CHAPTER LI: THE LAIRD'S BURROW
Annie Mair had a brother, a carpenter, who, following her to Scaurnose, 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's 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, Phemy, 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 favourite. 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 trapdoor. 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 readily become 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 odours, 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 Scaurnose 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 Catanach'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 neighbourhood, so as deceive the most cunning of the nest harrying youths of the parish.4
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 Phemy and her uncle showed reason against it. He did not want a bed; he much preferred a heap of spies, 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 trapdoor, 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 Phemy 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. Phemy 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 ascent.
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 lattice work: 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 favourite cottage plant there called Humility, and trained its long pendent runners over it. On the floor between it and the window, he had ranged a row of flower pots—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 odour 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 wad hae likit hay better," he said, pointing to this lair rather than couch, "but it 's some ill to get, an' the spales they 're at han', an' they smell unco 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 mould, about a foot and a half high, covered with the most delicate grass, and bespangled with daisies.
"Laird!" said Phemy, half reproachfully, as she stood gazing at the marvel, "ye hae been oot at nicht!"
"Aye—a' nicht whiles, whan naebody was aboot 'cep' the win'." He pronounced the word with a long drawn imitative sough—"an' the cloods an' the splash o' the watter."
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 Mairs; 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 dykes, 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 sherds 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, Phemy 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 a place of final and impregnable refuge.
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 Phemy 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 defences; 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 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 fishhooks—the whole strong enough at least to detain him until its inventor should have opened the trapdoor and fled.
CHAPTER LII: 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 Seaton, 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 Horn. 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 Scaurnose, he found it nearly deserted: he had forgotten that this was one of the nights of meeting in the Baillies' Barn. Phemy 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 Mair had given Lizzy Findlay shelter for a season. And now a neighbour 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 Scaurnose part of the congregation returning home. The few salutations dropped him as he passed were distant, and bore an expression of disapproval. Mrs Mair 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.
" exerceesed i' my min'," he said, as soon as they were clear of the stragglers, "aboot the turn things hae taen, doon by at the Barn."
"They tell me there's some gey queer customers taen to haudin' furth," returned Malcolm.
"It's a fac'," answered Peter. "The fowk 'll hardly hear a word noo frae ony o' the aulder an' soberer Christians. They haena the gift o' the Speerit, they say. But in place o' steerin' them up to tak hold upo' their Maker, thir new lichts set them up to luik doon upo' ither fowk, propheseein' an' denuncin', as gien the Lord had committit jeedgment into their han's."
"What is 't they tak haud o' to misca' them for?" asked Malcolm.
"It's no sae muckle," answered Peter, "for onything they du, as for what they believe or dinna believe. There's an 'uman frae Clamrock was o' their pairty the nicht. She stude up an' spak weel, an' weel oot, but no to muckle profit, as 't seemed to me; only maybe no a fair jeedge, for I cudna be rid o' the notion 'at she was lattin' at mysel' a' the time. I dinna ken what for. An' I cudna help wonnerin' gien she kent what fowk used to say aboot hersel' whan she was a lass; for gien the sma' half o' that was true, a body micht think the new grace gien her wad hae driven her to hide her head, i' place o' exaltin' her horn on high. But maybe it was a' lees—she kens best hersel'."
"There canna be muckle worship gaein' on wi' ye by this time, than, thinkin'," said Malcolm.
"I dinna like to say 't," returned Joseph; "but there's a speerit o' speeritooal pride abroad amang 's, it seems to me, 'at's no fawvourable to devotion. They hae taen 't intill their heids, for ae thing—an that's what Dilse's Bess lays on at—'at 'cause they're fisher fowk, they hae a speecial mission to convert the warl'."
"What foon' they that upo'?" asked Malcolm.
"Ow, what the Saviour said to Peter an' the lave o' them 'at was fishers—to come to him, an' he would mak them fishers o' men."
"Ay, I see!—What for dinna ye bide at hame, you an' the lave o' the douce anes?"
"There ye come upo' the thing 'at 's troublin' me. Are we 'at begude it to brak it up? Or are we to stan' aside an' lat it a' gang to dirt an' green bree? Or are we to bide wi' them, an warsle aboot holy words till we tyne a' stamach for holy things?"
"Cud ye brak it up gien ye tried?" asked Malcolm.
"I doobt no. That's ane o' the considerations 'at hings some sair upo' me: see what we hae dune!"
"What for dinna ye gang ower to Maister Graham, an' speir what he thinks?"
"What for sud I gang till him? What's he but a fine moaral man? I never h'ard 'at he had ony discernment o' the min' o' the speerit."
"That's what Dilse's Bess frae Clamrock wad say aboot yersel', Peter."
"An' I doobt she wadna be far wrang."
"Ony gait, she kens nae mair aboot you nor ye ken aboot the maister. Ca' ye a man wha cares for naething in h'aven or in earth but the wull o' 's Creator—ca' ye sic a man no speeritual? Jist gang ye till 'im, an' maybe he'll lat in a glent upo' ye 'at 'll astonish ye."
"He's taen unco little enterest in onything 'at was gaein' on."
"Arena ye some wissin' ye hadna taen muckle mair yersel, Peter?"
"'Deed am I! But gien he be giftit like that ye say, what for didna he try to haud 's richt?"
"Maybe he thoucht ye wad mak yer mistaks better wantin' him."
"Weel, ye dinna ca' that freenly!"
"What for no? I hae h'ard him say fowk canna come richt 'cep' by haein' room to gang wrang. But jist ye gang till him noo. Maybe he'll open mair een i' yer heids nor ye kent ye had."
"Weel, maybe we micht du waur. I s' mention the thing to Bow o' meal an' Jeames Gentle, an' see what they say—There's nae guid to be gotten o' gaein' to the minister, ye see: there's naething in him, as the saw says, but what the spune pits intill him."
With this somewhat unfavourable 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.
CHAPTER LIII: THE SCHOOLMASTER'S COTTAGE
The following night, three of the Scaurnose fishermen—Blue Peter, Bow o' meal, and Jeames 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 bed chamber. 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 sair vex, sir, to think o' what we a' jeedged to be the wark o' the speerit takin' sic a turn! feart it 'll lie heavy at oor 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."
"Weel, maybe!" rejoined Mair. "But, meantime, the practical p'int is—are we to tyauve (struggle) to set things richt again, or are we to lea' them to their ain devices?"
"What power have you to set things right?"
"Nane, sir. The Baillies' Barn 's as free to them as to oorsel's."
"What influence have you, then?"
"Unco little," said Bow o' meal, taking the word. "They're afore the win'. An' it 's plain eneuch 'at to stan' up an' oppose them wad be but to breed strife an' debate."
"An' that micht put mony a waukent conscience soon' asleep again—maybe no to be waukent ony mair," 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 dinna think it," answered all three.
"Then the natural question is—'Why should you go?'"
"We 're feart for the guilt o' what the minister ca's shism," said Blue Peter.
"That might have occurred to you before you forsook the parish church," said the schoolmaster, with a smile.
"But there was nae speeritooal noorishment to be gotten i' that houff (haunt)," said Jeames Gentle.
"How did you come to know the want of it?"
"Ow, that cam frae the speerit himsel'-what else?" replied Gentle.
"By what means?"
"By the readin' o' the word an' by prayer," answered Gentle.
"By his ain v'ice i' the hert," said Bow o' meal.
"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 a 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 neighbour 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."
"Wha but ane was ever fit to lead sic a life 's that?"
"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's a heap made o' the preachin' o' the word i' the buik itsel'," 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."
"Ay, but ye see he kent what he was duin'."
"And so will every man in proportion as he partakes of his spirit."
"But dinna ye believe there is sic 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 fibres connects the two, makes one of them."
"But surely, sir, them 'at 's o' the same min' oucht to meet an' stir ane anither up? 'They that feart the Lord spak aften thegither,' ye ken."
"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 oppose themselves, caring nothing for the truth—perhaps eager to save their souls, nothing more at the very best."
"Sir! sir! what wad ye hae? Daur ye say it 's no a body's first duty to save his ain sowl alive?" exclaimed Bow o' meal.
"I daur't—but there's little daur intill 't!" said Mr Graham, breaking into Scotch.
Bow o' meal rose from his chair in indignation, Blue Peter made a grasp at his bonnet, and Jeames 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 for ever," supplemented Peter.
"that's a safe consequence. There's no fear of the second if he does the first. Anyhow he cannot enjoy him for ever this moment, and he can glorify him at once."
"Ay, but hoo?" said Bow o' meal, 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! Ye'll never save yer sowl that gait."
"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."
"An' hoo are we to gie oorsel's up till him?—for ye see we're practical kin' o' fowk, huz fisher fowk, Maister Graham," said Bow o' meal.
The tone implied that the schoolmaster was not practical.
"I say again—In doing his will and not your own."
"An' what may his wull 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 neighbour a crown you owe him, or make an apology to the one on the other side. I do not know: you do."
"Dinna ye think aboot savin' yer ain sowl noo, Maister Graham?" said Bow o' meal, 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 than aboot the sowls o' ither fowk? Wadna ye save them, no?"
"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 doobt, sir, gien yer doctrine was to get a hearin', there wad be unco little dune for the glory o' God i' this place!" remarked Bow o' meal, with sententious reproof.
"But what was done would be of the right sort, and surpassingly powerful."
"Weel, to come back to the business in han'—what wad be yer advice?" said Bow o' meal.
"That's a thing none but a lawyer should give. I have shown you what seem to me the principles involved: I can do no more."
"Ye dinna ca' that neebourly, whan a body comes speirin' 't?"
"Are you prepared then to take my advice?"
"Ye wadna hae a body du that aforehan'! We micht as weel a' be Papists, an' believe as we're tauld."
"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 hae a heap o' queer doctrines, sir."
"And yet you ask advice of me?"
"We haena ta'en muckle, ony gait," returned Bow o' meal rudely, and walked from the cottage.
Jeames Gentle and Blue Peter bade the master a kindly good night, and followed Bow o' meal.
The next Sunday evening Blue Peter was again at the Alton, accompanied by Gentle and another fisherman, not Bow o' 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 Mair 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 sae used to oor wives 'at we're ower ready to forget hoo ill we cud du wantin' them."
Mrs Mair 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 evil 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.