Malcolm

CHAPTER XXXV: KIRKBYRES

Malcolm felt considerably refreshed after his tussle with the mare and his victory over her, and much enjoyed his ride of ten miles. It was a cool autumn afternoon. A few of the fields were being reaped, one or two were crowded with stooks, while many crops of oats yet waved and rustled in various stages of vanishing green. On all sides kine were lowing; overhead rooks were cawing; the sun was nearing the west, and in the hollows a thin mist came steaming up. Malcolm had never in his life been so far from the coast before: his road led southwards into the heart of the country.

The father of the late proprietor of Kirkbyres had married the heiress of Gersefell, an estate which marched with his own, and was double its size, whence the lairdship was sometimes spoken of by the one name, sometimes by the other. The combined properties thus inherited by the late Mr Stewart were of sufficient extent to justify him, although a plain man, in becoming a suitor for the hand of the beautiful daughter of a needy baronet in the neighbourhood—with the already somewhat tarnished condition of whose reputation, having come into little contact with the world in which she moved, he was unacquainted. Quite unexpectedly she also, some years after their marriage, brought him a property of considerable extent, a fact which doubtless had its share in the birth and nourishment of her consuming desire to get the estates into her own management.

Towards the end of his journey, Malcolm came upon a bare moorland waste, on the long ascent of a low hill,—very desolate, with not a tree or house within sight for two miles. A ditch, half full of dark water, bordered each side of the road, which went straight as a rod through a black peat moss lying cheerless and dreary on all sides—hardly less so where the sun gleamed from the surface of some stagnant pool filling a hole whence peats had been dug, or where a patch of cotton grass waved white and lonely in the midst of the waste expanse. At length, when he reached the top of the ridge, he saw the house of Kirkbyres below him; and, with a small modern lodge near by, a wooden gate showed the entrance to its grounds. Between the gate and the house he passed through a young plantation of larches and other firs for a quarter of a mile, and so came to an old wall with an iron gate in the middle of it, within which the old house, a gaunt meagre building—a bare house in fact, relieved only by four small turrets or bartizans, one at each corner—lifted its grey walls, pointed gables, and steep roof high into the pale blue air. He rode round the outer wall, seeking a back entrance, and arrived at a farm yard, where a boy took his horse. Finding the kitchen door open, he entered, and having delivered his letter to a servant girl, sat down to wait the possible answer.

In a few minutes she returned and requested him to follow her. This was more than he had calculated upon, but he obeyed at once. The girl led him along a dark passage, and up a winding stone stair, much worn, to a room richly furnished, and older fashioned, he thought, than any room he had yet seen in Lossie House.

On a settee, with her back to a window, sat Mrs Stewart, a lady tall and slender, with well poised, easy carriage, and a motion that might have suggested the lithe grace of a leopard. She greeted him with a bend of the head and a smile, which, even in the twilight and her own shadow, showed a gleam of ivory, and spoke to him in a hard sweet voice, wherein an ear more experienced than Malcolm's might have detected an accustomed intent to please. Although he knew nothing of the so called world, and hence could recognize neither the Parisian air of her dress nor the indications of familiarity with fashionable life prominent enough in her bearing, he yet could not fail to be at least aware of the contrast between her appearance and her surroundings. Yet less could the far stronger contrast escape him, between the picture in his own mind of the mother of the mad laird, and the woman before him; he could not by any effort cause the two to coalesce.

"You have had a long ride, Mr MacPhail," she said; "you must be tired."

"What wad tire me, mem?" returned Malcolm. "It's a fine caller evenin', an' I hed ane o' the marquis's best mears to carry me."

"You'll take a glass of wine, anyhow," said Mrs Stewart. "Will you oblige me by ringing the bell?"

"No, I thank ye, mem. The mear wad be better o' a mou'fu' o' meal an' watter, but I want naething mysel'."

A shadow passed over the lady's face. She rose and rang the bell, then sat in silence until it was answered.

"Bring the wine and cake," she said, then turned to Malcolm. "Your master speaks very kindly of you. He seems to trust you thoroughly."

" verra glaid to hear 't, mem; but he has never had muckle cause to trust or distrust me yet."

"He seems even to think that I might place equal confidence in you."

"I dinna ken. I wadna hae ye lippen to me owre muckle," said Malcolm.

"You do not mean to contradict the good character your master gives you?" said the lady, with a smile and a look right into his eyes.

"I wadna hae ye lippen till 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 no used till 't, an' it micht jummle my jeedgement," said Malcolm, who had placed himself on the defensive from the first, jealous of his own conduct as being the friend of the laird.

At his second refusal the cloud again crossed the lady's brow, but her smile did not vanish. Pressing her hospitality no more, she resumed her seat.

"My lord tells me," she said, folding a pair of lovely hands on her lap, "that you see my poor unhappy boy sometimes."

"No sae dooms (absolutely) unhappy, mem!" said Malcolm; but she went on without heeding the remark.

"And that you rescued him not long ago from the hands of ruffians."

Malcolm made no reply.

"Everybody knows," she continued, after a slight pause, "what an unhappy mother I am. It is many years since I lost the loveliest infant ever seen, while my poor Stephen was left to be the mockery of every urchin in the street!"

She sighed deeply, and one of the fair hands took a hand kerchief from a work table near.

"No in Portlossie, mem," said Malcolm. "There's verra feow o' them so hard hertit or so ill mainnert. They're used to seein' him at the schuil, whaur he shaws himsel' whiles; an' he 's a great favourite wi' them, for he's ane o' the best craturs livin'."

"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 nae idiot, mem," interposed Malcolm.

"And just imagine," she went on, "what a misery it must be to a widowed mother, poor companion as he would be at the best, to think of her boy roaming the country like a beggar! sleeping she doesn't know where! eating wretched food! and—"

"Guid parritch an' milk, an' brose an' butter," said Malcolm parenthetically; "—whiles herrin' an' yallow haddies."

"It's enough to break a mother's heart! If I could but persuade him to come home for a week so as to have a chance with him! But it 's no use trying: ill disposed people have made mischief between us, telling wicked lies, and terrifying the poor fellow almost to death. It is quite impossible except I get some one to help me—and there are so few who have any influence with him!"

Malcolm thought she must surely have had chances enough before he ran away from her; but he could not help feeling softened towards her.

"Supposin' I was to get ye speech o' 'im, mem?" he said.

"That would not be of the slightest use. He is so prejudiced against me, he would only shriek, and go into one of those horrible fits."

"I dinna see what's to be dune than," said Malcolm.

"I must have him brought here—there is no other way."

"An' whaur wad be the guid o' that, mem? By yer ain shawin', he wad rin oot o' 's verra body to win awa' frae ye."

"I did not mean by force," returned Mrs Stewart. "Some one he has confidence in must come with him. Nothing else will give me a chance. He would trust you now; your presence would keep him from being terrified—at his own mother, alas! through you he would learn to trust me; and if a course of absolute indulgence did not bring him to live like other people—that of course is impossible —it might at least induce him to live at home, and cease to be a byword to the neighbourhood."

Her tone was so refined, and her voice so pleading; her sorrow was so gentle; and she looked, in the dimness, to Malcolm's imagination at least, so young and handsome, that the strong castle of his prejudices was swaying as if built on reeds; and had it not been that he was already the partizan of her son, and therefore in honour bound to give him the benefit of every doubt, he would certainly have been gained over to work her will. He knew absolutely nothing against her—not even that she was the person he had seen in Mrs Catanach's company in the garret of Lossie House. But he steeled himself to distrust her, and held his peace.

"It is clear," she resumed after a pause, "that the intervention of some friend of both is the only thing that can be of the smallest use. I know you are a friend of his—a true one, and I do not see why you should not be a friend of mine as well—Will you be my friend too?"

She rose as she said the words, and approaching him, bent on him out of the shadow the full strength of eyes whose light had not yet begun to pale before the dawn we call death, and held out a white hand glimmering in the dusk: she knew only too well the power of a still fine woman of any age over a youth of twenty.

Malcolm, knowing nothing about it, yet felt hers, and was on his guard. He rose also, but did not take her hand.

"I have had only too much reason," she added, "to distrust some who, unlike you, professed themselves eager to serve me; but I know neither Lord Lossie nor you will play me false."

She took his great rough hand between her two soft palms, and for one moment Malcolm was tempted—not to betray his friend, but to simulate a yielding sympathy, in order to come at the heart of her intent, and should it prove false, to foil it the more easily. But the honest nature of him shrunk from deception, even where the object of it was good: he was not at liberty to use falsehood for the discomfiture of the false even; a pretended friendship was of the vilest of despicable things, and the more holy the end, the less fit to be used for the compassing of it—least of all in the cause of a true friendship.

"I canna help ye, mem," he said; "I daurna. I hae sic a regaird for yer son 'at afore I wad du onything to hairm him, I wad hae my twa han's chappit frae the shackle bane."

"Surely, my dear Mr MacPhail," returned the lady in her most persuasive tones, and with her sweetest smile, "you cannot call it harming a poor idiot to restore him to the care of his own mother!"

"That's as it turnt oot," rejoined Malcolm. "But sure o' ae thing, mem, an' that is, 'at he's no sae muckle o' an eediot as some fowk wad hae him."

Mrs Stewart's face fell, she turned from him, and going back to her seat hid her face in her handkerchief.

" afraid," she said sadly, after a moment, "I must give up my last hope: you are not disposed to be friendly to me, Mr MacPhail; you too have been believing hard things of me."

"That's true; but no frae hearsay alane," returned Malcolm. "The luik o' the puir fallow whan he but hears the chance word mither, 's a sicht no to be forgotten. He grips his lugs atween 's twa han's, an' rins like a colley wi' a pan at 's tail. That couldna come o' naething."

Mrs Stewart hid her face on the cushioned arm of the settee, and sobbed. A moment after she sat erect again, but languid and red eyed, saying, as if with sudden resolve:

"I will tell you all I know about it, and then you can judge for yourself. When he was a very small child, I took him for advice to the best physicians in London and Paris: all advised a certain operation which had to be performed for consecutive months, at intervals of a few days. Though painful it was simple, yet of such a nature that no one was so fit to attend to it as his mother. Alas! instead of doing him any good, it has done me the worst injury in the world: my child hates me!"

Again she hid her face on the settee.

The explanation was plausible enough, and the grief of the mother surely apparent! Malcolm could not but be touched.

"It's no 'at no willin' to be your freen', mem; but yer son's freen' a'ready, an' gien he war to hear onything 'at gart him mislippen till me, it wad gang to my hert."

"Then you can judge what I feel!" said the lady.

"Gien it wad hale your hert to hurt mine, I wad think aboot it, mem; but gien it hurtit a' three o' 's, and did guid to nane, it wad be a misfit a'thegither. I'll du naething till doonricht sure it 's the pairt o' a freen'."

"That's just what makes you the only fit person to help me that I know. If I were to employ people in the affair, they might be rough with the poor fellow."

"Like eneuch, mem," assented Malcolm, while the words put him afresh on his guard.

"But I might be driven to it," she added.

Malcolm responded with an unuttered vow.

"It might become necessary to use force—whereas you could lead him with a word."

"Na; naither sic witch nor sic traitor."

"Where would be the treachery when you knew it would be for his good?"

"That's jist what I dinna ken, mem," retorted Malcolm. "Luik ye here, mem," he continued, rousing himself to venture an appeal to the mother's heart; "—here's a man it has pleased God to mak no freely like ither fowk. His min' though cawpable a hantle mair nor a body wad think 'at didna ken him sae weel as I du, is certainly weyk—though maybe the weykness lies mair i' the tongue than i' the brain o' 'im efter a'—an' he's been sair frichtit wi' some guideship or ither; the upshot o 't a' bein', 'at he's unco timoursome, and ready to bursten himsel' rinnin' whan there's nane pursuin'. But he's the gentlest o' craturs—a doonricht gentleman, mem, gien ever there was ane—an' that kin'ly wi' a' cratur, baith man an' beast! A verra bairn cud guide him—ony gait but ane."

"Anywhere but to his mother!" exclaimed Mrs Stewart, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and sobbed as she spoke. "There is a child he is very fond of, I am told," she added, recovering herself.

"He likes a' bairns," returned Malcolm, "an' they're maistly a' freen'ly wi' him. But there's but jist ae thing 'at maks life endurable till 'im. He suffers a hantle (a great deal) wi' that puir back o' his, an' wi' his breath tu whan he's frichtit, for his hert gangs loupin like a sawmon in a bag net. An' he suffers a hantle, forbye, in his puir feeble min tryin' to unnerstan' the guid things 'at fowk tells him, an' jaloosin' it 's his ain wyte 'at he disna unnerstan' them better an' whiles he thinks himsel' the child o' sin and wrath, an' that Sawtan has some special propriety in him, as the carritchis says—"

"But," interrupted the lady hurriedly, "you were going to tell me the one comfort he has."

"It's his leeberty, mem—jist his leeberty; to gang whaur he lists like the win'; to turn his face whaur he wull i' the mornin', an' back again at nicht gien he likes; to wan'er—"

"Back where?" interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly.

"Whaur he likes, mem—I cudna say whaur wi' ony certainty. But aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin', an' watch the stars sheenin'!—There's a sicht o' oondevelopit releegion in him, as Maister Graham says; an' I du not believe 'at the Lord 'll see him wranged mair nor 's for 's guid. But it 's my belief, gien ye took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him."

"Then you won't help me!" she cried despairingly. "They tell me you are an orphan yourself—and yet you will not take pity on a childless mother!—worse than childless, for I had the loveliest boy once—he would be about your age now, and I have never had any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my son, and I will bless you—love you."

As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground.

"'Deed, mem, I can an' wull promise ye naething!" he said. "Are ye to play a man fause 'cause he's less able to tak care o' himsel' than ither fowk? Gien I war sure 'at ye cud mak it up, an' 'at he would be happy wi' ye efterhin, it micht be anither thing; but excep' ye garred him, ye cudna get him to bide lang eneuch for ye to try—an' syne (even then) he wad dee afore ye hed convenced him. I doobt, mem, ye hae lost yer chance wi' him and maun du yer best to be content withoot him—I'll promise ye this muckle, gien ye like—I s' tell him what ye hae said upo' the subjec'."

"Much good that will be!" replied the lady, with ill concealed scorn.

"Ye think he wadna unnerstan' 't; but he unnerstan's wonnerfu'."

"And you would come again, and tell me what he said?' she murmured, with the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope.

"Maybe ay, maybe no—I winna promise.—Hae ye ony answer to sen' back to my lord's letter, mem?"

"No; I cannot write; I cannot even think. You have made me so miserable!"

Malcolm lingered.

"Go, go;" said the lady dejectedly. "Tell your master I am not well. I will write tomorrow. If you hear anything of my poor boy, do take pity upon me and come and tell me."

The stiffer partizan Malcolm appeared, the more desirable did it seem in Mrs Stewart's eyes to gain him over to her side. Leaving his probable active hostility out of the question, she saw plainly enough that, if he were called on to give testimony as to the laird's capacity, his witness would pull strongly against her plans; while, if the interests of such a youth were wrapped up in them, that fact in itself would prejudice most people in favour of them.

CHAPTER XXXVI: THE BLOW

"Well, Malcolm," said his lordship, when the youth reported himself, "how's Mrs Stewart?"

"No ower weel pleased, my lord," answered Malcolm.

"What!—you have n't been refusing to—?"

"Deed hev I, my lord!"

"Tut! tut!—Have you brought me any message from her?"

He spoke rather angrily.

"Nane but that she wasna weel, an' wad 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 favour of you?"

"I maun ken what it is afore I say onything, my lord."

"You may trust me not to require anything you couldn't undertake."

"There micht be twa opinions, my lord."

"You young boor! What is the world coming to? By Jove!"

"As far 's I can gang wi' a clean conscience, I'll gang,—no ae step ayont," said Malcolm.

"You mean to say your judgment is a safer guide than mine?"

"No, my lord; I micht weel follow yer lordship's jeedgment, but gien there be a conscience i' the affair, it 's my ain conscience bun' to follow, an' no yer lordship's, or ony ither man's. Suppose the thing 'at seemed richt to yer lordship, seemed wrang to me, what wad ye hae me du than?"

"Do as I told you, and lay the blame on me."

"Na, my lord, that winna haud: I bude to du what I thoucht richt, an' lay the blame upo' naebody, whatever cam o' 't."

"You young hypocrite! Why did n't you tell me you meant to set up for a saint before I took you into my service?"

"'Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord. Surely a body micht ken himsel' nae sant, an' yet like to haud his han's clean!"

"What did Mrs Stewart tell you she wanted of you?" asked the marquis almost fiercely, after a moment's silence.

"She wantit me to get the puir laird to gang back till her; but I sair misdoobt, for a' her fine words, it 's a closed door, gien it bena a lid, she wad hae upon him; an' I wad suner be hangt nor hae a thoom i' that haggis."

"Why should you doubt what a lady tells you?"

"I wadna be ower ready, but I hae hard things, ye see, an' bude to be upo' my gaird."

"Well, I suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot—" His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment; but Malcolm's manner revealed nothing except waiting watchfulness.

"—I must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for her," he concluded.

"Ye winna du that, my lord," cried Malcolm, in a tone of entreaty; but his master chose to misunderstand him.

"Who's to prevent me, I should like to know?" he said.

Malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered—but calmly:

"Me, my lord. I wull. At ony rate, I s' du my best."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Lord Lossie, "you presume sufficiently on my good nature, young man!"

"Hear me ae moment, my lord," returned Malcolm. "I've been turnin' 't ower i' my min', an' I see, plain as the daylicht, that bun', bein' yer lordship's servan' an' trustit by yer lordship, to say that to yersel' the whilk I was nowise bun' to say to Mistress Stewart. Sae, at the risk o' angerin' ye, I maun tell yer lordship, wi' a' respec', 'at gien I can help it, there sall no han', gentle or semple, be laid upo' the laird against his ain wull."

The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too, and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right.

"Go to the devil you booby!" he said—even more in impatience than in wrath.

" thinkin' I needna budge," retorted Malcolm, angry also.

"What do you mean by that insolence?"

"I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. He canna be far frae yer lordship's lug this meenute."

All the marquis's gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. He started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and struck him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by the door.

"Hoot, my lord!" he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton handkerchief, "ye sudna hae dune that: ye'll blaud the carpet!"

"You precious idiot!" cried his lordship, already repenting the deed; "why did n't you defend yourself?"

"The quarrel was my ain, an' I cud du as I likit, my lord."

"And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a hand, even to defend yourself!" said the marquis, vexed both with Malcolm and with himself.

"Because I saw I was i' the wrang, my. lord. The quarrel was o' my ain makin': I hed no richt to lowse my temper an' be impident. Sae I didna daur defen' mysel'. An' I beg yer lordship's pardon. But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, 'cause I took a flewet (blow) in guid pairt whan I kent mysel' i' the wrang, 'at that's hoo I wad cairry mysel' gien 'twas for the puir laird. Faith! I s' gar ony man ken a differ there!"

"Go along with you—and do n't show yourself till you 're fit to be seen. I hope it 'll be a lesson to you."

"It wull, my lord," said Malcolm. "But," he added, "there was nae occasion to gie me sic a dirdum: a word wad hae pitten me mair i' the wrang."

So saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face. The marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because Malcolm, without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so quietly. Malcolm would, however, have had very much more the worse of it had he defended himself, for his master had been a bruiser in his youth, and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot their cunning so far as to leave him less than a heavy overmatch for one unskilled, whatever his strength or agility.

For some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and down the room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfortable.

"The great lout!" he kept saying to himself; "why did he let me strike him?"

Malcolm went to his grandfather's cottage. In passing the window, he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his knees, looking troubled. When he entered, he held out his arms to him.

"Tere 'll pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son!" he cried. "You'll pe hafing a hurt! She knows it. She has it within her, though she couldn't chust see it. Where is it?"

As he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face. "God pless her sowl! you are plooding, Malcolm!" he cried the same moment.

"It's naething to greit aboot, daddy. It's hardly mair nor the flype o' a sawmon's tail."

"Put who 'll pe tone it?" asked Duncan angrily.

"Ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet!" answered Malcolm with indifference.

"Where is he?" cried the piper, rising in wrath. "Take her to him, Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. She will trife her turk into his wicked pody."

"Na, na, daddy," said Malcolm; "we hae hed eneuch o' durks a'ready!"

"Tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, Malcolm? My prave poy!"

"No, daddy; I took my licks like a man, for I deserved them."

"Deserfed to pe peaten, Malcolm—to pe peaten like a tog? Ton't tell her tat! Ton't preak her heart, my poy."

"It wasna that muckle, daddy. I only telled him auld Horny was at 's lug."

"And she'll make no toubt it was true," cried Duncan, emerging sudden from his despondency.

"Ay, sae he was, only I had nae richt to say 't."

"Put you striked him pack, Malcolm? Ton't say you tidn't gif him pack his plow. Ton't tell it to her, Malcolm!"

"Hoo cud I hit my maister, an' mysel' i' the wrang, daddy?"

"Then she'll must to it herself," said Duncan quietly, and, with the lips compressed of calm decision, turned towards the door, to get his dirk from the next room.

"Bide ye still, daddy," said Malcolm, laying hold of his arm, "an' sit ye doon till ye hear a' aboot it first."

Duncan yielded, for the sake of better instruction in the circumstances; over the whole of which Malcolm now went. But before he came to a close, he had skilfully introduced and enlarged upon the sorrows and sufferings and dangers of the laird, so as to lead the old man away from the quarrel, dwelling especially on the necessity of protecting Mr Stewart from the machinations of his mother. Duncan listened to all he said with marked sympathy.

"An' gien the markis daur to cross me in 't," said Malcolm at last, as he ended, "lat him leuk till himsel', for it 's no at a buffet or twa I wad stick, gien the puir laird was intill 't."

This assurance, indicative of a full courageous intent on the part of his grandson, for whose manliness he was jealous, greatly served to quiet Duncan; and he consented at last to postpone all quittance, in the hope of Malcolm's having the opportunity of a righteous quarrel for proving himself no coward. His wrath gradually died away, until at last he begged his boy to take his pipes, that he might give him a lesson. Malcolm made the attempt, but found it impossible to fill the bag with his swollen and cut lips, and had to beg his grandfather to play to him instead. He gladly consented, and played until bedtime; when, having tucked him up, Malcolm went quietly to his own room, avoiding supper and the eyes of Mrs Courthope together. He fell asleep in a moment, and spent a night of perfect oblivion, dreamless of wizard lord or witch lady.