as one gentleman sends for another.' Then you go. Within an hour, Bikes 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 Bikes peeping over his shoulder, in an attitude indicating one foot already lifted to run. What for? That's as may appear. Where's your warrant? There. Lay it down on the table.

"'And gain back to the door, till I get a sklent at it,' said Malcolm. "'You're an honest man, Wool, but I wouldna lip in a snuff mullet had mer'na one pinch until it wi' yon coward creature hain' ye.' He was afraid of the possible consequences of his grandfather's indignation. The gamekeeper did it 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, Bikes 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 Bikes, 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 Bikes 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 thicknesses 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. Your lordship would never ha' had me come at sicka summons as that canker-toad Johnny Bikes brought me. Ginnia had but heard him. He spake as guinny had been sent to fest me to your lordship by the scruff of the neck, and I didna believe your lordship would do sicka thing. Onigate, I wasna going to stand that. You would ha' thought I'm a cornel at the smallest, and me a wheen hairin' guts.

But it would a guard ye lach, my lord, to see how the body ran when my blind grandfather—he cannot bide anybody interfering with me—made at him with his broadsword. "'Ye layin' rascal,' cried Bikes. "'Me, fear to an old spider, it has na breath enough to fill the bag of his pipes.' "'Cock ony, Johnny Bikes. Ginn ye say an ill word to my grandfather as you gi your neck a-thraw, and that the minute we're out of his lordship's presence.' "'Threats, my lord,' said the gamekeeper, 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? Mr. Macpherson, said Malcolm, with an inclination of his head towards the gamekeeper, might have found a fitter nook to fling that dirt intel.

Deed, my lord, it's so ridiculous, it hardly angers me. A man that can have all the fish in the whole ocean for the taking of them, to be such a snick, drawn, contemptible wretch as take your lordship's bonny hen-craters for their chookies, not to mention the sin of it. It's past an honest man's denying, my lord. And Maester Macpherson kens better, for look at him, laughing in his aunt's leave." Well, we've no proof of it," said the Marquis. But what do you say to the charge of trespass? The policies that I have been open to honest folk, my lord. Then where was the necessity for getting in over the wall? I beg your pardon, my lord. You had no proof again me o' that, either. D'are you tell me?

cried Bikes, recovering himself. Et I dinna see you in my two in. Loop the dyke an'eat the temple. Aye, and somethin' flutterin' uncle-like bird wings in your han. Oat or in, Johnny Bikes? Ow, oat. I did loop the dyke, my lord, but it was oat, no in. How did you get in, then? asked the Marquis. I get in, my lord, began Malcolm, and ceased. "'How did you get in?' repeated the Marquis. "'Oh, there's many ways o' winnin' in, my lord. The last time I came in but one it was Maistor to the carcass o' Johnny there, who ud fain a holdin' me out, only he had na' my blind daddy a hind him to Ila's joints.' "'And didn't you call that breakin' in?' said Bikes. "'Nah, there was nothin' to break, sep it had been your bones, Johnny, and that would have been a pity.

They're so good for runnin' with—' "'You had no right to enter against the will of my gatekeeper,' said his lordship." What is a gatekeeper for? I had it right, my lord, so long as I was upon my lady's business. And what was my lady's business, pray? questioned the Marquis. I found a book upon the links, my lord, which was like to be hers, with a two beast that stands at your lordship's door inside the broad of it. And so it turned out to be when I took it up to the house. There's the half-crown she 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 halfway 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 dare say, 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. Will, I have, my lord. Then I must insist on your doing so. Will— I just went on, my lord. It was all straightforward and fair, and g'n your lordship were in my place, you would not say mere yourself. He's been after one of the girls about the place," whispered the Marquis to the gamekeeper. Spear at him, my lord, g'n it please your lordship, what it was he had in his hand when he leapt the park wall," said Bikes.

G'n it be all one till his lordship," said Malcolm, without looking at Bikes. It wad be bitter not to spear, for it g'ang sore against me to refuse him. "'I should like to know,' said the Marquis. "'Ye maun trust me, my lord, that I was after no ill. I gi 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 is worth, ye maun trust him first, my lord. "'It's no muckle trust I want to ye. It comes but to this, that I hae reasons, good to me, and no ill to you, gin ye kent them, for not answering your lordship's questions.' I'm not denying a word it Johnny-Bike says.

I never heard the creature called a lair. He's but cantankerous Argyle-bargeless body. Not fit to be a gatekeeper, sep it was upon the bin side, where most nobody gangs in or out. He would maybe be softer-hearted till a fellow creature's ain't. Would you have him let in all the tramps in the country? said the Marquis. Dale one of them, my lord. But I would have him not trouble the likes of me if fesses the fish to your lordship's breakfast. Six no like to be after mischief. "'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 was between me and Hit, and it's a long road round.' "'Well, I must lay some penalty upon you, to deter others,' said the marquis.

"'Very well, my lord. So long as it's fair, I'll survive it on Groten. It shan't be too hard. It's just this.' "'To give John Bikes the thrashing he deserves as soon as you're out of sight of the house.' "'Nah, nah, my lord. I cannot do that,' said Malcolm. "'So you're afraid of him after all?' "'Feared it, Johnny Bikes, 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 older man, and not a bone half the size. "'But, Figgs, can he says another word again, my grandfather? I will give his neck a bit troll.'" "'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.

18 18 - The Quarrel 14:18

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 and blue and gold. Malcolm had been to Scarnoes to see his friend Joseph Mare, 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 lady, 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 hope the bit bookie wasna muckle the wire, my lady," he said. "'Tis of no consequence," she replied. "'Can it were mine, I wouldn't think so," he returned, eyeing her anxiously. "'Here's your ladyship's pocket, napkin,' he went on. "'I hae keeped it ready rolled up, ever sen my daddy washed it out. It's no ill done for a blind man, as you'll see, and I ironed it myself as well as I 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 doubt my company's no welcome the day, milady,' said Malcolm with trembling voice. "'But there's one thing I'm on refer to.' When I took home your ladyship's book the other day, you sent me half a crown by the hand of your servant lass. For her I was not going to disallow anything you pleased with regard to me, and I thought with mysel it was maybe necessary for your ladyship's dignity in the look of things. How dare you hint at any understanding between you and me! exclaimed the girl in cold anger. Lord, ma'am, what have I said to fist-suck a fire flet out your bonnie ain?

"'I thought you only did it "'cause you wouldna like to look shabby afore the lass, "'not giving anything to the lad "'at brought you your ain, "'and lippin' to me to understand "'it you did it but for the look of 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.'" "'T'if you think I could bide to be paid for a turn to the neighbor, let alone the lifting of a book to the lady,' said Malcolm, with keen mortification. "'That would be to despise my sale fra keel to truck.

I like to be paid for my work, and I like to be paid well, but not a plaque by so like shall stick to my loaf. It can be no offense to gi you back your half-crown, my lady.' 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, my lady, sic a doctrine would take all the grace out of the earth. What would this life be worth, gien all was to be paid for? I would cut my throat afore I would bide in sic a whirl. Take your half-crown, my lady, 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 do wi' what I wouldna pass through my fingers?' said Malcolm, with the patience of deep disappointment. "'Give it to some poor creature. You know someone who'd be glad of it, I dare say. I kin money one, my lady, whom it would well become your own bonnie hand to give it to.' But I'm not going to take credit for a liberality that would ill-become me. You can tell how you earned it. And profess myself disgraced by taking a reward frae a born lady for what I woulda done for any beggar wife in the land.

No, no, my lady. Your services are certainly flattering when you put me on a level with any beggar in the country. In regard to such service, my lady, ye can well enough what I mean. Oblage me by taking back your siller. How dare you ask me to take back what I once gave? You couldna akin to what you was doin' when you gave it, my lady. Take it back, and take a hundredweight off my 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 sir,' he said at length, with a motion of his hands, as if to grasp his head between them. "'You would not take even the washing of a pocket napkin frae me, and you would gar me take a whole half-crown frae yoursel. Ma'am, you're a grand lady and a bonnie, and you had turns about you, gonna twere but the set of your head, and might gar an angel at fore what he was carrying. But afore I would affront one that wanted nothing of me but goodwill, I would—I would—' "'Rather be the Fisher-lad that I am.' A weak-kneed peroration, truly. But Malcolm was overburdened 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 favor indeed.' "'Gin' I ha' made a mistake, my lady, I might wail make it, not bein' a gentleman, and not bein' used to the treatment o' one. But I doubt gin a gentleman would ha' surmised what ye was after with your napkin, gin ye had offered him half a crown first.' "'Oh, yes, he would. Perfectly,' said Florimel, with an air of offence. "'Then, my lady, for the first time in 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 lady?' "'I didna understand ye again.

There mun be an uncle differetween us. Because a gentleman would have presumed on such a favour.' "'I'm glad or nor ever it I wasna born one,' said Malcolm. And slowly stooping, he lifted the handkerchief. And I was aye glad o' that, my lady, "'cause gin I had been, I would hae been lookin' down upon workingmen like mysell, as gin they warn't freely o' the same flesh and blood. But I beg your ladyship's pardon for takin' ye up amiss. And so long as I live—' "'I'll regard this as one of her feathers at the Angel Moulton as she sat by the bored crag. And when I'm dead, I'll have it laid upon my face, and sign maybe I may get a sight of ye as I pass. Good day, milady.' "'Good day,' she returned kindly.

"'I wish my father would let me have a row in your boat.' "'It's at your service when ye please, milady,' 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 Fairy Queen. 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 new-born anodiomene 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 color 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 favorite horse? Whatever might be her thoughts or feelings at this moment, it remained a fact that Florimel Colancy, 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. Cattonaw, seated apparently busy with her knitting, in the shade of the rock. "'Will,' he said curtly. "'Will, set ye up. Who's yon ye was play-acting with out yonder? Who telled ye to spear, Mistress Cattonaw? Aye, aye, lad. Ye'll be a bon speakin' till an old wife after colloggin' with a young one, an sick o' one. Isn't she bonny, Malky? Isn't it hers a winsome shape an a laughin' eye?"

"'Didn't she draw you on, and look in the hock sane of you, and lay herself out afore you, and—' "'She did nothing of the sort, ye ill-tongued woman,' said Malcolm in anger. "'Ho-ho,' trumpeted Mrs. Cattana. "'Ill-tongued, am I? And what next?' "'Ill-deed it,' returned Malcolm, "'when you flang my bonny salmon-trot till your ugly devil of a dog.' "'Ho-ho-ho-ho! Ill-deed it, am I. I shall not forget the bonny names.' "'Maybe your lordship would allow me the liberty of spearing another question at you, Malcolm MacPhail. "'You may spearing all as you like, so long as you cannot gar me stand to hearken. "'Good day to you, Mistress Catanaw. "'Your company was none of my seeking. "'I may leave it when I like.' "'Dina you be o'er sure o' that,' she called after him venomously."

But Malcolm turned his head no more. As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs. Catanaw 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 dunna ken what 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. Katnarr, 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. Katnarr shook with laughter. "'I have scaled the bonnie doves,' she said. Then she called aloud after the flying girl. "'My lady! My bonnie lady!' 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. Cattena. Seating herself by the pedestal of the trumpet-blowing wind, she essayed her reading again, but was again startled, this time by a rough salute from Daemon. 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.

19 19 - Duncan's Pipes 28:58

DUNCAN'S PIPES. A few days after the events last narrated, a footman in the Marquis's livery entered the Seton, 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 Parton was the first of whom, with supercilious airs and clippet tongue, he requested to know where a certain blind man, who played on an instrument called the bagpipes, lived. "'Spit in your loaf and call 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 doubt it,' she retorted. "'Ye look sick like as runs other folks' earns.' "'I should be obliged if you would inform me where the man lives,' returned the lackey, with polite words in supercilious tones. "'What do you want with him, honest man?' grimly questioned the partinus, the epithet referring to Duncan and not the questioner. "'That I shall have the honor of informing himself,' he replied. "'We'll—' "'Ye can hae the owner of informin' yoursel whar 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 bikes, 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 Marquess, and having ever since assumed the style of Piper to the Marquess 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 Seton 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, the Gaul, the Galatian, 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 color. 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 colors 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 sporin 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 color 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 sow-ins and oat-cake 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 boy, Malcolm, my son, you have let her sleep in, and to great peoples will be impatient for her music and cursing her in dear 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 Isporin 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 broach 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 the termagant Meg Parton. 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 skein-do, 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 neighbors would encounter such a solecism.

The whole Seton 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. Bikes 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 whiskey with readiness, for although he never spent a farthing on it, he had yet a Highlander's respect for whiskey, 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 be some glamour, sure, Malcolm. said Duncan in a whisper as they went. Requested at length to seat themselves in an empty room, the air of which was filled with the sounds and odors of the neighboring 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 uncoloured, 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 sufficed 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 wasted 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 neighboring lairds and their wives, ordinary and well pleased to be at the Marquess'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 Marquess 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 affected 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 the 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. A man forbid, 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 prearranged 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. But the turn things now took would be hard to believe where they dated in the present generation. Some of my elder readers, however, will, from their own knowledge of similar actions, grant likelihood enough to my record.

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 gentleman 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 was afraid, my lord and gentlemen,' he said with a quavering voice, "'that her bag will be near her latter end. But she believed she would be living beyond her name's cell, my gentlemen's.' 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. Duncan is wronged in the halls of the stranger. Dale have stabbed his best friend to the heart, and, O'chon, O'chon, she'll be all too blind to take vengeance. Malcolm, son of heroes, draw the claymore of the bard and fall upon the traitors.

She'll be singing you to onset, for the Pibrock 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 ought to take shame to call yourselves gentlefolk, and play a poor blind man who was doin' his best to please ye second ill fur 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 have known, he screamed, half choking. That a cursed dog of a camel 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, Glenlion," said the Marquis. A howl of fury burst from Duncan's laboring bosom.

His broadsword flashed from its sheath, and brokenly panting out the words, "'Clenlion! The great duffel! Have I been drinkin' with the hellhound, Glenlion!' He would have run a melee muck 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. "'Give her de villain by de trote!' screamed the old man. "'She'll stab his bag!

She'll cut his tranter in two! She'll be doin' it! Who but de great grandson of Invergen should be cuttin' de trote of de dog, Glen Lyon!' 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 color 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 Glenlion, left it quivering. "'Dear Glenlion,' 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 a skein due yet, and in grips that's worst 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. "'You wouldn't have killed two Glenlyons in one day, would you?' "'She would, my son Malcolm. Fifty of the poor is in one breath.' They're the children of wrath, and they have to be destructioned.

For an old man ye killed enough for one night," said Malcolm, and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. Ye mun come home, then all. Is the dog dead, then? asked Duncan eagerly. Oh, na, he's breathing yet, answered Malcolm. She'll not can go till the dog will be dead. The dog may want more killin'. What a horrible savage, said one of the lairds, a justice of the peace. He ought to be shot up in a madhouse. "'Gin' you sit about shuttin' up, sir, or my lord, I kinna wilk. You'll had to begin nearer home,' said Malcolm, as he stooped to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of the weapons. "'And you'll please to hold in mind that none here is an injured man but my grandfather himself.' "'Hey,' said the Marquis, "'what do you make of all my dishes?' "'Deed, my lord, ye may comfort yourself that they were not dishes with brains in them, forsook some scarce in the house of Lossie.'" "'You're a long-tongued rascal,' said the Marquis.

"'A long tongue may wiles be as canny as a long spoon, my lord, and 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 make my own business of it,' 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 bard has revenged you.' Malcolm took him by the hand 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 had no wish to hear anything more o' your lordship. Ye had done enough this night, my lord, to make ye ashamed o' yoursel to your dying day. G'n ye had any poorer 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 the room. Come on, he said. No, no, interposed the Marquis. Don't you see the lad is hurt? Let him come on, said Malcolm. I have one sown hand. Here, my lord, take the weapons or the old man will get a grip of 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 grandsons 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 Parton, 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.

A bad temper is a frightsome thing. I'm sure the times I had tell'd him it would be the ruin I'm. To Malcolm's gentle knock, Miss Horn's door was opened by Jean. What do you want, it's like an untimious ore, she said, when honest folks all in their nightcaps. I want to see Miss Horn, can you please, he answered. I so warrant she'll be in her bed and snoring, said Jean, but I so gang and see. There she went, however, Jean saw that the kitchen door was closed. For whether she belonged to the class Honest Folk or not, Mrs. Cattenaw was in Miss Horn's kitchen, and not in her nightcap. Jean returned presently with an invitation for Malcolm to walk up to the parlor. "'I ha' gotten a small Miss Hunter, Miss Horn,' he said as he entered, "'and I thought I couldna do better than come to you, "'cause ye can hold your tongue, "'and that's more norm anyone in the port-to-port lossy can, mem.' The compliment, correct in fact, as well as honest in intent, Was not thrown away on Miss Horne, 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 wanton feelings, but I couldna have bide the sight. My poor bairn. Then she rushed to the stair and shouted, Jean, ye limmer! Jean! Fess some hot water and some linen cloats! I had none in either, replied Jean from the bottom of the stair. Make up the fire and put on some water directly. I sa find some cloates, she added, turning to Malcolm. G'n I should rave the tale frae my best Sunday sark. 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 house, y'all a lossy,' said Miss Horne, "'and there has been terrible things done into it. The old Marcus was an ill man. I dare not say what he wouldna ha done, gin half the tales be true at they tell him, and the last one was little better. This one wouldna be so ill, but it's clear that he's tired with the same stick.' "'I do not think he means anything muckle amiss.' Agreed Malcolm, whose wrath had by this time subsided a little, through the quieting influences of Miss Horne's sympathy. He's more thoughtless, I do believe, than ill-contrived, and all for his fun. He spake uncle kind to me afterhine, but I couldna accept it, you see, after the way he had served my daddy. But wouldna ye have thought he was old enough to kin bitter by this time?

An old fool is the worst fool of all, said Miss Horne, but nothing of that kind. Be it as mad and pranksome as ever sick ploy could be, is to be made mention of aside the things that was muttered of his brother. I budna come o'er them till a young lad like yoursel. They were never said straight out, mind ye, but just minded at like, with a don draw the rows and a wee side shake o' the head, as gin the body would say, I could tell ye gin I dar. But I doubt mysel gin any thing was kent, though muckle was mere nor suspected. And where there's reek, there mun 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 good night.

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 parton'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 Glencoe, now exulting in a stab that had reached the heart of Glenlion, and now bewailing his ruined bagpipes.

At length, towards morning, he grew quieter, and Malcolm fell asleep in his chair.

20 20 - Advances 11:22

CHAPTER XX ADVANCES When he woke, Duncan still slept, and Malcom having got ready some tea for his grandfather's and a little bro's 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 the dog be dead, Malcolm? As sure as you stab at him, answered Malcolm. Then she'll be getting herself ready, said Duncan, making a motion to rise. What for, Daddy? For the hangin' my son, answered Duncan coolly. Time enough for that, Daddy, when they send to tell you, returned Malcolm, cautious of revealing the facts of the case. Very good, said Duncan, and fell asleep again. In a little while he woke with a start.

She'll be having an evil dream, my son Malcolm, he said. Or it was'll be more than a dream. Camilla Glenlion, God curse him, came to her bedside, and he'll say to her, MacDonald, he said, for being a dead man he would be knowing my name. MacDonald, he said. What did you'll be meanin' by dirkin' my posterity? And she answered, and said to him, I pray it had been yourself, you damned Glen Lion. And he said to me, It'll be no good wishing dat. It would be doin' you no good to dirk me, for I'm a dead man. And a damned man says herself, and would have taken him by the trot, but she couldn't move. Well, I'm not so sure of dat, says he, for I've begged all their pardons. "'And did they give them to you, you dog?' says herself.

"'Well, I'm not sure,' says he. "'Anyhow, I'm not damned very much yet.' "'She'll be much sorry to hear it,' says herself. "'And she took care always to be calling him some bad name, "'so that he shouldn't say she'll be forgiving him, "'whatever the rest of them might be doing.' "'But what troubles me,' said he, "'it'll not be about myself at all.'" That'll be a wonder, says her name-self. And what may it be about you, cutthroat? It'll be about yourself, says he. About herself? Yes, about yourself, says he. I'm sorry for you, for the thing that's to be done with him that killed a man, all because he bore my name, and he was not a son of mine at all. There is no pot in hell deep enough to put him in.

Then they must make haste and dig one, says herself, for she'll be hanged in a day or two. So she'll wake up, and behold, it was a dream. And no sick and ill dream after all, Daddy," said Malcolm. Not an evil dream, my son, when it makes her almost wish that she hadn't been quite killing the dog. Last night she would have made a boy of his skin like any other dog's skin, and today, no, my son. It was a very evil dream. And to be told that the great devil, Glen Lyon herself, was not very much damned. It was a very evil dream, my son. Well, Daddy, maybe you'll take it for ill news, but you killed nobody. Did she not drive her dirk into the dog? cried Duncan fiercely. Oh, Con! Oh, Con! Then she's ashamed of herself forever, when she might have done it.

And it'll have to be done yet. He paused a few moments, and then resumed. And she'll not be going to be hanged? Maybe that will be better, for you wouldn't have liked to see your old grandfather to be hanged, Malcolm, my son. Not that she would have minded it herself in such a good cause, Malcolm. But she didn't be very happy after she did think she had done it, for you see, he wasn't the fairy man his own self, and that must be counted. But she did kill something. What was it, Malcolm? You sent a grand dish flying, answered Malcolm. I so warrant it cost a pound to judge by the gold upon it. She'll hear a noise of preaking, but she did stab something soft. You stuck your dirk into my lord's mahogany table, said Malcolm.

It not a good rug to haul it out. Then her arm has not lost all its strength, Malcolm. I prayed the table had bent the ribs of Glenlion. You mauna pray no such prayers, Daddy. Mind upon what Glenlion said to you last night? Can I was you, I would not have a pot howked expressed for my sale, down yoner, in yon place that you dreamed about. Well, I'll forgive him a little, Malcolm. Not the one that's dead, but the one that didn't do it, you know. But how will she be forgiving him for ripping her poor bag? O'con. O'con. No more musics for her dying days, Malcolm. O'Conn, O'Conn! I shall go creeping to the grave with no loud noises to defy to enemy. Her pipes is dumb forever and ever. O'Conn, O'Conn!

The lengthening of his days had restored bitterness to his loss. I'll soon set the bag right, Daddy. Orkin, I cannot do that. We'll get a new one. "'Money a piebrach'll come scurlin' out o' that chanter yet, and it'll all be done.' 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. Take them frae that, or I'll fling them your puddered wig,' said Malcolm. It's a stand of pipes, he added, and not a grand one, Daddy. Take them away, cried the old man, in a voice too feeble to support the load of indignation it bore.

She'll be taking no presents from Marquis or Duke that would be deceiving old Duncan and making him drink with the cursed Glenlion. Tell the Marquis he'll be sending her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave, for she'll be dishonoured forever 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 a salatium to Duncan were a set that belonged to the house, ancient, and in the eyes of either connoisseur or antiquarian exceedingly valuable. But the Marquess was neither the one nor the other, and did not in the least mind parting with them. As little did he doubt a propitiation through their means. 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 mine, 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.

21 21 - Mediation 16:06

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 borough 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 Seton.

Rounding the west end of the village, she came to the seafront, 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-dryer skim-milk cheese, with a jug of cold water to wash it down. Neither, having just left the gentlemen at their wine, could she 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 enter 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 be doing that? Here's a bonnie young lady come to see you, Daddy, said Malcolm, seeking to turn the question aside. She'll be very glad to see the bonnie young lady, and she's greatly obliged for the honour.

But if the bonnie young lady will be excusing her, what'll be hurting your hand, Malcolm? I'll tell you after hand, Daddy. This is my lady Florimel, free the house. Hmm, said Duncan, the pain of his insult keenly renewed by the mere mention of the scene of it. But, he went on, continuing aloud the reflections of a moment of silence, she'll be a lady, and it's not to be laid to her charge. Sit down, my lady. The 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 forgive any man but two men,' he answered. "'Clenlion, and a man, whoever he might be, who would put upon her the disgrace of drinking 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. Gentlemen, echoed Duncan. He is a dog. No, he is no dog. Dogs is good. He is a mongrel of a fox and a wolf. There was no Campbell at our table that evening, persisted Lady Florimel. Then who told Duncan MacPhail a lay? It was nothing but a joke, indeed, said the girl, beginning to feel humiliated. It was a bad joke, and might have been to hanging of poor Duncan, said the Piper. Now Lady Florimel had heard a rumor of someone having been hurt, 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 lady, cried Malcolm with despairing remonstrance. "'And me holding it frame all this time. You should have considered an old man's feelings. He's as blind as a mole, my lady.' "'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. My eagle of the crag, my heart of the heather, was it yourself she stabbed with her evil hand, my son?

Did she be hurting her own boy? She'll never wear dirt more. Oh, hon. Oh, hon. He turned, and with bowed head seeking his chair, seated himself and wept. Lady Flormel'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 most as well as ever, Daddy. It's none the were. It was but a bit of a skirt. It's not worth twice thinking of. The dirk went through it, Malcolm. It went into the table. She knows now. Oh, Malcolm. Malcolm. Would to God she had killed herself before she hurted her boy. 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 good joke,' he murmured at length. "'Upon an honest man, and might be calling herself a gentleman. A rage is not a joke. To put her in a rage was not good. See to it.' And it was a very bad joke, too, to make a big hole in her poor bag. Oh, Cone. Oh, Cone. But I'm glad Glenlion was not there, for she was too blind 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 been in her own family for five or six generations at least, said Duncan. And she was wondering why her boy didn't be mending her bag. My poor boy. Oh, Cone. Oh, Cone. We'll get a new bag, Daddy," said Malcolm.

It's been long past, Menon, with old 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 Duncan's house, and say to Duncan it was but a joke and he is sorry for it, then Duncan will shake hands with the Marquis, and take the pipes. A smile of pleasure lighted up Malcolm's face at the proud proposal. Lady Florimel smiled also, but with amusement. Will my lady take Duncan's message to my Lord the 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 be angry, Duncan is angry, too, answered the piper. Malcolm followed Lady Florimel to the door. Put it as soft as ye can, my lady, he whispered. I cannot bide to anger folk mair than mon 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 Marquess 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 Michaelham, 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 a monde 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 soullessism,' 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 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 Seton. 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 generosus, that is, the gentleman in him, got the upper hand, and his behavior 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 nainsail will be proud to see my lord 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 apologize, he said. Not one word more, my lord, I beg, interrupted Duncan. My lord is come out of his goodness to bring her a great gift, for he'll be hearing of the sad accident which befell her poor pipes one evening lately. Day was very old, my lord, and easily hurt. I am sorry, said the Marquis, but again Duncan interrupted him. I am glad, my lord, he said, for it brings me to great joy. If my lady and your lordship will honour her poor house by sitting down, she will have the pleasure of be offering them 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 tosy tyke of Kirk Allaway. 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 and my lady ma'n be goin', 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 lord, she'll be the grandest stand of pipes she ever blew, and proud and thankful she'll be to her Lord Marquess, and to the Lord of Lords for the gift.

The pipes shall go down from generation to generation to the end of time. Yes, my lord, until the loud cry of them be droned in the roar of the trumpet of the great archangel, when he'll be set in one foot on the land and the other foot upon the sea, and Glenlion shall be cast into the lake of fire. He ended with a low bow. They shook hands with him, thanked him for his music, wished him good-night, 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 out also, in quest of a little solitude.

22 22 - Whence and Whither? 14:39

Whence and Whither He wandered along the shore on the land side of the mound, with a favorite 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 dunna ken where 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. "'Nabody kens where the wind comes frae, or where it gains till,' said Malcolm. "'You're not a hair wore off nor other folk there, laird.' "'Does it come frae a good place, or frae an ill?' said the laird, doubtingly. "'It's soft and kindly in the faint of it,' 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 harbor'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 laboring earth, with feeblest suggestion of the mighty peace beyond. Alas! Words can do so little.

Even such a night is infinite." Aye," answered the laird, but it makes me don't for like in the inside. Some of the best things does that," said Malcolm. I think a kiss frae my mother would gar me greet. He knew the laird's peculiarities well, but in the thought of his mother, had forgotten the antipathy of his companion to the word. Stuart 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 minutes 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 right bonnie night, 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, Two of them! Two of them! Two of them! often and hurriedly repeated. It's a fine, soft, sleek wind, Laird, said Malcolm, as if they were meeting for the first time that night.

I think at Mon Comfrey the Blue there, I yant the stars. There's a heap o' wonderful things there, they tell me. And whiles a strokin' wind, and whiles a rosy smell, and whiles a bright light, and whiles, they say, an old yearnin' song'll break out, and one'er away dawn, and gang flittin' and flayin' among the sair hearts o' the men and womenfolk it cannot get things puttin' right. "'I think there are two fools of them,' said the Marquess, 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 recognized Malcolm's voice. "'I dinna ken whar I come frae,' burst from the laird, the word whar drawn out and emphasized, almost to a howl.

And as he spoke he moved on again, but gently now, towards the rocks of the Scarnose. 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. Aye, Malcolm began again, as if he had in the meantime been thinking over the question, and was now assured upon it. The wind mon comfrey yant the stars. For it didn't you mind, Laird. Ye was at the Kirk last Sunday, wasn't ye? The Laird nodded an affirmative, and Malcolm went on.

"'And didn't you hear the minister read frae the book at how Ilka good and Ilka perfect gift was frae a bun, and cam frae the Father of Lights?' "'Father of Lights,' repeated the laird, and looked up at the stars. "'I do not ken where I cam frae. I hadna, Father. I have only a... I have only a 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 of lights is your father, and mine. The father of all of us," said Malcolm. Of all good folk, I dare say," said the laird, with a deep and quivering sigh. Mr. Graham says, of all body," returned Malcolm. Good and ill. Of the good to hold them good and make them bitter.

Of the ill to make them good. Egg and that were 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 of Lights, Father of Lights, Father of Lights. 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 sewn with worlds so far removed they could only shine. And on the shore, the center 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 chapter-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, and so to fancy it had received from above what it had itself generated of its own poverty from below.

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 board 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 boar, 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'd 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 McPhail, my lord.' "'You rascal,' said his lordship, good-humouredly. "'You've been listening.' "'No muckle, my lord. I heard but a word apiece, and I'm on saying my lady had the best of the logic.' "'My lady generally has, I suspect,' laughed the marquis. "'How long have you been in the rock there?' "'Not a minute, my lord.

I flang off my boots to run after a train, and that's how you didn't hear me come up. I'm going after them now, to gain harm in them. Good night, my lord. Good night, my lady.' 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 having a fit poor man,' said Duncan. "'Yes, my son. You must go to him and do your best for him. After such an honor as we've had this day, we mustn't be forgetting our poor neighbors.'" Will you be taking to him a drop of the Ishkabeha?

He takes nothing of that 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 favored beyond ordinary mortals, that at that very moment, lost in his fit, he might be wrapped 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 Highlanders being, lay as yet an unwatered desert, an undiscovered land, whence even no faintest odor 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 still hear him murmuring at intervals, Father of Lights! Father of Lights! Not less compassionate, And more sympathetic than Eliphaz or Bildad or Zophar, 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 Seton of Portlossie ever dreamed of locking door or window at night.

23 23 - Armageddon 16:04

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 harbor was one crowd of stumpy masts, Each with a talliard, 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 Seton, 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, caulking, 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 labor, or in the evening 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 anyone who did not belong to the community to follow the threads, or read the design of the social tracery. And while the Setons swarmed with the goings-on of life, the town of Port Lossie 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 dealers, 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 jellyflowers in southern wood, idly supreme, Port Lossy 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 essay. Malcolm would have made one in the little fleet, for he belonged to his friend Joseph Mare's crew, had it not been found impossible to get the new boat ready before the following evening. Whence, for this one moor, he was still his own master, with one more chance of a pleasure for which he had been on the watch ever since Lady Flormel 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 sandhill, approached her along the top. "'So ye ever sick goons in your life, my lady,' he said, holding out his posy. "'Is that what you call them?' she returned. "'Oh, aye, my lady. Daisies, ye call them. I dinna ken but yours is the bonnier name of the two.

Can it be what Mr. Graham tells me the old poet Chaucer makes with?' What is that? Oh, just the ean of the day. The day's eyes ye ken. They're small ean for sic a great face, but sign there's a lot of them to make up for that. They've begun to close already, but the mere they close, the bonnier they look, with their bits of screwed up mowies. But saw ye ever sic red ones, or any sic a size, m'lady? 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 sick a thin soil, but there maun be something that agrees with them. It's the same all round a boat 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 harbor 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 Port Lossie 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 Scournose, from Sandand, 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 forever 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 splendor before her beyond the red light on her page. "'Saw ye ever a bonier sight, my lady,' 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 color, 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 Heron,' 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 cannot answer ye all at once, my lady," said Malcolm. I'm on take time to think about it, but I can brawly 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 Flormel 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.

"'M'lady! M'lady!' he cried. "'When are you by it for it?' He went bounding after her like a deer. She heard him call, and stood holding the door half open. "'It's the Battle of Armageddon, my lady,' he cried, as he came within hearing distance. "'The Battle of what?' she exclaimed, bewildered. "'I really can't understand your savage Scotch.' "'Hoot, my lady, the Battle of Armageddon's not one of the Scots' battles. It's the battle between the right and the wrong, that you read about in the Book of 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 just what you was saying, m'lady. Sick a pomp as yawn bood to hang a bone a grand battle some gate erther.' "'What has the catching of fish to do with the battle in the Revelations?' said the girl, moving a little within the door.

"'Well, m'lady, gin I took it in hand to set it forth to ye. I would have to tell ye all that Mr. Graham has been learning me, so never I can mind.' He says that the whole economy of nature is fashioned uncle like that of the kingdom of heaven. It's just a gradation of services, and the highest end of any animal is to contribute to the life of one higher than itself. So that it's the grand privilege of the fish we take to be eaten by human beings, and uphold what's upon them." That's a poor consolation to the fish, said Lady Florimel. How can you that, my lady? You can tell near hand is little about the heart of a heron, sick as it has. As the heron can tell about your own, Wilk, I'm thinking, mon be o' the largest size.

How should you know anything about my heart, pray? she asked, with more amusement than offence. Just by my 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 all part o' one thing, milady,' Malcolm resumed. "'The herons like the folk it carries the mate in the powder in sick-like, for them it does the fightin. The heart o' the livin' man's the place where the battle's fought, and it's aye goin' on and on there atween God and certain, and the fish they hold folk up to it.'" "'Do you mean that the herrings help you to fight for God?' said Lady Florimel, with a superior smile. "'Either for God or for the devil, my lady. That depends upon the folk themselves. I say it holds them up to fight, and the thing mon be foughtin' out. Folk to fight mon live, and the herring holds the life in them, and so the catchin' of the herring comes in to be a part of 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 lady, it wudna be half so sensible, for it wudna justify the grandeur that hangs o'er the fight. The battle wi' the sea is no so muckle o' an affair. Indeed, gannit wudna that the wives an' the very weans ha' themselves to fight in the same battle o' good nail. I dunna see the muckle differ there wud be atween them an' the fish. Nor what for they so na' eat one another, as the creatures in the water do. But gannit be the battle, I say, there can be no pomp o' sea or sky o'er gran for it. And it's a whale word, g'n'it but hold the good ones merry and strong, and up to their work. For that, whale may the sun shine a celestial rosy red, and whale may the boaty row, and whale may the stars look down, blinkin' and lookin' again, ilk one doin' its bonny part to make a man a right-hearted, good-willed soldier.

And, pray, what may be your rank in this wonderful army?" asked Lady Florimel, with the air and tone of one humoring lunatic. "'I'm nothing but a raw recruit, my lady, but, when I had my choice, I would be piper to my regiment.' "'How do you mean?' "'I would make songs.' "'Denna laugh at me, my lady, for they're the best kind of weapon for the worker I can. But I'm not a maker, and m'un content myself with doing my work.' "'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, my lady,' he returned, "'ye may well say that, seeing ye was never aboard a heron boat. But g'n ye once saw the inside o' one full o' fish, wha' a body gang slitterin' a boat, maybe up to the middle o' his leg an' wammlin' heron, an' the next minute, maybe, wet to the skin with a splash o' a muckled jaw, ye might think the clothes good enough for the work. Though—' "'Ill fit, I confess with shame, to come afore your 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 or dangerous, milady. There's some games down oak a season, but it's all in the way of your work.' "'Then how is it you're not gone fishing tonight?' "'She's a new boat, and there's another day's work on her afore we went out.

Wouldn't you like her all the night, milady?' No, certainly. It's much too late. It'll be none merker nor tis. But I reckon you're right. I came o'er by just to see whether you wouldn't a like to gang with the boats a bit. But your ladyship set me off thinking, and that put it o'er my head. It's too late now anyhow. Come tomorrow evening, and I'll see if I can't go with you. I can now, my lady. That's the fash o' it. I'm on gang with Lou Peter the morn's night. It was my last chance, I'm sorry to say. It's not of the slightest consequence. Lady Florimel returned, and bidding him good-night, 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.

24 24 - The Feast 25:52

THE FEAST. To the entertainment which the Marquess 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 Marquess and Lady Florimel, but in the handwriting of Mrs. Creithee 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 Bikes, the exclusion of improper persons was left in the hands of the gatekeepers. The thing had originated with a factor. The old popularity of the Lords of the Land had vanished utterly during the life of the Marquess's brother.

And Mr. Creithee, being wise in his generation, sought to initiate a revival of it by hinting the propriety of some general hospitality, a suggestion which the Marquess 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, mostly Methodists, objected on the ground of the proximity of the Sunday. But their attitude was, if possible, of still less consequence in the eyes of their neighbors that 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. Creithee 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 Kenny Mr. Craithy 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, sheep's head, haggis, and black puddings.

The neighbouring nobility and landed gentlemen, the professional guests also, including the clergy, were to eat with the Marquess in the great hall. On the grass near the house, Tents were erected for the burgesses of the borough, and the tenants of the Marquess'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. For the lake-like lawn, for the wide sweeps of airy room in which expand the mighty boughs of solitary trees, for the filmy gray-blue distances in the far-off segments of horizon, here were the tree-crowded grass, the close windings of the long glen of the Byrne, 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 plain 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, honorable embodiment of the savings of a certain noble 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 laborers.

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-frilled 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 Bikes, 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, Mary. By the town gate came the people of Port Lossie. 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 chases.

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 everyone in his favor. Lady Florimel soon joined him, and a certain frank way she had 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 favored with a smile which swelled his heart with pride and devotion. The bold-faced Countess next appeared. She took the Marquess'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 Michaelam, receiving little encouragement, but eager after such crumbs as he could gather. Suddenly the great bell under the highest of the gilded veins rang a loud peal, and the Marquess 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 neighbor, 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 neighborhood 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 sense 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 molted 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. "'I want you to keep your eyes open, and see that no mischief is done about the place.' "'I do not think there's one of our own folk would do any mischief, my lord,' answered Malcolm. "'But when you keep open yet, you cannot be sure who wins in, "'especially with sook a gawk as Johnny Bikes at one of them. "'Not that he would wrong your lordship a hair, my lord.' "'At all events you'll be on the alert,' said the Marquis. "'I will that, my lord. There's two or three about already that I do not altogether like the looks of. They're not like country folk.' And they're not fisherfolk. It's not far off the time of year when the gypsies are in the way of paying us a visit, and they may a' come in at the bignette, where there's none but an old wife to hold them out."

Well, well," said the Marquis, who had no fear about the behavior of his guests, and had only wanted a color 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?" Willingly, 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 fisherfolk. These had advanced considerably in their potations, and the fun was loud. His appearance was greeted with shouts, into which Duncan struck with a peon 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 just make us proud by drinkin' a tumbler with us, your lordship,' he said. "'It's no ilk a day we ha' the honor o' your 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. "'Gin your Lordship's head had as many a blasts a night when, and as many jobs a cold sea-water about its logs as ours, it would have been fit to stand as muckle o' the barley-bree as the stavest o' the lot, I so warrant.' "'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 Port Lossie, 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, "'Anne Kamala Glenlion.' 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 defense. "'Malcolm! Malcolm, my son,' he muttered feebly. "'There is a woman will be laughing. She is a bad woman. 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 anyone near him. He did not like either their countenances or their behavior, 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 neighboring 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. Creithee 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 Strathsby's and Reels. The other divisions of the Marquess'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 unmistakable 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 mother! It's my mother! I dinna ken what 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 defenseless, 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 someone 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 Maisie 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 a 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 recognized as Mrs. Cattenaugh. Beside her stood a tall, graceful figure, draped in black from head to foot. Mrs. Cattenaugh 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, you may be sure, milady,' she said. "'There's something no canny about the creature, and doubtless you was an ill-used woman, and you're in the right. But it's a some fearsome venture, and maybe looked in till you can.'" There is to be your skog. Lip into me, and you so 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. Cattenaw 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 whiskey 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 checker of the trees in moonlight, but, a little removed from the rest, Lady Florimel was seated under a tree, with Lord Michaelam 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 Marquess.

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 sucka rage, man,' cried the first, avoiding his blow. "'We'd a boat nothing a yont the lawful. It's only the mad laird. We'd a taken him to the asylum at Eberdeen. By the order of his ain mither.'" 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 vigor. But his stick was too much for them, and at length one of them, crying out, It's the 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 whir, 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.

Cattena'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 Horne's. "'Eh, sirs!' exclaimed Miss Horne when she opened the door, for Jean was among the merrymakers. "'Who's this that's killed now?' "'It's the laird, Mr. Stewart,' returned Malcolm. "'He's no freely killed, but nigh, Han.' "'Nah, will I what? Come in and set him down till we see,' said Miss Horne, turning and leading the way up to her little parlor. There Malcolm laid his burden on the sofa, and gave a brief account of the rescue. "'Lord, preserve us, Malcolm,' cried Miss Horne, as soon as he had ended his tale, to which she had listened in silence, with fierce eyes and threatening nose.

"'Is'na't mercy I wasna made like some folk, or I couldna have bidden to see the poor fellow misguided that gate.' It's a special mercy Malcolm McPhail to be made wantin' any such 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 Horne, regarding him now more narrowly. "'But he's in an awful state of dirt. I'm on wash his face and hands and put until his bed. Could you help off with his clothes, Malcolm?' Though I have no any feelings, I'm just some eerie like at the poor 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 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.

25 25 - The Night Watch 16:39

THE NIGHT WATCH. When Malcolm returned, Jean had retired for the night, and again it was Miss Horne who admitted him, and led him to her parlor. It was a low-ceilinged room, with lean, spider-legged furniture and dingy curtains. Everything in it was suggestive of a comfort slowly vanishing. An odor 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 fisherwomen.

They had a passion for ornamenting their chimney-pieces 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 Horne 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. Beyond which Miss Horne 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 end of the fire, and mixing him a tumbler of her favorite drink, began to question him about the day, and how things had gone. Miss Horne 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 on 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 nodded on the sides of her neck, and her nose curved more and more to the shape of a beak. "'There's some devilry there,' she said at length after he had finished, breaking a silence of some moments, during which she had been staring into the fire. "'Where two ill women come together, there ma'n be the old man himself atween them.' "'I do not doubt it,' returned Malcolm. "'And one of them's an ill woman, sure enough, but I ken nothing about the tither.'" Only it she maun be a lady by the way the haughty wife specteler. The war's hoakin' when a lady clogs with a woman an'eith around station, and when it has kept money a secret in her day, and by her callin' has had mair opportunity, not to say farther, than other folk a' doin' ill things.

And gin ye didn't ken her, that's no reason that I shouldn't have a gruff guess at her by the marks ye read off of her. Hmm. I'll just have to tell ye a story, sick as an old wife like me seldom tells to a young man like herself. "'Your own bridal shall rule my tongue, ma'am,' said Malcolm. "'I shall lip into your discretion,' said Miss Horne, and straightway began. "'Some years ago,' and I shall warrant its Wealord Twenty, "'that same woman, Bobbie Cartna, who was no home-born woman, nor had been long about the town—'cummin' as she did, friend, nobody can't wear, "'sept maybe it was the Marcus that then was, presumed to make up to me in the way a friendly acquaintance. "'Sick as a maiden lady might have with a howdy.'" And not that she forgot her proper behavior to one like myself.

But I could not have bidden the jade, sep that I had reasons for letting her jaw wag. She was cunning the old wretch. Not that old, maybe about forty. But I was o'er money for her. She had the design to win at something she thought I can't, and so, to entaste me to open my puck, she opened hers, and tellt me story after story about this neighbor and that. All them things that ought not to have been true, and that she ought not to have let past her lips when they were true. Seein' she came by the knowledge o' them so as she said she did. But she gat nothin' ob me, the fat-brained cat, an' she hates me like the very mischief. Miss Horn paused, an' took a sip of her negus. One day I came upon her sittin' by the inglenook in my own kitchen, holdin' a close an' a like calm bab with Jean.

I had Jean, then, an' ho I a kipp the hizzy I hardly can. I think an' mon be that, havin' no feelin's o' my own, I ha' o'er muckle regard to ither folks. And so I never liked to put her away without downright provocation. But don't know you lippin' to Jean, Malcolm. Nah, nah. At that time, my cousin, Miss Griselle Camel, my third cousin she was, had come to bide with me. A bonny young thing as you would see, but in soire ill health. And maybe she had frites, and maybe no, but she couldn't abide to see the woman cat now about the place. And in verid truth, she was to my cell like one of the ill-fired birds. I didn't mind upon the name of them. They hanged o'er an army, for wharever there was annybody na' well, or annybody dead, there was Bobby Cadna.

I a' heard a creepin' things that visits folk at's no' well, and Bobby was and is one sic' like. So I was angered at seein' her colloggin' wi' Jean, and I cried Jean to me to the door o' the kitchen. But wi' that up jumps Bobby, and comin' after her, says to me, says she, Eh, Miss Horne, there's terrible news. Lady Lossie's dead. She's been three weeks dead. Well, says I, what's so terrible about that? For you can, I never had any feelings, and I could see nothing so awful about a body dying in the ordinary way of nature-like. Well, no miserable muggle down here, says I, for I never heard of her being at the house and ever I can mind. But that's no all, says she, only I would be laith to speak about it in the trance.

Let me up the stair with you, and I'll tell you more. Well, Partly that I was taken by surprise like, and partly that I was not so old as I am now, and partly that I was curious to hear, ill that I liked her, what naest the woman would say, I did as I oughtna, and I turned and got up the stair and let her follow me. When she came in, she put to the door a-hine't her, and turned to me and said, says she, "'And who's dead for by, think ye?' I heard nobody, I answered. "'Who but the laird of Gersfell?' says she." "'I'm sorry to hear that honest man,' says I, "'for a' but he liked Mr. Stewart.' "'And what think ye o' it?' says she, "'with a runkling o' her brows, and a shake o' her head, "'and a setting o' her round neaves upon the fat hips o' her.' "'Think o' it,' says I, "'what should I think o' it, but that it's the will o' Providence?' "'With that she lough till she wobbled o' o'er like cold skink, "'and says she, "'Well, that's just what it is now, "'and that let me tell you, Miss Horne.'" I glored at her, most frightened into believing she was the witch folk called her.

"'Whose son's the humpbacked creature?' says she. "'It comes in the gig wiles with the groom-lad, think ye.' "'Oh, but the poor man it's dead,' says I. "'Deal a bit o' it,' says she. "'And I beg your pardon for mentioning o' him,' says she. "'And signed she screwed up her mo, and came close up till me, for I would not sit down my cell, unless would I bid her, and was sorry enough by this time that I had brought her up the stair.' And says she, laying her hand upon my arm with a clap, as g'en her and me was to be friends upon such a grand foundation o' dirt as that. Says she, making a like took mo o' it. He's Lord Lossies, says she, and makes a face that might have turned a cat sick, only by good luck I had no feelings.

And no sooner's my lady did, nor her man follows her, says she. And what do ye make o' that, says she. Ay, what do ye make o' that, says I till her again. "'Oh, what can I,' says she, with another ill look, and with that she lach and turned away, but turned back again or she went to the door, and says she, "'Maybe I did not ken that she was brought to bed her cell about six weeks ago.' "'Poor lady,' said I, thinking more of her evil reporting her to the pains of childbirth. "'Aye,' says she, with a devilish kind of a lach, like in spite of herself. For the bairns did, they tell me." As bonnie a lad-bearing as you would see, just uncommon. And whar did you think she had her down-lying? Just at lossy hoes.

With that she was out of the door with the swag of her tail, and down the stair to Jean again. I was just at one moor with anger at my cell and scunner at her, and in two minds to gang after her and turn her out of the hoes, her and Jean together. I could hear her snickering till her cell as she go down the stair. My very stomach turned at the poisonous toad. I cannot say what was true or what was false in the scandal o' her tale, nor whatfore she took the trouble to carry it to me. But it soon came to be said that the young laird was but half-witted, as well as humped, and that his mother could not bide him, and certain it was that the poor wee chap could as little bide his mother. G'n she came near him on looked for, they said, he would give a great screech, and run as fast as his wee wavered legs could wag an'eath the weight o' his humpy.

And wiles her after him, with any thing she could lay her hand upon, they said. But I can now. On a gate, the widow herself grew whir and whir in the temper, and I misdoubt me sayer was gay hard upon the poor wee object. Fell cruel to him, they said, till at length, as albedee kens, he forehood the house all thegither. And puttin' this and that thegither, for I hear a hantel said it I say now o'er again. It seems to me at her first gunner at her poor misformed bairn, who they say was humpet when he was born, and must cost her her life to get lost to him. Her scunner at him's been groan and groan till it's groan to downright hate. It's an awful thing at you say, mem, and I doubt it o'er true. But ho can a mother hate her own bairn?

said Malcolm. Deed it's no wonder you should spear, laddie. For it's well kent at most mothers, ginner be a sharger, or a natural, or a crooked one among their bairns, make more o' that one nor all the lay've puttin' together, as ginner would make it up till him, for the fair play o' the world. But you see, in this case, He's ablens the child a sin, for a liar may tell an ill truth, and bears the marks of it, you see. So to her he's just her sin, runnin' about the world, incarnate, and that cannot be pleasant to look upon. But except she were ashamed o' it, she wouldn't take it so much to heart to be reminded o' it. Many one's ashamed o' the consequences, it's not ashamed o' the deed. Many one could do the sin o'er again, it cannot bide the sight or even the word o' it.

I a' seen a body it would steal a thing as soon as look at it. Gang daft wi' rage at bein' called a thief. An' maybe she wouldna' care, g'en it warna' for the ugliness o' him. So be he was a bonny sin, I'm thinkin' she would bide him well enough. But seein' he's neither in the image o' her at bore him, nor him at got him, but bears on his back for ever in her sight, the sin it was the getting o' him. He's a hump to her, an' her heart's eye hauckin' a grave for him to lay him out of sight until. She bore him an' she would bury him. An' I'm thinkin' she bears the Marcus, g'en so it be so, dead an' gone as he is. A grudge yet, for passin' suck an offspring upon her, and sign no marryin' her after an all, and the road clear o' both that stood atween them.

It was said that the man that killed him in a twosome fight, so many a year after, was a friend o' hers. But would folk do sic awful ill things, ma'am? Her a married woman, and him a married man? There's no sayin', laddie, what a handful o' men an' some women would do. I had muckle to be thankful for at I was sick as no man ever looked twice at. I was not well-fired enough, though I had bonny hair, and my mither I said her Maggie had good sense, whatever else she might or might not have. But gin I could ha' gotten a good man, so clikes is scarce, I could ha' loved him well enough. But that's neither here nor there, and has nothing to do with anybody of all. The pint I had to come to was this.

The woman ye saw holdin a tootmout, that catnaw wife, was none other, I do believe, than Mistress Stuart, the poor laird's mither. And I have as little doubt— That when you took his part, you brought to not a plot of the twosome against him. It bodes good to nobody when there is a conjunct of two sick wonder and stars of blackness as you on to. His ain' mither, 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 of lights! 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. "'You may take your oath upon it, Malcolm,' she said when she returned. "'She means nothing but ill by that poor creature. But you and me will ding her yet, can it be as will. She wants a grip o' him for some ill reason or other, to lock him up in a madhouse, maybe.' As the villain said, or deed maybe to make way with him altogether. But what good would that do her? said Malcolm. It's ill to say, but she would have him out of her sight any gate. She can have but little sight of him as tis, objected Malcolm. Ay, but she ay can see's where she doesna ken, putting her to shame all about the country, with that hump of his.

Out of folks sight would be to her out altogether. A brief silence followed. No, said Malcolm. We come to the question what the two limmers could want with that door. Dear Kens, it would to be something wrong, that's all it mortal can say, but you may be sure o' that. I have heard tell, she went on reflectingly, o' some rumor or other in the house that there's a fearsome story about, and it's never opened on no account. I have heard about it, but I cannot mind upon it now, for I paid little attention to it at the time, and it's money a year since I'm. But it would be some devilish ploy of their own they would be after. It's little the likes of them would heed sick old-world tales. "'Would you have me tell the Marcus?' asked Malcolm.

"'Nah, I would no. And yet you maun do it. You had no business to canna anything wrong in a body's house and not tell them. For by it he put you in charge. But it'll do nothing for the laird. For what cares the Marcus for anything or anybody but himself?' "'He cares for his daughter,' said Malcolm. "'Oh, aye, as sick folk call, Cairn.' There's not a blaggard in the heil country he wouldn't sell her till, so be he was an old-nough family, and had routh a seller. Haith, nowadays the last'll come first, and a fish-catcher with seller will be counted a better bargain nor a lord wantin' it. Only he maun have a hee bullet to core the stink o' the fish." "'Dunna scorn the fish, mem,' said Malcolm. "'They're innocent creatures, and dunna smell warner they can help.

And that's merner you can say for Ilka Lord you come thwart.' Aye, or a cadger either." Rejoined Miss Horne. They're oft'nough just sick-like, the main differ-lion and what they're defiled with. And deed, whiles, there's no differ there, or most any gait, maybe, but in the set of the shoulders and the wag of the tongue. And what'll we do with the laird? said Malcolm. We mawn first see what we can do with him. I would try to keep him my sail, that is, genny would bide, but there's that jade Jean. She's eye-gabbing and claking and cognosting with the enemy, and I cannot lip until her. I think it would be better you should take charge of me yourself, Malcolm. I would willingly bear any expense, for you would not be able to look after him and do so well at the fishing you can.

Ginnit had been my own lionfish, and I could attain him in the boat with me, but I did not ken for the heron. Blue Peter would not object, but it's some rough work, and for a wakely body like the Laird to be out all night some nights, sick weather as we had to encounter wiles, might be the dead on 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 Horne rose, after an all but sleepless night, she found that he had taken the affairs again into his own feeble hands, and vanished.

26 26 - Not At Church 13:46

XXVI. Not at Church. It being well known that Joseph Mare'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. Scournose 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 defense seawards, the unsafe natural harbor which was all the place enjoyed. If ever there was a place of one color, 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 a 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 seabirds, 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 Fimi Mare 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 Skarnos at that time. For the fisherfolk then made but small pretensions to religion. And for his part Joseph Mare could not believe that the Almighty would be offended at seeing a bairn sitting doose with her playocks, though the day was his. "'Well, Feemy, you're busy,' said Malcolm. "'Aye,' answered the child, without looking up. The manner was not courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet. "'What are you doing there?' he asked. "'Making a string of beads to wear at Auntie's marriage.' "'What are you making them of?' he went on. "'Haddocks'een.' "'Are they all haddocks?' "'Nah, there's some cods among them, but they're mostly haddocks.

I pikes them out before they're salted, and boils them, and sign I polish them in my hands till they're ale bonnie.' "'Can you tell me anything about the mad laird, Vimy?' asked Malcolm, in his anxiety too abruptly. "'You can gang and spear at my father. He's out about,' 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' ye ken anything about him?' he therefore insisted. "'Maybe I div, and maybe I div na,' answered the child, with an expression of determined mystery. "'You'll tell me where you think he is, Feeny?' "'Na, I will not.' "'What for, na?' "'Oh, just for fear you should ken.' "'But I'm a friend to him.' "'You may think aye, and the laird may think no.' "'Does he think you a friend, Femi?' asked Malcolm, in the hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation.

"'Aye, he kens I'm a friend,' she replied. "'And do ye I ken whar he is?' "'Nah, no I. He gings here and he gings there, just as he likes. It's when nobody kens whar he is that I ken, and gingtle him.' "'Is he in the house?' "'Nah, he's not in the house.' "'Where is he then, Femi?' said Malcolm coaxingly. There's ill folk about it after doing him an ill turn. The mare need not to tell, retorted Feamey. But I want to take care of him. Tell me what he is, like a good lassie, Feamey. I'm not sure. I may say, I dinna ken. You say ye ken when other folk does na. No, nobody kens. How ken ye that? Cause he's run away. Who frae? His mither? Na, na, from his horn. "'I ken nothing about her, but gin nobody ken's I ken whar he is well enough.' "'War, then, you'll be doing him a good turn to tell me.' "'Whar I winna tell, and whar you nor nae otherbody sae get him.

And ye need not spear, for I winna be right to tell, and gin ye gang on spear, and you and me winna be long friends.' 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. "'You would tell your father, wouldn't you?' he said kindly. "'My father would not spear. My father's a good man.' "'Well, Feeny, though you would not trust me. Supposing I was to trust you.' "'You can do that, can you like? And you would not tell? I should make no promises. It's no trustin' to get me promise.' "'Well, I will trust you. Tell the laird to hold Whale out of sight for a while.

He'll do that.' Said Feeney. And tell him, get anything before him, to send to Miss Horne, for Malcolm MacPhail may be out with the boats. You will not forget that. I'm not likely to forget it, answered Feeney, apparently absorbed in boring a hole in a haddock's eye with a pin so bent as to act like a brace and bit. You'll not get your string of beads in time for the wedding, Feeney, 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. "'When is it to be?' "'Oh, naes Saturday. You'll be comin' oar?' "'I hadn't gotten a call.' "'You'll be gettin' one. "'Div' you think they'll gimme one?' "'As soon as anybody.

"'Maybe by that time I'll be able to gie ye some news of the laird.' "'There is a good lassie.' "'Na, na, I makin' no promises,' said Feeney." Malcolm left her and went to find her father, who, although it was Sunday, was already out-about, 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 Marquess, 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 Marquess 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 Michaelham, 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 your lordship with certain proceedings that took place last night,' answered Malcolm. "'Go on,' said the Marquess. 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. "'One of them, my lord,' answered Malcolm. "'It was Mistress Catanaw, the Howdy.

What sort of a woman is she?' Some folk can abide her, my lord. I can no ill to lay till her charge, but I wouldn't lippin till her. My grandfather, and he is blind, ye can, just trembles when she comes near him." The Marquis smiled. "'What do you suppose she was about?' he asked. "'I can no more than the bonnet I flang in her face, my lord. But it could hardly be good she was after. At any rate, seeing your lordship put me in a manor in charge, I bood to hold her out of a closed room.' "'And her goin' creepin' about your lordship's house like a worm. Quite right. Will you pull the bell there for me?' He told the man to send Mrs. Cordhope, 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 as 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 doubt if she can't herself. It may have been one of the bandolette to tre. You are a sharp fellow, said the Marquis. I wish I had such a servant about me. I would make a sum rough when I doubt, 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 a legend connected with it. I must find out. I dare say Mrs. Cordhope knows. Meantime you hold your tongue. We may get some amusement out of this.' "'I will, my lord, like a dead man in Beirite.' "'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 just be canny meddling with Mistress Cattenal, my lord. She's no mose.' "'What, you're not afraid of an old woman?' "'Deal a bit, my lord. That is, I'm not feared to do dogfish or rotten.

But I would take tent, and grip them the right gate, for they had teeth. Some folk think Mistress Cattenal has mere teeth nor she shows.' "'Well, if she's too much for me, I'll send for you,' said the Marquis, good-humouredly. "'You cannot get me so easy, my lord. We're after the heron, no?' "'Well, well, we'll see.' "'But I wanted to tell you another thing, my lord,' said Malcolm, as he followed the Marquis down the stairs. "'What is that?' "'I came upon another plot, a more serious one, being against a man that can ill hold off of himself, and could warbide anything than your lordship. The poor mad laird.' "'Who's he?' "'Ilgabody kens him, my lord. He's son to the Lady of Kirkbyers.' "'I remember her.

An old flame of my brother's.' "'I ken nothing about 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 not so sure of that, my lord.' "'To say nothing of the ill-guideship, which might a gardener minister swear, it would be a cruelty nothing short of devilish to lock up a poor, harmless creature like that, as innocent as he's ill-shaped.' "'He's as God made him,' said the Marquis. "'He's not as God will make him,' returned Malcolm. "'What do you mean by that?' asked the Marquis.

"'It stands to reason, my lord,' answered Malcolm, "'that what's ill-made ma'n be made o'er again. There's a day come and when all's wrong'll be set right, you can.' And the crooked made straight? suggested the Marquess, laughing. Dothless, my lord. He'll be straighted out bonnie 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 muggle is about your cell, or my lady, said Malcolm. G'n he didna, he wouldna be nae god of all. The Marquess 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' Ilkerman, whar he can, to loose the weighty barons, and let the four foughten gain free. Good day to you, my lord.' So saying, the young fisherman turned, and left the Marquis laughing in the hall.

27 27 - Lord Gernon 13:51

Lord Gurnan.

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 Marquess, 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 anyone else.' "'Is ever likely to know.' Said the Marquess, super-adding 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 Kuha would sop on three thorns of cold iron. The Air Kuha would kai the bastard and kerna. The Maid Kuha would tyne her man and her bairn, lift the snek, and enter and ferna. 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 snek, as they call it. What is a snek? 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 eppies and treaties. 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 Coho would sop on three thorns of cold airn, said Mrs.

Courthope with emphasis, adding, The three she always said was a figure three. That implies it was written somewhere. She said it was legible on the door on 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 shortcut across to the next chapter. In an ancient time there was a Lord of Lossie who practiced 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 in early manhood. But he paid no attention to his affairs. A steward managed everything for him, and Lord Gurnan... 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 Gurnan himself was avoided in like fashion, although rarely had anyone 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 Gurnan meant harm to nobody, and was in consequence regarded by the neighbors as unrighteously bold. He worked in a certain lofty apartment on the ground floor, with cellars underneath, reserved, it was believed, for frightfulest 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 distillments 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 neighborhood 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 neighborhood 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 neighbors, 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 somewhere in its neighborhood, 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 dispatched 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 Gurnan 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 neighbor.

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 behavior, 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 odor 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 Gurnan was decreed dead, and his heir was enfeefed. 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 Lossy or someone 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. Cattena tampering. He examined it well, and on the upper part of it found what might be the remains 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.

28 28 - A Fisher Wedding 7:55

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 Mare and Charlie Wilson assembled respectively at the houses of their parents. Malcolm had received an invitation from both, and had accepted that of the bride. Whiskey 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 and couples. At the door of the church, which stood on the highest point in the parish, a center 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 high road, to meet the bride's first foot. They had gone about half-way to Port Lossie, when a gentleman appeared, sauntering carelessly towards them with a cigar in his mouth. It was Lord Michaelham. Malcolm was not the only one who knew him. Lizzie Findlay, only daughter of the Parton, 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 whiskey, while the groomsman addressed Lord Michaelam.

"'You're the bride's first foot, sir,' he said. "'What do you mean by that?' asked Lord Michaelam. "'Here's the bride, sir.' She'll tell ye. Lord Michaelum lifted his hat. Allow me to congratulate you, he said. Ye're my first foot, returned the bride, eagerly yet modestly, as she held out to him the glass of whiskey. 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. "'It's for luck, sir,' answered Joseph Mare. "'A first foot who would not bring ill luck upon a new married couple, "'mon I do as ye done this minute.

Take a dram frae the bride.' "'Is that the sole privilege connected with my good fortune?' said Lord Michaelam. "'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 Michaelam, who, as he spoke, offered her his arm, was Lizzy Findlay. "'No a share is gain, my lord,' returned Malcolm, tightening his arm on Lizzy's hand. "'Ye maunna gain way one o'er customs to gain again anither. Fisherfolk is ready enough to part with their whiskey, but not with their lasses. Nah, haith.' Lord Michaelam'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. "'You see, my lord, gynnet be so I mun call ye, and Malcolm seems to ken. We are like by ourseles for the present, and we're but a rough set of folk for such like as your lordship to hold where to mouth with. But gynnet would please ye to come over the gate any time of the evening, and take your share o' what's gone. Ye should be welcome, and we would count it a great honour frae such as your lordship." "'I shall be most happy,' answered Lord Myclam, 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 oat-cake in the other.

When the bride reached the threshold she stood, and her mother, first laying the handkerchief on her head, broke the oat-cake 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 Mayor'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 amusement. About seven, Lord Michaelam 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 favor with both men and women. When the great clothes basket 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 Lizzie Findlay should feel herself his favorite. In the general hilarity, neither the heightened color 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. Michaelam 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 Lizzie, and partook of dried skate and mustard, bread and cheese, and beer. Every man helped himself. Lord Michaelam and a few others were accommodated with knives and forks, but the most were independent of such artificial aids. Whiskey came next, and Lord Michaelam being already, like many of the young men of his time, somewhat fond of strong drink, was not content with such sipping as Lizzy honored his gloss 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 next to be married. Neither Lizzie nor Lord Michaelham, 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 Mare's cottage, he found Feemy waiting for him at the door, still in the mild splendor of her pearl-like necklace. "'I tellt the laird what ye tellt me to tell him, Malcolm,' she said. "'And what did he say, Feemy?' asked Malcolm. "'He said he kent ye was a friend.' "'Was that all?' "'Aye, that was all.' "'Well, ye're a good 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 Galileans 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 wing, kissed his forehead tenderly, as if to seal the truth of his meditations.

29 29 - Florimel and Duncan 28:16

FLORIMEL AND DUNCAN. In the course of a fortnight, Lord Michaelam and his aunt, the bold-faced Countess, had gone, and the Marquess, 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 Boggayte, or Huntley Lodge, or Frendrocht, or Balveny, 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 easy-going 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 neighbors, 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 anyone not attired as a lady or gentleman, hardly 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 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 fervor of imprecation, a continuous blast of poetic hate which made her shiver, and the next moment sighing out a most wailful Koronach 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 mountains, stream, and lake, of love and revenge, of beings less and more than natural, browny and boneless, kelpie and fairy, such wild legends also, haunting the dim emergent peaks of mist-swathed Celtic history, such songs, Come down, he said, from Oshin 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 this 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 pibrock 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 have her boy, and she'll be wanting no wife,' he said sullenly.

"'Wifes is bad.' "'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? That will be wrong. And who was she'll be swearing at?' "'That's what I want you to tell me, Mr. MacPhail.' "'Did you hear her, my lady?' 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. Then she'll be punished enough. But it was no harm to curse the wicked Camel. It was not Glenlion. It wasn't a man at all. It was a woman you were in such a rage with. "'Was it the rascal's wife then, my lady?' 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?' "'Wife's is always worser.' "'But what is it makes you hate him so dreadfully? Is he a bad man?' "'A very bad man, my dear lady. He is dead more than a hundred years.' Then why do you hate him so? Oh, Con. Don't you'll never hear why? He can't have done you any harm. Not done Duncan any harm. Didn't you all know what a dog would be doing to her ancestors of Glencoe? Oh, Con. Oh, Con. Give her the dog's heart of him in her teeth, and she'll be 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 begging your pardons, my lady. Sit down once more, angel from heaven, and she'll not say it no more. But she'll be telling you the story, and then you'll be knowing that what'll not be fit for ladies to hear, as good ladies had to bear." He caught up the lossy pipes, threw them down again, searched in a frenzy till he found his own, blew up the bag with short, quick 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 Glencoe. 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 Coray. Blacker than the 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 Coray. Falser than vapors that hide the dark precipice is the heart of the Campbell, the hellhound Glenlion.

Is it blood that is streaming down into the valley? Ha! Tis the red-coated bloodhounds of orange. To hunt the red deer, is this a fit season? Glenlion, 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. O'chon for the chief, God's curse on the traitors. O'chon for the chief, the father of his people. He is struck through the brain, and not in the battle.

O Chon 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 Glenlion slay, nine of the true hearts. His own host he slew, the laird of Inverigen. 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, Alistair, Bard of the Glen in the mountain, sings peace to the ghost of his father's father, slain by the curse of Glencoe, Glenlion. Curse on Glenlion. His wife's fair bosom dry up with weeping the fates of her children.

Curse on Glenlion. Each drop of his heart's blood turn to red fire and burn through his arteries. The pale, murdered faces haunt him to madness. The shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of Glencoe 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 Glenlion, 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 fervor 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 be knowing now, my lady, why she'll be hating de very name of Glenlion.' But it was not your grandfather that Glenlion killed Mr. MacPhail, was it?' "'And whose grandfather would it be, then, my lady?' returned Duncan, drawing himself up. "'The Glencoe people weren't Macphails. I've read the story of the massacre and know all about that.' "'He might have been her mother's father, my lady.' "'But you said father's father in your song.' "'She said Alistair's father's father, my lady, she believes.' "'I can't quite understand you, Mr.

Macphail.' Well, you see, my lady, her father was out in the Forty-Five, and fought the Redcoats at Culloden. That's his claymore on the wall there. A good blade, though she's not an andro Ferrara. She was forged in Glencoe by a cousin of her own, Angus by name, and she's a very good blade. She'll can well whistle the Pibroch of Ian Lom about the ears of the Sassenach. Her grandfather was with his uncle in the Battle of Killie-Crankey after Tundee. A great man, my lady, and he died there. And so did her granduncle, for a villain of a McKay from Lord Ray's cursed country, where they always was rebels, my lady. Just as her uncle was be cutting down to wicked General McKay, turned him round without giving no warnings, and killed a poor man at one blow.

But what has it all to do with your name? I declare I don't know what to call you. Call her your own bard, old Duncan MacPhail, my sweet lady, and have the patience with her, and she'll be telling you all about everything. Only you must give her old brains time to tumble themselves about. Her head grows very stupid. Yes, as she was saying, after the bloody massacre at Culloden, her father had to hide himself way out of sight, and to forge himself. I mean to put upon himself a name that didn't mean himself at all. And my poor mother, who bored me, big old Duncan, the very day of that battle, would not be hearing one word of him for three months as he was away. And when he would be creeped back like a fox to see her one fine night when the moon was not be up, they'll make an agreement to go away together for a time, and to call themselves MacPhails.

But by and by they took their own names again. And why haven't you your own name now? I'm sure it's a much prettier name. Because she'll be taking the other, my dear lady. And why? Because... because... she will tell you another time. She'll be tired to talk more about the cursed commals this very day. 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 lady. 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 lady, very respectable. Many good men has to borrow names of their neighbors. We've all got our very own names, only in bad days, my lady, we don't always know which they are exactly.

But we all know which we are each other. And we get on very good without the names. We laid them by with our Sabbath closed for a few days, and they come out the fresher and sweeter for keeping the Sabbath so long, my lady. And now she'll be playing you the coronach of Glencoe, which she was make herself her own pipes. I want to know first what Malcolm's real name is," persisted Lady Florimel. Well, you see, my lady, returned Duncan, some people has names and does not know them. And some people hasn't names, and will be supposing they have. You are talking riddles, Mr. MacPhail, and I don't like riddles," said Lady Florimel, with an offense which was not altogether pretended. Yes, surely. Oh, yes.

Call her Duncan MacPhail, and neither more or less, my lady. Not yet, he returned, most evasively. I see you won't trust me, said the girl. And rising quickly, she bade him good night, 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 practiced 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. "'Ah, my dear lady, and did you think old Duncan such a stupid old man as not to be trusting the light of her blind eyes? But her lady must forgive her, for it is a long tail, not like anything you'll be in the way of believing. And also, it'll be but the tassel to another long tail which tears the bag of her heart and makes her feel a burning devil in the pocket of her bosom.

But she'll tell you the one half of it that belongs to her boy Malcolm. He's a big boy now." But he wasn't always—no. He was once a very little small child in her old blind arms. But he wasn't old then. Why must young peoples grow old, my lady? But she'll be glad of it herself, for she'll can hate the better. 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 Glencoe to Port Lossie.

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 Port Lossie, he put up at a small public-house in the Seton, 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 Skarnos, 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 understood 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 gypsy had made him a too-ready gift of the child she did not prize.

Someone must be near. He called aloud, but there was no answer. The child began to cry. He sought to soothe it, and its lamentations 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 Seton. Already he would much have 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 neighborhood. 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 behavior, and the pleasure his bagpipes afforded, made himself not a few friends amongst the simple-hearted people of the Seton, some of the benevolent inhabitants of the upper town, Miss Horn in particular, were soon interested in his favor, 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 Seton 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 favor 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 recognized 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, and assuming straightway the position of chief party in the proposed contract, 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 Baileys being not only small men and therefore conceited, but powerful Whigs, who despised everything Highland, and the bagpipes especially, if the affair did for a while seem hopeless. But the more noble-minded of the authorities approved of the piper nonetheless 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 intercourse 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 lost 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, to keener eyes yet more evident than to hers, 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 odor 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.

30 30 - The Revival 31:21

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 Port Lossie to have begun in the village of Scournose, but by the time it was recognized as existent, no one could tell whence it had come any more than he could predict whether it was going. Of its spiritual origin, it may be also predicated with confidence that its roots lay deeper than human insight could reach, and were far more interwoven than human analysis could disentangle. One notable fact bearing on its nature was Hence, the Flood was at first free from the results of one influence most prolific of the pseudo-spiritual, namely the convulsive efforts of men with faith in a certain evil system of theology, to rouse a galvanic life by working on the higher feelings through the electric sympathies of large assemblages and through the excitement of late hours 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. The whole thing is closely allied to the absurdity of those who would throw down or who would accept the challenge to test the reality of answer to prayer by applying the force of a multitudinous petition to the will of the supposed divinity. I say supposed divinity because a being whose will could be thus moved like a water wheel could not be in any sense divine. If there might be a religious person so foolish and irreverent as to agree to such a test, Crucial indeed, but in a far other sense than that imagined. I would put it to him whether the very sense of experiment would not destroy in his mind all faculty of prayer, placing him in the position no more of a son of God, but of one who, tempting the Lord his God, may read his rebuke where it stands recorded for the ages.

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.

To hear a rude man utter his experience in the forms of cultivation would be at once to suspect the mere glitter of a reflex and to doubt an illumination from within. I repeat, 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 hallo 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 vicegerency of a human will hardly or only just awakened, and as yet unconscious of itself. The nearest Joseph Mare could come to the origin of the present movement was the influence of a certain storn-away fisherman whom they had brought back with them on their return from the coasts of Louis, a man of Celtic fervor 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 labor. 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 The news of this gathering, of course, reached the Seton. 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 accepting to the authority of the messenger.

He regarded the announcement of the meeting with the greater respect that the man from Stornoway was a McLeod, and so of his mother's clan. It was now the end of August, when the sky is of a paler blue in the daytime, 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. Aye, said Malcolm. It would guard Daddy Griptil's pipes in two hurries. And what should she be wanting her pipes for? asked Duncan. To praise God with, answered Malcolm. Aye, aye, murmured Duncan thoughtfully. They are that. What are they? asked Mr. Graham gently. For to praise God, 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. Then it'll be your opinion, Mr. Brown, that she'll be sleeping her sound sleep, and not be lying wide awake in her coffin all the 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 at 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 the day of judgment, he said. But what'll be the use of keeping her eyes open before she'll be up? How should she be seeing with all the earth above her? And a gravestone, too, that I know my boy Malkin will be laying on the top of his old grandfather to keep him warm, and let people be know that a blind piper will be lying down below, wide awake and very 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. Then, interrupted Duncan, she'll be growin' up out of her grave like a seed growin' up to be a corn or a barley. 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, twang, and at their fine golden herpes. She'll not be thinking much of the harp for a music maker, and people tells her she'll not be having her pipes there. Oh, con. Oh, Cone, she'll just be lying still and not be getting up. And when the work is over, and everybody gone away, she'll just be getting up, and taking a look about her, to see if she'll be finding a stand of pipes that some good highland man has been left behind him when he died lately. You'll find it rather lonely, won't you? Yes, no doubt, for they'll all be gone up. Well, she'll have her pipes, and she could not go where the pipes was looked down upon by all the great people.

And all the small 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 colors of his approach had been swallowed up. The triumph strode splendid 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 be a fire? She feels something warm on her head, he said, rolling his sightless orbs upon which the splendor 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 obliged to you, Mr. Graham," said the piper with offense. You take her very stupid. You're so proud of your eyes you think a blind man cannot see at all. 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-grey hair, keen shrewd features, large head, and brown complexion, appeared, and made his way to the farther end of the cave, followed by three or four of the men of Skournos, Among whom walked a pale-faced consumptive lad, with bowed shoulders and eyes on the ground. He it was who, feebly clamoring on a ledge of rock, proceeded to conduct the worship of the assembly. His parents were fisher-people of Scarnoes, 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 son 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 favorite 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, 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.

Some of the women were 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. 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 forever 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 Alates! 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 forever. "'Kiss ye the son, lest even he be angry, and ye perish from the way when his wrath is kindled but a little.' "'Father Lights!' 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. 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 Seton set out for the fishing ground as usual, but not many went from Scournose. 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 color 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 splendor, 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 toil of His revelation was forgotten, 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 injustice towards God, 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 reflect on others the movements of their hearts. Hence, although in the main he treated the weariness and oppression from which Jesus offered to set them free, as arising from a sense of guilt and fear of coming misery, he could not help alluding to more ordinary troubles, and depicting other phases of the heart's 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 Elates 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 the 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 afterward 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-favored 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.

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 suffice 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, Feemy. A brief pause followed. Then Feemy's voice answered, Come away, Don. He says ye should be welcome. Can I ye show a light, then? For I dinna canna fit o' the road, said Malcolm. The next moment a light appeared at some little distance below. And presently began to ascend, borne by Femi, 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. Theime 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 after ye again, laird,' said Malcolm, after a little ordinary chat. Mr. Stewart was on his feet instantly. "'I'm on a way. Take care of Feemy,' he said hurriedly. "'Na, na, sir,' said Malcolm, laying his hand on his arm. "'There's nae sick hurry. As long as I'm here, you may sit still. And as far as I can, nobody's fun the way in but myself. And that was your own white, Laird.

"'But you have gared mere folk nor me look. And that's the pity o' it.' "'I told you, sir. You shouldna cry out,' said Feemy. "'I couldna help it,' said Stuart, apologetically. "'Well, ye shouldna ha' gone near them again,' persisted the little woman. "'Who can't but they can't what I come frae,' also persisted the laird. "'Sit ye down, sir, and let's hae a word about it,' said Malcolm cheerily. The laird cast a doubting look at Phoebe. "'Aye, sit down,' said Phoebe. 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. "'Hey, you only way a winnin' out o' this, for by the moll o' the cave there?' asked Malcolm.

"'None I can of,' answered Femi. "'But there's heaps o' hidey-holes in the inside o' it.' "'That's all very well, but ginn they keep it the moll, and took their time till it, they bowed to grip ye.' "'There may be, though,' resumed Femi. "'It gings back a long road. I ain't never been in sight o' the end o' it.'" It comes down very like in some places, and gains up high again in others, but no sign of an end till it." Is there any sign of water until it? asked Malcolm. Nah, none ever I heard. But I tell you what I have heard. I heard the flails gone thud, thud upon my head. Hoot toot, Feeney, said Malcolm. We're a good mile and a half way the nearest farm town, and that I reckon'll be the house farm.

I canna help that, persisted Feeney. Gain, it was not the flails. Whiles one and whiles two, I didn't ken what it could have been. How far it was, I canna say, for it's ill measuring in the dark, or with nothing but a boa in your hand. But ginn you called it mare, I wouldna wonder." It's a mighty hoken," said Malcolm. But for all that, it wouldna hold you frae the grip of the scoundrels. Wherever you ran, they could run after you." I think we could sort them," said Feeney. There's a place, a good bit farer in, where the roof comes down to the floor, leaving just a small hole to creep through. It would be fine to have a gay muckle stern handy, just to rule a thort it, and get it look as gin it was the end o' all thing.

But the hole's so small that the laird has ill getting his poor back through it. I couldn't help wondering how I won through at the 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, "'New year o't, laird. Henna, you better come wi' me home to Miss Horns, where you would be as safe as gin you were in heaven at sail.' "'Nah, I cannot gang to Miss Horns,' he replied. "'What for now, laird?' Pulling Malcolm down towards him, the laird whispered in his ear, "'Cause she's flate 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 Seton, 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.

31 31 - Wandering Stars 13:27

Wandering Stars.

He had not been gone many minutes, when the Laird passed once more through the strait, and then stood a moment waiting for Femi. 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 Theemy, who was following him with the lantern, and stammered in her ear, "'There's somebody there! I dinna ken whar they come frae!' Theemy went to the front of the passage and listened, but could hear nothing, and returned. "'By thee whar ye are, laird,' she said. "'I'll gang down, and gonna hear or see nothin, 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 shingle 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 devil roast them, it laid me sick a trap, she said. I have broken the shins the old Marcus lauded. Hold your wicked tongue, hissed a voice in return, almost in Thimi's very ear. Oh, you're there, are you, ma'am? rejoined the other, in a voice that held internal communication with her wounded shins. Coup it ye the crans like me. The question, Englished, was, did you fall head over heels 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. Nah, nah, men, there's no risk of that. This is no one of your creepy caves where otters and wool cats have their habitations. It's a muckle open-mowed place.

Like them it prays into it, as tome and clear-sighted as a tongless bill. What for you it has come here to our cracks, I cannot fathom. A body would think you had an ill thought in your head, eh, ma'am?" 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. "'Aye, how you know,' she said, as she seated herself at length beside the other. "'The gauch, Geordie Brie,' she went on. To take it into his ugly head if the creature would be herkling here. It's not the place for one that has to hide his head for the shame of slipping off the likes of himself upon sicker-brow, mither. Could he get near their door to win it heath?"

Woman, you'll drive me mad," said the other. Well, Haney," returned the former, suddenly changing her tone, I'm mere and mere convinced that you're a lad for your purpose. For one thing, you see, nobody kens where he come frae. As the lird, bonnie lad would say. And nobody can contradict a word. The old man less than anybody, for I can tell him what he cans to be truth. Only I winna move till I ken whar he comes frae. Wouldn't you prefer not knowing for certain? You could swear with the better grace. Deal a bit. It matters nae to me wilk's side of my teeth I chow with. But I will not swear till I ken the truth, that I may hold off it. He's the man, though. "'Gin we can get a grip on.' "'He looks the right thing, ye see, mem.

"'He has a glisk of the markers, too. "'Dim' no you think, mem.' "'Insolent wretch. "'Cock any, mem. "'All thing mon be considered. "'It would but guard the thing look the more likely. "'Folk gang's the length a saying at home be himself's "'not the sin of the old laird. "'Honest man.' "'It's a wicked lie!' burst with indignation from the other. "'There may be war things not a bit lay. "'Onigate.' One thing's easy, Priven. Ye lay very doy for a month or six weeks once upon a time at Lossie House, and that was a few years, we need not speared how many, after ye was lightened at the tither. When they hear that at that time ye gave birth to the Ladbearn, the Wilk was stolen away, and never heard tell of till know.

It may well be, folk will say, them it has drunk would drink again. It would afford reasons, you see, and good ones, for the bairn bein' puttin' out of sight, and would make the hailed story mere no likely in the judgment at all that heard 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 to him it is, and whom uncle the were are ye? Let them say it they like, so long as we can show it he came o' your body, and was born in wedlock. Ye ha' your lands once mere, for ye have a son that can guide them. And ye can guide him. He's a bonny lad, bonny enough to be your ladyships and his lordships. And so, as I was remarkin', in the judgment of ill-thoughted folk, the mayor likely to be heir to old Stuart of Kirkbyers.

She laughed huskily. But I'm on how I skirted your pen, ma'am, afore I wag tongue about it. She went on. I ken broly how to set it goin'. I sunna be the first to ring the bell. Nah, nah. I should set Miss Horn's jean, John, and it'll be all over the town in a jiffy. At first, in a kind of a sock that nobody'll understand, but it'll grow louder and plainer. At the long last, it'll come to your ladyship's hearing, and saying you have me attain open question for a justice of the peace, that there may be no look on any compact between us two. But, as I said afore, I'll now move till I can all about the lad first, and saying get a scar to your pen, ma'am." "'You must be the devil himself,' said the other, in a tone that was not of displeasure.

"'I have been telt that afore, and with less reason,' was the reply, given also in a tone that was not of displeasure. "'But what if we should be found out?' "'He can lay it all upon me. And what will you do with it?' "'Take it with me,' was the answer, accompanied by another husky laugh. "'Where to?' "'Spear no questions, and you'll be telt na' lays.' Honeygate, I shall leave no track ahind me. And for that same sake, I maun ha' my part in my hand the minute the thing's been sworn till. G'n ye fail me, ye'll soon see me get mair light upon the subject, and confess till a great mistake. By the mighty, but I'll swear the very contraire the next time I'm hit up. Aye, an ilkobody'll believe me. And whar'll ye be then, my lady?

For though I might mistake, ye could na. Faith, they'll have ye taen up for perjury. You're a dangerous accomplice, said the lady. I'm a tool ye maun take by the handle, or ye'll rue the edge, returned the other quietly. As soon, then, as I get a hold of that misbegotten elf, meen ye the young laird or the young Marcus, ma'am. You forget, Mistress Katana, that you are speaking to a lady. Ye maun a been uncle like one one night, on a gate, ma'am. But I'm done with my joking. As soon, I say, as I get my poor boy into proper hands, I shall be ready to take the next step. What for should you put it off till then? He cannot do muggle one way or tither. 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 to 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—'Well, ma'am, g'n I be bought a year, Panny,' exclaimed the midwife with her gelatinous laugh. "'Losh, ma'am!' she burst out after a moment's pause. "'G'n you and me was to fall out. There would be a stramash.

They rose and left the cave together, talking as they went, and Femi, 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 grey 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 labor. Labor 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 him from whom we come. Then his thoughts turned to Lady Florimel. All the splendors 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 anyone, 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.

32 32 - The Skipper's Chamber 22:47

THE SKIPPER'S CHAMBER. One day, towards the close of the fishing season, the Marquess 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 Byrne, "'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 lordship's grace,' said Duncan, "'and she would be proud of the honour, "'but it'll be too far away from the shore for her boy'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 all was here as it used to was in the Highlands, my lord, said Duncan, when every clansman was son or brother or father to his chief, that would be different. But my boy must not go and eat with servants who have nothing but their wages to make them love and obey your lordship. If her boy serves another man, it must be because he loves him, and looks upon him as his chief, who will shake hands with him and take the father's care of him.

And her boy must die for him when the 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 Mistress 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 anyone else with. The Highlander's pride was nearly satisfied. So, he said, it'll be his own henchman my lord will be making of her boy.

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 lord will be doing the lad a great honor," said Duncan. But," he added with a sigh,,"she'll be lonely, her namesail. 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 have 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 become 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 be talking to her boy about it,' said Duncan, and the Marquess 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 in 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 see, 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 Marquess'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. Calvinism itself has produced as loving children as abject slaves, with a good many between partaking of the character of both kinds. 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.

Their condition is like that of a creature under an exhausted receiver, oppressed from within outwards for want of the counteracting external weight. 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 Marquess, "'have you made up your mind to be my skipper?' "'Willingly, my lord,' answered Malcolm. "'Do you know how to manage a sailboat?' "'I would need, my lord.' "'Shall you want any help?' "'That depends upon several things.

Herain sighs.' The will of the wind, and whether or not your lordship or my lady can take 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 do, my lord? returned Malcolm apologetically. The only other clothes I have are very fishy, and neither your cell nor my lady could bide them in the room beside you. Certainly not. Responded the Marquess, 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 seafaring clothes. A kilt wadna do avall, my lord. You cannot surely object to the dress of your own people, said the Marquess. The kilt's well enough upon a hillside, said Malcolm. I do na doubt. But faith, seafaring, my lord. You would want the trues as well. Well, go to the best tailor in town and order a naval suit. White ducks and a blue jacket. Two suits you'll want. We should get one suit, sir, to begin with, my lord. I'll just gang to Jamie Sangster, who makes all my clothes, not at their money, and get him to miser me. He'll make them well enough for me. Yet I sure the worth of your seller for him. I tell you to go to the best tailor in the town and order two suits. Nah, nah, my lord.

There is no need. I cannot afford it for by. We're not all made a sailor like your 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, my lord, returned Malcolm. That would never do. I maun pay for my own clothes. I would be in a constant terror of blood in all them, gin I didna, and that would be enough to make a body miserable. It would be all the same for a bye out and out as we are in a livry. 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 thinking I'm gun-daft, he said at length. Putting his hand to his head. It's time I go'd. Good morning, 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 that there must have been some joke involved, the behavior of both indicated as much, and with this conclusion he heartened his dismay. The next morning, Duncan called on Mrs. Parton, 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 dragonized by bikes, to whom Malcolm dropped a humorous, "'Well, 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. "'Have you done anything, my lord,' he said, about Mistress Katna?" "'What do you mean?' "'Anant you on Katprol about the house, my lord?' "'No. You haven't discovered anything more, have you?' "'Na, my lord. I haina had a chance. But you may be sure she had no good design in it.' "'I don't suspect her of any.' "'Well, my lord. Have you any objection to let me sleep up your honor?' None at all. Only you'd better see what Mistress Courthope has to say to it. Perhaps you won't be so ready after you hear her story. But I have your lordship's leave to take any room I like. Certainly. Go to Mrs. Courthope and tell her I wish you to choose your own quarters.

Having delivered straightway his lordship's message, Mrs. Courthope, wondering 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 the grand simplicity which springs from primal unity of purpose.

I find no part of an ancient house so full of interest as the Garrett region. It has all the mystery of the dungeon-sellers, 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 martens, veins 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. "'Sick of bees, biker rooms,' said Malcolm, making a halt. "'Who 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 would like to see until 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 an act while she spoke to move on. And what for that? answered 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. How can you that, ma'am? And how can I say myself, afore he has shown me what the room's like? It may be the very place to take my fancy. Just open the door, ma'am, can you please, and let's have a keek into it. "'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.' "'Well, you'll let me see until the next. When are you?' "'There's no law again opening it, 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.' "'Let's look, any good.' 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-sealed, 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 checkered in squares of blue and white. This is the vera place for me, mem. Said Malcolm, reissuing. That is, he added, gin you dinna think it's o'er grand for the likes of me it's no been used to anything half so good. 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 Gurnan. 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 wandering 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 homemade wine to drink, while she told him the story, much as she had already told it to the Marquess.

Adding a hope to the effect that, if ever the Marquess 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 gin he would heed a word I said. Very little sometimes will turn a man either in one direction or the other, said Mrs. Courthope. But surely, ma'am, you do not believe in sick fool old-world stories, is that? It's well enough for a tale, but to think o' a body turning a foot out o' his gate for it licks me. I don't say I believe it, returned Mrs. Courthope, a little pettishly. But there's no good in mere foolhardiness. "'You didn't surely think, ma'am, that God would let anything depend upon whether a man opened a door in his own house or no.

It's again our 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.' "'Well, ma'am, I'm on her the room next the old warlock, Sunnygate, for in that I'm going to sleep, and in nay either no all this muckle hose.'" Mrs. Courthope rose. Full of uneasiness, and walked up and down the room. "'I'm taken upon me nothing to yont his lordship's ain' word,' urged Malcolm. "'If you are to go by the very word,' rejoined Mrs. Cordhope, stopping and looking him full in the face, "'you might insist on sleeping in Lord Gurnan's chamber itself.' "'Well, and so I 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, ma'am. You sa'na do that,' cried Malcolm. "'Sain a word to one of them. I shall wedger I'm as good as the old warlock himself at making a bed. Just give me the sheets and the blankets, and I'll do it as trim as any loss in the hose.' "'But the bed will want airing,' objected the housekeeper." By all accounts, that's the last thing it's likely to want, lying at its door to yon chimer. But I asleep to many's the time ere now upon the top o' a boatload o' hair, and, again that never did me any ill, it's no likely a good bed'll kill me, again it should be a wee mochy."

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 anyone 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. "'Hey! That's a siller-can that's stick, Master MacPhail,' she cried. "'And you maunna take a knaife to it, or you'll scratch it a dreadful?' 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 Duncan's fingers for persons of no education, mem, as if they couldn't know the silver from the brass. If they was so stupid, her nose would be telling them so. Even old Duncan's knife would be known better than to scratch the silver, or the brass either.

Old Duncan's knife would be scratching nothing better than the skin of a commel. 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 overvaunted his skill. The skein 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 odor 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.

33 33 - The Library 14:35

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 Marquess's presence, And found him at breakfast with Lady Florimel. Where did you sleep last night? asked the Marquess. Nisdord the old 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 Marquess. Then Mrs. Courthope, did she tell you the legend about him? Aye, did she, my lord. Well, how did you sleep? Middlin' only. How was that? I dinna ken- "'Cep it was that I was fool enough to find the place gay eerie-like.' "'Aha,' said the Marquis.

"'You've had enough of it. You won't try it again.' "'What's that you say, my lord?' rejoined Malcolm. "'Would you have a man turn his back at the first flag?' "'Nah, nah, my lord. That would never do.' "'Oh, then you did have a fright.' "'Nah, I cannot say that either. Nothing word came near me nor a dream it plagued me. And it was not sick and ill one after all.' "'What was it?' I thought there was a bonny lady sittin' on the bed in the next room, in her night-goin' like, and she was greetin' sair in her heart, though she never let a tear fall down. She was greetin' about a bernie she had lost, and I can't wail where the bernie was. Down in a cave upon the shore, I thought. And I was just yearnin' to gang till her and tell her and stop the greetin' of her heart, but I couldn't move hand nor foot, neither could I open my mouth to cry till her.

And I gud dreamin' on at the same thing o'er and o'er. All the time I was asleep. But there was nothing so freightsome about that, my lord." No, indeed," said his lordship. Only it guard me great too, my lord, "'cause I could not win at her to help her." His lordship laughed, but oddly, and changed the subject. "'There is no word of that boat yet,' he said. "'I must write again.' "'May I show Malcolm the library, papa?' asked Lady Florimel. "'I would fain see the books,' adjected Malcolm." "'You don't know what a scholar he is, Papa.' "'Little enough of 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.' "'You mean a scholar who would skip your books, my lord?

"'Heith, sick would be a skipper who would ill-school your boat,' said Malcolm, with a laugh at the poor attempt. "'Bravo,' said the Marquis, who certainly was not overcritical. "'Can you write a good hand?' "'No ill, my lord. So much the better. I see you'll be worth your wages.' "'That depends on the wages,' returned Malcolm. "'And that reminds me you've said nothing about them yet. Neither has your lordship.' "'Well, what are they to be?' "'Whatever you think proper, my lord. Only dinner gar me gain to Maester Creithy 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 you, my lady. That will be grand, 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. "'Hey, my lady,' he cried, after staring for a while in breathless bewilderment, "'It's just like a bike of frozen bees.'" Hey, g'en they were all to come to life and stick their stings of truth into the body, the woken up would be awful. It just g'r'rs my head g'en round," he added after a pause. It is a fine thing," said the girl, to have such a library.

Deed is it, my lady. It's one of the privileges of rank," said Malcolm. It takes a family that holds on through centuries in a house where things gather, to make sick and unaccountable gathering of books as that. It's a grand sight. 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? Now, my lady, I would have mere wood. A library cannot be made all at once, any mere nor a house, or a nation, or a muckle tree. They mun all take time to grow. And so mon a library. I wouldna even ken what books to gain in spear for.

I dare say, g'n I were to try, I couldna at a moment's notice tell you the names of men or two score of books at the outside. Folk mon make acquaintance among books, as they would among living folk. But you could get somebody who knew more about them than yourself to buy them for you. I would as soon think of getting somebody to eat my 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. You're right, my lady. But still, I would as soon think of the taen as the tither. What would come of the like of me, did you think, brought up upon meal bros and heron? G'en you was to set me down to stick a dinner as my lord your father would eat elk a day, and think nothin' of.

But g'en some folk had the bayan in my books, I'm thinkin' the first thing I would have to do would be to fling the half of them into the barn. What good would that do? "'Clear away the rubbish.' "'You see, m'lady, it's no books. But what books?' "'Eh, there mun be money one of the right sort here, though. I wonder gin Mr. Graham ever saw them. He would surely ha' made mention o' them in my hearing.' "'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 dote I would have to sit down and turn over the change a few times before I can't either my cell or what would become me, he said.

That's not answering my question, retorted Flormel. Well, the second thing I would do, said Malcolm, thoughtfully, and pausing a moment, would be to get Mr. Graham to gang with me to Aberdeen and carry me through the classes there. Of course, I would not try for prizes. That wouldna be fair to them that couldna afford a tutor at their lodgings. But it's the first thing you would do that I want to know," persisted the girl. I tellt you I would sit down and think about it. I don't count that doing anything. Deed, my lady, thinking's the hardest work I can. Well, what is it you would think about first, said Florimel, not to be diverted from her course. Oh, the third thing I would do. I want to know the first thing you would think about.

I cannot say yet what the third thing would be. Four years at the college would give me time to reflect upon a handful of things. I insist on knowing the first thing you would think about doing, cried Florimel, with mock imperiousness but real tyranny. Well, my lady, again you will have it, but how great a man would you be making on 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 would come to be a yerel some day. Sabi I didna day upon the road. Yes, that's what it means. And a yerel's next door to Lamarcus, isn't he? Yes, he's in the next lower rank. Lower? Aye. No the muckle, maybe. No, said Lady Florimel, consequentially. The difference is not so great as to prevent their meeting on a level of courtesy.

I didna freely ken what that means. But g'n't be your Ladyship's will to make a Yerel of me, I'm not to raise any objections." He uttered it definitively, and stood silent. "'Well,' said the girl. "'What's your will, my lady?' returned Malcolm, as if roused from a reverie. "'Where's your answer?' "'I said I would be a Yerel to please your Ladyship. I would be a Flunky for the same reason, g'n't was to wait upon your sale, and nae either.' "'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 moan be that I was a fisherman, to the end of all creation, my lady. You refuse to answer my question.

By no means, my lady. Ginyu will have an answer. I will have an answer. Ginyu will have it, then. But no buts, but an answer. Well, it's your ain' white, my lady. I would just gang don' upon my knies. Where I stood afore you, and tell you a heap of things that maybe by that time you would ken wheel in a hurry. What would you tell me? I would tell you that your ain were like the very lame of the living itself. Your cheek like a white rose and the light frae a red one. Your hair just the soft Latin gang of his hands when the Maker could do no more. Your mouth just fashioned to drive folk daft that dare not come near and look at it. And for your shape, it was like nothing in nature but itself. "'You would have it, my lady,' 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 very sorry, my lady,' faltered Malcolm, trying to steady himself against a strange trembling that had laid hold upon him. "'But you moan alo, it was all your rain white.' "'Do you dare to say I encouraged you to talk such stuff to me?' "'You did get me, my lady.' 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. No, he said to himself, she's off to tell her father, and there'll be a bonny bun to pick between him and me. But heyth, I'll just tell him the truth o' it, and sayin' he can make a kirk in a mill o' it guinea-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.

34 34 - Milton, and the Bay Mare 7:50

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 favor. 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 Marquess close behind him. Malcolm started, and almost dropped the volume. I beg your Lordship's pardon, he said. I did not hear you come in. What is the book you are reading? asked the Marquess. I was just reading a bit of Milton's Econoclasties, answered Malcolm. A book I had heard tell of, but never saw what my ain't in a for. And what's your quarrel with it? asked his Lordship. I cannot make out what should set a great man like Milton to say again a poor creature like Charles. Read the history and you'll see. Oh, I can something about the politics of the time, and I'm not saying they were that wrong to take the head frame. But what for should Milton hate the man after the king was dead?

Because he didn't think the king dead enough, I suppose. I see. And they were setting him up for a saint. Still he had a right to fair play. Just 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. "'No, my lord,' he said, half-closing the book, "'what would ye expect to come upon, after a sicker denunciation as that, but some awful heathenish thing? Well, just harkin' again, but here's the vera prayer at sale in a footnote.' His lordship had thrown himself into a chair, had crossed one leg over the other, and was now stroking its knee.

No, my lord, said Malcolm again, as he concluded. What think ye o' the gijment past? Really, I have no opinion to give about it, answered the Marquess. I'm no theologian. I see no harm in the prayer. Harm in it, my lord. It's perfectly grand. It's sick a prayer as couldna well be equaled. It vexes me to the very heart of my soul that a mighty man like Milton, one who's been with a crowd of harmonies, should call that the prayer of a heathen woman to the heathen god. O all the seeing, light and eternal life of all things, calls he that a heathen god? O her it prayed sick a prayer a heathen 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 is a wee bitty of Latin here in the note that I cannot freely make out,' 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 Maturon-Coldier'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, Will your lordship let me read wiles in this grand place?

I mean, when I'm not wanted at the gates, and there's nobody here. To be sure, answered the Marquess, only the scholar mustn't come with the skipper's hands. I should take good care of that, my lord. I would as soon think of handling a book with worklike hands as I would a brander and a mackerel on cleaned road. And when we have visitors, you'll be careful not to get in their way. I will that, my lord. And now," said his lordship rising, I want you to take a letter to Mrs. Stewart of Kirkbyers. Can you ride? I can ride the bear back well enough for a fisher loon, said Malcolm. But I never was upon a saddle in my life. The sooner you get used to one, the better. Go and tell Stout to saddle the bay mare.

Wait in the yard. I will bring the letter out to you myself. Farewell, 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 Marquess's heart or conscience, or wherever the pygmy 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 onto the turf, Stote, 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 Marquess 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 mayor was quiet. "'Bravo,' cried the Marquis, giving him the letter.

"'Will there be an answer, my lord?' "'Wait and see.' "'I cigar you pay for it, can we come upon a brown ray between this and Kirkbyers,' said Malcolm, addressing the mayor, 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.' Otherwise indebted, at least, than Lady Florimel could gather from her father's remark."

35 35 - Kirkbyres 20:07

Chapter 35 Kirkbyers 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 Kirkbyers had married the heiress of Gersfell, 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 neighborhood. 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 had 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 Kirkbyers below him, and with a small modern lodge nearby, 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 partisans, 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 farmyard, 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 emotion 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 would tire me, ma'am?' returned Malcolm. "'It's a fine-collar evening, and I had one of the Marquess's best mares to carry me.' "'You'll take a glass of wine, anyhow,' said Mrs. Stewart. "'Will you oblige me by ringing the bell?' "'No, I think you, ma'am. The mare would be better o' a mouthful o' meal an' water, but I want nothin' mysail.' 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 very glad to hear it, ma'am, 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 didn't ken. "'I wanna ha' ye lip into me, urmukul,' 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 wanna ha' ye lip into 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 use till it.' And it might jumble my judgment," 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 say doom's unhappy, ma'am,' 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 unpoor, lassie ma'am,' said Malcolm. "'There's very few of them so hard-hearted or so ill-mannered. They're used to seeing him at the school, while he shows himself wiles, and he's a great favourite with them, for he's one of the best creatures living.' "'A poor, witless, unmanageable being. He's a dreadful grief to me,' said the widowed mother with a deep sigh. A bairn 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 no idiot, ma'am," 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 good perage in milk and frozen butter," said Malcolm parenthetically, while's Heron in yellow Hatties.

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 someone 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. Supposing I was to get you speech on them, 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 do not see what's to be done then, said Malcolm.

I must have him brought here. There is no other way. And what would be the good of that, ma'am? By your own showing, he would run out of his very body to win away from you. I did not mean by force, returned Mrs. Stewart. Someone 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 neighborhood." 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 partisan of her son, and therefore an honor 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. Cattenaugh's company in the Garrett 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. to distrust some who, unlike you, profess 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 you, ma'am, he said. I darna. I have such a regard for your son, and I thought I would do anything to harm him. I would have my two hands chapped frae the shekel-bairn. 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 turned out, rejoined Malcolm. But I'm sure o' one thing, ma'am, and that is that he's not so muckle an idiot as some folk would 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 for hearsay alone, returned Malcolm. The look o' the poor fellow when he but hears the chance word, mither. It's a sight not to be forgotten. He grips his looks atween his two hands, and rends like a collie with a pan at his tail. That couldna come o' nothin'. 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 not that I'm not willing to be your friend, ma'am, but I'm your son's friend already, and g'n he were to hear anything that guard him mislipping to me, it would g'n to my heart.' "'Then you can judge what I feel,' said the lady.

"'G'n it would hail your heart to hurt mine, I would think about it, ma'am.' But Ginnett hurted all three of us, and did good to none. It would be a misfit altogether. I'll do nothing till I'm done right sure it's the part of a friend. 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 enough, ma'am, assented Malcolm, while the words put him fresh 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. Nah, I'm neither sick witch nor sick treasure. Where would be the treachery when you knew it would be for his good?

That's just what I didn't ken, ma'am, retorted Malcolm. Look ye here, ma'am, he continued, rousing himself to venture an appeal to the mother's heart. Here is a man it has pleased God to make no freely like other folk. His mind, though culpable of a handle-mare nor a body would think it didn't ken him so well as I do, is certainly weak. Though maybe the weakness lies mair in the tongue than in the brain o' him, after all. And he's been sair fight it wi' some guideship or other, the upshot o' it all bein, at his uncle timbersome, and ready to burst in himself runnin' when there's none pursuin'. But he's the gentlest o' creatures. A done right gentleman, ma'am. G'never there was one. And that kindly wi' all creature.

Both man and beast, a very bairn could guide him, on he gate but one. 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 all bairns, returned Malcolm, and they're mostly all friendly with him. But there is but just one thing that makes life endurable to him. He suffers a hantle with that poor back o' his. And with his breath, too, when he's frightened, for his heart gains lopen like a saumon in a bagnet, and he suffers a handle farby in his poor feeble mind, trying to understand the good things that folk tells him, and to loosen it to Zion White that he does not understand them better, and wiles he thinks himself the child of sin and wrath, and that Sutton has some special propriety in him, as the carriage just says.

But, interrupted the lady hurriedly, you were going to tell me the one comfort he has. It is liberty, ma'am. Just his liberty. To gang where he lists like the wind. To turn his face where he will in the morning, and back again at night, again he likes. To wonder, back where? interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly. Where he likes, ma'am. I couldn't say where with any certainty, but aye, he likes to hear the sea moanin' and watch the stars shinin'. There is a sight of undeveloped religion in him, as Mr. Graham says. And I did not believe that the Lord Lysian wronged Mournors for his good. But it's my belief that when you took the liberty frae the poor creature, you would 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, ma'am, I can and will promise ye nothing,' he said. "'Are ye to play a man false, "'cause he's less able to take care of himself than other folk? "'Gon I were sure that ye could make it up, "'and that he would be happy with ye after haine. "'It might be another thing. "'But except ye guard him.'" You could not get him to bide long enough for you to try.

And sine, he would dee if he had convinced him. I doubt, ma'am. Ye ha lost your chance with him, and ma'am do your best to be content without him. I'll promise you this, Mokul, gin you like. I should tell him what he has said upon the subject." Much good that will be, replied the lady, with ill-concealed scorn. Ye think he would not understand, but he understands wonderful. And you would come again and tell me what he said, she murmured. With the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope. Maybe aye, and maybe no. I will not promise. Have you any answer to send back to my lord's letter, ma'am? 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 partisan 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 favor of them.

36 36 - The Blow 9:00

Stewart? No orwell pleased, my lord, answered Malcolm. What? You haven't been refusing to deed heva, my lord? Tut-tut. Have you brought me any message from her? He spoke rather angrily. None but that she was not wail, and would write the morn. 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 favor of you. I'm on ken what it is if I say anything, my lord. You may trust me not to require anything you couldn't undertake. There might be two opinions, my lord. You young boar, what is the world coming to, by Jove? As far as I can gain with a clean conscience, I'll gain. No one step beyond, said Malcolm. You mean to say your judgment is a safer guide than mine?

No, no, my lord. I might well follow your lord's judgment. But can there be a conscience in the affair? It's my own conscience I'm bound to follow, and not your lordships or any other man's. Suppose the thing that seemed right to your lordship seemed wrong to me. What would you have me do, then? Do as I told you, and lay the blame on me. "'Nah, my lord, that winna hold. I boned to do what I thought right, and lay the blame upon nobody, whatever came ut.' "'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 no sick intention, my lord. Surely a body might ken himself no saint, and yet like to hold his hands clean.' "'What did Mrs.

Stewart tell you she wanted of you?' asked the Marquis, almost fiercely, after a moment's silence. "'She wanted me to get the poor laird to gain back to her.' But I seer misdoubt, for all her fine words, it's a closed door, ginnit beena a lid she would hae upon him. And I would sooner be hanked nor have a thumb in that haggis. Why should you doubt what a lady tells you? I wouldna be ower ready, but I hae heard things, ye see, and bound to be upon my guard. 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 someone else to get a hold of the fellow for her, he concluded.

You will not do 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 will. At any rate, I should do my best. Upon my word, exclaimed Lord Lossie, you presume sufficiently on my good nature, young man. Hear me a moment, my lord, returned Malcolm. I've been turning it toward in my mind, and I see, plain as the daylight, that I am bound, being your lordship's servant, and trusted by your lordship, to say that to your cell, the wilk I was no wise bound to say it to Mistress Stuart. So, at the risk of angering ye, I maun tell your lordship, with all respect, again I can help it, there shall no hand, gentle or simple, be laid upon the laird against his own wool."

The Marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry, too, and nonetheless 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 thinking I needna budge, retorted Malcolm, angry also. What do you mean by that, insolence? I mean, my lord, that ta gang will be ta gang frae him. He cannot be far frae your lordship's lug this minute. All the Marquess'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, my lord!' he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton handkerchief. "'You soon ha' done that, you'll blow the carpet!' "'You precious idiot!' cried his lordship, already repenting the deed.

"'Why didn't you defend yourself?' "'The quarrel was my ain, and I could do as I 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 in the wrong, my lord. The quarrel was all my ain-making. I hadna right to lose my temper and be impudent, so I didna dare defend mysel. And I beg your lordship's pardon. But didn't you do me the wrong to imagine, my lord, "'cause I took a fluid and good part when I kent myself in the wrong, that that's how I would carry mysel, g'en t'was for the poor laird. Faith, I segar any man canna 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 will, my lord," said Malcolm. But, he added, there was no occasion to give me sick of derdem. A word would have put me mere in the wrong. 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 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. There'll be something gone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son, he said. You'll be having a hurt. She knows it. She has it within her, though she couldn't just see it. Where is it? As he spoke, he proceeded to feel his head and face. "'God bless her soul! You are bloating, Malcolm,' he cried the same moment. "'It's nothing too great about Daddy. It's hardly Marino the Flipe of a Tzaman's tail.' "'But who'll be done it?' asked Duncan angrily.

"'How the Master gave me a bit fluid,' answered Malcolm with indifference. "'Where is he?' cried the Piper, rising in wrath. "'Take her to him, Malcolm. She will stab him. She will be killing him. She will drive her dirk into his wicked body.' "'Nah, nah, Daddy,' said Malcolm. "'We had another dirks already.' "'Then you have done it yourself, then, Malcolm, my brave boy.' "'No, Daddy. I took my looks like a man, for I deserved them.' "'Deserved to be beaten, Malcolm. To be beaten like a dog. Don't tell her that. Don't break her heart, my boy.' "'It was not that muckle, Daddy. I only tell them all horny was at his log.' "'And she'll make no doubt it was true,' cried Duncan, emerging suddenly from his despondency.

Aye, so he was, only he had no right to say it. But you striked him back, Malcolm. Don't say you didn't give him back his blow. Don't tell it to her, Malcolm. How could I hit my master and my seal in the wrong, Daddy? Then she'll must do 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 you still, Daddy, said Malcolm, laying hold of his arm. And sit you down till you hear all about 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 skillfully 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. "'And gin the Marcus dar to cross me in it,' said Malcolm at last, as he ended, "'let him look till himself, for it's no at a buffer or two I would stick, gin the poor laird was into it.'" 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.

37 37 - The Cutter 6:03

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 right 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 locks 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 Marquess's presence. "'Where have you been sulking all this time?' was his master's greeting. "'I have na been sulking, my lord,' answered Malcolm.

Your lordship told me to hold out of the gate till I was fit to be seen, and not a soul is set an eye upon me till this very moment that your lordship has me in your reign. Where have you been, then? In me and Rome at night, and don't at my grandfather's as long as folk was about. We a bit done, or up the barn in the murk. You couldn't encounter the shame of being seen with such a face, eh? It might have been thought a disgrace to the tain or the thither of us, my lord. Maybe to both. If you don't learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring you to worse. My lord. I confessed my fault, and I put up with the blow. But if it hadn't been that I was in the wrong, well, things might differ. Hold your tongue, I tell you.

You're an honest good fellow, and I'm sorry I struck you. There. I thank you, 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 will be that, my lord. It does not suit me at all to be so long upon the solid. I'm like a colt upon a tall road. 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 did-hid, 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 Skarnos, 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 harbor, 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 her sail!' cried Malcolm in delight. "'A boat the size of a muckle heron-boat, but no more like one than Lady Florimels like Meg Parton. It'll be just grand to have a creature so near livin' to guide and take yer will of.'" I had no idea she was going to be anything like so, Bonnie. I'll no be fit to manage her in a squall, though. I'm on have another hand. And I wouldn't have a laddie either. I'm on be a grown man, and I wouldn't take a hand to hold her upon the water. I will no. I used to have Blue Peter himself, and I could get him. Eh, just look at her, with her big gaff-tappy set, and her jibbing all bowing and bowing and coming on you as grand as any born lady. He shut up his telescope, ran down the hill, Unlocked the private door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting for her on the harbor 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 Parton, whom Malcolm found on the pierhead, remarked, like a lady closing her pedestal as she came. Malcolm jumped on board, and the two men who had brought her round gave up their charge. She was full-ducked with the dainty little cabin. Her planks were almost white. There was not a board in her off which one might not, as the Parton expanded the common phrase, "'Eat us porridge and never find a mot in his mo.' Her cordage was all so clean, her standing rigging so taut, everything so ship-shape 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. "'You see, my lord," said Malcolm, "'I mon ken all about her before I dare take ye out in her, and I cannot undertake to manage her my lane. You mon just gimme another man with me. Get one." said the Marquess. Early in the morning, therefore, Malcolm went to Scournose, 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 lunched. said Malcolm, ending a description of her behavior 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 Port Lossie.

38 38 - The Two Dogs 14:19

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. Would that the days of our human autumn were as calmly grand, as gorgeously hopeful, as the days that lead the aging year down to the grave of winter. If our white hairs were sunlit from behind, like those radiance-bordered clouds, if our air were as pure as this when it must be as cold, If the falling at last of long-cherished hopes did but, like that of the forest leaves, let in more of the sky, more of the infinite possibilities of the region of truth, which is the matrix of fact, we should go marching down the hill of life like a battered but still-bannered army on its way home.

But alas, how often we rot instead of march towards the grave! If he be not rotten before he die, said Hamlet's absolute gravedigger. If the year was dying around Lady Florimel, as she looked, like a deathless sun from a window of the skies, it was dying, at least, with dignity. 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 colors of decay hung heavy on the woods, and seemed to clothe them as with the trappings of a majestic sorrow. But the spiderwebs sparkled with dew, and the gossamer films floated thick in the level sunbeams. It was a great time for the spiders, those visible deaths of the insect race.

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. But alas, it was not Lady Florimel who thought these things. Looking over her shoulder, and seeing both what she can and what she cannot see, I am having a think to myself. Which it is an offence to utter in the temple of art, cry the critics. Not against art, I think. But if it be an offence to the worshipper of art, let him keep silence before his goddess. For me, I am a sweeper of the floors in the temple of life, and his goddess is my mare, and shall go in the dust-cart.

If I find a jewel as I sweep, I will fasten it on the curtains of the doors, nor heed if it should break the fall of a fold of the drapery. Below Lady Florimel's Aurel 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 to-day 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? Stay. Let me pick up the gem. 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 harbor 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 harbor. She must make acquaintance with her new plaything.

Mrs. Cattenaw, 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. Cattenaw 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. Cattenaw 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 hindquarters 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 mustache 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! Mistress Katana fled, cowed by terror. Her huge legs bore her huge body, a tragic comic 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 be calling me? asked Duncan, who would not thoroughly distinguish the voice through the near clamor 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. God have mercy, cried Duncan. Take her pipes, milady, for fear anything bad should happen to them. She led him hurriedly to the door, but ere he had quite crossed the threshold, He shivered and drew back. "'This is an evil house,' he said. "'She'll not can go 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 and argument with Duncan was, and flew to the stair. "'Demon! Demon!' 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 outlawed tongue. But the piper staggered back, pushing the dog from him. It is blood, he cried. To evil woman's blood! Keep him out, Duncan dear, said Lady Flormel. I will go and see. There, he'll be up again if you don't mind.

Very reluctantly. 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? And I didn't 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.

Cattenaw, 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. "'Hoot! For shame, Mistress Katnath,' he cried. "'Here is my lady behind me here in Ilka Ward. "'Dealstap her lugs with brunstone. What but a curse would she have from me? I swear by God I should guard her pay for this, or my name's no—' She stopped suddenly. "'I thought his muckle,' said Malcolm with a keen look. "'You'll think twice your deals, bookie, or you think right. What are you to think? What should my name be but Bobby Catnaugh?' "'You're uncle upsetin' sin you turn my ladies flunky.

Sorrow take you both, my daughty beauty, worried by that hell-type of hers.' "'Gin you gang on like that, the Marcus'll have you drummed out o' the town or two days before,' said Malcolm. "'Willy, then,' she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the teeth she had left. "'You'll be far been with the Marcus no doubt.' "'And yon done-it old devil you call your grandfather'll be fain enough to be drummer, I'll swear. Care is my case.' "'My lady, she's o'er ill-tongued for you to hearken till,' said Malcolm, turning to Florimel, who stood in the door, white and trembling. "'Just gang down and tell my grandfather to send the dog up. There's surely some gay to garen her hold her tongue.' Mrs.

Cattenaugh threw a terrified glance towards Lady Florimel. "'Indeed, I shall do nothing of the kind,' replied Florimel. "'For shame!' "'Hoot's, my lady,' returned Malcolm. "'I only said it to try the effect of it. Seems not that ill.' "'Ye son of a devil's soul,' cried the woman. "'I so have amends of ye for this, "'gen I should roast my own heart to get it.' "'Deed, but you're doing that fine already. "'That foul brute of yours has gotten his arrows, too. "'I wonder what he thinks a sommin' throat know, eh, m'im?' "'Have done, Malcolm,' said Florimel. "'I am ashamed of you. "'If the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her house. "'Here, tiller.' cried Mrs. Cattenaugh 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. Cattenaugh 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 harbor, turned back, accompanied by Malcolm. Demon, and Lady Stronach Strathsby. "'What a horrible woman that is,' she said with a shudder. "'Aye, is she? But I doubt she would be worried, gin she didn't break out that gate whiles,' rejoined Malcolm. "'How do you mean?' "'It freights folk at her, and maybe sometimes puts it out of her power to do worry. "'Gin ever she seek to make it up wi' you, milady, I would have little to say to her, gin I was you.' "'What could I have to say to a low creature like that?' "'You wouldna kin what you might be up to, or how she might set about it, my lady.

I would have you mistrust her altogether. My daddy has a fine moral nose for vermin, and he cannot bite her, though he never had a glimpse of the false face of her, and in truth never spake to her. I will tell my father of her. A woman like that is not fit to live amongst civilized people.' "'You're right there, my lady. But she would only gain some other gate among the same.' "'Of course you mun tell your father.' But she's no fit for him to take any notice at all. 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 Collinsie, and pursued the subject no farther. When they passed Mrs. Cattenaw'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 Waddy Witherspail.

39 39 - Colonsay Castle 13:25

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 harbor. Then the creature spread her wings like a bird. Mainsail and gaff-topsail, staysail and jib. Leamed away to leeward, and seemed actually to bound over the waves. Malcolm sat at the tiller, and Blue Peter watched the canvas. Lady Flormel 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 well as the best plan,' said Malcolm. "'Just lay your hand upon the tiller, my lady, "'and look out at yon point they call the dead head yonner. "'Yee see, when I turn the tiller this gate, "'her head falls off through the point, "'and when I turn it this other gate, "'her head turns till it again.'" Hold her head just about a two yards like off of it. 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. No, my lady, cock hanny. Din't steer so well. Hold her steady. My lord, would you just say a word to my lady, or I'll be forced to take the tiller for air? 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. You'll make a good skipper some day, he said. You spear the right questions, and that's missed as good as can in the right 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, infinitely 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 firs, 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—'Look there, my lord,' cried Malcolm. "'There's Collinsey Castle. At your lordship gets your name, I'm thinkin, and Unigate one o'er taitles, fray. It maun be money a hundred years sen ever Collinsey bade 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 look for tor, or pinnacle, my lady, for none will ye see. There are times long o'er. But just take the sea face o' the scar in your ee, and travel along it, until ye come to a bit it looks like mason-work. It scarce rises abon the scar in any but one part, and there it's but a few feet o' a wall. 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 eye-socket 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 just consider how old the place is, my lord. As old as the time of the Searov and Danes, they say. Maybe it's older nor King Alfred. You maun regard it only as a foundation. There are stones enough lying about to show that there maun a been a grand superstructure on at once. I some think it has been once disconnected from the land, and joined on by a drawbreak. Money a lump of rock and castle together has rode down the bray upon all sides, and the ruins may well have filled up the gully at last.

It's a wonderful old place, my lord. What would you do with it if it were yours, Malcolm? asked Lady Florimel. I would spend all my spare time patching it up to get it stand out again the wither. It's crummled away heaps in a mind. What would be the good of that? A rickle of old stones, said the Marquis. It's a growth that there will not be many more like, returned Malcolm. A wonder your 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 would win it the bottom out first. What do you mean by that? You'll see when you win until it. There's a heap of vaulted places inside yon blind face. Do you see yon wee bit square winnick? That lets the light in till one of them. There may be vaults in eighth vaults, for them it you can win until's half full of yard and stones. I would have all that cleared out, and sign begin for the very foundation. "'Biggin' and patchin' and buttressin', till I got it as sawn as a one-stone. And when I came to the top of the rock, there the castle should take to growin' again, and grow it should, till there it stood, as near what it was as the wit and the hand a man could set it." "'That would ruin a tolerably rich man,' said the Marquis.

"'Onigate, it's not the way folks ruins themselves nowadays, my lord. They'll pull down an old house onigate to save themselves blastin' pother. There's that grand place they call Huntley Castle.' "'A so can bear into this for age. But wi' walls, they tell me, would stand for thousands o' years. Wad' ye believe it? There's a soulless child o' a factor there, big in park walls and a granary out o' it, as gint were a quarry o' bluestone. And what's ten times ma'r extraordinaire, there's the Duke o' Gordon just lettin' the gape take his will o' the house o' his graces and forebears. I would most as soon let a man speak 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 would be ill to do, my lord, on set it up again. But just think what a grand place it would be to buy it 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 get such extravagant notions? How do you come to think of such things? Thoughts free, my lord. Can a thing be good to think? What for should not a fisher lad think it? "'I read a heap about old castles and sick-like in the history of Scotland, and there's many an old tale and balance about them. Just look there, milady. You see yon awful hole in the wall, with the very inside of the hill-like rushing out at it. I could tell you a fearful tale about that same.' "'Do let us have it,' said Florimel eagerly, setting herself to listen.

"'Better wait till we land,' said the Marquis lazily. "'Aye, milord. We're o'er near the shore to begin a story.'" Slack the main-sheet, Peter, and stand by the jib-down-hole. Dinner-ice, my lady. She'll be on the ground in another minute." 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, my lady, said Malcolm. Sick words ill become your bonnie meld.

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 soon let you see that, my lady, 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?' "'Oh, now, my lord, that would not be dignified for a man. Just look upon 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 reach the approach to the castle from the landward side. No, would not this be a grand place to bide at, my lord, said Malcolm, as they reached the summit. The Marquis breathless, florimel fresh as a lark. Just see, so can outlook. The very place for pirates like the old Danes.

Nothing could escape the sight of them here. Yons the hills of Sutherland. You see yon one like a cairn. That's a great friend of the fisherfolk to tell them where they are. Yon's the lake coast of Cethnes, and yoners the North Pole, only you cannot see so far. Just think, my lord, how grand would be the blustering blap of the wind about the turrets as you stood at your window on a winter's day, looking out o'er the girly twist o' the waters, the air full of flitterin' snow, the clouds a mile thick abon your head, and not a livin' creature but your own folk nearer nor the farm town or the brow yonner. "'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 could you want with a garden?

"'And the sea out of forty there? "'The sea's bonier than any garden. "'A garden's must die the same, "'or it changes so slow, "'with the one flower going in, "'and the other flower coming out, "'and you most didn't notice the odds. "'But the sea's never two days the same. "'Even lochen, she never lost twice the same face. And when she sulks, she has a hundred ways of sulking. And how would you get a carriage up here? said the Marquess. Fine, that, my lord. There's a road up as far as your nook. And for this bro, I would clear away the loose stones, and let the natural girth grow sweet and fine, and turn a lot of bonnie hell and sheep onto it. I would keep your own a bit of ones, for though the roof and the leaf, they blow so golden.

Sen I would gather all the bits of drains frae all the sides, "'Til I had a bonny stream o' water off the sweet cornland, rowin' down here while we stand, in word o' the castle at sill, and through quartz and kitchy, gurglin' and runnin', and sun out again and down the face o' the scar, splashin' and lopin' like mad. I would leave o' the lave to nature her sill. It wud be a grand place, my lord. And when you was tired o' it, you could just run away to lossy-hoes, and hide ye in the ho there for a change. I would like fine to have the sortin' of it for your lordship." "'I dare say,' 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 you think, my lord, it would be better to get the baskets up first?' interposed Malcolm. "'Yes, I think so. Wilson can help you.' "'Nah, my lord, he canna lead the cutter. The tide's risin', and she's o'er near the rocks.' "'Well, well, we shan't want lunch for an hour yet, so you can take your time.' But you maun take tent, my lord, how you gang among the ruins. There's awkward kinda holes about the vaults, and just where you think there's none. I do not altogether like your go and wantin' me. Nonsense, go along, said the Marquis. But I'm not 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.

40 40 - The Deil's Winnock 14:05

The Dales' 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 a 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 center 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 re-ascend.

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. Cattenaw. 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. Hold away, my lord, it said, and let 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 about, and ye do not. I beg it ye'll hold out by, and not upset the lassie, for something mun depend upon herself. Just gang away back into that ether vault, my lord. I insist upon it." His lordship obeyed. And Malcolm, who had been pulling off his boots as he spoke, now addressed Mare.

"'Here, Peter,' he said. "'Hold on to the tail o' that rope like grim death. "'Nah, I do not want it round me. It's to gang round her. "'But dinner ye whole, for it might hurt her, "'and she lip into me and come up her herself. "'Dinna be feared, my bonnie lady. "'There's no danger, not one 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. "'Now, my lady, now, my bonnie lady. One minute, and ye're as safe as gin ye lay in your mini'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. "'No fear o' that. There.' "'Ye canna fall, no, for Blue Peter has the other end, and Peter's as strong as two ponies. I'm goin' to take off your soon 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, "'No, my lady, take a good grip o' my hand, and as I lift ye,' Give a scramble with your two-bit feet, and as soon as you find them in athie, just gang up as gin you were climbing a gay-stayin' bray. Rather steep ascent. You couldn't have fall gin you tried your 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 to 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 herself, Mrs. Cattena, 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 Port Lossie 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. Powered to pull hidden strings fast into their hearts or consciences, or history or foibles or crimes, and so reduced 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.

41 41 - The Clouded Sapphires 27:12

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 Mare 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 the 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 would rather tell it in a gloom and 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 shortcut if he pleases.' "'There was once a great nobleman, like your sail, my lord, only not so deuce.

And he had a great following.' And was thought muckle of in all the country, frae John O'Groats to the Mulligalaway. But he was terrible proud, and thought nobody was to compare with him, nor anything anybody had to compare with anything he had. His horse were aye swifter, and his kai aye better milkers nor other folks. There were no deer so big, nor had sick muckle horns as the red deer on its highland hills, no gillies so strong as his gillies, and no castles so well bigot or so old as his. It may have been all very true for anything I can, or anything the story says to the contrary, but it was not humble or Christian-like on to be eye at it o'er and o'er, eye-glorien, as can he had all things so by-ordinaire, cause he was by-ordinaire himself, and they all came to him by the very nature of things.

There was but one thing in which he was not favoured, and that was that he had no son to take up what he left. But it mattered the less that the title, as well as the lands, would, as the tale tells, "'Gang all the same till a last bairn, and a last bairn he had.' "'That is the case in the Lossie family,' said the Marquis. "'That's how I ha' heard the tale, my lord. But I would be sorry, sir all it contains meet with like corroboration.' "'As I say, a daughter there was, and g'n all was surpassin', she was surpassin' all. "'The family Piper, or Senechy as they called him, I wouldna wonder, my lord, g'n the grand pipes your bounty gae my grandfather had been his.' He said in one of his songs, at the sun blinkit whenever she showed herself at the house door.

I so warrant one thing. At all the lads blinkit when she looked at them. G'en so be she could ever be said to condescend so far as to look at any. For g'en ever she set eye upon one, she never lot at rest. Hooray, aye, just slip it o'er a face as g'en the face might or may not be there. She did not ken or care. O but he said she had sic a haughty look, as was never seen on human face afore. And for friendly look, she had none for living creature, sep it was her own father, or her own horse that she rode upon. Her mother was dead. Her father would fain have seen her married before he died, but the pride he had given her was like to be the end of all, for she counted it nothing less than a disgrace to part with maiden liberty.

There is no man, she would say, when her father would be pressing upon the subject. There is no mortal man but yourself, worth the turn of my eye. And the father, poor man, was o'er well pleased with the flattery to be so angry with her as he would fain a looked. So time go'd on till frae a bonny lassie she had grown a grand lady, and could win up the hill and afford her, but bowed to gang down on the other side. And her father was just near hand daft with anxiety to see her wed. But no, never one would she hearken till. At last there came to the house, that's Collinsie Castle up there, one day A young man frae Norway, the son o' a great nobleman o' that country, and wi' him she was some take.

He was a fine man to look at, and he put them all to shame o' anything that not strength or skill. But he was as humble as he was fit, and niver took any credit til himself for anything that he did or was, and this she was ill-pleased with, though she couldna help liking him, and made no bones o' lettin' him see that he wasna altogether a scunner tiller. Well, one mornin' very air. She gaed out into her garden, and looked o'er the hedge, and what should she see but this same young nobleman take the bairn frae a poor travelling body, help her o'er a dyke, and give her her bairn again. He was at her own side in another minute, but he was just that minute a hind distressed, and she was in a cold rage at him.

He tried to turn her heart, saying, would she hae had him not help the poor thing o'er the dyke, her bairn bein' but a fortnight old, and her silt unk weak like. But my lady made a mo as g'n she was scunnered to hear such things made mention of. And was she to stand lookin' o'er the hedge, and him convoyin' a bigger wife and her brat. And signed to come to her, on ever washin' his hands. Hoot, my lady, says he, the poor thing was a human creature. G'n she had been a god's angel, says she, ye had no right to keep me waitin'. G'n she had been an angel, says he, there woulda been little occasion. But the woman stood and wanted to help. "'Gin it had been to save her life, you sonna keep me waiting,' says she.

The lad was scared that that, as well he might, and taken off his bonnet, he louted leigh, and left her. But this did not suit, my lady. She wasna to be left afore she said gang. So she cried him back, and he came, bonnet in hand, and she loughed, and made as gin she had been but try in the smiddle of him, and thought him a true knicht. The poor fellow plucked up at this. And Donny fell upon his knies, and out with all that was in his heart. How it he loved her, mair no tongue could tell, and ginshe would have him, he would be her slave for ever. Ye so be that, says she, and lach him to scorn. Ging after your beggar wife, she says, I'm sick of ye. He raised, and took up his bonnet, and loped the hedge, and gave a blast upon his horn, and gathered his men, and stepped aboard his boat, o'er by the puffy head yonder.

And away to Norway or the farm, and was never heard tell in Scotland again. And the lady was haughtier, and carried her head higher nor ever, maybe to hide a scum she had tain for all her pride. So things got on as afore, till at length the tide of her time was well past the turn, and a streak of the snow in her coal-black hair. For as the old song says, her hair was like the crow, and her blay was like the snow. And her bow-bended lip was like the rose hip, and her eye was like the lightning, glorious and frightening. But all that would soon be o'er. About this time, one day in the gloaming, there came on sick an awful storm, at the folk of the castle were frightened and mothed out of their wits.

The lightning came out of the yard, and no fraid to lift at all. The wind roared as gin it had been an incarnate rage, but then a rattled and cracked. As gin the moon and all the stars had been made kettle-drums of for the occasion. But never a drop o' rain or a stone o' hail fell. Nothin' broke out but blue light an' roaring wind. But the strangest thing was that the sea lay all the time as unconcerned as a sleepin' bairn. The wind got no more grip o' it, nor gin all the angels had been poured an' isle out o' widow's crouses upon it. The vera tide came up quieter nor ordinary. And the folk were so perplexed as well as freighted. Just as the clock of the castle chapped the dead of the night, the clamour of vices was heard through the thunder and the wind, and the warder looking down frae the high bartison of the Mughal Tor saw in the fire floats a company of riders approaching the castle, all upon grand horses, he said, that spraying this gate and that, and shot fire frae their ean.

At the drawbridge they blew a horn and routed like all the bulls of Bashan. And when the warder challenged them, claimed horse-room for the night. Nobody had ever heard the place they came frae. It was so far away, and as soon as the body heard the name of it, he forgot it again. But their beasts were as fresh and as full of smitham as I tell ye, and not a hair one of them turnt. There was just a dales' dizin' of them, and wharever ye begin to count them, the thirteenth had aye red beard. When the news was taein' to the Marcus, the yearl, I should say. He gave orders to let them in at once, for whatever faults he had, neither Fear nor Hainan was among them. So in the came, clattering o'er the drawbridge, it gied up and down an'eath them, as gin it would outcast them.

Right-framed folk they looked when they came into the courtyard, all spangled with bonny bright stones of all colours. They were like no folk ever the Yarl had seen, and he had been to Jerusalem in his day, and had foughten with the Saracens. But they were courteous men and well-braid, and mostly well-fared, too, ill gone looking like a Lord's Son at the least. They had not a single serving man with them, and would allow none of the folk about the place to lay hand upon their beasts. And ill gone, as he said na, would give the stallion underneath him a dig with his spurs, or a kick in the ribs, then he was off his back, with the steel toe of his boot. And the brute would lay his lugs in the hole of his neck, and turn his head a-sklint, with one white eye glaying out of it, And lift a hind leg with a glintin' shoe turned pack, and look like sartin' himsel when he dar'na.

Well, my lord and my lady were sittin' in the Muggle hall, for they could not gang to their beds in sick of bias storm. When him it was the chief of them was ushered in by the seneschal, that's the steward-like, bowin' afore him, and callin' him the prince, and no more, for he could not mind the name o' his place long enough to say it o'er again. And so a prince he was, and for by that... Just a man by himself to look at. In the prime of life, maybe, but not freely in the first o'it, for he had the look as gin he had had a hard time o'it, and had a white streak and a crossfoot here and there, the likelier to please m'lady, who'll look it down upon a body younger nor herself. He had a commanding, maybe some oar-bearing look, one that a man might a bristled up at, but a lady like m'lady would welcome as worth bringing down.

He was dressed as never man had appeared in Scotland afore, Glorious without, no like the lady in the Psalms, for here he could light nowhere but there was a glitter of a stone, so that he flashed all o'er, ill commotion he made. He carried a short sword at his side. No muckle longer nor my daddy's dirk, as ginny never fought but at close quarters. The wilk had three sapphires, blue stones, they tell me, and muckle ones, low and in the sheath of it, and a muckler one still in the heft. Only they were some drumly. Clouded, the lady thought, being a judge of hinges at logs, earrings, and sick vanities. That may be as it may, but in came the prince, with a leigh bow, and a grand obstreightening again, and though as I say he was flashing all o'er, his manner was quiet as the moonlight, just grace at sail.

He professed himself unco indebted for the shelter accorded him, and as e'en I sought the ladies. And his admiration or was plain in ill-calochen gesture, and though his words were few, they all meant mer nor they said. Before his supper came in, her heart was at his will. They say that when a woman's late a-fallen in love, ye'll ken, my lord, I ken nothing about it, it's the mer likely to be an un-reasonin' and uncontrollable fancy. In sick matters, it seems wisdom comes now with grey hairs. Within one hour the lady was enamoured of the stranger in a fearful way. She poured out his wine to him with her own hand, and the moment he put the glass to his lips, the wind fell, and the lightning devout ceased.

She set herself to put questions to him, sick as she thought he would like to answer, all about himself and what he had come through, and six stories as he'd told. She had tented to him as she had never done to guess before, And her father saw that she was certain with the man. But he was not altogether so well pleased, for there was something about him, he could not say what, that guard him grew. Shudder. He was not a man to have fancies, or stand upon freights, but he could not help the creep that gared down his backbone ill get time as I encountered that other prince. It was I sick of strange luck the prince cursed upon him. A look as gin him and the Earl had been already or well acquaint, though the Earl could not mind that every he had set ae upon him.

All the time, however, he had a kind of a suspicion that they bood to be old acquaintances, and so he sought to make him out. But the Prince would never let a body get a glimpse of his ain, cept the body he was speaking to. That is, gin he could help it, for the Earl did get two or three glimpses of him as a spectulous daughter. And he declared to Efterhine to the King's Commissioner that a pale blue kind of light came from them, the wilk the body he was conversing with and looking straight at, never saw. Well, the short and the longa that night was that they gaed all to their beds. In the morning, when the Marcus, the Earl, I should say, and his daughter came down the stair, the whole Menye, company, was away.

Never a horse was in the stable but the earl's and beasts. Not on hair left behind to show that they had been there, and in the chambers allotted to their riders never a pair of sheets had been slipped in. The earl and my lady sat down to break their fast, not freely in the same humour the two of them, as ye may well believe. When they were about half through, who said come striding in, some dore and ill-pleased like, but the prince himself. Both the earl and lady started up. At they should a sittin' down till a meal, on even advertised their visitor that sick was their purpose. They made muckle adieu with apologies and explanations, but the prince eye bowed and bowed and said so little that they thought immortal angered.

The wilk was a great vex to my lady, you may be sure. He had a wither-like look, and the very diamonds in his clothes were doof-like. All together, he had a brunt-out, kinda icy look. Ashy. At length the butler came in, and the prince signed to him, and he gud near, and the prince drummed on, and took mooted in his log, and his breath, the old man said, was like the grave. He hadn't had his morning, he said, and tellt him to put the wosky upon the table. The butler did as he was told, and set down the decanter, and a glaze aside it, but the prince bent him just fearful, and ordered him to take away that playock and fess a tumbler. "'I'm thinking, my lord, that won't be a modern touch,' remarked Malcolm here, interrupting himself.

"'There was not glass in the Times, was there?' "'What do I know?' said the Marquis. "'Go on with your story.' "'But there's mere intellect than that,' persisted Malcolm. "'I don't can there was any whisky in the Times either. For I heard a gentleman say the other day at how he had tasted the first whisky that was ever distilled in Scotland. And horrible stuff it was,' he said, though it was most as old as the forty-five." Confound your long wind! Go on, said the Marquis, peremptorily. We so call it, whiskey, then, on a gate, said Malcolm, and resumed. The butler did again as he was bidden, and face a tumbler, or, may likely, a sealer cup, and the prince took the decanter, or what it might be, and filled it to the vera brim.

The butler's aim mayst start it frae's head, but nebity said nothin'. He lifted it. Greedy-like, and drank off the whisky as g'n't had been water. That's middling, he said, as he set it on the table again. They looked to see him fall down dead, but in place of that he begot to gather himsail a bit, and says he, we brew the same drink in my country, but a wee mere powerful. Soon he asked for a slice of boar ham and a raw apple, and that was all he ate. But he took another walk to the whisky, and his e'en grew brighter. And the stones about him began to flash again, and my lady admired in the mere that what would have failed any other man only wakened him up a bit. And sine he telled him how, lay to be fascist, he had gine orders till his men ye to be afe for the morning break, and waited the next change-house till he joined them.

"'Where,' said the lady, "'I trust ye'll let them wait, or I'll send for them.' But the earl sat and said never a word. The prince came one glower. And declared that his lady's word was law to him, and he would bide till she willed him to gang. At this her rain shot fire, maest like a zane, and she smiled as she had never smiled afore, and the earl couldna bide the sight o't, but darna interfere. He rose, and left the room and them together. What passed atwixt the two there was none to tell, but o'er and o'er was by they came out upon the garden terrace together, hand in hand. Lookin' both of them as grand and as well pleased as gin they had been king and queen. The lang and the short of it was, at the same day at night, the two was married.

Neither of them would hear of a priest. Say what the old yearl could, they would not hear a sicker thing, and the lady was most mere set again nor the prince. She would be married according to Scots law, she said, and would hae nae other ceremony, say all he liked. A grand feast was got ready. In just the minute afore it was carried to the hall, the great bell of the castle yelled out, and all the folk of the house was gathered in the courtyard, and out came the two afore them, hand in hand, declaring themselves married folk, the wilk, according to Scots law, was but o'er good marriage. Sine they sat down to their dinner, and there they sat. Not drinking muckle, they say, but merely enjoying themselves, the ladies singing a song now and again, and the prince saying he once could sing, but had forgotten the gate, but never a prayer, nor a blessing asked.

Until the clock chapped twelve, whereupon the prince and princess raised again to their bed, in a room where the king himself aye sleeped when he came to see them. But there was not one of the men or the maids that would have dared be their lands with that man, prince as he called himself. A minute, or barely two was o'er, when a cry came for the King's room. A fearful cry. A long, long screech. The men and the maids looked at one another with awesome looks, and, "'He's killin' her!' they all gasped at once. No, she was never a favourite with any one of her own folk, but still they could not hear such a cry for her, and run to the Earl." They find him pacing up and down the hall, and looking like a dead man in a rage of fear.

But when they tell him, he only look at them, and call them ill names, and say he had not heard a cheep. So they took nothing by that, and gade back thrimlin'. Two of them, a man and a maid to hold heart in one another, gade up to the door of the trance, and led to the king's room. But for a while they heard nothing. Sighin' came the sound like a moanin' and gratin' and prayin'. The next minute they were back again among the lave, lookin' like two corpse. They had opened the door of the trance to hurrican closer, and what so they see there but the fiery ean and the white teeth of the prince's horse, lyin' athor't the door of the king's room, wi' his head atween his forefeet, and keepin' watch like a tyke.

Dog. Here long they bethought themselves, and two of them set out and off together for the priory. That's where your in-house lossy now stands, my lord, to face a priest. It would be a good two hour they went back, and all that time, ill can own then, the moaning and the begging and the crying would come again. And the warder upon the hay tower declared it ever since midnight the princes many, the whole twelve of them, was couriering about the castle, round and round. With a'en o'er beasts lowin, and their heads out, and their manes up, and their tails fleeing a'aint them. He'e lost sight o' them when they went to the edge o'er the scar, but round they'e came again upon the other side, as g'en there had been a road where there wasna'en a ledge.

The moment the priest's horse set foot upon the drawbridge, the poor lady gave another oogsome cry, a hantle warden o'er the first, and up got a sudden roar and a blast o' wind that most carried the castle there off o' the cliff into the water, and sa'n came a flash o' blue light and a rumblin'. After that, all was quiet. It was all o'er afore the priest went a' thwart the courtyard and up the stair, for he crossed himself and got straight for the bridal chamber. By this time the Earl had come up, and followed Cawranahein the priest. Never a horse was in the trance, and the priest, first laying the cross at Hengfreya's belt again the door of the chamber, flang it open without any ceremony, for yele low there was room for none.

And what, think ye, was the first thing the Earl saw? A great hole in the wall of the room, and the starry plough looking in at it, and the sea lying far down afore him, as quiet as the bride upon the bed. But a hantle bonnier to look at, for ilk a stick that had been on her was burnt off, and the bonny body of her was lyin' a-runcled, and as black as a coal frae head to foot, and the reek at her ozra was hideous. I needna say the bridegroom wasna there. Some folk thought it was a good sign that he hadna carried the body with him, but maybe he was ower a sudden scared by the foot of the priest's horse upon the drawbridge, and daredna bied his uncom. So the four-foot stone wall had to flee for him, for a through-gain to the prince of the power of the air, and yawns the very hall to this day, that he was so near or well-acquaint with yourself, milady.

For the year I left the castle, and never a Collinsy has made his abode there since, saying. But some say that the reason the castle came to be deserted altogether was that as often as they bigot up the hall, it fell out again. As sure as the day o' the year came round when first it happened. They say that at twelve o'clock that same night, the door o' that room I gade too, and that nobody dare touch it, for the heat o' the handle o' it. And sain came the screehin' and the moanin', and the fearsome skellach at the last, and a rumble like thunder, and in the moanin' there was the wall out. The hole's bigger now, for all the decay the castle has ta'en to slidin' out at it. And doubtless it'll spread and spread till the hail's structure vanishes.

At least so they say, my lord. But I would have a try at the holding of it together for all that. I didn't see it the deal should have it all his own gate, as then we were all flayed at him. Folk a-threep it upon me that there in the gloaming they have seen an awesome face looking in upon them through that slab in the wall. But I never believed it was anything but the rain fancy, though for all that I ken it may have been something not canny. Still I say, who's firt? The ill man has no poor sepore zane kin. We're telt to resist him, and he'll flee frae us." 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 folk, my lady, said Malcolm, would I be at the hainer end of a thing. But for my sale- The mere pleased I was to be ga'n any gate, the mere I would spin o't the road till it. How much of the story may be your own invention now? said the Marquis. Oh, not that muckle, my lord. Just a few extras and particulars, et might well a' been, with an adjective or an adverd bursick like here and there. I made a mistake, though. G'en it was yon whole yoner. They bowed till again dawn, and o' up the stair to their chamber. 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 cutters 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.

Partly to turn them away from the more terrible portion of her adventure, she began to reflect upon her interview with Mrs. Catenhaugh, 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 ruins 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-key, 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. Cattenaugh'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.

42 42 - Duncan's Disclosure 17:30

Duncan's Disclosure. The night long, Malcom 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. Catenna. 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 Florimau 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 forever, 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, and demoniacal laughter.

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 Kronstadt. 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 dreadful tired lying here in 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 it's the sun, whiles the wind, and whiles the water. But I kenna rest. Henna ye a bit ballant, you could say, tell me, Mr. Graham. There's nothing would quiet me like a ballant.'" 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 would be a treat, sir, returned Malcolm, and the master, with perfect rhythm and a modulation amounting almost to melody, repeated the following verses. The water ran down frae the hay ho-peed wi'irin bernirin. It wimpled and waggled and sang a screed, a nonsense and would not blen, wi its rain, burning rain. Fra the heart of the world, wi a swirl and a sway, an a rain, burning rain.

That water-lap clear fra the dark till the day, an singin' away did spin, wi its rain, burning rain. A wee bit mile fra the high-hope head, wi a rain, burning rain. Maing her riaws and her lambs the hard lassie stood, an she looked a tear fall in. Witherin' burnie rain. Fraa the heart o' the maiden that tear-drap rose, Witherin' burnie rain. Wearily climbing up narrow ways, there was but a drop to fall in, so slow did that burnie rain. Two wee bit miles fraa the high-hope head, Witherin' burnie rain. Doan creep it a cow and streak your head, and melt it away within, Witherin' burnie rain. Fraa the heart o' youth came the tricklin' red, With a rin burny rin. It ran and ran till it lift him did, and sine it dried up in the wind, and that burny na mair did rin.

When the wimpling burn that frae three hearts gaed, with a rin burny rin, came to the lip of the sea so bred, it curled and grew'd with pain o sin, but it took that burny in. It's a bonnie-bonnie song, said Malcolm, but I cannot say I altogether like it. Why not? asked Mr. Graham, with an inquiring smile. Because the ocean shouldna make a mow at the poor earth-burnie that couldna help what ran into it. It took it in, though, and made it clean, for all the pain it couldn't help either. Well, gin you look at it that gate, 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. "'Wound it in the hand and in the foot,' said the seer.

"'What can it mean?' "'It must mean something, Malcolm, my son.' "'Well, Daddy, we moan just 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. Then 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 been afraid to meet it, but it has come, and Alistair will meet it.

She'll not be your grandfather, 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. You'll be my own father then, said Malcolm. No, no, my son. She'll not be anything that's your own at all. And the tears flowed down his channeled 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. "'Yere my ain, Daddy, whatever ye are,' he said. "'Tell me all about it, Daddy.' "'She'll tell you all she'll be knowing, my son, "'and she never told a lie even to a camel.'" 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 know you'll be loving her no more, my boy, my child, my Malcolm,' he understood it." "'Daddy, daddy!' he cried, throwing his arms round his neck and kissing him. "'I love you better nor ever, and well I may. But how can you, when you've got none of the blood in you, my son?' Persisted Duncan. I have as muckle as ever I had, Daddy. Yes, but you didn't know. But ye did, Daddy. Yes, and indeed she cannot tell why she'll be loving you so much herself all the time. Well, Daddy, g'en ye could love me so well, canin' me no blood's blood o' your ain.

I cannot help it. I mon love ye, mer' nor ever. Know it I can it too? Daddy, Daddy, I had no claim upon you, and you been father and grandfather and all to me. What could she do, Malcolm, my boy? The child had no one, and she had no one, and so it was. You must be her own boy after all, and she'll not be wondering, but it might be. Yes, indeed not." His voice sank to the murmurs of a half-uttered soliloquy, and as he murmured, He stroked Malcolm's cheek. "'What are you after now, 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 well should she be loving you so much, Malcolm, my son?' "'I can what Mr. Graham would say, Daddy,' rejoined Malcolm at a half-guess." What would he say, my son? He's a good man, your Master Graham. It could not be without the same fathers and the same chief. He would say it was cause we were all one blood. Cause we all had one father. Oh yes, no doubt. We all come from the same first parents, but that will be a very long way off, before the clans got together. It'll not be holding very well now, my son. That was before the camels. That's not what Mr. Graham would mean, Daddy, said Malcolm. He would mean that God was the Father of us all, and so we could not help loat one another. No, dat cannot be right, Malcolm, for then we should have to love everybody.

Now she loves you, my son, and she hates Comal of Glenlion. She loves Mistress Parton when she might be too rude to her, and she hates dat Mistress Katna. She's a bad woman, dat. She'll be certain sure, though she'll never saw her to speak to her. She'll have claws to her bosoms. Well, Daddy, there was nothing either to guard you love me. I was just a helpless human being, and so for that, and nae either reason, you took all that fash with me. And for myself, I'm indeed sure I couldn't love you better nor you was twice my grandfather. He's her own boy, cried the Piper, much comforted. And his hand sawed his head and lighted gently upon it. But maybe, he went on, she might not have loved you so much if she hadn't been thinking sometimes.

He checked himself. Malcolm's questions brought no conclusion to the sentence, and a long silence followed. Suppose an eye was to turn out a commel, 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. "'Was it her own son to be speaking such an evil thing?' he said, in a tone of injured and sad expostulation. "'For anything ye can, Daddy. Ye cannot tell but it may't be.' "'Don't breathe 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. "'But it cannot be,' he resumed instantly. "'For then how should she be loving you, my son?' "'Cause ye was in for that afore ye kent what the poor beast ye was.

The darling child. She could not have loved him if he had been a camel. Her soul would have jumped back from him as from the snake in the tree. The hate in her heart to the blood of a camel would have killed the child of camel blood. No, Malcolm. No, my son. You would not have me believe, Daddy, that g'en ye had kent by mark of hoof and horn, that the creature they laid in your lap was a camel. You would have risen up and loaten it lie where it fell?" No, Malcolm. I would have put my foot upon it as I would on the young viper into hither. G'n I was to turn out one of that ill race you would hate me then, Daddy, after all. Oh, hon, Daddy, you would be well pleased to think how you stuck your dirk through the ill hand of me, and wouldn't rest till you had it through the war heart.

I doubt I had better up and away, Daddy, for who kens what you may not do 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 down, lie down, my boy. If you get up, that will be you are a cummel. No, no, my son. You are very cruel to your own old daddy. She would be- She would take you to her bosom, and that would drive the camel out of you. But don't speak of it anymore, my son, for it cannot be. She must go now, for her pipes will be 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 whar 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 gypsy 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, never more could he look one of his old companions in the face. They were all honorable 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 Port Lossie. 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.

43 43 - The Wizard's Chamber 11:37

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, when almost of itself the door opened a couple of inches, and with bated breath He saw the back of a figure he could not mistake, that of Mrs.

Cattenaugh. 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 endued his nether garments, though with difficulty from the size of his foot, thrust his head and arms through a jersey, and set out on his 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 from the first floor where it 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 nightlight, 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. The boy was a little bit, 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, catching up the second pistol. "'Malcolm! You're a 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 wasn't a mare like an honest man,' said Malcolm. "'Or that bullet would have been through the harns of me. Your lordship's a wean o'r 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 rib fitly closed the sentence.

"'Ye are o'r rash, my lord,' persisted Malcolm. "'I cannot get up. I have a foot the size of a small buoy.' "'Speak, then, you rascal,' said his lordship, loosening his hold and retreating a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his hand. "'Dinna you think it would be better to lock the door, for fear the shot should bring any other folk,' 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. "'Gin I had been that, my lord, I wouldn't have wakened you 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.' "'Well, my lord, I agrippit her at last, and I bode to come and tell ye. Leave your beastly gibberish. You can speak what at least resembles English when you like.' "'Well, my lord, I—' I have her under lock and key. Who in the name of Satan? Mistress Catana, 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 would feign your lordship, Kent? I dunno. None of your riddles. Explain yourself, and make haste. I want to go to bed again. Did your lordshipman just put on your clothes and come with me? Where to? To the warlock's chamber, my lord. Where that ill woman remains, endurance vile, as Spencer would say.

But no so vile's herseel, I dote. 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 Marquess grew interested, and by the time he had finished, had got himself into dressing-gown and slippers. "'What na ye take your pistol?' suggested Malcolm slyly. "'What, to meet a woman?' said his lordship. "'Oh, na, but who kens there might net be another murderer about?' "'There might be two in one night.' 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. Cattenaugh, 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. Cattenaugh, 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. Catanaw. "'I know him too well.' "'Away wi' ye, ye deals, Bucky,' she continued, turning to Malcolm.

"'I ken maire about you, nor do ye ken about your sale.' "'And they'll have it I kinna good to you o' yours, but I segar you lach on the wrong side o' your mowl yet, ma' men.' Malcolm, who had seated himself on the threshold, only laughed and looked reference to his master. "'Your lordship was never in the way of being frightened at a woman,' said Mrs. Cattenaugh, with an ugly expression of insinuation." The Marquis shrugged his shoulders. "'That depends,' he said. "'Then turning to Malcolm, go along,' he added." "'Only keep within call. I may want you.' "'None of ye are harkening at the keyhole, though, or I shall log mark ye.' "'Ye,' said Mrs. Cattenaugh, finishing the sentence none the more mildly that she did it only in her heart.

"'I wouldn't know how ye believe all it she says, my lord,' said Malcolm, with a significant smile, as he turned to creep away. He closed the door behind him, and lest Mrs. Cattenaugh should repossess herself of the key, drew it from the lock. and removing a few yards, sat down in the passage by his own door. A good many minutes passed, during which he heard not a sound. At length the door opened, and his lordship came out. Malcolm looked up, and saw the light of the candle the marquis carried, reflected from a face like that of a corpse. Different as they were, Malcolm could not help thinking of the only dead face he had ever seen. It terrified him for the moment in which it passed him without looking at him.

My lord, said Malcolm gently. His master made no reply. My lord, cried Malcolm, hurriedly pursuing him with his voice, am I to leave the keys with Yon Hurden and let her open what door she likes? Go to bed, said the Marquis angrily, and leave the woman alone. With which words he turned into the adjoining passage and disappeared. Mrs. Cattenaugh had not come out of the wizard's chamber, and for a moment Malcolm felt strongly tempted to lock her in once more. But he reflected that he had no right to do so after what his lordship had said. Else, he declared to himself, he would have given her at least a good affright as she seemed to have given his master, to whom he had no doubt she had been telling some horrible lies.

He withdrew, therefore, into his room, to lie pondering again for a wakeful while. This horrible woman claimed then to know more concerning him than his so-called grandfather, and from her profession it was likely enough. But information from her was hopeless, at least until her own evil time came. And then how was anyone to believe what she might choose to say? So long, however, as she did not claim him for her own, she could, he thought, do him no hurt he would be afraid to meet. But what could she be about in that room still? She might have gone, though, without the fall of her soft, fat foot once betraying her. Again he got out of bed, and crept to the wizard's door and listened. But all was still.

He tried to open it, but could not. Mrs. Cattenaw was doubtless spending the night there, and perhaps at that moment lay, evil conscience and all, fast asleep in the tent-bed. He withdrew once more, Wondering whether she was aware that he occupied the next room, and having for the first time taken care to fasten his own door, got into bed, finally this time, and fell asleep.

44 44 - The Hermit 20:20

The Hermit. Malcolm had flattered himself that he would at least be able to visit his grandfather the next day. But instead of that, he did not even make an attempt to rise, head as well as foot aching so much that he felt unfit for the least exertion, A phase of being he had never hitherto known. Mrs. Courthope insisted on advice, and the result was that a whole week passed before he was allowed to leave his room. In the meantime, a whisper awoke, and passed from mouth to mouth in all directions through the little borough. Whence arising, only one could tell, For even her mouthpiece, Miss Horne's jean, was such a mere tool in the midwife's hands that she never doubted but Mrs. Cattenaw was, as she said, only telling the tale as it was told to her.

Mrs. Cattenaw, moreover, absolutely certain that no threats would render Jeanne capable of holding her tongue, had so impressed upon her the terrible consequences of repeating what she had told her, that the moment the echo of her own utterances began to return to her own ears, she began to profess an utter disbelief in the whole matter, the precise result Mrs. Cattenaugh had foreseen and intended. Now she lay unsuspected behind Jean, as behind a wall whose door was built up. For she had so graduated her threats, gathering the fullest and vaguest terrors of her supernatural powers about her name, That while Jean dared, with many misgivings, to tamper with the secret itself, she dared not once mention Mrs.

Cattenaugh in connection with it. For Mrs. Cattenaugh herself, she never alluded to the subject, and indeed, when it was mentioned in her hearing, pretended to avoid it. But at the same time, she took good care that her silence should be not only eloquent, but discreetly so, that is, implying neither more nor less than she wished to be believed. The whisper in its first germinal sprout was merely that Malcolm was not a MacPhail, and even in its second stage it only amounted to this, that neither was he the grandson of old Duncan. In the third stage of its development it became the assertion that Malcolm was the son of somebody of consequence, and in the fourth that a certain person, not yet named, lay under shrewd suspicion.

The fifth and final form it took was that Malcolm was the son of Mrs. Stewart of Gersfell, who had been led to believe that he died within a few days of his birth, whereas he had, in fact, been carried off and committed to the care of Duncan MacPhail, who drew a secret annual stipend of no small amount in consequence, whence, indeed, his well-known riches. Concerning this final form of the Whisper, a few of the women of the borough Believed or thought or fancied they remembered both the birth and reported death of the child in question. Also certain rumors afloat at the time, which cast an air of probability over the new reading of his fate. In circles more remote from authentic sources, the general reports met with remarkable embellishments, but the framework of the rumor, what I may call the bones of it, remained undisputed.

From Mrs. Cattenaugh's behaviour, everyone believed that she knew all about the affair, but no one had a suspicion that she was the hidden fountain and prime mover of the report. So far to the contrary was it, that people generally anticipated a frightful result for her when the truth came to be known, for that Mrs. Stewart would follow her with all the vengeance of a bereaved tigress. Some, indeed, there were who fancied that the mother, if not in full complicity with the midwife, had at least given her consent to the arrangement. But these were not a little shaken, in their opinion, when at length Mrs. Stewart herself began to figure more immediately in the affair, and it was witnessed that she had herself begun to search into the report.

Certain it was that she had dashed into the town in a carriage and pair, the horses covered with foam, and had hurried, quite raised-like, from house to house, prosecuting inquiries. It was said that finding at length, after much labour, that she could arrive at no certainty even as to the first promulgator of the assertion, she had a terrible fit of crying, and professed herself unable, much as she would have wished it, to believe a word of the report. It was far too good news to be true. No such luck ever fell to her share, and so on. That she did not go near Duncan MacPhail was accounted for by the reflection that, on the supposition itself, He was of the opposite party, and the truth was not to be looked for from him.

At length it came to be known that, strongly urged and battling with a repugnance all but invincible, she had gone to see Mrs. Cattenaugh, and had issued absolutely radiant with joy, declaring that she was now absolutely satisfied, and as soon as she had communicated with the young man himself, would, without compromising anyone, Take what legal steps might be necessary to his recognition as her son. Although, however, these things had been going on all the week that Malcolm was confined to his room, they had not reached this last point until after he was out again. And meantime, not a whisper of them had come to his or Duncan's ears. Had they been still in the Seton, one or other of the traveling ripples of talk must have found them.

But Duncan had come and gone between his cottage and Malcolm's bedside. without a single downy feather from the still widening flap of the wings of fame ever dropping on him. And the only persons who visited Malcolm besides were the doctor, too discreet in his office to mix himself up with gossip. Mr. Graham, to whom nobody, except it had been Miss Horne, whom he had not seen for a fortnight, would have dreamed of mentioning such a subject. And Mrs. Courthope, not only discreet like the doctor, But shy of such discourse as any reference to the rumor must usher in its train. At length he was sufficiently recovered to walk to his grandfather's cottage. But only now, for the first time, had he a notion of how far bodily condition can reach in the oppression and over-clouding of the spiritual atmosphere.

"'Can I be like this,' he said to himself. "'What mon the weather be like aneathion hump o' the lairds?' Now also for the first time he understood what Mr. Graham had meant. When he told him that he only was a strong man who was strong in weakness, he only a brave man who, inhabiting trembling, yet faced his foe, he only a true man who, tempted by good, yet abstained. Duncan received him with delight, made him sit in his own old chair, got him a cup of tea, and waited upon him with the tenderness of a woman. While he drank his tea, Malcolm recounted his last adventure in connection with the wizard's chamber. "'That will be the bed she'll saw in her vision," said Duncan, whose very eyes seemed to listen to the tale.

When Malcolm came to Mrs. Cattenaw's assertion that she knew more of him than he did himself, "'Then she believes the woman does, my boy. We are all, both of us, in the evil woman's power,' said Duncan sadly." Never a hair, Daddy," cried Malcolm. All poor is in the hands of one, and that's not her, Maester. Can she what she likes? She cannot part you and me, Daddy. God forbid, responded Duncan. But we must be on our guard. Close by the cottage stood an ivy-grown bridge, of old leading the King's Highway across the burn to the old Tone, but now leading only to the Flower Garden. Eager for the open air of which he had been so long deprived, and hoping he might meet the Marquis or Lady Florimel, Malcolm would have had his grandfather accompany him thither.

But Duncan declined, for he had not yet attended to the lamps, and Malcolm therefore went alone. He was slowly wandering, where never wind blew, betwixt rows of stately hollyhocks, on which his eyes fed, while his ears were filled with the sweet noises of a little fountain, Issuing from the upturned beak of a marble swan, which a marble urchin sought in vain to check by squeezing the long throat of the bird. When the sounds of its many-toned fall in the granite basin seemed suddenly centupled on every side, and Malcolm found himself caught in a tremendous shower. Prudent enough to avoid getting wet in the present state of his health, he made for an arbor he saw nearby, on the steep side of the valley, one he had never before happened to notice.

Now it chanced that Lord Lossie himself was in the garden, and caught also by the rain, while feeding some pet gold-fishes in a pond, betook himself to the same summer-house following Malcolm. Entering the arbor, Malcolm was about to seat himself until the shower should be over, when, perceiving a mossy arched entrance to a gloomy recess in the rock behind, he went to peep into it, curious to see what sort of a place it was. Now the foolish whim of a past generation had, in the farthest corner of the recess, and sideways from the door, seated the figure of a hermit, whose jointed limbs were so furnished with springs, and so connected with the stone that floored the entrance, that as soon as a foot pressed the threshold, he rose, advanced a step, and held out his hand.

The moment, therefore, that Malcolm stepped in, up rose a pale, hollow-cheeked, emaciated man, With eyes that stared glassily, made a long skeleton-like stride toward him, and held out a huge bony hand, rather as it seemed with the intent of clutching than of greeting him. An unaccountable horror seized him. With a gasp which had nearly become a cry, he staggered backwards out of the cave. It seemed to add to his horror that the man did not follow, remained lurking in the obscurity behind. In the arbor Malcolm turned. Turned to flee, though why or from what he had scarce an idea. But when he turned, he encountered the Marquess, who was just entering the arbor. "'Well, MacPhail,' he said kindly, "'I'm glad—' But his glance became fixed in a stare.

He changed colour, and did not finish his sentence. "'I beg your lordship's pardon,' said Malcolm, wondering through all his perturbation at the look he had brought on his master's face. "'I didn't ken you was at hand.' "'What the devil makes you look like that?' said the Marquis, plainly with an effort to recover himself. Malcolm gave a hurried glance over his shoulder. "'Ah, I see,' said his lordship, with a mechanical kind of smile, very unlike his usual one. You've never been in there before.' "'No, my lord.' "'And you got a fright?' "'Can you who's that in there, my lord?' "'You booby. It's nothing but a dummy, with springs and—and all damned tomfoolery.'" While he spoke, his mouth twitched oddly, but instead of his bursting into the laugh of enjoyment natural to him at the discomfiture of another, his mouth kept on twitching, and his eyes staring.

"'Ye mauna seen him yoursel o'er my shoulder, my lord,' hinted Malcolm. "'I saw your face, and that was enough to—' But the Marquis did not finish the sentence. "'Well, sep it was the unnettural look o' the thing. No human, and yet sa' dooms like it.' I cannot account for the grue or the tremble it came o'er me, my lord. I never found anything like it in my life afore. And even know it I understand what it is, I cannot what would gar me look the body in the face again. Go in it once, said the Marquis fiercely. Malcolm looked him full in the eyes. You mean what you say, my lord? Yes, by God, said the Marquis, with an expression I can describe only as of almost savage solemnity. Malcolm stood silent for one moment.

"'Do you think I'll have a man about me that has no more courage than—than—a woman?' said his master, concluding with an effort. "'I was just turning o'er an old question, my lord, whether it be lawful to obey a tyrant. But it's now worth standing o'er upon, as a gang.' He turned to the arch, placed a hand on each side of it, and leaning forward with outstretched neck, peeped cautiously in, as if it were the den of a wild beast. The moment he saw the figure, seated on a stool— He was seized with the same unaccountable agitation, and drew back, shivering. "'Go in!' shouted the Marquis. Most Britons would count obedience to such a command slavish. But Malcolm's idea of liberty differed so far from that of most Britons, that he felt if now he refused to obey the Marquis, he might be a slave forever.

For he had already learned to recognize and abhor that slavery— Which is not the less the root of all other slaveries, that it remains a cult in proportion to its potency. Self-slavery. He must and would conquer this whim, antipathy, or whatever the loathing might be. It was a grand chance given him of proving his will supreme, that is, himself a free man. He drew himself up with a full breath and stepped within the arch. Up rose the horror again, jerked itself towards him with a clank, and held out its hand. Malcolm seized it with such a gripe that its fingers came off in his grasp. "'Will that do, my lord,' he said calmly, turning a face rigid with hidden conflict, and gleaming white from the framework of the arch upon his master, whose eyes seemed to devour him.

"'Come out,' said the Marquis, in a voice that seemed to belong to someone else." "'I have bloated your pleioc, my lord,' said Malcolm ruefully, as he stepped from the cave and held out the fingers. Lord Lossie turned and left the arbor. Had Malcolm followed his inclination, he would have fled from it, but he mastered himself still and walked quietly out. The marquis was pacing, with down-bent head and hasty strides up the garden. Malcolm turned the other way. The shower was over. And the sun was drawing out millions of mimic suns from the drops that hung, for a moment ere they fell, from flower and bush and great tree. But Malcolm saw nothing. Perplexed with himself, and more perplexed yet with the behavior of his master, he went back to his grandfather's cottage, and as soon as he came in, recounted to him the whole occurrence.

He had a vision, said the bard with wide eyes. He comes of a race that sees. What could the vision abend, Addy? That she knows not, for the vision did not come to her," said the piper solemnly. Had the Marquis had his vision in London, he would have gone straight to his study, as he called it, not without a sense of the absurdity involved, opened a certain cabinet, and drawn out a certain hidden drawer. Being at Lossie, he walked up the Glen of the Byrne to the Bear Hill. Overlooking the house, the royal borough, the great sea, and his own lands lying far and wide around him. But all the time he saw nothing of these. He saw but the low, white forehead of his vision, a mouth of sweetness, and hazel eyes that looked into his very soul.

Malcolm walked back to the house, clomb the narrow duct of an ancient stone stair that went screwing like a great auger through the pile from top to bottom. sought the wide, lonely garret, flung himself upon his bed, and from his pillow gazed through the little dormer window on the pale blue skies, flecked with cold white clouds. While in his mind's eye he saw the foliage beneath burning in the flames of slow decay, diverse as if each of the seven in the prismatic cord had chosen and seared its own. The first nor'easter that drove the flocks of Neptune on the sands. would sweep its ashes away. Life, he said to himself, was but a poor, gray kind of thing after all. The peacock summer had folded its gorgeous train, and the soul within him had lost its purple and green, its gold and blue.

He never thought of asking how much of the sadness was owing to bodily conditions with which he was little acquainted, and to compelled idleness in one accustomed to an active life. But if he had, The sorrowful probabilities of life would have seemed just the same. And indeed, he might have argued that, to be subject to any evil from a cause inadequate, only involves an absurdity that embitters the pain by its mockery. He had yet to learn what faith can do, in the revelation of the moodless, for the subjugation of mood to will. As he lay thus, weighed upon rather than pondering, His eye fell on the bunch of keys which he had taken from the door of the wizard's chamber, and he wondered that Mrs.

Courthope had not seen and taken them, apparently had not missed them, and the chamber, doomed to perpetual desertion, lying all the time open to any stray foot. Once more, at least, he must go and turn the key in the lock. As he went, the desire awoke to look again into the chamber. For that night he had had neither light nor time enough to gain other than the vaguest impression of it. But for no lifting of the latch would the door open. How could the woman, which she must be, have locked it? He proceeded to unlock it. He tried one key, then another. He went over the whole bunch. Mystery upon mystery, not one of them would turn. Bething himself, he began to try them the other way. And soon found one to throw the bolt on.

He turned it in the contrary direction, and it threw the bolt off. Still, the door remained immovable. It must then, awful thought, be fast on the inside. Was the woman's body lying there behind those check curtains? Would it lie there until it vanished, like that of the wizard? Vanished utterly, bones and all, to a little dust, which one day a housemaid might sweep up in a pan? On the other hand, if she had got shut in, would she not have made noise enough to be heard? He had been day and night in the next room. But it was not a spring lock, and how could that have happened? Or would she not have been missed, an inquiry made after her? Only such an inquiry might well have never turned in the direction of Lossie House, and he might never have heard of it if it had.

Anyhow, he must do something, and the first rational movement would clearly be to find out quietly for himself. Whether the woman was actually missing or not. Tired as he was, he set out at once for the burrow, and the first person he saw was Mrs. Cattena, standing on her doorstep and shading her eyes with her hand as she looked away out to the horizon over the roofs of the Seton. He went no farther. In the evening he found an opportunity of telling his master how the room was strangely closed, But his lordship pooh-poohed, and said something must have gone wrong with the clumsy old lock. With vague foresight, Malcolm took its key from the bunch, and watching his opportunity, unseen hung the rest on their proper nail in the housekeeper's room.

Then, having made sure that the door of the wizard's chamber was locked, he laid the key away in his own chest.

45 45 - Mr. Cairns and the Marquis 17:22

MR. Cairns and the Marquess. The religious movement amongst the fisherfolk was still going on. Their meeting was now held often during the week, and at the same hour on the Sunday as other people met at church. Nor was it any wonder that, having participated in the fervor which pervaded their gatherings in the cave, they should have come to feel the so-called divine service in the churches of their respective parishes, a dull, cold, lifeless, and therefore unhelpful ordinance, and at length regarding it as composed of beggarly elements, breathing of bondage, to fill the Bailey's barn three times every Sunday, a reverential and eager congregation. Now, had they confined their prayers and exhortations to those which, from an ecclesiastical point of view, constitute the unholy days of the week, Mr.

Cairns would have neither condescended nor presumed to take any notice of them. But when the bird's-eye view from his pulpit began to show patches of bare board where human forms had wont to appear, and when these plague spots had not only lasted through successive Sundays, but had begun to spread more rapidly, He began to think it time to put a stop to such fanatical aberrations, the result of pride and spiritual presumption, hostile towards God and rebellious towards their lawful rulers and instructors. For what an absurdity it was that the Spirit of Truth should have anything to communicate to illiterate and vulgar persons, except through the mouths of those to whom had been committed the dispensation of the means of grace.

Whatever wind might blow, except from their bellows, was, to Mr. Cairns at least, not even of doubtful origin. Indeed, the priests of every religion, taken in class, have been the slowest to recognize the wind of the Spirit, and the quickest to tell whence the blowing came and whither it went, even should it have blown first on their side of the hedge. And how could it be otherwise? How should they recognize, as a revival, the motions of life unfelt in their own hearts, where it was most required? What could they know of doubts and fears, terrors and humiliations, agonies of prayer, ecstasies of relief and thanksgiving, who regarded their high calling as a profession, with social claims and ecclesiastical rights?

And even as such had so little respect for it that they talked of it themselves as the cloth. How could such a man as Mr. Cairns, looking down from the height of his great soberness and the dignity of possessing the oracles and the ordinances, do other than contend the enthusiasms and excitements of ignorant repentance? How could such as he recognize, in the babble of babes, the slightest indication of the revealing of truths hid from the wise and prudent, especially since their rejoicing also was that of babes, hence carnal? and accompanied by all the weaknesses and some of the vices which it had required the utmost energy of the Prince of Apostles to purge from one at least of the early churches.

He might, however, have sought some foundation for a true judgment in a personal knowledge of their doctrine and collective behavior. But instead of going to hear what the babblers had to say, and thus satisfying himself whether the leaders of the movement spoke the words of truth and soberness or of discord and denial, Whether their teaching and their prayers were on the side of order and law, or tending to sedition, he turned a ready ear to all reports afloat concerning them, and misjudging them utterly, made up his mind to use all lawful means for putting an end to their devotions and exhortations. One fact he either had not heard or made no account of, that the public houses in the villages, whence these assemblies were chiefly gathered, had already come to be all but deserted.

Alone, then, and unsupported by one of his brethren of the Presbytery, even of those who suffered like himself, he repaired to Lossie House, and laid before the Marquis the whole matter from his point of view, that the tabernacles of the Lord were deserted for dens and caves of the earth, that fellows so void of learning as not to be able to put a sentence together or talk decent English A censure at which Lord Lossie smiled, for his ears were accustomed to a different quality of English from that which now invaded them. Took upon themselves to expound the scriptures, that they taught antinomianism, for which assertion it must be confessed there was some apparent ground, and were at the same time suspected of Arminianism and Anabaptism, that in a word They were a terrible disgrace to the godly and hitherto sober-minded parishes in which the sect, if it might be dignified with even such a name, had sprung up.

The Marquis listened with much indifference, and some impatience. What did he or any other gentleman care about such things? Besides, he had a friendly feeling towards the fisherfolk, and a decided disinclination to meddle with their liberty, either of action or utterance.

Ill from all artistic points of view as such a note comes in, I must, for reasons paramount to artistic considerations, remind my readers that not only is the date of my story half a century or so back, but dealing with principles has hardly anything to do with actual events, and nothing at all with persons. The local skeleton of the story alone is taken from the real, and I had not a model, not to say an original, for one of the characters in it, except indeed Mrs. Cattenaugh's dog. End of footnote. But what have I to do with it, Mr. Cairns, he said, when the stream of the parson's utterance had at length ceased to flow? I am not a theologian, and if I were I do not see how that even would give me a right to interfere.

In such times of insubordination as these, my lord. Said Mr. Cairns, when every cadger thinks himself as good as an earl, it is more than desirable that not a single foothold should be lost. There must be a general election soon, my lord. Besides, these men abuse your lordship's late hospitality, declaring it has had the worst possible influence on the morals of the people. A shadow of truth rendered this assertion the worst misrepresentation. No blame to the Marquis had even been hinted at. The speakers had only animadverted on the fishermen who had got drunk on the occasion. Still, said the Marquis, smiling, for the reported libel did not wound him very deeply, what ground of right have I to interfere?

The shore is your property, my lord, every rock and every bucky upon it. The caves are your own, every stone and pebble of them. You can prohibit all such assemblies. And what good would that do? They would only curse me and go somewhere else. Where could they go where the same law wouldn't hold, my lord? The coast is yours for miles and miles on both sides. I don't know that it should be. Why not, my lord? It has belonged to your family from time immemorial, and will belong to it, I trust, while the moon endureth. They used to say, said the Marquis thoughtfully, as if he were recalling something he had heard long ago, that the earth was the Lord's. This part of it is Lord Lossie's, said Mr. Cairns, combining the jocular with the complimentary in one irreverence.

But as if to atone for the freedom he had taken, the deity has committed it to the Great Ones of the earth to rule for him, he added, with a devout obeisance to the delegate. Lord Lossie laughed inwardly. "'You can even turn them out of their houses, if you please, my lord,' he superadded. "'God forbid,' said the Marquis. "'A threat. The merest hint of such a measure is all that would be necessary. But are you certain of the truth of these accusations?' "'My lord.' "'Of course you believe them, or you would not repeat them, but it does not follow that they are fact.' "'They are matter of common report, my lord.' What I have stated is in everyone's mouth. But you have not yourself heard any of their sermons, or what do they call them?

No, my lord, said Mr. Cairns, holding up his white hands in repudiation of the idea. It would scarcely accord with my position to act the spy. So, to keep yourself immaculate, you take all against them for granted. I have no such scruples, however. I will go and see, or rather hear, what they are about. After that I shall be in a position to judge. Your lordship's presence will put them on their guard. If the mere sight of me is a check, returned the Marquess, extreme measures will hardly be necessary. He spoke definitively, and made a slight movement which his visitor accepted as his dismissal. He laughed aloud when the door closed, for the spirit of what the Germans call schadenfreude was never far from his elbow, and he rejoiced in the parson's discomfiture.

It was in virtue of his simplicity, precluding discomfiture, that Malcolm could hold his own with him so well. For him he now sent. "'Well, Macphail,' he said kindly, as the youth entered, "'how is that foot of yours getting on?' "'Brawly, my lord. There's nothing muckle the matter with it or me either, know it were up. But I was just near-hand did or muckle bid.' "'Hadn't you better come down out of that cock-loft?' said the Marquis, dropping his eyes. "'Nah, my lord, I dinna care about partin' with my neighbor yet.' "'What neighbor?' "'Oh, the old warlock, or whatever it may be it holds a remish there.' "'What, is he troublesome next?' "'Oh, nah, I'm no thinkin' it. But deed I dinna ken, my lord,' said Malcolm.

"'What do you mean, then?' "'Gin your lordship would allow me to force you on door, I would be better able to tell you.' "'Then the old man is not quiet?' "'There is somethin' no quiet. Nonsense.'" It's all your imagination. Depend on it." I did not think it. What do you think, then? You're not afraid of ghosts, surely? No, Muggle. I had nothing mere upon my conscience, nor I can bide in the deadest of the night. Then you think ghosts come of a bad conscience? A kind of moral delirium tremens, eh? I did not ken, my lord. But that's the only kind of ghost I would be flayed at. At least that I would run frae. I would a heap rather have a ghost in my house, nor one farer been. An ill man, or woman, like Mistress Catanaw, for instance, that's all body, cept whatever is devil.

Nonsense, said the Marquess, angrily. But Malcolm went on. Maun be just full o' ghosts. And for anything I ken, that'll be what makes ghosts o' themselves after they're dead, settin' them walkin', as they call it. It's full warm o' bein' possessed with devils, and maun be a hantle mair uncomfortable. But I would have yon door opened, my lord. Nonsense, exclaimed the Marquess once more. And shrugged his shoulders. You must leave that room. If I hear anything more about noises or that sort of rubbish, I shall insist upon it. I sent for you now, however, to ask you about these clandestine meetings of the fisherfolk. Clandestine, my lord? There's no clam about them but the clams upon the rocks. The Marquis was not etymologist enough to understand Malcolm's poor pun, and doubtless thought it worse than it was.

I don't want any fooling, he said. Of course you know these people. "'Ill come an' woman an' bear know of them," answered Malcolm. "'And what sort are they? Sick-like, as ye might expect. That's not a very luminous answer. Well, there nae were nor either folk, to begin with. And giddin' this holds, there'll be better nor many.' "'What sort are their leaders?' "'Good, respectable folk, my lord.' "'Then there's not much harm in them. There is none but what they would fain be rid of. I cannot say as muckle for all it hangs on to them. There's of them, nae doubt.' Who would fain wind to heaven and left their sins ahind them, but they get no encouragement frae Master MacLeod. Blue Peter, a gang's out wi' his in your lordship's boat, he's one of their best men, though he never gang's a yont praying, I'm told.

Which is far enough, surely," said his lordship, who, belonging to the Episcopal Church, had a different idea concerning the relative dignities of preaching and praying. Aye, for a body's cell, surely, but maybe no aye enough for other folk, answered Malcolm. Always ready after his clumsy fashion. Have you been to any of these meetings? I was at the first two, my lord. Why not more? I didn't care muckle about them, and I have aye plenty to do. Besides, I can get me out to Maester Graham with two words of a question, nor the hale crew of them could tell me between this and eternity. Well, I am going to trust you, said the Marquis slowly, with an air of question rather than of statement. You may do that, my lord.

"'You mean I may with safety?' "'I do mean that same, my lord.' "'You can hold your tongue, then.' "'I can and I will, my lord,' said Malcolm, but added in haste, "'sep it interfere with any foregone agreement or natural obligation.' It must be borne in mind that Malcolm was in the habit of discussing all sorts of questions with Mr. Graham. Some of the formulae wrought out between them he had made himself thoroughly master of. "'By Jupiter!' exclaimed the Marquis. With a pause of amusement. Well, he went on, I suppose I must take you on your own terms. They've been asking me to put a stop to these conventicles. Who has, my lord? That's my business. Let it be no other bodies, my lord. That's my intention.

I told him I would go and judge for myself. Just like your lordship. What do you mean by that? I was I sure he was for fair play, my lord. It's little enough I've ever had, said the Marquis. "'So long as we give plenty, my lord, it matters less how muckle we get. A'body likes to get it.' "'That doctrine won't carry you far, my lad.' "'Far enough. Can it carry me through, my lord?' "'How absolute the knave is,' said his lordship good-humouredly. "'Well, but,' he resumed, "'about these fishermen, I'm only afraid Mr. Cairns was right.' "'What said he, my lord?' "'That when they saw me there they would fit their words to my ears.' I can then better not any black coat atween Cromartie and Peterhead, and I can tell your lordship there wouldna be a word a differ for your bein' there.

If only I could be there, and not there, both at once. There's no other sure mode of testing your assertion. What a pity the only thorough way should be an impossible one. To all practical purpose it's easy enoch, my lord. Just gang on be seen the first night, and the next gang in a coach in four. Sein compare. Quite satisfactory, no doubt, if I could bring myself to do it. But though I said I would, I don't like to interfere so far even as to go at all. At any public meeting, my lord, you have as good a right to be present as the poorest body in the land. And for by that, as lord of the place, you have a right to ken what's goin' on. I dinna ken how far the right to interferin' gangs. That's another thing altogether.

I see you're a thoroughgoing rebel yourself. Nothin' of the kind, my lord. I'm only so far of your lordship's mind that I like fair play. G'en a body could only be I right sure what was fair play. Yes, there's the very point. Certainly, at least, when the question comes to be of eavesdropping. Not to mention that I could never condescend to play the spy. What a body has a right to hear, he may hear as he likes, either showing himself or hiding himself. And it's the only plan that's fair to them, my lord. It's not as g'en your lordship was lying in wait to do them a mischief. You want rather to do them a kindness and take their part? I don't know that, Malcolm. It depends. It's plain your lordships prejudiced in their favour.

Anigate, I'm certain it's fair play you want, and I canna for the life of me see a hair wrong with your lordships going in a cog, as old-timey Dicester calls it. For at the worst, you could only interdict them, and that you could do all the same whether you gher to know. And gin you be so wuld, I can take you and my lady where you'll hear Ilk a word it's uttered, and not a body get a glimp o' ye. Mayor Norghiny was sittin' at Irén fireside as you are the know. That does make a difference, said the Marquis, a great part of whose unwillingness arose from the dread of discovery. It would be very amusing. I'll not promise you that, returned Malcolm. I do not ken about that. There is just one objection, however.

You would have to gain a good aura for they be good to gather. And there's aye ladies about the place, and they turned it into Le Kerk, he added thoughtfully. But, he resumed, We could manage them. How? I would get my grandfather to strike up with a spring upon the pipes, on the other side of the board, Craig, or let off a shot of the swivel. They would all run to sea, and in the meantime we could land you frae the cutter. We would have you in and out of sight in a moment, Blue Peter and me, as quiet as gen your ghosts, and the hour midnight." The Marquis was persuaded, but objected to the cutter. They would walk there, he said. So it was arranged that Malcolm should take him and Lady Florimel to the Bailey's barn the very next time the fishermen had a meeting.

46 46 - The Baillies' Barn 17:23

THE BAILIE'S BARN Lady Florimel was delighted at the prospect of such an adventure. The evening arrived. An hour before the time appointed for the meeting, the three issued from the tunnel and passed along the landward side of the dune, towards the promontory. There sat the piper on the swivel, ready to sound a peabrock the moment they should have reached the shelter of the bored Craig, his signal being Malcolm's whistle. The plan answered perfectly. In a few minutes, all the children within hearing were gathered about Duncan, a rarer sight to them than heretofore, and the way was clear to enter unseen. It was already dusk, and the cave was quite dark, but Malcolm lighted a candle, and with a little difficulty...

Got them up into the wider part of the cleft, where he had arranged comfortable seats with plaids and cushions. As soon as they were placed, he extinguished the light. "'I wish you would tell us another story, Malcolm,' said Lady Florimel. "'Do,' said the Marquis. "'The place is not consecrated yet.' "'Did ye ever hear the tale of the old warlock, milady?' asked Malcolm. "'Only my lord kens it,' he added. "'I don't,' said Lady Florimel. "'That's great nonsense,' said the Marquis. Do let us have it, Papa. Very well. I don't mind hearing it again. He wanted to see how Malcolm would embellish it. It seems to me, said Malcolm, that this one about Lossy House and yon one about Collinsy Castle are very likely but two stocks frae the same route.

On a gate, this one about the Warlock mon be the oldest of the two. Used to have it so cause I had it my sale. Mistress Courthope told it to me. It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, That he recounted the tale of Lord Gurnan. As the last words left his lips, Lady Florimel gave a startled cry, seized him by the arm, and crept close to him. The Marquis jumped to his feet, knocked his head against the rock, uttered an oath, and sat down again. What ails you, my lady? said Malcolm. There's nothing here to hurt you. I saw a face, she said. A white face. What? Beyond you, a little way. Near the ground, she answered in a tremulous whisper. It's as dark as pick, said Malcolm, as if thinking it to himself.

He knew well enough that it must be the Laird or Femi, but he was anxious the Marquis should not learn the secret of the Laird's refuge. I saw a face anyhow, said Florimel. It gleamed white for one moment and then vanished. I wonder you did not cry out war, my lady, said Malcolm, peering into the darkness. I was too frightened. It looked so ghastly, not more than a foot from the ground. Could it have been a flash like Freireynine? No, I am sure it was a face. How much is there of this cursed hole? asked the Marquis, rubbing the top of his head. A heap, answered Malcolm. The Grungang's down like a brie behind us, until a— You don't mean right behind us, cried the Marquis. Nudge is close, my lord.

We're sitting in the mouth of it like, with the trapalowit behind us. And a muckled stomach, yawned that. I hope there's no danger, said the Marquis. None I can know. No water at the bottom? None, my lord. That is, nothing but a bonnie spring in the rock side. Come away, papa, cried Florimel. I don't like it. I've had enough of this kind of thing. Nonsense, said the Marquis, still rubbing his head. You would spoil all, my lady. It's all late for by, said Malcolm. I hear a foot. He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly. Saying in a whisper, It's Mistress Catanile with a lantern. Hold your tongue, my bonnie lady. You can well she's no moose. Do not try to look, my lord. She might get a glimpse of you.

She's terrible glig. I have been hearing mad yet about her. Your lordship's ill to convince, but depend upon it. Whatever that woman is, there there's mischief. Where she takes a scun out of her body, she hates like the very devil. She wanna I let them can it, but takes time to do her ill turns. And it's not that only, but g'n she gets a hold o' anything again, anybody, she'll save it up upon the chance o' they're ginn her some offense for the day. She never loses hold o' the tail o' a thing, and at her own proper time, she's in her nature bound to make the worst use o' it. Malcolm was anxious both to keep them still and to turn aside any further inquiry as to the face Florimel had seen. Again he peeped out.

What is she after now? She's come in this gate, he went on. In a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his shoulder when he spoke. Genshi thought there was a hole in the pit if she didn't ken all the oats and inzo. It would hold her own sleep. Whish, whish, here she comes, he concluded after a listening pause, in the silence of which he could hear her step approaching. He stretched out his neck over the ledge and saw her coming straight for the back of the cave, looking right before her with slow-moving, keen, wicked eyes. It was impossible to say what made them look wicked. Neither in form, color, motion, nor light were they ugly. Yet in every one of these they looked wicked, as her lantern, which, being of horn, she had opened for more light, now and then, as it swung in her hand, shone up on her pale, pulpy, evil countenance.

"'Kin she tries to come up, I'll have to call her down,' he said to himself. "'And I dinna like it, for she's a woman after all.'" Though a divilich kind of a one. But there is my lady. I have brought her into it, and I'm on seer safe out of it. But if Mrs. Cattenaugh was bent on an exploration, she was for the time prevented from prosecuting it by the approach of the first of the worshippers, whose voices they now plainly heard. She retreated towards the middle of the cave, and sat down in a dark corner, closing her lantern and hiding it with the skirt of her long cloak. Presently a good many entered at once, some carrying lanterns, and most of them tallow candles, which they quickly lighted and disposed about the walls.

The rest of the congregation, with its leaders, came trooping in so fast that in ten minutes or so the service began. As soon as the singing commenced, Malcolm whispered to Lady Florimel, "'Was it a man's face, or the lassies you saw, my lady?' "'A man's face! The same we saw in the storm,' she answered. and Malcolm felt her shudder as she spoke. "'It's nothing but the mad laird,' he said. "'He's better nor harmless. "'Dinna say a word to your father, my lady. "'I didnna like to say that, but I'll tell ye all what for after hein.' But Florimel, knowing that her father had a horror of lunatics, was willing enough to be silent. No sooner was her terror thus assuaged than the oddities of the singing laid hold upon her, stirring up a most tyrannous impulse to laughter.

The prayer that followed made it worse. In itself, the prayer was perfectly reverent, and yet, for dread of irreverence, I must not attempt a representation of the forms of its embodiment, or the manner of its utterance. So uncontrollable did her inclination to merriment become, that she found at last the only way to keep from bursting into loud laughter was to slacken the curb and go off at a canter. I mean, to laugh freely, but gently. This so infected her father that he straightway accompanied her, but with more noise. Malcolm sat in misery, from the fear not so much of discovery, though that would be awkward enough, as of the loss to the laird of his best refuge. But when he reflected, he doubted much whether it was even now a safe one, and anyhow knew it would be as vain to remonstrate as to try to stop the noise of a brook by casting pebbles into it.

When it came to the sermon, however, things went better. For MacLeod was the preacher, an eloquent man after his kind, in virtue of the genuine earnestness of which he was full. If his anxiety for others appeared to be rather to save them from the consequences of their sins, his main desire for himself certainly was to be delivered from evil. The growth of his spiritual nature, while it rendered him more and more dissatisfied with himself, had long left behind all fear save of doing wrong. His sermon this evening was founded on the text, The Natural Man Receiveth Not the Things of the Spirit of God. He spoke fervently and persuasively. Nor, although his tone and accent were odd, and his Celtic modes and phrases to those Saxon ears outlandish, did these peculiarities in the least injure the influence of the man.

Even from Florimel was the demon of laughter driven. And the Marquis, although not a single notion of what the man intended passed through the doors of his understanding, sat quiet and disapproved of nothing. Possibly, had he been alone as he listened, he too, like one of old, might have heard in the dark cave the still small voice of a presence urging him forth to the light. But as it was, the whole utterance passed without a single word or phrase or sentence having roused a thought. Or suggested a doubt, or moved a question, or hinted an objection or a need of explanation. That the people present should interest themselves in such things only set before him the folly of mankind. The text and the preacher both kept telling him that such as he could by no possibility have the slightest notion what such things were.

But not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, wonder how the deluded fisherfolk could sit and listen. The more tired he grew, The more angry he got with the parson who had sent him there with his foolery, and the more convinced that the men who prayed and preached were as honest as they were silly, and that the thing to die of itself had only to be let alone. He heard the Amen of the benediction with a sigh of relief, and rose at once, cautiously this time. "'Ye maun agane yet, my lord,' said Malcolm. "'They maun be all out first.' "'I don't care who sees me,' protested the weary man." But your lordship wouldn't like to be described scrambling down after the back like the bear in Robinson Crusoe.

The Marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently. At length, Malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meeting had thoroughly scaled, peeped cautiously out to make sure. But after a moment, he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper, I'm sorry you cannot gang yet, my lord. There's some half a dozen of ill-looking childs. Cards, I'm thinking. Gipsies. Or maybe were. Congregate down there. And it's my opinion they're after no good, my lord. How do you know that? Anybody would ken that, I got a glimpse of them. Let me look. Now, my lord, you do not understand the lie of the stones enough to hold it to sight. How long do you mean to keep us here? asked the Marquis impatiently. Till it's safe to gang, my lord.

For anything I ken, they may be after coming up here. They may be used to the place, though I didn't think it. In that case, we must go down at once. We must not let them find us here. They would take us one by one as we gered down, my lord, and we wouldn't have a chance. Think of my lady there." Florimel heard all, but with the courage of her race. This is a fine position you have brought us into, MacPhail, said his master, now thoroughly uneasy for his daughter's sake. No word nor I'll take ye out, oh. Gain ye lip into me, my lord, and no spake a word. If you tell them who Papa is, said Florimel, they won't do us any harm, surely? I'm none so sure of that. They might want to rape his poaches, search his pockets.

And my lord will stand that, I'm thinking. Nah, nah, just stand you back, my lord, my lady. I didn't speak a word. I so set of them. They're sick villains. There's no terms to be holding with them. His lordship was far from satisfied, but a light shining up into the crevice at the moment. Gave powerful support to Malcolm's authority. He took Florimel's hand and drew her a little farther from the mouth of the cave. "'Don't you wish we had demon with us?' whispered the girl. "'I was thinking how I never went without a dagger in Venice,' said the Marquis, "'and never once had occasion to use it. Now I haven't even a penknife about me. It looks very awkward.' "'Please don't talk like that,' said Florimel.

"'Can't you trust Malcolm, Papa?' "'Oh, yes, perfectly,' he answered. But the tone was hardly up to the words. They could see the dim figure of Malcolm, outlined in fits of the approaching light, all but filling the narrow entrance as he bent forward to listen. Presently he laid himself down, leaning on his left elbow with his right shoulder only a little above the level of the passage. The light came nearer, and they heard the sound of scrambling on the rock, but no voice. Then for one moment the light shone clear upon the roof of the cleft. The next came the sound of a dull blow, the light vanished, and the noise of a heavy fall came from beneath. One of them, my lord, said Malcolm in a sharp whisper over his shoulder.

A confusion of voices arose. You booby, said one, you climb like a calf. I'll go next. Evidently they thought he had slipped and fallen, and he was unable to set them right. Malcolm heard them drag him out of the way. The second ascended more rapidly. And met his fate the sooner. As he delivered the blow, Malcolm recognized one of the laird's assailants, and was now perfectly at his ease. Two of them, my lord, he said. Can we have one mayor down? We could manage the leave. The second, however, had not lost his speech, and amidst the confused talk that followed, Malcolm heard the words, Run down to the coble for the gun, and immediately after, the sound of feet hurrying from the cave. He rose quietly, leaped into the midst of them.

Came down upon one, and struck out right and left. Two ran, and three lay where they were. "'Gin' one of ye move hand or foot, I'll bring him with his own stick,' he cried, as he wrenched a cudgel from the grasp of one of them. Then catching up a lantern, and hurrying behind the projecting rock. "'Hasty, and come!' he shouted. "'The way's clear, but only for a minute!' Florimel appeared, and Malcolm got her down. "'Mind that fellow!' cried the Marquis from above. Malcolm turned quickly, and saw the gleam of a knife in the grasp of his old enemy, who had risen and crept behind him to the recess. He flung the lantern in his face, following it with a blow in which were concentrated all the weight and energy of his frame.

The man went down again heavily, and Malcolm instantly trampled all their lanterns to pieces. No, he said to himself, they will not ken but it's the Laird and Fimi with me. Then turning and taking Florimel by the arm, he hurried her out of the cave, followed by the Marquis. They emerged in the liquid darkness of a starry night. Lady Florimel clung to both her father and Malcolm. It was a rough way for some little distance, but at length they reached the hard, wet sand, and the Marquis would have stopped to take breath, but Malcolm was uneasy and hurried them on. "'What are you frightened at now?' asked his lordship. "'Nothing,' answered Malcolm. Adding to himself, however, I'm flate at nothing.

I'm flate for the laird. As they approached the tunnel, he fell behind. Why don't you come on? said his lordship. I'm ga'in' back, know it you're safe, said Malcolm. Going back? What for? asked the Marquis. I ma'en see what the villains are up till, answered Malcolm. Not alone, surely, exclaimed the Marquis. At least get some of your people to go with you. There's no time, my lord. "'Din' a be flate for me. I se' take care of my sail.' He was already yards ahead, running at full speed. The Marquis shouted after him, but Malcolm would not hear. When he reached the Bailey's barn once more, all was still. He groped his way in and found his own lantern where they had been sitting, and having lighted it, descended and followed the windings of the cavern a long way, but saw nothing of the laird or Feeney.

Coming at length to a spot where he heard the rushing of a stream, He found he could go no farther. The roof of the cave had fallen, and blocked up the way with huge masses of stone and earth. He had come a good distance, certainly, but by no means as far as Fimi's imagination had represented the reach of the cavern. He might, however, have missed a turn, he thought. The sound he heard was that of the lossy burn, flowing along in the starlight through the grounds of the house. Of this he satisfied himself afterwards, and then it seemed to him not unlikely that in ancient times the river had found its way to the sea along the cave, for throughout its length the action of water was plainly visible.

But perhaps the sea itself had used to go roaring along the great duct. Malcolm was no geologist, and could not tell.

47 47 - Mrs. Stewart's Claim 24:16

Mrs. Stewart's Claim. The weather became unsettled with the approach of winter, and the marquis had a boathouse built at the west end of the Seton. There the little cutter was laid up, well wrapped in tarpaulins, like a butterfly returned to the golden coffin of her internatal chrysalis. A great part of his resulting leisure, Malcolm spent with Mr. Graham, to whom he had, as a matter of course, unfolded the trouble caused him by Duncan's communication. The more thoughtful a man is, and the more conscious of what is going on within himself, the more interest will he take in what he can know of his progenitors to the remotest generations. And regard to ancestral honours, However contemptible the forms which the appropriation of them often assumes, is a plant rooted in the deepest soil of humanity.

The high-souled laborer will yield to none in his respect for the dignity of his origin, and Malcolm had been as proud of the humble descent he supposed his own as Lord Lossie was of his mighty ancestry. Malcolm had indeed a loftier sense of resulting dignity than his master. He reverenced Duncan. Both for his uprightness and for a certain grandeur of spirit, which, however ridiculous to the common eye, would have been glorious in the eyes of the chivalry of old. He looked up to him with admiration because of his gifts in poetry and music, and loved him endlessly for his unfailing goodness and tenderness to himself. Even the hatred of the grand old man had an element of unselfishness in its retroaction, of power in its persistency, and of greatness in its absolute contempt of compromise.

At the same time he was the only human being to whom Malcolm's heart had gone forth as to his own. And now, with the knowledge of yet deeper cause for loving him, he had to part with the sense of a filial relation to him. And this involved more, for so thoroughly had the old man come to regard the boy as his offspring, that he had nourished in him his own pride of family, And it added a sting of mortification to Malcolm's sorrow that the greatness of the legendary descent in which he had believed, and the honorableness of the mournful history with which his thoughts of himself had been so closely associated, were swept from him utterly. Nor was this all, even yet. In losing these, he had had, as it were, to let go his hold, not of his clan merely, but of his race.

Every link of kin that bound him to humanity had melted away from his grasp. Suddenly he would become aware that his heart was sinking within him, and questioning it why, would learn anew that he was alone in the world, a being without parents, without sister or brother, with none to whom he might look in the lovely confidence of a right bequeathed by some common mother, near or afar. He had waked into being, but all around him was dark, for there was no window, that is, no kindred eye, by which the light of the world whence he had come Entering might console him. But a gulf of blackness was about to open at his feet, against which the darkness he now lamented would show purple and grey. One afternoon, as he passed through the Seton from the harbour to have a look at the cutter, he heard the Partoness calling after him.

"'Well, you're a sight for serene. No, it'd you like to turn out something worth looking at,' she cried, as he approached with his usual friendly smile. "'What do you mean by that, Mistress Fendley?' asked Malcolm, carelessly adding, "'Is your man in?' "'Ay,' she went on, without heeding either question, "'ye'll be grand set up, no. Ye'll not be having a fine day to fling at your old friends, the poor fisherfolk or long. Well, it's the way of the world, hich, sirs.' "'What on earth set you off like that, Mistress Findlay?' said Malcolm. "'It's not such a furious grand thing to be my lord's skipper, or henchman as my daddy would have it, surely.' It's a heap grander like to be a free fisherman, with a boat of your own like the parton.

Hoots, none of your cleavers. You ken well enough what I mean, as well as Ilka either created soul of Port Lossie. And gin you dinna choose to let on about it till an old friend, cause she's nothing but a fisher wife. It's done you more scape already, nor I thought it would till the long last, Malcolm. For it's on your own name, I sa call you yet, gin you were ten times a laird. Didn't I give you the breast when you could do nothing in the world but suck? And well you sucked poor innocent. At you was. As sure as we're both alive, asseverated Malcolm, I ken no mer nor assault at her in what you're drivin' at. Tell me at you do not ken what all the country kens, and here about your ain' sale, screamed the part in us.

I tell you I ken nothin', and can you do not tell me what you're after directly, I shall hold away to Mistress Allison. She'll tell me. This was a threat sufficiently prevailing. It's not a nature, she cried. Here's Mr. Stewart of the Gersfell, been calling like mad about the place and her carriage and how many horse I didn't ken, declaring, "'Aye, swearing,' they tell me, "'at one commonly called Malcolm MacPhail is neither mair nor less nor the son born of her own body and honest wedlock. And tell me ye ken nothing about it. What are you standing like that for? As grey-mouthed as a day in skate.'" For the first time in his life, Malcolm, young and strong as he was, felt sick. Sea and sky grew dim before him, and the earth seemed to reel under him.

I didn't believe it, he faltered, and turned away. You didn't believe what I tell you, screeched the wrathful part in us. You dared to say the word. But Malcolm did not care to reply. He wandered away, half unconscious of where he was, his head hanging, and his eyes creeping over the ground. The words of the woman kept ringing in his ears. But ever and anon, behind them as it were in the depth of his soul, he heard the voice of the mad laird with its one lamentation. I do not ken where I come frae. Finding himself at length at Mr. Graham's door, he wondered how he had got there. It was Saturday afternoon, and the master was in the churchyard. Startled by Malcolm's look, he gazed at him in grave, silent inquiry.

Have you heard the ill news, sir? said the youth. No, I'm sorry to hear there is any. They tell me Mr. Stewart's runnin' about the town claimin' me. Claimin' you? How do you mean? For her reign. Not for her son. I, sir, that's what they say. But ye ha'na heard of it? Not a word. Then I believe it's all havers, cried Malcolm energetically. It was ser'enuch upon me already to ken less o' where I come frae than the poor laird himself, but to come from where he come frae— Was a thought o'er, sir. You don't surely despise the poor fellow so much as to scorn to have the same parents with him," said Mr. Graham. The very contrary, sir. But a woman who had so misguided the son of her own body, and for nothing but that, as she had brought him forth, sick as he was, it's not to be lightly believed, nor lightly endured.

I saw a way to Miss Horn, and see whether she's heard any sick lay-in clashes. But as Malcolm uttered her name, his heart sank within him. For their talk, the night he had sought her hospitality for the laird, came back to his memory, burning like an acrid poison. You can't do better, said Mr. Graham. The report itself may be false, or true, and the lady mistaken. She'll have to prove it well if what I say hold, rejoined Malcolm. And suppose she does? In that case, said Malcolm, with a composure almost ghastly, a man ma'un take what mither it pleases God to gimme. But faith, She winna do with me as with the poor laird. G'n she takes me up, she'll repent it she dinna let me lie. She'll be as little pleased with the ten of her sons as the tither.

I can tell her un-prophesied. But think what you might do between mother and son, suggested the master, willing to reconcile him to the possible worst. It's war late for that, he answered. The poor man's therms are a-hingin' loose, and there's no grip enough in the pegs to sit them up again. He would but think I had gone o'er to the enemy. And hold out o' my gate as ident as he holds out o' hers. Nah, it would do nothin' for him. Gain it were not for what I see in him, I would have a grand rebutter to reclaim. For how could any woman's ain son have sick a scunner at her as I have in my heart and brain and very stomach? Gain she were my ain mother, there bode to be some nathril drawin' atween us, a body would think.

But it would not hold, for there's Laird, the very name o' mother gars him stick his lugs and run. Still, if she be your mother, it's for better for worse as much as if she had been your own choice. "'I cannot will ho it could be for wor,' said Malcolm, who did not yet, even from his recollection of the things Miss Horne had said, comprehend what worse threatened him. "'It does seem strange,' said the master thoughtfully, after a pause, "'that some women should be allowed to be mothers, "'that through them sons and daughters of God should come into the world. Fief babies, say.' Human parasites with no choice but feed on the social body. I wonder what God thinks about it all. There's a body's spear whether he cares or no, said Malcolm gloomily.

It does, responded Mr. Graham solemnly. Did ye allow that, sir? returned Malcolm, aghast. That soon as gin all thing were rushing together back to the old chaos. I should not be surprised, continued the Master, apparently heedless of Malcolm's consternation. If the day should come when well-meaning men, excellent in the commonplace but of dwarfed imagination, refuse to believe in a god on the ground of apparent injustice in the very frame and constitution of things, such would argue that there might be either an omnipotent being who did not care, or a good being who could not help, but that there could not be a being both all-good and omnipotent, for such would never have suffered things to be as they are.

"'What would the clergy say to hear you, sir?' said Malcolm, himself almost trembling at the words of his master. "'Nothing to the purpose, I fear. They would never face the question. I know what they would do if they could. Burn me, as their spiritual ancestor Calvin would have done, whose shoelatchet they are yet not worthy to unloose. But mind, my boy, you've not heard me speak my thought on the matter at all.' "'But would not it be better to believe in two gods, nor none of all?' propounded Malcolm." One a good, doin' the best for as he could, the other a ill, but as poorful as a good one, and forever an I a fight at'ween them, whiles one gettin' the worst o'it, and whiles the other. It would quiet her heart on a gate, and the battle o' Armageddon would gang on as grand as ever.

Two gods there could not be, said Mr. Graham. Of the two beings supposed, the evil one must be called Devil, were he ten times the more powerful. With all my heart, responded Malcolm. But I agree with you," the Master went on, that Manichaeism is unspeakably better than atheism, and unthinkably better than believing in an unjust God. But I am not driven to such a theory. How you want to hear in, Alfitzer? If I knew of a theory in which was never an uncompleted arch or turret, in whose circling wall was never a ragged breach, that theory I should know but to avoid. Such gaps are the eternal windows through which the dawn shall look in. A complete theory is a vault of stone around the theorist, whose very being yet depends on room to grow.

Well, I would like to hear what you have again, Manichaeism. The main objection of theologians would be, I presume, that it did not present a god perfect in power as in goodness, but I think at a far more objectionable point that it presents evil as possessing power in itself. My chief objection, however, would be a far deeper one. Namely, That its good being cannot be absolutely good. For if he knew himself unable to ensure the well-being of his creatures, if he could not avoid exposing them to such foreign attack, had he a right to create them? Would he have chosen such a doubtful existence for one whom he meant to love absolutely? Either, then, he did not love like a god, or he would not have created.

He might ken himself sure to win in the long run. Grant the same to the god of the Bible, and we come back to where we were before. "'Does that satisfy yourself, Mr. Graham?' asked Malcolm, looking deep into the eyes of his teacher. "'Not at all,' answered the master. "'Does anything?' "'Yes, but I will not say more on the subject now. The time may come when I shall have to speak that which I have learned, but it is not yet. All I will say now is that I am at peace concerning the question. Indeed, so utterly do I feel myself the offspring of the One, that it would be enough for my peace now.' I don't say it would have been always, to know my mind troubled on a matter. What troubled me would trouble God.

My trouble at the seeming wrong must have its being in the right existent in Him. In Him, supposing I could find none, I should yet say there must lie a lucent, harmonious, eternal, not merely consoling, but absolutely satisfying solution. Wouldn't you tell me all that's in your heart about it, sir? Not now, my boy. You have got one thing to mind now, before all other things, namely, that you give this woman, whatever she be, fair play. If she be your mother, as such you must take her, that is, as such you must treat her." "'You're right, sir,' returned Malcolm, and rose. "'Come back to me,' said Mr. Graham, with whatever news you gather." "'I will, sir,' answered Malcolm, and went to find Miss Horne."

He was shown into the little parlor. Which, for all the grander things he had been amongst of late, had lost nothing of its first charm. There sat Miss Horne. "'Sit down, Malcolm,' she said gruffly. "'Have ye heard anything, mem?' asked Malcolm, standing. "'Aye, o'er Muckle,' answered Miss Horne, with all but a scowl. "'Ye been o'er to Gersfell, I reckon.' "'Forbid it,' answered Malcolm. "'Never till us o'er.' Or at most it's not too, since I heard the first cheap o' it, and that was frae Meg Parton. To no human soul had I made mention o' it yet, except Master Graham. To him I go dreck. You couldna ha done better, said the grim woman, with relaxing visage. And here I am now, straight for him, to beg o' you, Miss Horn, to tell me the truth o' the matter.

What ken I about it? she returned angrily. What should I ken? You might ken whether the woman's been sayin' it or no. "'Who has any doubt about that?' "'Mr. Stewart has been saying she's my mother, then?' "'Aye, what for, no,' returned Miss Horne, with a piercing glower at the youth. "'Good for Finn,' exclaimed Malcolm. "'Say you that, laddie,' cried Miss Horne, and starting up, she grasped his arm and stood gazing in his face. "'What others should I say?' rejoined Malcolm, surprised. "'God be lauded,' exclaimed Miss Horne. "'The limmer may say it she likes, no?' "'Ye do not believe it then, ma'am,' cried Malcolm. "'Tell me ye do not, and hold me on cursed like a cadger.' "'I do not believe a word of it, laddie,' answered Miss Horne eagerly.

"'Who could believe sic a fine lad come sic a false mother?' "'She may to be anybody's mither, and false too,' said Malcolm gloomily. "'That's true, laddie, and the mere mither the falser. "'There's a whirl o' witness in your face that gins she be your mither, "'the Marcus, and no poor honest hen-picket John Stuart was the father o' ye.'" The Lord forgive me. What am I saying?" adjected Miss Horn, with a cry of self-accusation, when she saw the pallor that overspread the countenance of the youth, and his head drop upon his bosom. The last arrow had sunk to the feather. It's all hever's any gate, she quickly resumed. I do not believe you had a drop of her blood in the body of your man. But she hurried on, as if eager to obliterate the scoring impression of her late words.

That she's been saying it, there can be no manner of doubt. I saw her my sail runnin' about the town frae one til another, with her lang hair down the lang back o'er, and fleeing in the wind like a body demented. The only question is whether or not she believes it her sail. What could gar her say it, g'n she dinna believe it? Folks say she expects that way to get a grip of things out of the hands of the poor Laird's trustees. Ye would be a son her ain, capable of mangin' them. But ye dinna tell me she's never been at your sail about it. "'Niver a blink o' the A has passed atween us since that day I gaed till Gersfell, as I tellt ye, wi' a letter frae the Marcus. I thought I was ower money for her then.

I wonder she dare be at me again. She's dart her god ere now, and may weel dare you. But what says your grandfather till it know? He has not heard of Chucky's chee-board. "'What are we havin' at, then? Canna he settle the matter offhand?' Miss Horne eyed him keenly as she spoke. He can't no more about where I come from, ma'am, nor hear Jean, who's hearkening at the keyhole this very minute. The quick ear of Malcolm had caught a slight sound of the handle, whose proximity to the keyhole was no doubt often troublesome to Jean. Miss Horne seemed to reach the door with one spang. Jean was ascending the last step of the stair with a message on her lips concerning butter and eggs. Miss Horne received it and went back to Malcolm.

Nah, Jean wanna do that? She said quietly. But she was wrong, for hearing Malcolm's words, Jean had retreated one step down the stair and turned. But what's this you tell me about your grandfather, honest man? Miss Horne continued. Duncan MacPhail's no blood o' mine, the mare's the pity, said Malcolm sadly, and told her all he knew. Miss Horne's visage went through wonderful changes as he spoke. Well... "'It is a mercy I had no feelings,' she said when he had done. "'Any woman can lay a claim to me it likes, ye see,' said Malcolm. "'She may lay it she likes, but is no Ilka egg laid has a chucky into it,' answered Miss Horne sententiously. "'Just ye gang ham to old Duncan, and tell him to turn the thing on in his mind till he's able to swear to the very night he found the bairn in his lap.

But not one word monny say to live in a soul about it afore it's required to him.'" "'I would be the son of the poorest fisherwife in the seat, rather nor hers,' said Malcolm gloomily. "'And it shows your better bread,' said Miss Horne. "'But she'll be at your long, and take your tent what you say. "'Dinna fly in her face, let her jaw away and mark her words. "'She may let us streak a light out of her dark lantern, unawares.'" Malcolm returned to Mr. Graham. They agreed there was nothing for it but to wait. He went next to his grandfather and gave him Miss Horne's message. The old man fell a-thinking, but could not be certain even of the year in which he had left his home. The clouds hung very black around Malcolm's horizon.

Since the adventure in the Bailey's barn, Lady Florimel had been on a visit in Morayshire. She heard nothing of the report until she returned. "'So you're a gentleman after all, Malcolm,' she said the next time she saw him. The expression in her eyes appeared to him different from any he had encountered there before. The blood rushed to his face. He dropped his head, and saying merely, "'It mon be, oz it mon,' pursued the occupation of the moment. But her words sent a new wind blowing into the fog. "'A gentleman,' she had said. "'Gentlemen married ladies.' Could it be that a glory it was madness to dream of was yet a possibility? One moment, and his honest heart recoiled from the thought, Not even for Lady Florimel could he consent to be the son of that woman.

Yet the thought, especially in Lady Florimel's presence, would return, would linger, would whisper, would tempt. In Florimel's mind also, a small demon of romance was at work. Uncorrupted as yet by social influences, it would not have seemed to her absurd that an heiress of rank should marry a poor country gentleman. But the thought of marriage never entered her head. She only felt that the discovery justified a nearer approach from both sides. She had nothing, not even a flirtation, in view. Flirt she might, likely enough, but she did not foremean it. Had Malcolm been a schemer, he would have tried to make something of his position. But even the growth of his love for his young mistress was held in check by the fear of what that love tempted him to desire.

Lady Florimel had by this time got so used to his tone and dialect, Hearing it on all sides of her, that its quaintness had ceased to affect her, and its coarseness had begun to influence her repulsively. There were still to be found in Scotland old-fashioned gentlefolk speaking the language of the country with purity and refinement. But Florimel had never met any of them, or she might possibly have been a little less repelled by Malcolm's speech. Within a day or two of her return, Mrs. Stewart called at Lossy House and had a long talk with her. In the course of which she found no difficulty in gaining her to promise her influence with Malcolm. From his behavior on the occasion of their sole interview, she stood in a vague awe of him, and indeed could not recall it without a feeling of rebuke, a feeling which must either turn her aside from her purpose, or render her the more anxious to secure his favor.

Hence it came that she had not yet sought him. She would have the certainty first that he was kindly disposed towards her claim. A thing she would never have doubted but for the glimpse she had had of him. One Saturday afternoon, about this time, Mr. Stewart put his head in at the door of the schoolroom, as he had done so often already, and seeing the master seated alone at his desk, walked in, saying once more with a polite bow, "'I dinna ken whare comfrae. I want to come to the school.' Mr. Graham assured him of welcome as cordially as if it had been the first time he came with the request. and yet again offered him a chair. But the laird, as usual, declined it, and walked down the room to find a seat with his companion scholars.

He stopped midway, however, and returned to the desk, where, standing on tiptoe, he whispered in the master's ear, "'I cannot come upon the door.' Then, turning away again, he crept dejectedly to a seat where some of the girls had made room for him. There he took a slate, and began drawing what might seem an attempt at a door. But ever as he drew he blotted out, and nothing that could be called a door was the result. Meantime, Mr. Graham was pondering at intervals what he had said. School being over, the laird was modestly leaving with the rest, when the master gently called him, and requested the favor of a moment more of his company. As soon as they were alone he took a Bible from his desk, and read the words, "'I am the door.

By me, if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.' Without comment, he closed the book and put it away. Mr. Stewart stood staring up at him for a moment, then turned, and gently murmuring, "'I canna win at the door,' walked from the schoolhouse. It was refuge the poor fellows sought. Whether from temporal or spiritual foes, well mattered little, To him who believes that the only shelter from the one is the only shelter from the other also.

48 48 - The Baillies' Barn Again 20:31

It began to be whispered about Port Lossie that the Marquess had been present at one of the Fisherman's meetings, a report which variously affected the minds of those in the habit of composing them. Some regarded it as an act of espial. And much foolish talk arose about the Covenanters and persecution and martyrdom. Others, especially the less worthy of those capable of public utterance, who were by this time, in virtue of that sole gift, gaining an influence of which they were altogether unworthy, attributed it to the spreading renown of the preaching and praying members of the community, and each longed for an opportunity of exercising his individual gift upon the conscience of the Marquess.

The soberer portion took it for an act of mere curiosity, unlikely to be repeated. Malcolm saw that the only way of setting things right was that the Marquis should go again, openly, but it was with much difficulty that he persuaded him to present himself in the assembly. Again accompanied by his daughter and Malcolm, he did, however, once more cross the links to the Bailey's barn. Being early, they had a choice of seats. and Florimel placed herself beside a pretty young woman of gentle and troubled countenance, who sat leaning against the side of the cavern. The preacher on this occasion was the sickly young student, more pale and haggard than ever, and half-way nearer the grave since his first sermon.

He still set himself to frighten the sheep into the fold by wolfish cries, but it must be allowed that, in this sermon at least, his representations of the miseries of the lost were not by any means so gross as those usually favored by preachers of his kind. His imagination was sensitive enough to be roused by the words of Scripture themselves, and was not dependent for stimulus upon those of Virgil, Dante, or Milton. Having taken for his text the fourteenth verse of the fifty-ninth psalm, And at evening let them return, and let them make a noise like a dog, and go round about the city. He dwelt first upon the condition and character of the Eastern Dog, as contrasted with those of our dogs, pointing out to his heroes that, so far from being valued for use or beauty or rarity, they were, except swine, of all animals the most despised by the Jews, the vile outcasts of the borderland separating animals domestic and farine.

Filthy, dangerous, and hated. Then associating with his text, that passage in the Revelation, Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have the right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city, for without are dogs. He propounded, or rather asserted, that it described one variety of the many punishments of the wicked, showing at least a portion of them condemned to rush howling forever about the walls of the new Jerusalem, haunting the gates they durst not enter. See them through the fog steaming up from the shores of their phlegathon. He cried, warming into eloquence. See the horrid troop, afar from the crystal walls. If indeed ye stand on those heights of glory, and course not around them with the dogs.

Hear them howl and bark as they scour along. Gaze at them more earnestly as they draw nigher. See upon the dog-heads of them the signs and symbols of rank and authority which they wore when they walked erect, men, aye, women too, among men and women. See the crown jewels flash over the hanging ears, the tiara tower thrice circled over the hungry eyes. See the plumes and the coronets, the hoods and the veils. Here, unhappily for his eloquence, he slid off into the catalogue of women's finery, given by the prophet Isaiah, at the close of which he naturally found the oratorical impulse gone, and had to sit down in the mud of an anticlimax. Presently, however, he recovered himself, and spreading his wings, once more swung himself aloft into the Empyrean of an Eloquence, which, whatever else it might or might not be, was at least genuine.

Could they but surmount those walls, whose inherent radiance is the artillery of their defense, those walls, high uplifted, whose lowest foundations are such stones as make the glory of earthly crowns? Could they overleap those gates of pearl and enter the golden streets? What think ye they would do there? Think ye they would rage hither and thither at will, making horrid havoc amongst the white-robed inhabitants of the sinless capital? Nay, verily. For in the gold transparent as glass they would see their own vile forms in truth-telling reflex, and turning in agony would rush yelling back out again into the darkness, the outer darkness. To go round and round the city again and for evermore, tenfold tortured henceforth with the memory of their visioned selves.

Here the girl beside Lady Florimel gave a loud cry and fell backwards from her seat. On all sides arose noises, loud or suppressed, mingled with murmurs of expostulation. Even Lady Florimel, invaded by shrieks, had to bite her lips hard to keep herself from responding with like outcry. For scream will call forth scream, as vibrant string from its neighbor will draw the answering tone. Deep calleth unto deep. The wind is blowing on the slain. The spirit is breathing on the dry bones, shouted the preacher in an ecstasy. But one who rose from behind Lizzie Findlay had arrived at another theory regarding the origin of the commotion, and doubtless had a right to her theory inasmuch as she was a woman of experience, being no other than Mrs.

Cattenaugh. At the sound of her voice seeking to soothe the girl, Malcolm shuddered. But the next moment, from one of those freaks of suggestion which defy analysis, he burst into laughter. He had a glimpse of a she-dog in Mrs. Cattenaugh's Sunday bonnet, bringing up the rear of the preacher's canine company, and his horror of the woman found relief in an involuntary outbreak that did not spring altogether from merriment. It attracted no attention. The cries increased, for the preacher continued to play on the harp nerves of his hearers, in the firm belief that the spirit was being poured out upon them. The Marquis, looking very pale, for he could never endure the cry of a woman even in a play, rose, and taking Flormel by the arm, turned to leave the place.

Malcolm hurried to the front to make way for them. But the preacher caught sight of the movement, and filled with a fury which seemed to him sacred, rushed to the rescue of souls. Stop, he shouted. Go not hence, I charge you. On your lives I charge you. Turn ye, turn ye, why will ye die? There is no fleeing from Satan. You must resist the devil. He that flies is lost. If you turn your backs upon Apollyon, he will never slack in pace until he has driven you into the troop of his dogs to go howling about the walls of the city. Stop them, friends of the cross, ere they step beyond the sound of mercy, for alas, the voice of him who is sent cannot reach beyond the particle of time wherein he speaks.

Now, this one solitary moment, gleaming out of the eternity before us, only to be lost in the eternity behind us. This now is the accepted time. This now and no other is the moment of salvation. Most of the men recognized the Marquess. Some near the entrance saw only Malcolm clearing the way. Marquis or Fisher, it was all the same when souls were at stake. They crowded with one consent to oppose their exit. Yet another chance they must have whether they would or not. These men were in the mood to give, not their own, but those other men's bodies to be burnt on the poorest chance of saving their souls from the everlasting burnings. Malcolm would have been ready enough for a fight, had he and the Marquis been alone.

But the presence of Lady Florimel put it out of the question. Looking round, he sought the eye of his master. Had Lord Lossie been wise, he would at once have yielded, and sat down to endure to the end. But he jumped on the form next him, and appealed to the common sense of the assembly. "'Don't you see the man is mad?' he said, pointing to the preacher. He is foaming at the mouth. For God's sake, look after your women. He will have them all in hysterics in another five minutes. I wonder any man of sense would countenance such things. As to hysterics, the fisherfolk had never heard of them. And though the words of the preacher were not those of soberness, they yet believed them the words of truth, and himself a far saner man than the Marquis.

"'Geen a body comes to our meeting,' cried one of them, a fine specimen of the Argyle-Bargling Scotchman, a creature known and detested over the habitable globe. He mawn just do as we do and sit it out. It's for your soul's good. The preacher, checked in full career, was standing with open mouth, ready to burst forth in a fresh flood of oratory so soon as the open channels of hearing ears should again be granted him. But all were now intent on the duel between the Marquis and Jamie Ladle. If the next time you came you found the entrance barricaded, said the Marquis, what would you say to that? Ah, we would just take down the sticks, answered Laetle. You would call it persecution, wouldn't you?

Aye, it would be that. And what do you call it now, when you prevent a man from going his own way after he's had enough of your foolery? Ah, we call it discipline, answered the fellow. The Marquis got down, annoyed, but laughing at his own discomfiture. I've stopped the screaming anyhow, he said. Ere the preacher, the tap of whose eloquence presently began to yield again, but at first ran very slow, had gathered way enough to carry his audience with him, a woman rushed up to the mouth of the cave, the borders of her cap flapping, and her gray hair flying like an old maenad's. Brandishing in her hand a spurtle with which she had been making the porridge for supper, she cried in a voice that reached every ear, What's this I hear it?

Come out of that, Lizzy, you limmer. Are you going for a ill to word in the devil's name?" It was Meg Parton. She sent the congregation right and left from her, as a ship before the wind sends a wave from each side of her bows. Men and women gave place to her, and she went surging into the midst of the assembly. "'Where's that lass o' mine?' she cried, looking about her in aggravated wrath at failing to pounce right upon her. "'She's no vera well, Mistress Findlay.' cried Mrs. Cattenaugh, in a loud whisper, laden with an insinuating tone of intercession. She'll be better in a minute. The minister's just oor-powerful the night. Mrs. Findlay made a long reach, caught Lizzy by the arm, and dragged her forth, looking scared and white, with a red spot upon one cheek.

No one dared to bar Meg's exit with her prize, and the Marquis, with Lady Florimel and Malcolm, took advantage of the opening she made. And following in her wake, soon reached the open air. Mrs. Findlay was one of the few of the fisherwomen who did not approve of conventicles, being a great stickler for every authority in the country except that of husbands, in which she declared she did not believe. A report had reached her that Lizzy was one of the lawless that evening, and in hot haste she had left the porridge on the fire to drag her home. "'This is the second predicament you have got us into, MacPhail,' said his lordship, as they walked along the boar's tail, the name by which some designated the dune, taking the name of the rock at the end of it to be the boar's crag, and the last word to mean, as it often does, not crag, but neck, like the German craghen, and perhaps the English scrag.

"'I'm sorry for it, my lord,' said Malcolm, "'but I'm sure your lordship had the worth o' it and fun.' "'I can't deny that,' returned the Marquis. "'And I can't get that horrid shriek out of my ears,' said Lady Florimel. "'Which of them?' said her father. There was no end to the shrieking. It nearly drove me wild. "'I mean the poor girls who sat beside us, Papa. Such a pretty nice-looking creature, too. And that horrid woman close behind us all the time. I hope you won't go again, Papa. They'll convert you if you do, and never ask your leave. You wouldn't like that, I know.'" What do you say to shutting up the place altogether? Do, papa. It's shocking. Vulgar and horrid. I would think twice, my lord, before I would sear them as ill as they seared me.

Did I ask your advice? said the Marquis sternly. It's none the war or it's gin on sot, said Malcolm. It's the right thing I get. You presume on this foolish report about you, I suppose, Macphail, said his lordship, but that won't do. God forgive you, my lord. "'For I have ill doing it,' said Malcolm." He left them, and walked down to the foamy lip of the tide, which was just waking up from its faint recession. A cold glimmer, which seemed to come from nothing but its wetness, was all the sea had to say for itself. But the Marquis smiled, and turned his face towards the wind which was blowing from the south. In a few moments Malcolm came back, but to follow behind them and say nothing more that night.

The Marquis did not interfere with the fishermen. Having heard of their rudeness, Mr. Cairns called again, and pressed him to end the whole thing. But he said they would only be after something worse, and refused. The turn things had taken that night determined their after-course. Cryings out and faintings grew common, and fits began to appear. A few laid claim to visions. bearing, it must be remarked, a strong resemblance to the similitudes, metaphors, and more extended poetic figures employed by the young preacher, becoming at length a little more original, and a good deal more grotesque. They took to dancing at last, not by any means the least healthful mode of working off their excitement.

It was, however, hardly more than a dull beating of time to the monotonous chanting of a few religious phrases, Rendered painfully commonplace by senseless repetition. I would not be supposed to deny the genuineness of the emotion, or even of the religion, in many who thus gave show to their feelings. But neither those who were good before, nor those who were excited now, were much the better for this and like modes of playing off the mental electricity generated by the revolving cylinder of intercourse. Naturally, such men as Joseph Mayer Now grew shy of the assemblies they had helped to originate, and withdrew, at least into the background. The rain slipped from the hands of the first leaders, and such wind-bags as ladle got up to drive the chariot of the gospel, with the results that could not fail to follow.

At the same time it must be granted that the improvement of their habits, in so far as strong drink was concerned, continued. It became almost a test of faith with them whether or not a man was a total abstainer. Hence their moral manners, so to say, improved greatly. There were no more public-house orgies, no fighting in the streets, very little of what they called breaking of the Sabbath, and altogether there was a marked improvement in the look of things along a good many miles of that northern shore. Strange as it may seem, however, morality in the deeper sense remained very much at the same low ebb as before. It is much easier to persuade men that God cares for certain observances than that He cares for simple honesty and truth and gentleness and loving-kindness.

The man who would shudder at the idea of a rough word of the description commonly called swearing will not have even a twinge of conscience after a whole morning of ill-tempered sullenness, capricious scolding, villainously unfair animadversion, or surly cross-grained treatment generally of wife and children. Such a man will emit neither family worship nor a sneer at his neighbor. He will neither milk his cow on the first day of the week without a sabbath mask on his face, nor remove it while he waters the milk for his customers. Yet he may not be an absolute hypocrite. What can be done for him, however, hell itself may have to determine. Notwithstanding their spiritual experiences, it was, for instance, no easier to get them to pay their debts than heretofore.

Of course there were, and had always been, thoroughly honest men and women amongst them, but there were others who took prominent part in their observances, who seemed to have no remotest suspicion that religion had anything to do with money or money's worth. Not to know that God cared whether a child of his met his obligations or not. Such fulfilled the injunction to owe nothing by acknowledging nothing. One man, when pressed, gave as a reason for his refusal That Christ had paid all his debts. Possibly this contemptible state of feeling had been fostered by an old superstition that it was unlucky to pay up everything, once they had always been in the habit of leaving at least a few shillings of their shop bills to be carried forward to the settlement after the next fishing season.

But when a widow whose husband had left property would acknowledge no obligation to discharge his debts, it came to be rather more than a whim. Evidently, the religion of many of them was as yet of a poor sort, precisely like that of the Negroes, whose devotion so far outstrips their morality. If there had been but some one of themselves to teach that the true outlet and sedative of overstrained feeling is right action, that the performance of an unpleasant duty, say the paying of their debts, was a far more effectual as well as more especially religious mode of working off their excitement than dancing. That feeling is but the servant of character until it becomes its child. Or rather, that feeling is but a mere vapor until condensed into character.

That the only process through which it can be thus consolidated is well-doing, the putting forth of the right thing according to the conscience universal and individual. And that thus, and thus only, can the veil be withdrawn from between the man and his God, And the man be saved in beholding the face of his father. But have patience. Give them time," said Mr. Graham, who would watch the whole thing from the beginning. If their religion is religion, it will work till it purifies. If it is not, it will show itself for what it is by plunging them into open vice. The mere excitement and its extravagance, the mode in which their gladness breaks out, means nothing either way. The man is the willing, performing being, not the feeling, shouting, singing being.

In the latter there may be no individuality, nothing more than receptivity of the movement of the mass. But when a man gets up and goes out and discharges an obligation, he is an individual. To him God has spoken, and he has opened his ears to hear. God and that man are henceforth in communion. These doings, however, gave How should they fail to give? A strong handle to the grasp of those who cared for nothing in religion but its respectability, who went to church, Sunday after Sunday, for the sake of example, as they said, the most arrogant of Pharisaical reasons. Many a screeching, dancing Fisher-Lass in the Seton was far nearer the kingdom of heaven than the most respectable of such respectable people.

I would unspeakably rather dance with the wildest of fanatics rejoicing over a change in their own spirits than sit in the seat of the dull of heart, to whom the old story is an outworn tale.

49 49 - Mount Pisgah 28:53

Mount Pisgah The intercourse between Florimel and Malcolm grew gradually more familiar, until at length it was often hardly to be distinguished from such as takes place between equals. And Florimel was, by degrees, forgetting the present condition in the possible future of the young man. But Malcolm, on the other hand, as often as the thought of that possible future arose in her presence, flung it from him in horror, lest the wild dream of winning her should make him for a moment desire its realization. The claim that hung over him haunted his very life, turning the currents of his thought into channels of speculation unknown before. Imagine a young fisherman meditating as he wandered with bent head through the wilder woods on the steep banks of the burn, or the little green levels which it overflowed in winter.

Of all possible subjects, what analogy there might be betwixt the body and the soul in respect of derivation? Whether the soul was traduced as well as the body? As his material form came from the forms of his father and mother, did his soul come from their souls? Or did the Maker, as at the first he breathed his breath into the form of Adam, still, at some crisis unknown in its creation, breathe into each form the breath of individual being? If the latter theory were the true, then, be his earthly origin what it might, he had but to shuffle off this mortal coil to walk forth a clean thing, as a prince might cast off the rags of an enforced disguise, and set out for the land of his birth. If the former were the true, then the wellspring of his being was polluted, nor might he by any death fling aside his degradation, or show himself other than defiled in the eyes of the old dwellers in those high countries, where all things seem as they are, and are as they seem.

One day, when, these questions fighting in his heart, he had for the hundredth time arrived thus far, All at once it seemed as if a soundless voice in the depth of his soul replied, Even then, should the wellspring of thy life be polluted with vilest horrors such as, in Persian legends, the lips of the lost are doomed to drink with loathings inconceivable. The well is but the utterance of the water, not the source of its existence. The rain is its father, and comes from the sweet heavens. Thy soul, however it became known to itself, is from the pure heart of God, whose thought of thee is older than thy being, is its first and eldest cause. Thy essence cannot be defiled, for in him it is eternal.

Even with the thought, the horizon of his life began to clear. A light came out on the far edge of its ocean. A dull and somber yellow, it is true. and the clouds hung yet heavy over sea and land, while miles of vapor hid the sky. But he could now believe there might be a blue beyond, in which the sun lorded it with majesty. He had been rambling on the waste hill in which the grounds of Lossie House, as it were, dissipated. It had a far outlook, but he had beheld neither sky nor ocean. The suitors of Cromarty had all the time sat on their stools large in his view, The hills of Sutherland had invited his gaze, rising faint and clear over the darkened water at their base, less solid than the sky in which they were set, and less a fact than the clouds that crossed their breasts.

The land of Caithness had lain lowly and afar, as if, weary of great things, it had crept away in tired humility to the rigors of the north. And east and west, his own rugged shore had gone lengthening out, fringed with the white burst of the dark sea. But none of all these things had he noted. Lady Florimel suddenly encountered him on his way home, and was startled by his look. "'Where have you been, Malcolm?' she exclaimed. "'I hardly can, my lady. Somewhere about the feet of Mount Pisgah, I'm thinking, if not freely upon the head o' it.' "'That's not the name of the hill up there.' Oh, nah, yon's the bin. What have you been about? Looking at things in general, I suppose? Nah, they've been looking at me, I dare say.

But I didna heed them, and they didna fash me. You look so strangely bright, she said, as if you had seen something both marvelous and beautiful. The words revealed a quality of insight not hitherto manifested by Florimel. In truth, Malcolm's whole being was irradiated by the flash of inward peace that had visited him, a statement intelligible and therefore credible enough to the mind accustomed to look over the battlements of the walls that clasped the fair windows of the senses. But Florimel's insight had reached its limit, and her judgment, vainly endeavoring to penetrate farther, fell floundering in the mud. "'I know,' she went on. "'You've been to see your lady mother.' Malcolm's face turned white, as if blasted with leprosy.

The same scourge that had maddened the poor laird fell hissing on his soul, and its knotted sting was the same word, mother. He turned and walked slowly away, fighting a tyrannous impulse to thrust his fingers in his ears and run and shriek. "'Where are your manners?' cried the girl after him. But he never stayed his slow foot or turned his bowed head. And Florimel wondered. For the moment, his newfound peace had vanished. Even if the old nobility of heaven might regard him without a shadow of condescension, that self-righteous form of contempt, what could he do with a mother whom he could neither honor nor love? Love? If he could but cease to hate her? There was no question yet of loving. But might she not repent?

Ah, then, indeed. And might he not help her to repent? He would not avoid her. How was it that she had never yet sought him? As he brooded thus, on his way to Duncan's cottage, and heedless of the sound of coming wheels, was crossing the road which went along the bottom of the glen, he was nearly run over by a carriage coming round the corner of a high bank at a fast trot. Catching one glimpse of the face of its occupant, as it passed within a yard of his own, he turned and fled back through the woods, with again a horrible impulse to howl to the winds the cry of the mad laird. "'I dina ken whar I cam frae.' When he came to himself, he found his hands pressed hard on his ears, and for a moment felt a sickening certainty that he too was a son of the Lady of Gersfell.

When he returned at length to the house, Mrs. Courthope informed him that Mrs. Stewart had called, and seen both the Marquis and Lady Florimel. Meantime he had grown again a little anxious about the laird. But as Feamey plainly avoided him, had concluded that he had found another concealment, and that the child preferred not being questioned concerning it. With the library of Lossie House at his disposal, and almost nothing to do, it might now have been a grand time for Malcolm's studies. But alas, he too often found it all but impossible to keep his thoughts on the track of a thought through a single sentence of any length. The autumn now hung over the verge of its grave. Hoar-frost, thick on the fields, made its mornings look as if they had turned gray with fear.

But when the sun arose, grayness and fear vanished. The back-thrown smile of the departing glory was enough to turn old age into a memory of youth. Summer was indeed gone, and winter was nigh with its storms and its fogs and its rotting rains and its drifting snows. But the sun was yet in the heavens, and changed as was his manner towards her, Would yet have many a half-smile for the poor old earth, enough to keep her alive until he returned, bringing her youth with him. To the man who believes that the winter is but for the sake of the summer, exists only in virtue of the summer at its heart, no winter, outside or in, can be unendurable. But Malcolm sorely missed the ministrations of compulsion.

He lacked labor. the most helpful and most healing of all God's holy things, of which we so often lose the heavenly benefit by laboring inordinately that we may rise above the earthly need of it. How many sighs are wasted over the toil of the sickly? A toil which perhaps lifts off half the weight of their sickness, elevates their inner life, and makes the outer pass with tenfold rapidity. Of those who honestly pity such, Many would themselves be far less pitiable were they compelled to share in the toil they behold with compassion. They are unaware of the healing virtue which the thing they would not pity at all were it a matter of choice, gains from the compulsion of necessity. All over the house, big fires were glowing and blazing.

Nothing pleased the Marquis worst than the least appearance of stinting the consumption of coal. In the library, two huge gratefuls were burning from dawn to midnight. Well for the books, anyhow, if their owner seldom showed his face amongst them. There were days during which, except the servant whose duty it was to attend to the fires, not a creature entered the room but Malcolm. To him it was as the cave of Aladdin to the worshipper of Mammon, and yet now he would often sit down indifferent to its hoarded splendors and gather no jewels. But one morning, as he sat there alone, in an oriel-looking seawards, there lay on a table before him a thin folio, containing the chief works of Sir Thomas Brown, amongst the rest his well-known Religio Medici, from which he had just read the following passage.

When I take a full view and circle of myself, without this reasonable moderator and equal piece of justice, death, I do conceive myself the most miserablest person extant. Were there not another life that I hoped for, all the fanities of this world should not entreat a moment's breath from me. Could the devil work my belief to imagine I could never die, I would not outlive that very thought. I have so object a conceit of this common way of existence, this retaining to the sun and elements. I cannot think this is to be a man. or to live according to the dignity of humanity. In expectation of a better, I can with patience embrace this life. Yet in my best meditations do often desire death. I honor any man that contemns it, nor can I highly love any that is afraid of it.

This makes me naturally love a soldier, and honor those tattered and contemptible regiments that will die at the command of a sergeant. These words so fell in with the prevailing mood of his mind, that having gathered them they grew upon him, and as he pondered them he sat gazing out on the bright, blowing autumn day. The sky was dimmed with a clear pallor, across which small white clouds were driving. The yellow leaves that yet clave to the twigs were few, and the wind swept through the branches with a hiss. The far-off sea was alive with multitudinous white, The rush of the jubilant oversea across the blue plain. All without was merry, healthy, radiant, strong. In his mind brooded a single haunting thought that already had almost filled his horizon, threatening by exclusion to become madness.

Why should he not leave the place, and the horrors of his history with it? Then the hideous hydra might unfold itself as it pleased. He would find at least a better fortune than his birth had endowed him withal. Lady Florimel entered in search of something to read. To her surprise, for she had heard of no arrival, in one of the windows sat a highland gentleman, looking out on the landscape. She was on the point of retiring again, when a slight movement revealed Malcolm. The explanation was, That the Marquis, there seafaring over, had at length persuaded Malcolm to don the highland attire. It was an old custom of the House of Lossie that its lord's henchmen should be thus distinguished, and the Marquis himself wore the kilt when on his western estates in the summer, also as often as he went to court.

Would indeed have worn it always, but that he was no longer hardy enough. He would not have succeeded with Malcolm, however, but for the youth's love to Duncan. The fervent heat of which vaporized the dark, heavy stone of obligation into the purple vapor of gratitude, and enhanced the desire of pleasing him until it became almost a passion. Obligation is a ponderous roll of canvas which love spreads aloft into a tent wherein he delights to dwell. This was his first appearance in the garments of Duncan's race. It was no little trial to him to assume them in the changed aspect of his circumstances. For alas, he wore them in right of service only, not of birth. And the tartan of his lord's family was all he could claim.

He had not heard Lady Florimel enter. She went softly up behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder. He started to his feet. A penny for your thoughts, she said, retreating a step or two. I would give two to be rid of them, he returned, shaking his bushy head as if to scare the invisible ravens hovering about it. "'How fine you are,' Florimel went on, regarding him with an approbation too open to be altogether gratifying. "'The dress suits you thoroughly. I didn't know you at first. I thought it must be some friend of Papa's. Now I remember he said once you must wear the proper dress for a henchman. How do you like it?' "'That's all one to me,' said Malcolm. "'I didn't care what I wear. "'Gin' only I had it right till it,' he added with a sigh."

"'It is too bad of you, Malcolm,' rejoined Florimel in a tone of rebuke. "'The moment fortune offers you favor, you fall out with her. Won't give her a single smile. You don't deserve your good luck.' Malcolm was silent. "'There's something on your mind,' Florimel went on, "'partly from willingness to serve Mrs. Stewart, "'partly enticed by the romance of being Malcolm's comforter, "'or perhaps confessor. "'Aye, is there, milady?' What is it? Tell me. You can trust me. I could trust ye, but I cannot tell ye. I dare na. I ma na. I see you will not trust me," said Florimel, with a half-pretended, half-real offence. I would lay down my life, what there is o' it, for ye, my lady, but the ver'y nature o' my trouble willna be told.

I maun bear it my lane. It flashed across Lady Flormel's brain that the cause of his misery, the thing he dared not confess, was love of herself. Now Malcolm, standing before her in his present dress, and interpreted by the knowledge she believed she had of his history, was a very different person indeed from the former Malcolm in the guise of fisherman or sailor, and she felt as well as saw the difference. If she was the cause of his misery, why should she not comfort him a little? Why should she not be kind to him? Of course, anything more was out of the question, but a little confession and consolation would hurt neither of them. Besides, Mrs. Stewart had begged her influence, and this would open a new channel for its exercise.

Indeed, if he was unhappy through her, she ought to do what she might for him. A gentle word or two would cost her nothing, and might help to heal a broken heart. She was hardly aware, however, how little she wanted it healed, all at once. From the potency of a thought, it is perhaps even better that it should not be logically displayed to the intellect. Anyhow, the germ of all this, undeveloped into the definite forms I have given, sufficed to the determining of Florimel's behavior. I do not mean that she had more than the natural tendency of womankind to enjoy the emotions of which she was the object. But besides the one in the fable, there are many women with a tendency to mousing, and the idea of deriving pleasure from the sufferings of a handsome youth was not quite so repulsive to her as it ought to have been.

At the same time, as there cannot be many cats capable of understanding the agonies of the mice within reach of their waving whiskers, probably many catwomen are not quite so cruel as they seem. Looking in his eyes very sweetly, and bending a little towards him. Can't you trust me? At the words and the look, it seemed as if his frame melted to ether. He dropped on his knees, and his heart half stifled in the confluence of the tides of love and misery, sighed out between the pulses in his throat. There's nothing I cannot tell you I'd ever thought or did in my life, my lady. But it's Itherfolk, my lady. It's like to burn a hole in my heart. And yet I dare not open my mouth. There was a half-angelic, half-dog-like entreaty in his uplooking hazel eyes that seemed to draw hers down into his.

She must put a stop to that. "'Get up, Malcolm,' she said kindly. "'What would my father or Mrs. Courthope think?' "'I didn't ken, and I most didn't care. "'Atwene one thing and another, I'm near and distracted,' answered Malcolm, rising slowly, but not taking his eyes from her face. "'And there's my daddy,' he went on, maced one over to the enemy, and I darn not tell him what for I cannot bide it. "'Ye had not been saying anything to him, have you, m'lady?' "'I don't quite understand you,' returned Florimel, rather guilty, for she had spoken on the subject to Duncan. "'Saying anything to your grandfather? About what?' "'About... about... her, ye ken, m'lady?' "'What her?' asked Florimel. "'Her it.' The Lady of Gersfell.

And why—what of her? Why, Malcolm, what can have possessed you? You seem actually to dislike her. I cannot bide her," said Malcolm, with the calm earnestness of one who is merely stating an incontrovertible fact. And for a moment his eyes, at once troubled and solemn, kept looking wistfully in hers, as if searching for a comfort too good to be found, then slowly sank and sought the floor at her feet. And— Why? I cannot tell you. She supposed it an unreasoned antipathy. But that is very wrong, she said, almost as if rebuking a child. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What, dislike your own mother? Do not say the word, my lady, cried Malcolm, in a tone of agony. Or he'll guard me skirl and run like the mad laird.

He's not a hair madder nor I would be with sick and mother. He would have passed her to leave the room. But Lady Florimel could not bear defeat. In any contest, she must win or be shamed in her own eyes. And was she to gain absolutely nothing in such a passage with a fisher lad? Was the billow of her persuasion to fall back from such a rock, self-beaten into poorest foam? She would, she must, subdue him. Perhaps she did not know how much the sides of her intent were pricked by the nettling discovery that she was not the cause of his unhappiness. "'You're not going to leave me so,' she exclaimed in a tone of injury. "'I'll gang or bide as you will, my lady,' answered Malcolm resignedly. "'Bide, then,' she returned.

"'I haven't half done with you yet.' "'You ma'na't just tear my heart out,' he rejoined, with a sad half-smile and another of his dog-like looks. "'That's what you would do to your mother,' said Florimel severely. "'Say no ill o' my mother.' cried Malcolm, suddenly changing almost to fierceness. Why, Malcolm, said Florimel, bewildered, what ill was I saying of her? It's nothing less than an insult to my mother to call yon woman by her name, he replied with set teeth. It was to him an offense against the idea of motherhood. Against the mother he had so often imagined, luminous against the dull blank of memory, to call such a woman his mother. She's a very ladylike, handsome woman, handsome enough to be your mother even, Mr.

Malcolm Stewart. Florimel could not have dared the words, but for the distance between them. But then, neither would she have said them while the distance was greater. They were lost on Malcolm, though, for never in his life having started the question whether he was handsome or not, he merely supposed her making game of him. And drew himself together in silence, with the air of one bracing himself to hear and endure the worst. Even if she should not be your mother, his tormentor resumed, to show such a dislike to any woman is nothing less than cruelty. She mon prove it, murmured Malcolm, not the less emphatically that the words were but just audible. Of course she will do that. She has abundance of proof.

She gave me a whole hour of proof. Lang's not straying, returned Malcolm. There's comfort in that. Gang on, my lady. Poor woman. It was hard enough to lose her son, but to find him again such as you seem likely to turn out, I should think ten times worse. Ne doubt. Ne doubt. But there is one thing were. What is that? To come upon a motherette. He stopped abruptly. His eyes went wandering about the room, and the muscles of his face worked convulsively. Florimel saw that she had been driving against a stone wall. She paused a moment, and then resumed. "'Anyhow, if she is your mother,' she said, "'nothing you can do will alter it.' "'She mon pruvit,' was all Malcolm's dogged reply. "'Just so. And if she can't,' said Florimel, "'you'll be no worse than you were before.' "'And no better,' she added with a sigh."

Malcolm lifted his questioning to her searching eyes. Don't you see, she went on very softly, and lowering her look, from the half-conscious shame of half-unconscious falseness. I can't be all my life here at Lossie. We shall have to say good-bye to each other. Never to meet again, most likely. But if you should turn out to be of good family, you know. Florimel saw neither the paling of his brown cheek, nor the great surge of red that followed. But glancing up to spy the effect of her argument, did see the lightning that broke from the darkened hazel of his eyes, and again cast down her own. Then there might be some chance, she went on, of our meeting somewhere, in London or perhaps in Edinburgh, and I could ask you to my house, after I was married, you know.

Heaven and earth seemed to close with a snap around his brain. The next moment they had receded an immeasurable distance, and in limitless wastes of exhausted being he stood alone. What time had passed when he came to himself he had not an idea. It might have been hours for anything his consciousness was able to tell him. But although he recalled nothing of what she had been urging, he grew aware that Lady Florimel's voice, which was now in his ears, had been sounding in them all the time. He was standing before her like a marble statue with a dumb thrill in its helpless heart of stone. He must end this. Parting was bad enough, but an endless parting was unendurable. To know that measureless, impassable leagues lay between them, and yet to be forever in the shroud of a cold leave-taking.

To look in her eyes and know that she was not there. A parting that never broke the bodily presence. That was the form of agony which the infinite moment assumed. As to the possibility she would bribe him with, it was not even the promise of a glimpse of Abraham's bosom from the heart of Hell. With such an effort as breaks the bonds of a nightmare dream, he turned from her, and heedless of her recall, went slowly, steadily out of the house. While she was talking, his eyes had been resting with glassy gaze upon the far-off waters. The moment he stepped into the open air and felt the wind on his face, He knew that their turmoil was the travailing of sympathy, and that the ocean had been drawing him all the time.

He walked straight to his little boat, lying dead on the sands of the harbor, launched it alive into the smooth water within the piers, rove his halyard, stepped his mast, hoisted a few inches of sail, pulled beyond the sheltering sea walls, and was tossing amidst the torn waters whose jagged edges were twisted in the loose flying threads of the northern gale. A moment more, and he was sitting on the windward gunwale of a spoon of a boat, with the tiller in one hand and the sheet in the other, as she danced like a cork over the broken tops of the waves. For help in his sore need, instinct had led him to danger. Halfway to the point of Scournose, he came round on the other tack and stood for the death-head.

Glancing from the wallowing floor beneath him, and the one wing that bore him skimming over its million deaths, Away to the house of Lossie, where it stood steady in its woods, he distinguished the very window whence, hardly an hour ago, from the center of the calm companionship of books, he had gazed out upon the wind-swept waste as upon a dream. How strange, he thought, to find myself now in the midst of what I then but saw. This reeling ocean was but a picture to me then, a picture framed in the window. It is now alive. And I toss like a toy on its wild commotion. Then I but saw from afar the flashing of the white out of the blue water, and the blue sky overhead, which no winds can rend into pallid pains.

Now I have to keep eye and hand together in one consent to shun death. I meet wind and wave on their own terms, and humor the one into an evasion of the other. The wind, that then revealed itself only in white blots and streaks, now lashes my hair into my eyes, and only the lift of my bows is betwixt me and the throat that swallows the whales and the krakens. Will it be so with death? It looks strange and far off now, but it draws nigh noiselessly, and one day I meet it face to face in the grapple. Shall I rejoice in that wrestle, as I rejoice in this? Will not my heart grow sick within me? Shall I not be faint and fearful? And yet I could almost wish it were at hand. I wonder how death and this one water here look to God.

To Him, is it like a dream, a picture? Water cannot wet Him, death cannot touch Him. Yet Jesus could have let the water wet Him, and He granted power to death when He bowed His head and gave up the ghost. God knows how things look to us, both far off and near. He also can see them so when He pleases. What they look to Him is what they are. We cannot see them so, but we see them as He meant us to see them, therefore truly according to the measure of the created. Made in the image of God, we see things in the image of His sight. Thoughts like these, only in yet cruder forms, swept through the mind of Malcolm as he tossed on that autumn sea. But what we call crude forms are often in reality germinal forms, and one or other of these flowered at once into the practical conclusion that God must know all his trouble, and would work for him a worthy peace.

Ere he turned again towards the harbor, he had re-ascended the cloud-haunted Pisgah whence the words of Lady Florimel had hurled him.

50 50 - Lizzy Findlay 8:38

Lizzie Findley Leaving his boat again on the dry sand that sloped steep into the harbour, Malcolm took his way homeward along the shore. Presently he spied, at some little distance in front of him, a woman sitting on the sand, with her head bowed upon her knees. She had no shawl, though the wind was cold and strong, blowing her hair about wildly. Her attitude and whole appearance were the very picture of misery. He drew near and recognized her. "'What on earth's gone wrong with you, Lizzy?' he asked. "'Oh, nothing,' she murmured, without lifting her head. The brief reply was broken by a sob. "'That cannot be,' persisted Malcolm. Trouble of whose own had never yet rendered him indifferent to that of another.

Is it anything a body could stand by in? Another sob was the only answer. I'm in a peck of troubles myself, said Malcolm. I would fain help a body than I could. Nobody can help me, returned the girl, with an agonized burst, as if the words were driven from her by a convulsion of her inner world. And therewith she gave way, weeping and sobbing aloud. "'I don't. I'll have to drown myself,' she added with a wail, as he stood in compassionate silence until the gust should blow over. And as she said it, she lifted a face tear-stained and all white, save where five fingers had branded their shapes in red. Her eyes scarcely encountered his. Again she buried her face in her hands and rocked herself to and fro, moaning in fresh agony.

Your mother's been seared upon you, I doubt, he said, but you'll soon blow over. She cools as fast as she heats. As he spoke, he set himself down on the sand beside her. But Lizzie started to her feet, crying, Do not come near me, Malcolm. I'm not fit for honest man to come near me. Stand away. I had a plague. She laughed, but it was a pitiful laugh, and she looked wildly about, as if for some place to run to. I wouldna be sorry to take it my sail, Lizzy. At any rate, I'm o'er all the friend to be driven frae you that gate," said Malcolm, who could not bear the thought of leaving her on the border of the solitary sea, with the waves barking at her all the cold, winterly gloaming. Who could tell what she might do after the dark came down?

He rose, and would have taken her hand to draw it from her face. But she turned her back quickly, saying in a hard, forced voice, A man cannot help a woman. "'Seb it be till her grave.' Then turning suddenly, she laid her hands on his shoulders and cried, "'For the love of God, Malcolm, leave me this moment. "'Gan I could tell any man what ailed me, I would tell you. "'But I cannot, I cannot. "'Ren, laddie, run and leave me.' It was impossible to resist her anguished entreaty and agonized look. Sore at heart and puzzled in brain, Malcolm yielding, turned from her, and with eyes on the ground, Thoughtfully pursued his slow walk towards the Seton. At the corner of the first house in the village stood three women, whom he saluted as he passed.

The tone of their reply struck him a little, but not having observed how they watched him as he approached, he presently forgot it. The moment his back was turned to them, they turned to each other and interchanged looks. "'Fine feathers make fine birds,' said one of them. "'Aye, but he looks bowed down,' said another." "'And weelie Mae. What'll his lady mother say to sic a ploy? She'll no serve her bein' made a granule, after sic a fashion is yon,' said the third. "'Deed, lass, there is few ought to think less o't,' returned the first." Although they took little pains to lower their voices, Malcolm was far too much preoccupied to hear what they said. Perceiving plainly enough that the girl's trouble was much greater than a passing quarrel with her mother would account for, And knowing that any intercession on his part would only rouse to loftier flames the coal pits of maternal wrath, he resolved at length to take counsel with Blue Peter and his wife, and therefore, passing the sea-gate, continued his walk along the shore and up the red path to the village of Scournos.

He found them sitting at their afternoon meal of tea and oat-cake. A peat-fire smouldered hot upon the hearth. A large kettle hung from a chain over it. Fountain of plenty whence the great china teapot, splendid in red flowers and green leaves, had just been filled. The mantelpiece was crowded with the gayest of crockery, including the never-absent half-shaved poodles, and the rarer Gothic castle, from the topmost story of whose keep bloomed a few late autumn flowers. Fimi, too, was at the table. She rose as if to leave the room, but apparently changed her mind. For she sat down again instantly. "'Man, yer uncle braw the day, and yer kilt and tartan hose,' remarked Mare, as he welcomed him. "'I pat them on to please my daddy and the marquis,' said Malcolm, with a half-shame-faced laugh.

"'Are now you some cold about the knies?' asked the good wife. "'Nah that cold. I ken it they're there, but I'll soon be used to it. "'Well, sit you down and take a cup o' tay with us.' "'I hadn't a muckle time to spare,' said Malcolm. But I'll take a cup of tea with you. G'net warn up for wee bit loggies, small ears. I would fain spear your device about when it wants a woman friend, I'm thinking." Femi, who had been regarding him with compressed lips and suspended operations, deposited her bread and butter on the table and slipped from her chair. Where are you going, Femi? said her mother. Taking away my logs, returned Femi. Ye creature, exclaimed Malcolm, ye're o'er wise. Who woulda thought ye so gleggit the uptake?

When folk winna lippin to me, said Feeney, and ceased. What can ye expect? returned Malcolm, while father and mother listened with amused faces. When ye winna lippin to folk? Feeney, whar's the mad laird? A light flush rose to her cheeks, but whether from embarrassment or anger could not be told from her reply. I ken none of that name, she said. Whar's the laird of Kirkbyers, then? "'Ware ye so never lay a hand upon him,' returned the child, her cheeks now rosy red and her eyes flashing. "'Me lay a hand upon him,' cried Malcolm, surprised at her behavior. "'Gin it had not been for you, nobody would have found out the way into the cave,' she rejoined. Her grey eyes, blue with the fire of anger, looking straight into his.

"'Fee me, fee me,' said her mother. "'For shame.' "'There is no shame into it,' protested the child indignantly. But there is shame into it, said Malcolm quietly, for you're wrong an honest man. Well, you cannot deny, persisted Feeney, in mood to brave the evil one himself, that he was ordered at Kirkbyers on one of the Marcus's mares, and held a long confab with the laird's mither. I get upon my master's errand, answered Malcolm. Oh, aye, I dare say. But who kens, wi sicker mither? She burst out crying, and ran into the street. Malcolm understood it now. She's like all the lave, he said sadly, turning to her mother. I'm just affronted with the bairn, she replied, with manifest annoyance in her flushed face.

She's through to him, said Malcolm, gin she be not fair to me. Say not a word to the lassie, she'll ken me better o'er long, and know for my story. Mrs. Mare said nothing while he told how he had come upon Lizzie, the state she was in. And what had passed between them. But he had scarcely finished when she rose, leaving a cup of tea untasted, and took her bonnet and shawl from a nail in the back of the door. Her husband rose also. "'I'll just gang as far as the boar's craig way you ma sell, Annie,' he said. "'I'm thinkin' you'll find the poor lassie where I left her,' returned Malcolm. "'I doubt she dared na gang home.'" That night it was all over the town. That Lizzie Findley was in a woman's worst trouble, and that Malcolm was the cause of it.

51 51 - The Laird's Burrow 13:38

The Laird's Burrow. Any mayor had a brother, a carpenter, who, following her to Scournose, had there rented a small building next door to her cottage, and made of it a workshop. It had a rude loft, One end of which was loosely floored, while the remaining part showed the couples through the bare joists, except where some planks of oak and mahogany with an old door, a boat rudder, and other things that might come in handy, were laid across them in store. There also, during the winter, hung the cumulus clouds of Blue Peter's herring nets, for his cottage, having a garret above, did not afford the customary place for them in the roof. When the cave proved to be no longer a secret from the laird's enemies, Feemy, knowing that her father's garret could never afford him a sufficing sense of security, turned the matter over in her active little brain, until pondering produced plans, and she betook herself to her uncle, with whom she was a great favorite.

Him she found no difficulty in persuading to grant the hunted man a refuge in the loft. In a few days he had put up a partition between the part which was floored and that which was open, and so made for him a little room, accessible from the shop by a ladder and a trap-door. He had just taken down an old window-frame to glaze for it, when the laird, coming in and seeing what he was about, scrambled up the ladder, and a moment after all but tumbled down again in his eagerness to put a stop to it. The window was in the gable, looking to the south, and he would not have it glazed. In blessed compensation for much of the misery of his lot, the laird was gifted with an inborn delicate delight in nature and her ministrations, such as few poets even possess.

And this faculty was supplemented with a physical hardiness which, in association with his weakness and liability to certain appalling attacks, was truly astonishing. Though a rough hand might cause him exquisite pain, he could sleep soundly on the hardest floor. A hot room would induce a fit, but he would lie under an open window in the sharpest night without injury. A rude word would make him droop like a flower in frost, but he might go all day wet to the skin without taking cold. To all kinds of what are called hardships he had become readily inured, without which it would have been impossible for his love of nature to receive such a full development. For hence he grew capable of communion with her in all her moods.

Undisabled either by the deadening effects of present, or the aversion consequent on past suffering. All the range of earth's shows, from the grandeurs of sunrise or thunderstorm, down to the soft unfolding of a daisy, or the babbling birth of a spring, was to him an open book. It is true the delight of these things was constantly mingled with, not unfrequently broken, indeed, by the troublous question of his origin. But it was only on occasions of jarring contact with his fellows that it was accompanied by such agonies as my story has represented. Sometimes he would sit on a rock, murmuring the words over and over, and dabbling his bare feet, small and delicately formed, in the translucent green of a tide-abandoned pool.

But oftener, in a soft, dusky wind, he might have been heard uttering them gently and coaxingly. As if he would wile from the evening zephyr the secret of his birth, which surely Mother Nature must know. The confinement of such a man would have been in the highest degree cruel, and must speedily have ended in death. Even Malcolm did not know how absolute was the laird's need, not simply of air and freedom, but of all things accompanying the enjoyment of them. There was nothing, then, of insanity in his preference of a windowless bedroom. It was that airs and odors, birds and sunlight, the sound of flapping wing, of breaking wave, and quivering throat, might be free to enter. Cool, clean air he must breathe, or die.

With that, the partial confinement to which he was subjected was not unendurable. Besides, the welcome rain would then visit him sometimes, alighting from the slant wing of the flying blast. While the sun would pour in his rays full and mighty and generous, unsifted by the presumptuous glass, green and gray and crowded with distorting lines, and the sharp flap of pigeon's wing would be mimic thunder to the flash which leapt from its whiteness as it shot by. He not only loved but understood all the creatures. Divining by an operation in which neither the sympathy nor the watchfulness was the less perfect, that both were but half conscious, the emotions and desires informing their inarticulate language.

Many of them seemed to know him in return, either recognizing his person, and from experience deducing safety, or reading his countenance sufficiently to perceive that his interest prognosticated no injury. The maternal bird would keep her seat in her nursery and give back his gaze. The rabbit, peeping from his burrow, would not even draw in his head at his approach. The rooks about Scournose never took to their wings until he was within a yard or two of them. The laird, in his half-acted utterance, indicated that they took him for a scarecrow, and therefore were not afraid of him. Even Mrs. Cappennaw's cur had never offered him a bite in return for a caress. He could make a bird's nest of any sort common in the neighborhood, so as to deceive the most cunning of the nest-harrying youths of the parish.

Hardly was he an hour in his new abode ere the sparrows and robins began to visit him. Even strange birds of passage, flying in at his hospitable window, would espy him unscared. And sometimes partake of the food he had always at hand to offer them. He relied indeed for the pleasures of social intercourse with the animal world on stray visits alone. He had no pets, dog nor cat nor bird, for his wandering and danger-haunted life did not allow such companionship. He insisted on occupying his new quarters at once. In vain, Themy and her uncle showed reason against it. He did not want a bed. He much preferred a heap of spales, that is, wood shavings. Indeed, he would not have a bed, and whatever he did want, he would get for himself.

Having by word and gesture made this much plain, he suddenly darted up the ladder, threw down the trap-door, and lo, like a hermit crab, he had taken possession. Wisely, they left him alone. For a full fortnight, He allowed neither to enter the little chamber. As often as they called him, he answered cheerfully, but never showed himself except when Femi brought him food, which, at his urgent request, was only once in the twenty-four hours, after nightfall, the last thing before she went to bed. Then he would slide down the ladder, take what she had brought him, and hurry up again. Femi was perplexed, and at last a good deal distressed. For he had always been glad of her company before. At length one day, hearing her voice in the shop, and having peeped through a hole in the floor to see that no stranger was present, he invited her to go up and lifted the trapdoor.

Come, come, he said hurriedly, when her head appeared and came no farther. He stood holding the trapdoor, eager to close it again as soon as she should step clear of it, and surprise was retarding her assent. Before hearing his mind, the carpenter had already made for him, by way of bedstead, a simple frame of wood, crossed with laths in the form of latticework. This the laird had taken and set up on its side opposite the window, about two feet from it, so that, with abundant passage for air, it served as a screen. Fixing it firmly to the floor, he had placed on the top of it a large pot of the favorite cottage plant there called Humility. And trained its long pendant runners over it. On the floor between it and the window, he had ranged a row of flowerpots, one of them with an ivy plant, which also he had begun to train against the trellis, and already the humility and the ivy had begun to intermingle.

At one side of the room, where the sloping roof met the floor, was his bed of fresh pine shavings. Amongst which, their resinous, half-aromatic odor apparently not sweet enough to content him, he had scattered a quantity of dried rose leaves. A thick tartan plaid, for sole covering, lay upon the heap. "'I would have liked hay better,' he said, pointing to this lair rather than couch. "'But it's some ill to get, and the spales there at hand, and they smell uncle clean.' At the opposite side of the room lay a corresponding heap. Differing not a little, however, in appearance and suggestion. As far as visible form and material could make it one, it was a grave. Rather a short one, but abundantly long for the laird.

It was, in reality, a heap of mold, about a foot and a half high, covered with the most delicate grass, and bespangled with daisies. "'Ye hae been oat at night.' "'Aye, at night, wiles, when nobody was a boat sipped the wind.' He pronounced the word with a long-drawn, imitative sough, "'and the clothes and the splash of the water.' Pining under the closer imprisonment in his garret, which the discovery of his subterranean refuge had brought upon him, the laird would often have made his escape at night, but for the fear of disturbing the mares. And now that there was no one to disturb, the temptation to spend his nights in the open air was the more irresistible that he had conceived the notion of enticing nature herself into his very chamber.

Abroad then he had gone, as soon as the first midnight closed around his new dwelling, and in the fields had with careful discrimination begun to collect the mould for his mound, a handful here and a handful there. This took him several nights, and when it was finished, He was yet more choice in his selection of turf, taking it from the natural grass growing along the roads and on the earthen dikes, or walls, the outer sides of which feed the portionless cows of that country. Searching for miles in the moonlight, he had, with eye and hand, chosen out patches of this grass, the shortest and thickest he could find, and with a pocket knife, often in pieces of only a few inches, removed the best of it and carried it home.

to be fitted on the heap, and with every ministration and blandishment enticed to flourish. He pressed it down with soft, firm hands, and beshowered it with water first warmed a little in his mouth. When the air was soft, he guided the wind to blow upon it, and as the sun could not reach it where it lay, he gathered a marvellous heap of all the bright shards he could find, of crockery and glass and mirror, So arranging them in the window, that each threw its tiny reflex upon the turf. With this last contrivance, Themy was specially delighted, and the laird, happy as a child in beholding her delight, threw himself in an ecstasy on the mound and clasped it in his arms. I can hardly doubt that he regarded it as representing his own grave, to which, in his happier moods, he certainly looked forward As he lay thus, foreshadowing his burial, or rather his resurrection, a young canary which had flown from one of the cottages flitted in with a golden shiver and flash, and alighted on his head.

He took it gently in his hand, and committed it to Fimi to carry home, with many injunctions against disclosing how it had been captured. His lonely days were spent in sleep, in tending his plants, or in contriving defenses. But in all weathers he wandered out at midnight, and roamed or rested among fields or rocks till the first signs of the breaking day, when he hurried like a wild creature to his den. Before long he had contrived an ingenious trap, or a man-spider-web, for the catching of any human insect that might seek entrance at his window. The moment the invading body should reach a certain point, a number of lines would drop about him, in making his way through which he would straightway be caught by the barbs of countless fish-hooks, the hole strong enough at least to detain him, until its inventor should have opened the trap-door and fled.

52 52 - Cream or Scum? 7:36

CREAM OR SCUM? Of the new evil report abroad concerning him, nothing had as yet reached Malcolm. He read, and pondered, and wrestled with difficulties of every kind, saw only a little of Lady Florimel, who he thought avoided him, saw less of the Marquis, and, as the evenings grew longer, spent still larger portions of them with Duncan, now and then reading to him, but oftener listening to his music or taking a lesson in the piper's art. He went seldom into the Seton, for the faces there were changed towards him. Attributing this to the reports concerning his parentage, and not seeing why he should receive such treatment because of them, Hateful though they might well be to himself, he began to feel some bitterness towards his early world, and would now and then repeat to himself a misanthropical thing he had read, fancying he too had come to that conclusion.

But there was not much danger of such a mood growing habitual with one who knew Duncan MacPhail, Blue Peter, and the schoolmaster, not to mention Miss Horne. To know one person who is positively to be trusted will do more for a man's moral nature. Yes, for his spiritual nature, than all the sermons he has ever heard or ever can hear. One evening, Malcolm thought he would pay Joseph a visit, but when he reached Skournose, he found it nearly deserted. He had forgotten that this was one of the nights of meeting in the Bailey's barn. Feeny, indeed, had not gone with her father and mother, but she was spending the evening with the laird. Lifting the latch, and seeing no one in the house, he was on the point of withdrawing.

When he caught sight of an eye peeping through an inch opening of the door of the bed closet, which the same moment was hurriedly closed. He called, but received no reply, and left the cottage wondering. He had not heard that Mrs. Mare had given Lizzy Findlay shelter for a season. And now a neighbor had observed, and put her own construction on the visit, her report of which strengthened the general conviction of his unworthiness. Descending from the promontory, and wandering slowly along the shore, he met the scournose part of the congregation returning home. The few salutations dropped him as he passed were distant, and bore an expression of disapproval. Mrs. Mare only, who was walking with a friend, gave him a kind nod.

Blue Peter, who followed at a little distance, turned and walked back with him. "'I'm exorcised in my mind,' he said. As soon as they were clear of the stragglers, about the turn things attain, down by the barn. They tell me there's some gay queer customers attain to hold forth, returned Malcolm. It's a fact, answered Peter. The folk will hardly hear a word now fra any of the older and soberer Christians. They had not the gift of the spirit, they say. But in place of steering them up to take hold upon their Maker, their new lights set them up to look down upon either folk, prophesying and announcing. As then the Lord had committed judgment into their hands. What is it to take hold of to miscall them for?

asked Malcolm. It's not so muckle, answered Peter, for anything they do, as for what they believe or do not believe. There is an omen for a clamrock with other party the night. She stood up and spake wail, and wail out, but not to muckle profit, as it seemed to me. Only I may be no fear judge, for I could not be rid of the notion that she was letting up my sail all the time. I did not ken what for. And I couldn't help wondering, gin she gent what folk used to say about her cell when she was a lass. For gin the small half of that was true. A body might think the new greyskin her would have driven her to hide her head, in place of exulting her horn on high. But maybe it was all lays. She gents best her cell.

There cannot be muckle worship gine on wi' ye by this time, then, I'm thinking," said Malcolm. I dinna like to say it, returned Joseph. But there's a spirit of spiritual pride abroad among us, it seems to me, that's not favourable to devotion. They had taken it into their heads for one thing, and that's what dales' best lays on at. At cause they're fisherfolk, they have a special mission to convert the world. What phone lay that upon? asked Malcolm. Oh, what the Saviour said to Peter and the lay of them, that was fishers. To come to him and he would make them fishers of men. Aye, I see. What for dinner you bite at home, you and the lave of the Dewsons? There you come upon the thing that's troubling me.

Are we at Beguddet to break it up? Or are we to stand aside and let it gain to dirt and green brie? Or are we to bide with them, and worstle about holy words till we tie in our stomach for holy things? Could you break it up, gin you tried?" asked Malcolm. I don't know. That's one of the considerations that hangs some seer upon me. See what we are done. What for, didn't ye gain o'er to Master Graham? And speer what he thinks? What for should I gain to him? What's he but a fine, moral man? I never heard it he had any discernment o' the mind o' the spirit. That's what tells his best Frey Clamrock would say about yourseil, Peter. And I doubt she wouldna be far wrong. Anigate, she kens ni mer about you, nor ye ken about the Maester.

Call ye a man who cares for nothin' in heaven or in the earth but the will of his creator. Call ye sic a man no spiritual. Just gang you till him, and maybe he'll let in a glint upon you, it'll astonish you. He's taken uncle little interest in anything that was going on. Are not ye somewissin ye had not taken Mucklemare yourself, Peter? Deed I am. But g'nny be gifted like that, you say? What for didn't he try to hold us right? Maybe he thought you would make your mistakes better wantin' him. Well, ye did not call that friendly. What for now? I heard him say folk cannot come right set by hain' room to gang rong. But jist ye gang til him now. Maybe he'll open meirane in your heads nor ye can't ye head.

Well, maybe we might do where. I should mention the thing to Bauer Meehl and James, gentle, and see what they say. There is no good to be gotten again to the minister, ye see. There is nothing in him, as a soul says, but what the spoon pits into them." With this somewhat unfavorable remark... Blue Peter turned homewards. Malcolm went slowly back to his room, his tallow candle, and his volume of gibbon. He read far into the night, and his candle was burning low in the socket. Suddenly he sat straight up in his chair, listening. He thought he heard a sound in the next room. It was impossible even to imagine of what. It was such a mere abstraction of sound. He listened with every nerve, but heard nothing more.

crept to the door of the wizard's chamber, and listened again. Listened until he could no longer tell whether he heard or not, and felt like a deaf man imagining sounds. Then crept back to his own room and went to bed, all but satisfied that, if it was anything, it must have been some shaking window or door he had heard. But he could not get rid of the notion that he had smelt sulphur.

53 53 - The Schoolmaster's Cottage 14:13

The Schoolmaster's Cottage. The following night, three of the scournose fishermen, Blue Peter, Bauamiel, and James Gentle, called at the schoolmaster's cottage in the Alton, and were soon deep in earnest conversation with him around his peat-fire. in the room which served him for study, dining-room, and bedchamber. All the summer, a honeysuckle outside watched his back window for him. Now it was guarded within by a few flowerless plants. It was a deep little window in a thick wall, with an air of mystery, as if thence the privileged might look into some region of strange and precious things. The front window was comparatively commonplace, with a white muslin curtain across the lower half. In the middle of the sanded floor stood a table of white deal, much stained with ink.

The green-painted doors of the box-bed opposite the hearth stood open, revealing a spotless white counterpane. On the wall beside the front window hung by red cords three shelves of books. And near the back window stood a dark, old-fashioned bureau, with pendant brass handles as bright as new, supporting a bookcase with glass doors, crowded with well-worn bindings. A few deal chairs completed the furniture. "'It's a ser vexer, to think of what we all jidge to be the work of the spirit, taking sick a turn. I'm fear it'll lie heavy at our door,' said Blue Peter, after a sketch of the state of affairs." "'I don't think they can have sunk so low as the early Corinthian church yet,' said Mr. Graham.

"'And St. Paul never seems to have blamed himself for preaching the gospel to the Corinthians.' "'Well, maybe,' rejoined Mare. "'But meantime, the practical point is, are we to have—' "'Struggle. To set things right again? Or are we to leave them to their end of ices? "'What power have you to set things right?' "'None, sir.'" The Bailey's Barnes is free to them as to her sails. What influence have you, then?" "'Uncle Little,' said Bowemiel, taking the word. "'They're for the win, and it's plain enough that to stand up and oppose them would be but to breed strife and debate. And that might put many awakened conscience soon asleep again. Maybe not to be awakened any more,' said Blue Peter. Then you don't think you can either communicate or receive benefit by continuing to take a part in those meetings?"

"'I didn't think it,' answered all three. "'Then the natural question is, why should you go?' "'We're feared for the guilt of what the minister calls schism,' said Blue Peter. "'That might have occurred to you before you forsook the parish church,' said the schoolmaster with a smile. "'But there was no spiritual nourishment to be gotten in that hof,' said James Gentle. "'How did you come to know the want of it?' "'Oh, that came through the spirit himself. What else?' replied Gentle. By what means? By the reading of the word and by prayer, answered Gentle. By his own voice in the heart, said Bowemiel. Then a public assembly is not necessary for the communication of the gifts of the Spirit. They were silent.

Isn't it possible that the eagerness after such assemblies may have something to do with the want of confidence in what the Lord says of his kingdom? That it spreads like the hidden leaven, grows like the buried seed? My own conviction is that if a man would but bend his energies to live, if he would but try to be a true, that is, a godlike man, in all his dealings with his fellows, a genuine neighbor, and not a selfish unit, he would open such channels for the flow of the Spirit as no amount of even honest and so-called successful preaching could. Who but one was ever fit to lead sick a life as at? All might be trying after it. In proportion as our candle burns, it will give light. No talking about light will supply the lack of its presence, either to the talker or the listeners.

There is a heap made of the preaching of the word in the book itself, said Peter with emphasis. Undoubtedly. But just look at our Lord. He never stopped living amongst his people, hasn't stopped yet, but he often refused to preach, and personally has given it up altogether now. Aye, but you see, he can't what he was doin'. And so will every man, in proportion as he partakes of his spirit. But do you believe there is a thing as gettin' a call to the preachin'? I do. But even then, a man's work is of worth only as it supplements his life. A network of spiritual fibers connects the two, makes one of them. But surely, sir, themets of the same mind ought to meet and stir one another up? They that feared the Lord spake often together ye kin.

What should prevent them? Why should not such as delight in each other's society meet and talk and pray together? Address each the others if they like. There is plenty of opportunity for that, without forsaking the Church or calling public meetings. To continue your quotation, the Lord hearkened and heard. Observe, the Lord is not here said to hearken to sermons or prayers, but to the talk of His people. This would have saved you from false relations with men that opposed themselves, caring nothing for the truth, perhaps eager to save their souls, nothing more at the very best. "'Sir, sir! What would ye have? "'Dart ye say it's not a body's first duty to save his own soul alive?' exclaimed Bower Miel.

"'I doubt it, but there's little doubt into it,' said Mr. Graham, breaking into scotch." Bowemiel rose from his chair in indignation. Blue Peter made a grasp at his bonnet, and James Gentle gave a loud sigh of commiseration. "'I allow it to be a very essential piece of prudence,' added the schoolmaster, resuming his quieter English. "'But the first duty? No. The Catechism might have taught you better than that. To mind his chief end must surely be man's first duty. And the Catechism says, Man's chief end is to glorify God. And to enjoy him forever, supplemented Peter. That's a safe consequence. There's no fear of the second if he does the first. Anyhow, he cannot enjoy him forever this moment, and he can glorify him at once.

Ay, but ho, said Baomiel, ready to swoop upon the Master's reply. Just as Jesus Christ did, by doing his will, by obedience. That's no faith. It's works. You'll never save your soul that gate, sir. No man can ever save his soul. God only can do that. You can glorify him by giving yourself up, heart and soul and body and life to his son. Then you shall be saved. That you must leave to him, and do what he tells you. There will be no fear of the saving then, though it's not an easy matter, even for him, as has been sorely proved. "'And how are we to gear ourselves up to him? For you see, we are practical kind of folk as fisherfolk, Maester Graham,' said Bowemiel. The tone implied that the schoolmaster was not practical.

"'I say again, in doing his will and not your own. And what may his will be? Is he not telling you himself at this moment? Do you not know what his will is? How should I come between him and you?' For anything I know, it may be that you pay your next-door neighbor a crown you owe him, or make an apology to the one on the other side. I do not know. You do. Don't you think about saving your own soul now, Master Graham? said Thou Emile, returning on their track. No, I don't. I've forgotten all about that. I only desire and pray to do the will of my God, which is all in all to me. What say ye then about the souls of other folk? What may ye save them now? Gladly would I save them, but according to the will of God.

If I were even unwittingly to attempt it in any other way, I should be casting stumbling blocks in their path, and separating myself from my God, doing that which is not of faith, and therefore is sin. It is only where a man is at one with God that he can do the right thing, or take the right way. Whatever springs from any other source than the spirit that dwelt in Jesus is of sin. And works to thwart the Divine Will. Who knows what harm may be done to a man by hurrying a spiritual process in him? I doubt, sir, g'n your doctrine was to get a hearing, there would be unco little done for the glory of God in this place, remarked Bauermiel, with sententious reproof. But what was done would be of the right sort, and surpassingly powerful.

Well, to come back to the business in hand. "'What would be your advice?' said Baomil. "'That's a thing none but a lawyer should give. I have shown you what seemed to me the principles involved. I can do no more. You do not call that neighborly, when a body comes spearing it.' "'Are you prepared, then, to take my advice?' "'You would not have a body do that aforehand. We might as well all be papists and all believers we're told.' "'Precisely so.'" "'But you can exercise your judgment upon the principles whereon my opinion is founded, with far more benefit than upon my opinion itself, which I cannot well wish you to adopt, seeing I think it far better for a man to go wrong upon his own honest judgment than to go right upon anybody else's judgment, however honest also.' "'Ye have a heap of queer doctrines, sir.' "'And yet you ask advice of me?' "'We are not taken, Muckle, any gate,' returned Bowamiel rudely."

And walked from the cottage. James Gentle and Blue Peter bade the master a kindly good night, and followed Bow-a-Meal. The next Sunday evening Blue Peter was again at the Alton, accompanied by Gentle and another fisherman, not Bow-a-Meal, and had another and longer conversation with the schoolmaster. The following Sunday he went yet again, and from that time, every Sunday evening, as soon as he had had his tea, Blue Peter took down his broad bonnet and set out to visit Mr. Graham. As he went, one and another would join him as he passed, the number increasing every time, until at last ten or twelve went regularly. But Mr. Graham did not like such a forsaking of wives and children on the Sunday.

"'Why shouldn't you bring Mrs. Mare with you?' he said one evening, addressing Joseph first. Then turning to the rest, "'I should be happy to see any of your wives who can come,' he added. And some of you have children who would be no trouble. If there is any good in gathering this way, why shouldn't we have those with us who are our best help at all other times?" "'Deed, sir," said Joseph. We're so used to our wives that we're o'er ready to forget how ill we could do wantin' them." Mrs. Mare and two other wives came the next night. A few hung back from modesty and dread of being catechized, but ere long about half a dozen went when they could. I need hardly say that Malcolm, as soon as he learned what was going on, made one of the company.

And truly, although he did not know even yet all the ill that threatened him, he stood in heavy need of the support and comfort to be derived from such truths as Mr. Graham unfolded. Duncan also, although he took little interest in what passed, went sometimes, and was welcomed. The talk of the master not unfrequently lapsed into monologue, and sometimes grew eloquent. Seized occasionally by the might of the thoughts which arose in him, thoughts which would, to him, have lost all their splendor as well as worth, had he imagined them the offspring of his own faculty, meteors of his own atmosphere, instead of phenomena of the heavenly region manifesting themselves on the hollow side of the celestial sphere of human vision, he would break forth in grand poetic speech that roused to aspiration Malcolm's whole being, while in the same instant Calming him with the summer peace of profoundest faith.

To no small proportion of his hearers, some of such outbursts were altogether unintelligible, a matter of no moment. But there were of them who understood enough to misunderstand utterly. Interpreting his riches by their poverty, they misinterpreted them pitifully, and misrepresented them worse. And alas, in the little company, There were three or four men who, for all their upward impulses, yet remained capable of treachery, because incapable of recognizing the temptation to it for what it was. These, by and by, began to confer together and form an opposition, in this at least ungenerous, that they continued to assemble at his house and show little sign of dissension. When, however, they began at length to discover that the Master did not teach that interpretation of atonement which they had derived, they little knew whence, but delivered another as the doctrine of St.

Paul, St. Peter, and St. John, they judged themselves bound to take measures towards the quenching of a dangerous heresy. For the more ignorant a man is, the more capable is he of being absolutely certain of many things. With such certainty, that is, as consists in the absence of doubt. Mr. Graham, in the meantime, full of love and quiet, solemn fervor, placed completest confidence in their honesty, and spoke his mind freely and faithfully.

54 54 - One Day 23:27

One Day. The winter was close at hand. Indeed, in that northern region might already have claimed entire possession. But the trailing golden fringe of the skirts of autumn was yet visible behind him, as he wandered away down the slope of the world. In the gentle sadness of the season, Malcolm could not help looking back with envy to the time when labor, adventure, and danger, stormy winds and troubled waters, would have helped him to bear the weight of the moral atmosphere which now from morning to night oppressed him. Since their last conversation, Lady Florimel's behavior to him was altered. She hardly ever sent for him now, and when she did, gave her orders so distantly. That at length, but for his grandfather's sake, he could hardly have brought himself to remain in the house even until the return of his master, who was from home, and contemplated proposing to him as soon as he came back that he should leave his service and resume his former occupation, at least until the return of summer should render it fit to launch the cutter again.

One day, a little after noon, Malcolm stepped from the house. The morning had broken gray and squally, with frequent sharp showers. and had grown into a girly, gusty day. Now and then, the sun sent a dim yellow glint through the troubled atmosphere, but it was straightway swallowed up in the volumes of vapor seething and tumbling in the upper regions. As he crossed the threshold, there came a moaning wind from the west, and the water-laden branches of the trees all went bending before it, shaking their burden of heavy drops on the ground. It was dreary. Dreary outside an inn. He turned and looked at the house. If he might have but one peep of the goddess, far withdrawn. What did he want of her?

Nothing but her favor. Something acknowledged between them. Some understanding of accepted worship. Alas, it was all weakness, and the end thereof dismay. It was but the longing of the opium-eater, or the drinker. For the poison which in delight lays the foundations of torture. No, he knew where to find food, something that was neither opium nor strong drink, something that in torture sustained, and when its fruition came, would even in the splendors of delight far surpass their short-lived boon. He turned towards the schoolmaster's cottage. Under the trees, which sighed aloud in the wind, and, like earth-clouds, rained upon him as he passed, Across the churchyard, bare to the gray, hopeless-looking sky, through the iron gate he went, and opened the master's outer door.

Ere he reached that of his room, he heard his voice inviting him to enter. "'Come to condole with me, Malcolm,' said Mr. Graham cheerily. "'What for, sir?' asked Malcolm. "'You haven't heard, then, that I'm going to be sent about my business. At least it's more than likely.' Malcolm dropped into a seat and stared like an idol. Could he have heard the words? In his eyes Mr. Graham was the man of the place, the real person of the parish. He dismissed. The words breathed of mingled impiety and absurdity. The schoolmaster burst out laughing at him. "'I'm feared to speak, sir,' said Malcolm. "'Whatever I say, I'm bound to make a fool of myself.' What in plain words do you mean, sir? Somebody has been accusing me of teaching heresy.

In the school to my scholars, and in my own house to the fisherfolk. The presbytery has taken it up, and here is my summons to appear before them in answer to the charge. God preserve us, sir. And is this the first you heard of it? The very first. And what are you going to do? Appear, of course. And what will you say to them? I shall answer their questions. They'll condemn you. I do not doubt it. And what next? I shall have to leave Scotland, I suppose. Sir, it's awful. The horror-stricken expression of Malcolm's face drew a second merry laugh from Mr. Graham. They can't burn me, he said. You needn't look like that. But there is something terrible wrong, sir, when sick men have poor or sick a man.

They have no power but what's given them. I shall accept their decision as the decree of heaven. "'It's will to be you, sir, that can take a thing so quiet. You mustn't suppose I am naturally so philosophical. It stands for five and forty years of the teaching of the Son of Man in this wonderful school of his, where the clever would be destroyed but for the stupid, where the church would tear itself to pieces but for the laws of the wicked, and where the wicked themselves are the greatest furtherance of godliness and the good.' "'But who could ever have been baze enough to do it?' said Malcolm. Too much astounded for his usual eager attention to the words that fell from the master. That I would rather not inquire, answered Mr.

Graham. In the meantime, it would be better if the friends would meet somewhere else, for this house is mine only in virtue of my office. Will you tell them so for me? Surely, sir. But will you not make one? Not till this is settled. I will after, so long as I may be here. "'Gin' anybody had been catechized in the Bairns, I would surely have heard of it,' said Malcolm, after a pause of rumination. "'Pucci would have tellt me. I saw him this threen. Yester even.' "'Who will ever say again a thing's not possible?' "'Whatever doctrine I may have omitted to press in the school,' said Mr. Graham, "'I have inculcated nothing, at variance with the Confession of Faith or the shorter catechism.' "'Oh, can you say that, sir?' returned Malcolm.

When, in as well as out of the school, ye have I insisted that God is a just God, a bon offering like in the give fair play. Well, does the Catechism say anything to the contrary? Not in so many words, Doteless. But it says a sight to things that would make God out the maest unrighteous tyrant it ever was. I'm not sure you can show that logically, said Mr. Graham. I will think it over, however, not that I mean to take up any defense of myself. But now I have letters to write, and must ask you to leave me. Come and see me again to-morrow. Malcolm went from him, like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn. Here was trouble upon trouble. But what had befallen him compared with what had come upon the schoolmaster?

A man like him to be so treated! How gladly he would work for him all the rest of his days, and how welcome his grandfather would make him to his cottage! Lord Lossie would be the last to object, but he knew it was a baseless castle while he built it, for Mr. Graham would assuredly provide for himself, if it were by breaking stones on the road and saying the Lord's Prayer. It all fell to pieces, just as he lifted his hand to Miss Horne's knocker. She received him with a cordiality such as even she had never shown him before. He told her what threatened Mr. Graham. She heard him to the end without remark. beyond the interjection of an occasional, "'Essers,' then sat for a minute in troubled silence.

"'There's a heap o' things an omen like me,' she said at length, "'cannot understand. I dinna ken whether some folk mer' nor pretend to understand them. But set Sandy Graham down upon one side, and the Presbytery down upon the other, and I a wit enough to ken Wilke I would take my eternal chance with. Some o' the Presbytery's good-enough men But ha'na o'er muckle gumption. And some o'er muckle grace to judge by the way it take lore and rare, laying down the laws g'en the Almighty had been driven to take counsel with them. But look at Sandy Graham. Ye ken whether he has gumption or no. And g'en he be a stickit minister, he's stuck by the grace o' modesty. But haith, I wuna pity him. For o'er all things, to pity a good man in the right gate is a fool's folly.

"'Trowth I'm a handful, ma'er, concerned about your sale, Malcolm.' Malcolm heard her without apprehension. His cup seemed full, and he never thought that cups sometimes run over. But perhaps he was so far the nearer to a truth. While the cup of blessing may and often does run over, I doubt if the cup of suffering is ever more than filled to the brim." "'Anything fresh, ma'am?' he asked, with the image of Mrs. Stewart standing ghastly on the slopes of his imagination. "'I would not be fit to tell you, laddie, "'can it were not as you can, "'that the Almighty's been uncomerciful to me "'in the matter of feelings. "'Your friends in the Seton "'and or at Scarnoes have feelings, "'and that's how none of them "'is plucked apart to tell you "'the wagon of slanderous thongs against you.'"

"'What are they saying now?' asked Malcolm, "'with considerable indifference. "'Neither mere nor less "'than that ye're the father of an unborn wain,' "'answered Miss Horne. "'I didn't freely understand ye,' returned Malcolm, for the unexpectedness of the disclosure was scarcely to be mastered at once. I shall not put on record the plain form of honest speech whereby she made him at once comprehend the nature of the calumny." He started to his feet, and shouted, "'Who dare say that?' so loud that the listening gene almost fell down the stair. "'Who should say it by the lassie herself?' answered Miss Horne simply. She maun have the best right to say who's who. It would better becum onybody but her," said Malcolm.

What mean ye there, laddie? cried Miss Horne, alarmed. At none could ken so well as her cell it was a damned lay. Who is she? Who but Meg Parton's Lizzie? Poor lassie. Is that it? Eh, but I'm sorry for her. She never said it was me. And whoever said it, surely ye duna believe it on me, ma'am? "'Me believe it. Malcolm MacPhail, will ye dare insult a maiden woman at stood clear at her approach till she's long past the danger o't?' "'It's been with Uncle Small difficulty, I maun allow, for I hae na been led into any temptation.' "'Amen,' returned Malcolm, perceiving by the flash of her eyes and the sudden halt of her speech that she was really indignant. "'I dinna ken what I hae said to anger ye.' "'Anger me, Kuo he.

Wat do I hae na feelings?' Will he dare still imagine it, he would be sittin' there and me holdin' him company, g'n I believed him capable of turnin' out such a miserable, contemptible wretch? The Lord come atween me and my wrath. I beg your pardon, ma'am. A body canna I put things together afore he speaks. I'm right there obliged to you for takin' my part. I take nobody's part but my end, laddie. Obliged to me for havin' a ween common sense. A thing that I was born with. Toots, didn't have her. Well, ma'am, what would you have me do? I cannot send my old daddy round the town with his pipes to proclaim it I'm not the man. I'm thinking I'll have to leave the place. What'd you send your daddy round with the pipes to say it he was the man?

You might as well do the tain as the tether. Money a better man has been worm is called, and gart folk forget that ever the lay was laid. Nah, nah. Never in frae a lay. And never say neither that you did not do the thing, sepp it be laid straight to your face. "'Let a lay lay in the dirt. "'Can you pick it up? "'The dirt'll stick till you, "'though you fling the lay "'or the dyke at the world's end. "'Now, now, let a lay lay, "'as you would the devil's tail "'if the laird's jock took off "'with the edge of his sped.' "'All things again, "'mither now,' sighed Malcolm. "'All jaw bore again,' returned Miss Horn, almost sarcastically. "'The deal had the worst of it, though, "'and will have in the long henner inn.

"'Meanwhile, you maun face him.'" "'There is no armor for the back, either in the Bible or in the Pilgrim's Progress.' "'What would you have me do then, ma'am?' "'Do? Who said you was to do anything? The best do in whiles is to bide still. Let you the jog, eh, or on joked, without ducking.' "'Gin' I be not to do anything. I must wish I had not kent,' said Malcolm, whose honorable nature writhed under the imputed vileness. "'It's I better to ken in what light you stand with other folk.' It holds your own lip in toward a muckle, and so doing things or made remarks that would be misread till you. You mon hold an open road, but the truth when it comes out may have free course. The one thing that spites me is that the vera folk that was the first to spread your ill report will be the first to wish you well when the truths can't.

Aye, and they'll persuade their vera selves that they stuck up for you like born brothers. There mon be some judgment upon lying. The worst wuss I have against any sick backbiter is that he may live to be affronted at himself. After that he'll be good enough company for me. Gain your ways, laddie. Say your prayers and hold up your head. Who would not rather be accused of all the sins of the commandments, nor be guilty of one of them?" Malcolm did hold up his head as he walked away. Not a single person was in the street. Far below, the sea was chafing and tossing, grey-green broken into white. The horizon was formless with mist, hanging like thin wool from the heavens down to the face of the waters, against which the wind, which had shifted round considerably towards the north, and blew in quicker coming and more menacing gusts, appeared powerless.

He would have gone to the sands and paced the shore till nightfall, but that he would not expose himself thus to unfriendly eyes and false judgments. He turned to the right instead. and walked along the top of the cliffs eastward. Buffeted by winds without and hurrying fancies within, he wandered on until he came near Colancy Castle, at sight of which the desire awoke in him to look again on the scene of Lady Florimel's terror. He crossed the head of the little bay and descended into the heart of the rock. Even there the wind blew dank and howling through all the cavernous hollows. As he approached the last chamber, Out of the devil's window flew, with clanging wing, an arrow-barbed seagull, down to the gray-veiled tumult below, and the joy of life for a moment seized his soul.

But the next, the dismay of that which is forsaken, was upon him. It was not that the once lordly structure lay abandoned to the birds and the gusts, but that she would never think of the place without an instant assay at forgetfulness. He turned and reascended. Feeling like a ghost that had been wandering through the forlorn chambers of an empty skull. When he rose on the bare top of the ruin, a heavy shower from the sea was beating slant against the worn walls and gaping clefts. Myriads of such rains had, with age-long inevitableness, crumbled away the strong fortress, till its threatful mass had sunk to an abject heap. Thus all-devouring death—nay, nay— It is all-sheltering, all-restoring Mother Nature, receiving again into her mighty matrix the stuff worn out in the fashioning toil of her wasteful, greedy, and slatternly children.

In her genial bosom, the exhausted gathers life. The effete becomes generant. The disintegrate returns to resting and capable form. The rolling, oscillating globe dips it for an eon in growing sea. Lifts it from the sinking waters of its thousand-year bath to the furnace of the sun, remodels and remoulds, turns ashes into flowers, and divides mephitis into diamonds and breath. The races of men shift and hover like shadows over her surface, while, as a woman dries her garment before the household flame, she turns it by portions, now to and now from the sun-heart of fire. O joy, that all the hideous lacerations and vile gatherings of refuse, which the worshippers of Mammon disfigure the earth withal, scoring the tale of their coming dismay on the visage of their mother, shall one day lie fathoms deep under the blessed ocean, to be cleansed and remade into holy, because lovely, forms.

May the ghosts of the men who mar the earth, turning her sweet rivers into channels of filth, and her living air into irresperable vapors and pestilences haunt the desolations they have made, until they loathe the work of their hands, and turn from themselves with a divine repudiation. It was about half-tide, and the sea coming up, with the wind straight from the north, when Malcolm, having descended to the shore of the little bay, and scrambled out upon the rocks, bethought himself of a certain cave which he had not visited since he was a child, and climbing over the high rocks between, took shelter there from the wind. He had forgotten how beautiful it was, and stood amazed at the richness of its color, imagining he had come upon a cave of the serpentine marble which is found on the coast.

For sides and roof and rugged floor were gorgeous with bands and spots and veins of green and rusty red. A nearer inspection, however, showed that these hues were not of the rock itself, but belonged to the garden of the ocean, and when he turned to face the sea, lo, they had all but vanished. The cave shone silvery gray with a faint, moony sparkle, and out came the lovely carving of the rodent waves. All about, its sides were fretted in exquisite curves and fantastic, yet ever-graceful knots and twists. As if a mass of gnarled and contorted roots, first washed of every roughness by some ethereal solvent, leaving only the soft lines of yet grotesque volutions, had been transformed into mingled silver and stone.

Like a soldier crab that had found a shell to his mind, he gazed through the yawning mouth of the cavern at the turmoil of the rising tide as it rushed straight towards him through a low, jagged channel in the rocks. But straight with the tide came the wind, blowing right into the cave, and finding it keener than pleasant, he turned and went farther in. After a steep ascent some little way, the cavern took a sharp turn to one side, where not a breath of wind, not a glimmer of light reached, and there he sat down upon a stone and fell a-thinking. He must face the lie out, and he must accept any mother God had given him. But with such a mother as Mrs. Stewart, and without Mr. Graham, how was he to endure the altered looks of his old friends?

Faces indifferent before had grown suddenly dear to him, and opinions he would have thought valueless once had become golden in his eyes. Had he been such as to deserve their reproaches, he would doubtless have steeled himself to despise them. But his innocence bound him to the very people who judged him guilty. And there was that awful certainty, slowly but steadily drawing nearer, that period of vacant anguish, in which Lady Florimel must vanish from his sight, and the splendor of his life go with her, to return no more. But not even yet did he cherish any fancy of coming nearer to her than the idea of absolute service authorized. As often as the fancy had, compelled by the Lady herself, Crossed the horizon of his thoughts, a repellent influence from the same source had been at hand to sweep it afar into its antenatal chaos.

But his love rose ever from the earth to which the blow had hurled it, purified again, once more all devotion and no desire, careless of recognition beyond the acceptance of its offered service, and content that the be-all should be the end-all. The cave seemed the friendliest place he had yet found. Earth herself had received him into her dark bosom, where no eye could discover him, and no voice reach him but that of the ocean, as it tossed and wallowed in the palm of God's hand. He heard its roar on the rocks around him, and the air was filled with a loud noise of broken waters, while every now and then the wind rushed with a howl into the cave, as if searching for him in its crannies. The wild raving soothed him.

And he felt as if he would gladly sit there, in the dark, torn with tumultuous noises, until his fate had unfolded itself. The noises thickened around him as the tide rose, but so gradually that, although at length he could not have heard his own voice, he was unaware of the magnitude to which the mighty uproar had enlarged itself. Suddenly, something smote the rock as with the hammer of Thor, and as suddenly, The air around him grew stifling hot. The next moment it was again cold. He started to his feet in wonder and sought the light. As he turned the angle, the receding back of a huge green foam-spotted wave, still almost touching the roof of the cavern, was sweeping out again into the tumult.

It had filled the throat of it, and so compressed the air within by the force of its entrance as to drive out for a moment a large portion of its latent heat. Looking then at his watch, Malcolm judged it must be about high tide. Brooding in the darkness, he had allowed the moments to lapse unheeded, and it was now impossible to leave the cavern until the tide had fallen. He returned into its penetral, and sitting down with the patience of a fisherman, again lost himself in reverie. The darkness kept him from perceiving how the day went. And the rapidly increasing roar of the wind made the diminishing sound of the tide's retreat less noticeable. He thought afterwards that perhaps he had fallen asleep.

Anyhow, when at length he looked out, the waves were gone from the rock, and the darkness was broken only by the distant gleam of their white defeat. The wind was blowing a hurricane, and even for his practiced foot, it was not easy to surmount the high, abrupt spines he must cross to regain the shore. It was so dark that he could see nothing of the castle, though it was but a few yards from him, and he resolved, therefore, the path along the top of the cliffs being unsafe, to make his way across the fields, and return by the high road. The consequence was, that what with fences and ditches, the violence of the wind, and uncertainty about his direction, It was so long before he felt the hard road under his feet, that with good reason he feared the house would be closed for the night ere he reached it.

55 55 - The Same Night 8:07

that instead of being folded in silence, the house was in unwanted commotion. As he hastened to the south door, The Prince of the Power of the Air himself seemed to resist his entrance. So fiercely did the wind, eddying round the building, dispute every step he made towards it. And when at length he reached and opened it, a blast, rushing up the glen straight from the sea, burst wide the opposite one, and roared through the hall like a torrent. Lady Florimel, flitting across it at the moment, was almost blown down, and shrieked aloud for help. Malcolm was already at the north door, exerting all his strength to close it. When she spied him, and bounding to him with white face and dilated eyes, exclaimed, "'Oh, Malcolm, what a time you have been!' "'What's wrong, my lady?' cried Malcolm with respondent terror.

"'Don't you hear it?' she answered. "'The wind is blowing the house down. There's just been a terrible fall, and every moment I hear it going. If my father were only come, we shall all be blown into the burn.'" "'Nah, fear o' that, my lady,' returned Malcolm. "'The walls o' the old carcass are most live rock, and it'll stand the worst when it ever blew, this side o' the tropics an' a git. "'Gannett were once to get his nose in, I wouldna say but it might tear the roof. But it wanna blow us into the burn, my lady. I'll just gang and see what's the mischief.' He was moving away, but Lady Flormel stopped him. "'No, no, Malcolm,' she said. "'It's very silly of me, I dare say.' But I've been so frightened.

There's such a set of geese—Mrs. Courthope and the butler and all of them. Don't leave me, please." "'I'm on gang and see what's amiss, my lady,' answered Malcolm. "'But you can come with me again, you like.' "'What's fallen, did you think?' "'Nobody knows. It fell with a noise like thunder and shook the whole house.' "'It's far or dark to see anything frae the outside,' rejoined Malcolm. "'At least afore the moon's up. It's as dark as pick.'" But I can soon satisfy myself whether the devil's in the house or no. He took a candle from the hall table and went up the square staircase, followed by Florimel. What ways, my lady, at the house is no looked up, and he'll go body in their beds, he asked.

My father is coming home tonight. Didn't you know? But I should have thought a storm like this enough to account for people not being in bed. It's a fearful night for him to be so far from his. Where is he coming from? "'You never speak to me now, my lady, and nobody tell me. "'He was to come from Fockebers tonight. "'Stote took the bay mare to meet him yesterday. "'He would never start in sick of wind. "'It's fit to blow the saddle off the mare's back.' "'He may have started before it came on to blow like this,' said Lady Florimel. "'Malcolm liked this suggestion the less because of its probability, "'believing in that case he should have arrived long ago. "'But he took care not to increase Florimel's alarm.'" By this time Malcolm knew the whole of the accessible inside of the roof well.

Better far than anyone else about the house. From one part to another, over the whole of it, he now led Lady Florimel. In the big shadowed glimmer of his one candle, all parts of the garret seemed to him frowning with knitted brows over resentful memories, as if the phantom forms of all the past joys and self-renewing sorrows, all the sins and wrongs, All the disappointments and failures of the house had floated up, generation after generation, into that abode of helpless brooding, and there hung hovering about the fast-fleeting life below, which now, in its turn, was ever sending up like fumes from heart and brain, to crowd the dim, dreary, larva-haunted, dream-wallowing chaos of half-obliterated thought and feeling.

To Florimel it looked a dread waste. A region deserted and forgotten, mysterious with far-reaching nooks of darkness, and now awful with the wind raving and howling over slates and leads so close to them on all sides, as if a flying army of demons were tearing at the roof to get in and find covert from pursuit. At length they approached Malcolm's own quarters, where they would have to pass the very door of the wizard's chamber, To reach a short ladder-like stair that led up into the midst of naked rafters. When, coming upon a small storm window near the end of a long passage, Lady Florimel stopped and peeped out. The moon is rising, she said, and stood looking. Malcolm glanced over her shoulder.

Eastward, a dim light shone up from behind the crest of a low hill. Great part of the sky was clear, but huge masses of broken cloud went sweeping across the heavens. The wind had moderated. "'Aren't we somewhere near your friend the wizard?' said Lady Florimel, with a slight tremble in the tone of mockery with which she spoke. Malcolm answered as if he were not quite certain. "'Isn't your own room somewhere hereabouts?' asked the girl sharply. "'We'll just gain till a' ither queer place,' observed Malcolm, pretending not to have heard her. "'And gin the roof be all right there. I so no bother my head mair about it till the mornin.' It's but a few steps farther, and sein a bit steir. A fit of her not unusual obstinacy had, however, seized Lady Florimel.

"'I won't move a step,' she said, "'until you have told me where the wizard's chamber is.' "'Aint ye, my lady, g'n you will have it,' answered Malcolm, not unwilling to punish her a little. "'Just at the far end of the trance there.' In fact, the window in which she stood lighted the whole length of the passage from which it opened. Even as he spoke, there sounded somewhere, as it were, the slam of a heavy iron door, the echoes of which seemed to go searching into every cranny of the multitudinous garrets. Florimel gave a shriek, and laying hold of Malcolm clung to him in terror. A sympathetic tremor, set in motion by her cry, went vibrating through the fisherman's powerful frame, and, almost involuntarily, he clasped her close.

With wide eyes they stood staring down the long passage, of which, by the poor light they carried, they could not see a quarter of the length. Presently they heard a soft footfall along its floor, drawing slowly nearer through the darkness, and slowly out of the darkness grew the figure of a man, huge and dim, clad in a long, flowing garment, and coming straight on to where they stood. They clung yet closer together. The apparition came within three yards of them, and then they recognized Lord Lossie in his dressing gown. They started asunder. Florimel flew to her father, and Malcolm stood, expecting the last stroke of his evil fortune. The Marquess looked pale, stern, and agitated. Instead of kissing his daughter on the forehead, as was his custom, he put her from him with one expanded palm, but the next moment drew her to his side.

Then approaching Malcolm, he lighted at his the candle he carried, which a draught had extinguished on the way. "'Go to your room, MacPhail,' he said, and turned from him, his arms still round Lady Florimel. They walked away together down the long passage, vaguely visible in flickering fits. All at once their light vanished, and with it Malcolm's eyes seemed to have left him. But a merry laugh, The silvery thread in which was certainly Florimel's, reached his ears, and brought him to himself.

56 56 - Something Forgotten 8:14

for two or three dismal hours, as he lay with eyes closed but sleepless. At length he opened them wide and looked out into the room. It was a bright, moonlit night. The wind had sunk to rest. All the world slept in the exhaustion of the storm. He only was awake. He could lie no longer. He would go out and discover, if possible, the mischief the Tempest had done. He crept down the little spiral stair used only by the servants. and knowing all the mysteries of Locke and Barr was presently in the open air. First he sought a view of the building against the sky, but could not see that any portion was missing. He then proceeded to walk round the house, in order to find what had fallen. There was a certain neglected spot, nearly under his own window, where a wall, across an interior angle, formed a little court or yard.

He had once peeped in at the door of it, Which was always half open, and seemed incapable of being moved in either direction, but had seen nothing except a broken pail and a pile of brushwood. The flat arch over this door was broken, and the door itself half buried in a heap of blackened stones and mortar. Here was the avalanche, whose fall had so terrified the household. The formless mass had yesterday been a fair proportioned and ornate stack of chimneys. He scrambled to the top of the heap, and sitting down on a stone carved with a plated Celtic band, yet again fell a-thinking. The Marquis must dismiss him in the morning. Would it not be better to go away now, and spare poor old Duncan a terrible fit of rage?

He would suppose he had fled from the pseudo-maternal net of Mrs. Stewart. And not till he had found a place to which he could welcome him would he tell him the truth. But his nature recoiled, both from the unmanliness of such a flight, and from the appearance of conscious wrong it must involve, and he dismissed the notion. Scheme after scheme for the future passed through his head, and still he sat on the heap in the light of the high gliding moon, like a ghost on the ruins of his earthly home, and his eyes went listlessly straying like servants without a master. Suddenly he found them occupied with a low iron-studded door in the wall of the house, which he had never seen before. He descended and found it hardly closed, for there was no notch to receive the heavy latch.

Pushing it open on great rusty hinges, he saw within what in the shadow appeared a precipitous descent. His curiosity was roused. He stole back to his room and fetched his candle. And having, by the aid of his tinder-box, lighted it in the shelter of the heap, peeped again through the doorway, and saw what seemed a narrow cylindrical pit. Only, far from showing a great yawning depth, it was filled with stones and rubbish nearly to the bottom of the door. The top of the door reached almost to the vaulted roof, one part of which, close to the inner side of the circular wall, was broken. Below this breach, fragments of stone projected from the wall, suggesting the remnants of a stair. With the sight came a foresight of discovery.

One foot on the end of a long stone sticking vertically from the rubbish, and another on one of the stones projecting from the wall, his head was already through the break in the roof, and in a minute more he was climbing a small, broken, but quite passable spiral staircase. Almost a counterpart of that already described as going like a huge auger-bore through the house from top to bottom, that indeed by which he had just descended. There was most likely more of it buried below, probably communicating with an outlet in some part of the rock towards the burn. But the portion of it which, from long neglect, had gradually given way, had fallen down the shaft, and cut off the rest with its ruins.

At the height of a story he came upon a built-up doorway, and again at a similar height upon another. But the parts filled in looked almost as old as the rest of the wall. Not until he reached the top of the stair did he find a door. It was iron-studded and heavily hinged like that below. It opened outward, noiselessly he found, as if its hinges had been recently oiled, and admitted him to a small closet. The second door of which he opened hurriedly with a beating heart. Yes, there was the check-curtained bed. It must be the wizard's chamber. Crossing to another door, he found it both locked and further secured by a large iron bolt in a strong staple. This ladder he drew back, but there was no key in the lock.

With scarce a doubt remaining, he shot down the one stair and flew up the other to try the key that lay in his chest. One moment. And he stood in the same room, admitted by the door next his own. Some exposure was surely not far off. Anyhow, here was room for counterplot, on the chance of baffling something underhand, villainy most likely, where Mrs. Cattenaw was concerned. And yet, with the control of it thus apparently given into his hands, he must depart, leaving the house at the mercy of a low woman. For the lock of the wizard's door would not exclude her long if she wished to enter and range the building. He would not go, however, without revealing all to the Marquis, and would at once make some provision towards her discomfiture.

Going to the forge, and bringing thence a long bar of iron to use as a lever, he carefully drew from the door-frame the staple of the bolt, and then replaced it, so that, while it looked just as before, a good push would now send it into the middle of the room. Lastly, he slid the bolt into it, and having carefully removed all traces of disturbance, left the mysterious chamber by its own stair, and once more ascending to the passage, locked the door, and retired to his room with the key. He had now plenty to think about beyond himself. Here certainly was some small support to the legend of the wizard earl. The stair which he had discovered had been in common use at one time. Its connection with other parts of the house had been cut off with an object, and by degrees it had come to be forgotten altogether.

Many villainies might have been affected by means of it. Mrs. Cattenaugh must have discovered it the same night on which he found her there, had gone away by it then, and had certainly been making use of it since. When he smelt the sulfur, she must have been lighting a match. It was now getting towards morning, and at last he was tired. He went to bed and fell asleep. When he awoke it was late, and as he dressed he heard the noise of hoofs and wheels in the stable-yard. He was sitting at breakfast in Mrs. Courthope's room, when she came in full of surprise at the sudden departure of her lord and lady. The marquis had rung for his man, and Lady Florimel for her maid, as soon as it was light. Orders were sent at once to the stable, four horses were put to the travelling carriage, and they were gone.

Mrs. Courthope could not tell whither. Dreary as was the house without Florimel, things had turned out a shade or two better than Malcolm had expected, and he braced himself to endure his loss.

57 57 - The Laird's Quest 16:27

Things were going pretty well with the laird. Themy and he drew yet closer to each other, and as he became yet more peaceful in her company, his thoughts flowed more freely, and his utterance grew less embarrassed. until at length, in talking with her, his speech was rarely broken with even a slight impediment, and a stranger might have overheard a long conversation between them, without coming to any more disparaging conclusion in regard to him, than that the hunchback was peculiar in mind as well as in body. But his nocturnal excursions continuing to cause her apprehension, and his representations of the delights to be gathered from nature while she slept, At the same time alluring her greatly, Femi had become, both for her own pleasure and his protection, anxious in these also to be his companion.

With a vital recognition of law, and great loyalty to any utterance of either parent, she had yet been brought up in an atmosphere of such liberty that, except a thing were expressly so conditioned, or in itself appeared questionable, she never dreamed of asking permission to do it. And accustomed as she had been to go with the laird everywhere, and to be out with him early and late, her conscience never suggested the possibility of any objection to her getting up at twelve instead of four or five to accompany him. It was some time, however, before the laird himself would consent, and then he would not unfrequently interpose with limitations, especially if the night were not mild and dry, sending her always home again to bed.

The mutual rule and obedience between them was something at once strange and lovely.

At midnight, Femi would enter the shop, and grope her way until she stood under the trap-door. This was the nearest she could come to the Laird's chamber, for he had not only declined having the ladder stand there for his use, but had drawn a solemn promise from the carpenter that at night it should always be left slung up to the joists. For himself he had made a rope ladder. Which he could lower from beneath when he required it, invariably drew up after him, and never used for coming down. One night, Feame made her customary signal by knocking against the trap-door with a long slip of wood. It opened, and as usual, the body of the laird appeared, hung for a moment in the square gap, like a huge spider by its two hands, one on each side, then dropped straight to the floor, when, without a word, he hastened forth, and Feame followed.

The night was very still, and rather dark, for it was cloudy about the horizon, and there was no moon. Hand in hand the two made for the shore, here very rocky, a succession of promontories with little coves between. Down into one of these they went by a winding path, and stood at the lip of the sea. A violet dimness, or rather a semi-transparent darkness, hung over it, through which came now and then a gleam. where the slow heave of some triton's shoulder caught a shine of the sky. A hush also as of sleep hung over it, which, not to break, the wavelets of the rising tide carefully stilled their noises, and the dimness and the hush seemed one. They sat down on a rock that rose but a foot or two from the sand, and for some moments listened in silence to the inarticulate story of the night.

At length the laird turned to Feeney, And taking one of her hands and both of his, very solemnly said, as if breaking to her his life's trouble, Feeny, I do not ken wher I come frae. Hoot laird, ye ken willinach ye came frae God, answered Feeny, lengthening out the word with solemn utterance. The laird did not reply, and again the night closed around them, and the sea hushed at their hearts. But a soft, light air began to breathe from the south, and it waked the laird to more active thought. "'Can he wad but come out and show himself,' he said. "'What for disna he come out?' "'Who wad ye hae come out?' asked Fimi. "'Ye ken who, well enough?' "'They say he's all gated once. "'Just harken. "'What for will ye I bide in, and never come out?' And a poor body see him.

The speech was broken into pauses, filled by the hush rather than noise of the tide, and the odor-like wandering of the soft air in the convolutions of their ears. The lone wind, mon be his breath. So quiet. He's no hurrying himself the night. There's never nobody runs after him. Eh, Femi? I just thought he was going to speak. This last exclamation he uttered in a whisper, as the louder gush of a larger tide pulse died away on the shore. Look, Femi. Look, he resumed. Look out, yonner. Didn't you see something, it might grow to something. His eyes were fixed on a faint spot of steely blue out on the sea, not far from the horizon. It was hard to account for with such a sky overhead, wherein was no lighter part to be seen that might be reflected in the water below.

But neither of the beholders was troubled about its cause. There it glimmered on in the dimness of the wide night, a cold, faint splash of blue-gray. "'I didn't think muggle of that, sir,' said Feemy. "'It might be the mark of the sole of his foot, though,' returned the laird." He mighta just sittin it down, and the water ha lowed up about it, and the low no be willing to gang out. Look sharp, Feamey. There may come a nether at the next stride, another footmark. Look ye that gate, now look this. What for willna he come out? The lift ma be full of him, and I'm hungered for a sight o him. Can ye see onythin, Feamey? Cry out. "'What will I cry?' asked Femi. "'Cry, father of lights,' answered the laird.

"'Will he hear to that, do you think, sir?' "'Who can's? He might just turn his head, and one look would serve me for a hundred a year.' "'I say cry. Can I see anything?' said Femi." As they sat watching, by degrees the laird's thoughts swerved a little. His gaze had fixed on the northern horizon. Where, as if on the outer threshold of some mighty door, long, low clouds, with varied suggestion of recumbent animal forms, had stretched themselves like creatures of the chase, watching for their lord to issue. Maybe he's not out of the house yet, he said. Surely it cannot be but he comes out ilk o'night. He would never have made sick a sight o'bony things to let them lie without anybody to gather them.

And there is no ill folk the fourth of this time of night to make an ugly din, or disturb him with the sight of them. He maun come out in the quiet of the night, or else what's it all for? Aye, he keeps the night to himself, and leaves the day to us. That'll be what the deep sleep falls upon men for, doubtless, to hold them out of his gate. Eh, I wuss he would come out when I was by. I might get a glimpse of him. Maybe he would take the hump off of me, and set things in order in my head, and make me like either folk. Eh, me, that would be gran. Nobody would dare to touch me, sign. Eh, mighty, come out. Father of lights, Father of lights. He went on repeating the words, till, growing softer and softer, his voice died away in silence.

And still as his seat of stone he sat, a new Job, on the verge of the world waters, like the old Job on his dunghill, when he cried out, Lo, he goeth by me, and I see him not. He passeth on also, that I perceive him not. Call thou, and I will answer, or let me speak, and answer thou me. O that I knew where I might find him, that I might come even to his seat. Behold, I go forward, but he is not there, and backward, but I cannot perceive him. On the left hand, where he doth work, but I cannot behold him, he hideth himself on the right hand, but I cannot see him. At length he rose, and wandered away from the shore, his head sunk upon his chest. Femi rose also, and followed him in silence. The child had little of the poetic element in her nature.

But she had much of that from which everything else has to be developed. Heart. When they reached the top of the bray, she joined him, and said, putting her hand in his, but not looking at, or even turning towards him, "'Maybe he'll come out upon you afore you can some day, when you're not looking for him.' The laird stopped, gazed at her for a moment, shook his head, and walked on. Grassy steeps everywhere met the stones and sands of the shore, and the grass and the sand melted, as it were, and vanished each in the other. Just where they met in the next hollow stood a small building of stone with a tiled roof. It was now strangely visible through the darkness, for from every crevice a fire-illumined smoke was pouring.

But the companions were not alarmed or even surprised. They bent their way towards it without hastening a step, and coming to a fence that enclosed a space around it, opened a little gate and passed through. A sleepy watchman challenged them. "'It's me,' said the laird. "'A fine night, laird,' returned the voice, and said no more. The building was divided into several compartments, each with a separate entrance. On the ground in each burned four or five little wood fires, and the place was filled with smoke and glow. The smoke escaped partly by openings above the doors, but mostly by the crannies of the tiled roof. Ere it reached these, however, it had to pass through a great multitude of pendant herrings.

Hung up by the gills, layer above layer, nearly to the roof, their last tails came down as low as the laird's head. From beneath nothing was to be seen but a firmament of herring-tails. These fish were the last of the season, and were thus undergoing the process of kippering. It was a new venture in the place, and its success as yet a question. The laird went into one of the compartments, and searching about a little amongst the multitude within his reach, took down a plump one, then cleared away the blazing wood from the top of one of the fires, and laid his choice upon the glowing embers beneath.

cried Feeney from without, whose nostrils the resulting odor had quickly reached. The fish is not yours. You didn't think I would take it want and leave, Feeney, returned the laird. Money a supper how I made this way, and money another I hope to make. It'll not be this season, though, for this lot's the last of them. They're fine eating, but I'm some fear they will not keep. I'll give you leave, sir, persisted Feeney. Showing herself the indivertible guardian of his morals as well as of his freedom. "'Oh, Mr. Runcie himself, of course,' answered the laird. "'Will I put an on to you?' "'Did you spare leave for me, too?' asked the righteous maiden. "'Oh, nah. But I'll tell him the next time I see him.' "'I'm not for any,' said Feeney."

The fish wanted little cooking. The laird turned it, and after another half-minute of the fire— took it up by the tail, sat down on a stone beside the door, spread a piece of paper on his knees, laid the fish upon it, pulled a lump of bread from his pocket, and proceeded to make his supper. Ere he began, however, he gazed all around with a look which Femi interpreted as a renewed search for the Father of Lights, whom he would fain thank for his gifts. When he had finished, he threw the remnants into one of the fires, then went down to the sea, And there washed his face and hands in a rock pool, after which they set off again, straying yet further along the coast. One of the peculiarities in the friendship of the strange couple was that although so closely attached, they should maintain such a large amount of mutual independence.

They never quarreled, but would flatly disagree, with never an attempt at compromise. The whole space between midnight and morning would sometimes glide by without a word spoken between them, and the one or the other would often be lingering far behind. As, however, the ultimate goal of the night's wandering was always understood between them, there was little danger of their losing each other. On the present occasion, the laird, still full of his quest, was the one who lingered. Every few minutes he would stop and stare. Now all around the horizon, now up to the zenith, now over the wastes of sky. For any moment, from any spot in heaven, earth, or sea, the Father of Lights might show foot or hand or face.

He had at length seated himself on a lichen-covered stone with his head buried in his hands. As if, wearied with vain search for him outside, he would now look within and see if God might not be there. When suddenly a sharp exclamation from Theemy reached him, he listened. "'Run! Run! Run!' she cried, the last word prolonged into a scream. While it yet rang in his ears, the laird was halfway down the steep. In the open country he had not a chance, but knowing every cranny in the rocks large enough to hide him, with anything like a start near enough to the shore for his short-lived speed, He was all but certain to evade his pursuers, especially in such a dark night as this. He was not in the least anxious about Themy, never imagining she might be less sacred in other eyes than in his, and knowing neither that her last cry of loving solitude had gathered intensity from a cruel grasp, nor that while he fled in safety, she remained a captive.

Trembling and panting like a hare just escaped from the hounds, he squeezed himself into a cleft, where he sat, half covered with water, until the morning began to break. Then he drew himself out and crept along the shore from point to point, with keen circumspection, until he was right under the village and within hearing of its inhabitants, when he ascended hurriedly and ran home. But having reached his burrow, pulled down his rope ladder, and ascended, He found, with troubled dismay, that his loft had been invaded during the night. Several of the hooked cords had been cut away, on one or two were shreds of clothing, and on the windowsill was a drop of blood. He threw himself on the mound for a moment, then started to his feet, caught up his plaid, tumbled from the loft, and fled from Scournose, as if visible pestilence had been behind him.

58 58 - Malcolm and Mrs. Stewart 10:19

Stewart. When her parents discovered that Feemy was not in her garret, it occasioned them no anxiety. When they had also discovered that neither was the laird in his loft, and were naturally seized with the dread that some evil had befallen him, his hitherto invariable habit having been to house himself with the first gleam of returning day, they supposed that Femi, finding he had not returned, had set out to look for him. As the day wore on, however, without her appearing, they began to be a little uneasy about her as well. Still, the two might be together, and the explanation of their absence a very simple and satisfactory one. For a time, therefore, They refused to admit importunate disquiet.

But before night, anxiety, like the slow but persistent waters of a flood, had insinuated itself through their whole being, nor theirs alone, but had so mastered and possessed the whole village that at length all employment was deserted, and every person capable joined in a search along the coast, fearing to find their bodies at the foot of some cliff. The report spread to the neighboring villages. In Port Lossie, Duncan went round with his pipes, arousing attention by a brief blast, and then crying the loss at every corner. As soon as Malcolm heard of it, he hurried to find Joseph, but the only explanation of their absence he was prepared to suggest was one that had already occurred to almost everybody—that the laird, namely, had been captured by the emissaries of his mother, and that, to provide against a rescue, they had carried off his companion with him.

On which supposition, there was every probability that, within a few days, at farthest, Themy would be restored unhurt. "'There can be little doubt they had gotten a grip o' him at last, poor fellow,' said Joseph. "'But whatever's come to limb, we cannot sit down and eat our meat on Kentho Themy's fare, and poor wee lamb. You moun just hold away o'er to kerk byers, Malcolm, and get word o' your mither, and see g'n any thing can be made out o' her.'" The proposal fell on Malcolm like great billow. Blue Peter, he said, looking him in the face. I took it as a mark of your friendship that you never spake the word to me. What right has any man to call that woman my mither? I had never allowed it. I'm thinking, returned Joseph, the more easily nettled that his horizon also was full of trouble.

Your word upon the Major will not gain so far as John of Groats. You'll not be so pained for your witness upon the pint. "'I would as soon gang a mile into the mouth of hell as gang to Kirkbyers,' said Malcolm. "'I have my answer,' said Peter, and turned away. "'But I sa gang,' Malcolm went on. "'The thing at Monby can be. "'Only I tell you this, Peter,' he added. "'Gan ever ye say sicker words yawn in my hearing again, "'that is, afore the woman has proven herself what she says, "'I sa gang by ye ever after onspoken, "'for I'll can't ye want nae mere o' me.'" Joseph, who had been standing with his back to his friend, turned and held out his hand. Malcolm took it. "'A question afore again, Peter," he said.

"'What for dinner you tell me what folk was saying about me? "'An Aunt Lizzie Finley?' "'Cause I didna believe a word of it, "'and I wasn't a gun to add to your troubles.' "'Lizzy never mooted such a thing?' "'Never.' "'I was sure of that.' "'No while away to Kirkbyers. God help me.'" "'I would rather face Sutton and his muckled tyke. But didn't ye expect any news. Gain yon one kens, she's all the sure of not to tell. Only ye sa'na say I didna do my best for ye.'" It was the hardest trial of the will Malcolm had yet had to encounter. Trials of submission he had had, intolerably severe ones. But to go and do what the whole feeling recoils from— is to be weighed only against abstinence from what the whole feeling urges towards.

He walked determinedly home. Stoate saddled a horse for him while he changed his dress, and once more he set out for Kirkbyers. Had Malcolm been at the time capable of attempting an analysis of his feeling towards Mrs. Stewart, he would have found it very difficult to affect. Satisfied as he was of the untruthful, even cruel nature of the woman who claimed him, and conscious of a strong repugnance to any nearer approach between them, he was yet aware of a certain indescribable fascination in her. This, however, only caused him to recoil from her the more, partly from dread lest it might spring from the relation asserted, and partly that, whatever might be its root, it wrought upon him in a manner he scarcely disliked the less that it certainly had nothing to do with the filial.

But his feelings were too many and too active to admit of the analysis of any one of them, and ere he reached the house his mood had grown fierce. He was shown into a room where the fire had not been many minutes lighted. It had long, narrow windows, over which the ivy had grown so thick that he was in it some moments ere he saw through the dusk that it was a library. Not half the size of that at Lossie House, but far more ancient, And although evidently neglected, more study-like. A few minutes passed, then the door softly opened, and Mrs. Stewart glided swiftly across the floor with outstretched arms. At last, she said, and would have clasped him to her bosom. But Malcolm stepped back. Nah, nah, ma'am, he said.

It takes two to that. Malcolm, she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion, of some kind. "'Ye may call me your son, ma'am, but I ken na' groan yet for callin' you my—' He could not say the word. "'That is very true, Malcolm,' she returned gently. "'But this interview is not of my seeking. I wish to precipitate nothing. So long as there is a single link—or half a link, even—missing from the chain of which one end hangs at my heart.' She paused, with her hand on her bosom. Apparently to suppress rising emotion. Had she had the sentence ready for use? I will not subject myself, she went on, to such treatment as it seems I must look for from you. It is hard to lose a son, but it is harder yet to find him again after he has utterly ceased to be one.

Here she put her handkerchief to her eyes. Till the matter is settled, however, she resumed, let us be friends. Or at least not enemies. What did you come for now? Not to insult me, surely. Is there anything I can do for you?" Malcolm felt the dignity of her behavior, but not the less, after his own straightforward manner, answered her question to the point. "'I came about nothing concerning myself, ma'am. I came to see whether you came anything about Femi Mare.' "'Is it a what? I don't even know who she is.' "'You don't mean the young woman that—' "'Why do you come to me about her? Who is she?' Malcolm hesitated a moment. If she really did not know what he meant, was there any risk in telling her?

But he saw none. "'Who is she, ma'am?' he returned. "'Awhiles think she ma'am be the laird's good angel, though in shape she's but a wee bit lassie. She makes up for a heap to the laird. Him and her, ma'am, they've disappeared together.'" "'Nobody can swear.' Mrs. Stewart laughed a low, unpleasant laugh, but made no other reply. Malcolm went on. "'And it's not to be wondered at, "'gen folk will hear to ye morn can something about it, mem.' "'I know nothing whatever,' she returned emphatically. "'Believe me or not, as you please,' she added with heightened colour. "'If I did know anything,' she went on with apparent truthfulness, "'I don't know that I should feel bound to tell it.' As it is, however, I can only say I know nothing of either of them.

That I do say most solemnly. Malcolm turned, satisfied at least, that he could learn no more. You are not going to leave me so, the lady said, and her face grew sad as sad could be. There's nothing made atween us, mem, answered Malcolm, without turning even his face. You will be sorry for treating me so some day. Well then, mem. I will be, but that day is not the day. Think what you could do for your poor witless brother if— Mem, interrupted Malcolm, turning right round and drawing himself up in anger. Prove it I'm your son, and that minute I spear at you who is my father. Mrs. Stewart changed color, neither with the blush of innocence, nor with the pallor of guilt, but with the gray of mingled rage and hatred.

She took a step forward with the quick movement of a snake about to strike, but stopped midway and stood looking at him with glittering eyes, teeth clenched and lips half open. Malcolm returned her gaze for a moment or two. Ye never was the mither, whoever was the father of me, he said, and walked out of the room. He had scarcely reached the door when he heard a heavy fall, and looking round, Saw the lady lying motionless on the floor. Thoroughly on his guard, however, and fearful both of her hatred and her blandishments, he only made the more haste downstairs, where he found a maid and sent her to attend to her mistress. In a minute he was mounted and trotting fast home, considerably happier than before, inasmuch as he was now almost beyond doubt convinced that Mrs.

Stewart was not his mother.

59 59 - An Honest Plot 20:38

An Honest Plot.

Ever since the visit of condolence, with which the narrative of these events opened, there had been a coolness between Mrs. Mellis and Miss Horne. Mr. Mellis's shop was directly opposite Miss Horne's house, and his wife's parlour was over the shop, looking into the street. Hence the two neighbours could not but see each other pretty often. Beyond a stiff nod, however, no sign of smouldering friendship had as yet broken out. Miss Horne was consequently a good deal surprised when, having gone into the shop to buy some trifle, Mr. Mellis informed her, in all but a whisper, that his wife was very anxious to see her alone for a moment, and begged her to have the goodness to step up to the parlor. His customer gave a small snort, betraying her first impulse to resentment, but her nobler nature, which was never far from the surface, constrained her compliance.

Mrs. Mellis rose hurriedly when the plumb-lined figure of her neighbor appeared, ushered in by her husband, and received her with a somewhat embarrassed empressement, arising from the consciousness of good will Disturbed by the fear of imputed meddlesomeness. She knew the inward justice of Miss Horne, however, and relied upon that, even while she encouraged herself by waking up the ever-present conviction of her own superiority in the petite morale of social intercourse. Her general tendency, indeed, was to look down upon Miss Horne. Is it not usually the less that looks down on the greater? I had almost said it must be. For that the less only can look down. But that would not hold absolutely in the kingdoms of this world.

While in the kingdom of heaven it is all looking up. Sit you down, Miss Horne, she said. It's a long time since we had a news together. Miss Horne seated herself with a begrudged acquiescence. Had Mrs. Mellis been more of a tactician, she would have dug a few approaches ere she opened fire upon the fortress of her companion's fair hearing. But instead of that, she at once discharged the imprudent question. "'Was ye at home last night, ma'am, between the hours of o'clock and nine?' A shot which instantly awoke in reply the whole battery of Miss Horne's indignation. "'Who am I to be speared sick a question? Who but your cell would have dared it, Mistress Mellis?' "'Holy, holy, Miss Horne,' expostulated her questioner.

"'I had no wish to pry until any secrets yours, or—' "'Secrets!' shouted Miss Horne. But her consciousness of good intent, and all but assurance of final victory, upheld Mrs. Mellis. "'Or James either,' she went on, apparently regardless. "'But I would fain be sure ye kent all about your ain house at a body my chance to see frae the crown o' the cause, eh? Middle of the street.' "'The parlour-blind's gone up crooked ever since that thumb-fingered creature, Watty Witherspale, made a new roller till it. "'Gonna be that, you mean, Mistress Mellis?' "'Hoot!' returned the other." "'How far can ye lip into that gene of yours, ma'am?' "'Na far nor the length of my nose, and the braid of my toine,' was the scornful answer."

Although, however, she thus manifested her resentment of Mrs. Mellis's catechetical attempts at introducing her subject, Miss Horne had no desire to prevent the free outcome of her approaching communication. "'In that case I may spake out,' said Mrs. Mellis. "'Use your freedom.' "'Well, I will.' You was hardly out of the house last night afore— You saw me going out? Aye, did I? What guard you speared, then? What force did a body come screwing up a straight stair? No the face, and no the back o'er? Well, I not know how speared, but that's nothing to the point. You had not been gone, as I was saying, over five minutes, when in came a light into the bedroom nears the parlour, and Jean appeared with a candle in her hand.

There was no light in this room but the light of the fire, and no muckle of that, for it was mostly peat, so I saw her well enough on being seen my cell. She came straight to the window, and drew down the blind, but lost her cell a bit, or she would never set down her candle where it cost a shadow of her cell and her doings upon the blind. "'And what was she after the jade?' cried Miss Horne, without any attempt to conceal her growing interest. She made nothing of it, whatever it was. For down the street came the schoolmaster, and chapped at the door, and gayed in and waited till ye came ham. "'Well,' said Miss Horne. But Mrs. Mellis held her peace. "'Well,' repeated Miss Horne. "'Well,' returned Mrs.

Mellis, with a curious mixture of deference and conscious sagacity in her tone, "'ought I take upon me to say is, think ye twice afore ye lip into that gene o' yours.' "'I lip in nothing, Tiller. I would as soon lip into the dottle of a pipe among dry straw.' "'What saw ye, Mistress Mellis?' "'Ye need not speak like that,' returned Mrs. Mellis, for Miss Horn's tone was threatening. "'I'm no Jane.' "'What saw ye?' repeated Miss Horn, more gently, but not less eagerly. "'Whose is that kissed mahogany drawers in that bedroom? Can I presume to spare?' "'Whose but mine?' "'They're no Jane's.' Jean's? You might a lettin' her keep her bit duds in them, for anything I can't. Jean's duds in my grizzel's drawers.

A likely thing. Hmm. They were poor Miss Camels, were they? They were grizzel Camels' drawers, as long as she had use for any. But what for, you should say poor, tiller I dinna ken, sep it be it she's gone where they hannet muckle it needs layin' in drawers. That's neither here nor there. Did you tell me it Jean was intramitten with the drawers? They're all locked. I'llk one of them, and they're good locks. Not o'er good to have keys to them, are they? The keys are in my pouch," said Miss Horne, clapping her hand to the skirt of her dress. They're I in my pouch, though I hadn't had a feeling to make use of them since she left me. Are you sure they were there last night, ma'am? Miss Horne seemed struck.

I had on my black silk last night, she answered vaguely, and was here silent, pondering doubtfully. "'Well, ma'am, just ye put on your black silk again the morning's night, and come o'er about eight o'clock, and ye'll be able to judge by her at on-gang when ye're not in the house, g'n there be anything amiss wi' Jean. "'There cannot be muckle ill done yet. That's a comfort.' "'What ill? By meddling wi' what does not concern her. Could the woman do?' said Miss Horne, with attempted confidence. "'That ye should ken best your cell, ma'am.' "'But Jean's an awful gossip.' And a lady like your cousin might have left documents behind her that she would not just like to hear proclaimed frae the housetop.

Not she'll ever hear anything mer, poor thing. What mean ye? cried Miss Horne, half frightened, half angry. Just what I say, neither mer nor less, returned Mrs. Malice. Miss Camel may well have left letters, for instance, and who would they fare in Jane's hands? When I never had the heart to open her drawers. exclaimed Miss Horne, enraged at the very notion of the crime. I had no feelings, thank God for the furnishing of me. I doubt Jean has her full share all feelings belonging to fallen human nature, said Mrs. Mellis, with a slow horizontal oscillation of the head. But ye just come and see with your own e'en, and sign judge for your sale. It's no business of mine. I'll come the night, Mrs. Mellis.

Only let it be between us two. "'I can hold my tongue, ma'am. That is, fae all but one. So long as married folk sleeps in a bed, it's ill to hold anything till a body's sail.' "'Mr. Mellis is a deuce-man, and I care not what he kens,' answered Miss Horne." She descended to the shop, and having bought bulk enough to account to Jean for her lengthened stay, for she had beyond a doubt been watching the door of the shop, she crossed the street, went up to her parlour, and rang the bell. The same moment, Jean's head was popped in at the door. She had her reasons for always answering the bell like a bullet. "'Mem,' said Jean. "'Jean, I'm going out the night. The minister ought to be spoken to about the schoolmaster, honest man.

Take the lantern with you to the mance about ten o'clock. That'll be time enough.' "'Very well, mem. But I'm thinking there's a moon the night.' "'Nothing but the duper one, Jean. It's not to call a moon. It's a mercy we have lanterns.' And sick a sight of cards about. Gypsies. Aye, Lantern lets them see where you are and hold out your gate, said Jean, who happened not to relish going out that night. Truth, woman, you're right there, returned her mistress with cheerful assent. The mere they see o' ye, the less they'll meddle with ye. Card or cadger. Hold ye the light upon your ain face, lass, and there's few will have the heart to look again. Heyth, men, there's two sick like us, returned Jean bitterly.

And bounced from the room. That's true, too," said her mistress, adding, after the door was shut, it's a pity we couldna hold on together. I'm going now, Jean, she called into the kitchen as she crossed the threshold at eight o'clock. She turned towards the head of the street in the direction of the manse, but out of the range of Jean's vision, made a circuit, and entered Mr. Mellis' house by the garden at the back. In the parlor, She found a supper prepared to celebrate the renewal of old goodwill. The clear crystal on the table, the new loaf so brown without and so white within, the rich, clear-complexioned butter, undebased with a particle of salt, the self-satisfied hum of the kettle in attendance for the goodman's toddy, the bright fire, the golden glow of the brass fender in its red light, and the dish of boiled potatoes set down before it under a snowy cloth.

The pink eggs, the yellow haddock, and the crimson strawberry jam, all combined their influences, each with its private pleasure wondrously heightened by the zest of a secret watch and the hope of discomfited mischief, to draw into a friendship what had hitherto been but a somewhat insecure neighborship. From below came the sound of the shutters which Mr. Mellis was putting up a few minutes earlier than usual. And when presently they sat down to the table, and after prologue judged suitable, proceeded to enjoy the good things before them, an outside observer would have thought they had a pleasant evening, if not time himself, by the forelock. But Miss Horne was uneasy. The thought of what Jean might have already discovered had haunted her all day long.

For her reluctance to open her cousin's drawers had arisen mainly from the dread of finding justified a certain painful suspicion which had haunted the whole of her intercourse with Grizel Campbell. Namely, that the worm of a secret had been lying at the root of her life, the cause of all her illness, and of her death at last. She had fought with, out-argued, and banished the suspicion a thousand times while she was with her. But evermore it had returned, and now, since her death, when again and again on the point of turning over her things, she had been always deterred by the fear, not so much of finding what would pain herself, as of discovering what Griselle would not wish her to know. Never was there a greater contrast between form and reality, between person and being, between manner and nature, than existed in Margaret Horne.

The shell was rough, the kernel, absolute delicacy. Not for a moment had her suspicion altered her behavior to the gentle, suffering creature, towards whom she had adopted the relation of an elder and stronger sister. To herself, when most satisfied of the existence of a secret, she steadily excused her cousin's withholdment of confidence, on the ground of her own lack of feelings. How could she unbosom herself to such a she? And now the thought of eyes like Jean's, exploring Griselle's forsaken treasures, made her so indignant and restless that she could hardly even pretend to enjoy her friend's hospitality. Mrs. Mellis had so arranged the table and their places that she and her guest had only to lift their eyes to see the window of their watch, while she punished her husband for the virile claim to greater freedom from curiosity by seating him with his back to it.

Which made him every now and then cast a fidgety look over his shoulder. Not greatly to the detriment of his supper, however. Their plan was to extinguish their own the moment Jean's light should appear, and so watch without the risk of counter-discovery. "'There she comes,' cried Mrs. Mellis, and her husband and Miss Horne made such haste to blow out the candle that they knocked their heads together, blew in each other's faces, and the first time missed it. Jean approached the window with hers in her hand and pulled down the blind. But alas, beyond the form of a close-bent elbow moving now and then across a corner of the white field, no shadow appeared upon it. Miss Horne rose. "'Sit down, mem, sit down!

He had nothing to gang upon yet,' exclaimed Mr. Mellis, who, being a Bailey, was an authority. "'I can sit no longer, Mr. Mellis,' returned Miss Horne. "'I have enough to gang upon as long as I have my own floor beneath my feet. The woman has no business there. I'll just slip across and gang in as quiet as a soul into the body. But I so warrant I so make a din afore I come out again.' With a grim, diagonal nod, she left the room. Although it was now quite dark, she yet deemed it prudent to go by the garden gate into the back lane, and so cross the street lower down. Opening her own door noiselessly, Thanks to Jean, who kept the lock well oiled for reasons of Mrs. Katnoss, she closed it as silently, and long-boned as she was, crept up the stair like a cat.

The light was shining from the room. The door was ajar. She listened at it for a moment, and could distinguish nothing. Then, fancying she heard the rustle of paper, could bear it no longer, pushed the door open, and entered. There stood Jean, staring at her with fear-blanched face, a deep top drawer open before her, and her hands full of things she was in the act of replacing. Her terror culminated, and its spell broke in a shriek when her mistress sprang upon her like a tigress. The watchers in the opposite house heard no cry, and only saw a heave of two intermingled black shadows across the blind, after which they neither heard nor saw anything more. The light went on burning until its final struggle with the darkness began, when it died with many a flickering throb.

Unable at last to endure the suspense, now growing to fear any longer, they stole across the street, opened the door, and went in. Over the kitchen fire, like an evil spirit of the squabby order, crouched Mrs. Cattenaw, waiting for Jean. No one else was to be found. About ten o'clock the same evening, as Mr. Graham sat by his peat fire, someone lifted the latch of the outer door and knocked at the inner. His invitation to enter was answered by the appearance of Miss Horne, gaunt and grim as usual, but with more than the wonted fire gleaming from the shadowy cavern of her bonnet. She made no apology for the lateness of her visit, but seated herself at the other side of the deal table, and laid upon it a paper parcel.

Which she proceeded to open with much deliberation and suppressed plenitude. Having at length untied the string with the long fingers of a hand, which, notwithstanding its evident strength, trembled so as almost to defeat the attempt, she took from the parcel a packet of old letters sealed with spangled wax, and pushed it across the table to the schoolmaster, saying, "'Hey, Sandy Graham, nobody but your cell has a right to say what's to be done with them.'" He put out his hand and took them gently, with a look of sadness, but no surprise. "'Dinna think I have been readin' them, Sandy Graham. Nah, nah. I would read nae honest man's letters, be they written to whom they might.' Mr. Graham was silent.

"'You're a good man, Sandy Graham,' Miss Horne resumed. "'Gin' God ever took the pains to make one. "'Dinna think anything atween you and her would have brought me at this time of night to disturb you in your rain chamber.' "'Nah, nah. Whatever was between you two had an honest man into it, and I would have taen my time to gi' ye back your documents. But there's some of another mark here.' As she spoke, she drew from the parcel a small cardboard box, broken at the sides, and tied with a bit of tape. This she undid, and turning the box upside down, tumbled its contents out on the table before him. "'What make ye a sick like a zah?' she said. "'Do you want me to?' asked the schoolmaster with trembling voice.

"'I just do,' she answered. They were a number of little notes, some of them but a word or two and signed with initials, others longer and signed in full. Mr. Graham took up one of them reluctantly and unfolded it softly. He had hardly looked at it when he started and exclaimed, "'God have mercy!' What can be the date of this? There was no date to it. He held it in his hand for a minute, his eyes fixed on the fire, and his features almost convulsed with his efforts at composure. Then laid it gently on the table, and said, but without turning his eyes to Miss Horne, I cannot read this. You must not ask me. It refers doubtless to the time when Miss Campbell was governess to Lady Annabelle. I see no end to be answered by my reading one of these letters.

"'I dare say. Whoever saw it would not look,' returned Miss Horne, with a glance, keen as an eagle's, into the thoughtful eyes of her friend. "'Why not do by the writer of these as you have done by me? Why not take them to him?' suggested Mr. Graham. "'That would be but thumb-fingered work. To let gang the end o' your hank!' exclaimed Miss Horne. "'I do not understand you, ma'am.' "'Well, I'm on guard, you understand me. There's things wild, Sandy Graham, it's not easy to spake about. But I had na' feelings, and we'll all be dead or long, and that's a comfort. Manit you are, you're the only human being I would open my motel about this matter, and that's cause you love the memory of my poor lassie, Griselle Camel.' "'It is not her memory.

It is herself I love,' said the schoolmaster with trembling voice. "'Tell me what you please. You may trust me.' "'Gin I needed you to tell me that, I would trust you as I would the black dog with butter. Harkin, Sandy Graham." The result of her communication and their following conference was, that she returned about midnight with a journey before her, the object of which was to place the letters in the safekeeping of a lawyer friend in the neighboring county town. Long before she reached home, Mrs. Cappenagh had left. Not without communication with her ally, in spite of a certain precaution adopted by her mistress, the first thing the latter did when she entered being to take the key of the seller's stairs from her pocket and release Jean, who issued crestfallen and miserable, and was sternly dismissed to bed.

The next day, however, for reasons of her own, Miss Horne permitted her to resume her duties about the house without remark, as if nothing had happened serious enough to render further measures necessary.

60 60 - The Sacrament 22:50

XVI.

THE SACRAMENT Abandoning all her remaining effects to Jean's curiosity, if indeed it were no worse demon that possessed her, Miss Horne, carrying a large reticule, betook herself to the Lossie Arms, to await the arrival of the mail-coach from the West. on which she was pretty sure of a vacant seat. It was a still, frosty, finger-pinching dawn, and the rime lay thick wherever it could lie. But Miss Horn's red nose was carried in front of her in a manner that suggested nothing but defiance to the fiercest attacks of cold. Declining the offered shelter of the landlady's parlor, she planted herself on the steps of the inn, and there stood until the sound of the guard's horn came crackling through the frosty air.

Heralding the apparition of a flaming chariot, fit for the sun-god himself, who was now lifting his red radiance above the horizon. Having none inside, the guard gallantly offered his one lady-passenger a place in the heart of his vehicle, but she declined the attention. To him, on the ground of preferring the outside. For herself, on the ground of uncertainty whether he had a right to bestow the privilege. But there was such a fire in her heart that no frost could chill her. Such a bright bow in her west, that the sun now rising in the world's east was but a reflex of its splendor. True, the cloud against which it glowed was very dark with bygone wrong and suffering, but so much the more brilliant seemed the hope now arching the entrance of the future.

Still, although she never felt the cold, and the journey was but of a few miles, It seemed long and wearisome to her active spirit, which would gladly have sent her tall person striding along, to relieve both by the discharge of the excessive generation of muscle-working electricity. At length, the coach drove into the town and stopped at the duff arms. Miss Horn descended, straightened her long back with some difficulty, shook her feet, loosened her knees, and after a deucer to the guard, more liberal than was customary, in acknowledgment of the kindness she had been unable to accept, marched off with the stride of a grenadier to find her lawyer. Their interview did not relieve her of much of the time, which now hung upon her like a cloak of lead, and the earliness of the hour would not have deterred her from at once commencing a round of visits to the friends she had in the place.

But the gates of the lovely environs of Fife House stood open. And although there were no flowers now, and the trees were leafless, waiting in poverty and patience for their coming riches, they drew her with the offer of a plentiful loneliness and room. She accepted it, entered, and for two hours wandered about their woods and walks. Entering with her the well-known domain, the thought meets me. What would be the effect on us men of such a periodical alternation between nothing Perhaps, in the endless variety of worlds, there may be one in which that is among the means whereby its dwellers are saved from self and lifted into life. A world in which, during the one half of the year, they walk in state, in splendor, in bounty, and during the other, are plunged in penury and labor.

Such speculations were not in Miss Horn's way. But she was better than the loftiest of speculations, and we will follow her. By and by she came out of the woods, and found herself on the banks of the Wan Water, a broad, fine river, here talking in wide-rippled innocence from bank to bank, there lying silent and motionless and gloomy, as if all the secrets of the drowned since the creation of the world lay dim-floating in its shadowy bosom. In great sweeps it sought the ocean, and the trees stood back from its borders, leaving a broad margin of grass between, as if the better to see it go. Just outside the grounds, and before reaching the sea, it passed under a long bridge of many arches. Then trees and grass and flowers and all greenery left behind rushed through a waste of storm-heaped pebbles into the world water.

Miss Horne followed it out of the grounds and on to the beach. Here its channel was constantly changing. Even while she stood gazing at its rapid rush, its bank of pebbles and sand fell almost from under her feet. But her thoughts were so busy that she scarcely observed even what she saw, and hence it was not strange that she should be unaware of having been followed and watched all the way. Now from behind a tree, Now from a corner of the mausoleum, now from behind a rock, now over the parapet of the bridge, the mad laird had watched her. From a heap of shingle on the opposite side of the wan water, he was watching her now. Again and again he had made a sudden movement as if to run and accost her, but had always drawn back again and concealed himself more carefully than before.

At length she turned in the direction of the town. It was a quaint old place, a royal borough for five centuries, with streets irregular and houses of much individuality. Most of the latter were humble in appearance, bare and hard in form, and gray in hue. But there were curious corners, low archways, uncompromising gables, some with corbel steps, now and then an outside stair, a delicious little dormer window, or a gothic doorway. Sometimes with a bit of carving over it. With the bent head of the climber, Miss Horne was walking up a certain street, called from its precipitousness the straight, that is, difficult, path. An absolute hill of difficulty, when she was accosted by an elderly man, who stood in the doorway of one of the houses.

"'Can you whose yawn watching you frae the top o' the bray, ma'am?' he said. Miss Horne looked up. There was no one there. Ah, that's it. He's away again. That's the way he's been doing this last hour, at least to my knowledge. I saw him watching Ilka a movie you made, ma'am, all the time you was down upon the shore. And there he is now, or was a minute ago, at the head of the brae, clowering the ee now to his head at you, ma'am. Did ye ken him? asked Miss Horn. No, ma'am, cept I say to ye. He hasna been long about the town. Some folks say he's demented, but his uncle Quiet speaks to nobody, and can anybody speak to him, just runs. Could he be Kenan, you know? You're a stranger here, ma'am. Not sick a stranger, John, returned Miss Horn, calling the man by his name, for she recognized him as the beetle of the parish church.

What's the body like? A poor wee humpbacked creature, with a face o' a gentleman. I ken him well. Said Miss Horne. He is a gentleman, g'never god made one. But he's seer a flicket. Where does he lie at night? Can you tell me? I ken naething about him, ma'am, by what comes a seein' him, sick like as the day, and once teetan' in at the door o' the kirk. I would a whisked him till a seat, but the moment I looked at him, away he ran. His uncle changed, though, sin the first time I saw him. Since he lost Femi, fear had been slaying him. No one knew where he slept, but in the daytime he haunted the streets, judging them safer than the fields or woods. The moment anyone accosted him, however, he fled like the wind.

He had no art to find the mind's construction in the face, and not knowing whom to trust, he distrusted all. Humanity was good in his eyes, but there was no man. The vision of Miss Horne was like the day-spring from on high to him. With her near, the hosts of the Lord seemed to encamp around him, but the one word he had heard her utter about his back had caused in him an invincible repugnance to appearing before her, and hence it was that at a distance he had haunted her steps, without nearer approach. There was indeed a change upon him. His clothes hung about him. Not from their own ragged condition only, but also from the state of skin and bone to which he was reduced, his hump showing like a great peg over which they had been carelessly cast.

Half the round of his eyes stood out from his face, whose pallor betokened the ever-recurring rush of the faintly sallying troops back to the citadel of the heart. He had always been ready to run. But now he looked as if nothing but weakness and weariness kept him from running always. Miss Horne had presently an opportunity of marking the sad alteration. For ere she reached the head of the straight path, she heard sounds as of boys at play, and coming out on the level of the high street, saw a crowd, mostly of little boys, in the angle made by a garden wall with a house, whose gable stood halfway across the pavement. It being Saturday, they had just left school in all the exuberance of spirits to which a half-holiday gives occasion.

In most of them, the animal nature was, for the time at least, far wider awake than the human, and their proclivity towards the sport of the persecutor was strong. To them, any living thing that looked at once odd and helpless was an outlaw, a creature to be tormented, or at best, hunted beyond the visible world. A meagre cat, an overfed pet spaniel, a ditchless frog, a horse whose days hung over the verge of the knacker's yard. Each was theirs, in virtue of the amusement latent in it, which it was their business to draw out. But of all such property, an idiot would yield the most, and a hunchback idiot, such as was the laird in their eyes, was absolutely invaluable, beyond comparison the best game in the known universe.

When he left Port Lossy, the laird knew pretty well what risks he ran, although he preferred even them to the dangers he hoped by his flight to avoid. It was he whom the crowd in question surrounded. They had begun by rough teasing, to which he had responded with smiles, a result which did not at all gratify them, their chief object being to enrage him. They had therefore proceeded to small torments, and were ready to go on to worse. Their object being with the laird, hard to compass. Unhappily, there were amongst them two or three bigger boys. The moment Miss Horne described what they were about, she rushed into the midst of them, like a long bolt from a catapult, and scattering them right and left from their victim, turned and stood in front of him, regarding his persecutors with defiance in her flaming eye, and vengeance in her indignant nose.

But there was about Miss Horne herself enough of the peculiar To mark her also, to the superficial observer, as the natural prey of boys. And the moment the first billow of consternation had passed and sunk, beginning to regard her as she stood, the vain imagination awoke in these young lords of misrule. They commenced their attack upon her, by resuming it upon her protege. She spread out her skirts, far from voluminous, to protect him as he cowered behind them. And so long as she was successful in shielding him, her wrath smoldered, but powerfully. At length, one of the bigger boys, creeping slyly up behind the front row of smaller ones, succeeded in poking a piece of iron rod past her, and drawing a cry from the laird.

Out blazed the lurking flame. The boy had risen, and was now attempting to prosecute like an ape what he had commenced like a snake. Inspired by the God of Armies, the Lord of Hosts, she rushed upon him and struck him into the gutter. He fell in the very spot where he had found his weapon, and there he lay. The Christian Amazon turned to the laird. Overflowing with compassion, she stooped and kissed his forehead, then took him by the hand to lead him away. But most of the enemy had gathered around their fallen comrade. And seized with some anxiety as to his condition, Miss Horne approached the group. The instant she turned towards it, the laird snatched his hand from hers, darted away like a hunting spider, and shot down the straight path to the low street.

By the time his protectress had looked over the heads of the group, seen that the young miscreant was not seriously injured, and requested him to take that for meddling with a helpless innocent, the object of her solicitude Whom she supposed standing behind her, was nowhere to be seen. Twenty voices, now obsequious, were lifted to acquaint her with the direction in which he had gone, but it was vain to attempt following him, and she pursued her way, somewhat sore at his want of faith in her, to the house of a certain relative, a dressmaker, whom she visited as often as she went to Duff Harbor. Now Miss Forsythe was one of a small sect of worshippers which had, not many years before, built a chapel in the town.

A quiet, sober, devout company, differing from their neighbours in nothing deeply touching the welfare of humanity. Their chief fault was that, attributing to comparative trifles a hugely disproportionate value, they would tear the garment in pieces rather than yield their notion of the right way of wrapping it together. It so happened that the next morning a minister famous in the community was to preach to them, on which ground Miss Forsythe persuaded her relative to stop over the Sunday and go with her to their chapel. But thinking herself next that her minister had no sermon to prepare, she took Miss Horne to call upon him. Mr. Bigg was one of those men whose faculty is always underestimated by their acquaintances and overestimated by their friends.

To overvalue him was impossible. He was not merely of the salt of the earth, but of the leaven of the kingdom, contributing more to the true life of the world than many a thousand far more widely known and honored. Such as this man are the chief springs of thought, feeling, inquiry, action in their neighborhood. They radiate help and breathe comfort. They reprove, they counsel, they sympathize. In a word, They are the doorkeepers of the house of God. Constantly upon its threshold, and every moment pushing the door to peep in, they let out radiance enough to keep the hearts of men believing in the light. They make an atmosphere about them in which spiritual things can thrive, and out of their school often come men who do greater things, better they cannot do, than they.

Although a separatist, as to externals, He was in heart a most Catholic man. Would have found himself far too Catholic for the community over which he presided, had its members been capable of understanding him. Indeed, he had with many, although such was the force of his character, that no one dared a word to that effect in his hearing, the reputation of being lax in his ideas of what constituted a saving faith. And most of the sect being very narrow-minded, if not small-hearted, In their limitations of the company fitly partaking of the Last Supper of Our Lord, requiring proof of intellectual accord with themselves as to the how and why of many things, especially in regard of what they called the plan of salvation, he was generally judged to be misled by the deceitful kindliness of the depraved human heart, in requiring as the ground of communion only such an uplook to Jesus as, when on earth, Jesus Himself had responded to with healing.

He was larger-hearted, and therefore larger-minded, than his people. In the course of their conversation, Miss Forsythe recounted, with some humor, her visitor's prowess on behalf of the laird, much to honest Mr. Biggs' delight. "'What either could I do?' said Miss Horne apologetically. "'But I don't, I strack our sir.' "'Maybe you would not object, sir, to getting in spear after the laddie, and giving some good advice.'" "'I'll do that,' returned Mr. Big. "'Are we to have the pleasure of your company in our conventicle tomorrow?' he added, after a little pause. "'Dr. Blair is going to preach.' "'Will you have me, Mr. Big?' "'Most willingly, ma'am. And we'll be still better pleased if you'll sit down with us to the Lord's table afterwards.' "'I gang to the Periskert, Kikin,' said Miss Horne, supposing the good man unaware of the fact.

"'Oh, I know that, ma'am.' But don't you think, as we shall, I trust, sit down together to his heavenly supper, it would be a good preparation to sit down together, once at least, to his earthly supper first? I did not ken it you would have any but your own folk. I often thought myself, it was just the one thing any Christian should be ready to do with any other. Is it a new thing with you to hold open house this gate, sir? G'en I may take the liberty to spear. We don't exactly keep open house. We wouldn't like to have anyone with us who would count it poor fare, but still less would we like to exclude one of the Lord's friends. If that is a new thing, it ought to be an old one. You believe in Jesus Christ, don't you, ma'am?

I did not kin whether I believe in him as you would call believing or no. There's sick a heap of things brought to the fore nowadays that I cannot rightly say I understand. But as he did for me, I would do for him. "'Rather nor say I didna ken him, I would hang aside him. Peter and all, I cannot say less.' Mr. Big's eyes began to smart, and he turned away his head. "'Gin that'll do with ye,' Miss Horne went on. "'An ye mean nae desertion of the kirk of my father and his father's afore him, I would willingly partake with ye.' "'You'll be welcome, Miss Horne, as welcome as any of my own flock.' "'Well, now, that I call Christian,' said Miss Horne, rising." Indeed, I could wuss, she added, that in Orenkirk we had mere opportunity, for once in the twelve months no very often to take up the thoughts that belonged to the Holy Ordinance.

The next day, after a powerful sermon from a man who, although in high esteem, was not for moral worth or heavenly insight to be compared with him whose place he took, they proceeded to the celebration of the Lord's Supper, after the fashion of that portion of the Church Universal. The communicants sat in several long pews facing the communion table, which was at the foot of the pulpit. After the reading of St. Paul's account of the institution of the Lord's Supper, accompanied by prayers and addresses, the deacons carried the bread to the people, handing a slice to the first in each pew. Each person, in turn, broke off a portion, and handed what remained to the next. Thus they divided it among themselves.

It so happened, That in moving up to the communion seats, Miss Forsythe and Miss Horne were the last to enter one of them. And Miss Horne, very needlessly insisting on her custom of having her more capable ear towards her friend, occupied the place next the passage. The service had hardly commenced when she caught sight of the face of the mad laird peeping in at the door, which was in the side of the building near where she sat. Their eyes met with a half-repentant, half-apologetic look. He crept in, and, apparently to get as near his protectress as he could, sat down in the entrance of an empty pew, just opposite the one in which she was seated, on the other side of the narrow passage. His presence attracted little notice, for it was quite usual for individuals of the congregation who were not members of the church to linger on the outskirts of the company as spectators.

By the time the piece of bread reached Miss Horne from the other end, It was but a fragment. She broke it in two, and, reserving one part for herself, in place of handing the remnant to the deacon, who stood ready to take it, stretched her arm across the passage and gave it to Mr. Stewart, who had been watching the proceedings intently. He received it from her hand, bent his head over it devoutly, and ate it, unconscious of the scandalized looks of the deacon. who knew nothing of the miserable object thus accepting rather than claiming a share in the common hope of men. When the cup followed, the deacon was on the alert, ready to take it at once from the hands of Miss Horne. But as it left her lips, she rose, grasping it in both hands, and with the dignity of a messenger of the Most High, before which the deacon drew back, bore it to the laird, and having made him drink the little that was left, Yielded it to the conservator of holy privileges, with the words, Hoots, man, the poor body never had a taste of the balm of Gilead and all his persecuted life afore.

The liberality of Mr. Big had not been lost upon her. Freely she had received, freely she gave. What was good must, because it was good, be divided with her neighbor. It was a lawless act. As soon as the benediction was spoken, The laird slipped away, but as he left the seat, Miss Horne heard him murmur, "'Eh, the bonnie man! The bonnie man!' He could hardly have meant the deacon. He might have meant Mr. Big, who had concluded the observance with a simple and loving exhortation.

61 61 - Miss Horn and the Piper 11:22

MISS HORNE AND THE PIPER When Miss Horne bethought herself that night, in prospect of returning home the next day, that she had been twice in the company of the laird, and had not even thought of asking him about Feeney, She reproached herself not a little, and it was with shame that she set out, immediately on her arrival, to tell Malcolm that she had seen him. No one at the house being able to inform her where he was at the moment, she went on to Duncan's cottage. There she found the piper, who could not tell her where his boy was, but gave her a hearty welcome, and offered her a cup of tea, which, as it was now late in the afternoon, Miss Horne gladly accepted. As he bustled about to prepare it, refusing all assistance from his guest, he began to open his mind to her on a subject much in his thoughts, namely, Malcolm's inexplicable aversion to Mrs.

Stewart. "'The name of Stewart will be a noble word, ma'am,' he said. "'That's good enough to can a body by,' answered Miss Horne. "'If the boy will be a Stewart,' he went on, heedless of the indifference of her remark, "'Who'll be knowing, but he may be of the blood royal.' "'There didna look to be muckle royalty about old John, honest man, who couldn't rule a wife, though he had but one,' returned Miss Horne. "'If you'll please, mem, don't you'll be too sharp on the poor man, whose wife will not be the good wife. If the wife will be the bad wife, she will be the bad wife, however, and the poor man will be having the bad wife, and the bad blame of it, too.' "'And that will be more as'll be fair, ma'am.' "'Deed ye never said a truer word, Maester MacPhail,' assented Miss Horne.

"'It's a mercy at a lone woman like me, who has a maestrful temper of a rayon, and no feelings, was never put into the temptation of occupying such a peerless position.' "'I doubt, again old John had been married upon me, I might have put on the wrong clothes somewhere in my cell, and maybe had ill getting them off again.' The old man was silent. And Miss Horne resumed the main subject of the conversation. But though he might not object to the father if he wasn't just Hector or Goliath the Gath, she said, you cannot wonder if a young lad no caren't to have sick a mither. And what would be the harm with the mother? Will she not be a good woman, and a good lady more to the bargain? You can what folk says to their guideship or son.

Yes, but that will be the lies of the peoples. "'De peoples was always telling lies.' "'Well, alone. It's a pity you's not kin, supposing him to be hers. Who small folk holds the chance of his being a steward for all that?' "'She'll not be compressed down to you,' said Duncan, bewildered. "'He's a wise son at Cain's own father,' remarked Miss Horne, with more point than originality. The lady never bore the best of characters, as far as my memory takes me. "'That's back afore John and her was married in any gate. Nah, nah. John Stewart never took a duam cause Malcolm MacPhail was upon the road." Miss Horne was sufficiently enigmatical, but her meaning had at length, more through his own reflection than her exposition, dawned upon Duncan.

He leaped up with a Gaelic explosion of concentrated force, and cried, "'Da woman is not be no mothers to Duncan's boy.'" "'Holy, holy, Mr. McPhail,' interposed Miss Horne, with good-natured revenge, "'it may be nothing but folks' lies, you kin. "'The woman that the peoples will be telling lies of her "'was not be the mother of her boy, Malcolm. "'Why didn't the boy tell her the why that he wouldn't be having her? "'You wouldn't have spread an ill report of his own mother. "'But she'll not be his mother, and you will not believe it, ma'am. "'You cannot prove that. You nor him either.'" It will be more as would kill her boy to have a woman like that to the mother of him. It would be near her and as ill having her for a wife, assented Miss Horn.

But not freely, she added. The old man sought the door, as if for a breath of air. But as he went, he blundered, and felt about as if he had just been struck blind. Ordinarily, he walked in his own house at least as if he saw every inch of the way. Presently he returned and resumed his seat. "'Was the Baron laid mither naked until your hands, Meester MacPhail?' asked Miss Horne, who had been meditating. "'Oh, no, he was his clothes on,' answered Duncan. "'Are you any of them left?' she asked again. "'Indeed not,' answered Duncan. "'Yes, indeed not.' "'You laid the salmon, didn't you?' "'Yes, ma'am, and he was good to her.'" "'Who dressed the bairn till ye?' "'Oh, she'll dressed him herself,' said Duncan, still jealous of the women who had nursed the child.

"'But no, aye,' suggested Miss Horne. "'Mistress Parton will be doing a good deal at dressing him sometimes. "'Mistress Parton is a good omen when she'll be good. "'Very good when she'll be good.' Here Malcolm entered, and Miss Horne told him what she had seen of the laird, and gathered concerning him. "'That looks ill for Femi.' remarked Malcolm, when she had described his forlorn condition. She cannot be with him, or he would not be like that. Are you anything by way of counsel, ma'am? I would counsel a word with a laird himself, can it be to be gotten. He may not ken what's happened to her, but he may tell you the last he saw her, and that ma'am be ma'am nor you ken. He's ta'en sick o' dough to me, and I'm feared it'll be hard to come at him, and still harder to come at speech o' him.

For when he's frighted, he can hardly move his job on. Not to say spake. I'm on try, though, and do my best. You think he's lurking about Fife House, do you, mem? He's been seen there away this while, half an on. Well, I used to just gang and put on my fisher clothes and set out at once. I'm on hold o'er to scarring those first, though, to let them ken it he's been gotten sight of. It'll be but small comfort, I don't. Malcolm, my son, interjected Duncan. Who had been watching for the conversation to afford him an opening. If you'll be meeting, anyone will call you the son of that woman. Give him a good blow in the face, for you'll be no son of hers, even if she'll prove it. No more is her sale.

If you'll be her son, old Duncan will be disown you forever and evermore. Amen." What's brought you to this, Daddy?" asked Malcolm. Who, ill as he liked the least allusion to the matter, could not help feeling curious, and indeed almost amused. "'Never you mine. Miss Horne will be having good reasons that Mistress Stewartle not can be your mother.' Malcolm turned to Miss Horne. "'I've said nothing to Maester MacPhail but what I've said Mourner wants to your sale, laddie,' she replied to the eager questioning of his eyes. "'Gang your ways. The truth mon cow the lay in the langren.' "'Off with you to Blue Peter.' When Malcolm reached Scarnoes, he found Femi's parents in a sad state. Joseph had returned that morning from a fruitless search in a fresh direction, and reiterated disappointment seemed to have at length overcome Annie's endurance, for she had taken to her bed.

Joseph was sitting before the fire on a three-legged stool, rocking himself to and fro in a dull agony. When he heard Malcolm's voice, He jumped to his feet, and a flash of hope shot from his eyes, but when he had heard all, he sat down again without a word, and began rocking himself as before. Mrs. Mare was lying in the darkened closet, where, the door being partly opened, she had been listening with all her might, and was now weeping afresh. Joseph was the first to speak, still rocking himself with hopeless oscillation. He said in a strange muffled tone which seemed to come from somewhere else. Can I kent she was well dead, I would not care. It's not like a father to be sitting here. But what'll I gain next?

The wife thinks I may to be doing something. I cannot what to do. This last news is well known then. I had most no faith left. Malcolm, man. And with a bitter cry he started to his feet. I mayst didna believe there is a god of all. It doesna look like it, does it no? There came an answering cry from the closet. Annie rushed out, half undressed, and threw her arms about her husband. Joseph! Joseph! she said, in a voice hard with agony, almost more dreadful than a scream. Can you speak like that you'll drive me mad. Let the lassie gang, but leave me my god. Joseph pushed her gently away, turned from her, fell on his knees, and moaned out, O God, g'en thou has her, we said neither greet nor grumble, but didn't take the faith for us.

He remained on his knees, silent, with his head against the chimney jam. His wife crept away to her closet. Peter, said Malcolm. I'm going off the night to look for the laird, and see if he can tell us anything about her. Wouldn't you better come with me?" To the heart of the Father it was as the hope of the resurrection of the world. The same moment he was on his feet and taking down his bonnet. The next he disappeared in the closet, and Malcolm heard the tinkling of the money in the lidless teapot. Then out he came with a tear on his face and a glimmer in his eyes. The sun was down. And a bone-piercing chill, incarnate in the vague mist that haunted the ground, assailed them as they left the cottage.

The sea moaned drearily. A smoke seemed to ascend from the horizon, halfway to the zenith. Something too thin for cloud, too black for vapor. Above that, the stars were beginning to shine. Joseph shivered and struck his hands against his shoulders.

And strode on. Almost in silence they walked together to the county town, put up at a little inn near the river, and at once began to make inquiries. Not a few persons had seen the laird at different times, but none knew where he slept or chiefly haunted. There was nothing for it but to set out in the morning and stray hither and thither on the chance of somewhere finding him.

62 62 - The Cuttle Fish and the Crab 14:15

THE CUTTLE-FISH AND THE CRAB. Although the better portion of the original assembly had forsaken the baileys' barn, there was still a regular gathering in it as before, and, if possible, Even a greater manifestation of zeal for the conversion of sinners. True, it might not be clear to an outsider that they always made a difference between being converted and joining their company, so ready were they to mix up the two in their utterances. And the results of what they counted conversion were sometimes such as the opponents of their proceedings would have had them. The arrogant became yet more arrogant, and the greedy more greedy. The tongues of the talkative went yet faster, and the gadabouts were yet seldomer at home.

While there was such a superabundance of private judgment that it overflowed the cisterns of their own concerns and invaded the walled gardens of other people's motives. Yet, notwithstanding, the good people got good, if the other sort got evil. For the meek shall inherit the earth, even when the priest ascends the throne of Augustus. No worst thing ever done in the name of Christianity, no vilest corruption of the Church, can destroy the eternal fact that the core of it is in the heart of Jesus. Branches innumerable may have to be lopped off and cast into the fire. Yet the word, I am the vine, remaineth. The demagogues had gloried in the expulsion of such men as James Gentle and Blue Peter. and were soon rejoiced by the return of Bahamiel, after a season of backsliding to the flesh-pots of Egypt, as they called the services of the parish church, to the bosom of the barn, where he soon was again one of the chief amongst them.

Meantime the circles of their emanating influence continued to spread, until at length they reached the lower classes of the upper town, of whom a few began to go to barn. Amongst them, for reasons best known to herself, Though they might be surmised by such as really knew her, was Mrs. Cattenaugh. I do not know that she ever professed repentance and conversion, but for a while she attended pretty often. Possibly business considerations had something to do with it. Assuredly, the young preacher, though he still continued to exhort, did so with failing strength, and it was plain to see that he was going rapidly. The exercise of the second of her twin callings might be required. She could not, however, have been drawn by any large expectations as to the honorarium.

Still, she would gain what she prized even more—a position for the moment at the heart of affairs, with its excelling chances of hearing and overhearing. Never had lover of old books half the delight in fitting together a rare volume from scattered portions picked up in his travels than Mrs. Cattenaugh found in vitalizing stray remarks, arranging odds and ends of news, and cementing the many fragments, with the help of the babblings of gossip, into a plausible whole. Intellectually considered, her special pursuit was inasmuch the nobler As the faculties it brought into exercise were more delicate and various. And if her devotion to the minutiae of biography had no high end in view, it never caused her to lose sight of what ends she had, by involving her in opinions, prejudices, or disputes.

However she might break out at times, her general policy was to avoid quarreling. There was a strong natural antagonism between her and the Partaness. But she had never shown the least dislike to her, and that although Mrs. Findlay had never lost an opportunity of manifesting hers to the midwife. Indeed, having gained a pretext by her ministrations to Lizzy when overcome by the suggestions of the dog sermon, Mrs. Cattenaw had essayed an approach to her mother, and not without success. After the discovery of the physical cause of Lizzy's ailment, however, Mrs. Findlay had sought, by might of rude resolve, to break loose from the encroaching acquaintanceship, but had found, as yet, that the hard-shelled crab was not a match for the glutinous cuttlefish.

On the evening of the Sunday following the events related in the last chapter, Mrs. Cattenaw had, not without difficulty, persuaded Mrs. Findlay to accompany her to the Bailey's barn. with the promise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher, a ploughman on an inland farm. That she had an object in desiring her company that night may seem probable from the conversation which arose as they plotted their way thither along the sands. "'I heard a queer tale about Meg Horn at Doff Harbour the other day,' said the midwife, speaking thus disrespectfully, both to ease her own heart, and to call forth the feelings of her companion. Who also, she knew, disliked Miss Horne. Aye, and what might that be?

But she's maybe a friend of yours, Mrs. Findlay. Some folk likes her, though I cannot say I'm one of them. Friend of mine, exclaimed the partners. We gree like two bills in the same park. I wouldna wonder. For they'd tell me I'd saw her fighting in the high street with a muckle loon, near Han as big as her sail. And heath... But Meg had the best o' it, and dang him into the gutter, and Mest felt him. And that's Meg Horn. She had been at the drink. But I never heard it laid till her afore. Didn't know you then. Well, I'm no saying anything. That's what I heard. Oh, it's like enough. She was bullet-ragging at me no longer ago nor this dream, but I doubt I sent her away with a flea in her lug. What in a crow had she to pluck wi' you now?

Oh, Fegs, you would attain her for a thief-catcher, and me for the thief. She would three, but I bud to a keep at some of the duds that happened Malcolm MacPhail the reprobate when first he came to the Seton. A poor screeching brat, as red as a biled lobster. Was me it ever he was created. It just drives me hard and daft to think it ever he got the breast of me, that he should serve me so. But I so have a grip on yet, or my names know what they call me. It's the way of the world, Mistress Vindley. What could ye expect of one born in sin and brought forth in iniquity? A stock phrase of Mrs. Catnaw's, glancing at her profession, and embracing nearly the whole of her belief. It's a true word. The mare's the pity he shoulda had the milk of an honest woman upon the tab of that.

But what could the old runt be after? What was her business with it? She never did anything for the bairn. "'Nah, no she. She never had the chance, good or ill. "'How doubtless it would be anent what they call the identerfian o'im to the Lady of Gersville. "'She had sent her. She might a'weild a mere welcome messenger, and sent her a better errand. "'But she made little o' me. "'Ye had nothing o' the kind, I swad. "'Never a thread. "'There was a twelve-hunner's shift upon the bairn, "'rote round him like dead clothes.'" "'Gun it had been but the Lord's wool. "'It got me wonder at the time, "'for that wasna how a bern a had been cared for should be clad.' "'Was there name or mark upon it?' asked Cuttlefish.

"'None. "'There was but the place where the red ingrain had been piked out,' answered Crabb. "'And what came of the shift?' "'Oh, I just made it down for a bit sark to the bern when he grew to be runnin' about.' "'At ever I shoulda taken stickin' cloth for sick of deals, Bookie. To me it was a mither tillin'. "'The Lord hold me on gan mad when I think o't.'" "'And sign for Lizzy,' began Mrs. Cattenaugh, prefacing fresh remark. But at her name the mother flew into such a rage that, fearful of scandal, seeing it was the Sabbath and they were on their way to public worship, her companion would have exerted all her powers of oiliest persuasion to appease her. But if there was one thing Mrs. Cattenaw did not understand, it was the heart of a mother.

"'Hoots, Mistress Findlay, folk'll hear ye. Hold your tongue, I beg. She may deen the strah for me. I say never put hand to the saven o'er or her bairn either,' said the midwife, thinking thus to pacify her. Then, like the eruption following mere volcanic unrest, out break the sore-hearted woman's wrath. And now at length— The crustacean was too much for the mollusk. She raved and scolded and abused Mrs. Cattena, till at last she was driven to that final resource, the heirs of an injured woman. She turned and walked back to the upper town, while Mrs. Findlay went on to take what share she might in the worship of the congregation.

Mrs. Mare had that evening gone once more to the Bailey's barn in her husband's absence. For the words of unbelief he had uttered in the Job-like agony of his soul had haunted the heart of his spouse, until she too felt as if she could hardly believe in a god. Few know what a poor thing their faith is till the trial comes, and in the weakness consequent on protracted suffering, she had begun to fancy that the loss of Femi was a punishment upon them for deserting the conventicle. Also, the schoolmaster was under an interdict, and that looked like a judgment, too. She must find some prop for the faith that was now shaking like a reed in the wind. So, to the Bailey's barn, she had gone. The tempest, which had convulsed Mrs.

Findlay's atmosphere, had swept its vapors with it as it passed away. And when she entered the cavern, it was with an unwanted inclination to be friendly all round. As fate would have it, she unwittingly took her place by Mrs. Mare, whom she had not seen since she gave Lizzy shelter. When she discovered who her neighbor was, she started away, and stared. But she had had enough of quarreling for the evening, and besides had not had time to bar her door against the angel Pity, who suddenly stepped across the threshold of her heart, with the sight of Mrs. Mare's pale, thin cheeks and tear-reddened eyes. As suddenly, however, an indwelling demon of her own house, whose name was Envy, arose from the ashes of her hearth to meet the white-robed visitant.

Feeny, poor little harmless thing, was safe enough. Who would harm a hair of her? But Lizzy! And this woman had taken in the fugitive from honest chastisement. She would yet have sought another seat, but the congregation rose to sing. and her neighbor's offer of the use in common of her psalm-book was enough to quiet for the moment the gaseous brain of the turbulent woman. She accepted the kindness, and, the singing over, did not refuse to look on the same holy page with her daughter's friend, while the ploughman read, with fitting simplicity, the parable of the prodigal son. It touched something in both, but a different something in each. Strange to say, Neither applied it to her own case, but each to her neighbor's.

As the reader uttered the words, "'Was lost and is found,' and ceased, each turned to the other with a whisper. Mrs. Mare persisted in hers, and the other, which was odd enough, yielded and listened. "'What the tale hold with lassies as well as laddies, Mistress Findlay, did you think?' said Mrs. Mare. "'Oh, surely,' was the response. It maun do that. There is no respect a persons with him. There is no adult but your female come home to you safe and sown. I was thinking about Lizzy, said the other, a little astonished. And then the prayer began, and they had to be silent.

The sermon of the ploughman was both dull and sensible, an excellent variety where few of the sermons were either, but it made little impression on Mrs. Findlay or Mrs. Mare. As they left the cave together in the crowd of issuing worshippers, Mrs. Mare whispered again, "'I wouldn't wait ye o'er, but ye would be wantin' Lizzy home, and I can ill spare the comfort o'er the know,' she said, with the cunning of a dove." "'And what comes o' me?' rejoined Mrs. Findlay, her claws out in a moment where her personal consequence was touched. "'You would not surely take her frae me all at once,' pleaded Mrs. Mare. "'You might let her bide.' "'Just till Femi comes ham, and sign—' But there she broke down, and the tempest of sobs that followed quite overcame the heart of Mrs.

Findlay. She was, in truth, a woman like another. Only, being of the Crustacean order, she had not yet swallowed her skeleton, as all of us have to do, more or less, sooner or later, the idea of that scaffolding being that it should be out of sight." With the best commonplaces at her command, she sought to comfort her companion, walked with her to the foot of the Red Path, found her much more to her mind than Mrs. Cattenaugh, seemed inclined to go with her all the way, but suddenly stopped, bade her good night, and left her.

63 63 - Miss Horn and Lord Lossie 29:18

MISS HORNE AND LORD LAWSIE Notwithstanding the quarrel, Mrs. Cattenaugh did not return without having gained something. She had learned that Miss Horne had been foiled In what she had no doubt was an attempt to obtain proof that Malcolm was not the son of Mrs. Stewart. The discovery was a grateful one, for who could have told but there might be something in existence to connect him with another origin than she and Mrs. Stewart would assign him. The next day the Marquis returned. Almost his first word was the desire that Malcolm should be sent to him, but nobody knew more than that he was missing. Whereupon he sent for Duncan. The old man explained his boy's absence, and as soon as he was dismissed, took his way to the town and called upon Miss Horne.

In half an hour, the good lady started on foot for Duff Harbor. It was already growing dark, but there was one feeling Miss Horne had certainly been created without, and that was fear. As she approached her destination, tramping eagerly along, In a half-cloudy, half-starlit night, with a damp east wind blowing cold from the German ocean, she was startled by the swift rush of something dark across the road before her. It came out of a small wood on the left towards the sea, and bolted through a hedge on the right. "'Is that you, laird?' she cried, but there came no answer. She walked straight to the house of her lawyer friend, and after an hour's rest— The same night set out again for Port Lossie, which she reached in safety by her bedtime.

Lord Lossie was very accessible. Like Shakespeare's Prince Hal, he was so much interested in the varieties of the outcome of human character that he would not willingly lose a chance of seeing more man. If the individual proved a bore, he would get rid of him without remorse. If amusing, he would contrive to prolong the interview. There was a great deal of undeveloped humanity somewhere in his lordship, one of whose indications was this spectacular interest in his kind. As to their bygone history, how they fared out of his sight, or what might become of them, he never gave a thought to anything of the kind, never felt the pull of one of the bonds of brotherhood, laughed at them the moment they were gone, or, if a woman's story had touched him, wiped his eyes with an oath.

and thought himself too good a fellow for this world. Since his retirement from the more indolent life of the metropolis to the quieter and more active pursuits of the country, his character had bettered a little, inasmuch as it was a shade more accessible to spiritual influences. The hard soil had, in a few places, cracked a hair's breadth, and lay thus far open to the search of those sun-rays which, when they find the human germ, that is, the conscience, straightway begin to sting it into life. To this betterment, the company of his daughter had chiefly contributed. For if she was little more developed in the right direction than himself, she was far less developed in the wrong, and the play of affection between them was the divinest influence that could as yet be brought to bear upon either.

But certain circumstances of late had had a share in it. Occasioning a revival of old memories, which had a considerably sobering effect upon him. As he sat at breakfast, about eleven o'clock on the morning after his return, one of his English servants entered with the message that a person calling herself Miss Horn, and refusing to explain her business, desired to see his lordship for a few minutes. "'Who is she?' asked the Marquis. The man did not know. "'What is she like?' An odd-looking old lady, my lord, and very oddly dressed. Show her into the next room. I shall be with her directly." Finishing his cup of coffee and Peafowl's egg with deliberation, while he tried his best to recall in what connection he could have heard the name before, the Marquis at length sauntered into the morning-room in his dressing-gown, with the times of the day before yesterday just arrived in his hand.

There stood his visitor waiting for him. Such as my reader knows her, black and gaunt and grim in a bay window, whose light almost surrounded her, so that there was scarcely a shadow about her, and yet to the eyes of the Marquis she seemed wrapped in shadows. Mysterious as some Sybil, whose being held secrets the first whisper of which had turned her old, but made her immortal, she towered before him, with her eyes fixed upon him, and neither spoke. Nor moved. To what am I indebted? began his lordship, but Miss Horne speedily interrupted his courtesy. Own to no debt, my lord, till ye ken what is for, she said, without a tone or inflection to indicate a pleasantry. Good, returned his lordship, and waited with a smile.

She promised amusement, and he was ready for it. But it hardly came. Can ye that hand a reet, my lord? she inquired. Sternly advancing a step, and holding out a scrap of paper at arm's length, as if presenting a pistol. The Marquis took it. In his countenance, curiosity had mingled with the expectation. He glanced at it. A shadow swept over his face, but vanished instantly. The mask of impervious non-expression, which a man of his breeding always knows how to assume, was already on his visage. "'Where did you get this?' he said quietly. With just the slightest catch in his voice. I got it, my lord, where there's mair like it. Show me them. I has shown you plenty for a swatch, my lord. You refuse, said the Marquis.

And the tone of the question was like the first cold puff that indicates a change of weather. Adub, my lord, she answered imperturbably. If they are not my property, why do you bring me this? Are they your property, my lord? This is my handwriting. "'Ye'll owe that? Certainly, my good woman. You did not expect me to deny it. God forbid, my lord. But will ye uphold your sale the lawful heir to the deceased? It lies between your lordship and my sale, in the meantime.' He sat down, holding the scrap of paper between his finger and thumb. "'I will buy them of you,' he said coolly, after a moment's thought. And as he spoke, he looked keenly at her. The form of reply which first arose in Miss Horne's indignant soul never reached her lips.

"'It's not my trade,' she answered, with the coldness of suppressed wrath. "'I don't deal in so quares.' "'What do you deal in, then?' asked the Marquis. "'In truth and fair play, my lord,' she answered, and was again silent. So was the Marquis for some moments, but was the first to resume. If you think the papers to which you refer of the least value, allow me to tell you it is an entire mistake." "'There was one thought them a value,' replied Miss Horne, and her voice trembled a little, but she hemmed away her emotion. "'For a time at least, my lord, and for her sake they're a value to me, be they what they may to your lordship. But who can tell? Scots law may put life into them yet, and give them a value to somebody for by me.'" What I mean, my good woman, is that if you think the possession of those papers gives you any hold over me which you can turn to your advantage, you are mistaken.

Good forgive you, my lord. My advantage? I thought your lordship had been mayor of a gentleman by this time. Thought I would have sent a lawyer till you, a place to come in my sale. What do you mean by that? It's plain you could not have been muckle of a gentleman once, my lord. And it seems you're no muckle mayor of one yet, for all you mona come through in the meantime. "'I trust you have discovered nothing in those letters to afford ground for such a harsh judgment,' said the Marquis seriously. "'Nah, not a word in them, but the mere ought to them. You will not threep upon me at a man who leaves a woman, let alone his wife, or one he calls his wife, to all the pains o'er mither, and all the penalties o'er unmarried one, on every spirit how she won through them, preserves the right he was born till he be encountered a gentleman.

A maiden woman like myself, who has no feelings, will not allow him the title. God forbid it. You are plain spoken. I am plain maid, my lord. I kin good for ill, and little for by. But I found that enough to sair my turn. Either the letters o' your lordship, or ilk one o' them a lie, or ye deserted your wife in Bern. Alas, interrupted the marquis with some emotion. She deserted me, and took the child with her. "'Whoever dared sic a lie upon my grizel?' shouted Miss Horne, clenching and shaking her bony fist at the world in general. "'It was but a fortnight or three weeks, as near as I can tell, after the birth of your bairn, that grizel camel—' "'Were you with her, then?' again interrupted the Marquis, in a tone of sorrowful interest.

"'No, my lord, I was not. "'Gin I had been, I wouldna be upon sic an air in this day. "'For nigh twenty long years it heard me keep a toast together, till she died in my arms—' "'Niver a day was she out of my sight, or once,' the Marquis leaped rather than started to his feet, exclaiming, "'What in the name of God do you mean, woman?' "'I kenna what ye mean, my lord. I kenna what I'm but telling you the truth when I tell ye at Griselle Camel up to that day, and that's little or six months in sign.' "'Good God!' cried the Marquis. "'And here have I—' "'Woman, are you speaking the truth?' "'If,' he added threateningly. And paused. Layin's what I never could bide, my lord, and I'm no likely to take till it at my age with the long to come afore me.

The Marquis strode several times up and down the floor. I'll give you a thousand pounds for those letters, he said, suddenly stopping in front of Miss Horne. That a nae sick worth, my lord. I have your ain word for it. But I care not a lego a spin, Maggie. Daddy long legs. Part with him I will not. "'Cept to him it proves himself the rightful heir to them. A husband inherits from his wife. Or maybe her son might claim first. I dinna ken. But there's lawyers, my lord, to read the doubt. Her son? You don't mean—I do mean Malcolm MacPhail, my lord. God in heaven. His name's mere in your mouth nor in your heart, I'm thinking, my lord. You all cry out upon him, the men of you, when you're in any trouble."

"'Or want to guard women believe ye. But I'm thinkin' he pays but little heed to sick prayers." Thus Miss Horne—but Lord Lossie was striding up and down the room, heedless of her remarks, his eyes on the ground, his arms straight by his sides, and his hands clenched. "'Can you prove what you say?' he asked at length, half-stopping, and casting an almost wild look at Miss Horne, then resuming his hurried walk. His voice sounded hollow, as if sent from the heart of a gulf of pain. No, my lord, answered Miss Horne. Then what the devil, roared the Marquis, do you mean by coming to me with such a cock-and-bull story? There is neither cock-crow nor bull-roar into it, my lord. I come to you with it, in the hope you'll help to read it up, for I dinna well ken what we can do want in you.

There's but one ken's all the truth o' it, and she's the awfulest lair out of purgatory. "'Not I believe in purgatory, but it's the longer and lighter word to make use of.' "'Who is she?' "'By name she's Bobbie Cattenaw, and by nature she's what I tell ye. "'En gin I had her atween my two ain, it's what I would say to the face of her.' "'It can't be Macphail. Mrs. Stewart says he is her son, and the woman Cattenaw is her chief witness in support of the claim. "'The devil has a better to the two of them, my lord, as they'll ken some day. His claim'll want no supportin.' "'Dinna you believe a word Mr. Stewart or Bobby Cacknaugh either would say to you? "'Can he be Mr. Stewart's? Who is his father?' "'You think he resembles my late brother.

He has a look of him, I confess. "'He has, my lord. But anybody had kent the mother of him, as you and me did, my lord, would see another likeness as well. "'I grant nothing.' "'You grant Griselle Camel your wife, my lord, when you own to that right? "'Ginna it were nothing but a written promise and a bairn to follow.' It would be marriage enough in this country, though it may not be in countries not so civilized. But all that is nothing as to the child. Why do you fix on this young fellow? You say you can't prove it. But ye could, my lord. G'en ye were as set upon justice as I am. G'en ye winna move in the matter. We so manage to hurtful through, want ye, though, with the lord's help." The Marquis, who had all this time continued his walk up and down the floor, stood still.

Raised his head as if about to speak, dropped it again on his chest, strode to the other window, turned, strode back, and said, This is a very serious matter. It is it that, my lord, replied Miss Horne. You must give me a little time to turn it over, said the Marquess. Isn't it twenty year time enough, my lord, rejoined Miss Horne. I swear to you that till this moment I believed her twenty years in her grave. My brother sent me word that she died in childbed and the child with her. I was then in Brussels with the Duke. Miss Horne made three great strides, caught the Marquess's hand in both hers, and said, I praise God you're an honest man, my lord. I hope so, said the Marquess, and seized the advantage.

You'll hold your tongue about this, he asked, half inquiring, half requesting. As long as I see reason, my lord. No longer, answered Miss Horne. Dropping his hand. Right, mon bidon. Yes, if you can tell what right is, and avoid wrong to others. Right's right, my lord, persisted Miss Horne. I'll have no modfic qualifications. His lordship once more began to walk up and down the room, every now and then taking a stolen glance at Miss Horne, a glance of uneasy, anxious questioning. She stood rigid, a very lot's wife of immobility. Her eyes on the ground, waiting what he would say next. I wish I knew whether I could trust her, he said at length, as if talking aloud to himself. Miss Horne took no notice.

Why don't you speak, woman? cried the Marquis with irritation. How he hated perplexity. Ye speared no question, my lord, and gin ye head my word has o'er little weight to answer with. Can I trust you, woman? I want to know. Said his lordship, angrily. No fodder, my lord, nor to do what I think's right. I want to be certain that you will do nothing with those letters until you hear from me, said the marquis, heedless of her reply. I'll do nothing afore the morn. Far nor that I wunna pledge mysail, answered Miss Horne, and with the words moved towards the door. Hadn't you better take this with you, said the marquis, offering the little note, which he had carried all the time between his finger and thumb.

"'There's no occasion. I have plenty wanting that. Only didn't I lie in a boat.' "'There's small danger of that,' said the Marquis, and rang the bell." The moment she was out of the way, he went up to his own room, and flinging the door to, sat down at the table, and laid his arms and head upon it. The acrid vapor of tears that should have been wept long since rose to his eyes. He dashed his hand across them. As if ashamed that he was not even yet out of sight of the kingdom of heaven. His own handwriting, of a period when all former sins and defilements seemed about to be burned clean from his soul by the fire of an honest and virtuous love, had moved him. For genuine had been his affection for the girl who had risked and lost so much for him.

It was with no evil intent. For her influence had rendered him for the time incapable of playing her false. But in part from reasons of prudence, as he persuaded himself, for both their sakes, and in part led astray by the zest which minds of a certain caste derive from the secrecy of pleasure, that he had persuaded her to the unequal yoking of honesty and secrecy. But suddenly called away, and sent by the prince on a private mission soon after their marriage, And before there was any special reason to apprehend consequences that must lead to discovery, he had, in the difficulties of the case, and the hope of a speedy return, left her without any arrangement for correspondence. And all he had ever heard of her more was from his brother, then the Marquis, a cynical account of the discovery of her condition, followed almost immediately by a circumstantial one of her death and that of her infant.

He was deeply stung. And the thought of her sufferings in the false position where his selfishness had placed her haunted him for a time beyond his endurance. For of all things he hated suffering, and of all sufferings remorse is the worst. Hence, where a wiser man might have repented, he rushed into dissipation, whose scorching wind swept away not only the healing dues of his sorrow, but the tender buds of new life, that had begun to model the withering tree of his nature. The desire after better things which had, under his wife's genial influence, begun to pass into effort, not only vanished utterly in the shameless round of evil distraction, but its memory became a mockery to the cynical spirit that arose behind the vanishing angel of repentance.

And he was soon in the condition of the man from whom the exorcised demon had gone, But to find his seven worse companions. Reduced at length to straits, almost to want, he had married the mother of Florimel, to whom for a time he endeavored to conduct himself in some measure like a gentleman. For this he had been rewarded by a decrease in the rate of his spiritual submergence. But his bedraggled nature could no longer walk without treading on its own plumes, and the poor lady who had bartered herself for a lofty alliance Speedily found her mistake a sad one, and her life uninteresting, took to repining and tears, alienated her husband utterly, and died of a sorrow almost too selfish to afford even a suggestion of purifying efficacy.

But Florimel had not inherited immediately from her mother, so far as disposition was concerned. In these latter days she had grown very dear to him, And his love had once more turned his face a little towards the path of righteousness. Ah, when would he move one step to set his feet in it? And now, after his whirlwind harvest of evil knowledge, bitter disappointment, and fading passion, in the gathering mists of gray hopelessness, and the far worse mephitic air of indifference, he had come all of a sudden upon the ghastly discovery that— While overwhelmed with remorse for the vanished past, the present and the future had been calling him, but had now also, that present and that future, glided from him, and folded their wings of gloom in a land of shadows.

All the fierce time he might have been blessedly growing better, instead of heaping sin upon sin, until the weight was too heavy for repentance. For while he had been bemoaning a dead wife, That wife had been loving a renegade husband. And the blame of it all he did not fail to cast upon the providence in which until now he had professed not to believe. Such faith as he was yet capable of awoke in the form of resentment. He judged himself hardly done by, and the few admonitory sermons he had happened to hear, especially that in the cave about the dogs going round the walls of the New Jerusalem, returned upon him. Not as warnings, but as old threats, now rapidly approaching fulfillment. Lovely still peered the dim face of his girl-wife upon him, through the dusty lattice of his memory, and a mighty corroboration of Malcolm's asserted birth lay in the look upon his face as he hurried aghast from the hermit's cell.

For not on his first had the Marquis seen that look, and in those very circumstances. And the youth was one to be proud of, one among a million. But there were other and terrible considerations. Incapable, as he naturally was, of doing justice to a woman of Miss Horn's inflexibility and right, he could yet more than surmise the absoluteness of that inflexibility. Partly because it was hostile to himself, and he was in the mood to believe in opposition and harshness, and deny not providence, but goodness. Convenient half-measures would, he more than feared, find no favor with her. But she had declared her inability to prove Malcolm his son without the testimony of Mrs. Cattenaw, and the latter was even now representing him as the son of Mrs.

Stewart. That Mrs. Cattenaw at the same time could not be ignorant of what had become of the child born to him he was all but certain. For on that night, when Malcolm and he found her in the wizard's chamber, Had she not proved her strange story, of having been carried to that very room blindfolded, and after sole attendance on the birth of a child, whose mother's features, even in her worst pains, she had not once seen, in like manner carried away again, had she not proved the story true by handing him the ring she had drawn from the lady's finger, and sewn, for the sake of future identification, into the lower edge of one of the bed-curtains. Which ring was a diamond he had given his wife from his own finger when they parted.

She probably believed the lady to have been Mrs. Stewart, and the late Marquis the father of the child. Should he see Mrs. Catanaw? And what then? He found no difficulty in divining the reasons which must have induced his brother to provide for the secret accouchement of his wife in the wizard's chamber, and for the adduction of the child. If indeed his existence was not owing to Mrs. Cattenaugh's love of intrigue. The elder had judged the younger brother unlikely to live long, and had expected his own daughter to succeed himself. But now the younger might any day marry the governess and legalize the child, and the elder had therefore secured the disappearance of the latter, and the belief of his brother in the death of both.

Lord Lossie was roused from his reverie by a tap at the door. which he knew from Malcolm's, and answered with admission. When he entered, his master saw that a change had passed upon him, and for a moment believed Miss Horne had already broken faith with him and found communication with Malcolm. He was soon satisfied of the contrary, however, but would have found it hard indeed to understand, had it been represented to him, that the contentment, almost elation, of the youth's countenance Had its source in the conviction that he was not the son of Mrs. Stewart. "'So here you are at last,' said the Marquis. "'Aye, my lord. Did you find Stewart?' "'Aye, did we at last, my lord. But we made nothing by it, for he can't know't about the lassie, and maest lost its wutz at the news.' "'No great loss, that,' said the Marquis.

"'Go and send Stout here.' "'Is there any hurry about Stout, my lord?' answered Malcolm, hesitating. I had a word to say to your lordship myself. Make haste, then. I'm some fain to gain back to the fishin', my lord, said Malcolm. This is o'er easy a life for me. The deal wins in for the liftin' o' the snake. For, by, my lord, a life without either danger or work is some worse like. Insipid. It won't salt, my lord. But all that's neither here nor there, I ken, so long as ye want me out o' the house, my lord. Who told you I wanted you out of the house? By Jove, I should have made shorter work of it. What put that in your head? Why should I? G'n your lordship kens nun, small occasion have I to hold a reason to your hand.

I thought—but the thought itself's impotence. You young fool. You thought because I came upon you as I did in the garret the other night. Bah, you damned ape. As if I could not trust—pshaw. For the moment. Malcolm forgot how angry his master had certainly been, although, for Florimel's sake doubtless he had restrained himself, and fancied that, in the faint light of the one candle, he had seen little to annoy him, and had taken the storm and its results, which were indeed the sole reason, as a sufficient one for their being alone together. Everything seemed about to come right again, but his master remained silent. I hope my lady's will. Ventured Malcolm at length. Quite well. She's with Lady Belair in Edinburgh.

Lady Belair was the bold-faced Countess. I didn't like her, said Malcolm. Who the devil asked you to like her? said the Marquis. But he laughed as he said it. I beg your lordship's pardon, returned Malcolm. I said it or I can't. It was none of my business who my lady was with. Certainly not. But I don't mind confessing that Lady Belair is not one I should choose to give authority over Lady Florimel. You have some regard for your young mistress, I know, Malcolm. I would day for her, my lord. That's a common assertion," said the Marquis. No official folk. I cannot hope it may be with your folk, my lord. Well, even with us it means something. It implies, at least, that he who uses it would risk his life for her whom he wishes to believe it.

But perhaps it may mean more than that in the mouth of a fisherman? Do you fancy there is such a thing as devotion? Real devotion, I mean. Self-sacrifice, you know? I dare not doubt it, my lord. Without fee, or hope of reward? There ma'an be some capable of it, my lord. Or what force should the world be? What other should hold it on being destroyed, as Sodom was for the want of the ten righteous? There ma'an be salt, where corruption has not a thing on its own gate. You certainly have pretty high notions of things, Macphail. For my part, I can easily enough imagine a man risking his life, but devoting it. That's another thing altogether. Thermonbyat would do all it could be done, my lord. What, for instance, would you do for Lady Florimel now?

You say you would die for her. What does dying mean on a fisherman's tongue? It means all things, my lord. Short to ill. I would starve for her, but I wouldna steal. I would fate for her, but I would not lay. Would you be her servant all your days? Come now. Mer nor willingly, my lord, g'nce she would only have me and keep me. But supposing you came to inherit the Kirkbuyer's property? My lord, said Malcolm solemnly, that's a poor test to put me till. It g'ngs for nothin'. I would rather clean my lady's boots from mornin' to night, nor be the son of that woman, g'nce she would a born duchess. Try me with something worth your lordship's moat. But the marquis seemed to think he had gone far enough for the present.

With gleaming eyes he rose, took his withered love-letter from the table, put it in his waistcoat pocket, and saying, Well, find out for me what this is they're about with the schoolmaster. Walked to the door. I ken all about that, my lord, answered Malcolm. On spirit to anybody. Lord Lossie turned from the door. Ordered him to bring his riding-coat and boots, and ringing the bell, sent a message to Stout to saddle the bay mare.

64 64 - The Laird and His Mother 8:28

The Laird and His Mother. When Malcolm and Joseph set out from Duff Harbour to find the Laird, they could hardly be said to have gone in search of him. All in their power was to seek the parts where he was occasionally seen in the hope of chancing upon him, and they wondered in vain about the woods of Fife House all that week, returning disconsolate every evening to the little inn on the banks of the Wan Water. Sunday came and went without yielding a trace of him, and almost in despair they resolved, if unsuccessful the next day, to get assistance and organize a search for him. Monday passed like the days that had preceded it, and they were returning dejectedly down the left bank of the wan water in the Gloman, and nearing a part where it is hemmed in by precipitous rocks, and is very narrow and deep, crawling slow and black under the lofty arch of an ancient bridge that spans it at one leap, when suddenly they caught sight of a head peering over the parapet.

They dared not run for fear of terrifying him, if it should be the laird. And hurried quietly to the spot. But when they reached the end of the bridge, its round back was bare from end to end. On the other side of the river, the trees came close up, and pursuit was hopeless in the gathering darkness. "'Laird! Laird! They have ta'en away Femi, and we do not ken whar to look for her,' cried the poor father aloud. Almost the same instant, and as if he had issued from the ground, The laird stood before them. The men started back with astonishment, soon changed into pity, for there was light enough to see how miserable the poor fellow looked. Neither exposure nor privation had thus wrought upon him.

He was simply dying of fear. Having greeted Joseph with embarrassment, he kept glancing doubtfully at Malcolm, as if ready to run on his least movement. In a few words, Joseph explained their quest, with trembling voice and tears that would not be denied and forcing the tale. Ere he had done, the laird's jaw had fallen, and further speech was impossible to him. But by gestures sad and plain enough, he indicated that he knew nothing of her, and had supposed her safe at home with her parents. In vain they tried to persuade him to go back with them, promising every protection. For sole answer he shook his head mournfully. There came a sudden gust of wind among the branches. Joseph, little used to trees and their ways with the wind, turned towards the sound, and Malcolm unconsciously followed his movement.

When they turned again, the laird had vanished, and they took their way homeward in sadness. What passed next with the laird can be but conjectured. It came to be well enough known afterwards where he had been hiding, and had it not been dusk as they came down the riverbank, the two men might, looking up to the bridge from below, have had it suggested to them. For in the half-spandrel wall between the first arch and the bank they might have spied a small window, looking down on the sullen, silent gloom, foam-flecked with past commotion, that crept languidly away from beneath. It belonged to a little vaulted chamber in the bridge, devised by some banished lord as a kind of summer-house, long neglected, but having in it yet a mouldering table, a broken chair or two, and a rough bench.

A little path led steep from the end of the parapet down to its hidden door. It was now used only by the gamekeepers for traps and fishing gear, and odds and ends of things, and was generally supposed to be locked up. The laird had, however, found it open, and his refuge in it had been connived at by one of the men, who, as they heard afterwards, had given him the key, and assisted him in carrying out a plan he had devised for barricading the door. It was from this place he had so suddenly risen at the call of Blue Peter, and to it he had as suddenly withdrawn again, to pass in silence and loneliness through his last purgatorial pain. Mrs. Stewart was sitting in her drawing-room alone. She seldom had visitors at Kirkbyers.

Not that she liked being alone, or indeed being there at all, for she would have lived on the continent, but that her sons' trustees, partly to indulge their own aversion to her, taking upon them a larger discretionary power than rightly belonged to them, kept her too straightened, which no doubt in the recoil had its share in poor Stephen's misery. It was only after scraping for a whole year that she could escape to Paris or Hamburg, where she was at home. There her sojourn was determined by her good or ill fortune at Pharaoh. What she meditated over her knitting by the firelight—she had put out her candles—it would be hard to say, perhaps unwholesome to think. There are souls to look into which is to our dim eyes, like gazing down from the verge of one of the Swedenborgian pits.

But much of the evil done by human beings is as the evil of evil beasts. They know not what they do. An excuse which, except in regard of the past, no man can make for himself, seeing the very making of it must testify its falsehood. She looked up. Gave a cry, and started to her feet. Stephen stood before her, halfway between her and the door. Revealed in a flicker of flame from the fire, he vanished in the following shade, and for a moment she stood in doubt of her seeing sense. But when the coal flashed again, there was her sun, regarding her out of great eyes that looked as if they had seen death. A ghastly air hung about him. As if he had just come back from Hades. But in his silent bearing, there was a sanity, even dignity, which strangely impressed her.

He came forward a pace or two, stopped, and said, "'Dinna be frighted, mem. I'm come. Send a lassie ham, and do with me as you like. I cannot hold off of me, but I think I'm dayin', and you needna misguide me." His voice. Although it trembled a little, was clear and unimpeded, and though weak in its modulation, manly. Something in the woman's heart responded. Was it motherhood, or the deeper godhead? Was it pity for the dignity housed in the crumbling clay, or repentance for the son of her womb? Or was it that sickness gave hope, and she could afford to be kind? "'I don't know what you mean, Stephen,' she said, more gently than he had ever heard her speak. Was it an agony of mind or of body? Or was it but a flickering of the shadows upon his face?

A moment, and he gave a half-choked shriek and fell on the floor. His mother turned from him with disgust and rang the bell. "'Send Tom here,' she said. An elderly, hard-featured man came. "'Steven is in one of his fits,' she said. The man looked about him. He could see no one in the room but his mistress. "'There he is,' she continued, pointing to the floor. "'Take him away. Get him up to the loft and lay him in the hay.' The man lifted his master like an unwieldy log and carried him convulsed from the room. Stephen's mother sat down again by the fire and resumed her knitting.

65 65 - The Laird's Vision 10:28

THE LAIRD'S VISION Malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary ride when one of the maids informed him that a man from Kirkbuyers wanted him. Hiding his reluctance, he went with her and found Tom Who was Mrs. Stewart's grieve, and had been about the place all his days. Mr. Stevens come home, sir, he said, touching his bonnet, a civility for which Malcolm was not grateful. That's not possible, returned Malcolm. I saw him last night. He came about ten o'clock, sir, and had a turn of the fallen sickness on the spot. He's very ill, the know, and the mistress sent me over to speer again you were obliged to be again to see him. Has he turned till his bed? asked Malcolm. "'We pet him till it, sir.

He's raven mad, and I'm thinkin' he's no far frae his heinere end.' "'I'll gang with you directly,' said Malcolm." In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to Kirkbyers, neither with much to say to the other, for Malcolm distrusted everyone about the place, and Tom was by nature taciturn. "'What gard them send for me, Davy Ken?' asked Malcolm at length, when they had gone about half-way. He cried out upon you in the night. answered Tom. When they arrived, Malcolm was shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Stewart met him with red eyes. Will you come and see my poor boy? she said. I will do that, ma'am. Is he very ill? Very. I'm afraid he is in a bad way. She led him to a dark, old-fashioned chamber, rich and gloomy.

There, sunk in the down of a huge bed with carved ebony posts, lay the laird. Far too ill to be incommoded by the luxury to which he was unaccustomed. His head kept tossing from side to side, and his eyes seemed searching in vacancy. "'Has the doctor been to see him, ma'am?' asked Malcolm. "'Yes, but he says he can't do anything for him. "'Ho waits upon him, ma'am, one of the maids and myself. "'I'll just bide with him. "'That will be very kind of you. "'I so bide with him till I see him out of this, one way or other.'" added Malcolm, and sat down by the bedside of his poor, distrustful friend. There Mrs. Stewart left him. The laird was wandering in the thorny thickets and slimy marshes which, haunted by the thousand misshapen horrors of delirium, beset the gates of life.

That one so near the light, and slowly drifting into it, should lie tossing in hopeless darkness. Is it that the delirium falls a veil of love? To hide other and more real terrors? His eyes would now and then meet those of Malcolm as they gazed tenderly upon him. But the living thing that looked out of the windows was darkened and saw him not. Occasionally a word would fall from him, or a murmur of half-articulation flowed up, like the sound of a river of souls. But whether Malcolm heard or only seemed to hear something like this, he could not tell. For he could not be certain that he had not himself shaped the words by receiving the babble into the moulds of the laird's customary thought and speech.

I do not ken what I come frae. I kenna what I'm going to. He ken he would but come out and show himself. Oh lord, take the devil off of my poor back. Oh father of lights, gotta take the hump wi' him. I ha no fervor for it, though it's been my constant companion this many a lang. But in general he only moaned, and after the words thus heard or fashioned by Malcolm, lay silent and nearly still for an hour. All the waning afternoon Malcolm sat by his side, and neither mother, maid, nor doctor came near them. Dark walls and no a-breath, he murmured, or seemed to murmur again. No girths, nor floors, nor bees. I had no room for my home, and I cannot lie upon it, for that would kill me. Will I ever can where I can, frae?

The wine's uncle good. Give me a drap mer, can you please, Lady Horn? I thought the grave was a better place. I'll ain't softer afore I day'd. Femi! Femi! Run, Femi, run! I subide with him this time. Ye run, Femi! As it grew dark, the air turned very chill, and snow began to fall thick and fast. Malcolm laid a few sticks on the smoldering peat fire, but they were damp and did not catch. All at once the laird gave a shriek, and crying out, Mither! Mither! fell into a fit so violent that the heavy bed shook with his convulsions. Malcolm held his wrists and called aloud, No one came, and bethinking himself that none could help, he waited in silence for what would follow. The fit passed quickly. And he lay quiet.

The sticks had meantime dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up. The laird turned his face towards the flame. A smile came over it. His eyes opened wide, and with such an expression of seeing gazed beyond Malcolm that he turned his in the same direction. Eh, the bonnie man. The bonnie man, murmured the laird. But Malcolm saw nothing. And turned again to the laird. His jaw had fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a sunset. He was dead.

Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend was at rest. He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy on a fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him. What are you for? asked Malcolm. "'I'm going for Mistress Cattenaw,' answered the boy. "'Gang your ways, then, and inna hold the dead waiting,' said Malcolm with a shudder. The boy cast a look of dismay behind him and galloped off. The snow still fell and the night was dark. Malcolm spent nearly two hours on the way and met the boy returning, who told him that Mrs. Cattenaw was not to be found. His road lay down the glen. Past Duncan's cottage, at whose door he dismounted, but he did not find him.

Taking the bridle on his arm, he walked by his horse the rest of the way. It was about nine o'clock, and the night very dark. As he neared the house, he heard Duncan's voice. "'Malcolm, my son, will it be your own self?' it said. "'It will that, Daddy,' answered Malcolm. The piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling softly upon him. But it's so cold for you to be sitting there in the snow, and the murk too," added Malcolm. The darkness will not be getting to the inside of her, returned the seer. Ah, my boy. Where the light gets in, the darkness will be getting in too. "'Tis no. Your whole body will be full of darkness, as the Bible will say. And Duncan's body, that will be full of delight."

Then, with suddenly changed tone, he said, Listen, Malcolm, my son. She'll be very uneasy till you was become home. What's the major now, Daddy? returned Malcolm. Anything wrong about the hose? Something will be wrong, yes, but she'll not can tell where. No, her body will not be full of light. For down here in the cursed lowlands, the sight has been almost gone from her, my son. It will now be no more as a coke creeping through her, and she'll never see plain no more. "'Til she be gone back to her own mountains." "'The poor laird's gan back to his,' said Malcolm. "'I wonder g'nny kins yet. "'Or g'nny gang's spear in a til g'nny meets g'nny can tell him where he cam frae. "'He's mad no mare, an' he gait.' "'How?

Will he be not dead?' "'The poor laird. The poor mad laird.' "'Ay, he's dead. Maybe that's what'll be trouble in your sight, daddy.' "'No, my son.' The mad laird was not very mad, and if he was mad he was not bad, and it was not to the blame of him. He was good always, however. He was that, Daddy. But it will be something very bad, and it will be troubling her spirit. When she'll be take the pipes to be amusing herself, and will blow till an'kra a'ghanakha. Turn the cows, Duncan. O't will be come kua un'ir v'ir, the lament of the big man. All is not well, my son. Well, do not distress yourself, Daddy. Let come what will come. Forseeing is no forfending. You can yourself at money's the time the seer has brought the thing on by trying to hold it off.

It will be through, my son. But it would always have come. No doubt. So you just come in with me, Daddy, and sit down by the half-air, and I'll come to you as soon as I've been up to sea at the master does not want me. But he'll better come up with me to my room first, he went on, for the maester doesn't like to see me in anything but the kilt. And why will he not be into kilts all as know? I have been riding you again, Daddy, and the trues fits the saddle better know the kilts. She'll not be knowing that. Old Alistair, your great, her own grandfather, was the best horseman the world ever saw, and he'll never be having to choose to his own legs, nor to saddle to his horse's back. He'll just make his men be strap on an old plaid, and he'll be give a jump, and away they was, horse and man, one beast, all two of them both together.

Thus chatting, they went to the stable, and from the stable to the house, where they met no one, and went straight up to Malcolm's room, the old man making as little of the long ascent as Malcolm himself.

66 66 - The Cry From the Chamber 16:16

THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER.

Brooding, if a man of his temperament may ever be said to brood, over the sad history of his young wife and the prospects of his daughter, the Marquis rode over fields and through gates. He had never been one to jump a fence in cold blood, till the darkness began to fall, and the bearings of his perplexed position came plainly before him. First of all, Malcolm acknowledged, and the date of his mother's death known, what would Florimel be in the eyes of the world? Supposing the world deceived by the statement that his mother died when he was born, where yet was the future he had marked out for her? He had no money to leave her, and she must be helplessly dependent on her brother. Malcolm, on the other hand, might make a good match, or, with the advantages he could secure him in the army, still better in the navy, well enough push his way in the world.

Miss Horne could produce no testimony, and Mrs. Catenaw had asserted him the son of Mrs. Stewart. He had seen enough, however, To make him dread certain possible results if Malcolm were acknowledged as the Laird of Kirkbyers. No, there was but one hopeful measure, one which he had even already approached in the tentative way. An appeal, namely, to Malcolm himself, in which, acknowledging his probable rights, but representing in the strongest manner the difficulty of proving them, he would set forth, in their full dismay, the consequences to Florimel of their public recognition. And offer, upon the pledge of his word, to a certain line of conduct, to start him in any path he chose to follow. Having thought the thing out pretty thoroughly, as he fancied, and resolved at the same time to feel his way toward negotiations with Mrs.

Cattenaw, he turned and rode home. After a tolerable dinner, he was sitting over a bottle of the port, which he prized beyond anything else his succession had brought him, when the door of the dining room opened suddenly. And the butler appeared, pale with terror. "'My lord! My lord!' he stammered as he closed the door behind him. "'Well, what the devil's the matter now? Whose cow's dead?' "'Your lordship didn't hear it then,' faltered the butler. "'You've been drinking, Bings,' said the Marquis, lifting his seventh glass of port. "'I didn't say I heard it, my lord.' "'Heard what in the name of Beelzebub?' "'The ghost, my lord.' "'The what?' shouted the Marquis. That's what they call it, my lord.

It's all along of having that wizard's chamber in the house, my lord. You're a set of fools, said the Marquis. The whole kid of you. That's what I say, my lord. I don't know what to do with them, stericking and screaming. Mrs. Courthope is trying her best with them, but it's my belief she's about as bad herself. The Marquis finished his glass of wine, poured out and drank another, then walked to the door. When the butler opened it, a strange sight met his eyes. All the servants in the house, men and women, Duncan and Malcolm alone excepted, had crowded after the butler, every one afraid of being left behind, and there gleamed the crowd of ghastly faces in the light of the great hall fire. Demon stood in front, his mane bristling and his eyes flaming.

Such was the silence that the Marquis heard the low howl of the waking wind, and the snow like the padding of soft hands against the windows. He stood for a moment, more than half enjoying their terror, when from somewhere in the building a far-off shriek, shrill and piercing, rang in every ear. Some of the men drew in their breath with a gasping sob, but most of the women screamed outright, and that set the Marquis cursing. Duncan and Malcolm had but just entered the bedroom of the latter, when the shriek rent the air close beside, and for a moment deafened them. So agonized, so shrill, so full of dismal terror was it, that Malcolm stood aghast, and Duncan started to his feet with responsive outcry.

But Malcolm at once recovered himself. Bide here till I come back, he whispered, and hurried noiselessly out. In a few minutes he returned, during which all had been still. No, Daddy, he said. I'm going to drive in the door of the next room. There's some devilry at work there. Stand ye in the door, and ghost or devilet would win by ye. Grip it, and hold on like demon the dog. She will so, she will so, muttered Duncan in a strange tone. Oh, hon, that she'll not be having her dirk with her. Oh, hon, oh, hon. Malcolm took the key of the wizard's chamber from his chest, and his candle from the table, which he set down in the passage. In a moment, he had unlocked the door, Put his shoulder to it and burst it open.

A light was extinguished, and a shapeless figure went gliding away through the gloom. It was no shadow, however, for dashing itself against a door at the other side of the chamber, it staggered back with an imprecation of fury and fear, pressed two hands to its head, and turning at bay, revealed the face of Mrs. Cattenaugh. In the door stood the blind piper with outstretched arms and hands ready to clutch. The fingers curved like claws, his knees and haunches bent, leaning forward like a rampant beast prepared to spring. In his face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust, and enmity of all mingled kinds. Malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she turned, Mrs. Cattenaw saw only the white face of hatred gleaming through the darkness.

"'Ye old donna devil,' she cried, with an addition too coarse to be set down. And threw herself upon him. The old man said never a word, but with indrawn breath, hissing through his clenched teeth, clutched her, and down they went together in the passage, the piper undermost. He had her by the throat, it is true, but she had her fingers in his eyes, and kneeling on his chest kept him down with a vigor of hostile effort that drew the very picture of murder. It lasted but a moment, however. For the old man, spurred by torture as well as hate, gathered what survived of a most sinewy strength into one huge heave, threw her back into the room, and rose, with the blood streaming from his eyes, just as the Marquis came round the near end of the passage, followed by Mrs.

Courthope, the butler, Stote, and two of the footmen. Heartily enjoying a row, he stopped instantly, and signing a halt to his followers, Stood listening to the mud geyser that now burst from Mrs. Cattenaw's throat. "'Ye blind abortion of Satan's soul,' she cried. "'Didn't I take ye to do ye as I liked? And that devil's tripe ye call your oye? He, he, him, your grandson. He's nothing but one of your hated camels.' "'A changa, a deal, v'er, that duag dain of bread.' "'O tongue of the great devil, thou art making a lie.'" screamed Duncan, speaking for the first time. God lay me dead in my sins, ginn he be anything but a bastard camel, she is severated, with a laugh of demoniacal scorn. Your daughter Malcolm's nothing but the dykeside brat of the late Griselle camel, at the folk took for a cent cause she grew it and said nothing.

I laid the camel pop in your body arms with my own hands, upon the top of your cursed screak and bagpipes that so often draved asleep from my own. "'Nah, ye would none of me. But I gae ye a camel-bearn to your heart for all that, ye old-hunger, waver-legged, war-maatin' idiot.'" A torrent of Gaelic broke from Duncan, into the midst of which rushed another from Mrs. Cattenaugh. Similar, but coarse in vowel and harsh in consonant sounds. The Marquis stepped into the room. "'What is the meaning of all this?' he said with dignity. The tumult of Celtic altercation ceased. The piper drew himself up to his full height and stood silent. Mrs. Cattenaw, red as fire with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale.

The marquis cast on her a searching and significant look. See here, my lord, said Malcolm. Candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed. The same moment Mrs. Cattenaw glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of mutual intelligence to the group at the door. And vanished. On Malcolm's arm lay the head of a young girl. Her thin, worn countenance was stained with tears and livid with suffocation. She was recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless. It's Femi, my lord. Blue Peters' lassie it was taint, said Malcolm. It begins to look serious, said the Marquis. Mrs. Cattenaw! Mrs. Courthope! He turned towards the door. Mrs. Courthope entered. And a head or two peeped in after her.

Duncan stood as before, drawn up and stately, his visage working, but his body motionless as the statue of a sentinel. Where is the Catnaw woman gone? cried the Marquis. Gone? shouted the Piper. Gone, and her husband will be waiting to be killing her. Ah, nan, ahan. Her husband? echoed the Marquis. Ah, she'll not can be helping it, my lord. No more till one will be dead. And that should be the woman, for she'll be a bad woman, the worstest woman ever was married, my lord." That's saying a good deal, returned the Marquis. Not one word more is enough, my lord, said Duncan. She was only be her next wife, but oh hon, oh hon, why did she'll be marry her? You would have stabbed her long ago, my lord, if she was your wife, and you was knowing the damned fox and badger she was be.

"'Oh, Hon, and she didn't be have her dirk at her hench, nor her skein in her hose.' He shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and wept in the agony of frustrated rage. Mrs. Courthope took Phoebe in her arms and carried her to her own room, where she opened the window and let the snowy wind blow full upon her. As soon as she came quite to herself, Malcolm set out to bear the good tidings to her father and mother. Only a few nights before had Femi been taken to the room where they found her. She had been carried from place to place, and had been some time, she believed, in Mrs. Cattenaw's own house. They had always kept her in the dark and removed her at night, blindfolded. When asked if she had never cried out before, she said she had been too frightened, and when questioned as to what had made her do so then, she knew nothing of it.

She remembered only that a horrible creature appeared by the bedside, after which all was blank. On the floor they found a hideous death mask, doubtless the cause of the screams which Mrs. Cattenaw had sought to stifle with the pillows and bedclothes. When Malcolm returned, he went at once to the Piper's cottage, where he found him in bed, utterly exhausted, and as utterly restless. "'Weel, Daddy,' he said. "'I dote I dure not come near, you know.' Come to her arms, my poor boy, faltered Duncan. She'll be sorry in her sore heart for her boy. Never you be minding, my son. You couldn't help the camel mother, and you'll be her own boy, however. Oh, Hone, it will be a plot upon you all your days, my son, and she'll not can help you, and it'll be breaking her old heart."

Gingod thought the camel's worth making, Daddy. I didn't see that I had any right to complain that I came of them. She hopes you'll be forgiven to blind old man, however. She couldn't see, or she would have known at once better. I didn't ken what you're after now, Daddy," said Malcolm. That she'll do you a great wrong, and she'll be very sorry for it, my son. What wrong did you ever do me, Daddy? That she was let you grow up a camel, my boy. If she did but know the bad blood was be in you, she wouldn't be done you the wrong as bring you up. That's a wrong no ill to forgive, Daddy. But it's a pity you didn't let me lie, for maybe sign Mistress Catanile would have brought me up her cell, and I might have come to something.

The devil more would be on your heart and brain and bosom, my son. Well, you see what you saved me frae? Yes, what the devil will be to pay. For she couldn't save you from the camel blood, my boy. Malcolm, my boy, he added after a pause, and with the solemnity of a mighty hate, ta evil woman herself will be a camel. Ta woman Catanach will be a camel, and her name's sale she'll not know it before she'll be in the bed with the worstest camel that ever God made. And she begs his pardon, for she'll not believe he was making the camels. "'Divna, you think God made me a daddy?' asked Malcolm. The old man thought for a little. "'That will depend on who will be your father, my son,' he replied. "'If he too will be a camel, a horn, a horn.

But there may be some good blood going to you. More as enough to say God will be make you my son. But don't be asking, Malcolm. Don't you'll be asking.'" What am I not to ask, Daddy? Don't be asking who made you. Who was the father to you, my boy? She would rather not be knowing, for the man might be a Campbell both. And if she couldn't be loving you no more, my son, she would be die before her time, and her days would be long in the land under the grass, my son. But the memory of the sweet face, whose cold loveliness he had once kissed, Was enough to outweigh with Malcolm all the prejudices of Duncan's installation, and he was proud to take up even her shame. To pass from Mrs. Stewart to her was to escape from the clutches of a vampire demon to the arms of a sweet mother angel.

Deeply concerned for the newly discovered misfortunes of the old man, to whom he was indebted for this world's life at least, he anxiously sought to soothe him. But he had far more and far worse to torment him than Malcolm even yet knew, and with burning cheeks and bloodshot eyes, he lay tossing from side to side, now uttering terrible curses in Gaelic, and now weeping bitterly. Malcolm took his loved pipes, and with the gentlest notes he could draw from them, tried to charm to rest the ruffled waters of his spirit. But his efforts were all in vain, and believing at length that he would be quieter without him. He went to the house and to his own room. The door of the adjoining chamber stood open, and the long-forbidden room lay exposed to any eye.

Little did Malcolm think, as he gazed around it, that it was the room in which he had first breathed the air of the world, in which his mother had wept over her own false position and his reported death, and from which he had been carried, by Duncan's wicked wife, down the ruinous stair, and away to the lip of the sea, To find a home in the arms of the man whom he had just left on his lonely couch, torn between the conflicting emotions of a gracious love for him and the frightful hate of her.

67 67 - Feet of Wool 12:43

Feet of Wool The next day, Miss Horne, punctual as fate, presented herself at Lossie House, and was shown at once into the Marquess's study, as it was called. When his lordship entered, she took the lead the moment the door was shut. By this time, my lord, you'll doubtless have made up your mind to do what's right, she said. That's what I have always wanted to do, returned the Marquis. Hmm, remarked Miss Horne, as plainly as inarticulately. In this affair, he supplemented, adding, it's not always so easy to tell what is right. It's no eye easy to look for it with Baethyrein, said Miss Horne. This woman, Katna, we must get her to give credible testimony. Whatever the fact may be, we must have strong evidence.

And there comes the difficulty, that she has already made an altogether different statement. It gings for nothing, my lord. It was never made afforded justice of the peace. I wish you would go to her and see how she is inclined. Me gings to Bobby Katna, exclaimed Miss Horne. I would as soon gings in Kittle Sauten's nose with a pinter's tail. Now, now, my lord. Can anybody gings till her with my wool? It's a be a limb of the law. "'Isa had no cognostum with her.' "'You would have no objection, however, to my seeing her, I presume, just to let her know that we have an inkling of the truth,' said the Marquis." Now all this was the merest talk, for of course Miss Horne could not long remain in ignorance of the declaration Fury had, the night previous, forced from Mrs.

Cagnaw. But he must, he thought, put her off and keep her quiet, if possible, until he had come to an understanding with Malcolm." After which he would no doubt have his trouble with her. "'You can do as your lordship likes,' answered Miss Horne. "'But I wouldna hae't said o' me if I had any dealings with her.' "'Who can's, but she might say you'd try to bribe her.' "'There's nothing she would boggle at, g'n she thought it worth her while.' "'No what I'm feared at her. Let her lay. I'm not so blurt, but only dinna lip until a word she says, my lord.' The Marquis meditated. "'I wonder whether the real source of my perplexity occurs to you, Miss Horne,' he said at length. "'You know I have a daughter.' "'Wil enoch that, my lord.' "'By my second marriage.' "'Na marriage of all, my lord.' "'True, if I confess to the first.' "'All the same, whether or no, my lord.' "'Then you see,' the Marquis went on, refusing offence, "'what the admission of your story would make of my daughter.' "'That's plain enoch, my lord.' "'Now if I have read Malcolm right—' He has too much regard for his mistress to put her in such a false position.

That is, my lord, ye would have your lawful son bear the lawless name. No, no, it need never come out what he is. I will provide for him, as a gentleman, of course. It cannot be, my lord. You can do nothing for him with that face of his, but o' comes the truth as to the father on. And it wouldna be long afore the tale was eked out with the name of his mither. Mistress Catanaw would see to that. Gint was only to spite me. And I wouldn't have my grizzail called what she is not, for any lord's daughter and the three cainrix. What does it matter now she's dead and gone, said the marquis, false to the dead in his love for the living? Dead and gone, my lord. What call you dead and gone? Maybe the great ones of the earth get sick of four lithia grandeur at their for no more, and would perish like the brute beast.

For anything I can, they may have their wuss, but for my sale. I would worsel to hold my soul waken, and a very article of death, for the bare chance of seeing my bonnie grizel again. It's a mercy I had no feelings," she added, arresting her handkerchief on its way to her eyes, and refusing to acknowledge the single tear that ran down her cheek. Plainly, she was not like any of the women whose characters the Marquis had accepted as typical of womankind. Then you won't leave the matter to her husband and son, he said reproachfully. "'I tellt you, my lord, I would do nothing but what I saw to be right. Let this affair out of my hands, I dare now. That lad ye might work to anything at Maedigan himself.

He's just like his poor mither there.' "'If Miss Campbell was his mother,' said the Marquess. "'Miss Campbell!' cried Miss Horne. "'I'll thank your lordship to call her by her own, and that's Lady Lossie.' What of the something ruinous heart of the Marquess was habitable was occupied by his daughter. And had no accommodation at present, either for his dead wife or his living son. Once more he sat thinking in silence for a while. "'I'll make Malcolm a post-captain in the Navy and give you a thousand pounds,' he said at length, hardly knowing that he spoke. Miss Horne rose to her full height and stood like an angel of rebuke before him. Not a word did she speak, only looked at him for a moment and turned to leave the room.

The Marquis saw his danger, and striding to the door, stood with his back against it. "'Think ye to scare me, my lord?' she asked, with a scornful laugh. "'Gang and scare the stern lion beast at your hall door. Hold out o' the gate and let me gang.' "'Not until I know what you are going to do,' said the Marquis, very seriously. "'I ha' nothing more to transect with your lordship. You and me are strangers, my lord.' "'Tut, tut, I was but trying you.'" "'And can I attain the disgrace you offered me, you would have drawn back?' "'No, certainly.' "'You was not trying me, then. You was doing your best to corrupt me. I'm no splitter of hairs.' "'My lord, it's none but the corruptible would seek to corrupt.' The Marquis gnawed a nail or two in silence.

Miss Horne dragged an easy chair within a couple of yards of him. "'We'll see who attires this game first, my lord,' she said, as she sank into its hospitable embrace. The Marquis turned to lock the door, but there was no key in it. Neither was there any chair within reach, and he was not fond of standing. Clearly his enemy had the advantage. "'Have you heard of poor Sandy Graham? Who there misguided him, my lord?' she asked with composure. The Marquis was first astounded, and then tickled by her assurance. "'No,' he answered. "'They had turned him out of hos and hall. School at least, and hum,' she rejoined. I may say they had turned him out of Scotland. For what presbytery would have him, after he had been fawn guilty o' no thinking like other folk?

Ye maun stand as good friend, my lord. He shall be Malcolm's tutor, answered the Marquis, not to be outdone in coolness. And go with him to Edinburgh, or Oxford, if he prefers it. Never hear the Collinsy had it better, said Miss Horne. Softly, softly, ma'am, returned the Marquis. I did not say he should go in that style. He's a king as my lord of Collinsy. "'What is no gain at your expense, my lord,' said his antagonist. "'Really, ma'am, one would think you were my grandmother to hear you order my affairs for me.' "'I was I were, my lord. I said guard you here reason upon both sides of your head, I saw it.' The Marquis laughed. "'Well, I can't stand here all day,' he said, impatiently swinging one leg.

"'I'm well aware of that, my lord,' answered Miss Horne, rearranging her scanty skirt. "'How long are you going to keep me, then?' "'I wouldn't have had you by'd a minute longer nor is agreeable to your sale. But I'm in no hurry so long as ye're for me. Ye're no ill to look at, though ye maun a been bonnier the day ye won the heart to make it sale.' The Marquis uttered an oath and left the door. Miss Horn sprang to it, but there was the Marquis again. "'Miss Horn,' he said, "'I beg you will give me another day to think of this. What is the use? All the thinking in the world cannot alter a single fact.'" "'Ye maun do right by my laddie o' your ain's cell, or I'm an gar ye. You would find a lawsuit heavy, Miss Horne, and ye would find a scandal o' ill to bide, my lord.

It would come sair upon Miss—I cannot what name she has a right till, my lord.' The Marquis uttered a frightful imprecation, left the door, and sitting down hid his face in his hands.

Miss Horne rose, but instead of securing her retreat, approached him gently and stood by his side. My lord, she said, I cannot fall to see a man in Thribble. Women's born till it, and they take it, and are thankful. But a man never gives in till it, and so it comes harder upon him nor upon them. Hear me, my lord. Can there be a man upon this earth who would shield a woman? That man's Malcolm Collinsy. If only she weren't his sister, murmured the Marquis. And just be thinking, my lord. Would it be anything less not an imposition to let a man marry her and tell him what she was? You insolent old woman, cried the Marquis, losing his temper, discretion, and manners altogether. Go and do your worst and be damned to you.

So saying, he left the room, and Miss Horne found her way out of the house in a temper quite as fierce as his, in character, however, entirely different, inasmuch as it was righteous. At that very moment, Malcolm was in search of his master. And seeing the back of him disappear in the library, to which he had gone in a half-blind rage, he followed him. My lord, he said, what do you want? returned his master in a rage. For some time he had been hauling on the curb rain, which had fretted his temper the more. And when he let go, the devil ran away with him. I thought your lordship would like to see an old stare I came upon the other day, at Gangsfri the wizard's chamber. Go to hell with your damn tomfoolery, said the marquis.

If ever you mention that cursed hole again, I'll kick you out of the house. Malcolm's eyes flashed, and a fierce answer rose to his lips, but he had seen that his master was in trouble, and sympathy supplanted rage. He turned and left the room in silence. Lord Lossie paced up and down the library for a whole hour, a long time for him to be in one mood. The mood changed color pretty frequently during the hour, however, and by degrees his wrath assuaged. But at the end of it, He knew no more what he was going to do than when he left Miss Horn in the study. Then came the gnawing of his usual ennui and restlessness. He must find something to do. The thing he always thought of first was a ride, but the only animal of horse kind about the place which he liked was the Bay Mare, and her he had lamed.

He would go and see what the rascal had come bothering about. Alone, though, for he could not endure the sight of the Fisher Fellow, damn him. In a few moments he stood in the wizard's chamber, and glanced round it with a feeling of discomfort rather than sorrow, of annoyance at the trouble of which it had been for him both fountain and storehouse, rather than regret for the agony and contempt which his selfishness had brought upon the woman he loved. Then, spying the door in the furthest corner, he made for it, and in a moment more, his curiosity, now thoroughly roused, was slowly gyrating down the steps of the old screw stair. But Malcolm had gone to his own room, and hearing someone in the next, half suspected who it was and went in.

Seeing the closet door open, he hurried to the stair, and shouted, My lord! My lord! Or whoever you are! Take care how you gain, or you'll get a terrible fall! Down a single yard the stair was quite dark, and he dared not follow fast, for fear of himself falling and occasioning the accident he feared. As he descended, He kept repeating his warnings, but either his master did not hear or heeded too little, for presently Malcolm heard a rush, a dull fall, and a groan. Hurrying as fast as he dared with the risk of falling upon him, he found the Marquis lying amongst the stones in the ground entrance, apparently unable to move and white with pain. Presently, however, he got up, swore a good deal, and limped, swearing, into the house.

The doctor, who was sent for instantly, pronounced the kneecap injured and applied leeches. Inflammation set in, and another doctor and surgeon were sent for from Aberdeen. They came, applied poultices and again leeches, and enjoined the strictest repose. The pain was severe, but to one of the Marquess's temperament, the enforced quiet was worse.

68 68 - Hands of Iron 13:25

HANDS OF IRON. The Marquis was loved by his domestics, and his accident, with its consequences, although none more serious were anticipated, cast a gloom over Lossie House. Far apart, as was his chamber from all the centers of domestic life, the pulses of his suffering beat, as it were, through the house, and the servants moved with hushed voice and gentle footfall. Outside, the course of events waited upon his recovery, for Miss Horne was too generous not to delay proceedings while her adversary was ill. Besides, what she most of all desired was the Marquess's free acknowledgment of his son. And after such a time of suffering and constrained reflection as he was now passing through, he could hardly fail, she thought, to be more inclined to what was just and fair.

Malcolm had of course hastened to the schoolmaster with the joy of his deliverance from Mrs. Stewart. But Mr. Graham had not acquainted him with the discovery Miss Horne had made, or her belief concerning his large interest therein, to which Malcolm's report of the wrath-born declaration of Mrs. Cattenaugh Had now supplied the only testimony wanting, for the right of disclosure was Miss Horn's. To her he had carried Malcolm's narrative of late events, tenfold strengthening her position, but she was anxious in her turn that the revelation concerning his birth should come to him from his father. Hence, Malcolm continued in ignorance of the strange dawn that had begun to break on the darkness of his origin.

Miss Horn had told Mr. Graham what the Marquess had said about the tutorship. But the schoolmaster only shook his head with a smile, and went on with his preparations for departure. The hours went by, the days lengthened into weeks, and the Marquess's condition did not improve. He had never known sickness and pain before, and like most of the children of this world, counted them the greatest of evils. Nor was there any sign of their having as yet begun to open his eyes to what those who have seen them call truths. Those who have never even boded their presence count absurdities. More and more, however, he desired the attendance of Malcolm, who was consequently a great deal about him, serving with a love to account for which those who knew his nature would not have found it necessary to fall back on the instinct of the relation between them.

The Marquis had soon satisfied himself that that relation was as yet unknown to him. And was all the better pleased with his devotion and tenderness. The inflammation continued, increased, spread, and at length the doctors determined to amputate. But the Marquis was absolutely horrified at the idea, shrank from it with invincible repugnance. The moment the first dawn of comprehension vaguely illuminated their periphrastic approaches, he blazed out in a fury, cursed them frightfully, Called them all the contemptuous names in his rather limited vocabulary, and swore he would see them uncomfortable first. We fear mortification, my lord, said the physician calmly. So do I. Keep it off, returned the Marquis.

We fear we cannot, my lord. It had, in fact, already commenced. Let it mortify, then, and be damned, said his lordship. I trust, my lord, you will reconsider it, said the surgeon. We should not have dreamed of suggesting a measure of such severity had we not had reason to dread that the further prosecution of gentler means would but lessen your lordship's chance of recovery. You mean, then, that my life is in danger? We fear, said the physician, that the amputation proposed is the only thing that can save it. What a brace of blasted bunglers you are, cried the Marquis, and turning away his face, lay silent. The two men looked at each other and said nothing. Malcolm was by, and a keen pain shot to his heart at the verdict.

The men retired to consult. Malcolm approached the bed. My lord, he said gently. No reply came. "'Dinna leave us our loans, my lord. No yet,' Malcolm persisted. "'What's to come o' my lady?' The Marquis gave a gasp. Still he made no reply. She has nobody ye ken, my lord, that ye would like to lippin' her with. You must take care of her when I am gone, Malcolm, murmured the Marquis, and his voice was now gentle with sadness and broken with misery. Me, my lord, returned Malcolm. Who would mind me? And what could I do with her? I couldna even hold her on water feet. Her lady's maid could do mair with her, though I would lay down my life for her, as I told ye, my lord. And she kens it weel enough.

Silence followed. Both men were thinking. Give me a right, my lord, and I'll do my best, said Malcolm, at length breaking the silence. What do you mean? growled the Marquis, whose mood had altered. Give me a legal right, my lord, and see again I dinna. See what? See again I dinna look weel after my lady. How am I to see? I shall be dead and damned. "'Please God, my lord, ye'll be alive and well. In a better place if not here to look after my lady yourself.' "'Oh, I dare say,' muttered the Marquis. "'But ye'll hearken to the doctors, my lord,' Malcolm went on. "'In no day you wantin' time to consider o' it.' "'Yes, yes. Tomorrow I'll have another talk with them. We'll see about it. There's time enough yet.

They're all coxcombs, every one of them. They never give a patient the least credit for common sense.' "'I didn't ken, my lord,' said Malcolm doubtfully. After a few minutes' silence, during which Malcolm thought he had fallen asleep, the Marquis resumed abruptly. "'What do you mean by giving you a legal right?' he said. "'There's some way of making a body guardian till another, so that the law'll uphold him. Isn't it there, my lord?' "'Yes, surely. Well, rather odd, wouldn't it be? A young fisher lad.'" "'Guardian to a Marchioness,' eh? "'They say there's nothing new under the sun, but that sounds rather like it, I think.' Malcolm was overjoyed to hear him speak with something like his old manner.

He felt he could stand any amount of chaff from him now, and so the proposition he had made in seriousness he went on to defend in the hope of giving amusement, yet with a secret wild delight in the dream of such full devotion to the service of Lady Florimel." It would sound queer enough, my lord, no doubt, but folk maunna mind the sound o' a thing, ginnit be all straight and fair, and strong enough to stand. They couldna lock me out o' my rights, be they at they liked, Lady Belair or any o' them. Nah, nor jaw me out o' them either. They might do a good deal to render those rights of little use," said the Marquis. That would come till a trial o' brains, my lord, returned Malcolm, and ye didna think I would have the wit to spear advice.

And what's mere? Take ken when it was good, and take it. There's lawyers, my lord. And their expenses? You could leave some muckle to be word upon the carrying out of your lordship's wool. Who would see that you applied it properly? My own conscience, my lord. Or Mr. Graham, gin you liked. And how would you live yourself? Oh, leave you that to me, my lord. Only do not imagine I would be beholden to your lordship. I hope I have mere pride nor that. "'Il capon not shillin' an' bobby'se be laid out for her, an' what was left hain' it for her. Saved.' "'By Jove, it's a daring proposal,' said the Marquis, and, which seemed strange to Malcolm, not a single thread of ridicule ran through the tone in which he made the remark.

The next day came, but brought neither strength of body nor of mind with it. Again his professional attendants besought him, and he heard them more quietly, but rejected their proposition as positively as before. In a day or two he ceased to oppose it, but would not hear of preparation. Hour glided into hour, and days had gathered to a week, when they assailed him with a solemn and last appeal. "'Nonsense,' answered the Marquis. "'My leg is getting better. I feel no pain. In fact, nothing but a little faintness.' Your damned medicines I haven't a doubt. You are in the greatest danger, my lord. It is all but too late, even now. Tomorrow, then, if it must be. Today I could not endure to have my hair cut, positively.

And as to having my leg off, the thing's preposterous. He turned white and shuddered, for all the nonchalance of his speech. When tomorrow came, there was not a surgeon in the land who would have taken his leg off. He looked in their faces, and seemed for the first time convinced of the necessity of the measure. You may do as you please, he said. I am ready. Not today, my lord, replied the doctor. Your lordship is not equal to it today. I understand, said the Marquis, paled frightfully, and turned his head aside.

When Mrs. Courthope suggested that Lady Florimel should be sent for, he flew into a frightful rage. And spoke as it is to be hoped he had never spoken to a woman before. She took it with perfect gentleness, but could not repress it here. The Marquis saw it, and his heart was touched. You mustn't mind a dying man's temper, he said. It's not for myself, my lord, she answered. I know. You think I'm not fit to die. And dammit, you are right. Never one was less fit for heaven, or less willing to go to hell. "'Wouldn't you like to see a clergyman, my lord?' she suggested, sobbing. He was on the point of breaking out in a still worse passion, but controlled himself. "'A clergyman,' he cried. "'I would as soon see the undertaker.

What could he do but tell me I was going to be damned? A fact I know better than he can. That is, if it's not all an invention of the cloth, as in my soul I believe it is. I've said so any time this forty years.'" "'Oh, my lord, my lord, do not fling away your last hope.' "'You imagine me to have a chance, then?' "'Good soul. You don't know better.' "'The lord is merciful.' The Marquis laughed. That is, he tried, failed, and grinned. "'Mr. Cairns is in the dining room, my lord.' "'Bah, a low pettifogger with the soul of a bullock. Don't let me hear the fellow's name. I've been bad enough, God knows.' But I haven't sunk to the level of his help yet. If he's God Almighty's factor and the saw holds, like master, like man, well, I would rather have nothing to do with either.

That is, if you had the choice, my lord, said Mrs. Courthope, her temper yielding a little, though in truth, his speech was not half so irreverent as it seemed to her. Tell him to go to hell. No, don't. Set him down to a bottle of port and a great sponge cake and you needn't tell him to go to heaven. For he'll be there already. Why, Mrs. Courthope, the fellow isn't a gentleman. And yet all he cares for the cloth is that he thinks it makes a gentleman of him, as if anything in heaven, earth, or hell could work that miracle. In the middle of the night, as Malcolm sat by his bed, thinking him asleep, the Marquis spoke suddenly. You must go to Aberdeen tomorrow, Malcolm, he said. Farewell, my lord.

And bring Mr. Glenny the lawyer back with you. Yes, my lord. Go to bed, then. I would rather bide, my lord. I couldna sleep a wink for wantin' to be back a-side ye. The mark was yielded, and Malcolm sat by him all the night through. He tossed about, would doze off and murmur strangely, then wake up and ask for brandy and water, yet be content with the lemonade Malcolm gave him. Next day he quarreled with every word Mrs. Courthope uttered. Kept forgetting he had sent Malcolm away, and was continually wanting him. His fits of pain were more severe, alternated with drowsiness, which deepened at times to stupor. It was late before Malcolm returned. He went instantly to his bedside. Is Mr. Glenny with you?

asked his master feebly. Yes, my lord. Tell him to come here at once. When Malcolm returned with the lawyer, The Marquis directed him to set a table and chair by the bedside, light four candles, get everything necessary for writing, and go to bed.

69 69 - The Marquis and the Schoolmaster 15:26

THE MARQUESS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER Before Malcolm was awake, his lordship had sent for him. When he re-entered the sick chamber, Mr. Glenny had vanished, the table had been removed, and instead of the radiance of the wax lights, The cold gleam of a vapor-dimmed sun, with its sickly blue-white reflex from the widespread snow, filled the room. The Marquis looked ghastly, but was sipping chocolate with a spoon. "'What way are you the day, my lord?' asked Malcolm. "'Nearly well,' he answered. "'But those cursed carrion crows are set upon killing me. Damn their souls.' "'We'll have Lady Flora me'll swear an awful guinea gang on that gate, my lord,' said Malcolm." The Marquis laughed feebly. "'And what's mer?' Malcolm continued.

"'I dote there's some particular about the turn of their phrases up yonder, my lord.' The Marquis looked at him keenly. "'You don't anticipate that inconvenience for me,' he said. "'I'm pretty sure to have my billet where they're not so precise.' "'Dinna break my heart, my lord,' cried Malcolm, the tears rushing to his eyes. "'I should be sorry to hurt you, Malcolm,' rejoined the Marquis gently." Almost tenderly. I won't go there if I can help it. I shouldn't like to break any more hearts. But how the devil am I to keep out of it? Besides, there are people up there I don't want to meet. I have no fancy for being made ashamed of myself. The fact is I'm not fit for such company, and I don't believe there is any such place.

But if there be, I trust in God there isn't any other. Or it will go badly with your poor master, Malcolm. It doesn't look like true, now does it? Only such a multitude of things I thought I had done with forever keep coming up and grinning at me. It nearly drives me mad, Malcolm, and I would fain die like a gentleman, with a cool bow and a sharp face about. "'Wouldna ye have a word with somebody at Cairns, my lord?' said Malcolm, scarcely able to reply. "'No,' answered the Marquis fiercely. "'That Cairns is a fool.' "'He's all that in mer, my lord. I dinna mean him. They're all fools together.' Oh, now, my lord. There's a heap of them no muckle better, it may be. But there's good men and true among them, or the kirk would have been with Sodom and Gomorrah by this time.

But it's not a minister I would have your lordship confere with. Who, then? Mrs. Courthope, eh? Oh, now, my lord. No Mistress Courthope. She's a good body. But she wouldn't believe it any again anybody called a minister said contraire to them. Who the devil do you mean, then? "'Na devil, but an honest man at's been his worst enemy so long as I a kent him. Mr. Graham, the schoolmaster.' "'Poo,' said the Marquis with a puff. "'I'm too old to go to school.' "'I didn't ken the man at isn't a bear until him, my lord.' "'In Greek and Latin.' "'In righteousness and truth, my lord. In what's been and what is to be.' "'What? Has he the second sight like the piper?' "'He has the second sight, my lord. But one at gang's a sight farther than my old daddy's.' He could tell me, then, what's going to become of me.

As well as any man, my lord. That's not saying much, I fear. Maybe, Mernur, you think, my lord? Well, take him my compliments, and tell him I should like to see him," said the Marquis, after a pause. He'll come directly, my lord. Of course he will, said the Marquis. Just as readily, my lord, as he would gain to any chump at St. Fordham at sick a time," returned Malcolm, who did not relish either the remark or its tone. What do you mean by that? You don't think it's such a serious affair, do you? My lord, you had not a chance. The Marquis was dumb. He had actually begun once more to buoy himself up with earthly hopes. Dreading a recall of his commission, Malcolm slipped from the room, sent Mrs.

Courthope to take his place, and sped to the schoolmaster. The moment Mr. Graham heard the Marquis's message, he rose without a word. And led the way from the cottage. Hardly a sentence passed between them as they went, for they were on a solemn errand. Mr. Graham's here, my lord, said Malcolm. Where? Not in the room, returned the Marquis. Waiting at the door, my lord. Bah, you needn't have been so ready. Have you told the sexton to get a new spade? But you may let him in, and leave him alone with me. Mr. Graham walked gently up to the bedside. "'Sit down, sir,' said the Marquis courteously, pleased with the calm, self-possessed, unobtrusive bearing of the man. "'They tell me I'm dying, Mr. Graham.' "'I'm sorry it seems to trouble you, my lord.' "'What, wouldn't it trouble you, then?' "'I don't think so, my lord.' "'Ah, you're one of the elect, no doubt.' "'That's a thing I never did think about, my lord.' "'What do you think about, then?' "'About God.' And when you die, you'll go straight to heaven, of course.

I don't know, my lord. That's another thing I never trouble my head about. Ah, you're like me, then. I don't care much about going to heaven. What do you care about? The will of God. I hope your lordship will say the same. No, I won't. I want my own will. Well, that is to be had, my lord. How? By taking his for yours as the better of the two, which it must be every way. That's all moonshine. It is light, my lord. While I don't mind confessing, if I am to die, I should prefer heaven to the other place. But I trust I have no chance of either. Do you now honestly believe there are two such places? I don't know, my lord. You don't know? And you come here to comfort a dying man? Your lordship must first tell me what you mean by two such places.

And as to comfort, going by my notions, I cannot tell which you would be more or less comfortable in, and that, I presume, would be the main point with your lordship. And what, pray sir, would be the main point with you? To get nearer to God. Well, I can't say I want to get nearer to God. It's little he's ever done for me. It's a good deal he has tried to do for you, my lord. Well, who interfered? Who stood in his way, then? Yourself, my lord. I wasn't aware of it. When did he ever try to do anything for me and I stood in his way? When he gave you one of the loveliest of women, my lord, said Mr. Graham, with solemn, faltering voice, and you left her to die in neglect, and the child to be brought up by strangers.

The Marquis gave a cry. The unexpected answer had roused the slowly gnawing death and made it bite deeper. "'What have you to do?' he almost screamed. "'With my affairs! It was for me to introduce what I chose of them, you presume?' "'Pardon me, my lord. You led me to what I was bound to say. Shall I leave you, my lord?' The Marquis made no answer. "'God knows I loved her,' he said after a while, with a sigh. "'You loved her, my lord. I did, by God. Love a woman like that, and come to this?' Come to this? We must all come to this, I fancy, sooner or later. Come to what in the name of Beelzebub? That, having loved a woman like her, you are content to lose her? In the name of God, have you no desire to see her again?

It would be an awkward meeting, said the Marquis. His was an old love, alas. He had not been capable of the sort that defies change. It had faded from him until it seemed one of the things that are not. Although his being had once glowed in its light, he could now speak of a meeting as awkward. "'Because you wronged her?' suggested the schoolmaster. "'Because they lied to me by God.' "'Which they dared not have done, had you not lied to them first.' "'Sir!' shouted the Marquis, with all the voice he had left. Oh, God have mercy! I cannot punish the scoundrel. The scoundrel is the man who lies, my lord. Were I anywhere else? There would be no good in telling you the truth, my lord. You showed her to the world as a woman over whom you had prevailed, and not as the honest wife she was.

What kind of a lie was that, my lord? Not a white one, surely. You are a damned coward to speak so to a man who cannot even turn on his side to curse you for a base hound. You would not dare it but that you know I cannot defend myself. You are right, my lord. Your conduct is indefensible. By heaven, if I could but get this cursed lug under me, I would throw you out of the window. I shall go by the door, my lord. While you hold by your sins, your sins will hold by you. If you should want me again. I shall be at your lordship's command. He rose and left the room, but had not reached his cottage before Malcolm overtook him with a second message from his master. He turned at once, saying only, I expected it.

Mr. Graham, said the Marquis, looking ghastly, you must have patience with a dying man. I was very rude to you, but I was in horrible pain. Don't mention it, my lord. It would be a poor friendship that gave way for a rough word. How can you call yourself my friend? I should be your friend, my lord, if it were only for your wife's sake. She died loving you. I want to send you to her, my lord. You will allow that, as a gentleman, you at least owe her an apology. By Jove, you are right, sir. Then you really and positively believe in the place they call heaven. My lord. I believe that those who open their hearts to the truth shall see the light on their friends' faces again, and be able to set right what was wrong between them.

It's a week too late to talk of setting right. Go and tell her you are sorry, my lord. That will be enough to her. Nah. But there's more than her concerned. You are right, my lord. There is another. One who cannot be satisfied that the fairest works of his hands, or rather... The loveliest children of his heart should be treated as you have treated women. But the deity you talk of—I beg your pardon, my lord—I talked of no deity. I talked of a living love that gave us birth and calls us his children. Your deity I know nothing of. Call him what you please. He won't be put off so easily. He won't be put off, one jot or one tittle. He will forgive anything, but he will pass nothing. Will your wife forgive you?

She will, when I explain. Then why should you think the forgiveness of God, which created her forgiveness, should be less? Whether the Marquis could grasp the reasoning may be doubtful. Do you really suppose God cares whether a man comes to good or ill? If he did not, he could not be good himself. Then you don't think a good God would care to punish poor wretches like us? Your lordship has not been in the habit of regarding himself as a poor wretch. And remember, you can't call a child a poor wretch without insulting the father of it. That's quite another thing. But on the wrong side for your argument, seeing the relation between God and the poorest creature is infinitely closer than that between any father and his child, then he can't be so hard on him as the parsons say.

He will give him absolute justice, which is the only good thing. He will spare nothing to bring his children back to himself, their sole well-being. What would you do, my lord, if you saw your son strike a woman? Knock him down and horsewhip him. It was Mr. Graham who broke the silence that followed. Are you satisfied with yourself, my lord? No, by God. You would like to be better? I would. Then you are of the same mind with God? Yes, but I'm not a fool. It won't do to say I should like to be. I must be it, and that's not so easy. It's damned hard to be good. I would have a fight for it, but there's no time. How is a poor devil to get out of such an infernal scrape? Keep the commandments. Well, that's it, of course.

But there's no time, I tell you. At least, so those cursed doctors will keep telling me. If there were but time to draw another breath, there would be time to begin. How am I to begin? Which am I to begin with? There is one commandment which includes all the rest, which is that. To believe on the Lord Jesus Christ. That's can't. After thirty years' trial of it, it is to me the essence of wisdom. It has given me a peace which makes life or death all but indifferent to me, though I would choose the latter. What am I to believe about Him, then? You are to believe in Him, not about Him. I don't understand. He is our Lord and Master, Elder Brother, King, Savior, the Divine Man, the Human God. To believe in Him is to give ourselves up to Him in obedience, to search out His will and do it.

But there's no time, I tell you again, the Marquis almost shrieked. And I tell you there is all eternity to do it in. Take Him for your Master, and He will demand nothing of you which you are not able to perform. This is the open door to bliss. With your last breath you can cry to him, and he will hear you, as he heard the thief on the cross who cried to him, dying beside him. Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. Today thou shalt be with me in paradise. It makes my heart swell to think of it, my lord. No cross-questioning of the poor fellow, no preaching to him. He just took him with him where he was going, to make a man of him. Well... You know something of my history. What would you have me do now?

At once, I mean. What would the person you speak of have me do? That is not for me to say, my lord. You could give me a hint. No. God is telling you himself. For me to presume to tell you would be to interfere with him. What he would have a man do, he lets him know in his mind. But... What if I had not made up my mind before the last came? Then I fear he would say to you, Depart from me, thou worker of iniquity. That would be hard when another minute might have done it. If another minute would have done it, you would have had it. A paroxysm of pain followed, during which Mr. Graham silently left him.

70 70 - End or Beginning? 18:40

CHAPTER SEVENTY. END OR BEGINNING. When the fit was over, and he found Mr. Graham was gone, he asked Malcolm, who had resumed his watch, how long it would take Lady Florimel to come from Edinburgh. Mr. Creithee left with four horses for the Lossie Arms last night, my lord, said Malcolm. But the roads are ill, and she wanna be here for some time the morn. The Marquess stared aghast. They had sent for her without his orders. What shall I do, he murmured. If once I look in her eyes, I shall be damned. Malcolm. Yes, my lord. Is there a lawyer on Port Lossie? Yes, my lord. There's old Maester Carmichael. He won't do. He was my brother's rascal. Is there no one besides? No import, Lossie, my lord. There can be none nearer than Death Harbor, I doubt.

Take the chariot and bring him here directly. Tell them to put four horses to. Stokes can ride one. I'll ride the other, my lord. You'll do nothing of the kind. You're not used to the pole. I can take the leader, my lord. I tell you, you're to do nothing of the kind, cried the Marquis angrily. You're to ride inside. And bring Mr. What's-his-name back with you. Suitor, my lord, can you please? Be off, then. Don't wait to feed. The brutes have been eating all day, and they can eat all night. You must have him here in an hour." In an hour and a quarter, Miss Horn's friend stood by the Marquess's bedside. Malcolm was dismissed, but was presently summoned again to receive more orders. Fresh horses were put to the chariot, and he had to set out once more.

This time to fetch justice of the peace, a neighbor laird. The distance was greater than to Duff Harbor. The roads were worse. The north wind, rising as they went, blew against them as they returned, increasing to a violent gale. And it was late before they reached Lossie House. When Malcolm entered, he found the Marquis alone. Is Morrison here at last? he cried in a feeble, irritated voice. Yes, my lord. The devil kept you so long. The bay mare would have carried me there and back in an hour and a half. The roads were very heavy, my lord. And just here till the wind. The Marquis listened a moment, and a frightened expression grew over his thin, pale, anxious face. You don't know what depends on it, he said, or you would have driven better.

Where is Mr. Souter? I didn't ken, my lord. I'm only just come, and I've seen nobody. Go and tell Mrs. Courthope I want Souter. You'll find her crying somewhere, the old chicken, because I swore at her. What harm could that do, the old goose? It'll be mer for love of your lordship than fright at the sweeren, my lord. You think so? Why should she care? Go and tell her I'm sorry. But really, she ought to be used to me by this time. Tell her to send Souter directly. Mr. Souter was not to be found. The fact being that he had gone to see Miss Horne. The Marquis flew into an awful rage and began to curse and swear frightfully. My lord, my lord, said Malcolm. For God's sake, dinna gang on that gate.

He kinda liked to hear that kind of speech, and frae one of his ane, too. The Marquis stopped, aghast at his presumption, and choking with rage. But Malcolm's eyes filled with tears, and instead of breaking out again, his master turned his head away and was silent. Mr. Souter came. Fetch Morrison, said the Marquis, and go to bed. The wind howled terribly as Malcolm ascended the stairs and half felt his way, for he had no candle, through the long passages leading to his room. As he entered the last, a huge, vague form came down upon him, like a deeper darkness through the dark. Instinctively he stepped aside. It passed noiselessly, with a long stride. And not even a rustle of its garments. At least, Malcolm heard nothing but the roar of the wind.

He turned and followed it. On and on it went, down the stair through a corridor, down the great stone turnpike stair, and through passage after passage. When it came into the more frequented and half-lighted thoroughfares of the house, it showed as a large figure in a long cloak, indistinct in outline. It turned a corner, close by the Marquess's room. But when Malcolm, close at its heels, turned also, he saw nothing but a vacant lobby, the doors around which were all shut. One after another he quickly opened them, all except the Marquess's, but nothing was to be seen. The conclusion was that it had entered the Marquess's room. He must not disturb the conclave in the sick chamber with what might be but a false creation.

Proceeding from the heat-opressed brain, and turned back to his own room, where he threw himself on his bed and fell asleep. About twelve Mrs. Courthope called him. His master was worse, and wanted to see him. The midnight was still, for the dark and wind had ceased. But a hush and a cloud seemed gathering in the stillness and darkness, and with them came the sense of a solemn celebration. As if the gloom were canopy as well as Paul, black but bordered and hearted with purple and gold, and the stillness seemed to tremble as with the inaudible tones of a great organ, at the close or commencement of some mighty symphony. With beating heart, he walked softly towards the room where, as on an altar, lay the vanishing form of his master.

Like the fuel in whose dying flame was offered the late and ill-nurtured sacrifice of his spirit. As he went through the last corridor leading thither, Mrs. Catanaw, type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the dignity of death, came walking towards him like one at home, her great round body lightly upborne on her soft foot. It was no time to challenge her presence, and yielding her the half of the narrow way he passed without a greeting. She dropped him a courtesy with an up-look, and again a veiling of her wicked eyes. The Marquis would not have the doctor come near him, and when Malcolm entered there was no one in the room but Mrs. Courthope. The shadow had crept far along the dial. His face had grown ghastly, the skin had sunk to the bones, and his eyes stood out as if from much staring into the dark.

They rested very mournfully on Malcolm for a few moments, and then closed softly. Is she come yet? he murmured, opening them wide, with sudden stare. No, my lord. The lids fell again, softly, slowly. Be good to her, Malcolm, he murmured. I will, my lord, said Malcolm solemnly. Then the eyes opened and looked at him. Something grew in them. A light as of love, and drew up after it a tear. But the lips said nothing. The eyelids fell again, and in a moment more Malcolm knew by his breathing that he slept. The slow night waned. He woke sometimes, but soon dozed off again. The two watched by him till the dawn. It brought a still, gray morning without a breath of wind, and warm for the season. The Marquis appeared a little revived, but was hardly able to speak.

Mostly by signs he made Malcolm understand that he wanted Mr. Graham, but that someone else must go for him. Mrs. Courthope went. As soon as she was out of the room, he lifted his hand with effort, laid feeble hold on Malcolm's jacket, and drawing him down, kissed him on the forehead. Malcolm burst into tears and sank weeping by the bedside. Mr. Graham, entering a little after, and seeing Malcolm on his knees, knelt also and broke into a prayer. O blessed Father, he said, who knowest this thing so strange to us which we call death, breathe more life into the heart of thy dying son, that in the power of life he may front death. O Lord Christ, who died thyself, and in thyself knowest it all, heal this man in his sore need.

Heal him with strength to die. Came a faint Amen from the Marquis. Thou didst send him into the world. Help him out of it. O God, we belong to thee utterly. We dying men are thy children, O living Father. Thou art such a Father that thou takest our sins from us and throwest them behind thy back. Thou cleanest our souls as thy Son did wash our feet. We hold our hearts up to Thee. Make them what they must be, O love, O life of men, O heart of hearts. Give Thy dying child courage and hope and peace, the peace of him who overcame all the Amen.

And slowly lifting his hand from the coverlet, he laid it on the head of Malcolm, who did not know it was the hand of his father, blessing him ere he died. Be good to her, said the Marquis once more. But Malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the Marquis was not satisfied. Gathering all his force, he said again, Be good to her. I will, I will, burst from Malcolm in sobs. And he wailed aloud. The day wore on, and the afternoon came. Still Lady Florimel had not arrived, and still the Marquis lingered. As the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early darkness of the winter night, he opened wide his eyes and was evidently listening. Malcolm could hear nothing, but the light in his master's face grew, and the strain of his listening diminished.

At length, Malcolm became aware of the sound of wheels, which came rapidly nearer, till at last the carriage swung up to the hall door. A moment, and Lady Florimel was flitting across the room. "'Papa! Papa!' she cried, and throwing her arm over him, laid her cheek to his. The Marquis could not return her embrace. He could only receive her into the depths of his shining, tearful eyes. "'Flory,' he murmured. I'm going away. I'm going... I've got... to make an... apology. Malcolm, be ye good. The sentence remained unfinished. The light paled from his countenance. He had to carry it with him. He was dead. Lady Florimel gave a loud cry. Mrs. Courthope ran to her assistance. My lady's in a dead faint, she whispered.

Malcolm lifted Lady Florimel in his great arms and bore her tenderly to her own apartment. There he left her to the care of her women and returned to the Chamber of Death. Meantime Mr. Graham and Mr. Souter had come. When Malcolm re-entered, the schoolmaster took him kindly by the arm and said, There can be neither place nor moment fitter for the solemn communication I am commissioned to make to you. I have, as in the presence of your dead father, to inform you that you are now Marquess of Lossie, and God forbid you should be less worthy as Marquess than you have been as fisherman." Malcolm stood stupefied. For a while he seemed to himself to be turning over in his mind something he had heard read from a book.

With a nebulous notion of being somehow concerned in it, the thought of his father cleared his brain. He ran to the dead body, kissed its lips as he had once kissed the forehead of another, and falling on his knees, wept. He knew not for what. Presently, however, he recovered himself, rose, and rejoining the two men, said, Gentlemen, how many kinds this turn of things? "'None but Mr. Morrison, Mrs. Catanaw, and ourselves, so far as I know,' answered Mr. Souter. "'And Miss Horne,' added Mr. Graham. "'She first brought out the truth of it, and ought to be the first to know of your recognition by your father.' "'I said tell her myself,' returned Malcolm. "'But, gentlemen, I beg of ye, till I ken what I'm about and give ye leave, dinna open your mouth to live in creature about this.

There's time enough for the world to ken it.' "'Your lordship commands me,' said Mr. Souter." "'Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave,' said Mr. Graham. "'Where's Mr. Morrison?' asked Malcolm. "'He is still in the house,' said Mr. Souter. "'Gang till him, sir, and got him promise on the word of a gentleman to hold his tongue. "'I can abide to have it blare at all gate and all at once. "'For Mistress Catanaw, I should deal with her myself.' The door opened. And in all the conscious dignity conferred by the immunities and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs. Catanaw walked into the room. "'A word with you, Mistress Catanaw,' said Malcolm. "'Certainly, my lord,' answered the howdy, with mingled presumption and respect, and followed him to the dining-room.

"'Well, my lord,' she began, before he had turned from shutting the door behind them, In the tone, and with the air, or rather, airs, of having conferred a great benefit and expecting its recognition. Mistress Catena, interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing her. "'Gin' I be under any obligation to you, it's frae another tongue I maun hear it. But I haven't offered to make ye. So long as it disna come out that I'm anything better nor a fisherman born, ye sae hae your twenty pound in the year, paid ye quarterly. But the moment folks says who I am, ye touch nae a pound not more." And I count myself free to pursue anything I can prove again ye. Mrs. Catanaw attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was gray as putty, and its muscles declined response.

Ay or no, said Malcolm. I would not guard you square, for I would lip into your oath not a hair. Ay, my lord, said the Howdy, reassuming at least outward composure, and with it her natural brass. For as she spoke, she held out her open palm. "'Nah, nah,' said Malcolm. "'Nah four-hand payments. Three months a tongue-holdin', and there's your five-pone. And Mr. Suitor, a deaf harper,'ll pay it into your own hand. But break truth with me, and ye see hear it. For gen you are hanged, the world would be but the cleaner. Now quit the house, and never let me see you about the place again. But for ye gang, I gie ye fair warnin' it I mean to win it all your bygowns.'" The blood of red wrath was seething in Mrs.

Catanaw's face. She drew herself up and stood flaming before him on the verge of explosion. "'Gang frae de hoes,' said Malcolm, "'or I'll set the muckle hon to show ye the gate.' Her face turned the color of ashes, and with hanging cheeks and scared but not the less wicked eyes, she hurried from the room. Malcolm watched her out of the house, then following her into the town, Brought Miss Horn back with him to aid in the last of earthly services, and hastened to Duncan's cottage. But to his amazement and distress, it was forsaken, and the hearth cold. In his attendance on his father he had not seen the piper, he could not remember for how many days, and on inquiry he found that, although he had not been missed, no one could recall having seen him later than three or four days agone.

The last he could hear of him in the neighborhood was that about a week before a boy had spied him sitting on a rock in the Bailey's barn with his pipes in his lap. Searching the cottage, he found that his broadsword and dirk, with all his poor finery, were gone. That same night, Mrs. Cattena also disappeared. A week after, what was left of Lord Lossie was buried. Malcolm followed the hearse with the household. Miss Horne walked immediately behind him, on the arm of the schoolmaster. It was a great funeral, with a short road, for the body was laid in the church, close to the wall, just under the crusader with the Norman canopy. Lady Florimel wept incessantly for three days. On the fourth, she looked out on the sea and thought it very dreary.

On the fifth, she found a certain gratification in hearing herself called the Marchioness. On the sixth... She tried on her mourning and was pleased. On the seventh, she went with the funeral and wept again. On the eighth came Lady Belair, who on the ninth carried her away. To Malcolm she had not spoken once. Mr. Graham left Port Lossie. Miss Horne took to her bed for a week. Mr. Creithee removed his office to the house itself, took upon him the function of steward as well as factor, had the state rooms dismantled. And was master of the place. Malcolm helped Stote with the horses and did odd jobs for Mr. Creithee. From his likeness to the old Marquis, as he was still called, the factor had a favor for him, firmly believing the said Marquis to be his father and Mrs.

Stewart his mother. Hence he allowed him a key to the library, of which Malcolm made good use. The story of Malcolm's plans and what came of them requires another book.

queue_music Chapters 70