CHAPTER XXV: THE NIGHT WATCH
When Malcolm returned, Jean had retired for the night, and again it was Miss Horn who admitted him, and led him to her parlour. It was a low ceiled room, with lean spider legged furniture and dingy curtains. Everything in it was suggestive of a comfort slowly vanishing. An odour of withered rose leaves pervaded the air. A Japanese cabinet stood in one corner, and on the mantelpiece a pair of Chinese fans with painted figures whose faces were embossed in silk, between which ticked an old French clock, whose supporters were a shepherd and shepherdess in prettily painted china. Long faded as was everything in it, the room was yet very rich in the eyes of Malcolm, whose home was bare even in comparison with that of the poorest of the fisher women, they had a passion for ornamenting their chimneypieces with china ornaments, and their dressers with the most gorgeous crockery that their money could buy—a certain metallic orange being the prevailing hue; while in Duncan's cottage, where woman had never initiated the taste, there was not even a china poodle to represent the finished development of luxury in the combination of the ugly and the useless.
Miss Horn had made a little fire in the old fashioned grate, whose bars bellied out like a sail almost beyond the narrow chimney shelf, and a tea kettle was singing on the hob, while a decanter, a sugar basin, a nutmeg grater, and other needful things on a tray, suggested negus, beyond which Miss Horn never went in the matter of stimulants, asserting that, as she had no feelings, she never required anything stronger. She made Malcolm sit down at the opposite side of the fire, and mixing him a tumbler of her favourite drink, began to question him about the day, and how things had gone.
Miss Horn had the just repute of discretion, for, gladly hearing all the news, she had the rare virtue of not repeating things to the prejudice of others without some good reason for so doing; Malcolm therefore, seated thus alone with her in the dead of the night, and bound to her by the bond of a common well doing, had no hesitation in unfolding to her all his adventures of the evening. She sat with her big hands in her lap, making no remark, not even an exclamation, while he went on with the tale of the garret; but her listening eyes grew—not larger—darker and fiercer as he spoke; the space between her nostrils and mouth widened visibly; the muscles knotted on the sides of her neck; and her nose curved more and more to the shape of a beak.
"There's some deevilry there!" she said at length after he had finished, breaking a silence of some moments, during which she had been staring into the fire. "Whaur twa ill women come thegither, there maun be the auld man himsel' atween them."
"I dinna doobt it," returned Malcolm. "An' ane o' them 's an ill wuman, sure eneuch; but I ken naething aboot the tither—only 'at she maun be a leddy, by the w'y the howdy wife spak till her."
"The waur token, when a leddy collogues wi' a wuman aneth her ain station, an' ane 'at has keppit (caught in passing) mony a secret in her day, an' by her callin' has had mair opportunity—no to say farther—than ither fowk o' duin' ill things! An' gien ye dinna ken her, that's no rizzon 'at I sudna hae a groff guiss at her by the marks ye read aff o' her. I'll jist hae to tell ye a story sic as an auld wife like me seldom tells till a young man like yersel'."
"Yer ain bridle sail rule my tongue, mem," said Malcolm.
"I s' lippen to yer discretion," said Miss Horn, and straightway began.—"Some years ago—an' I s' warran' it 's weel ower twinty—that same wuman, Bawby Cat'nach,—wha was nae hame born wuman, nor had been lang aboot the toon—comin' as she did frae naebody kent whaur, 'cep maybe it was the markis 'at than was, preshumed to mak up to me i' the w'y o' frien'ly acquantance—sic as a maiden leddy micht hae wi' a howdy—an' no 'at she forgot her proaper behaviour to ane like mysel'. But I cudna hae bidden (endured) the jaud, 'cep 'at I had rizzons for lattin' her jaw wag. She was cunnin', the auld vratch,—no that auld—maybe aboot forty,—but I was ower mony for her. She had the design to win at something she thoucht I kent, an' sae, to enteece me to open my pock, she opent hers, an' tellt me story efter story about this neebour an' that—a' o' them things 'at ouchtna to ha' been true, an 'at she ouchtna to ha' loot pass her lips gien they war true, seein' she cam by the knowledge o' them so as she said she did. But she gat naething o' me—the fat braint cat!—an' she hates me like the verra mischeef."
Miss Horn paused and took a sip of her negus.
"Ae day, I cam upon her sittin' by the ingleneuk i' my ain kitchen, haudin' a close an' a laich confab wi' Jean. I had Jean than, an' hoo I hae keepit the hizzy, I hardly ken. I think it maun be that, haein' nae feelin's o' my ain, I hae ower muckle regaird to ither fowk's, an' sae I never likit to pit her awa' wi'oot doonricht provocation. But dinna ye lippen to Jean, Malcolm—na, na! At that time, my cousin, Miss Grizel Cammell—my third cousin, she was—had come to bide wi' me—a bonny yoong thing as ye wad see, but in sair ill health; an' maybe she had het freits (whims), an' maybe no, but she cudna bide to see the wuman Cat'nach aboot the place. An' in verra trowth, she was to mysel' like ane o' thae ill faured birds, I dinna min' upo' the name them, 'at hings ower an airmy; for wharever there was onybody nae weel, or onybody deid, there was Bawby Cat'nach. I hae hard o' creepin' things 'at veesits fowk 'at 's no weel—an' Bawby was, an' is, ane sic like! Sae I was angert at seein' her colloguin' wi' Jean, an' I cried Jean to me to the door o' the kitchie. But wi' that up jumps Bawby, an' comin' efter her, says to me—says she, 'Eh, Miss Horn! there's terrible news: Leddy Lossie's deid;—she's been three ooks deid!'—'Weel,' says I, 'what's sae terrible aboot that?' For ye ken I never had ony feelin's, an' I cud see naething sae awfu' aboot a body deem' i' the ord'nar' w'y o natur like. 'We'll no miss her muckle doon here,' says I, 'for I never hard o' her bein' at the Hoose sin' ever I can.' 'But that's no a',' says she; 'only I wad be laith to speyk aboot it i' the transe (passage). Lat me up the stair wi' ye, an' I'll tell ye mair.' Weel, pairtly 'at I was ta'en by surprise like, an' pairtly 'at I wasna sae auld as I am noo, an' pairtly that I was keerious to hear—ill 'at I likit her—what neist the wuman wad say, I did as I ouchtna, an' turned an' gaed up the stair, an' loot her follow me. Whan she cam' in, she pat tu the door ahint her, an' turnt to me, an' said—says she: 'An wha 's deid forbye, think ye?'—'I hae hard o' naebody,' I answered. 'Wha but the laird o' Gersefell!' says she. ' sorry to hear that, honest ma!' says I; for a'body likit Mr Stewart. 'An' what think ye o' 't?' says she, wi' a runklin o' her broos, an' a shak o' her heid, an' a settin o' her roon' nieves upo' the fat hips o' her. 'Think o' 't?' says I ; 'what sud I think o' 't, but that it 's the wull o' Providence?' Wi' that she leuch till she wabblet a' ower like cauld skink, an' says she—'Weel, that's jist what it is no, an' that lat me tell ye, Miss Horn!' I glowert at her, maist frichtit into believin' she was the witch fowk ca'd her. 'Wha's son 's the hump backit cratur',' says she, ''at comes in i' the gig whiles wi' the groom lad, think ye?'—'Wha's but the puir man's 'at 's deid?' says I. 'Deil a bit o' 't!' says she, 'an' I beg yer pardon for mentionin' o' him,' says she. An' syne she screwt up her mou', an' cam closs up till me—for I wadna sit doon mysel', an' less wad I bid her, an' was sorry eneuch by this time 'at I had broucht her up the stair—an' says she, layin' her han' upo' my airm wi' a clap, as gien her an' me was to be freen's upo' sic a gran' foondation o' dirt as that!—says she, makin' a laich toot moot o' 't,—'He's Lord Lossie's!' says she, an' maks a face 'at micht hae turnt a cat sick—only by guid luck I had nae feelin's. 'An' nae suner's my leddy deid nor her man follows her!' says she. 'An' what do ye mak o' that?' says she. 'Ay, what do ye mak o' that?' says I till her again. 'Ow! what ken I?' says she, wi' anither ill leuk; an' wi' that she leuch an' turned awa, but turned back again or she wan to the door, an' says she—'Maybe ye didna ken 'at she was broucht to bed hersel' aboot a sax ooks ago?'—'Puir leddy!' said I, thinkin' mair o' her evil report nor o' the pains o' childbirth. 'Ay,' says she, wi' a deevilich kin' o' a lauch, like in spite o' hersel', 'for the bairn's deid, they tell me—as bonny a ladbairn as ye wad see, jist ooncoamon! An' whaur div ye think she had her doon lying? Jist at Lossie Hoose!' Wi' that she was oot at the door wi' a swag o' her tail, an' doon the stair to Jean again. I was jist at ane mair wi' anger at mysel' an' scunner at her, an' in twa min' s to gang efter her an' turn her oot o' the hoose, her an' Jean thegither. I could hear her snicherin' till hersel' as she gaed doon the stair. My verra stamack turned at the poozhonous ted.
"I canna say what was true or what was fause i' the scandal o' her tale, nor what for she tuik the trouble to cairry 't to me, but it sune cam to be said 'at the yoong laird was but half wittet as weel's humpit, an' 'at his mither cudna bide him. An' certain it was 'at the puir wee chap cud as little bide his mither. Gien she cam near him ohn luikit for, they said, he wad gie a great skriech, and rin as fast as his wee weyver (spider) legs cud wag aneth the wecht o' 's humpie—an' whiles her after him wi' onything she cud lay her han' upo', they said—but I kenna. Ony gait, the widow hersel' grew waur and waur i' the temper, an' I misdoobt me sair was gey hard upo' the puir wee objeck—fell cruel til 'm, they said—till at len'th, as a' body kens, he forhooit (forsook) the hoose a'thegither. An' puttin' this an' that thegither, for I hear a hantle said 'at I say na ower again, it seems to me 'at her first scunner at her puir misformt bairn, wha they say was humpit whan he was born an' maist cost her her life to get lowst o' him—her scunner at 'im 's been growin' an' growin' till it 's grown to doonricht hate."
"It's an awfu' thing 'at ye say, mem, an' I doobt it 's ower true. But hoo can a mither hate her ain bairn?" said Malcolm.
"'Deed it 's nae wonner ye sud speir, laddie! for it 's weel kent 'at maist mithers, gien there be a shargar or a nat'ral or a crookit ane amo' their bairns, mak mair o' that ane nor o' a' the lave putten thegither—as gien they wad mak it up till 'im, for the fair play o' the warl. But ye see in this case, he's aiblins (perhaps) the child o' sin—for a leear may tell an ill trowth—an' beirs the marks o' 't, ye see; sae to her he's jist her sin rinnin' aboot the warl incarnat; an' that canna be pleesant to luik upo'."
"But excep' she war ashamed o' 't, she wadna tak it sae muckle to hert to be remin't o' 't."
"Mony ane's ashamed o' the consequences 'at's no ashamed o' the deed. Mony ane cud du the sin ower again, 'at canna bide the sicht or even the word o' 't. I hae seen a body 't wad steal a thing as sune's luik at it gang daft wi' rage at bein' ca'd a thief. An' maybe she wadna care gien 't warna for the oogliness o' 'im. Sae be he was a bonny sin, thinkin' she wad hide him weel eneuch. But seein' he 's naither i' the image o' her 'at bore 'im nor him 'at got 'im, but beirs on 's back, for ever in her sicht, the sin 'at was the gettin' o' 'in, he's a' hump to her, an' her hert's aye howkin a grave for 'im to lay 'im oot o' sicht intill she bore 'im, an' she wad beery 'im. An' thinkin' she beirs the markis—gien sae it be sae—deid an' gane as he is—a grutch yet, for passin' sic an offspring upo' her, an' syne no merryin' her efter an' a', an' the ro'd clear o' baith 'at stude atween them. It was said 'at the man 'at killt 'im in a twasum fecht (duel), sae mony a year efter, was a freen' o' hers."
"But wad fowk du sic awfu' ill things, mem—her a merried woman, an' him a merried man?"
"There's nae sayin', laddie, what a hantle o' men and some women wad du. I hae muckle to be thankfu' for 'at I was sic as no man ever luikit twice at. I wasna weel faured eneuch; though I had bonny hair, an' my mither aye said 'at her Maggy hed guid sense; whatever else she micht or micht not hae. But gien I cud hae gotten a guid man, siclike's is scarce, I cud hae lo'ed him weel eneuch. But that's naither here nor there, an' has naething to du wi' onybody ava. The pint I had to come till was this: the wuman ye saw haudin' a toot moot (tout muet?) wi' that Cat'nach wife, was nane ither, I do believe, than Mistress Stewart, the puir laird's mither. An' I hae as little doobt that whan ye tuik 's pairt, ye broucht to noucht a plot o' the twasum (two together) against him. It bodes guid to naebody whan there's a conjunc o' twa sic wanderin' stars o' blackness as you twa."
"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 o' lichts!" he murmured once and again, but making wild gestures, as if warding off blows. Miss Horn took him gently by the hand. The moment he felt her touch, his face grew calm, and he submitted at once to be led back to bed.
"Ye may tak yer aith upo' 't, Ma'colm," she said when she returned, "she means naething but ill by that puir cratur; but you and me—we'll ding (defeat) her yet, gien't be his wull. She wants a grip o' 'm for some ill rizzon or ither—to lock him up in a madhoose, maybe, as the villains said, or 'deed, maybe, to mak awa' wi' him a'thegither."
"But what guid wad that du her?" said Malcolm.
"It's ill to say, but she wad hae him oot o' her sicht, ony gait."
"She can hae but little sicht o' him as 'tis," objected Malcolm.
"Ay! but she aye kens he's whaur she doesna ken, puttin' her to shame, a' aboot the country, wi' that hump o' his. Oot o' fowk's sicht wad be to her oot a' thegither."
A brief silence followed.
"Noo," said Malcolm, "we come to the question what the twa limmers could want wi' that door."
"Dear kens! It bude to be something wrang—that's a' 'at mortal can say; but ye may be sure o' that—I hae hard tell," she went on reflectingly—"o' some room or ither i' the hoose 'at there's a fearsome story aboot, an' 'at 's never opent on no accoont. I hae hard a' aboot it, but I canna min' upo' 't noo, for I paid little attention till 't at the time, an' it 's mony a year sin' syne. But it wad be some deevilich ploy o' their ain they wad be efter: it 's little the likes o' them wad heed sic auld warld tales."
"Wad ye hae me tell the markis?" asked Malcolm.
"Na, I wad no; an' yet ye maun du 't. Ye hae no business to ken o' onything wrang in a body's hoose, an' no tell them—forbye 'at he pat ye in chairge. But it 'll du naething for the laird; for what cares the markis for onything or onybody but himsel'?"
"He cares for 's dauchter," said Malcolm.
"Ow ay!—as sic fowk ca' carin'. There's no a bla'guard i' the haill queentry he wadna sell her till, sae be he was o' an auld eneuch faimily, and had rowth o' siller. Haith! noo a days the last 'ill come first, an' a fish cadger wi' siller 'ill be coontit a better bargain nor a lord wantin 't: only he maun hae a heap o' 't, to cower the stink o' the fish."
"Dinna scorn the fish, mem," said Malcolm: "they're innocent craturs, an' dinna smell waur nor they can help; an' that's mair nor ye can say for ilka lord ye come athort."
"Ay, or cadger aither," rejoined Miss Horn. "They're aft eneuch jist sic like, the main differ lyin' in what they're defiled wi'; an' 'deed whiles there's no differ there, or maist ony gait, maybe, but i' the set o' the shoothers, an' the wag o' the tongue."
"An' what 'll we du wi' the laird?" said Malcolm.
"We maun first see what we can du wi' him. I wad try to keep him mysel', that is, gien he wad bide—but there's that jaud Jean! She's aye gabbin', an' claikin', an' cognostin' wi' the enemy, an' I canna lippen till her. I think it wad be better ye sud tak chairge o' 'm yersel', Malcolm. I wad willin'ly beir ony expense—for ye wadna be able to luik efter him an' du sae weel at the fishin', ye ken."
"Gien 't had been my ain line fishin', I could aye ha' taen him i' the boat wi' me; but I dinna ken for the herrin'. Blue Peter wadna objeck, but it 's some much work, an' for a waikly body like the laird to be oot a' nicht some nichts, sic weather as we hae to encoonter whiles, micht be the deid o' 'm."
They came to no conclusion beyond this, that each would think it over, and Malcolm would call in the morning. Ere then, however, the laird had dismissed the question for them. When Miss Horn rose, after an all but sleepless night, she found that he had taken the affairs again into his own feeble hands, and vanished.
CHAPTER XXVI: NOT AT CHURCH
It being well known that Joseph Mair's cottage was one of the laird's resorts, Malcolm, as soon as he learned his flight, set out to inquire whether they knew anything of him there.
Scaurnose was perched almost on the point of the promontory, where the land made its final slope, ending in a precipitous descent to the shore. Beneath lay rocks of all sizes and of fantastic forms, some fallen from the cape in tempests perhaps, some softly separated from it by the slow action of the winds and waves of centuries. A few of them formed, by their broken defence seawards, the unsafe natural harbour which was all the place enjoyed.
If ever there was a place of one colour it was this village: everything was brown; the grass near it was covered with brown nets; at the doors were brown heaps of oak bark, which, after dyeing the nets, was used for fuel; the cottages were roofed with old brown thatch; and the one street and the many closes were dark brown with the peaty earth which, well mixed with scattered bark, scantily covered the surface of its huge foundation rock. There was no pavement, and it was the less needed that the ways were rarely used by wheels of any description. The village was but a roost, like the dwellings of the sea birds which also haunted the rocks.
It was a gray morning with a gray sky and a gray sea; all was brown and gray, peaceful and rather sad. Brown haired, gray eyed Phemy Mair sat in the threshold, intently rubbing in her hands a small object like a moonstone. That she should be doing so on a Sunday would have shocked few in Scaurnose at that time, for the fisher folk then made but small pretensions to religion; and for his part Joseph Mair could not believe that the Almighty would be offended "at seein' a bairn sittin' douce wi' her playocks, though the day was his."
"Weel, Phemy, ye're busy!" said Malcolm.
"Ay," answered the child, without looking up. The manner was not courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet.
"What are ye doin' there?" he asked.
"Makin' a string o' beads, to weir at aunty's merriage."
"What are ye makin' them o'?" he went on.
"Haddicks' een."
"Are they a' haddicks'?"
"Na, there's some cods' amo' them; but they're maistly haddicks'. I pikes them out afore they're sautit, an' biles them; an' syne I polish them i' my han's till they're rale bonny."
"Can ye tell me onything about the mad laird, Phemy?" asked Malcolm, in his anxiety too abruptly.
"Ye can gang an' speir at my father: he's oot aboot," she answered, with a sort of marked coolness, which, added to the fact that she had never looked him in the face, made him more than suspect something behind.
"Div ye ken onything aboot him?" he therefore insisted.
"Maybe I div, an' maybe I divna," answered the child, with an expression of determined mystery.
"Ye'll tell me whaur ye think he is, Phemy?"
"Na, I winna."
"What for no?"
"Ow, jist for fear ye sud ken."
"But a freen' till him."
"Ye may think ay, an' the laird may think no."
"Does he think you a freen', Phemy?" asked Malcolm, in the hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation.
"Ay, he kens a freen'," she replied.
"An' do ye aye ken whaur he is?"
"Na, no aye. He gangs here an' he gangs there—jist as he likes. It's whan naebody kens whaur he is, that I ken, an' gang till him."
"Is he i' the hoose?"
"Na, he's no i' the hoose."
"Whaur is he than, Phemy?" said Malcolm coaxingly. "There's ill fowk aboot 'at's efter deein' him an ill turn."
"The mair need no to tell!" retorted Phemy.
"But I want to tak care 'o 'im. Tell me whaur he is, like a guid lassie, Phemy."
" no sure. I may say I dinna ken."
"Ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna: noo naebody kens."
"Hoo ken ye that?"
"'Cause he's run awa."
"Wha frae? His mither?"
"Na, na; frae Miss Horn."
"I ken naething aboot her; but gien naebody kens, I ken whaur he is weel eneuch."
"Whaur than? Ye'll be duin' him a guid turn to tell me."
"Whaur I winna tell, an' whaur you nor nae ither body s' get him. An' ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell; an' gien ye gang on speirin', you an' me winna be lang freen's."
As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with wide opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm dared not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong.
"Ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye?" he said kindly.
"My father wadna speir. My father's a guid man."
"Weel, Phemy, though ye winna trust me—supposin' I was to trust you?"
"Ye can du that gien ye like."
"An' ye winna tell?"
"I s' mak nae promises. It's no trustin', to gar me promise."
"Weel, I wull trust ye.—Tell the laird to haud weel oot o' sicht for a while."
"He'll du that," said Phemy.
"An' tell him gien onything befa' him, to sen' to Miss Horn, for Ma'colm MacPhail may be oot wi' the boats.—Ye winna forget that?"
" no lickly to forget it," answered Phemy, apparently absorbed in boring a hole in a haddock's eye with a pin so bent as to act like a brace and bit.
"Ye'll no get yer string o' beads in time for the weddin', Phemy," remarked Malcolm, going on to talk from a desire to give the child a feeling of his friendliness.
"Ay will I—fine that," she rejoined.
"Whan is 't to be?"
"Ow, neist Setterday. Ye'll be comin' ower?"
"I haena gotten a call."
"Ye 'll be gettin ane.
"Div ye think they'll gie me ane?"
"As sune 's onybody.—Maybe by that time I'll be able to gie ye some news o' the laird."
"There's a guid lassie!"
"Na, na; makin' nae promises," said Phemy.
Malcolm left her and went to find her father, who, although it was Sunday, was already "oot aboot," as she had said. He found him strolling in meditation along the cliffs. They had a little talk together, but Joseph knew nothing of the laird.
Malcolm took Lossie House on his way back, for he had not yet seen the marquis, to whom he must report his adventures of the night before. The signs of past revelling were plentifully visible as he approached the house. The marquis was not yet up, but Mrs Courthope undertaking to send him word as soon as his lordship was to be seen, he threw himself on the grass and waited—his mind occupied with strange questions, started by the Sunday coming after such a Saturday—among the rest, how God could permit a creature to be born so distorted and helpless as the laird, and then permit him to be so abused in consequence of his helplessness. The problems of life were beginning to bite. Everywhere things appeared uneven. He was not one to complain of mere external inequalities: if he was inclined to envy Lord Meikleham, it was not because of his social position: he was even now philosopher enough to know that the life of a fisherman was preferable to that of such a marquis as Lord Lossie—that the desirableness of a life is to be measured by the amount of interest and not by the amount of ease in it, for the more ease the more unrest; neither was he inclined to complain of the gulf that yawned so wide between him and Lady Florimel; the difficulty lay deeper: such a gulf existing, by a social law only less inexorable than a natural one, why should he feel the rent invading his individual being? in a word, though Malcolm put it in no such definite shape: Why should a fisher lad find himself in danger of falling in love with the daughter of a marquis? Why should such a thing, seeing the very constitution of things rendered it an absurdity, be yet a possibility?
The church bell began, rang on, and ceased. The sound of the psalms came, softly mellowed, and sweetly harmonized, across the churchyard through the gray Sabbath air, and he found himself, for the first time, a stray sheep from the fold. The service must have been half through before a lackey, to whom Mrs Courthope had committed the matter when she went to church, brought him the message that the marquis would see him.
"Well, MacPhail, what do you want with me?" said his lordship as he entered.
"It's my duty to acquaint yer lordship wi' certain proceedin's 'at took place last night," answered Malcolm.
"Go on," said the marquis.
Thereupon Malcolm began at the beginning, and told of the men he had watched, and how, in the fancy of following them, he had found himself in the garret, and what he saw and did there.
"Did you recognize either of the women?" asked Lord Lossie.
"Ane o' them, my lord," answered Malcolm. "It was Mistress Catanach, the howdie."
"What sort of a woman is she?"
"Some fowk canna bide her, my lord. I ken no ill to lay till her chairge, but I winna lippen till her. My gran'father—an' he's blin', ye ken—jist trimles whan she comes near him."
The marquis smiled.
"What do you suppose she was about?" he asked.
"I ken nae mair than the bonnet I flang in her face, my lord; but it could hardly be guid she was efter. At ony rate, seein' yer lordship pat me in a mainner in chairge, I bude to haud her oot o' a closed room—an' her gaein' creepin' aboot yer lordship's hoose like a worm."
"Quite right. Will you pull the bell there for me?"
He told the man to send Mrs Courthope; but he said she had not yet come home from church.
"Could you take me to the room, MacPhail?" asked his lordship.
"I'll try, my lord," answered Malcolm. As far as the proper quarter of the attics, he went straight as a pigeon; in that labyrinth he had to retrace his steps once or twice, but at length he stopped, and said confidently—"This is the door, my lord."
"Are you sure?"
"As sure's death, my lord."
The marquis tried the door and found it immovable. "You say she had the key?"
"No, my lord: I said she had keys, but whether she had the key, I doobt if she kent hersel'. It may ha' been ane o' the bundle yet to try."
"You're a sharp fellow," said the marquis. "I wish I had such a servant about me."
"I wad mak a some rouch ane, I doobt," returned Malcolm, laughing.
His lordship was of another mind, but pursued the subject no farther.
"I have a vague recollection," he said, "of some room in the house having an old story or legend connected with it. I must find out. I daresay Mrs Courthope knows. Meantime you hold your tongue. We may get some amusement out of this."
"I wull, my lord, like a deid man an' beeryt."
"You can—can you?"
"I can, my lord."
"You're a rare one!" said the marquis.
Malcolm thought he was making game of him as heretofore, and held his peace.
"You can go home now," said his lordship. "I will see to this affair."
"But jist be canny middlin' wi' Mistress Catanach, my lord: she's no mowse."
"What! you're not afraid of an old woman?"
"Deil a bit, my lord!—that is, no feart at a dogfish or a rottan, but I wud tak tent an' grip them the richt gait, for they hae teeth. Some fowk think Mistress Catanach has mair teeth nor she shaws."
"Well, if she's too much for me, I'll send for you," said the marquis good humouredly.
"Ye canna get me sae easy, my lord: we're efter the herrin' noo."
"Well, well, we'll see."
"But I wantit to tell ye anither thing my lord," said Malcolm, as he followed the marquis down the stairs.
"What is that?"
"I cam upo' anither plot—a mair serious ane, bein' against a man 'at can ill haud aff o' himsel', an' cud waur bide onything than yer lordship—the puir mad laird."
"Who's he?"
"Ilka body kens him, my lord! He's son to the leddy o' Kirkbyres."
"I remember her—an old flame of my brother's."
"I ken naething aboot that, my lord; but he's her son."
"What about him, then?"
They had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impatient, Malcolm confined himself to the principal facts.
"I don't think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail," said his lordship, seriously. "His mother must know best."
" no sae sure o' that, my lord! To say naething o' the ill guideship, which micht hae 'garred a minister sweer, it wud be a cruelty naething short o' deev'lich to lock up a puir hairmless cratur like that, as innocent as he 's ill shapit."
"He's as God made him," said the marquis.
"He 's no as God wull mak him," returned Malcolm.
"What do you mean by that?" asked the marquis.
"It stan's to rizzon, my lord," answered Malcolm, "that what's ill made maun be made ower again. There's a day comin' whan a' 'at's wrang 'll be set richt, ye ken."
"And the crooked made straight," suggested the marquis laughing.
"Doobtless, my lord. He'll be strauchtit oot bonny that day," said Malcolm with absolute seriousness.
"Bah! You don't think God cares about a misshapen lump of flesh like that!" exclaimed his lordship with contempt.
"As muckle's aboot yersel', or my leddy," said Malcolm. "Gien he didna, he wadna be nae God ava' (at all)."
The marquis laughed again: he heard the words with his ears, but his heart was deaf to the thought they clothed; hence he took Malcolm's earnestness for irreverence, and it amused him.
"You've not got to set things right, anyhow," he said. "You mind your own business."
"I'll try, my lord: it 's the business o' ilka man, whaur he can, to lowse the weichty birns, an' lat the forfouchten gang free. Guid day to ye, my lord."
So saying the young fisherman turned, and left the marquis laughing in the hall.