Gwnr L MALCOLM. A ROMANCE. BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF "ROBERT FALCONER," "WILFRID CUMBERMEDE," "ALEC FORBES," "RANALD BANNERMAN," ETC. PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1875. CONTENTS, r^'4^^7 I I27 Chapter Page I. Miss Horn 7 II. Barbara Catanach 8 III. The Mad Laird 10 IV. Phemy Mair 12 V. Lady Florimel 15 VI. Duncan Macphail 20 VII. Alexander Graham 26 VIII. The Swivel 31 IX. The Salmon-Trout 35 X. The Funeral 40 XL The Old Church 44 XII. The Churchyard 47 XIII. The Marquis of Lossie. 51 XIV. Meg Partan's Lamp 55 XV. The Slope of the Dune. 58 XVL The Storm 62 XVII. The Accusation 66 XVIII. The Quarrel 69 XIX. Duncan's Pipes 72 XX. Advances 80 XXI. Mediation 82 XXII. Whence and Whither ? 86 XXIII. Armageddon 91 XXIV. The Feast 95 XXV. The Night Watch loi XXVI. Not at Church 105 XXVII. Lord Gernon no XXVIII. A Fisher- Wedding 113 XXIX. Florimel AND Duncan... 115 XXX. The Revival 122 XXXI. Wandering Stars 129 XXXII. The Skipper's Chamber 133 XXXIII. The Library 138 XXXIV. Milton, and the Bay Mare 142 XXXV. Kirkbyres 144 XXXVI. The Blow 149 XXXVII. The Cutter 151 XXXVIII. The Two Dogs 154 XXXIX. CoLONSAY Castle 157 Chapter XL. XLI. XLII. XLIII. XLIV. XLV. XLVI. XLVII. XLVIII. XLIX. L. LI. LII. LIII. LIV. LV. LVI. LVII. LVIIL' LIX. lx. LXI. LXII. LXIII. LXIV. LXV. LXVI. LXVII. LXVIII. LXIX. LXX. Page The Deil's Winnock 160 The Clouded Sapphires... 164 Duncan's Disclosure 170 The Wizard^s Chamber... 174 The Hermit 177 Mr. Cairns and the Mar- quis 182 The Baillies' Barn 186 Mrs. Stewart's Claim.... 191 The Baillies' Barn again. 197 Mount Pisgah 202 Lizzy Findlay 208 The Laird's Burrow 211 Cream or Scum? 214 The Schoolmaster's Cot- tage 215 One Day 219 The Same Night 224 Something Forgotten 226 The Laird's Guest 228 Malcolm and Mrs. Stew- art 232 An Honest Plot 234 The Sacrament 240 Miss Horn and the Pi- per 245 The Cuttlefish and the Crab 247 Miss Horn and Lord Lossie 250 The Laird and his Mo- ther 258 The Laird's Vision 259 The Cry from the Cham- ber 262 Feet of Wool 266 Hands of Iron 269 The Marquis and the Schoolmaster 272 End or Beginning? 276 5 2847?? MALCOLM. :p./^:e^t z. CHAPTER I. MISS HORN. " 1\T ■^' "^ • ^ ^^^ ^"^^ feelin's, I'm 1 ^ thankfu' to say. I never kent ony guid come o' them. They're a ter- rible sicht i' the gait." " Naebody ever thoucht o' layin' 't to yer chairge, mem." " 'Deed, I aye had eneuch adu to du the thing I had to du, no to say the thing 'at naebody wad du but mysel*. I hae had nae leisur' for feelin's an' 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, mem," answered a gruff voice from below. " Wattie, whan ye fess the bit boxie, jist pit a hemmer an' a puckle nails i' yer pooch to men' the hen-hoose-door. The tane maun be atten't till as weel's the tither." " The bit boxie " 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 Horn now re-entered, to rejoin Mrs. Mellis, the wife of the principal draper in the town, who had called ostensibly to condole with her, but really to see the corpse. " Aih ! she was taen yoong !" sighed the visitor, with long-drawn tones and a shake of the head, implying that there- in lay ground of complaint, at which poor mortals dared but hint. " No that yoong," returned Miss Horn. " She was upo' the edge o' aucht an' thirty." " Weel, she had a sair time o' 't." " No that sair, sae far as I see — an' wha sud ken better ? She's had a bien doon-sittin' {^sheltered quarters), and sud hae had as lang's I was to the fore. Na, na ; it was nowther sae young nor yet sae sair." " Aih ! but she was a patient crater wi' a' 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 wheen ower patient wi' some. But that cam' o' haein mair hert nor brains. She had feelin's gin ye like — and to spare. But I never took ower ony o' the stock. It's a pity she hadna the jeedgment to match, for she never misdoobted onybody eneuch. But I wat it disna maitter noo, for she's gane whaur it's less wantit. For ane 'at has the hairmlessness o' the doo i' this ill-wuUed warl', there's a feck o' ten 'at has the wisdom o' the serpent. An' the serpents mak sair wark wi' the doos — lat alane them 'at flees into the verra mou's o' them." " Weel, ye're jist richt there," said Mrs. Mellis. " An' as ye say, she was aye some easy to perswaud. I hae nae doobt she believed to the verra last he wad come back and mairry her." " Come back and mairry her ! Wha or what div ye mean ? I jist tell ye, Mistress Mellis — an' it's weel ye're named — gin ye daur to hint at ae word o' sic clavers, it's this side o' this door o' mine ye s' be less acquant wi'." As she spoke, the hawk eyes of Miss Horn glowed on each side of her hawk nose, which grew more and more hook- ed 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 some- thing very like fear as she replied : " Gude guide 's, Miss Horn ! What hae I said to gar ye look at me sae by ordinar 's that ?" 7 MALCOLM. "Said!" repeated Miss Horn, in a tone that revealed both annoyance with herself and contempt for her visitor. " There's no a claver in a' the country- side but ye maun fess 't hame aneth yer oxter, as gin 't wei^e the prodigal afore he repentit. Ye s' get sma' thanks for sic like here. An' her lyin' there as she'll lie till the jeedgment-day, puir thing !" " I'm sure I meant no offence, Miss Horn," said her visitor. "I thocht a' body kent 'at she was ill aboot him." " Aboot wha, i' the name o' the father o' lees ?" " Ow, aboot that lang-leggit doctor 'at set oot for the Ingies, an' dee'd afore he wan across the equautor. Only fouk said he was nae mair deid nor a halvert worm, an' wud be hame whan she was merried." " It 's a' lees frae heid to fut, an' frae hert to skin." " Weel, it was plain to see she dwyn- ed awa efter he gaed, an' never was her- sel' again — ye dinna deny that." " It's a' havers," persisted Miss Horn, but in accents considerably softened. " She cared no more aboot the chiel nor I did mysel'. She dwyned, I grant ye, an' he gaed awa, I grant ye ; but the win' blaws an' the water rins, an' the tane has little to do wi' the tither." "Weel, weel; I'm sorry I said ony- thing to offen' ye, an' I canna say mair. W i' yer leave. Miss Horn, I'll jist gang an' tak' a last leuk at her, puir thing !" " 'Deed, ye s' du naethingo' the kin'! I s' lat nobody glower at her 'at wad gang and spairge sic havers aboot her, Mistress Mellis. To say 'at sic a doo as my Grizel, puir, saft-hertit, winsome thing, wad hae luikit twise at ony sic a serpent as him ! Na, na, mem ! Gang yer wa's hame, an' come back straucht frae yer prayers the morn's mornin'. By that time she'll be quaiet in her cof- fin, and I'll be quaiet i' my temper. Syne I'll lat ye see her — maybe. — I wiss 1 was weel rid o' the sicht o' her, for I canna bide it. Lord, I canna bide it." These last words were uttered in a murmured aside, inaudible to Mrs. Mol- lis, to whom, however, they did not ap- ply, but to the dead body. She rose not- withstanding in considerable displeas- ure, 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 descending the stairs as slowly as if on every step she deliberated whether the next would bear her weight. Miss Horn, who had fol- lowed 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 toward the oppo- site room, as if she saw through the closed door what lay white on the white bed. " It's a God's mercy I hae no feel- in's," she said to herself. "To even my bonny Grizel to sic a lang kyte-clung chiel as yon ! Aih, puir Grizel ! She's eane like a knotless threid." CHAPTER II. BARB.A.R.A. CATANACH. Miss Horn was interrupted by the sound of the latch of the street door, and sprung from her chair in anger. " Canna they lat her sleep for five meenutes ?" she cried aloud, forgetting that there was no fear of rousing her any more. — " It'll be Jean come in frae the pump," she reflected, after a mo- ment's pause ; but, hearing no footstep along the passage to the kitchen, con- cluded — " It's no her, for she gangs aboot the hoose like the fore half o' a new-shod cowt;" and went down the stair to see who might have thus pre- sumed 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 gayly-painted Dutch clock, which went on ticking as loud as ever, though just below the dead — sat a woman about sixty years of age, whose plump face to the first glance looked kindly, to the second, cunning, and to the third, evil. To the last look the plumpness appear- ed unhealthy, suggesting a doughy in- >-»» MALCOLM. dentation to the finger, and its color was also pasty. Her deep-set, black- bright eyes, glowing from under the darkest of eyebrows, which met over her nose, had something of a fascinat- ing influence — so much so that at a first interview one was not likely for a time to notice any other of her features. She rose as Miss Horn entered, buried a fat fist in a soft side, and stood silent. " Weel ?" said Miss Horn, interroga- tively, and was silent also. " I thocht ye micht want a cast o' my callin'," said the woman. " Na, na; there's no a han' 'at s' lay finger upo' the bairn but mine ain," said Miss Horn. " I had it a' ower, my lee lane, afore the skreigh o' day. She's lyin' quaiet noo — verra quaiet — waitin' upo' Watty Witherspail. Whan he fesses ham.e her bit boxie, we s' hae her laid canny intill 't, an' hae dune wi' 't." " Weel, mem, for a leddy-born, like yersel', I maun say, ye tak it unco com- posed !" " I'm no awaur, Mistress Catanach, o' ony necessity laid upo' ye to say yer min' i' this hoose. It's no expeckit. But what for sud I no tak' it wi' composur' ? We'll hae to tak' oor ain turn er lang, as composed as we hae the skiel o', and gang oot like a lang-nibbit can'le — ay, an lea' jist sic a memory ahin' some o' 's, Bawby." " I kenna gin ye mean me, Miss Horn," said the woman; "but it's no that muckle o' a memory I expec' to lea' ahin' me." " The less the better," muttered Miss Horn ; but her unwelcome visitor went on : "Them 'at 's maist i' ;«j/ debt kens least aboot it; and their mithers canna be said to hae muckle to be thankfu' for. It's God's trowth, I ken waur nor ever I did, mem. A body in my trade canna help fa'in' amo' ill company whiles, for we're a' born in sin, an' brocht furth in in- iquity, as the Buik says ; in fac', it's a' sin thegither : we come o' sin an' we gang for sin; but ye ken the likes o' me maunna clype [tell tales). A' the same, gien ye dinna tak the help o' my han', ye winna refuse me the sicht o' my een, puir thing !" " There's nane sail luik upon her deid 'at wasna a pleesur' till her livin' ; an' ye ken weel eneuch, Bawby, she cudna thole the sicht o you.'' "An' guid rizzon had she for that, gien a' 'at gangs throu' my heid or I fa' asleep i' the lang mirk nichts be a hair better nor ane o' the auld wife's fables that the holy Buik maks sae licht o'!" "What mean ye?" demanded Miss Horn, sternly and curtly. " I ken what I mean mysel', an' ane that's no content wi' that, bude ill be a howdie [inidwife). I wad fain hae got- ten a fancy oot o' my heid that's been there this mony a lang year, and for that I wad fain hae seen her. But please yersel', mem, gien ye winna be neeborly ; thof, maybe, ye're mair obli- gated nor ye ken, for a' ye luik at me sae sair asklent." "Ye s' no gang near her — no to save ye frae a' the ill dreams that ever geth- ered aboot a sin-stappit bowster!" cried Miss Horn, and drew down her long upper lip in a strong arch. " Ca cannie ! ca cannie !" [drive gently), said Bawby. " Dinna anger me ower sair, for I ant but mortal. Fowk tak a heap frae you. Miss Horn, 'at they'll tak frae nane ither, for yer temper's weel kent, an' little made o' ; but it's an ill-faured thing to anger the howdie — sae muckle lies upo' hei-; an' I'm no i' the tune to put up wi' muckle the nicht. I wonner at ye bein' sae oonneebor-like — at sic a time tu, wi' a corp i' the hoose !" "Gang awa — gang oot o't: it's my hoose," said Miss Horn, in a low, hoarse voice, restrained from rising to tempest pitch only by the consciousness of what lay on the other side of the ceiling above her head. " I wad as sune lat a cat in- till the deid-chaumer to gang loupin' ower the corp, or may be waur, as I wad lat yersel' intill 't, Bawby Cata- nach ; an' there's'till ye!" At this moment the opportune en- trance of Jean afforded fitting occasion to her mistress for leaving the room without encountering the dilemma of either turning the woman out— a pro- MALCOLM. ceeding 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, with a narrative, commenced at the door, of all she had seen, heard and done while " oot an' aboot i' the toon." But Miss Horn in- terrupted her the moment she began to speak. " Is that woman furth the hoose, Jean ?" she asked, in the tone of one who awaited her answer in the affirm- ative as a preliminary condition of all further conversation. " She's gane, mem," answered Jean — adding to herself in a wordless thought, " I'm no sayin' whatir." "She's a woman I. wadna hae ye throng wi', Jean." " I ken no ill o' her, mem," returned Jean. " She's eneuch to corrup' a kirkyaird !" said her mistress, with more force than fitness. Jean was on the shady side of fifty, and more likely to have already yielded than to be liable to a first assault of corruption. But little did Miss Horn think how useless was her warning, or where Bar- bara Catanach was at that very moment. Trusting to Jean's cunning, as well she might, she was in the dead-chamber, and standing over the dead. She had folded back the sheet — not from the face, but from the feet — and raised the night- dress of fine linen in which the love of her cousin had robed the dead for the repose of the tomb. " It wad hae been tellin' her," she muttered, " to hae spoken Bawby fair ! I'm no used to be fa'en foul o' that gait. I s' be even wi' her yet, I'm thinkin' — the auld speldin' ! Losh ! an' Praise be thankit ! there it's ! It's there ! —a wee darker, but the same — jist whaur I could ha' laid the pint o' my finger upo' 't i' the mirk ! Noo lat the worms eat it," she concluded, as she folded down the linen of shroud and sheet — " an' no mortal ken o' 't but my- sel' an' him 'at bude till hae seen 't, gin he was a hair better nor Glenkindie's man i' the auld 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 pon- derousness of her figure, and indicated therefore great muscular strength ; open- ed it with noiseless circumspection to the width of an inch, peeped from the crack, and seeing the opposite door still shut, stepped out with a swift, noiseless swing of person and door simultane- ously, closed the latter 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 duties of her calling, the projected front of her person appearing itself aware of its dig- nity as the visible sign and symbol of a good conscience and kindly heart. CHAPTER III. THE MAD LAIRD. When Mistress Catanach arrived at the opening of a street which was just opposite her own door, and led steep toward the sea-town, she stood, and shading her eyes with her hooded hand although the sun was far behind her, looked out to sea. It was the forenoon of a day of early summer. The larks were many and loud in the skies above her — for, although she stood in a street, she was only a few yards from the green fields — but she could hardly have heard them, for their music was not for her. To the north, 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, far apart, formed the bay ; between that on the west and the sea- town at her feet lay a great curve of yel- MALCOLM. low sand, upon which the long breakers, born of last night's wind, were still roar- ing from the north-east, although the gale had now sunk to a breeze — cold and of doubtful influence. From the chimneys of the fishermen's houses below ascend- ed a yellowish smoke, which, against the blue of the sea, assumed a dull green color as it drifted vanishing toward the south-west. But Mrs. Catanach was looking neither at nor for anything ; she had no fisherman husband, or any other relative, at sea ; she was but re- volving something in her unwholesome mind ; and this was her mode of con- cealing an o,peration 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 unnatu- rally large, over eyes which, although of a pale blue, mingled with a certain mottled milky gleam, had a pathetic, dog-like expression. Decently dressed in black, he stood with his hands in the pockets of his trowsers, gazing immo- vably in Mrs. Catanach's face. Becom- ing suddenly aware of his presence, she glanced downward, gave a great start and a half scream, and exclaimed in no gentle tones, " Whaur come_y^ frae ?" It was neither that she did not know the man, nor that she meant any of- fence : her words were the mere em- bodiment of the annoyance of startled surprise ; but their effect was peculiar. Without a single other motion he turned abruptly on one heel, gazed sea- ward with quick-flushed cheeks and glowing eyes, and, apparently too polite to refuse an answer to the evidently un- pleasant question, replied in low, almost sullen tones : " I dinna ken whaur I come frae. Ye ken 'at I dinna ken whaur I come frae. 1 dinna ken whaur ye come frae. I dinna ken whaur onybody comes frae." " Hoot, laird ! nae oftence ! " returned Mrs. Catanach. " It was yer ain wyte. What gart ye stan' glowerin' at a body that gait, ohn telled them 'at ye was there ?" " I thocht ye was luikin' whaur ye cam frae," returned the man in tones apologetic and hesitating. " 'Deed I fash wi' nae sic freits," said Mrs. Catanach. " Sae lang's ye ken whaur ye 're gaein' till," suggested the man. " Toots ! I fash as little wi' that either, and ken jist as muckle about the tane as the tither," she answered with a low oily guttural laugh of contemptuous pity. " I ken mair nor that mysel', but no muckle," said the man. " I dinna ken whaur I cam frae, and I dinna ken whaur I'm gaun till ; but I ken 'at I'm gaun whaur I cam frae. That Stan's to rizzon, ye see ; but they telled me 'at ye kenned a' about whaur we a' cam frae." " Deil a bit o' 't !" persisted Mrs. Cat- anach, in tones of repudiation. " What care I whaur I cam frae, sae lang 's — " " Sae lang 's what, gien ye please ?" pleaded the man, with a childlike en- treaty in his voice. " Weel — gien ye wull hae 't — sae lang 's I cam 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, clasped his ears, and intertwined their fingers at the back of his neck. With a marvelous swiftness he shot down the steep descent toward the shore. " The deil 's in't 'at I bude to anger him!" said the woman, and walked away, with a short laugh of small satis- faction. The style she had given the hunch- back was no nickname. Stephen Stew- art was laird of the small property and ancient house of Kirkbyres, of which his mother managed the affairs — hardly/t^r her son, seeing that, beyond his clothes MALCOLM. and five pounds ayear 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, through- out the disturbing element floated the mist 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 mov- ing thing in the solitary landscape, like a hunted creature he sped, his footsteps melting and vanishing behind him in the half-quick sand. Where the curve of the water-line turned northward at the root of the pro- montory, 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; and old pools of water, overgrown with a green scum, lay in the hollows between its rot- ting timbers, while the upper planks were baking and cracking in the sun. They were huge open boats, carrying about ten tons, and rowed by eight men with oars of tremendous length and weight, with which they had to toil in- deed when they could riot use their lug sails. Near where they lay a steep path ascended the cliff, whence through grass and ploughed land it led across the pro- montory to the fishing village of Scaur- nose, which lay on the other side of it. There the mad laird, or Mad Humpy, as he was called by the baser sort, often received shelter, chiefly from the family of a certain Joseph Mair, one of the most respectable inhabitants of the place, which, however, at this time, was not specially remarkable for any of the Christian virtues. The way he now pursued was very rocky and difficult, lying close under the cliffs of the headland. He passed the boats, going between them and the cliffs, without even a glance at the two men who were at work on the unfinish- ed boat. One of them was his friend Joseph Mair. They ceased their work for a moment to look after him. "That's the puir laird again," said Joseph, the instant he was beyond hear- ing. "Something's wrang wi' him. I wonner what's come ower him !" " I haena seen him for a while noo," returned the other. " They tell me 'at his mither made him ower to the deil afore he cam to the light ; and sae, aye as his birthday comes roun', Sawtan gets the pooer ower him. Eh, but he's a fearsome sicht when he's ta'en that gait!" continued the speaker. " I met him ance i' the gloamin', jist ower by the toon, wi' his een glowerin' like uily lamps, an' the slaver rinnin' doon his lang baird. I jist laup as gien I had seen the muckle Sawtan himsel'." " Ye not na [needed not) hae dune that," was the reply. "He's jist as hairmless, e'en at the warst, as ony lamb. He's but a puir creatur' wha's tribble's ower Strang for him — that's a*. Sawtan has as little to du wi' him as wi' ony man I ken." CHAPTER IV. P 1 1 E M V MAIR. With eyes that stared as if they and not her ears were the organs of hearing, MALCOLM. 13 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 de- caying 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 sea-weed, there called dulse. She was the daughter of Joseph Mair just mentioned — a fisherman who had been to sea as a man-of-war's man, in consequence of which his to-name or nickname was Blue Peter, and having been found capable, had been employed as carpenter's mate, and had come to be very handy with his tools. Having saved a little money by serving in an- other man's boat, he was now build- ing 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 without being blinded by the watering of his eyes. Unlike most of the fishermen upon that coast at the time, he was a sober and indeed thought- ful man, ready to listen to the voice of reason from any quarter. His fellows were, in general, men of hardihood and courage, encountering as a mere matter of course such perilous weather as the fishers on a great part of our coasts would have declined to meet. During the fishing season they 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 a bout of hard drinking, and spend a great portion of what ought to have been their provision for the winter. The 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 fish- ermen, 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 hus- bands, they were quite as laborious, and less interesting. The most severe con- sisted 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 her eldest child was prob- ably born within a few weeks after her marriage ; but infidelity was almost un- known. In some respects, although in none of the good qualities, Mrs. Mair was an exception to her class. Herself the daughter of a fisherman, her mother had been the daughter of a small farm- er, and she bad well-to-do relations in an inland parish ; how much this fact was concerned in the result it would be hard to say, but 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. Long before this time she must have lost all her complexion and most of her grace had it not been for two reasons : her husband's prudence had rendered hard work less imperative, while he had a care even of her good looks altogether unique ; and he had a rough, honest sister who lived with them, and w'nom 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. Annie Mair assisted with the nets, and the cleaning and drying of the fish, of which they cured consider- able quantities : these, with her house- hold and maternal duties, afforded her ample occupation. Their children were well trained, and being, from the narrowness of their house-accommoda- tion, far more with their parents than would otherwise have been the case, heard a good deal to make them think after their faculty. The mad laird was, as I have said, a visitor at their house oftener than any- where else. On such occasions he slept 14 MALCOLM. in a garret accessible by a ladder from the ground floor, which consisted only of a kitchen and a closet. Little Phemy Mair was therefore familiar with his ap- pearance, his ways, and his speech, and was a favorite with him, although hither- to his shyness has been sufficient to pre- vent any approach to intimacy even with a child of ten. From speedy exhaustion the poor fellow soon ceased his wild running. As he stopped he withdrew his hands from his ears, and 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 whaur 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 stumb- ling and scrambling over the rocks. Scarcely had he vanished from view of the boats, when Phemy scrambled out of her big mussel-shell. Its up- heaved 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 insig- nificant inequalities. She came within sight of the laird just as he turned into the mouth of a well-known cave and vanished. Phemy was one of those rare and blessed natures which have endless cour- age because they have no distrust, and she ran straight into the cave after him, without even stopping to look in. It was not a very interesting cave at first sight. The strata of which it was composed, upheaved almost to the per- pendicular, shaped an opening like the half of a Gothic^rch divided vertically and leaning over a little to one side, which rose to its whole height, and seemed to lay open every corner of it to a single glance. This large entrance allowed abundance of light and air in the cave, which in length was only about four or five times its width. The floor was perfectly dry, consisting of hard rock, with a trodden covering of some earthy stratum — probably all that re- mained of what had once filled the hollow. The walls and roof were suf- ficiently jagged with projections and dark with recesses, but there was little to rouse any frightful fancies. When Phemy entered it 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 accom- plish. 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 ; and 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 Alount Sinai over that of Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress. As his hands were still pressed on his ears, he heard nothing of Phemy's ap- proach, and she stood for a while star- ing at him in the vague glimmer, ap- parently with no anxiety as to what was to come next. Weary at length — for the forlorn man continued movelessly sunk in his own thoughts, or what he had for such — the eyes of the child began to wander about the darkness, to which they had already got so far accustomed as to make the most of the scanty light. Presently she fancied she saw something glitter, away in the darkness — two things : they must be eyes ! — the eyes of an otter or a pole- cat, in which creatures the caves along the shore abounded. Seized with sudden fright, she ran to the laird and laid her hand on his shoulder, crying, "Leuk, laird, leuk!" MALCOLM. 15 He started to his feet and gazed be- wildered at the child, rubbing his eyes once and again. She stood between the well and the entrance, so that all the light there was, gathered upon her pale face. "Whaur do ye come frae ?" he cried. "I cam frae the auld boat," she answered. " What do ye want wi' me ?" " Naelhing, sir : I only cam to see hoo ye was gettin' on. I wadna hae dis- turbit ye, sir, but I saw the twa een o' a wuUcat, or sic like, glowerin' awa yon- ner i' the mirk, an' they fleyt me 'at I grippit ye." " Weel, weel ; sit ye doon, bairnie," said the mad laird in a soothing voice : " the wuUcat sanna touch ye. Ye're no fleyt at me, are ye r" "Eh, na!" answered the child. "What for sud I be fleyt at you, sir ? I'm Phe- my Wair." "Eh, bairnie! it's you, is't ?" he re- turned in tones of satisfaction, for he had not hitherto recognized her. " Sit ye doon, sit ye doon, an' we'll see aboot it a'." Phemy obeyed, and seated herself on the nearest projection. The laird placed himself beside her, and once more buried his face, but not his ears, in his hands. Nothing sought to enter those ears, how- ever, but the sound of the rising tide, for Phemy sat by him in the faintly glim- mering dusk, as without fear felt, so without word spoken. The evening drew on, and the night came down, but all the effect of the growing darkness was but to draw the child 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, coming to a knowledge of her condition, gently roused her and took her home, where they found her father and mother in much concern at her absence. On their way the mad laird warned his com- panion, in strange yet comprehensible utterance, to say nothing of where she had found him, for if she exposed his place of refuge, wicked people would take him, and he should never see her again. CHAPTER V. LADY FLORIMEI.. 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 sea- weed and broken salt waters, mingled with a suspicion of icebergs. From what was called the Seaion, or sea- town, of Portlossie, a solitary figure was walking westward along the sands, which bordered the shore from the root of the promontory of Scaurnose to the little harbor which lay on the other side of the Seaton. Beyond the harbor the rocks began again, bold and high, of a gray and brown hard stone, and after a mighty sweep, shot out northward, and closed in the bay on the east with a second great promontory. The long curved strip of sand was the only open portion of the coast for miles : the rest was all closed in with high rocky cliffs. At this one spot the coasting vessel gliding past gained a pleasant peep of open fields, belts of wood and farm- houses, with here and there a great house glimpsing from amidst its trees. In the distance one or two bare solitary hills, imposing in aspect only from their desolation, rose to the height of over a thousand feet, but their form gave no effect to their altitude. On this open part of the shore, par- allel 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 toward the west with- in a few yards of a huge solitary rock of the ugly kind called conglomerate. It had been separated from the roots of the promontory by the rush of waters at unusually high tides, which often in winter rounded the rock, and running down behind the dune, turned it into a lone island. The sand on the inland side i6 MALCOLM. of it, which was now covered with short sweet grass, browsed on by sheep, and with the largest and reddest of daisies, was thus often swept by wild salt waves in winter, and at times, when the north- ern wind blew straight from the regions of endless snow, lay a sheet of gleaming ice. Over this grass came the figure I have mentioned, singing. On his left hand the ground rose to the high road ; on his right was the dune, interlaced and bound together by the long clasping roots of the coarse bent, without which its sands would have been 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 be- hind it. At his back rose the town of Portlossie, high above the harbor and the sea-town, 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 — borne winding from street to street, and loud blown to wake the sleeping inhabitants and let them know that it was now six of the clock. He was a youth of about twenty, with a long, swinging, heavy-footed stride, which took in the ground rapidly. He was rather tall, and large-limbed. His dress was more like that of a fisherman than any other, but hardly admitted of classification, consisting of corduroy trowsers, much stained, a shirt striped blue and white, and a rough pea-jacket, which, slung across his shoulder, he carried by one sleeve. On his head he wore a broad blue bonnet, with a tuft of scarlet in the centre. His face was more than handsome — not finely cut, but large-featured, with a look of mingled nobility and ingenuous- ness — the latter amounting to simplicity, or even innocence ; while the clear out- look from his full and well-opened hazel eyes indicated both courage and prompt- itude. His dark brown hair came in large curling masses from under his bon- net. 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 its top was cut into a sort of wide embrasure, in which stood an old-fash- ioned brass swivel-gun : when he came undftr it, the lad sprung up the sloping side of the dune, seated himself on the gun, drew from his trowsers a large silver watch, regarded it steadily for a {t'f^ minutes, replaced it, took from his pocket a flint and steel, kindled therewith a bit of touch-paper, and ap- plied it to the vent of the swivel. Fol- lowed a great roar. But through its echoes a startled cry reached his 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. He rushed from the sand-hill, crying, as he approached her, " Dinna be in a hurry, mem: bide till I come to ye ;" and plunging straight into the water struggled through the deepening tide, the distance being too short and the depth almost too shallow for swimming. There was no danger whatever, but the girl might well shrink from plunging into the clear beryl depth in which swayed the sea-weed clothing the slippery slopes of the rock. The youth was by her side in a moment, scarcely noticed the bare feet she had been bathing in the water, heeded as little the motion of the hand which waved him back, caught her in his arms like a baby, and had her safe on the shore ere she could utter a word ; nor did he stop until he had carried her to the slope of the sand-hill. There he set her gently down, and without a sus- picion of the liberty he was taking, and filled only with a passion of service, was proceeding to dry her feet with the jacket which he had dropped there as he ran to her assistance. " Let me alone, pray," said the girl with a half-amused indignation, draw- ing back her feet and throwing down a book she carried, that she might the MALCOLM. 17 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. Prob- ably she had never before been indebt- ed to such an ill-clad individual of the human race ; but even in such a dis- advantageous costume she could hardly help seeing that he was a fine fellow. Nor was the impression disturbed when he opened his mouth and spoke in the broad dialect of the country — softened and refined a little by the feeling of her presence — for she had no associations with it as yet to make her regard its homeliness as vulgarity. "Where's yer stockin's, mem?" he said, using his best English. "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 the ears of the Scotch lad. Before the words were well beyond her lips he was already on his way back to the rock, running with great, heavy- footed strides. The abandoned shoes and stockings were now in imminent danger of being floated off by the ris- ing water. He dashed in, swam a few strokes, caught them up, regained the shore, and, leaving a wet track all the way behind him, but carrying the res- cued clothing at arm's length before him, rejoined their owner. He spread his jacket out before her, laid the shoes and stockings upon it, and, observing that she continued to keep her feet hid- den under the skirt 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 far- ther in the business. Without a word or a turn of the head he walked away. Either flattered by his absolute obedi- ence, and persuaded that he was a true squire, or unwilling to forego what amusement she might gain from him, she drew in her half-issuing foot, and, certainly urged in part by an inherited disposition to tease, spoke again. "You're not going away without thanking me ?" she said. "What for, mem?" he returned sim- ply, standing stock-still with his back toward her. "You needn't stand so. You don't think I would go on dressing while you remained in sight ?" " I was as good's awa', mem," he said, and, turning a glowing face, looked at her for a moment, then cast his eyes on the ground. "Tell me what you mean by not thanking me," she insisted. " They wad be dull thanks, mem, that war thankit afore I kenned what for." " For allowing you to carry me ashore, of course." "Be thankit, mem, wi' a' my hert. Will I gang doon o' my k-nees ?" "No. Why should you go on your knees ?" " 'Cause ye're 'maist ower bonny to luik at stan'in', mem, an' I'm feared for angerin' ye." " Don't say ma'am to me : I'm not a married woman." "What am I to say, than, mem? — I ask yer pardon, mem." " Say • my lady.' That's how people speak to me." " I thocht ye bude [bcJiovcd) to be somebody by ordinar', my leddy ! That'll be hoo ye're so terrible bonny," he returned, with some tremulousness in his tone. " But ye maun put on yer hose, my leddy, or ye'll get yer feet cauld, and that's no guid for the likes o' you." The form of address she prescribed, conveyed to him no definite idea of rank. It but added intensity to the notion of her being a lady, as distinguished from one of the women of his own condition in life. "And pray what is to become of you,'' she returned, " with your clothes as wet as water can make them ?" " The saut water kens me ower weel to do me ony ill," returned the lad. " I gang weet to the skin mony a day frae mornin' till nicht, an' mony a nicht frae nicht till mornin' — at the heerin' fishin', ye ken, my leddy." i8 MALCOLM. Now what could tempt 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 his presence affected her 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 in- stinct 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: anyhow, in abso- lute simplicity, he went on : " I'm thinkin', my lady, that sma' fut o' yer ain has danced mony a braw dance on mony a braw flure." " How old do you take me for, then ?" she returned, and went on drawing the garment over her foot by the shortest possible stages. " Ye'll no be much ower twenty," he said. " I'm only sixteen," she returned, laughing merrily. "What w/// ye be or ye behaud !" he exclaimed after a brief pause of aston- ishment. " Do you ever dance in this part of the country ?" she asked, heedless of his surprise. " No that muckle, at least amo' the fisher-folks, excep' it be at a weddin'. I was at ane last nicht." " And did you dance ?" " 'Deed did I, my leddy. I danced the maist o' the lasses clean afif o' their legs." " What made you so cruel ?" " Weel, ye see, mem, — I mean my leddy — fowk said I was ill aboot the bride ; an' sae I bude to dance to put that cot o' their heids." " And how much truth was there in what they said ?" she asked, with a sly glance up in the handsome, now glow- ing face. " Gien there was ony, there was unco little," he replied. "The chield's wal- come till her for me. But she was the bonniest lassie we had. — It was what they ca' a penny waddin'," he went on, as if willing to change the subject. "And what's a penny wedding?" " It's a kin' o' a custom amo' the fishers. There's some gey puir fowk anion' 's, ye see, an' whan a tvva o' them merries, the lave o' 's wants to gie them a bit o' a start like. Sae we a' gang to the weddin', an' eats an' drinks plenty, an' pays for a' that we hae ; an' they mak' a guid profit oot o' 't, for the things doesna cost them nearhan' sae muckle as we pay. So they hae a guid han'fu' ower for the plenishin'." "And what do they give you to eat and drink .-'" asked the girl, making talk. " Ow skate an' mustard to eat, an' whusky to drink," answered the lad, laughing, " But it's mair for the fun. I dinna care muckle aboot whusky an' that kin' o' thing mysel'. It's the fiddles an' the dancin' 'at I like." " You have music, then ?" " Yes ; jist the fiddles an' the pipes." "The bagpipes, do you mean ?" " Yes ; my gran'father plays t/icjn." " But you're not in the Higljlands here : how come you to have bag- pipes ?" " It's a stray bag, an' no more. But the fowk here likes 't weel eneuch, an' hae 't to wauk them ilka mornin'. Yon was my gran'father ye heard afore I fired the gun. Yon was his pipes wauk- in' them, honest fowk." "And what made you fire the gun in that reckless way ? Don't you know it is very dangerous ?" "Dangerous, mem — my leddy, I mean ! There's nacthing intiU't but a pennyworth o' blastin' pooder. It wadna blaw the froth afif o' the tap o' a jaw '" {/>i7Am'). " It nearly blew me out of my small wits, though." " I'm verra sorry it frichtit ye. But MALCOLM. 19 gien I had seen j-e I could na hae helpit it, for I bude to fire the gun." " I don't understand you quite ; but I suppose you mean that it was your busi- ness to fire the gun." " Yes, my leddy." "Why?" " 'Cause it's been decreet i' the toon- cooncil that at sax 0' the clock ilka mornin' that gun's to be fired. Ye see it's a royal burgh, this, an' it costs but aboot a penny, an' it's gran' like to hae a sma* cannon to fire. Gien I was to neglec' it, my gran'father wad gang on skirlin' — what's the English for skirlin , my leddy — skirlin' o' the pipes ?" " I don't know. But from the sound of the word I should suppose it stands for screaming." " Ay, that's it ; only screamin'% no sae guid as skirlin'. My gran'father's an auld man, as I was gaein' to say, an' has hardly breath eneuch to fill the bag; but he wad be efter dirkin' ony- body 'at said sic a thing, and till he heard that gun he wad gang on blawin' though he sud burst himsel'. There's naebody kens the smeddum in an auld Hielan'man." By the time the conversation had reached this point the lady had got her shoes on, had taken up her book from the sand, and was now sitting with it in her lap. No sound reached them but that of the tide, for the scream of the bagpipes had ceased the moment the swivel was fired. The sun was grow- ing hot, and the sea, although so far in the cold north, was gorgeous in purple and green, suffused as with the over- powering pomp of a peacock's plumage in the sun. Away to the left the solid promontory trembled against the hori- zon, as if ready to melt away 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 uncon- scious bewilderment before the self-pos- session of the girl. She was younger than he, knew far less that was worth knowing, yet had a world of advantage over him — not merely from the effect of her presence on one who had never seen anything half so beautiful, but from a certain readiness of surface thought, combined with the sweet polish of her speech, and an assurance of superiority which appeared to 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 bricsqueness or even forwardness, was so tempered, so colored, so inter- preted by the tone of naivete in which she spoke, that it could give no offence. Whatever she said sounded in the youth's ears as 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 sug- gested gray; her complexion fair — a little freckled, which gave it the warm- est tint it had ; her nose nearly straight, her mouth rather large but well formed, and her forehead, as much of it as was to be seen under a garden-hat, rose with promise above a pair of dark and finely- penciled eyebrows. The description I have here given oc- cupies the space of a brief silence, during which the lad stood motionless, like one waiting further command. "Why don't you go?" said the lady. " I want to read my book." He gave a great sigh, as if waking from a pleasant dream, took off his bonnet with a clumsy movement which yet had in it a grace worthy of a Stuart court, and turned toward the sea-town. When he had gone about a couple of hundred yards, he looked back invol- untarily. The lady had vanished. He concluded that she had crossed to the other side of the mound ; but when he had gone so far on the way to the village as to clear the eastern end of the sand- hill, and there turned and looked up its southern slope, she was still nowhere to be seen. The old highland stories of MALCOLM. his grandfather crowded back upon him, and, ahogether human as she had ap- peared, he almost doubted whether the sea from which he had thought he res- cued her was not her native element. The book, however, not to mention the shoes and stockings, were against the supposition. Anyhow, he had seen a vision of some order or other, as cer- tainly as if an angel from heaven had appeared to him : 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 crea- ture, 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 oi far-off-7iess had he known her for the daughter of a king of the sea — one whose very ele- ment was essentially death to him as life to her. Still he walked home as if the heavy boots he wore were wings at his heels, like those of the little Eurus or Boreas that stood blowing his trumpet forever in the round open temple which from the top of a grassy hill in the park overlooked the sea-town. " Sic een !" he kept saying to himself; "an sic sma' white ban's! an' sic a bonny fut ! Eh ! hoo she wad glitter throu' the water in a bag net ! Faith ! gien she war to sing ' come doon ' to me, I wad gang. Wad that be to lowse baith sowl an' body, I wonner ? I'll see what Maister Graham says to that. It's a fine question to put till 'im : ' Gien a body was to gang wi' a mermaid, wha they say has nae sowl to be saved, wad that be the loss o' his, as weel's o' the bodily life o' 'm ?' " CHAPTER VI. DUNCAN MACl'HAIL. The sea-town of Portlossie was as irregular a gathering of small cottages as could be found on the surface of the globe. They faced every way, turned their backs and gables every way — only of the roofs could you predict the po- sition ; were divided from each other by every sort of small, irregular space and passage, and looked like a national as- sembly debating a constitution. Close behind the Seaton, as it was called, ran a highway, climbing far above the chim- neys of the village to the level of the town above. Behind this road, and sep- arated from it by a high wall of stone, lay a succession of heights covered with grass. In front of the cottages lay sand and sea. The place was cleaner than most fishing-villages, but so closely built, so thickly inhabited, and* so pervaded with "a very ancient and fish-like smell," that but for the besom of the salt north wind it must have been un- healthy. Eastward the houses could ex- tend no farther for the harbor, and west- ward no farther for a small river that crossed the sands to find the sea — dis- cursively and merrily at low water, but with a sullen, submissive mingling when banked back by the tide. Avoidingthemany 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 which stood with its gable seaward and its small window filled with a curious collection of things for sale — dusty-look- ing sweets in a glass bottle ; gingerbread cakes in the shape of large hearts, thick- ly studded with sugar-plums of rainbow colors, invitingly poisonous; strings of tin covers fortobacco-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 went in at its open door. But the moment it was entered it lost all appearance of a shop, and the room with the tempting window showed itself only as a poor kitchen with an earthen floor. " Weel, hoo did the pipes behave themsels the day, daddy ?" said the youth as he strode in. " Och, she '11 pe pcing a coot poy ta- day," returned the tremulous voice of a gray- headed old man who was lean- MALCOLM. ing 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 be- tween them that the pulmonary condi- tions of the asthmatic old piper should be attributed not to his internal, but his external lungs — namely, the bag of his pipes. Both sets had of late years mani- fested 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 exist- ence. The youth's question, then, as to the behavior of the pipes was in real- ity an inquiry after the condition of his grandfather's lungs, which grew yearly more and more asthmatic ; notwith- standing which old Duncan MacPhail, however, would not hear of giving up the dignity of town-piper, and sinking into a mere merchant, as in Scotland they denominate the smallest shopkeeper. " That's fine, daddy," returned the youth. " WuU I mak oot the parritch ? I'm thinkin' ye've had eneuch o' hing- in' ower the fire this het mornin'." " No, sir," answered Duncan. " She'll pe perfetly able to make ta parritch herself, my poy Malcolm. Ta tay will dawn when her poy must make his own parritch, an' she '11 bewantin' no more parritch ; but haf to trink ta rain- water, and no trop of ta uisgebeatha to put into it, my poy Malcolm." His grandson was quite accustomed to the old man's heathenish mode of regarding his immediate existence after death as a long confinement in the grave, and generally had a word or two ready wherewith to combat the frightful no- tion ; but, as he spoke, Duncan lifted the pot from the fire, and set it on its three legs on the deal table in the mid- dle of the room, adding : " Tere, my man — tere's ta parritch ! And was it putter, or traicle, or ta pottle o' peer, she would be havin' for kitchie tis fine mornin' .''" This point settled, the two sat down to eat their breakfast ; and no one would have discovered, from the manner in which the old man helped himself, nor yet from the look of his eyes, that he was stone-blind. It came neither of old age nor disease — he had been born blind. His eyes, although large and wide, looked like those of a sleep- walker — open with shut sense ; the shine in them was all reflected light — glitter, no glow; and their color was so pale that they suggested some horrible sight as having driven from them hue and vision together. " Haf you eated enough, my son?" he said, when he heard Malcolm lay down his spoon. "Ay, plenty, thank ye, daddy, and they were richt weel made," replied the lad, whose mode of speech was entirely different from his grandfather's : the lat- ter had learned English as a foreign lan- guage, and could not speak Scotch, his mother-tongue being Gaelic. As they rose from the table, a small girl, with hair wildly suggestive of in- surrection and conflagration, entered, and said, in the screech with which the thoughtless often address the blind : " Maister MacPhail, my mither wants a pot o' bleckin', an' ye 're to gie her 't gweed." " Fery coot, my chilt, Jeannie ; but young Malcolm an' old Tuncan hasn't made teir prayers yet, and you know fery well tat she won't sell pefore she's made her prayers. Tell your mother tat she '11 pe bringin' ta blackin' when she comes to look to ta lamp." The child ran off without response. Malcolm lifted the pot from the table and set it on the hearth ; put the plates together and the spoons, and set them on a chair, for there was no dresser ; tilted the table, and wiped it hearthward ; then from a shelf took down and laid upon it a Bible, before which he seated himself with an air of reverence. The old man sat down on a low chair by the chimney corner, took off his bonnet, closed his eyes and murmured some almost inaudible words ; then repeated in Gaelic the first line of the hundred and third psalm — O m' anam, beannich thusa nish — MALCOLM. and raised a tune of marvelous wail. Arrived at the end of the line, he re- peated the process with the next, and so on, giving every line first in the voice of speech and then in the voice of song, through the first three stanzas of eight lines each. No less strange was the singing than the tune — wild and wail- ful as the wind of his native desola- tions, 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 end- lessly 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 con- fluent sound which had hitherto rendered it impossible for Malcolm to learn more than a few common phrases of his grandfather's native speech. The psalm over, during which the sightless eyeballs of the singer had been turned up toward the rafters of the cot- tage — a sign surely thatthegerm of light, "the sunny seed," as Henry Vaughan calls it, must be in him, else why should he lift his eyes when he thought up- ward ? — Malcolm read a chapter of the Bible, plainly the next in an ordered succession, for it could never have been chosen or culled ; after which they kneeled together, and the old man poured out a prayer, beginning in a low, scarcely audible voice, which rose at length to a loud, modulated chant. Not a sentence, hardly a phrase of the ut- terance, did his grandson lay hold of; neither was there more than one inhab- itant of the place who could have inter- preted a word of it. It was commonly believed, however, that one part of his devotions was invariably a prolonged petition for vengeance on Campbell of Glenlyon, the main instrument in the massacre of Glenco. He could have prayed in English, so that his grandson might have joined in his petitions, but such an idea could never have presented itself. Under- standing both languages, he used that which was unintelligible to the lad, yet regarded himself as the party who had the right to resent the consequent schism. Such a conversation as now followed was no new thing after prayers. " I could fery well wish, Malcolm, my son," said the old man, "tat you would be learnin' to speak your own lan- cuach. It is all fery well for ta Sassen- ach iySaxon, i.e., non-Celtic) podies to read ta Piple in English, for it will pe pleasing ta Almighty not to make tern cawpable of ta Gaelic, no more tan mon- keys ; but for all tat it's not ta vord of God. Ta Gaelic is ta lancuach of ta car- den of Aiden, and no doubt but it pe ta lancuach in which ta Shepherd calls his sheep on ta everlastin' hills. You see, Malcolm, it must be so, for how can a mortal man speak to his God in any thing put Gaelic 1 When Mr. Graham — no, not Mr. Graham, ta coot man ; it was ta new minister — he speak an' say to her: 'Mr. MacPhail, you ought to say your prayers in Enclish,' I was fery wrathful, and I answered and said : ' Mr. Downey, do you tare to suppose tat God doesn't prefer ta Gaelic to ta Sassenach tongue?' — 'Mr. MacPhail,' says he, 'it '11 pe for your poy I mean it. How's ta lad to learn ta way of salfation if you speak to your God in his presence in a strange tongue ?' So I was opedient to his vord, and ta next efening I tid kneel town in Sassenach and I tid try. But, ochone ! she wouldn't go ; her tongue would be cleafing to ta roof of her niouth ; ta claymore would be sticking rusty in ta scabbard ; for her heart she was ashamed to speak to ta Hielan'- man's Maker in ta Sassenach tongue. You must learn ta Gaelic, or you'll not pe pcing worthy to be peing her nain son, Malcolm." "But, daddy, wha's to learn me?" asked his grandson, gayly. " Learn you, Malcolm ! Ta Gaelic is ta lancuach of Nature, and wants no learnin'. /nefer had any learnin' ; yet I nefer haf to say to myself, ' What is it I would be saying ?' when I speak ta Gaelic ; put I always haf to set ta tead men — that is ta vords — on their feet, and put tern in pattle-array again, when I would pe speakin' ta dull mechanic English. When 1 open my mouth to MALCOLM. 23 it, ta Gaelic comes like a spring of pure water, Malcolm. Ta plenty of it jmist run out. Try it now, Malcolm. Shust oppen your mouth in ta Gaelic shape, and see if ta Gaelic will not pe falling from it." Seized with a merry fit, Malcolm did open his mouth in the Gaelic shape, and sent from it a strange gabble, imitative of the most frequently recurring sounds of his grandfather's speech. " How will that do, daddy ?" he asked, after jabbering gibberish for the space of a minute. " It will not pe paad for a beginner, Malcolm. She cannot say it shust pe vorts, or tat tere pe much of ta sense in it ; but it pe fery like what ta pabes say pefore tey pekin to speak it properly. So it's all fery well, and if you will only pe putting your mouth in ta Gaelic shape often enough, ta sounds will soon pe taking ta shape of it, and ta vorts will pe coming trough ta mists, and pefore you know you'll pe peing a creat credit to your cranfather, my boy Malcolm." A silence followed, for Malcolm's at- tempt had not had the result he antici- pated : he had thought only to make his grandfather laugh. Presently the old man resumed, in the kindest voice : "And tere's another thing, Malcolm, tat's much wanting to you : you'll never pe a man — not to speak of a pard like your cranfather — if you'll not pe learn- ing to play on ta bagpipes." Malcolm, who had been leaning against the chitnley-htg while his grand- father spoke, moved gently round be- hind 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, and with a few vigorous blasts filled the bag. Then out burst the double droning bass, and the youth's fingers, clutching the chanter as by the throat, at once com- pelled its screeches into shape far better, at least, than his lips had been able to give the crude material of Gaelic. He played the only reel he knew, but that with full vigor and good effect. At the sound of the first of the notes of it, 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. Ever and anon, with feeble yell, he ut- tered the unspellable Hoogh of the High- lander, and jumped, as he thought, high in the air, though his failing limbs, alas ! lifted his feet scarce an inch from the floor. "Aigh! aigh!" he sighed at length, yielding the contest between his legs and the lungs of the lad — "aigh ! aigh ! she'll die happy ! she'll die happy ! Hear till her poy, how he makes ta pipes speak ta true Gaelic ! Ta pest o' Gaelic, tat! Old Tuncan's pipes '11 not know how to be talking Sassenach. See to it ! See to it ! He had put to blow in at ta one end, and out came ta reel at ta tother. Hoogh ! hoogh ! Play us ta Righil Thulachan, Malcolm, my chief!" " I kenna reel, strathspey, nor lilt, but jist that burd alane, daddy." " Give tem to me, my poy !" cried the old piper, reaching out a hand as eager to clutch the uncouth instrument as the miser's to finger his gold : " hear well to me as I play, an' you'll soon be able to play dance or coronach with the best piper petween Cape Wrath and ta Mull o' Cantyre." Duncan played tune after tune until his breath failed him, and an exhausted grunt of the drone in the middle of a coronach, followed by an abrupt pause, revealed the emptiness of both lungs and bag. Then first he remembered his ob- ject, forgotten the moment he began to play. " Now, Malcolm," he said, offering the pipes to his grandson, "you play tat after me." 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 tortu- ous mazes. " I haena a memory up to that, dad- dy ; but I s' get a haud o' Mr. Graham's flute-music, and maybe that'll help me a bit. — Wadna ye be takin' hame Mistress Partan's blackin' 'at ye promised her?" " Surely, my son. She should always be keeping her promises." 24 MALCOLM. He rose, and getting a small stone bottle and his stick from the corner between the projecting mgle-cheek and the window, left the house, to walk with unerring steps through the labyrinth of the village, threading his way from pas- sage to passage, avoiding pools and pro- jecting stones, not to say houses, and human beings who did not observe his approach. His eyes, or his whole face, appeared to possess an ethereal sense as of touch, for without the slightest con- tact in the ordinary sense of the word, he was aware of the neighborhood of material objects, as if through the pulsa- tions of some medium to others impercep- tible. He could, with perfect accuracy, tell the height of any wall or fence with- in a few feet of him ; could perceive at once whether it was high or low or half tide, by going out in front of the houses and turning his face, with its sightless eyeballs, toward the sea ; knew whether a woman who spoke to him had a child in her arms or not; and, indeed, if she was about to be a mother, was believed to become at once aware of the fact. He was a strange figure to look upon in that lowland village, for he invariably wore the highland dress : in truth, he had never had a pair of trowsers on his legs, and was far from pleased that his grand- son clothed himself in such contempt- ible garments. But, contrasted with the showy style of his costume, there was something most pathethic in the blended pallor of hue into which the originally gorgeous colors of his kilt had faded — noticeable chiefly on week-days, when he wore no sporran ; for the kilt, en- countering, from its loose construction, comparatively little strain or friction, may reach an age unknown to the gar- ments of the low country, and, while perfectly decent, yet look ancient ex- ceedingly. On Sundays, however, he made the best of himself, and came out like a belated and aged butterfly, in his father's sporran, or tasseled goatskin purse, in front of him, his grandfather's dirk at his side, his great-grandfather's skcne-dhii, 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. Gra- ham said, as old as the battle of Harlaw — on his left shoulder. In these adorn- ments he would walk proudly to church, leaning on the arm of his grandson. "The piper's gey [cojisiderably) brok- ken-like the day," said one of the fisher- men's wives to a neighbor as the old man passed them, the fact being that he had not yet recovered from his second revel in the pipes so soon after the ex- haustion of his morning's duty, and was, in consequence, more asthmatic than usual. " I doobt he'll be slippin' awa' some cauld nicht," said the other: "his leev- in' breath 's ill to get." "Ay; he has to warstle for 't, puir man ! Weel, he'll be missed, the blin' body ! It's exterordinar hoo he's man- aged to live, an' bring up sic a fine lad as that Ma'colm o' his." "Weel, ye see. Providence has been kin' till him as weel 's ither blin' craters. The toon's pipin' 's no to be despised; an' there's the cryin', an' the chop, an' the lamps. 'Deed he's been an eident [diligeni) crater — an' for a blin' man, as ye say, it's jist exterordinar." " Div ye min' whan first he cam' to the toon, lass ?" "Ay; what wad hinner me min'in' that? It's no sae lang." "Weel, Ma'colm, 'at's sic a fine lad noo, they tell me wasna muckle big- ger nor a gey haddie" [tolerable had- dock). " But the auld man was an auld man than, though nae doobt he's unco failed sin syne." / " A dochter's bairn, they say, the lad." "Ay, they say, but wha kens ? Dun- can could never be gotten to open his mou' as to the father or mither o' 'm, an' sae it weel may be as they say. It's nigh twenty year noo, I'm thinkin', sin' he made 's appearance, and ye wasna come frae Scaurnose at that time." "Some fowk says the auld man's name's no MacPhail, and he maun hae come here in hidin' for some rouch job or ither 'at he's been mixed up wi'." "I s' believe nae ill o' sic a puir, hairmlcss body. Fowk 'at maks their MALCOLM. 25 ain livin', wantin' thee een to guide them, canna be that far aff the straucht. Guid guide 's ! we hae eneuch to answer for oor ainsels, ohn passed [ivif/umi pass- ing) judgment upo' ane anither." "I was but tclHn' ye what fowk telled me," returned the younger woman. "Ay, ay, lass; I ken that, for I ken there was fowk to tell ye." I^J^IE^T TI. CHAPTER VII. ALEXANDER GRAHAM. AS soon as his grandfather left the house, Malcolm went out also, clos- ing the door behind him, and turning the key, but leaving it in the lock. He ascended to the upper town — only, how- ever, 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 noth- ing 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 ques- tions, 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 with- out noting, and heard without heeding, for his mind was full of speculation con- cerning the lovely girl, whose vision already appeared far off: — who might she be ? whence had she come ? whither could she have vanished ? That she did not belong to the neighborhood was cer- tain, he thought ; but there was a farm- house near the sea-town where they let lodgings ; and, although it was early in the season, she might belong to some family which had come to spend a few of the summer weeks there : possibly his appearance had prevented her from hav- ing 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, ut- terly secluded, with a floor of deep sand, and without a hole for crab or lobster. 26 His road led him in the direction of a few cottages lying in a hollow. Beside them rose a vision of trees, bordered by an ivy-grown wall, from amidst whose summits shot the spire of a church ; and from beyond the spire, through the trees, came golden glimmers as of vane and crescent and pinnacled ball, that hinted at some shadowy abode of enchantment within ; but as he descended the slope toward the cottages the trees gradually rose and shut in everything. These cottages were far more ancient than the houses of the town, were cov- ered with green thatch, were buried in ivy, and would soon be radiant with roses and honeysuckles. They were gathered irregularly about a gate of curious old iron-work, opening on the churchyard, but more like an entrance to the grounds behind the church, for it told of ancient state, bearing on each of its pillars a great stone heron with a fish in its beak. This was the quarter whence had come the noises of children, but they had now ceased, or rather sunk into a gentle mur- mur, which oozed, like the sound of bees from a straw-covered beehive, out of a cottage rather larger than the rest, which stood close by the churchyard gate. It was the parish school, and these cottages were all that remained of the old town> of Portlossie, which had at one time stretched in a long irregular street al- most 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 dqys in which few would venture the single mile that separated them. The door of the school, bisected longi- tudinally, had one of its halves open, and" by it outflowed the gentle hum of MALCOLM. 27 the honey-bees of learning. Malcobn 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 vanish- ed 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 school- master, 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 tail-coat and clean white neck-cloth : 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 sug- gestive of the purification of sorrow, but were attributed by the townsfolk to dis- appointment ; for he was still but a school- master, 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 him- self perfectly able to provide for both for ten years to come at least, in proof of which he roused the inhabitants of Port- lossie, 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 ex- postulation 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 grand- father's place ; for Duncan lived in con- stant dread of the hour when his office might be taken from him and conferred on a mere drummer, or, still worse, on a certain ne'er-do-weel cousin of the pro- vost, so devoid of music as to be capable only of ringing a bell. " I've had an invitation to Miss Camp- bell's funeral — INIiss Horn's cousin, you know," said Mr. Graham, in a hesitating and subdued voice : "could you manage to take the school for me, Malcolm ?" " Yes, sir. There's naething to hinner me. What day is 't upo' ?" "Saturday." "Veraweel, sir. I s' be here in guid time." This matter settled, the business of the school, in which, as he did often, Mal- colm 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 con- science were, he said, the plains of Ar- mageddon, where the battle of good and evil was for ever raging ; and the one business of a teacher was to rouse and urge this battle by leading fresh forces of the truth into the field — forces com- posed 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 MALCOLM. doctrine in that light which only obedi- ence 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 prac- tically. 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 cham- pion, and the launching of him with a Godspeed 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 schol- ars in turn taking a verse, was over. An apparently universal expression of assent followed ; halting in its wake, however, came the voice of a boy near the bottom of the class : "Wasna he some dooble, sir?" "You are right, Sheltie," said the mas- ter; "he was double. I must, I find, put the question in another shape : Was Jacob a bad man ?" Again came such a burst of yesses that it might have been taken for a general hiss. But limping in the rear came again the half-dissentient voice of Jamie Joss, whom the master had just addressed as Sheltie : "Pairtly, sir." "You think, then, Sheltie, that a man may be both bad and good ?" " I dinna ken, sir. I think he may be whiles ane an' whiles the ither, an' whiles maybe it wad be ill to say whilk. Oor collie's whiles in twa min's whether he'll du what he's telled or no." "That's the battle of Armageddon, Sheltie, my man. It's aye ragin', ohn gun roared or bagonet clashed. Ye maun up an' do yer best in't, my man. Gien ye dee fechtin' like a man, ye'll flee up wi' a quaiet face an' wi' wide open een ; an' there's a great Ane 'at '11 say to ye, ' Wccl dune, laddie !'' But gien ye gie in to the enemy, he'll turn ye intill a creepin' thing 'at eats dirt ; an' there '11 no be a hole in a' the crystal wa' o' the New Jerusalem near eneuch to the grun' to lat ye creep throu'." As soon as ever Alexander Graham, the polished thinker and sweet-manner- ed gentleman, opened his mouth con- cerning the things he loved best, that moment the most poetic forms came pouring out in the most rugged speech. "I reckon, sir," said Sheltie, "Jacob hadna fouchten oot his battle." " That's jist it, my boy. And because he wouldna get up and fecht manfully, God had to tak him in han'. Ye've heard tell o' generals, whan their troops war rinnin' awa'.haein' to cut this man doon, shute that ane, and lick anither, till he turned them a' richt face aboot and drave them on to the foe like a spate ! And the trouble God took wi' Jacob was na lost upon him at last." "An' what cam o' Esau, sir?" asked a pale-faced maiden with blue eyes. " He wasna an ill kin' o' a chield — was he, sir ?" "No, Mappy," answered the master ; "he was a fine chield, as you say; but he nott [jteeded) mair time and gentler treatment to mak onything o' him. Ye see he had a guid hert, but was a duller kin' o' cratur a'thegither, and cai'ed for naething he could na see or hanle. He never thoucht muckie about God at a'. Jacob was anither sort — a poet kin' o' a man, but a sneck-drawin' cratur for a' that. It was easier, hooever, to get the slyness oot o' Jacob, than the dullness oot o' Esau. Punishment tellt upo' Ja- cob like upon a thin - skinned horse, whauras Esau was mair like the minis- ter's powny, that can hardly be niade to unnerstan' that ye want him to gang on. But o' the ither han', dullness is a thing than can be borne wi' : there's na hurry aboot that ; but the deceitfu' tricks o' Jacob war na to be endured, and sae the tawse [leather strap) cam doon upo' hiiny "An' what for didna God mak Esau as clever as Jacob ?" asked a wizened- faced boy near the top of the class. "Ah, my Peery!" said Mr. Graham, " I canna tell ye that. A' that I can tell is, that God hadna dune makin' at him, an' some kin' o' fowk tak langcr to mak oot than ithcrs. An' ye canna tell what they're to be till they're made oot. But whether what I tell ye be richt or no MALCOLM. 29 God maun hae the verra best o' rizzons for 't, ower-guid maybe for us to unner- stan' — the best o' rizzons for Esau him- sel', I mean, for the Creator luiks efter his cratur first ava' (of all). — And now," conckided Mr. Graham, resuming his Enghsh, "go to your lessons; and be dihgent, that God may think it worth while to get on faster with the making of you." In a moment the class M'as dispersed and all were seated. In another, the sound of scuffling arose, and fists were seen storming across a desk. "Andrew Jamieson and Poochy, come up here," said the master in a loud voice. "//z." "How did you get in then?" asked the marquis. " I gat in, my lord — " began Malcolm, and ceased. "How did you get in?" repeated the marquis. "Ow! there's mony w'ys o' winnin' in, my lord. The last time I cam in but ane, it was 'maist ower the carcass 0' Johnny there, wha wad fain hae hauden me oot, only he hadna my blin' daddy ahint him to ile 's jints." "An' dinna ye ca' t/iat brakin' in?" said Bykes. "Na; there was naething to brak, "cep 68 MALCOLM. it had been your banes, Johnny ; an' that wad hae been a peety — they're sae guid for rinnin' wi'," "You had no right to enter against the will of my gatekeeper," said his lord- ship. "What is a gatekeeper for ?" " I had a richt, my lord, sae lang 's I was upo' my leddy's business." "And what was my lady's business, pray?" questioned the marquis. " I faun' a buik upo' the links, my lord, which was like to be hers, wi' the twa beasts 'at stans at yer lordship's door in- side the brod [board) o' 't. An' sae it turned oot to be whan I took it up to the Hoose. There's the half-croon she gae me." Little did Malcolm think where the daintiest of pearly ears were listening, and the brightest of blue eyes looking down, half in merriment, a quarter in anxiety, and the remaining quarter in interest ! On a landing half way up the stair, stood Lady Florimel, peeping over the balusters, afraid to fix her eyes upon him lest she should make him look up. "Yes, yes, I 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." "Weel, I hev, my lord." " Then I must insist on your doing so." "Weel, I jist winna, my lord. It was a' straucht foret an' fair ; an' gien yer lordship war i' my place, ye wadna say mair yersel'." " He's been after one of the girls about the place," whispered the marquis to the gamekeeper. "Speir at him, my lord, gien 't please yer lordship, what it was he hed in 's han' whan he lap the park-wa'," said Bykes. "Gien 't be a' ane till 's lordship," said Malcolm, without looking at Bykes, "it wad be better no to speir, for it gangs sair agen me to refeese him." " 1 should like to know," said the mar- quis. "Ye maun trust me, my lord, that I was efter no ill. I gie 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 behavior. "To ken what a body's word 's worth ye maun trust him first, my lord. It's no muckle trust I want o' ye : it comes but to this — that I hae rizzons, guid to me, an' no ill to you gien ye kent them, for not answerin' yer lordship's questons. I'm no denyin' a word 'at Johnny Bykes says. I never hard the cratur ca'd a leear. He's but a cantankerous argle- barglous body — no fit to be a gatekeep- er, 'cep it was up upo' the Binn-side, whaur 'maist naebody gangs oot or in. He wad maybe be safter-hertit till a fel- low-cratur syne." "Would you have him let in all the tramps in the countiy .''" said the mar- quis. " De'il ane o' them, my lord ; but I wad hae him no trouble the likes o' me 'at fesses the fish to yer lordship's brak- wast : sic 's no like to be efter mischeef." "There is some glimmer of sense in what you say," returned his lordship. " But you know it won't do to let any- body that pleases get over the park-walls. Why didn't you go out at the gate ?" "The burn was atween nie an' hit, an' it's a lang road roon'." "Well, I must lay some penalty upon you, to deter others," said the marquis. " Verra weel, my lord. Sae lang 's it's fair, I s' bide it ohn grutten {^without weeping).'' "It sha'n't be too hard. It's just this — to give John Bykes the thrashing he deserves, as soon as you're out of sight of the House." " Na, na, my lord ; I canna do that," said Malcolm. "So you're afraid of him, after all !" " Feared at Johnnie Bykes, my lord ! Ha! ha!" "You threatened him a minute ago, and now, when I give you leave to thrash him, you decline the honor!" "The disgrace, my lord. He's an aulder man, an' no abune Jialf the size. But fegs ! gien he says anithcr word agen my gran'father, I will gie 's neck a bit thraw," MALCOLM. 69 "Well, well, be off with you both," said the marquis, rising. No one heard the rustle of Lady Flo- rimel's dress as she sped up the stair, thinking within 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 con- cerned. 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 Mal- colm that he would have been satisfied with his reasons, and would not have been indignant with the fellow for pre- suming even to be silent concerning his daughter. Indeed, Lady Florimel her- self felt somewhat irritated with him, as having brought her into the awkward situation of sharing a secret with a youth of his position. CHAPTER XVITI. THE QUARREL. For a few days the weather was dull and unsettled, with cold flaws and an occasional sprinkle of rain. But after came a still gray morning, warm and hopeful, and ere noon the sun broke out, the mists vanished, and the day was glorious in blue and gold. Malcolm had been to Scaurnose, to see his friend Joseph Mair, and was descending the steep path down the side of the prom- ontory, 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 aproached her with an assurance he had never mani- fested before, and her head was bent motionless over her book when he stood and addressed her. "My leddy," he began, with his bon- net by his knee. "Well?" she returned, without even lifting her eyes, for, with the inherited privilege of her rank, she could be inso- lent with coolness, and call it to mind without remorse. " I houp the bit buikie wasna muckle the waur, my leddy," he said. " 'Tis of no consequence," she re- plied. "Gien it war mine, I wadna think sae," he returned, eyeing her anxiously. " — Here's yer leddyship's pocket-nep- kin," he went on. " I hae keepit it ready rowed up, ever sin' my daddy washed it oot. It's no ill dune for a blin' man, as ye'll see, an' I ironed it mysel' as weel 's I cud." 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 yon'' and a second drop- ping of her eyes that seemed meant to close the interview. "I doobt my company 's no welcome the day, my leddy," said Malcolm with trembling voice ; "but there's ae thing I maun refar till. Whan I took hame yer leddyship's bulk the ither day, ye sent me a half a croon by the han' o' yer servan' lass. Afore her I wasna gaein' to disal- loo onything ye pleased wi' regaird to me ; an' I thocht wi' mysel' it was may- be necessar' for yer leddyship's dignity an' the luik o' things — " " How dare you hint at any under- standing between you and me ?" exclaim- ed the girl in cold anger. " Lord, mem ! what hev I said to fcss sic a fire-flaucht oot o' yer bonny een ? I thocht ye only did it 'cause ye wad na like to luik shabby afore the lass — no giein' onything to the lad 'at brocht ye yer ain — an' lippened to me to unnerstan' 70 MALCOLM. 'at ye did it but for the luik o' the thing. as I say." He had taken the coin from his pocket, and had been busy while he spoke rub- bing it in a handful of sand, so that it was bright as new when he now offered it. "You are quite mistaken," she rejoin- ed, ungraciously. "You insult me by supposing I meant you to return it." "Div ye think I cud bide to be paid for a turn till a neebor, lat alane the lift- in' o' a bulk till a leddy ?" said Malcolm with keen mortification. " That wad be to despise mysel' frae keel to truck. I like to be paid for my wark, an' I like to be paid well ; but no a plack by sic-like [beyo7td such) sail stick to my loof (/«/;//). It can be no offence to gie ye back yer half-croon, my leddy." And again he offered the coin. "I don't in the least see why, on your own principles, you shouldn't take the money," said the girl, with more than the coldness of an uninterested umpire. "You worked for it, I'm sure— first ac- companying me home in such a storm, and then finding the book and bringing it back all the way to the house !" "'Deed, my leddy, sic a doctrine wad tak a' grace oot o' the earth ! What wad this life be worth gien a' was to be peyed for? I wad cut my throat afore I wad bide in sic a warl'. — Tak yer half-croon, my leddy," he concluded, in a tone of entreaty. But the energetic outburst was suf- ficing, in such her mood, only to the dis- gust of Lady Florimel. "Do anything with the money you please ; only go away, and don't plague me about it," she said freezingly. "What can I du wi' what 1 wadna pass tlirou' my fingers?" said Malcolm with the patience of deep disappointment. "Give it to some poor creature: you know some one who would be glad of it, I dare say." "I ken mony ane, my leddy, wham it wad weel become yer ain bonny han' to gie 't till; but I'm no gaein' to tak' credit fer a Iceberality that wad ill be- come me." "You can tell how you earned it." "And profess mysel' disgraced by takin' a reward frae a born leddy for what I wad hae dune for ony beggar wife i' the Ian' ! Na, na, my leddy." "Your services are certainly flattering, when you put me on a level with any beggar in the country !" "In regaird o' sic service, my leddy : ye ken weel eneuch what I mean. Obleege me by takin' back yer siller." "How dare you ask me to take back what I once gave ?" "Ye cudna hae kent what ye was doin' whan ye gae 't, my leddy. Tak it back, an tak a hunnerweicht afif o' my hert." 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 dis- tance, and again sought her book. Malcolm looked at her for a moment, then turned his face toward the sea, and for another moment stood silent. Lady Florimel glanced up, but Malcolm was unaware of her movement. He lifted his hand, and looked at the half-crown gleaming on his palm ; then, with a sudden poise of his body, and a sudden fierce action of his arm, he sent the coin, swift with his heart's repudiation, across the sands into the tide. Ere it struck the water, he had turned, and, with long stride but low-bent head, walked away. A pang shot to Lady Florimel's heart. "Malcolm !" she cried. He turned instantly, came slowly back, and stood erect and silent before her. She must say something. Her eye fell on the little parcel beside her, and she spoke the first thought that came. "Will you take this?" she said, and offered him the handkerchief. In a dazed way he put out his hand and took it, staring at it as if he did not know what it was. "It's some sair!" he said at length, wit'n a motion of his hands as if to grasp his head between them. "Ye winna tak even the washin' o' a pocket-nepkin frae me, an* ye wad gar me tak a haill half- croon frae yersel' ! Mem, ye're a gran' leddy an' a bonny; an ye hae turns aboot yc, gien 'twar but the set o' yer MALCOLM. held, 'at micht gar an angel lat fa' what he was camin', but afore I wad affront ane that wantit naething o' me but gude will, I wad — I wad — raither be the fisher- lad that I am." A weak-kneed peroration, truly; but Malcom 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 com- monly received as a very great favor in- deed." "Gien I hae made a mistak, my leddy, I micht weel mak it, no bein' a gentle- man, and no bein' used to the traitment o' ane. But I doobt gien a gentleman wad ha' surmised what ye was efter wi' yer neepkin, gien ye had offert him half a croon first." "Oh yes, he would — perfectly!" said Florimel with an air of offence. "Then, my leddy, for the first time i' my life, I wish I had been born a gen- tleman." "Then I certainly wouldn't have given it you," said Florimel with perversity. "What for no, my leddy? I dinna unnerstan' ye again. There maun be an unco differ atween 's I" " Because a gentleman would have presumed on such a favor." "I'm glaidder nor ever 'at I wasna born ane," said Malcolm, and, slowly stooping, he lifted the handkerchief; " an' I was aye glaid o' that, my leddy, 'cause gien I had been, I wad hae been luikin' doon upo' workin' men like my- sel' as gien they warna freely o' the same flesh an' blude. But I beg yer leddy- ship's pardon for takin' ye up amiss. An' sae lang's I live, I'll regaird this as ane o' her fedders 'at the angel moutit as she sat by the bored craig. An' whan I'm deid, I'll hae 't laid upo' my face, an' syne, maybe, I may get a sicht o' ye as I pass. Guid-day, my leddy." " Good-day," she returned kindly. " I wish my father would let me have a row in your boat." " It's at yer service whan ye please, my leddy," said Malcolm. One who had caught a glimpse of the shining yet solemn eyes of the youth, as he walked home, would wonder no long- er that he should talk as he did — so se- dately, yet so poetically — so long-wind- edly, if you like, yet so sensibly — even wisely. Lady Florimel lay on the sand, and sought again to read the Faerie Quee7ie. 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 han-est 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 An- adyomene might lift her shining head from the wandering floor, and float away in her pearly lustre to gladden the regions where the glaciers glide seaward in irre- sistible silence, there to give birth to the icebergs in tumult and thunderous up- roar. 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 deep- ened 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 com- panionless liberty ? Had the long stan- zas, bound by so many interwoven links of rhyme, ending in long Alexandrines, the long cantos, the lingering sweetness long drawn out through so many unend- ed books, begun to wearj^ 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 favor- ite horse ? Whatever might be her thoughts or 72 MALCOLM. feelings at this moment, it remained a fact, that Florimel Colonsay, the daugh- ter 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 rem- nants of large masses worn down by wind, wave and weather, he heard his own name uttered by an unpleasant voice, and followed by a more unpleas- ant laugh. He knew both the voice and the laugh, and, turning, saw Mrs. Catanach, seated, apparently busy with her knitting, in the shade of the rock. ^"Weel?" he said curtly. " Weel ! — Set ye up! — Wha's yon ye was play-actin' wi' oot yonner?" "Wha telled ye to speir. Mistress Cat- anach ?" "Ay, ay, laad ! Ye'll be abune speyk- in' till an auld wife efter coUoguin' wi' a yoong ane, an' sic a ane ! Isna she iDonny, Malkie ? Isna hers a winsome shape an' a lauchin' ee ? Didna she draw ye on, an' luik i' the hawk's-een o' ye, an' lay herself oot afore ye, an' — ?" "She did naething o' the sort, ye ill- tongued wuman !" said Malcolm in anger. " Ho ! ho !" trumpeted Mrs. Catanach. " Ill-tongued, am 1 ? An' what neist?" " 111 - dcedit," returned Malcolm — " whan ye flang my bonny salmon-troot till yer oogly deevil o' a dog." "Ho! ho! ho! lU-deedit, am I ? I s' no forget thae bonny names ! Maybe yer lordship wad alloo me the leeberty o' speirin' anither question at ye, Ma'- colm MacPhail ?" "Ye may speir 'at ye like, sae lang 's ye canna gar me stan' to hearken. Guid- day to ye, Mistress Catanach. Yer com- pany was nane o' my seekin' : I may lea' 't whan I like." "Uinna ye be ower sure o' that," she called after him venomously. But Malcolm turned his head no more. As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs. Catanach rose, ascended the dune, and propelled her rotundity along the yield- ing top of it. When she aiTived within speaking distance of Lady Florimel, who lay lost in her dreary regard of sand and sea, she paused for a moment, as if con- templating her. Suddenly, almost by Lady Florimel's side, as if he had risen from the sand, stood the form of the mad laird. "1 dinna ken whaur I come frae," he said. Lady Florimel started, half rose, and seeing the dwarf so near, and on the other side of her a repulsive-looking wo- man staring at her, sprung to her feet and fled. The same instant the mad laird, catching sight of Mrs. Catanach, gave a cry of misery, thrust his fingers in his ears, darted down the other side of the dune, and sped along the shore. Mrs. Catanach shook with laughter. " I hae skailled {^dispersed) the bonny doos !" she said. Then she called aloud after the flying girl, — "Myleddy! My bonny leddy !" Florimel paid no heed, but ran straight for the door of the tunnel, and vanished. Thence leisurely climbing to the temple of the winds, she looked down from a height of safety upon the shore and the retreating figure of Mrs. Catanach. Seat- ing herself by the pedestal of the trump- et-blowing Wind, she assayed her read- ing again, but was again startled — this time by a rough salute from Demon. Presently her father appeared, and Lady Florimel felt something like a pang of relief at being found there, and not on the farther side of the dune making it up with Malcolm. CHAPTER XIX. DUNCAN'S PIPES. A FEW days after the events last nar- rated, a footman in the marquis's livery entered the Seaton, snuffing with em- phasized discomposure the air of the vil- lage, all-ignorant of the risk ho ran in thus openly manifesting his feelings ; for the women at least were good enough citizens to resent any indignity offered their town. As vengeance would have it, Meg Partan was the first of whom, with supercilious airs and "clippit" MALCOLM. n tongue, he requested to know where a certain blind man, who played on an in- strument called the bagpipes, lived. "Spit i' yer loof an' caw [search) for him," she answered — a reply of which he understood the tone and one disagree- able word. With reddeiiing cheek he informed her that he came on his lord's business. "I dinna doobt it," she retorted; "ye luik sic-like as rins ither fowk's eeran's." " I should be obliged if you would in- form me where the man lives," returned the lackey — with polite words in super- cilious tones. "What d' ye want wi' hitn, honest man ?" grimly questioned the Partaness, the epithet referring to Duncan, and not the questioner. "That I shall have the honor of in- forming himself," he replied. "Weel, ye can hae the honor o' in- formin' yersel' whaur he bides," she re- joined, 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 be- fore the marquis by Bykes, and had in some measure comprehended the nature of the youth : it was in politest phrase, and therefore entirely to Duncan's satis- faction in regard to the manner as well as matter of the message, that he re- quested Mr. Duncan MacPhail's attend- ance on the marquis the following even- ing at six o'clock, to give his lordship and some distinguished visitors the pleas- ure 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 con- siderably distorted by Gaelic pronuncia- tion and idioms, was yet sufficiently in- telligible to the messenger, who carried home the substance for the satisfaction of his master, and what he could of the form for the amusement of his fellow- servants. Duncan, although he received it with perfect calmness, was yet overjoyed at the invitation. He had performed once or twice before the late marquis, and having ever since assumed the style of Piper to the Marquis of Lossie, now re- garded 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 cot- tage, spread for them between his chair and the wall, and, though cautiously mindful of its age and proved infirmity, filled the bag full, and burst into such a triumphant onset of battle that all the children of the Seaton were in a few minutes crowded about the door. He had not played above five minutes, how- ever, when the love of finery natural to the Gael, the Gaul and the Galatian tri- umphed over his love of music, and he stopped with -an abrupt groan of the in- strument 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 know- ledge 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 Mal- colm complete instructions as to the hues of the ribbon he was to purchase. As soon as he had started on the important mission, the old man laid aside his in- strument, 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, search- ing 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 opera- tion was over, to bring him the sheath, which, for fear of its coming to pieces, so old and crumbling was the leather, he 74 MALCOLM. kept laid up in the drawer with his spor- ran 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 rib- bon. This done, he resumed his play- ing, 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 oi sowetis and oat- cake, when he wanted to go and dress himself for his approaching visit. Mal- colm induced him, however, to lie down a while and hear him play, and suc- ceeded, 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 sprang from the bed, wide awake, crying, "My poy, Malcolm! my son! you haf let her sleep in ; and ta creat peoples will pe impatient for her music, and cursing her in teir hearts!" Nothing would quiet him but the im- mediate commencement of the process of dressing, the result of which was, as I have said, even pathetic, from its inter- mixture of shabbiness and finery. The dangling brass-capped tails of his sporran in front, the silver-mounted dirk on one side, with its hilt of black oak carved into an eagle's head, and the steel basket of his broadsword gleaming at the other ; his great shoulder-brooch of rudely chased brass ; the pipes with their withered bag and gaudy streamers ; the faded kilt, oiled and soiled ; the stockings darned in twenty places by the hands of the termagant Meg Partan ; the brogues patched and patched until it would have been hard to tell a spot of the original leather; the round blue bonnet grown gray with wind and weather; the belts that looked like old harness ready to yield at a pull ; his skene dhu stick- ing out grim and black beside a knee like a lean knuckle : — all combined to form a picture ludicrous to a vulgar na- ture, but gently pitiful to the lover of his kind. He looked like a half-mould- ered 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 differ- ent remarks with which the neighbors would encounter such a solecism. The whole Seaton turned out to see them start. Men, women and children lined the fronts and gables of the houses they must pass on their way ; for every- body 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 lovelyto 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 leading to the grounds. Bykes saw them and scoffed, but with discretion, and kept out of their way. When they reached the House, they were taken to the servants' hall, where refreshments were offered them. The old man ate sparingly, saying he wanted all the room for his breath, but swallow- ed a glass of whisky with readiness ; for, although he never spent a farthing on it, he had yet a highlander's respect for whisky, and seldom refused a glass when offered him. On this occasion, besides, anxious to do himself credit as a piper, he was well pleased to add a little fuel to the failing fires of old age ; and the summons to the dining-room being in his view long delayed, he had, before they left the hall, taken a second glass. They were led along endless passages, MALCOLM. 75 up a winding stone stair, across a lobby, and through room after room. " It will pe some glamour, sure, Mal- colm !" said Duncan in a whisper as they went. Requested at length to seat themselves in an ante-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 unpro- tected by his blindness, have strode un- abashed 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 be- wildered 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 gor- geously attired ; the ceiling rose and set- tled 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 gayly- dressed company, round which, like huge ill-painted butterflies, the liv- eried 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 ap- peared 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 had belonged to her mother, as well as some family dia- monds, and her inexperience knew no reason why she should not wear them. The diamonds flashed and sparkled and glowed on a white rather than fair neck, which, being very much uncollared, daz- zled Malcolm far more than the jewels. Such a form of enhanced loveliness, re- flected for the first time in the pure mir- ror 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 circum- stance, while combining to raise a wo- man to an ideal height, ill suffice to lift her beyond love, or shield the lowliest man from the arrows of her radiation : they leave her human still. She was talking and laughing with a young man of weak military aspect, whose eyes gazed unshrinking on her beauty. The guests were not numerous : a cer- tain bold-faced countess, the fire in whose eyes had begun to tarnish, and the nat- ural 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 elder- ly, broad, red-faced, bull-necked baron of the Hanoverian type ; and two neigh- boring lairds and their wives, ordinary, and well pleased to be at the marquis's table. Although the waiting were as many as the waited upon, Malcolm, who was keen-eyed and had a passion for service — a thing unintelligible to the common mind — soon spied an opportunity of making himself useful. Seeing one of the men, suddenly called away, set down a dish of fruit just as the countess was expecting it, he jumped up, almost in- voluntarily, and handed it to her. Once in the current of things, Malcolm would not readily make for the shore of inac- tivity: he finished the round of the table with the dish, while the men looked indignant, and the marquis eyed him queerly. While he was thus engaged, however, Duncan, either that his poor stock of patience was now utterly exhausted, or 76 that he fancied a signal given, com- pressed of a sudden his full-blown wait- ing bag, and blasted forth such a wild howl of a pibroch, that more than one of the ladies gave a cry and half started from their chairs. The marquis burst out laughing, but gave orders to stop him — a thing not to be effected in a mo- ment, for Duncan was in full tornado, with the avenues of hearing, both cor- poreal and mental, blocked by his own darling utterance. Understanding at length, he ceased with the air and al- most the carriage of a suddenly checked horse, looking half startled, half angry, his cheeks puffed, his nostrils expanded, his head thrown back, the port-vent still in his mouth, the blown bag under his arm, and his fingers on the chanter — on the fret to dash forward again with re- doubled 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 la- dies 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 purpese 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, were they dated in the present generation. Some of my elder readers, however, will, from their own knowledge of similar actions, grant like- lihood 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 gentle- men might hear what his pipes could do. At the same time he sent Malcolm with a message to the butler about some par- ticular 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. MALCOLM. As soon as he was out of the room, and while the poor old man was blow- ing 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 memly 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, arid the tune ceased without sob or wail. Not a laugh betrayed the cause of the catastrophe : in silent enjoyment the con- spirators sat watching his movements. For one moment Duncan was so as- tounded 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 v/ere slowly dropping. "She wass afrait, my lort and chentle- mans," he said, with a quavering voice, "tat her pag will pe near her latter end ; put she pelieved she would pe living pe- yond her nainsel, my chentlemans." He ceased abruptly, for his fingers had found the wound, and were prosecuting an inquiry : they ran along the smooth edges of the cut, and detected treachery. He gave a ciy 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 con- sternation to his assistance. When he had helped him up and seated him again on the steps, the old man laid his head on his boy's bosom, threw his arms around his neck, and wept aloud. "Malcolm, my son," he sobbed, "Tun- can is wronged in ta halls of ta stran- cher ; tey '11 haf stapped his pest friend to ta heart, and och hone ! och hone ! she '11 pe aall too plint to take fen- cheance. Malcolm, son of heroes, traw ta claymore of ta pard, and fall upon ta traitors. She'll pe singing you ta onset, for ta pibroch 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. 77 Malcolm, perceiving from the looks of the men that things were as his grand- father had divined, spoke indignantly : " Ye oucht to tak shame to ca' yersel's gentlefowk, an' play a puir blin' man, wha was doin' his best to please ye, sic an ill-faured trick." As he spoke they made various signs to him not to interfere, but Malcolm paid them no heed, and turned to his grand- father, eager to persuade him to go home. They had no intention of letting him off yet, however. Acquainted — probably through his gamekeeper, who laid him self 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 eveiy inch of his body trembling with rage. " She might haf known," he screamed, half choking, "that a cursed tog of a Cawmill was in it !" He stood for a moment, swaying in every direction, as if the spirit within him doubted whether to cast his old body on the earth in contempt of its helpless- ness, or to fling it headlong on his foes. For that one moment silence filled the room. "You needn't attempt to deny it; it really was too bad of you, Glenlyon," said the marquis. A howl of fury burst from Duncan's laboring bosom. His broadsword flash- ed from its sheath, and brokenly pant- ing out the words, " Clenlyon ! Ta creat defil ! Haf I peen trinking with ta hell- hount, Clenlyon ?" — he would have run a Malay 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 clay- more. But as Duncan yielded his weap- on, Malcolm lost his hold on him. He darted away, caught his dirk — a blade of unusual length — from its sheath, and shot in the direction of the last word he had heard. Malcolm dropped the sword and sprung after him. " Gif her ta fiUain by ta troat," scream- ed the old man. " She '11 stap his pag ! She'll cut his chanter in two ! She'll pe toing it ! Who put ta creat-cran'son of Inverriggen should pe cutting ta troat of ta tog Clenlyon .''" As he spoke, he was running wildly about the room, brandishing his weapon, knocking over chairs, and sweeping bot- tles and dishes from the table. The clat- ter 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 skel- eton ; 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 cool- ness, was yet looking a little anxious ; the butler was peeping in at the door, with red nose and pale cheek-bones, 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, Mal- colm 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 Dun- can, fancying he had at length stabbed Glenlyon, left it quivering. "Tere, Clenlyon!" he said, and stood trembling in the ebb of passion, and murmuring to himself something in Gaelic. Meantime, Malcolm had drawn the dirk from the table, and released his hand. The blood was streaming from it, and the marquis took his own hand- kerchief to bind it up ; but the lad in- dignantly refused the attention, and kept holding the wound tight with his left hand. The butler, seeing Duncan stand quite still, ventured, with scared counte- nance, to approach the scene of destruc- tion. "Dinna gang near him," cried Mai- 78 MALCOLM. colm. "He has his skene dhu yet, an' in grips that's warst ava." Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the black knife was out of Duncan's stocking, and brandished aloft in his shaking fist. "Daddy!" cried Malcolm, "ye wad- na kill twa Glenlyons in ae day — wad ye?" "She would, my son Malcolm ! — fifty of ta poars in one preath ! Tey are ta children of wrath, and tey haf to pe testructiont." " For an auld man ye hae killed enew for ae nicht," said Malcolm, and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. "Ye maun come hame the noo." " Is ta tog tead, then ?" asked Duncan eagerly. "Ow, na; he's breathin' yet," answer- ed Malcolm. "She'll not can co till ta tog will pe tead. Ta tog may want more killing." "What a horribje savage!" said one of the lairds, a justice of the peace. "He ought to be shut up in a mad- house." "Gien ye set aboot shuttin' up, sir, or my lord — I kenna whilk— ye'U hae to begin nearer hame," said Malcolm as he stooped to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of the weapons. " An' ye'U please to haud in min', that nane here is an injured man but my gran'father himsel'." "Hey!" said the marquis; "what do you make of all my dishes ?" " 'Deed, my lord, ye may comfort yer- sel' that they warna dishes wi' harns [brains) i' them ; for sic 's some scarce i' the Hoose o' Lossie." "You're a long-tongued rascal," said the marquis. "A lang tongue may whiles be as canny as a lang spune, my lord ; an' ye ken what that's for?" The marquis burst into laughter. "What do you make, then, of that horrible cut in your own hand?" asked the magistrate. " I mak my ain lousiness o' 't," an- swered Malcolm. While this colloquy passed, Duncan had been feeling about for his pipes : having found them he clasped them to his bosom like a hurt child. "Come home, come home," he said; "your own pard has refenched you." Malcolm took him by the arm and led him away. He went without a word, still clasping his wounded bagpipes to his bosom. "You'll hear from me in the morning, my lad," said the marquis in a kindly tone, as they were leaving the room. " I hae no wuss to hear onything mair o' yer lordship. Ye hae dune eneuch this nicht, my lord, to make ye ashamed o' yersel' till yer dyin' day — gien ye hed ony pooer o' shame left in ye." The military youth muttered some- thing about insolence, and made a step toward him. Malcolm quitted his grand- father, and stepped again into the room. "Come on," he said. "No, no," interposed the marquis. "Don't you see the lad is hurt ?" " Lat him come on," said Malcolm ; " I hae a soon' han'. Here, my lord, tak the wapons, or the auld man '11 get a grip o' them again." "I tell you «tf," 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 molesta- tion. It was all he could do, however, to get him home. The old man's strength was utterly gone. His knees bent trem- bling under him, and the arm which rest- ed on his grandson's shook as with an ague-fit. Malcolm was glad indeed when at length he had him safe in bed, by which time his hand had swollen to a great size, and the suffering grown severe. Thoroughly exhausted by his late fierce emotions, Duncan soon fell into a trou- bled sleep, whereupon Malcolm went to Meg Partan, and begged her to watch beside him until he should return, in- forming her of the way his grandfather had been treated, and adding that he had gone into such a rage, that he fear- ed he would be ill in consequence ; and if he should be unable to do his morn- ing's duty, it would almost break \\va heart. "Eh!" said the Partancss, in a whis- MALCOLM. 79 per, as they parted at Duncan's door, "a baad temper 's a frichtsome thing. I'm sure the times I hae telled him it wad be the ruin o' 'im !" To Malcolm's gentle knock Miss Horn's door was opened by Jean. "What d'ye wint at sic an oontimeous hoor," she said, "whan honest fowk's a' i' their nichtcaips?" " I want to see Miss Horn, gien ye please," he answered. " I s' warran' she'll be in her bed an' snorin'," said Jean; "but I s' gang an' see." Ere she went, however, Jean saw that the kitchen door was closed, for, whether she belonged to the class "honest folk " or not, Mrs. Catanach was in Miss Horn's kitchen, and not in her nightcap. Jean returned presently with an invi- tation for Malcolm to walk up to the parlor. " I hae gotten a sma' mishanter, Miss Horn," he said, as he entered; "an' I thocht I cudna du better than come to you, 'cause ye can haud yer tongue, an' that's mair nor mony ane i' the port o' Portlossle can, mem." The compliment, correct in fact as well as honest in intent, was not thrown away on Miss Horn, to whom it was the more pleasing that she could regard it as a just tribute. Malcolm told her all the storj^ rousing thereby a mighty in- dignation in her bosom, a great fire in her hawk-nose, and a succession of wild flashes in her hawk-eyes ; but when he showed her his hand, "Lord, Malcolm!" she cried; "it's a mercy I was made wantin' feehn's, or I cudna hae bed the sicht. My puir bairn !" Then she rushed to the stair and shouted — "Jean, ye limmer ! Jean ! Fess some het watter, an' some linen cloots." "I hae nane o' naither," replied Jean from the bottom of the stair. " Mak up the fire an put on some wat- ter direckly. — I s' fin' some clooties," she added, turning to Malcolm, " — gien I sud rive the tail 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 hoose, yon o' Lossie," said Miss Horn; "and there's been ter- rible things dune intill't. The auld mar- kis was an ill man. I daurna say what he wadna hae dune, gien half the tales be true 'at they tell o' 'im ; an' the last ane was little better. This ane winna be sae ill, but it's clear 'at he's tarred wi' the same stick." " I dinna think he means onything muckle amiss," agreed Malcolm, whose wrath had by this time subsided a little, through the quieting influences of Miss Horn's sympathy. "He's mair thoucht- less, I do believe, than ill-contrived — an' a' for 's fun. He spak unco kin'-like to me, efterhin, but I cudna accep' it, ye see, efter the w'y he had saired my dad- dy. But wadna ye hae thought he was auld eneuch to ken better by this time ?" "An auld fule 's the warst fule ava',* said Miss Horn. "But nothing o' that kin', be 't as mad an' pranksome as ever sic ploy could be, is to be made mention o' aside the things 'at was mutit [jnutter- ed) o' 's brither. I budena come ower them till a young laad like yersel'. They war never said straucht oot, min' ye, but jist mintit at, like, wi' a doon-draw o' the broos an' a wee side-shak' o' the heid, as gien the body wad say, ' I cud tell ye gien I daur.' But I doobt mysel' gien onything was /&' 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 toward God, no tyranny of stupid logic over childlike in- tuitions, 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, suf- ficing 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 the fear of coming misery, he could not help alluding to more ordinary troubles and depicting other phases of the heart's rest- lessness 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 in- fluence, for a sense of the need of help is so preselht 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, toward the close, MacLeod judged it needful to give a word of warning. "But, my friends," he said — and his voice grew low and solemn — "I dare not make an end without reminding you that if you stop your ears against the gracious call a day will come when not even the merits of the Son of God will avail you, but the wrath of the — " ''Father o' lichts f 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 dis- persed. 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 af- terward explain, withdrew into a recess whence he could watch the cave with- out being readily discovered. Scarcely had the last voices of the re- treating 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 be- hind every projection, until he suddenly caught sight of Malcolm, probably by a glimmering of his eyes. " Hillo, Humpy !" he cried in a tone of exultation, and sprang up the rough ascent of a step or two to where he sat. Malcolm half rose, and met him with a well-delivered blow between the eyes. He fell, and lay for a moment stunned. Malcolm sat down again and watched him. When he came to himself he crept out, muttering imprecations, He knew it was not Humpy who dealt the 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 congrega- tion — might have concealed himself: if that was his covert, there he must be 128 MALCOLM. still, for he had assuredly not issued from it. Immediately behind where he 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 any- thing more than other people. Still, if he was to search at all, here he must be- gin. The cleft had scarcely more width than sufficed to admit his body, and his hands told him at once that there was no laird there. Could there be any opening farther ? If there was, it could only be somewhere above. Was ad- vance 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 farther progress. Having lit- erally 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 pas- sage 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. Stew- art ! I'm here — Malcolm MacPhail. I want to see ye. Tell him it's me, Phemy." A brief pause followed : then Phemy's voice answered, " Come awa' doon. He says ye s' be welcome." " Canna ye shaw a licht, than, for I dinna ken a fit o' the ro'd.?" said Mal- colm. The next moment a light appeared at some little distance below, and presently began to ascend, borne by Phemy, to- ward the place where he stood. She took hiin 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 mo- ment he entered it he marked the water in its side, the smooth floor, the walls hollowed into a thousand fantastic cav- ities, 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 en- trance difficult, and it had slipped by degrees from the knowledge of men. At the bottom of the slope, by the side of the well, sat the laird. Phemy set the little lantern she carried on its edge. The laird rose and shook hands with Mal- colm, and asked him to be seated. " I'm sorry to say they're efter ye again, laird," said Malcolm after a little ordinary chat. Mr. Stewart was on his feet instantly. "I maun awa'. Tak care o' Phemy," he said hurriedly. "Na, na, sir," said Malcolm, laying his hand on his arm; "there's nae sic hurry. As lang's I'm here ye may sit still ; an', as far's I ken, nobody's fun' the w'y in but mysel', an' that was yei ain wyte [blame), laird. But ye hae garred mair fowk nor me luik, an' that's the pity o' 't." "I tauld ye, sir, ye sudna cry oot," said Phemy. " I couldna help it," said Stewart apolo- getically. "Weel, ye sudna ha' gane near them again," persisted the little woman. "Wha kent but they kcnt whaur I cam frae ?" also persisted the laird. " Sit ye doon, sir, an' lat's hae a word aboot it," said Malcolm cheerily. MALCOLM. 129 The laird cast a doubting look at Phemy. "Ay, sit doon," said Phemy. Mr. Stewart yielded, but nervous starts and sudden twitches of the muscles be- trayed his uneasiness : it looked as if his body would jump up and run without his mind's consent. " Hae ye ony w'y o' winnin' oot o' this, forbye [besides] the mou' o' the cave there ?" asked Malcolm. "Nane 'at I ken o'," answered Phemy. "But there's heaps o' hidy-holes i' the inside o' 't." " That's a' verra weel, but gien they keepit the mou', an' took their time till 't; they bude to grip ye." "There may be, though," resumed Phemy. "It gangs back a lang road. I hae never been in sicht o' the en' o' 't. It comes doon verra laich in some places, and gangs up heich again in ithers, but no sign o' an en' till 't." " Is there ony soon' o' watter intill 't ?" asked Malcolm. " Na, nane 'at ever I hard. But I'll tell ye what I hae hard : I hae hard the flails gaein' thud, thud, abune my heid." "Hoot toot, Phemy!" said Malcolm: "we're a guid mile an' a half frae the nearest ferm-toon, an' that, I reckon, '11 be the Hoose-ferm." "I canna help that," persisted Phemy. "Gien 't wasna the flails, whiles ane, an' whiles twa, I dinna ken what it cud hae been. Hoo far it was, I canna say, for it's ill measurin' i' the dark, or wi' nae- thing but a bowat [latitcrn) \ yer han' ; but gien ye ca'd it raair, I wadna won'er." " It's a michty howkin !" said Malcolm, "but for a' that it wadna baud ye frae the grip o' thae scoonrels : whaurever ye ran they cud rin efter ye." "I think we cud sort them," said Phemy. "There's ae place, a guid bit farrer in, whaur the rufe comes doon to the flure, leavin' jist ae sma' hole to creep throu' : it wad be fine to hae a gey muckle stane handy, jist to row [roll) athort it, an' gar't luik as gien 't was the en' o' a'thing. But the hole's sae sma' at the laird hasillgettin' hispuir back throu' 't." "I couldna help won'erin' hoo he wan throu' at the tap there," said Malcolm. 9 At this the laird laughed almost mer- rily, and rising took Malcolm by the hand and led him to the spot, where he made him feel a rough groove in the wall of the rocky strait : into this hollow he laid his hump, and so slid sideways through. Malcolm squeezed himself through after him, saying, "Noo ye're oot, laird, hadna ye better come wi' me hame to Miss Horn's, whaur ye wad be as safe's gien ye war in h'aven itsel' ?" "Na, I canna gang to Miss Horn's," he replied. "What for no, laird ?" Pulling Malcolm down toward him, the laird whispered in his ear, " 'Cause she's fleyt at my back." A moment or two passed ere Malcolm could think of a reply both true and fit- ting. When at length he spoke again there was no answer, and he knew that he was alone. He left the cave and set out for the Seaton ; but, unable to feel at peace about his friends, resolved on the way to return after seeing his grandfather, and spend the night in the outer cave. CHAPTER XXXI. WANDERING STARS. He had not been gone many minutes when the laird passed once more through the strait, and stood a moment waiting for Phemy : she had persuaded him to go home to her father's for the night. But the next instant he darted back, with trembling hands caught hold of Phemy, who was following him with the lantern, and stammered in her ear, "There's somebody there ! I dinna ken whaur they come frae." Phemy went to the front of the pas- sage and listened, but could hear noth- ing, and returned. "Bide ye whaur ye are, laird," she said: "I'll gang doon, an' gien I hear or see naething I'll come back for ye." With careful descent, placing her feet on the well-known points unerringly, she reached the bottom, and peeped into the outer cave. The place was quite dark. I30 MALCOLM. 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 loud cry, coupled with an imprecation. "The deevil roast them 'at laid me sic a trap!" she said. "I hae broken the shins the auld markis laudit." " Hold your wicked tongue!" hissed a voice in return, almost in Phemy's very ear. " Ow ! ye 're there, are ye, mem ?" re- joined the other, in a voice that held, in- ternal communication with her wounded shins. "Coupit ye the crans like me?" The question, Englished, was, " Did you fall heels over head like me ?" but was capable of a metaphorical interpre- tation as well. " Hold your tongue, I say, woman ! Who knows but some of the saints may be at their prayers within hearing?" "Na, na, mem, there's nae risk o' that. This is no ane o' yer creepy caves whaur 'Otters an' wuUcats hae their habitations: it's a muckle open-mou'd place, like them 'at prays intill 'it — as toom an' clear-sidit as a tongueless bell. But what for ye wad hae 's come here to oor cracks [conversation] I canna faddom. A body wad think ye had an ill thoucht i' yer held — eh, mem ?" The suggestion was followed by a low, almost sneering laugh. As she spoke the sounds of her voice and step had been advancing with cautious intermit- teat approach. "I hae ye noo," she said, as she seated herself at length beside the other. "The gowk, Geordie Bray!" she went on — "to tak it intill's oogly heid 'at the cratur wad be hurklin' here ! It's no the place for ane 'at has to hide 's heid for verra shame o' slippin' afif the likes o' himsel' upo' sic a braw mither. Could he get nae ither door to win in at, haith?" "Woman, you'll drive me mad!" said the other. "Weel, hinney," returned the former, suddenly changing her tone, " I'm mair an' mair convenced 'at yon's the verra laad for yer purpose. For ae thing, ye see, nobody kens whaur he cam frae, as the laird, bonny laad ! wad say, aft' no- body can contradick a word — the auld man less than onybody, for I can tell him what he kens to be trowth. Only I winna muv till / ken whaur he comes frae." "Wouldn't you prefer not knowing for certain ? You could swear with the bet- ter grace." "Deil a bit! It maitters na to me whilk side o' my teeth I chow wi'. But I winna sweir till I ken the trowth, 'at I may baud afif o' 't. He's the man, though, gien we can get a grip o' 'm. He luiks the richt thing, ye see, mem. He has a glisk [s/ighf look) o' the mar- kis tu — divna ye think, mem ?" " Insolent wretch !" "Caw canny, mem. A' thing maun be considered. It wad but gar the thing luik the mair likly. Fowk gangs the len'th o' sayin' 'at Humpy himsel' 's no the sin [son) o' the auld laird, honest man !" " It's a wicked lie !" burst with indig- nation from the other. " There may be waur things nor a bit lee. Ony gait, ae thing's easy priven : ye lay verra dowie [poorly] for a month or sax ooks ance upon a time at Lossie Hoose, an' that was a feow years — we needna speir hoc mony — eftcr ye was lichtened o' the tither. Whan they hear that at that time ye gae birth till a lad- bairn, the whilk was stown awa', an' never hard tell o' till noo, ' It may weel be,' fowk'U say: 'them 'at has drunk wad drink again.' It wad affoord riz- zons, ye see, an' guid anes, for the bairn bein' putten oot o' sicht, and wad mak MALCOLM. the haill story mair nor likly i' the jeedg- ment o' a' 'at hard it." " You scandalous woman ! That would be to confess to all the world that he was not the son of my late husband." "They say that o' him 'at is, an' hoo muckle the waur are ye ? Lat them say 'at they like, sae lang 's we can shaw 'at he cam o' your body, an' was born i' wedlock ? Ye hae yer lan's ance mair, for ye hae a sin 'at can guide them ; and ye can guide him. He's a bonny lad — bonny eneuch to be yer leddyship's, and his lordship's — an' sae, as I was remark- in', i' the jeedgment o' ill-thouchtit fowk, the mair likly to be heir to auld Stewart o' Kirkbyres." She laughed huskily. "But I maun hae a scart o' yer pen, mem, afore I wag tongue about it," she went on. " I ken brawly hoo to set it gauin' : I sanna be the first to ring the bell. Na, na ; Is' set Miss Horn's Jean jawin', an' it '11 be a' ower the toon in a jiffy — at first in a kin' o' a sough 'at naebody 'ill unnerstan', but it '11 grow looder an' plainer. At the lang last it 'ill come to yer leddyship's hearin' ; an' 3yne ye hae me taen up an' questioned afore a justice o' the peace, that there may be no luik o' any compack atween the twa o' 's. But, as I said afore, I'll no muv till I ken a' aboot the lad first, an' syne get a scart o' your pen, mem." "You must be the devil himself!" said the other, in a tone that was not of dis- pleasure. "I hae been tellt that afore, an' wi' less rizzon," was the reply, given also in a tone that was not of displeasure. " But what if we should be found out ?" "Ye can lay 't a' upo' me." "And what will you do with it?" "Tak it wi' me," was the answer, ac- companied by another husky laugh. "Where to ?" "Speir nae questons an' ye'U be tellt nae lees. Ony gait, I s' lea' nae track ahin' me. An' for that same sake, I maun hae my pairt i' my han' the meen- ute the thing's been sworn till. Gien ye fail me, ye'U sune see me get mair licht upo' the subjec', an' confess till a great mistak. By the Michty, but I'll sweir the verra contrar the neist time I'm hed up ! Ay, an' ilka body 'ill believe me. An' whaur'll ye be than, my leddy ? For though / micht mistak, ye cudna. Faith ! they'll hae ye ta'en up for per- jury." "You're a dangerous accomplice," said the lady. " I'm a tule ye maun tak by the han'le or ye'U rue the edge," returned the other quietly. "As soon, then, as I get a hold of that misbegotten elf — " " Mean ye the yoong laird or the yoong markis, mem ?" "You forget, Mrs. Catanach, that you are speaking to a lady." "Ye maun hae been unco like ane ae nicht, ony gait, mem. But I'm dune wi' my jokin'." "As soon, I say, as I get my poor boy into proper hands, I shall be ready to take the next step." "What for sud ye pit it aff till than? He canna du muckle ae w'y or ither." " I will tell you. His uncle, Sir Joseph, prides himself on being an honest man, and if some busybody were to tell him that poor Stephen, as I am told people are saying, was no worse than harsh treatment had made him — for you know his father could not bear the sight of him 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 fel- low in an asylum, or in my own keep- ing, you see — " " Weel, mem, gien I be potty, ye're panny," exclaimed the midwife with her gelatinous laugh. "Losh, mem!" she burst out after a moment's pause, "gien you an' me was to fa' oot, there wad be a stramash ! He ! he ! he I" They rose and left the cave together, talking as they went, and Phemy, trem- bling 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 132 MALCOLM. 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 infor- mation. When they reached her home she told all she could to her father ; whose opinion it was that the best, in- deed 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 shelter- ed spot in the cave, carried thither a quantity of dry sand, and lay down to sleep, covered with his tarpaulin coat. He found it something chilly, however, and did not rest so well but that he woke with the first break of day. The morning, as it drew slowly on, was a strange contrast, in its gray and saffron, to the gorgeous sunset of the night before. The sea crept up on the land as if it were weary and did not care much to flow any more. Not a breath of wind was in motion, and yet the air even on the shore seemed full of the presence of decaying leaves and damp earth. He sat down in the mouth of the cave, and looked out on the still, half-waking world of ocean and sky be- fore 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 re- turning 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 perplex- ities. 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 diligent- ly ; a glimmer of dawn touched even the brown rock in the farthest end of the cave. Where there was light there was work, and where there was work for any one there was at least justification of his ex- istence. 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 mean time, 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 suf- ferintr — that of the mad laird. IP^I^T -VII. CHAPTER XXXII. THE skipper's CHAMBER. ONE day toward the close of the fish- ing-season the marquis called upon Duncan, and was received with a cor- dial, unembarrassed welcome. " I want you, Mr. MacPhail," said his lordship, " to come and live in that little cottage on the banks of the burn, which one of the under-gamekeepers, they tell me, used to occupy. I'll have it put in order for you, and you shall live rent- free as my piper." "I thank your lortship's grace," said Duncan, " and she would pe proud of ta honor, put it '11 pe too far away from ta shore for her poy's fishing." " I have a design upon him too," re- turned 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 pre- fer 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 aall wass here as it used to wass in ta Highlants, my lort," said Duncan, "when every clansman wass son or prother or father to his chief, tat would pe tifferent ; put my poy must not co and eat with serfants who haf nothing put teir waches to make tem love and opey your lortship. If her poy serfs another man, it must pe pecause he loves him, and looks upon him as his chief, who will shake hands with him and take ta father's care of him ; and her poy must tie for him when ta time comes." Even a feudal lord cannot be expected to have sympathized with such grand patriarchal ideas ; they were much too hke those of the kingdom of heaven ; and feudalism itself had by this time crumbled away — not indeed into month- ly, but into half-yearly, wages. The marquis, notwithstanding, was touched by the old man's words, matter-of-fact as his reply must sound after them. " I would make any arrangements you or he might wish," he said. " He should take his meals with Mrs. Courthope, ^ have a bedroom to himself, and be re- quired only to look after the yacht, and now and then do some bit of business I couldn't trust any one else with." The highlander's pride was nearly satisfied. " So," he said, " it '11 be his own hench- man my lort will pe making of her poy ?" " Something like that. We'll see how it goes. If he doesn't like it, he can drop it. It's more that I want to have him about me than anything else. I want to do something for him when I have a chance. I like him." " My lort will pe toing ta laad a creat honor," said Duncan. " Put," he added, with a sigh, "she'll be lonely, her nain- sel." " He can come and see you twenty times a day, and stop all night when you particularly want him. We'll see about some respectable woman to look after the house for you." " She'll haf 7io 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 re- turn. He sat thoughtful and silent for a moment, then said, "And what'U pe- come 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 133 134 MALCOLM. 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 '11 pe talking to her poy apout it," said Duncan ; and the marquis saw that he had better press the matter no further for the time. To Malcolm the proposal was full of attraction. True, Lord Lossie had once and again spoken so as to offend him, but the confidence he had shown in him had gone far to atone for that. And to be near Lady Florimel ! — to have to wait on her in the yacht, and sometimes in the house ! — to be allowed books from the libraiy perhaps ! — to have a nice room and those lovely grounds all about him ! It was tempting ! The old man also, the more he reflect- ed, liked the idea the more. The only thing he murmured at was being parted from his grandson at night. In vain Malcolm reminded him that during the fishing-season he had to spend most nights alone : Duncan answered that he had but to go to the door and look out to sea, and there was nothing between him and his boy, but now he could not tell how many stone walls might be standing up to divide them. He was quite willing to make the trial, however, and see if he could bear it. So Malcolm went to speak to the marquis. He did not altogether trust the mar- quis, but he had always taken a delight in doing anything for anybody — a de- light rooted in a natural tendency to ministration, unusually strong, and spe- cially developed by the instructions of Alexander Graham, conjoined with the necessities of his blind grandfather; while there was an alluring something, it must be confessed, in the marquis's high position, which let no one set down to Malcolm's discredit : whether the sub- ordination of class shall go to the develop- ment of reverence or of servility depends mainly on the individual nature subor- dinated. 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 threat- ened to interfere with that sense of per- sonal freedom which is yet dearer per- haps 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 real- ly 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 fath- er'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 op- pression and lack of freedom than that of those under no external control, in whom Duty has not yet gathered suf- ficient 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 re- ceiver — oppressed from within outward 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 ex- tremely bare outlines of his history would largely contribute. He was shown at once into the pres- ence of his lordship, whom he found at breakfast with his daughter. "Well, MacPhail," said the marquis, "have you made up your mind to be my skipper?" "Willin'ly, my lord," answered Mal- colm. " Do you know how to manage a sail- boat?" "I wad need, my lord." "Shall you want any help ?" "That dcpen's upo' saiveral things — her ain size, the wuU o' the win', an* whether or no yer lordship or my leddy can tak the tiller." "We can't settle about that, then, till she comes. I hear she '11 soon be on her way now. But I cannot have you MALCOLM. 135 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 ?" return- ed Malcolm apologetically. "The only ither claes I hae are verra fishy, an' neither yersel' nor my leddy cud bide them i' the room aside ye." "Certainly not," responded the mar- quis, as in a leisurely manner he devour- ed his omelette : " I was thinking of your future position as skipper of my boat. What would you say to a kilt, now ?" " Na, na, my lord," rejoined Malcolm : "a kilt's no seafarin' claes. A kilt wad- na du ava', my lord." "You cannot surely object to the dress of your own people," said the marquis. " The kilt 's weel eneuch upon a hill- side," said Malcolm, " I dinna doobt ; but faith ! seafarin', my lord, ye wad want the trews as weel." " Well, go to the best tailor in the town and order a naval suit — white ducks and a blue jacket : two suits you'll want." "We s' gar ae shuit sair 's [satisfy us) to begin wi', my lord. I'll jist gang to Jamie Sangster, wha maks a' my claes — no 'at their mony — an' get hijn to mizzur me. He '11 mak them weel eneuch for me. Ye 're aye sure o' the worth o' yer siller frae him." "I tell you to go to the best tailor in the town and order two suits." " Na, na, my lord, there's no need : I canna affoord it, forbye. We 're no a' made o' siller like yer lordship." "You booby ! do you suppose I would tell you to order clothes I did not mean to pay for ?' ' Lady Florimel found her expectation of amusement not likely to be disap- pointed. " Hoots, my lord !" returned Malcolm, "that wad never du. I maiin pey for my ain claes. 1 wad be in a constant terror o' blaudin' [spoiling) o' them gien I didna, an' that wad be eneuch to mak a body meeserable. It wad be a' the same, forbye, oot an' oot, as weirin' a leevry !" "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 Flori- mel 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 mo- ment. " I'm thinkin' I'm gaein' daft [dL-lirious)V' he said at length, putting his hand to his head. " It's time I gaed. Guid-mornin', my lord." He turned and left the room, followed by a fresh peal from his lordship, min- gling with which his ear plainly detect- ed the silvery veins of Lady Florimel's equally merry laughter. When he came to himself and was able to reflect, he saw there must have been some joke involved: the behavior of both indicated as much ; and with this conclusion he heartened his dismay. The next morning Duncan called on Mrs. Partan and begged her acceptance of his stock in trade, as, having been his lordship's piper for some time, he was now at length about to occupy his proper quarters within the policies. Mrs. Find- lay acquiesced, with an air better suited to the granting of slow leave to labor- some 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 re- turned 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 Bykes, to whom Malcolm dropped a humorous "Weel, Johnny!" as he pass- ed, 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 gar- ments, Malcolm reported himself at the House. Admitted to his lordship's pres- ence, he had a question to ask and a re- quest to prefer. " Hae ye dune onything, my lord," he said, "aboot Mistress Catanach ?" " What do you mean ?" " Anent yon cat-prowl aboot the hoose, my lord." 136 MALCOLM. "No. You haven't discovered any- thing more, have you ?" "Na, my lord : I haena had a chance. But ye may be sure she had no guid de- sign in 't." "I don't suspect her of any." "Weel, my lord, hae ye ony objection to lat me sleep up yonner?" "None at all — only you'd better see what Mrs. Courthope has to say to it. Perhaps you won't be so ready after you hear her story." " But I hae your lordship's leave to tak ony room I like ?" " Certainly. Go to Mrs. Courthope and tell her I wish you to choose your own quarters." Having straightway delivered his lord- ship's message, Mrs. Courthope, wonder- ing a little thereat, proceeded to show him those portions of the house set apart for the servants. He followed her from floor to floor — last to the upper regions, and through all the confused rambling roofs of the old pile, now descending a sudden steep-yawning stair, now ascend- ing another where none could have been supposed to exist, oppressed all the time with a sense of the multitudinous and in- tricate such as he had never before ex- perienced, 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 garret region. It has all the mystery of the dungeon cel- lars, with a far more striking variety of form and a bewildering curiosity of adap- tation, the peculiarities of roof- shapes and the consequent complexities of their relations and junctures being so much greater than those of foundation-plans. Then the sense of lofty loneliness in the • deeps of air, and at the same time of [proximity to things aerial — doves and 'martins, vanes and gilded balls and Uightning- conductors, the waves of the sea of wind breaking on the chimneys for rocks, and the crashing roll of the thunder — are in harmony with the high- est 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 gar- rets the poetry of the house. Mrs. Courthope was more than kind, for she was greatly pleased at having Malcolm for an inmate. She led him from room to room, suggesting now and then a choice, and listening amusedly to his remarks of liking or disliking and his marvel at strangeness or extent. At last he found himself following her along the passage in which was the mysterious door, but she never stayed her step, or seemed to intend showing one of the many rooms opening upon it. "Sic a bee's-byke o' rooms!" said Malcolm, making a halt. "Wha sleeps here?" " Nobody has slept in one of these rooms for I dare not say how many years," replied Mrs. Courthope, without stopping; and as she spoke she passed the fearful door. " I wad like to see intill this room," said Malcolm. "That door is never opened," answered Mrs. Courthope, who had now reached the end of the passage, and turned, ling- ering as in act while she spoke to move on. "And what for that?" asked Malcolm, continuing to stand before it. "I would rather not answer you just here. Come along. This is not a part of the house where you would like to be, I am sure." " Hoo ken ye that, mem ? An' hoo can I say mysel' afore ye hae shawn me what the room 's like ? It may be the verra place to tak my fancy. Jist open the door, mem, gien ye please, an' lat's hae a keek intill 't." "I daren't open it. It's never opened, I tell you. It's against the rules of the house. Come to my room, and I'll tell you the story about it." "Weel, ye'll lat me see intill the neist — winna ye openin' hit- approaching the door next to tlic one in dispute. "Certainly not; but I'm pretty sure, ? There's nae law agane -is there?" said Malcolm, MALCOLM. 137 once you've heard the story I have to tell, you won't choose to sleep in this part of the house." " Lat's luik, ony gait." So saying, Malcolm took upon him- self to try the handle of the door. It was not locked : he peeped in, then en- tered. It was a small room, low-ceiled, with a deep dormer window in the high pediment of a roof, and a turret-recess on each side of the window. It seemed very light after the passage, and looked down upon the burn. It was comfort- ably furnished, and the curtains of its tent-bed were chequered in squares of blue and white. "This is the verra place for me, mem," said Malcolm, reissuing; "that is," he added, "gien ye dinna think it's ower gran' for the likes o' me 'at 's no been used to onything half sae guid." "You're quite welcome to it," said Mrs. Courthope, all but confident he would not care to occupy it after hearing the tale of Lord Gernon. She had not moved from the end of the passage while Malcolm was in the room : somewhat hurriedly she now led the way to her own. It seemed half a mile off to the wondering Malcolm as he followed her down winding stairs, along endless passages and round innumera- ble corners. Arrived at last, she made him sit down, and gave him a glass of home-made wine to drink, while she told him the story much as she had already told it to the marquis, adding a hope to the effect that if ever the marquis should express a wish to pry into the secret of the chamber, Malcolm would not encour- age him in a fancy the indulgence of which was certainly useless, and might be dangerous. "Me/" exclaimed Malcolm with sur- prise. "As gien he wad heed a word / said !" "Very little sometimes will turn a man either in one direction or the other," said Mrs. Courthope. "But surely, mem, ye dinna believe in sic fule auld-warld stories as that ? It's weel eneuch for a tale, but to think o' a body turnin' ae fit oot o' 's gait for 't, blecks [notipiiisses] me." "I don't say I believe it," returned Mrs. Courthope, a little pettishly, "but there's no good in mere foolhardiness." "Ye dinna surely think, mem, 'at God wad lat onything depen' upo' whether a man opent a door in 's ain hoose or no ? It's agane a' rizzon," persisted Malcolm. "There might be reasons we couldn't understand," she replied. "To do what we are warned against from any quarter, without good reason, must be foolhardy at best." "Weel, memx, I maun hae the room neist the auld warlock's, ony gait, for in that I'm gaun to sleep, an' in nae ither in a' this muckle hoose." Mrs. Courthope rose, full of uneasi- ness, and walked up and down the room. " I'm takin' upo' me naething ayont his lordship's ain word," urged Malcolm. "If you're to go by the very word," rejoined Mrs. Courthope, stopping and looking him full in the face, "you might insist on sleeping in Lord Gernon's chamber itself." "Weel, an' sae I micht," returned Malcolm. The hinted possibility of having to change bad for so much worse appear- ed to quench further objection. " I must get it ready myself, then," she said resignedly, " for the maids won't even go up that stair. And as to going into any of those rooms — " "'Deed no, mem ! ye sanna du that," cried Malcolm. " Sayna a word to ane o' them. I s' wadger I'm as guid's the auld warlock himsel' at makin' a bed. Jist gie me the sheets an' the blankets, an' I'll du't as trim 's ony lass i' the hoose." " But the bed will want airing," ob- jected the housekeeper. " By a' accoonts that's the last thing it's likly to want, lyin' neist door to yon chaumer. But I hae sleepit mony 's the time er' noo upo' the tap o' a boatload o' herrin', an' gien that never did me ony ill, it's no likly a guid bed '11 kill me gien it sud be a wee mochy [father full of moths')." Mrs. Courthope yielded and gave him all that was needful, and before night 138 MALCOLM. Malcolm had made his new quarters quite comfortable. He did not retire to them, however, until he had seen his grandfather laid down to sleep in his lonely cottage. About noon the next day the old man made his appearance in the kitchen. How he had found his way to it neither he nor any one else could tell. There happened to be no one there when he entered, and the cook when she return- ed 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 clutch- ed 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 in- stant he had laid hold of a silver candle- stick not yet passed through the hands of the scullery-maid, and for a moment she fancied him a thief, for he had re- jected 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 some- where and commenced cleaning it. By this time one of the maids who knew him had jojned the cook, and also stood watching him with amusement. But when she saw the old knife drawn from his stocking, and about to be ap- plied to the nozzle, to free it from ad- hering wax, it seemed more than time to break the silence. " Eh ! that's a siller can'lestick, Maister MacPhail," she cried, "an' ye maunna tak a k-nife till 't. or ye'll scrat it a' dreidfu'." An angry flush glowed in the withered cheeks of the piper as, without the least start at the suddenness of her interfer- ence, he turned his face in the direction of the speaker : " You take old Tuncan's tinkers for persons of no etchucation, vnem. As if tcy couldn't know ta silfcr from ta prass ! If tey wass so stupid. her nose would pe telling tem so. Efen old Tuncan's knife '11 pe knowing petter than to scratch ta silfer, or ta prass either : old Tuncan's knife would pe scratching nothing petter than ta skin of a Caw- mill." Now the candlestick had no business in the kitchen, and if it were scratched the butler would be indignant ; but the girl was a Campbell, and Duncan's words so frightened her that she did not dare interfere. She soon saw, however, that the piper had not over-vaunted his skill : the Skene left not a mark upon the metal. In a few minutes he had melted away the wax he could not otherwise reach, and had rubbed the candlestick perfectly bright, leaving behind l^m no trace ex- cept 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 Los- sie, and had everything provided neces- sary 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 il- lumination, that the entire charge of the lighting of the house was left in his hands, even to that of its stores of wax and tallow and oil ; and great was the pleasure he derived, not only from the trust reposed in him, but from other more occult sources connected with the duties of his office. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LIIJRARY. Malcolm's first night was rather trou- bled, not primarily from the fact that but a thin partition separated him from the wizard's chamber, but from the deadncss 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 unac- customed sound. He kept hearij^ the dead silence — was constantly tlropping as it were into its gulf; and it was no wonder that a succession of sleepless MALCOLM. 139 fits, strung together rather than divided by as many dozes little better than start- led rousings, should at length have so shaken his mental frame as to lay it open to the assaults of nightly terrors, the po- sition itself being sufficient to seduce his imagination and carry it over to the in- terests of his 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 surround- ings. 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, notwithstand- ing 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 sea-shore — but he could neither rise to go to her nor open his mouth to call. The vision kept com- ing and coming, like the same tune played over and over on a barrel-organ, and when he woke seemed to fill all the time he had slept. About ten o'clock he was summoned to the marquis's presence, and found him at breakfast with Lady Florimel. "Where did you sleep last night.''" asked the marquis. "Neist door to the auld warlock," an- swered Malcolm. Lady Florimel looked up with a glance of bright interest : her father had just been telling her the story. "You did!" said the marquis. "Then Mrs. Courthope — did she tell you the le- gend about him ?" "Ay did she, my lord." "Well, how did you sleep?" "Middlin' only." "Ho\v was that ?" "I dinna ken, 'cep it was 'at I was fule eneuch to fin' the place gey eerie- like." "Aha!" said the marquis. "You've had enough of it ! You won't try il again !" "What's that ye say, my lord?" re- joined Malcolm. "Wad ye hae a man turn 's back at the first fleg? Na, na, my lord, that wad never du !" "Oh, then you did have a fright?" "Na, I canna say that, aither. Nae- thing waur came near me nor a dream 'at plaguit me ; an' it wasna sic an ill ane, efter a'." "What was it?" "I thocht there was a bonny leddy sit- tin' o' the bed i' the neist room, in her nicht-goon like, an' she was greitin' sair in her heart, though she never loot a tear fa' doon. She was greitin' aboot a bair- nie she had lost, an' I kent weel whaur the bairnie was — doon in a cave upo' the shore, I thocht — an' was jist yirnin' to gang till her an' tell her, an' stop the greitin' o' her hert, but I cudna muv han' nor fit, naither cud I open my mou' to cry till her. An' I gaed dreamin' on at the same thing, ower and ower a' the time I was asleep. But there was nae- thing sae frichtsome aboot that, my lord." "No, indeed," said his lordship. "Only it garred me greit tu, my lord, 'cause I cudna win at her to help her." His lordship laughed, but oddly, and changed the subject. " There's no word of that boat yet," he said. "I must write again." "May I show Malcolm the library, papa?" asked Lady Florimel. "I wad fain see the buiks," adjected Malcolm. "You don't know what a scholar he is, papa." "Little eneuch o' that," said Malcolm. "Oh yes, I do," said the marquis, an- swering his daughter. " But he must keep the skipper from my books and the scholar from my boat." "Ye mean a scholar wha wad skip yer buiks, my lord. Haith ! sic wad be a skipper wha wad ill scull yer boat," said Malcolm, with a laugh at the poor at- tempt. "Bravo!" said the marquis, who cer- tainly was not over-critical. " Can you write a good hand?" 140 MALCOLM. " No ill, my lord." " So much the better. I see you'll be worth your wages." "That depen's on the wages," return- ed Malcolm. "And that reminds me you've said nothing about them yet." " Naither has yer lordship." "Well, what are they to be ?" "Whatever ye think proper, my lord. Only dinna gar me gang to Maister Crathie for them." The marquis had sent away the man who was waiting when Malcolm entered, and during this conversation Malcolm had of his own accord been doing his best to supply his place. The meal end- ed, 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 li- brary," she said. "Thank ye, my leddy : that ■zvi'// be gran'," replied Malcolm. He followed her up two staircases and through more than one long narrow pas- sage : 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 marveling 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 as- tonishment took a strange form of ex- pression, the thought in which was be- yond the reach of his mistress. " Kb, my leddy," he cried, after staring for a while in breathless bewilderment, " it's jist hkc a byke o' frozen bees ! Eh ! gien they war a' to come to life an' stick their stangs o' trowth intill a body, the waukin' up wad be awfu' ! It jist gars my heid gang roon'," he added, after a pause. "It is a fine thing," said the girl, "to have such a library." "'Deed is 't, my leddy! It's ane o' the preevileeges o' rank," said Malcolm. "It taks a faimily that bauds on thiou' centeries in a hoose whaur things gether to mak sic an unaccoontable getherin' o' buiks as that. It's a gran' sicht — worth livin' to see." " Suppose you were to be a rich man some day," sa»id Florimel in the con- descending 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 to- gether." " Na, my leddy : I wad hae mair wut, A leebrary canna be made a' at ance, ony mair nor a hoose or a nation or a muckle tree : i/iey maun a' tak time to grow, an' sae maun a leebrary. I wad- na even ken what buiks to gang an' speir for. I daur say, gien I war to try, I cud- na at a moment's notice tell ye the names o' mair nor a twa score o' buiks at the ootside. Fowk maun mak ac- quaintance amo' buiks as they wad amo' leevin' fowk." " But you could get somebody who knew more about them than yourself to buy for you." " I wad as sune think o' gettin' some- body to ait my denner for me." "No, that's not fair," said Florimel. " It would only be like getting somebody who knew more of cookery than your- self to order your dinner for you." "Ye're richt, my leddy, but still I wad as sune thing o' the tane 's the tither. What wad come o' the like o' me, div ye think, broucht up upo' mcal-brose an' herrin', gien ye was to set me doon to sic a denner as my lord yer father wad ait ilka day an' think naething o' ? But gien some fowk hed the buyin' o' my buiks, I'm thinkin' the first thing I wad hae to du wad be to fling the half o* them into the burn." "What good would that do ?" MALCOLM. 141 "Clear avva' the rubbitch. Ye see, my leddy, it's no buiks, but what buiks. Eh ! there maun be mony ane o' the richt sort here, though. I wonner gien Mr. Graham ever saw them. He wad surely hae made mention o' them i' my hearin'." " What would be the first thing you would do, then, Malcolm, if you hap- pened to turn out a great man after all .?" said Florimel, seating herself in a huge library-chair, whence, having arranged her skirt, she looked up in the young fisherman's face. "I doobt I wad hae to sit doon an' turn ower the change a feow times afore I kent aither mysel' or what wad become me," he said. "That's not answering my question," retorted Florimel. "Weel, the second thing I wad do," said Malcolm thoughtfully, and pausing a moment, "wad be to get Mr. Graham to gang wi' me to Ebberdeen an' carry me throu' the classes there. Of coorse, I wadna try for prizes : that wadna be fair to them 'at cudna affoord a tutor at their lodgin's." "But it's the first thing you would do that I want to know," persisted the girl. " I tellt ye I wad sit doon an' think aboot it." " I don't count that doing anything." "'Deed, my leddy, thinkin's the hard- est wark 1 ken." "Well, what is it you would think about first ?" said Florimel, not to be di- verted from her course. "Ow ! the third thing I wad du — " "I want to know the first thing you would think about." " I canna say yet what the third thing wad be. Fower years at the college wad gie m.e time to reflec' upon a hantle o' things." " I insist on knowing the first thing you would think about doing," cried Florimel with mock imperiousness, but real tyranny. "Weel, my leddy, gien ye wuU hae *t — But hoo great a man wad ye be makin' o' me ?" " Oh ! let me see : yes, yes, the heir to an earldom. That's liberal enough, is it not ?" "That's as muckle as say I wad come to be a yerl some day, sae be I didna dee upo' the ro'd ?" "Yes, that's what it means." "An' a yerl's neist door till a markis, isna he ?" "Yes, he's in the next lower rank." " Lower ? — ay ! No that muckle, may- be ?" "No," said Lady Florimel consequen- tially: "the difference is not so great as to prevent their meeting on a level of courtesy." " I dinna freely ken what that means, but gien 't be yer leddyship's wuU to mak a yerl o' me, I'm no to raise ony' objections." He uttered it definitively, and stood silent. "Well ?" said the girl. "What's yer wull, my leddy?" return- ed Malcolm, as if roused from a reverie. "Where's your answer?" " I said I wad be a yerl to please yer leddyship. I wad be a flunky for the same rizzon, gien 't was to wait upo' yersel' an' nae ither." "I ask you," said Florimel, more im- periously than ever, "what is the first thing you would do if you found your- self no longer a fisherman, but the son of an earl ?" " But it maun be that I was a fisher- man — to the en' o' a' creation, my leddy." "You refuse to answer my question ?" " By no means, my leddy, gien ye wull hae an answer." "I wz7/have an answer." "Gien ye wull hae 't, than — But — " "No buts, but an answer." "Weel — it's yer ain wyte, my leddy — I wad jist gang doon upo' my k-nees, whaur I stude afore ye, and tell ye a heap o' things 'at maybe by that time ye wad ken weel eneuch a'ready." "What would you tell me?" " I wad tell ye 'at yer een war like the verra leme o' the levin [brightness of the iightfting) itsel' ; yer cheek like a white rose i' the licht frae a reid ane ; yer hair jist the saft lattin' gang o' His ban's whan the Maker cud du nae mair ; yer 142 MALCOLM. mou' jist fashioned to drive fowk daft 'at daurna come nearer nor luik at it ; an' for yer shape, it was like naething in Natur' but itsel'. Ye wad hae 't, my leddy," he added apologetically ; and well he might, for Lady Florimel's cheek had flushed and her eye had been dart- ing fire long before he got to the end of his Celtic outpouring. Whether she was really angry or not, she had no difficulty in making Malcolm believe she was. She rose from her chair, though not until he had ended, swept halfway to the door, then turned upon him with a flash. "How dare you?" she said, her breed well obeying the call of the game. " I'm verra sorry, my leddy," faltered Malcolm, trying to steady himself against a strange trembling that had laid hold upon him, "but you maun alloo it was a' yer ain wyte." " Do you dare to say /encouraged you to talk such stuff to me ?" "Ye did gar me, my leddy." Florimel turned and undulated from the room, leaving the poor fellow like a statue in the middle of it, with the books all turning their backs upon him. "Noo," he said to himself, "she's aff to tell her father, and there'll be a bonny bane to pyke atween him an' me. But haith ! I'll jist tell him the trowth o' 't, an' syne he can mak a kirk an' a mill o' 't, gien he likes." With this resolution he stood his ground, every moment expecting the wrathful father to make his appearance and at the least order him out of the house. But minute passed after minute and no wrathful father came. He grew calmer by degrees, and at length began to peep at the titles of the books. When the great bell rang for lunch he was embalmed rather than buried in one of Milton's prose volumes, standing be- fore the shelf on which he had found it, the very incarnation of study. My reader may well judge that Mal- colm could not have been very far gone in love, seeing he was thus able to read. I remark in return that it was not mere- ly 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 in- dividuality. CHAPTER XXXIV. MILTON, AND THE BAY MARE. For some days Malcolm saw nothing more of Lady Florimel, but with his grand- father'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 be- gan again to indulge the interest she could not help feeling in him — an inter- est 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 occasional- ly 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 him- self a lesson suitable to the occasion. One afternoon the marquis sent fot 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 un- consciously, and closed the book with a slam. "What is a big shame ?" said the voice of the marquis close behind him. Malcolm started, and almost dropped the volume. " I beg yer lordship's par- don," he said: "I didna hear ye come in." "What was the book you were read- ing?" asked the marquis. MALCOLM. 143 " I was jist readin' a bit o' Milton's Eikonoklastes," answered Malcolm, " — a buik I hae hard tell o', but never saw wi' my ain een afore." "And what's your quarrel with it?" asked his lordship. " I canna mak oot what sud set a great man like Milton sae sair agane a puir cratur like Cherles." " Read the history, and you'll see." "Ow! I ken something aboot the pol- itics o' the time, an' I'm no sayin' they war that wrang to tak the held fra him, but what for sud Milton hate the man efter the king was deid ?" " Because he didn't think the king dead enough, I suppose." "I see ; an' they war settin' him up for a sant. Still, he had a richt to fair play. Jist hearken, my lord." So saying, Malcolm reopened the vol- ume and read the well-known passage, in the first chapter, in which Milton cen- sures the king as guilty of utter irreve- rence because of his adoption of the prayer of Pamela in the Arcadia. "Noo, my lord," he said, half closing the book, "what wad ye expec' to come upo', efter sic a denunciation as that, but some awfu' haithenish thing? Weel, jist hearken again, for here's the verra prayer itsel' in a futnote." His lordship had thrown himself into a chair, had crossed one leg over the other, and was now stroking its knee. "Noo, my lord," said Malcolm again, as he concluded, "what think ye o' the jeedgment passed?" " Really I have no opinion to give about it," answered the marquis. " I'm no theologian. I see no harm in the prayer." " Hairm in 't, my lord! It's perfetly gran' ! It's sic a prayer as cudna weel be aiqualt. It vexes me to the verra hert o' my sowl that a michty man like Mil- ton — ane whase bein' was a crood o' her- monies — sud ca' that the prayer o' a hai- then wuman till a haithen god. ' O all- seein' Licht, an' eternal Life o' a' things !' Ca's he that a haithen god, or her 'at prayed sic a prayer a haithen wuman?" "Well, well," said the marquis, "I don't want it all over again. I see noth- ing to find fault with, myself, but I don't take much interest in that sort of thing." "There a wee bitty o' Laitin, here i' the note, 'at I canna freely mak oot," said Malcolm, approaching Lord Lossie with his finger on the passage, never doubting that the owner of such a library must be able to read Latin perfectly : Mr. Graham would have put him right at once, and his books would have been lost in one of the window-corners of this huge place. But his lordship waved him back. " I can't be your tutor," he said, not unkindly. " My Latin is far too rusty for use." The fact was that his lordship had never got beyond Maturin Cordier's Col- loquies. "Besides," he went on, "I want you to do something for me." Malcolm instantly replaced the book on its shelf, and approached his master, saying, "Wull yer lordship lat me read whiles i' this gran' place ? I mean whan I'm no wantit ither gaits, an' there's nae- body here." "To be sure," answered the marquis, "only the scholar mustn't come with the skipper's hands." "I s' tak guid care o' that, my lord. I wad as sune think o' han'lin' a book wi' wark-like ban's as I wad o' branderin' a mackerel ohn cleaned it oot." "And when we have visitors you'll be careful not to get in their way." " I wull that, my lord." "And now," said his lordship rising, " I want you to take a letter to Mrs. Stew- art of Kirkbyres. Can you ride ?" "I can ride the bare back weel eneuch for a fisher-loon," said Malcolm, "but I never was upon a saiddle i' my life." "The sooner you get used to one the better. Go and tell Stoat to saddle the bay mare. Wait in the yard : I will bring the letter out to you myself." "Verra weel, my lord," said Malcolm. He knew, from sundry remarks he had heard about the stables, that the mare in question was a ticklish one to ride, but would rather have his neck broken than object. Hardly was she ready when the mar- 144 MALCOLM. quis appeared, accompanied by Lady Florimel, both expecting to enjoy a laugh at Malcolm's expense. But when the mare was brought out, and he was going to mount her where she stood, something seemed to wake in the marquis's heart, or conscience, or wherever the pigmy Duty slept that occupied the ail-but sine- cure of his moral economy : he looked at Malcolm for a moment, then at the ears of the mare hugging her neck, and last at the stones of the paved yard. "Lead her on to the turf. Stoat," he said. The groom obeyed, all followed, and Malcolm mounted. The same instant he lay on his back on the grass amidst a general laugh, loud on the part of mar- quis and lady, and subdued on that of the servants. But the next he was on his feet, and, the groom still holding the mare, in the saddle again : a little anger is a fine spur for the side of even an honest intent. This time he sat for half a minute, and then found himself once more on the grass. It was but once more : his mother earth had claimed him again only to complete his strength. A third time he mounted, and sat. As soon as she perceived it would be hard work to unseat him, the mare was quiet. "Bravo!" cried the marquis, giving him the letter, "Will there be an answer, my lord ?" "Wait and see." " I s' gar you pey for 't, gien we come upon a broon rig atween this an' Kirk- byres," said Malcolm, addressing the mare, and rode away. Both the marquis and Lady Florimel, whose laughter had altogether ceased in the interest of watching the struggle, stood looking after him with a pleased expression, which as he vanished up the glen changed to a mutual glance and smile. " He's got good blood in him, however he came by it," said the marquis. "The country is more indebted to its nobility than is generally understood." Otherwise indebted at least than Lady Florimel could gather from her father's remark. 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 ; over head rooks were caw- ing; 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 southward into the heart of the country. The father of the late proprietor of Kirkbyres had married the heiress of Gersefell, an estate which inarched 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 un- expectedly she also, some years after their marriage, brought him a property of con- siderable e.\tent — a fact which had doubt- less had its share in the birth and nour- ishment of her consuming desire to get the estates into her own management. Toward the end of his journey Mal- colm 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 on each side of the road, which went straight as a rod through a black peat moss lying cheer- less and dreary on all sides — hardly less so where the sun gleamed from the sur- face 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. MALCOLM. 145 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 tur- rets or bartizans, one at each corner — lifted its gray 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. Find- ing the kitchen door open, he entered, and having delivered his letter to a ser- vant-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 wind- ing 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 win- dow, 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 greet- ea 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 indica- tions 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 10 him : he could not by any effort cause the two to coalesce. "You have had a long ride, Mr. Mac- Phail," 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." "I'm 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 /might place equal confidence in you." " I dinna ken. I wadna hae ye lippen to me ower 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 decan- ters. "'Deed no, mem ! I'm no used till 't,^ an' it micht jummle my jeedgment," 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 some- times — " 146 MALCOLM. "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 mocker)^ of every urchin in the street." She sighed deeply, and one of the fair hands took a handkerchief from a work- table near. "No in Portlossie, mem," said Mal- colm. "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 ; and he's a great favorite 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 afflic- tion. 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 — " "Good parritch an' milk, an' brose an' butter," said Malcolm parenthetically — "whiles herrin' an' yallow baddies." " 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 be- tween us, telling wicked lies and terrify- ing 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 toward 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 con- fidence in must come with him. Noth- ing 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 hom.e, and cease to be a by-word 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 Mal- colm'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 tlie partisan of her son, and therefore in honor bound to give him the benefit of every doubt, he would cer- tainly have been gained over to work MALCOLM. 147 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 ^yes 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 a moment Malcolm was tempted — not to betray his friend, but to simulate a yielding sympa- thy, 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 ban's chappit frae the shackle-bane." "Surely, my dear Mr. MacPhail," re- turned the lady in her most persuasive tones and with her sweetest smile, "you cannot call it harming a poor idiot to re- store him to the care of his own mother?" "That's as it turnt oot," rejoined Mal- colm. "But I'm sure o' ae thing, mem, an' that is, 'at he's no sae muckle o' an eediot as some fowk wad hae him." Mrs. Stewart's face fell. She turned from him, and going back to her seat hid her face in her handkerchief. "I'm afraid," she said sadly, after a moment, " I must give up my last hope : you are not disposed to be friendly to me, Mr. MacPhail. You too have been ' believing hard things of me." "That's true, but no frae hearsay alane," 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 ban's an' rins like a coUey wi' a pan at 's tail. That cudna come o' nae- thing." Mrs. Stewart hid her face on the cush- ioned 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 ad- vised a certain operation which had to be performed for consecutive months at intervals of a few days. Though pain- ful 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 in- jury 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 appar- ent. Malcolm could not but be touched : "It's no 'at I'm no willin' to be your freen', mem ; but I'm yer son's freen' a'ready, an' gien he was to hear ony- thing '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. 148 MALCOLM. I'll du naething till I'm 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 Mal- colm, while the words put him afresh on his guard. "But I might be driven to it," she added. Malcolm responded with an unuttered vow. " It might become necessary to use force, whereas you could lead him with a word." "Na, I'm naither 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 o' a hantle mair nor a body wad think 'at didna ken him sae weel as I do,' 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 tim- orsome, 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," ex- claimed Mrs. Stewart, pressing her hand- kerchief to her eyes and sobbing as she spoke. "There is a child he is very fond of, I am told," she added, recovering herself. " He likes a' bairns," returned Mal- colm, "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 bet- ter; 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 com- fort he has." " It's his leeberty, mem — jist his leeb- erty — 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 ivhej'e?" interrupted the moth- er, 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 div not believe 'at the Lord '11 see him wranged mair nor 's for 's guid. But it's my belief, gien ye took the leeberty fra 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 1 will bless you, love you." As she spoke she rose, and, approach- ing him gently, laid a hand on his shoul- der. 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 wad be happy wi' ye efterhin, it micht be anither thing ; but e.xcep' ye garred him ye cudna get him to bide lang eneuch for ye to tr)' ; an' syne [even then) he wad dec afore ye bed convenced him. I doobt, mem, ye hae lost ycr chance wi' him, and maun du yer best to be con- tent withoot him. I'll promise ye this MALCOLM. 149 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 prom- ise. 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 to-morrow. 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 hos- tility out of the question, she saw plain- ly enough that, if he were called on to give testimony as to the laird's capacity, his evidence 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. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE BLOW. "Well, Malcolm," said his lordship when the youth reported himself, "how's Mrs. Stewart ?" "No ower weel pleased, my lord," an- swered Malcolm. "What! you haven'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 mo- ments : " 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 maun ken what it is afore I say onything, my lord." " You may trust me not to require any- thing 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 con- science, 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 con- science I'm bun' to follow, an' no yer lordship's or ony ither man's. Suppose the thing 'at seemed richt to yer lordship seemed wrang 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 baud: I bude to du what I thocht richt, an' lay the blame upo' nobody, whatever cam o' 't." "You young hypocrite! Why didn't you tell me you meant to set up for a saint before I took you into my service ?" "'Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord. Surely a body micht ken himsel' nae sant an' yet like to haud his ban's clean." "What did Mrs. Stewart tell you she wanted of you?" asked the marquis, al- most 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 per- sonal friend of the idiot's — " His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment, but Malcolm's 150 MALCOLM. 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 misinterpreta- tion involved, and answered, but calm- ly, " Me, my lord : / wuU. 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," re- turned Malcolm. "I've been turnin' 't ower i' my min', an' I see, plain as the daylicht, that I'm bun', bein' yer lord- ship'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 sail no han', gentle or semple, be laid upo' the laird against his ain wuU." The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too, and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right. " Go to the devil, you booby !" he said, even more in impatience than in wrath. "I'm thinkin' I needna budge," re- torted Malcolm, angry also. " What do you mean by that inso- lence ?" " I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gzx\g 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'U blaud the carpet." "You precious idiot!" cried his lord- ship, already repenting the deed, " why didn't you defend yourself?" "The quarrel was my ain, an' I cud du as 1 likit, my lord." "And why should you like to take a blow ? Not to lift a hand, even to de- fend 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'. And I beg yer lord- ship's pardon. But dinna ye du me the wrang to imagine, my lord, 'cause I took a flewet [blow) in good pairt whan I ken 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 don't show yourself till you're fit to be seen. I hope it '11 be a lesson to you." "It wull, my lord," said Malcolm. "But," he added, "there was nae occa- sion to gie me sic a dirdum : a word wad had pitten me mair i' the wrang." So saying, he left the room with his handkerchief to his face. The marquis was really sorrj' 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 mas- ter had been a bruiser in his youth, and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot its 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 un- comfortable. " The great lout !" he kept saying to himself, "why did he let me strike him ?" Malcolm went to his grandfather's cot- tage. In passing the window he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his knees, looking troubled. When he entered the old man held out his arms to him. "Tcre'U pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son !" he cried. "You'll pe hafing a hurt ! She knows it. MALCOLM. 151 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 plood- ing, Malcolm !" he cried the same mo- ment. " It's naething to greit aboot, daddy. It's hardly mair nor the flype o' a saw- ' mon's tail." " Put who '11 pe tone it ?" asked Dun- can angrily. "Ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet," answered Malcolm with indifference. "Where is he ?" cried the piper, rising in wrath. "Tak her to him, Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. She will trive her turk into his wicked pody." "Na, na, daddy," said Malcolm: "we hae hed eneuch o' dirks a'ready." "Then you haf tone it yourself, then, 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 that ! 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 no 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 '11 must to it herself," said Duncan quietly, and with the lips com- pressed of calm decision turned toward 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 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 especial- ly 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 grand- son, for whose manliness he was jealous, greatly served to quiet Duncan, and he consented at last to postpone all quit- tance, 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 rfiight give him a lesson. Malcolm made the attempt, but found it impossible to fill the bag with his swollen and cut lips, and had to beg his grandfather to play to him instead. He gladly consented, and played until bedtime, when, having tucked him up, Malcolm went quietly to his own room, avoiding supper and the eyes of Mrs. Courthope together. He fell asleep in a moment, and spent a night of perfect oblivion, dreamless of wizard lord or witch lady. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CUTfER. Some days passed, during which Mal- colm 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 retire- ment with music, and with wild stories of highland lochs and mdors, chanted or told. Malcolm's face was now much better, though the signs of the blow were still plain enough upon it, when a mes- senger came one afternoon to summon him to the marquis's presence. 152 MALCOLM. "Where have you been sulking all this time?" was his master's greeting. "I havena been sulkin', my lord," an- swered Malcolm. "Yer lordship tauld me to haud oot o' the gait till I was fit to be seen, an' no a sowl has set an ee upo' me till this verra moment 'at yer lordship has me in yer ain." "Where have you been, then?" "!' my ain room at nicht, and doon at my gran'father's as lang 's fowk was aboot — wi' a bit dauner [stroll) up the burn i' the mirk." "You couldn't encounter the shame of being seen with such a face, eh ?" " It micht ha' been thocht a disgrace to the tane or the tither o' 's, my lord — maybe to baith." " If you don't learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring you to worse." " My lord, I confessed my faut and I pat up wi' the blow. But if it hadna been that I was i' the wrang — weel, things micht hae differt." " Hold your tongue, I tell you ! You're an honest, good fellow, and I'm sorry I struck you. There!" " I thank yer lordship." "I sent for you because I've just heard from Aberdeen that the boat is on her way round. You must be ready to take charge of her the moment she arrives." " I wuU be that, my lord. It doesna shuit me at a' to be sae lang upo' the solid : I'm like a cowt upon a toU-ro'd." The next morning he got a telescope, and taking with him his dinner of bread and cheese, and a book in his pocket, went up to the Temple of the Winds, to look out for the boat. Every few min- utes 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 landward, and spied his mistress below amongst the trees, but she never looked .in his direction. He had just become aware of the first ■dusky breath 'of the twilight, when a tiny sloop appeared rounding the Deid Hcid, as they called the promontory which closed in the bay on the east. The sun was setting, red and large, on the other side of the Scaurnose, and filled her white sails with a rosy dye as she came stealing round in a fair soft wind. The moon hung over her thin and pale and ghostly, with hardly shine enough to show that it was indeed she and not the forgotten scrap of a torn-up cloud. As she passed the point and turned toward 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 hersel'!" cried Malcolm in de- light. "Aboot the size o' a muckle her- rin'-boat, but nae mair like ane than Lady Florimel 's like Meg Partan. It'll be jist gran' to hae a cratur sae near leevin' to guide an' tak yer wuU o' ! I had nae idea she was gaein' to be ony- thing like sae bonny. I'll no be fit to manage her in a squall, though. I maun hae anither han'. An' I winna hae a laddie, aither. It maun be a grown man, or I winna tak in han' to haud her abune the watter. I wuU no. I 's hae Blue Peter himsel' gien I can get him. Eh ! jist luik at her, wi' her bit gaff-tappie set, and her jib an' a', booin' an' booin', an' comin' on ye as gran' 's ony born leddy!" He shut up the telescope, ran down the hill, unlocked the private door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting 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 Partan, whom Malcolm found on the pierhead, remarked, "like a leddy closin' her parasol as she cam." Mal- colm jumped on board, and the two men who had brought her round gave up their charge. She was full -decked, with a dainty little cabin. Her planks were almost white : there was not a board in her off which one might not, as the Partan ex- panded the common phrase, "ait his parritch an' never fin' a mote in 's mou'." Her cordage was all so clean, her stand- ing 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 MALCOLM. 153 creature home and laid her up under the very walls of the House ! It would have perfected the place in his eyes. He made her snug for the night and went to report her arrival. Great was Lady Florimel's jubilation. She would have set out on a "coasting voyage," as she called it, the very next day, but her father listened to Malcolm. "Ye see, my lord," said Malcolm, "I maun ken a' aboot her afore I daur tak ye oot in her. An' I canna unnertak' to manage her my lane. Ye maun jist gie me anither man wi' me." "Get one," said the marquis. Early in the morning, therefore, Mal- colm went to Scaurnose, and found Blue Peter amongst his nets. He could spare a day or two, and would join him. They returned together, got the cutter into the offing, and with a westerly breeze tried her every way. She answered her helm with readiness, rose as light as a bird, made a good board, and seemed every way a safe boat. "She's the bonniest craft ever lainch- cd!" 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 Portlossie. I^^I^T •VIII. CHAPTER XXXVIII. 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 longest- 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, toward the grave ! " If he be not rotten before he die," said Hamlet's absolute grave- digger. 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 reveling 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 field lay yellow below; the rich colors of decay hung heavy on the woods, and seemed to clothe them as with the trap- pings of a majestic sorrow ; but the spi- der-webs sparkled with dew and the gos- samer films floated thick in the level sunbeams. It was a great time for the spiders, those visible Deaths of the in- sect 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 154 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 worshiper 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 oriel window, under the tall bridge, the burn lay dark in a deep pool, with a slow-revolving ed- dy, in which one leaf, attended by a streak of white froth, was performing solemn gy- rations. 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 lulty 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 tran- sient 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 MALCOLM. 155 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 stag-hound, and set out the nearest way — that is, by the town-gate — for the harbor. She must make acquaintance with her new plaything. Mrs. Catanach in her nightcap look- ed 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 al- ways with the look of being fresh from an ash-pit, rushed from somewhere and laid hold of Lady Florimel's dress, fright- ening her so that she gave a cry. In- stantly 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 offen- sive animal, which would have fled, but found it too late. Opening his huge jaws. Demon took him across the flanks, much larger than his own, as if he had been a rabbit. His howls of agony brought Mrs. Catanach out in her petticoats. She flew at the hound, which Lady Florimel was in vain attempting to drag from the cur, and seized him by the throat. "Take care! he is dangerous," cried the girl. Finding she had no power upon him, Mrs. Catanach forsook him, and in de- spairing fury rushed at his mistress. Demon saw it with one flaming eye — left the cur, which, howling hideously, dragged his hind quarters after him into the house, and sprang at the woman. Then indeed was Lady Florimel terrified, for she knew the savage nature of the animal when roused. Truly, with his eyes on fire as now, his long fangs bared, the bristles on his back erect and his moustache sticking straight out, he might well be believed, much as civilization might have done for him, a wolf after all. His mistress threw herself between them and flung her arms tight round his neck. "Run, woman! run for your life!" she shrieked. "I can't hold him long." Mrs. Catanach fled, cowed by terror. Her huge legs bore her huge body, a tragi-comic spectacle, across the street to her open door. She had hardly vanish- ed, flinging it to behind her, when De- mon broke from his mistress, and, going at the door as if launched from a cata- pult, burst it open and disappeared also. Lady Florimel gave a shriek of horror and darted after him. The same moment the sound of Dun- can's pipes as he issued from the town- gate, at which he always commenced in- stead of ending his reveille now, reached her, and bethinking herself of her inabil- ity to control the hound, she darted again from the cottage and flew to meet him, crying aloud, " Mr. MacPhail ! Duncan ! Duncan ! stop your pipes and come here directly." " And who may pe calling me ?" asked Duncan, who had not thoroughly distin- guished the voice through the near clam- or of his instrument. She laid her hand trembling with ap- prehension on his arm, and began pull- ing him along. " It's me — Lady Flori- mel," she said. "Come here directly. Demon has got into a house and is wor- rying a woman." "God haf mercy!" cried Duncan. "Take her pipes, my laty, for fear any- thing paad should happen to them." She led him hurriedly to the door. But ere he had quite crossed the thresh- old he shivered and drew back. " This is an efil house," he said. "She '11 not can CO in." A great floundering racket was going on above, mingled with growls and shrieks, but there was no howling. "Call the dog, then. He will mind you, perhaps," she cried — knowing what a slow business an argument with Dun- can was — and flew to the stair. "Temon! Temon!" cried Duncan with agitated voice. Whether the dog thought his friend was in trouble next, I cannot tell, but down he came that instant, with a single bound from the top of the stair, right over his mistress's head as she was run- 156 MALCOLM. ning up, and leaping out to Duncan, laid a paw upon each of his shoulders, pant- ing with out-lolled tongue. But the piper staggered back, pushing the dog from him. "It is plood!" he cried — "ta efil woman's plood !" " Keep him out, Duncan dear," said Lady Florimel. " I will go and see. There ! he'll be up again if you don't mind." Very reluctant, yet obedient, the bard laid hold of the growling animal by the collar ; and Lady Florimel was just turn- ing to finish her ascent of the stair and see what dread thing had come to pass, when, to her great joy, she heard Mal- colm's voice calling from the farther end of the street, " Hey, daddy, what's hap- pened 'at I dinna hear the pipes ?" She rushed out, the pipes dangling from her hand, so that the drone trailed on the ground behind her. " Malcolm ! Malcolm!" she cried; and he was by her side in scarcely more time than De- mon would have taken. Hurriedly and rather incoherently she told him what had taken place. He sprang up the stair, and she followed. In the front garret — with a dormer window looking down into the street — stood Mrs. Catanach facing the door, with such a malignant rage in her coun- tenance that it looked demoniacal. Her dog lay at her feet with his throat torn out. As soon as she saw Malcolm she broke into a fury of vulgar imprecation — most of it quite outside the pale of artistic record. " Hoots ! for shame, Mistress Cata- nach !" he cried. " Here's my lady ahin' me, hearin' ilka word." " Deil stap her lugs wi' brunstane ! What but a curse wad she hae frae me ? I sweir by God I s' gar her pey for this, or my name's no — " She stopped sud- denly. "I thocht as muckle," said Malcolm with a keen look. "Ye'U think twise, ye deil's buckie, or ye think richt ! Wha are ye to think .'' What sud my name be but Bawby Cata- nach ? Ye're unco upsettin' sin' ye turn- ed my Icddy's flunky ! Sorrow tak ye baith ! My dawtit Beauty worriet by that hell-tyke o' hers !" "Gien ye gang on like that, the markis '11 hae ye drummed oot o' the toon or twa days be ower," said Malcolm. "Wull he, then?" she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the teeth she had left. "Ye'll be far ben wi' the markis, nae doobt ! An' yon donnert auld deevil ye ca' yer gran'father 'ill be fain eneuch to be drummer, I'll sweir. Care's my case !" "My leddy, she's ower ill-tongued for you to hearken till," said Malcolm, turn- ing to Florimel, who stood in the door white and trembling. "Jist gang doon an' tell my gran'father to sen' the dog up. There's surely some gait o' garrin' her baud her tongue." Mrs. Catanach threw a terrified glance toward Lady Florimel. "Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind," replied Florimel. "For shame !" "Hoots, my leddy!" returned Mal- colm, "I only said it to try the effec' o' 't. It seems no that ill." "Ye son o' a deevil's soo !" cried the woman : "Is' hae amen's o' ye for this, gien I sud ro'st my ain hert to get it." "'Deed, but ye're duin that fine a'ready ! That foul brute o' yours has gotten his ?^x\t.s{eartiest)\.\i. I wonner what he thinks o' sawmon-troot noo ? Eh, mem ?" "Have done, Malcolm," said Florimel. " I am ashamed of you. If the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her house." "Hear till her!" cried Mrs. Catanach contemptuously. "'The wotiian /" 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. Cata- nach 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's Strathspey." "What a horrible woman that is I" she said with a shudder. MALCOLM. 157 "Ay is she; but I doobt she wad be waur gien she didna brak oot that gait whiles," rejoined Malcolm. " How do you mean ?" "It frichts fowk at her, an' maybe sometimes pits 't oot o' her pooer to du waur. Gien ever she seek to mak it up wi' ye, my leddy, I wad hae little to say till her gien I was you." "What could I have to say to a low creature like that ?" "Ye wadna ken what she micht be up till, or hoo she micht set aboot it, my leddy. I wad hae ye mistrust her a'the- gither. My daddy has a fine moral nose for vermin, an' he cannabide her, though he never had a glimp o' the fause face 0' her, an' in trowth never spak till her." " I will tell my father of her. A wo- man like that is not fit to live amongst civilized people." "Ye're richt there, my leddy, but she wad only gang some ither gait amo' the same. Of coorse ye maun tell yer fath- er, but she's no fit for him to tak ony no- tice o'." As they sat at breakfast Florimel did tell her father. His first emotion, how- ever — at least the first he showed — was vexation with herself "You must 7tot be going out alone, and at such ridicu- lous hours," he said. "I shall be com- pelled 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 mighx 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 Colon- say !" and pursued the subject no further. When they passed Mrs. Catanach's cottage an hour after, on their way to the harbor, they saw the blinds drawn down, as if a dead man lay within : ac- cording to after report, she had the brute already laid out like a human being, and sat by the bedside awaiting a colrin which she had ordered of Watty Witherspail. CHAPTER XXXIX. COLONSAY CASTLE. The day continued lovely, with a fine breeze. The whole sky and air and sea were alive — with moving clouds, with wind, with waves flashing in the sun. As they stepped on board amidst the little crowd gathered to see. Lady Florimel could hardly keep her delight within the bounds of so-called propriety. It was all she could do to restrain herself from dancing on the little deck half swept by the tiller. The boat of a schooner which lay at the quay towed them out of the harbor. Then the creature spread her wings like a bird — mainsail and gaff-top- sail, staysail and jib — leaned away to leeward, and seemed actually to bound over the waves. Malcolm sat at the til- ler and Blue Peter watched the canvas. Lady Florimel turned out to be a good sailor, and her enjoyment was so con- tagious 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 re- acted on the rudder, she declined to trouble herself with that. "Let me steer first," she said, "and then tell me how things work." "That is whiles the best plan," said Malcolm. "Jist lay yer han' upo' the tiller, my leddy, an' luik oot at yon p'int they ca' the Deid Heid yonner. Ye see, whan I turn the tiller this gait her heid fa's aff frae the p'int, an' whan I turn 't this ither gait her heid turns till 't again : baud her heid jist about a twa yards like aff o' 't." Florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own hand ruling the cutter — so overjoyed indeed that, instead of steering straight, she would keep play- ing tricks with the rudder, fretting the mouth of the sea-palfrey, as it were. Ever}' now and then Malcolm had to expostulate : " Noo, my leddy, caw can- ny. Dinna steer sae wuU. Haud her steddy. — My lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or I'll be forced to tak the tiller fra her?" 158 MALCOLM. 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 Mal- colm. " Ye'll male a guid skipper some day," he said: "ye speir the richt questons, an' that's 'maist as guid 's kennin' the richt answers." At length she threw herself on the cushions Malcolm had brought for her, and while her father smoked his cigar gazed in silence at the shore. Here, instead of sands, low rocks, 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 furze, rose behind — untouched by the ordinary tide, but at high water lashed by the waves of a storm. Beyond the headland which they were fast nearing the cliffs and the sea met at half-tide. The moment they rounded it, "Luik there, my lord!" criedMalcolm. "There's Colonsay Castel, 'at yer lordship gets yer name, I'm thinkin' — an', ony gait, ane o" yer teetles — frae. It maun be mony a hunner year sin' ever a Colonsay baid intill't." 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 luik for tooer or pinnacle, my leddy, for nane will ye see : their time's lang ower. But jist tak the sea- face o' the scaur {cliff) i' yer ee, an' traivel alang 't oontil ye come till a bit 'at luiks like mason-wark. It scarce rises abune the scaur in ony but ae pairt, an' there it's but a feow feet o' a wa'." Following his direction, Lady Florimel soon found the ruin. The front of a projecting portion of the cliff was faced, from the very water's edge as it seemed, with mason-work, while on its side the masonry rested here and there upon jut- ting masses of the rock, serving as Gor- bels or brackets, the surface of the rock itself completing the wall-front. Above, grass-grown heaps and mounds, and one isolated bit of wall pierced with a little window, like an empty eyesocket with no skull behind it, were all that was vis- ible from the sea of the structure which had once risen lordly on the crest of the cliff. " It is poor for a ruin, even," said Lord Lossie. "But jist consider hoo auld the place is, my lord — as auld as the time o' the sea-rovin' Danes, they say. Maybe it's aulder nor King Alfred. Ye maun re- gaird it only as a foondation : there's stanes eneuch lyin' aboot to shaw 'at there maun hae been a gran' supper- structur on 't ance. I some think it has been ance disconneckit frae the Ian' an' jined on by a drawbrig. Mony a lump o' rock an' castel thegither has rowed doon the brae upon a' sides, an' the ruins may weel hae filled up the gully at last. It's a wonnerfu' auld place, my lord." " What would you do with it if it were yours, Malcolm?" asked Lady Florimel. " I wad spen' a' my spare time patch- in' 't up to gar't Stan' oot agane the wither. It's crum'let awa' a heap sin' I min'." "What would be the good of that? A rickle of old stones!" said the marquis. " It's a growth 'at there winna be mony mair like," returned Malcolm. "I won- ner' at your lordship!" He was now steering for the foot of the cliff. As they approached the ruin ex- panded and separated, grew more massy, and yet more detailed. Still, it was a mere root clinging to the soil. " Suppose you were Lord Lossie, Mal- colm, what would you do with it ?" asked Florimel seriously, but with fun in her eyes. "I wad win at the boddom o' 't first." "What do you mean by that ?" "Ye'll see whan ye win intill't. There's a heap o' voutit places inside you blin' face. Du ye see yon wee bit squaur winnock ? That lats the licht in till ane o' them. There may be vouts ancath vouts, for them 'at ye can win intill 's half fu' o' yird an' stanes. I wad hae a' MALCOLM. 159 that cleart oot, an' syne begin frae the verra foondation, biggin' an' patchin' an' buttressin', till I got it a' as soun' as a whunstane ; an' whan I cam to the tap o' the rock, there the castel sud tak to growin' again ; an' grow it sud, till there it stude as near what it was as the wit an' the han' o' man cud set it." "That would ruin a tolerably rich man,!' said the marquis. "Ony gait, it's no the w'y fowk ruins themsel's noo-a-days, my lord. They'll pu' doon an auld hoose ony day to save themsel's blastin'-poother. There's that gran' place they ca' Huntly Castel — a suckin' bairn to this for age, but wi wa's, they tell me, wad stan' for thoo- sans o' years — wad ye believe 't, there's a sovvUess chiel' o' a factor there biggin' park-wa's an' a grainary oot' o' it, as gien 'twar a quarry o' blue stane ! An' what's ten times mair exterord'nar, there's the duke o' Gordon jist lattin' the gype tak 's wuU o' the hoose o' His Grace's ain for- bears ! I wad maist as sune lat a man speyk ill o' my daddy." "But this is past all rebuilding." said his lordship. " It would be barely pos- sible to preserve the remains as they are." " It ivad be ill to du, my lord, ohn set it up again. But jist think what a gran' place it wad be to bide in !" The marquis burst out laughing. "A grand place for gulls and kittiwakes and sea-crows," he said. "But where is it, pray, that a fisherman like you gets such extravagant notions ? How do you come to think of such things ?" "Thoucht's free, my lord. Gien a thing be guid to think, what for sudna a fisher-lad think it? I hae read a heap aboot auld castles an' sic-like i' the his- tory o' Scotlan', an' there's mony an auld tale an' ballant aboot them. — Jist luik there, my leddy ! Ye see yon awfu' hole i' the wa', wi' the verra inside o' the hill, like, rushin' oot at it ? — I cud tell ye a fearfu' tale aboot that same." "Do let us have it," said Florimel eagerly, setting herself to listen. "Better wait till we land," said the marquis lazily. "Ay, my lord: we're ower near the shore to begin a story. — Slack the main- sheet, Peter, an' stan' by the jib-doon- haul. — Dinna rise, my leddy : she'll be o' the grun' in anither meenute." Almost immediately followed a slight grating noise, which grew loud, and be- fore one could say her speed had slack- ened the cutter rested on the pebbles, with the small waves of the just-turned tide flowing against her quarter. Mal- colm 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 m-e we to land here ?" "Hoot, my leddy!" said Malcolm, " sic words ill become yer bonny mou'." The marquis laughed. " I ask you how we are to get ashore ?" said Florimel with grave dignity, though an imp was laughing in the shadows of her eyes. " I'll sune lat ye see that, my leddy," answered Malcolm ; and leaning over the low bulwark he had her in his arms almost before she could utter an objec- tion. Carrying her ashore like a child — indeed, to steady herself she had put an arm round his shoulders — he set her down on the shingle, and, turning in the act, left her as if she had been a burden of nets and waded back to the boat. "And how, pray, am I to go?" asked the marquis. "Do you fancy you can carry me in that style ?" "Ow na, my lord ! that wadna be dig- nifeed for a man. Jist loup upo' my back." As he spoke he turned his broad shoulders, stooping. The marquis accepted the invitation and rode ashore like a schoolboy, laugh- ing merrily. They were in a little valley open only to the sea, one boundary of which was the small promontory whereonthe castle stood. The side of it next them, of stone and live rock combined, rose perpendic- ular from the beach to a great height, whence to gain the summit they had to go a little way back and ascend by a winding path till they reached the ap- proach to the castle from the landward side. i6o MALCOLM. " Noo, Tvadna this be a gran' place to bide at, my lord?" said Malcolm as they reached the summit — the marquis breath- less, Florimel fresh as a lark. " Jist see sic an ootluik ! The verra place for pi- rates like the auld Danes ! Naething cud escape the sicht o' them here. Yon's the hills o' Sutherlan'. Ye see yon ane like a cairn ? — that's a great freen' to the fisher-fowk to tell them whaur they are. Yon's the laich co'st o' Caithness. An' yonner's the North Pole, only ye canna see sae far. Jist think, my lord, hoo gran' wad be the blusterin' blap o' the win' aboot the turrets as ye stude at yer window on a winter's day luikin oot ower the gurly twist o' the watters, the air fu' o' flichterin snaw, the cloods a mile thick abune yer heid, an' no a leevin cratur but yer ain fovvk nearer nor the fairm-toon ower the broo 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 cud ye want wi' a gairden, an' the sea oot afore ye there ? The sea's bonnier than ony gairden. A gairden's maist aye the same, or it changes sae slow, wi' the ae flooer gaein' in an' the ither flooer comin' oot, 'at ye maist dinna nottice the odds. But the sea's never twa days the same. Even lauchin', she never lauchs twise wi' the same face, an' whan she sulks she has a hunner w'ys o' sulkin'." "And how would you get a carriage up here ?" said the marquis. "Fine that, my lord. There's a ro'd up as far's yon neuk. An' for this broo, I wad clear awa the lowse stanes an' lat the nait'ral gerse grow sweet an' fine, an' turn a lot o' bonny heelan' sheep on till't. I wad keep yon ae bit o' whuns, for though they're rouch i' the leaf they blaw sae gowden. Syne I wad gcthcr a' the bits o* drains frae a' sides till I had a bonny stream o' waiter afif o' the sweet corn-Ian' rowin' doon here whaur we Stan', an' ower to the castel itsel', an' throu' coort an' kitchie, gurglin' an' rin- nin', an' syne oot again an' doon the face o' the scaur, splashin' an' loupin' like mad. I wad lea' a' the lave to Na- tur' hersel'. It wad be a gran' place, my lord ! An' whan ye was tired o' 't ye cud jist rin awa' to Lossie Hoose an' hide ye i' the how there for a cheenge. I wad like fine to hae the sortin' o' 't for yer lordship." "I dare say," said the marquis. " Let's find a nice place for our lunch- eon, papa, and then we can sit down and hear Malcolm's story," said Florimel. " Dinna ye think, my lord, it wad be better to get the baskets up first?" in- terposed Malcolm. "Yes, I think so. Wilson can help you." "Na, my lord : he canna lea' the cut- ter. The tide's risin', an' she's ower near the rocks." " Well, well ! we sha'n't want lunch for an hour yet, so you can take your time." " But ye maun tak tent, my lord, hoo ye gang amo' the ruins. There's awk- ward kin' o' holes aboot thae vouts, an' jist whaur ye think there's nane. 1 din- na a'thegither like yer gaein* wantin' me." " Nonsense ! Go along," said the mar- quis. "But I'm no jokin'," persisted Mal- colm. "Yes, yes, we'll be careful," returned his master impatiently, and Malcolm ran down the hill, but not altogether satisfied with the assurance. CHAPTER XL. THE DEIL'S WINNOCK. Florimel was disappointed, for she longed to hear Malcolm's tale. But amid such surroundings it- was not so very difficult to wait. They set out to have a peep at the ruins and choose a place for luncheon. From the point where they stood, look- ing seaward, the ground sunk to the nar- row 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 MALCOLM. i6i 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 crj'Stals of a clear irony brown, they next clambered up a rude ascent of solid rock, and so reached what had been the centre of the sea- ward 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 meny laugh reassured him, and ere he could reach her she had screwed her- self out of sight. He followed her in some anxiety, but after a short descent rejoined her in a small vaulted cham- ber, where she stood looking from the little square window Malcolm had point- ed 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. In- deed, the mortar had all but vanished : the walls stood and the vaults hung ch iefly by their own weight. By breaches in the walls, where once might have been doors, Florimel passed from one cham- ber 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 hor- ror, 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 farther she could not have saved herself from sliding out of the gap. It was the very breach Malcolm had pointed out to them from below, and concerning which he had promised them the terrible tale. She gave a shriek of terror and laid hold of the broken wall. To heighten her dismay to the limit of mortal endurance, she found at the very first effort — partly, no doubt, from the paralysis of fear — that it was impossible to reascend ; and there she lay on the verge of the steep slope, her head and shoulders in the inner of the two cham- bers, and the rest of her body in the outer, with the hideous vacancy staring at her. In a few moments it had fas- cinated 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 to- gether. 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 practical spot he could find, shouting as he went. The sound of his voice cheered Flori- mel a little as she lay forsaken in her misery. Her whole effort now was to keep herself from fainting, and for this l62 MALCOLM. 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 quite 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 Mal- colm had spoken as haunting the caves ; but while the new fear mitigated the for- mer, 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 ar- ticulate sounds. Presently, to her utter astonishment, she heard herself called by name. " Lady Florimel ! Lady Florimel !" said the sound plainly enough. "Who's there ?" she faltered, with her heart in her throat, hardly knowing whether she spoke or not. "There's nobody here," answered the voice. "I'm in my own bedroom at home, where your dog killed mine." It was the voice of Mrs. Catanach, but both words and tone were almost Eng- Hsh. Anger and the sense of a human pres- ence, 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 ma'd." "/ 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 be- lieve 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 Lady Florimel. "What have / to do with it?" " Nothing, my lady — or himself either. / hold the handle of the business. But you needn't think it's from any favor 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 des- olation 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 in- cline. Minutes that seemed hours passed. At length she heard feet and voices, and presently her father called her name, but she was too agitated to reply except with a moan. A voice she was yet more glad to hear followed — the voice of Malcolm, ringing confident and clear. "Haud awa', my lord," it said, "an* lat me come at her." "You're not going down so ?" said the marquis angrily. "You'll slip to a cer- tainty, and send her to the bottom." "My lord," returned Malcolm, "I ken what I'm aboot, an' ye dinna. I bog 'at ye'll haud ootby, an' no upset the lassie, for something maun depen' upon hersel'. Jist gang awa' back into that ither vout, my lord. I insist upo' 't." His lordship obeyed, and Malcolm, who had been pulling off his boots as he spoke, now addressed Mair. " Here, Peter," he said, "haud on to the tail o' that rope like grim dcith. Na, I dinna MALCOLM. 163 want it roon' me : it's to gang roon' her. But dinna ye haul, for it micht hurt her, an' she'll lippen to me and come up o' hersel'. Dinna be feart, my bonny led- dy : there's nae danger — no ae grain. I'm comin'." With the rope in his hand he walked down the incline, and kneeling by Flori- mel, close to the broken wall, proceeded to pass the rope under and round her waist, talking to her, as he did so, in the tone of one encouraging a child. "Noo, my leddy ! noo, my bonny led- dy ! Ae meenute, an" ye're as safe's gien ye lay i' yer minnie's lap." " I daren't get up, Malcolm : I daren't turn my back to it. I shall drop right down into it if I do," she faltered, be- ginning to sob. " Nae fear o' that. There ! ye canna fa' noo, for Blue Peter has the ither en', an' Peter 's as strong 's twa pownies. I'm gaein' to tak aff yer shune neist." So saying, he lowered himself a little through the breach, holding on by the broken wall with one hand, while he gently removed her sandal shoes with the other. Drawing himself up again, he rose to his feet, and taking her hand, said, "Noo, my leddy, tak a guid grip o' my han', an' as I lift ye, gie a scram'le wi' yer twa bit feet, an' as sune's ye fin' them aneth ye, jist gang up as gien ye war clim'in' a gey stey brae [rather steep ascent). Ye cudna fa' gien ye tried yer warst." At the grasp of his strong arm 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, al- most fainting, into her father's arms, but was recalled to herself by an exclama- tion from Blue Peter : just as Malcolm relinquished her hand his foot slipped. But he slid down the side of the mound only — some six or seven feet to the bot- tom 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 IMalcolm himself, Mrs. Cata- nach, 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 mis- chief 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 sec- onded 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 in- land, to reach Portlossie by footpaths and byways, and there show herself on her own doorstep. The woman's consuming ambition was to possess power oz'er others — pow- er to hurt them if she chose — power to pull hidden strings fastened to their hearts or consciences or history or foi- bles or crimes, and so reduce them, in her knowledge, if not in theirs, to the condition of being more or less her slaves. Hence she pounced upon a se- cret 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 interest- ing question. As to the mysterious communication she had made to her. Lady Florimcl was not able to turn her mind to it, nor in- 164 MALCOLM. deed for some time was she able to think of anything. CHAPTER XLI. THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES. Before they reached the bottom of the hill, however, Florimel had recover- ed her spirits a little, and had even at- tempted a laugh at the ridiculousness of her late situation, but she continued very pale. They sat down beside the baskets on some great stones fallen from the building above. Because of his foot, they would not allow Malcolm to serve them, but told Mair and him to have their dinner near, and called the former when they wanted anything. Lady Florimel revived still more after she had had a morsel of partridge and a glass of wine, but every now and then she shuddered : evidently she was haunt- ed by the terror of her late position, and, with the gladness of a discoverer, the marquis bethought himself of Malcolm's promised tale as a means of turning her thoughts aside from it. As soon, there- fore, as they had finished their meal, he called Malcolm and told him they want- ed 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. "1 wad raither tell 't i' the gloamin' roon' 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 Mal- colm, seating himself near them, began. I need not again tell my reader that he may take a short cut if he pleases. "There was ance a great nobleman — like ycrsel', my lord, only no sae douce — an' he had a great followin', and was thoucht muckle o' in a' the country frae John o' Grot's to the Mull o' Gallowa'. But he was terrible prood, an' thoucht naebody was to compare wi' him, nor onything 'at onybody had to compare wi' onything 'at he had. His horse war aye swifter an' his kye aye better milkers nor ither fowk's ; there war nae deer sae big nor had sic muckle horns as the reid deer on his heelan' hills ; nae gillies sae Strang's his gillies ; and nae castles sae weel biggit or sae auld as his. It may ha' been a' verra true for onything I ken, or onything the story says to the con- trar' ; but it wasna heumble or Christi- an-like o' him to be aye at it, ower an' ower, aye gloryin', as gien he had a'thing sae by-ord'nar' 'cause he was by-ord'nar' himsel', an' they a' cam till him by the verra natur' o' things. There was but ae thing in which he was na fawvored, and that was that he had nae son to tak up what he left. But it maittered the less that the teetle as weel's the lan's wad, as the tale tells, gang a' the same till a lass-bairn — an' a lass-bairn he had." " That is the case in the Lossie family," said the marquis. "That's hoo I hae hard the tale, my lord, but I wad be sorry sud a' it con- teens meet wi' like corroboration. As I say, a dochter there was, an' gien a' was surpassin' she was surpassin' a'. The faimily piper, or sennachy, as they ca'd him — I wadna wonner, my lord, gien thae gran' pipes yer boonty gae my gran'father had been his — he said in ane o' his sangs 'at the sun blinkit whan- ever she shawed hersel' at the hoose- door. I s' warran' ae thing — 'at a' the lads blinkit whan she luikit at them, gien sae be she cud ever be said to conde- scen' sae far as to luik at ony ; for gien ever she set ee upo' ane, she never loot it rist : her ee aye jist slippit ower a face as gien the face micht or micht not be there — she didna ken or care. A'body said she had sic a hauchty leuk as was never seen on human face afore ; an' for freen'ly luik, she had nane for leevin' cratur, 'cep' it was her ain father or her ain horse 'at she rade upo*. Her mither was deid. "Her father wad fain hae seen her merriet afore he dee'd, but the pride he had gien her was like to be the en' o' a', for she coontit it naething less than a MALCOLM. 165 disgrace to pairt wi' maiden leeberty. ' There's no man,' she wad say whan her father wad be pressin' upo' the subjec' — ' there's no mortal man but yersel' worth the turn o' my ee.' An' the father, puir man ! was ower weel pleased wi* the flattery to be sae angr)' wi' her as he wad fain hae luikit. Sae time gaed on till frae a bonny lassie she had grown a gran' leddy, an' cud win up the hill nae forder, but bude to gang doon o' the ither side ; an' her father was jist near-han' daft wi' anxiety to see her wad. But no, never ane wad she hearken till. " At last there cam to the hoose — that's Colonsay Castel up there — ae day, a yoong man frae Norrowa', the son o' a great nobleman o' that country ; an' wi' him she was some ta'en. He was a fine man to leuk at, an' he pat them a' to shame at onything that nott stren'th or skeel. But he was as heumble as he was fit, an' never teuk ony credit till himsel' for onything 'at he did or was ; an' this she was ill-pleased wi', though she cudna help likin' him, an' made nae banes o' lattin' him see 'at he wasna a'- thegither a scunner till her. "Weel, ae mornin' verra ear' she gaed oot intill her gairden an' luikit ower the hedge ; an' what sud she see but this same yoong nobleman tak the bairn frae a puir traivelin' body, help her ower a dyke, and gie her her bairn again ? He was at her ain side in anither meen- ute, but he was jist that meenute ahint his tryst, an' she was in a cauld rage at him. He tried to turn her hert, sayin' wad she hae had him no help the puir thing ower the dyke, her bairnie bein' but a fortnicht auld an' hersel' unco weak-like ? but my lady made a mou' as gien she was scunnert to hear sic things made mention o'. An' was she to Stan' luikin' ower the hedge an' him convoyin' a beggar-wife an' her brat? An' syne to come to her ohn ever wash- en his ban's ! ' Hoot, my leddy !' says he, ' the puir thing was a human cratur.' ' Gien she had been a God's angel,' says she, ' ye had no richt to keep me waitin'.' ' Gien she had been an angel,' says he, ' there wad hae been little occasion, but the wuman stude in wand o' help.' ' Gien 't had been to save her life, ye sudna hae keepit me waitin',' says she. The lad was scaret at that, as weel he micht, an' takin' aff 's bannet he lowtit laich an' left her. But this didna shuit my leddy : she wasna to be left afore she said Gang. Sae she cried him back, an' he cam, bannet in han' ; an' she leuch, an' made as gien she had been but tryin' the smed- dum o' 'm, an' thoucht him a true k-nicht. The puir fallow pluckit up at this, an' doon he fell upo 's k-nees, an' oot wi' a' was in 's hert — hoo 'at he lo'ed her mair nor tongue cud tell, an' gien she wad hae him he wad be her slave for ever, '"Ye s' be that," says she, an' leuch him to scorn. ' Gang efter yer beggar- wife,' she says : ' I'm sick o' ye.' "He rase, an' teuk up 's bannet, an' loupit the hedge, an' gae a blast upo' 's horn, an' gethered his men, an' steppit aboord his boat, owar by Puffie Held yonner, an' awa' to Norrowa' ower the faem, an' was never hard tell o' in Scot- Ian' again. An' the leddy was haucht- ier and cairried her heid heicher nor ever — maybe to hide a scaum [slight mark of burning) she had taen, for a' her pride. "Sae things gaed on as afore till at len'th the tide o' her time was weel past the turn, an' a streak o' the snaw in her coal-black hair. For, as the auld sang says. Her hair was like the craw. An' her ble was like the snaw, An' her bow- bendit lip Was like the rose-hip, An' her ee was like the licht'nin'. Glorious an' fricht'nin'. But a' that wad sunc be ower. "Aboot this time, ae day i' the gloam- in', there cam on sic' an awfu' storm 'at the fowk o' the castel war frichtit 'maist oot o' their wits. The licht'nin' cam oot o' the yerd, an' no frae the lift at a' ; the win' roared as gien 't had been an in- carnat rage ; the thunner rattlet an' crackit as gien the mune an' a' the stars had been made kettledrums o' for the occasion ; but never a drap o' rain or a stane o' hail fell : naething brak oot but blue licht an' roarin' win'. But the strangest thing was, that the sea lay a' the time as oonconcerned as a sleepin' bairn ; the win' got nae mair grip o' 't nor gien a' the angels had been poorin' i66 MALCOLM. ile oot o' widows' cruses upo' 't ; the verra tide came up quaieter nor ord'nar; and the fowk war sair perplext, as weel 's frichtit. " Jist as the clock o' the castel chappit the deid o' the nicht the clamor o* v'ices was hard throu' the thunner an' the win', an' the warder, luikin' doon frae the heich bartizan o' the muckle tooer, saw, i' the fire-flauchts, a company o' riders appro'chin' the castel — a' upo' gran' horses, he said, that sprang this gait an' that, an' shot fire frae their een. At the drawbrig they blew a horn 'at rowtit like a' the bulls o' Bashan, an', whan the warder challencht them, claimt hoose- room for the nicht. Naebody had ever hard o' the place they cam frae — it was sae far awa 'at as sune 's a body hard the name o' 't he forgot it again — but their beasts war as fresh an' as fu' o' smeddum as I tell ye, an' no a hair o' ane o' them turnt. There was jist a de'il's dizzen o' them, an' whaurever ye began to coont them the thirteent had aye a reid baird. "Whan the news was taen to the mar- kis — the yerl, I sud say — he gae orders to lat them in at ance ; for whatever fau'ts he had, naither fear nor hainin' [petiiifiotisfiess) was amang them. Sae in they cam, clatterin' ower the draw- brig, 'at gaed up an' down aneth them as gien it wad hae cast them. " Richt fremt [stra/ige) fowk they luikit whan they cam intill the coortyaird — a' spanglet wi' bonny bricht stanes o' a' colors. They war like nae fowk 'at ever the yerl had seen, an' he had been to Jeroozlem in 's day, an' had fouchten wi' the Saracenes. But they war coorteous men an' weel -bred — an' maistly weel- faured tu — ilk ane luikin' a lord's son at the least. They had na a single servin'- man wi' them, an' wad alloo nane o' the fowk aboot the place to lay han' upo' their beasts ; an' ilk ane as he said 7Ta wad gie the stallion aneth him a daig wi' 's spurs, or a kick i' the ribs gien he was afif o' 's back wi' the steel tae o' his bute ; an' the brute wad lay his lugs i' the how o' 's neck an' turn his heid asklent, wi' ae white ee gleyin' oot o' 't, an' lift a hin' leg wi' the glintin' shoe turnt back, an' luik like Sawtan himsel' whan he daurna. "Weel, my lord an' my leddy war sit- tin' i' the muckle ha' — for they cudna gang to their beds in sic a by-ous storm — whan him 'at was the chief o' them was ushered in by the seneschal — that's the steward, like — booin' afore him, an' ca'in' him the prence, an' nae mair, for he cudna min' the name o' 's place lang eneuch to say 't ower again. "An' sae a prence he was; an', for- bye that, jist a man by himsel' to luik at — i' the prime o' life maybe, but no free- ly i' the first o' 't, for he had the luik as gien he had had a hard time o' 't, an' had a white streak an' a craw's fit here and there — the liklier to please my leddy, wha luikit doon upo' a'body yoonger nor hersel'. He had a commandin', maybe some owerbeirin',.luik — ane 'at a man micht hae birstled up at, but a leddy like my leddy wad welcome as worth bring- in' doon. He was dressed as never man had appeart in Scotlan' afore, glorious withoot — no like the leddy i' the Psalms, for yer ee cud licht nowhaur but there was the glitter o' a stane, sae 'at he flash- ed a" ower ilka motion he made. He cairriet a short swoord at his side, no muckle langer nor my daddy's dirk, as gien he never foucht but at closs quar- ters; the whilk had three sapphires — blue stanes, they tell me, an' muckle anes — lowin' i' the sheath o' 't, an' a muckler ane still i' the heft ; only they war some drumly {clouded), the leddy thoucht, bein' a jeedge o' hingars-at-lugs [earrmgs) an' sic vainities. "That may be 's it may; but in cam the prence, wi' a laich boo an' a gran' upstrauchtin' again; an' though, as I say, he was flashin' a' ower, his mainner was quaiet as the munelicht — jist grace itsel'. He profest himsel unco' indcbtit for the shelter accordit him ; an his een aye soucht the leddy's, an' his admiration o' her was plain in ilka luik an' gestur', an' though his words were feow they a' meant mair nor they said. Afore his supper cam in her hert was at his wull. " They say that whan a wuman's latt o' fa'in in love — yc'll ken, my lord : I ken nacthing aboot it — it's the mair likly MALCOLM. 167 to be an oonrizzonin' an' ooncontrolla- ble fancy : in sic maitters it seems wis- dom comesna wi' gray hairs. Within ae hoor the leddy was enamored o' the strainger in a fearfu' w'y. She poored cot his wine till him wi' her ain han', an' the moment he put the glaiss till 's lips the win' fell an' the lichtnin' devallt [ceased). She set hersel' to put ques- tons till him, sic as she thoucht he wad like to answer — a' aboot himsel' an' what he had come throu'. An' sic stories as he tellt ! She atten't till him as she had never dune to guest afore, an' her father saw 'at she was sair taen wi' the man. But he wasna a'thegither sae weel pleased, for there was something aboot him — he cudna say what — 'at garred him grue [shudder'). He wasna a man to hae fancies or stan' upo' freits, but he cudna help the creep that gaed doon his back- bane ilka time his ee encoontert that o' the prence : it was aye sic a strange luik the prence cuist upon him — a luik as gien him an' the yerl had been a'ready ower weel acquaint, though the yerl cud- na min' 'at ever he had set ee upo' him. A' the time, hooever, he had a kin' o' a suspicion 'at they bade to be auld ac- quaintances, an' sair he soucht to mak him oot, but the prence wad never lat a body get a glimp o' his een 'cep' the body he was speykin' till ; that is, gien he cud help it, for the yerl did get twa or three glimps o' them as he spak till 's dauchter ; an' he declaret efterhin to the king's commissioner that a pale blue kin' o' licht cam frae them, the whilk the body he was conversin' wi', an' luikin' straucht at, never saw. "Weel, the short and the lang o' 't that nicht was that they gaed a' to their beds. "!' the mornin', whan the markis — the yerl, I sud say — an' his dochter cam doon the stair, the haill menyie [com- pany) was awa. Never a horse or horse was i' the stable but the yerl's ain beasts — no ae hair left ahin' to shaw that they had been there ; an' i' the chaumers al- lotted to their riders never a pair 0' sheets had been sleepit in. " The yerl an' my leddy sat doon to brak their fast — no freely i' the same hu- mor, the twa o' them, as ye may weel believe. Whan they war aboot half throu', wha sud come stridin' in, some dour an' ill-pleased like, but the prence himsel' ! Baith yerl an' leddy startit up : 'at they sud hae sitten doon till a meal ohn even adverteest the veesitor that sic was their purpose ! They made muckle adu wi' apologies an' explanations, but the prence aye booed an' booed, an' said sae little that they thocht him mortal an- gert ; the whilk was a great vex to my leddy, ye may be sure. He had a with- ert-like luik, an' the verra diamonds in 's claes war douf like. A'thegither he had a brunt-oot kin' o' aissy [ashy) leuk. "At len'th the butler cam in, an' the prence signed till him, an' he gaed near, an' the prence drew him doon an' toot- mootit in 's lug ; an' his breath, the auld man said, was like the grave : he hadna had 's mornin', he said, an' tellt him to put the whusky upo' the table. The butler did as he was tauld, an' set doon the decanter, an' a glaiss aside it ; but the prence bannt him jist fearfu', an' ordert him to tak awa that playock and fess a tum'ler. " I'm thinkin', my lord, that maun be a modern touch," remarked Malcolm here, interrupting himself: "there wasna glaiss i' thae times — was there ?" "What do I know ?" said the marquis. "Go on with your story." "But there's mair intill 't than that," persisted Malcolm. " I doobt gien there was ony whusky i' that times aither; for I hard a gentleman say the ither day 'at hoo he had tastit the first whusky 'at was ever distillt in Scotlan', an' horrible stuff it was, he said, though it was 'maist as auld as the forty-five." " Confound your long wind ! Go on," said the marquis peremptorily. "We s' ca" 't whusky, than, ony gait," said Malcolm, and resumed: "The but- ler did again as he was bidden, an fiess [fetched) a tum'ler, or mairlikly a siller cup, an' the prence took the decanter, or what it micht be, an' filled it to the verra brim. The butler's een 'maist startit frae 's heid, but naebody said naething. He liftit it, greedy-hke, an' drank aff the whusky as gien 't had been watter. i68 MALCOLM. ' That's middlin',' he said as he set it o' the table again. They luikit to see him fa' doon deid, but in place o' that he be- goud to gether himsel' a bit, an' says he, ' We brew the same drink i' my country, but a wee mair pooerfu'.' Syne he askit for a slice o' boar-ham an' a raw aipple ; an' that was a' he ate. But he took anither waucht (large draught) o' the whusky, an' his een grew brichter, an' the stanes aboot him began to flash again ; an' my leddy admired him the mair that what wad hae felled ony ither man only waukened him up a bit. An' syne he telled them hoo, laith to be fashous, he had gi'en orders till 's menyie to be aff afore the mornin' brak, an' wait at the neist cheenge-hoose till he jined them ; ' Whaur,' said the leddy, ' I trust ye'U lat them wait, or else sen' for them.' But the yerl sat an' said never a word. The prence gae him ae glower, an' de- clared that his leddy's word was law to him : he wad bide till she wuUed him to gang. At this her een s'not fire 'maist like his ain, an' she smilit as she had never smilit afore ; an' the yerl cudna bide the sicht o' 't, but daurna interfere : he rase an' left the room an' them the- gether. "What passed atwixt the twa there was nane to tell, but or an hoor was by they cam oot upo' the gairden-terrace thegither, han' in han', luikin baith o' them as gran' an' as weel pleased as gien they had been king and queen. The lang an' the short o' 't was, that the same day at nicht the twa was merried. Naither o' them wad hear o' a priest. Say what the auld yerl cud, they wad .not hear o' sic a thing, an' the leddy was 'maist mair set agane 't nor the prence. She wad be merried accordin' to Scots law, she said, an' wad hae nae ither ■ ceremony, say 'at he likit. "A gran' feast was gotten ready, an' jist the meenute afore it was cairriet to the ha' the great bell o' the castel yowlt ■ cot, an' a' the fowk o' the hoose was gaithered i' the coortyaird, an' oot cam the twa afore them, han' in han', de- clarin' thomscl's merried fowk ; the whilk, accordin' to Scots law, was but ower guid a merriagc. Syne they sat doon to their denner, and there they sat — no drinkin' muckle, they say, but mer- rily enjoyin' themsel's, the leddy singin' a sang noo an' again, an' the prence sayin' he ance cud sing, but had forgot- ten the gait o' 't; but never a prayer said nor a blessin' askit — oontil the clock chappit twal, whaurupon the prence and the prencess rase to gang to their bed — in a room whaur the king himsel' aye sleepit whan he cam to see them. But there wasna ane o' the men or the maids 't wad hae daured be their lanes wi' that man, prence as he ca'd himsel'. "A meenute, or barely twa, was ower whan a cry cam frae the king's room — a fearfu' cry, a lang, lang skreigh. The men an' the maids luikit at ane anither wi' awsome luiks, an' ' He's killin' her!' they a' gaspit at ance. " Noo she was never a favorite wi' ony ane o' her ain fowk, but still they could- na hear sic a cry frae her ohn run to the yerl. "They fand him pacin' up and doon the ha', an' luikin' like a deid man in a rage o' fear. But whan they telled him he only leuch at them, an' ca'd them ill names, an' said he had na hard a cheep. Sae they tuik naething by that, an' gaed back trimlin*. " Twa o' them, a man an' a maid, to haud hert in ane anither, gaed up to the door o' the transe [passage) 'at led to the king's room, but for a while they hard naething. Syne cam the soon' like o' moanin' an' greitin' an' prayin'. "The neist meenute they war back again amo' the lave, luikin' like twa corps. They had opent the door o' the transe to hearken closer, an' what sud they see there but the fiery een an' the white teeth o' the prence's horse, lyin' athort the door o' the king's room, wi' 's heid atween 's fore feet, an' keepin' watch like a tyke [dog) ? " Er' lang they bethoucht themsels', an' twa o' them set oot an' aff thegither for the priory — that's whaur yer ain hoose o' Lossie noo stan's, my lord — to fess a priest. It wad be a guid twa hoor or they wan back, an' a' that time ilka noo an' than the moanin' an' the beggin' an' the cryin' wad come again. An' the MALCOLM. 169 warder upo' the heich tooer declared 'at ever sin' midnicht the prence's menyie, the haill twal' o' them, was careerin' aboot the castel, roon' an' roon', wi' the een o' their beasts lowin', and their heids oot, an' their manes up, an' their tails fleein' ahint them. He aye lost sicht o' them whan they wan to the edge o' the scaur, but roon' they aye cam again upo' the ither side, as gien there had been a ro'd whaur there was na even a ledge. "The moment the priest's horse set fut upo' the drawbrig the puir leddy gae anither ougsome cry, a hantle waur nor the fust, an' up gat a suddent roar an' a blast o' win' that maist cairried the castel there aff o' the cliff intill the watter, an' syne cam a flash o' blue licht an' a rum'- lin'. Efter that a' was quaiet : it was a' ower afore the priest wan athort the coort- yaird an' up the stair. For he crossed himsel' an' gaed straucht for the bridal- chaumer. By this time the yerl had come up, an' followed cooerin' ahin' the priest. "Never a horse was i' the transe ; an' the priest, first layin' the cross 'at hang frae 's belt agane the door o' the chaum- er, flang 't open wi'oot ony ceremony, for ye '11 alloo there was room for nane. "An' what think ye was the first thing the yerl saw ? A great hole i' the wa' o' the room, an' the starry pleuch luikin' in at it, an' the sea lyin' far doon afore him — as quaiet as the bride upo' the bed, but a hantle bonnier to luik at ; for ilka steek that had been on her was brunt aff, an' the bonny body o' her was lyin' a' runklet an' as black 's a coal frae heid to fut ; an ' the reek at rase frae 't was heedeous. 1 needna say the bridegroom wasna there. Some fowk thoucht it a guid sign that he hadna cairriet the body wi' him ; but maybe he was ower sud- dent scared by the fut o' the priest's horse upo' the drawbrig, an' dauredna bide his oncome. Sae the fower-fut stane wa' had to flee afore him for a throu'-gang to the Prence o' the Pooer o' the Air. An* yon's the verra hole to this day, 'at ye was sae near ower weel acquaint wi' yersel', my leddy. For the yerl left the castel, and never a Colonsay has made his abode there sin' syne. But some say 'at the rizzon the castel cam to be desertit a'thegither was, that as aften as they biggit up the hole it fell oot again as sure 's the day o' the year cam roon' whan it first happent. They say that at twal o'clock that same nicht the door o' that room aye gaed tu, that naebody daur touch 't, for the heat o' the han'le o' 't; an' syne cam the skreighin' an' the moanin' an' the fearsome skelloch at the last, an' a rum'le like thun'er ; an' i' the mornin' there was the wa' oot. The hole's bigger noo, for a' the decay o' the castel has taen to slidin' oot at it, an' dootless it'll spread an' spread till the haill struc- tur vainishes — at least sae they say, my lord — but I wad hae a try at the haudin' o' 't thegither for 'a that. I dinna see 'at the deil sud hae 't a' his ain gait, as gien we war a' fleyt at him. Fowk hae three- pit upo' me that there i' the gloamin' they hae seen an' awsome face luikin' in upo' them throu' that slap i' the wa' ; but 1 never believed it was onything but their ain fancy, though for a' 'at I ken it may ha' been something no canny. Still, I say, wha's feart ? The 111 Man has no pooer 'cep ower his ain kin. We're tellt to resist him an' he'll flee frae 's." "A good story, and well told," said the marquis kindly. " Don't you think so, Florimel .''" " Yes, papa," Lady Florimel answer- ed; "only he kept us waiting too long for the end of it." "Some fowk, my leddy," said Mal- colm, "wad aye be at the hin'er en' o' a'thing. But for mysel', the mair pleased I was to be gaein' ony gait, the mair I wad spin oot the ro'd till't." " How much now of the story may be your own invention ?" said the marquis. "Ow! nae that muckle, my lord — jist a feow extras an' partic'lars 'at micht weel hae been, wi' an adjective or an adverb or sic-like here an' there. I made ae mistak', though : gien 't was yon hole yonner, they bude till hae gane doon an' no up the stair to their chaumcr." His lordship laughed, and again com- mending the tale rose : it was time to re- embark — an operation less arduous than before, for in the present state of the tide it was easy to bring the cutter so lyo MALCOLM. close to a low rock that even Lady Flori- mel could step on board. As they had now to beat to windward, Malcohn kept the tiller in his own hand. But indeed Lady Florimel did not want to steer : she was so much occupied with her thoughts that her hands must remain idle. Partly to turn them away from the more terrible portion of her adventure, she began to reflect upon her interview with Mrs. Catanach — if mterview it could be called where she had seen no one. At first she was sorry that she had not told her father of it, and had the ruin searched ; but when she thought of the communication the woman had made to her, she came to the conclusion that it was, for various reasons — not to mention the probability that he would have set it all down to the workings of an unavoidably excited nervous condi- tion — better that she should mention it to no one but Duncan MacPhail. When they arrived at the harbor-quay they found the carriage waiting, but neither the marquis nor Lady Florimel thought of Malcolm's foot, and he was left to limp painfully home. As he pass- ed Mrs. Catanach's cottage he looked up : there were the blinds still drawn down, the door was shut and the place was silent as the grave. By the time he reached Lossie House his foot was very much swollen. When Mrs. Courthope saw it she sent him to bed at once and applied a poultice. CHAPTER XLII. DUNCAN'S DISCLOSURE. The night long Malcolm kept dream- ing of his fall ; and his dreams were worse than the reality, inasmuch as they invaiiably 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 ap- peared in the bre-ach, but it was at the same time the face of Mrs. Catanach. The next morning Mrs. Courthope found him feverish, and insisted on his remaining in bed — no small trial to one who had never been an hour ill in his life ; but he was suffering so much that he made little resistance. In the enforced quiescence, and under the excitement of pain and fever, Mal- colm first became aware how much the idea of Lady Florimel had at length pos- sessed him. But even in his own thought he never once came upon the phrase in love as representing his condition in re- gard to her : he only knew that he wor- shiped her, and would be overjoyed to die for her. The youth had about as lit- tle vanity as could well consist with indi- vidual coherence : if he was vain at all, it was neither of his intellectual nor per- sonal endowments, but of the few tunes he could play on his grandfather's pipes. He could run and swim — rare accom- plishments amongst the fishermen — and was said to be the best dancer of them all ; but he never thought of such com- parison himself. The rescue of Lady Florimel made him very happy. He had been of service to her, but so far was he from cherishing a shadow of presump- tion that as he lay there he felt it would be utter content to live serving her for ever, even when he was old and wrinkled and gray like his grandfather : he never dreamed of her growing old and wrinkled and gray. A single sudden thought sufficed to scatter — not the devotion, but its peace. Of course she would marry some day, and what then .'' He looked the inevit- able 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 be- tween a fisher-lad and the daughter of a peer. But although he was no coxcomb, neither had he fed himself on romances, as Lady Florimel had been doing of late ; and although the laugh was quite honest- ly laughed at himself, it was nevertheless a bitter one. For again came the ques- tion, Why should an absurtlity be a pos- sibility ? It was absurd, and yet possi- ble : there was the point. In mathe- matics it was not so : there, of two oppo- sites to prove one an absurdity was to MALCOLM. 171 prove the other a fact. Neither in meta- physics was it so : there also an impos- sibility 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 Cronstadt — 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 grand- er and finer than he was yet capable of understanding. His disjointed meditations were inter- rupted 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 touch- ing on points of vital importance, it was yet so odd that it would have been to too many of my readers but a chimsera tumbling in a vacuum, as they will read- ily 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, pro- posed next the consequences of a man's being in love with a ghost or an angel. " I'm dreidfu' tired o' lyin' here i' my bed," said Malcolm at length when, neither desiring to carry the conversa- tion further, a pause had intervened. "I dinna ken what I want. Whiles I think it's the sun, whiles the win', and whiles the watter. But I canna rist. Haena ye a bit ballant ye could say till me, Mr. Graham ? There's naething wad quaiet 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 wad be a trate, sir," returned Malcolm; and the master, with perfect rhythm, and a modulation amounting almost to melody, repeated the following verses : The water ran doon frae the heich hope-heid {head of the valley), WV a Rzn, burnie, rin : It wimpled, an' waggled, an' sang a screed O' nonsense, an' wadna blin (cease), IVr its Rin, burnie, rin. Frae the hert o' the warl' wi' a swirl an' a sway, An' a Rin, burnie, rin. That water lap clear frae the dark till the day. An' singin' awa' did spin, , Wf its Rin, burnie, rin. Ae wee bit mile frae the heich hope-heid, IVz a Rin, burnie, rin, 'Mang her yows an' her lambs the herd-l&ssie stude. An' she loot a tear fa' in, Wi" a Rin, burnie, rin. Frae the hert o' the maiden that tear-drap rase, WT a Rin, burnie, rin : Wearily clim'in' up narrow ways. There was but a drap to fa' in, Sae slow did that burnie rin. Twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope-heid, pyi' a Rin, burnie, rin, Doon creepit a cowerin' streakie o' reid. An' meltit awa' within, IVz' a Rin, burnie, rin. Frae the hert o' a youth cam the tricklin' reid, IVf a Rin, burnie, rin : It ran an' ran till it left him deid. An' syne it dried up i' the win'. An' that burnie nae mair did rin. Whan the wimplin' burn that frae three herts gaed Wi" a Rin, burnie, rin. Cam to the lip o' the sea sae braid, It curled an' grued wi' pain o' sin; But it took that burnie in. " It's a bonny, bonny sang," said Mal- colm, "but I canna say I a'thegither like it." "Why not?" asked Mr. Graham, with an inquiring smile. " Because the ocean sudna mak a mou' at the puir earth-burnie that cudna help what ran intill 't." "It took it in, though, and made it 172 MALCOLM. clean, for all the pain it couldn't help either." " Weel, gien yu luik at it that gait !" said Malcolm. In the evening his grandfather came to see him, and sat down by his bedside, full of a tender anxiety which he was soon able to alleviate. " Wovvnded in ta hand and in ta foot," said the seer: "what can it mean? It must mean something, Malcolm, my son." "Weel, daddy, we maun jist bide till we see," said Malcolm cheerfully. A little talk followed, in the course of which it came into Malcolm's head to tell his grandfather the dream he had had so much of the first night he had slept in that room, but more for the sake of something to talk about that would interest one who believed in all kinds of prefigurations than for any other reason. Duncan sat moodily silent for some time, and then, with a great heave of his broad chest, lifted up his head, like one who had formed a resolution, and said, " The hour has come. She has long peen afrait to meet it, put it has come, and AUister will meet it. — She'll not pe your cran'father, my son." He spoke the words with perfect com- posure, but as soon as they were uttered burst into a wail and sobbed like a child. "Ye'U be my ain father, than?" said Malcolm. "No, no, my son. She'll not pe any- thing that's your own at aall." And the tears flowed down his chan- neled cheeks. For one moment Malcolm was silent, utterly bewildered. But he must com- fort the old man first, and think about what he had said afterward. " Ye're my ain daddy, whatever ye are," he said. "Tell me a' aboot it, daddy." "She'll tell you all she'll pe knowing, my son, and she nefter told a lie efen to a Cawmill." He began his story in haste, as if an.\- ious 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 Mal- colm was perplexed to think why what he had known all the time should affect him so much in the telling. But when he ended with the bitter cry, "And now you'll pe loving her no more, my poy, my chilt, my Malcolm!" he understood it. "Daddy! daddy!" he cried, throwing his arms round his neck and kissing him, " I lo'e ye better nor ever. An' weel I may !" "But how can you, when you've cot none of ta plood in you, my son ?" per- sisted Duncan. " I hae as muckle as ever I had, daddy." "Yes, put you'll didn't know." " But ye did, daddy." "Yes, and inteet she cannot tell why she'll pe loving you so much herself aall ta time." " Weel, daddy, gien ye cud lo'e me sae weel, kennin' me nae bluid's bluid o' yer ain, I canna help it : I maun lo'e ye mair nor ever, noo at I ken 't tu. Daddy, daddy, I had nae claim upo' ye, an' ye hae been father an' gran'father an' a' to me." "What could she do, Malcolm, my poy ? Ta chilt had no one, and she had no one, and so it wass. You must pe her own poy, after aall. And she'll not pe wondering, put — It might pe — Yes, inteet not !" His voice sank to the murmurs of a half-uttered soliloquy, and as he mur- mured he stroked Malcolm's cheek. "What are ye efter noo, daddy?" ask- ed Malcolm. The only sign that Duncan heard the question was the complete silence that followed. W^hen Malcolm repeated it , he said something in Gaelic, but finished the sentence thus, apparently unaware of the change of language: "Only how else should she pe loving you so much, Malcolm, my son ?" "I ken what Maister Graham would say, daddy," rejoined Malcolm at a half guess. " What would he say, my son ? He 's a coot man, your Master Graham. It could not pe without ta scm fathers and'j| ta scm chief" " He wad say it was 'cause we war MALCOLM. 173 a' o' ae bluid — 'cause we had a' ae Father." "Oh yes, no toubt ! We aall come from ta same first paarents, but tat will pe a ferry long way off, pefore ta clans cot tokether. It'll not pe holding ferry well now, my son. Tat wass pefore ta Cawmills." "That's no what Maister Graham would mean, daddy," said Malcolm. " He wad mean that God was the Father o' 's a', and sae we cudna help lo'in' ane anither." "No, tat cannot pe right, Malcolm, for then we should haf to love efery- pody. Now she loves you, my son, and she hates Cawmill of Clenlyon. She loves Mistress Partan when she'll not pe too rude to her, and she hates tat Mis- tress Catanach. She's a paad woman, tat, she'll pe certain sure, though she'll neffer saw her to speak to her. She'll haf claaws to her poosoms." "Weel, daddy, there was naething ither to gar ye lo'e me. I was jist a helpless human bein', an' sae, for that an' nae ither rizzon, ye tuik a' that fash wi' me! An' for mysel', I'm deid sure I cudna lo'e ye better gien ye war twise my gran 'father." "He's her own poy !" cried the piper, much comforted ; and his hand sought his head and lighted gently upon it. "Put, maybe," he went on, "she might not haf loved you so much if she hadn't peen thinking sometimes — " He checked himself. Malcolm's ques- tions brought no conclusion to the sen- tence, and a long silence followed. "Supposin' I was to turn oot a Caw- mill ?" said Malcolm at length. The hand that was fondling his curls withdrew as if a serpent had bit it, and Duncan rose from his chair. " Wass it her own son to pe speaking such an efil thing?" he said, in a tone of injured and sad expostulation. "For onything ye ken, daddy — ye canna tell but it mith be." "Ton't preathe it, my son!" cried Duncan in a voice of agony, as if he saw unfolding a fearful game the arch-ene- my had been playing for his soul. "Put it cannot pe," he resumed instantly, "for then how should she pe loving you, my son?" "'Cause ye was in for that afore ye kent wha the puir beastie was." "The tarling chilt I She could 7iot haf loved him if he had peen a Cawmill. Her soul would haf chumped pack from him as from ta snake in ta tree. Ta hate in her heart to ta plood of ta Caw- mill would have killed ta chilt of ta Caw- mill plood. No, Malcolm ! no, my son !" "Ye wadna hae me believe, daddy, that gien ye had kent by mark o' hiv {hoof) an' horn that the cratur they laid i' yer lap was a Cawmill, ye wad hae risen up an' looten it lie whaur it fell ?" " No, Malcolm, I would haf put my foot upon it, as I would on ta young fiper in ta heather." "Gien I was to turn oot ane o' that ill race, ye wad hate me, than, daddy, efter a' ? Ochone, daddy ! Ye wad be weel pleased to think hoo ye stack yer durk throu' the ill han' o' me, an' wadna rist till ye had it throu' the waur hert. I doobt I had better up an' awa', daddy, for wha kens what ye mayna du to me ?" Malcolm made a movement to rise, and Duncan's quick ears understood it. He sat down again by his bedside and threw his arms over him : "Lie town, lie town, my poy ! If you ket up, tat will pe you are a Cawmill, No, no, my son. You are ferry cruel to your own old dad- dy. She would pe too much sorry for her poy to hate him. It will pe so tread- ful to pe a Cawmill ! No, no, my poy. She would take you to her poosom, and tat would trive ta Cawmill out of you. Put ton't speak of it any more, my son, for it cannot pe. She must co now, for her pipes will pe waiting for her." Malcolm feared he had ventured too far, for never before had his grandfather left him except for work. But the pos- sibility he had started might do some- thing to soften the dire endurance of his hatred. His thoughts turned to the new dark- ness let in upon his history and pros- pects. All at once the cry of the mad laird rang in his mind's ear: "I dinna ken whaur I cam frae !" Duncan's revelation brought with it 174 MALCOLM. nothing to be done, hardly anything to be thottght — merely room for most shad- owy, 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 forgot- ten, 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 specu- lation and wrapped him in its folds : sure enough, he was but a beggar's brat. How henceforth was he to look Lady Florimel in the face ? Humble as he had believed his origin, he had hitherto been proud of it : with such a high-minded sire as he deemed his own, how could he be other ? But now ! Nevermore could he look one of his old companions in the face. They were all 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, specula- ting, devising. The evening sunk into the night, but he never knew he was in the dark until the housekeeper brought him a light. After a cup of tea his thoughts found pleasanter paths. One thing was certain : he must lay himself out, as he had never done before, to make Duncan MacPhail happy. With this one thing clear to both heart and mind he fell fast asleep. CHAPTER XLIIl. THE wizard's chamber. He woke in the dark, with that strange feeling of bewilderment which accompa- nies the consciousness of having been waked : is it that the brain wakes before the mind, and like a servant unexpect- edly summoned does not know what to do, with its master from home ? or is it that the master wakes first, and the ser- vant 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 mes- sengers. But neither, for some moments, could the scouts of hearing come upon any sign. At length something seemed doubt- fully to touch the sense — the faintest sus- picion 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 com- ing 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. Catanach. She was stoop- ing 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 toward 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 prowk;, he crept back to his room, considering what he should do next. The speedy result of his cogitations was that he indued his nether garments, though with difficulty from the size of his foot, thrust his head and arms through a jersey, and set out on hands and knees for an awkward crawl to Lord Lossie's bedroom. It was a painful journey, especially down the two spiral stone stairs which led to the first floor where it lay. As he MALCOLM. 175 went, Malcolm resolved, in order to avoid rousing needless observers, to enter the room, if possible, before waking the marquis. The door opened noiselessly. A night- light, afloat in a crystal cup, revealed the bed, and his master asleep, with one arm lying on the crimson quilt. He crept in, closed the door behind him, advanced halfway to the bed, and in a low voice 4 ailed the marquis. Lord Lossie started up on his elbow, an .1 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 I my lord !" cried Malcolm, "it's only me!" "And who the devil are you ?" return- ed the marquis, catching up the second pistol. "Malcolm, yer ain henchman, my lord." " Damn you ! what are you about there ? Get up. What are you after there, crawl- ing like a thief?" As he spoke he leaped from the bed and seized Malcolm by the back of the neck. " It's a mercy I wasna mair like an honest man," said Malcolm, "or that bullet wad hae been throu' the harns o' me. Yer lordship's a wheen ower-rash." " Rash, you rascal !" cried Lord Lossie, " when a fellow comes into my room on his hands and knees in the middle of the night ! Get up and tell me what you are after, or by Jove I'll break every bone in your body." A kick from his bare foot in Malcolm's ribs fitly closed the sentence. "Ye are ower-rash, my lord," persisted Malcolm. " I canna get up. I hae a fit the size o' a sma' buoy." "Speak, then, you rascal!" said his lordship, loosening his hold and retreat- ing a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his hand. " Dinna ye think it wad be better to lock the door, for fear the shot sud bring ony o' the fowk ?" suggested Malcolm as he rose to his knees and leaned his hands on a chair. "You're bent on murdering me, are you, then ?" said the marquis, beginning to come to himself and see the ludicrous- ness of the situation. "Gien I had been that, my lord, I wadna hae waukent ye up first." " Well, what the devil is it all about ? You needn't think any of the men will come. They're a pack of the greatest cowards ever breathed." "Weel, my lord, I hae gruppit her at last, an' I bude to come an' tell ye." " Leave your beastly gibberish. You can speak what at least resembles Eng- lish when you like." "Weel, my lord, I hae her unner lock an' keye." "Who, in the name of Satan ?" "Mistress Catanach, my lord." "Damn her eyes ! What's she to me that I should be waked out of a good sleep for he?-?" "That's what I wad fain yer lordship kent : /dinna." " None of your riddles ! Explain your- self, and make haste : I want to go to bed again." " 'Deed, yer lordship maun jist pit on yer claes an' come wi' me." "Where to ?" " To the warlock's chaumer, my lord — whaur that ill wuman remains ' in du- rance vile,' as Spenser wad say, but no sae vile's hersel', I doobt." 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 mar- quis grew interested, and by the time he had finished had got himself into dress- ing-gown and slippers. " W'adna ye tak yer pistol ?" suggested Malcolm slyly. " W'hat ! to meet a woman .''" said his lordship. "Ow na ! but wha kens there micht- na be anither murderer aboot ? There micht be twa in ae nicht." Impertinent as was Malcolm's humor, 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 176 MALCOLM. house the marquis was as httle acquauit- ed as with those of his nature, and re- quired a guide. Arrived at length at the wizard's cham- ber, they hstened at the door for a mo- ment, but heard nothing : neither was there any hght visible at its lines of junction. Malcolm turned the key, and the marquis stood close behind, ready to enter. But the moment the door was unlocked it was pulled open violently, and Mrs. Catanach, looking too high to see Malcolm, who was on his knees, aimed a good blow at the face she did see, in the hope, no doubt, of thus mak- ing her escape. But it fell short, being countered by Malcolm's head in the softest part of her person, with the result of a clear entrance. The marquis burst out laughing, and stepped into the room with a rough joke. Malcolm remained in the doorway. "My lord," said Mrs. Catanach, gath- ering herself together, and rising little the worse, save in temper, for the treat- ment he had commented upon, " I have a word for your lordship's own ear." "Your right to be there does stand in need of explanation," said the marquis. She walked up to him with confidence. "You shall have an explanation, my lord," she said — "such as shall be my full quittance for intrusion even at this untimely hour of the night." "Say on, then," returned his lordship. "Send that boy away, then, my lord." "I prefer having him stay," said the marquis. " Not a word shall cross my lips till he's gone," persisted Mrs. Catanach. " I know him too well. Awa' wi' ye, ye deil's buckie !" she continued, turning to Malcolm. " I ken mair aboot you nor ye ken aboot yersel', an deil hae't I ken o' guid to you or yours ! But I 's gar ye lauch o' the wrang side o' yoicr mou' yet, my man." 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. Catanach, with an ugly expression of insinuation. The marquis shrugged his shoulders. "That depends," he said. Then turn- ing to Malcolm, "Go along," he added; " only keep within call : I may want you." "Nane 0' yer hearkenin' at the key- hole, though, or I s' lug-mark ye, ye !" said Mrs. Catanach, finishing the sentence none the more mildly that she did it only in her heart. " I wadna hae ye believe a 'at she says, my lord," said Malcolm with a sig- nificant smile as he turned to creep away. He closed the door behind him, and lest Mrs. Catanach should repossess her- self 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 mar- quis 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 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 lea' the keyes wi' yon hurdon and lat her open what doors she likes ?" " Go to bed," said the marquis angrily, " and leave the woman alone ;" with which words he turned into the adjoin- ing passage and disappeared. Mrs. Catanach 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 as good a fright as she seemed to have given his master, to whom he had no doubt she had been telling some hor- rible 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 MALCOLM. 177 so-called grandfather, and, from her pro- fession, it was likely enough ; but infor- mation from her was hopeless, at least until her own evil time came ; and then, how was any one 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 gtill ? 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. Blit all was still. He tried to open it, but could not : Mrs. Catanach was doubtless spend- ing 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. CHAPTER XLIV. 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 ex- ertion — a phase of being he had never hitherto known. Mrs. Courthope insist- ed on advice, and the result was that a whole week passed before he was allow- ed to leave his room. In the mean time a whisper awoke and passed from mouth to mouth in all directions through the little burgh — whence arising only one could tell, for even her mouthpiece, Miss Horn's Jean, was such a mere tool in the midwife's hands that she never doubted but Mrs. Catanach was, as she said, only telling the tale as it was told to her. Mrs. Cat- anach, moreover, absolutely certain that no threats would render Jean capable of holding her tongue, had so impressed upon her the terrible consequences of 12 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. Catanach 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. Catanach in connection with it. For Mrs. Catanach 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 Mac- Phail ; 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 sus- picion. The fifth and final form it took was, that Malcolm was the son of Mrs. Stew- art of Gersefell, who had been led to be- lieve 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 MacPfeail, who drew a secret annual stipend of no small amount in consequence ; whence indeed his well- known riches. Concerning this final form of the whis- per, a few of the women of the burgh believed or thought or fancied they re- membered both the birth and reported death of the child in question, also cer- tain rumors afloat at the time which ;",ist an air of probability over the new read- ing of his fate. In circles more remote- from authentic sources the general re- port met with remarkable embellish- 178 MALCOLM. ments, but the framework of the rumor — what I may call the bones of it — re- mained undisputed. From Mrs. Catanach's behavior every one 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 con- trary was it that people generally antici- pated a frightful result for her when the truth came to be known, for Mrs. Stew- art would follow her with all the ven- geance of a bereaved tigress. Some in- deed there were who fancied that the mother, if not in full complicity with the midwife, had at least given her consent to the arra7tgement ; but these were not a little shaken in their opinion when at length Mrs. Stewart herself began to fig- ure more immediately in the affair, and it was witnessed that she had herself begun to search into the report. Cer- tain 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 labor, that she could arrive at no certainty even as to the first promulgator of the assertion, she had a terrible fit of crying, and pro- fessed 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 re- pugnance all but invincible, she had gone to see Mrs. Catanach, and had issued absolutely radiant with joy, de- claring that she was now perfectly satis- fied, and as soon as she had communi- cated with the young man himself, would, without compromising any one, take what legal steps might be necessary to his rec- ognition 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 sti-ll in the Seaton, 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 one single downy feather from the still widening flap of the wings of Fame ever dropping on him ; and the only persons who vis- ited 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 Horn, 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 recover- ed 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 overcloud- ing of» the spiritual atmosphere. "Gien I be like this," he said to himself, "what maun the weather be like aneth yon hump o' the laird's ?" Now also for the first time he understood what Mr. Gra- ham had meant when he told hiin 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 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 wiz- ard's chamber. "Tat will pe ta ped she'll saw in her feeshon," said Duncan, whose very eyes seemed to listen to the talc. When Malcolm came to Mrs. Cata- nach's assertion that she knew more of him than he did himself, "Then she pe- liefs ta voman does, my poy. We are aall poth of us in ta cfil voman's pow- er," said Duncan sadly. MALCOLM. 179 " Never a hair, daddy !" cried Malcolm. "A' pooer 's i' the han's o' ane, an' that's no her maister. Ken she what she likes, she canna pairt you an' me, daddy." "God forpid !" responded Duncan. "But we must pe on our kard." Close by the cottage stood an ivy-grown bridge, of old leading the king's high- way across the burn to the Auld Toon, but now leading only to the flower-gar- den. Eager for the open air of which he had been so long deprived, and hoping that 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 at- tended to the lamps, and Malcolm there- fore went alone. He was slowly wandering, where never wind blew, betwixt rows of stately holly- hocks, on which his eyes fed while his ears were filled with the sweet noises of a little fountain issuing from the upturn- ed beak of a marble swan, which a mar- ble 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 get- ting wet in the present state of his health, he made for an arbor he saw near by on the steep side of the valley — one he had never before happened to notice. Now it chanced that Lord Lossie him- self 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 arch- ed 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 genera- tion had, in the farthest corner of the recess and sideways from the door, seat- ed 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 press- ed the threshold he rose, advanced a step and held out his hand. The moment, therefore, Malcolm step- ped 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 in- tent of clutching than of greeting him. An unaccountable horror seized him : with a gasp which had nearly become a cry he staggered backward 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 marquis, who was just entering the arbor. " Well, MacPhail," he said kind- ly, "I'm glad — " But his glance be- came fixed in a stare : he changed color, and did not finish his sentence. "I beg yer lordship's pardon," said Malcolm, wondering through all his per- turbation at the look he had brought on his master's face : " I didna ken ye was at han'." "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 ?" " Ken ye wha's that in there, my lord?" "You booby! It's nothing but a dum- my 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 maun hae seen him yersel' ower my shouther, my lord," hinted Malcolm. " I saw your face, and that was enough to — " But the marquis did not finish the sentence. iSo MALCOLM. "Weel, 'cep it was the oonnaiteral luik o' he thing — no human, an' yet sae dooms hke it — I cannot accoont for the grue or the trimmle 'at cam ower me, my lord. I never fan' onything hke it i' my hfe afore. An' even noo 'at I unner- stan' what it is, I kenna what wad gar me luik the boody [bogie) i' the face again." " Go in at once," said the marquis fiercely. Malcolm looked him full in the eyes : " Ye mean what ye say, my lord ?" "Yes, by God!" replied 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, con- cluding with an effort. "I was jist turnin' ower an auld ques- ton, my lord — whether it be lawfu' to obey a tyrant. But it's nae worth stan'- in' oot upo'. I s' gang." He turned to the arch, placed a hand on each side of it, and leaning forward with outstretched neck peeped cautious- ly 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 Mal- colm'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 for ever ; for he had already learned to recognize and abhor that sla- very which is not the less the root of all other slaveries that it remains occult 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, him- self a free man. He drew himself up with a full breath and stepped within the arch. Up rose the horror again, jerked itself toward 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 du, 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 some one else. " I hae blaudit yer playock, 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 mas- tered himself still, and walked quietly out. The marquis was pacing, with downbent 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. Per- plexed 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 feeshon," said the bard with wide eyes. " He comes of a race that sees." "What cud the veesion hae been, daddy?" "Tat she knows not, for ta feeshon tid 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 cer- tain hidden drawer : being at Lossie, he walked up the glen of the burn to the bare hill overlooking the House, the roy- al burgh, 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, MALCOLM. i8i flung himself upon his bed, and from his pillow gazed through the little dor- mer window on the pale blue skies fleck- ed 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 chord 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 sad- ness 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 sor- rowful 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 revela- tion 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 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 — witch 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 mys- tery ! not one of them would turn. Be- thinking 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 and 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 clear- ly 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 burgh, and the first person he saw was Mrs. Catanach standing on her door- step and shading her eyes with her hand as she looked away out to the horizon over the roofs of the Seaton. 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. I=^K.T I2C. CHAPTER XLV. MR. CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS. '■"l^HE religious movement amongst the J- fisher-folk was still going on. Their meeting was now held often during the week, and at the same hour on the Sun- day as other people met at church. Nor was it any wonder that, having partici- pated 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 par- ishes a dull, cold, lifeless and therefore unhelpful ordinance, and at length, re- garding it as composed of beggarly ele- ments, breathing of bondage, to fill the Baillies' 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 boards where human forms had wont to appear, and when these plague-spots had not only lasted through successive Sun- days, but had begun to spread more rap- idly, he began to think it time to put a stop to such fanatical aberrations, the result of pride and spiritual presumption — hostile toward God and rebellious to- ward 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 per- sons except through the mouths of those to whom had been committed the dispen- sation of the means of grace ! Whatever wind might blow, except from their bel- lows, 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 182 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 humil- iations, 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 ofhis great soberness and the dignity of possessing the oracles and the ordi- nances, do other than contemn the en- thusiasms 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 accom- panied by all the weakness and some of the vices which it had required the ut- most 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 per- sonal knowledge of their doctrine and collective behavior ; but instead of go- ing 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 dis- cord 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 /aw- ful means for putting an end to their devotions and exhortations. One fact MALCOLM. I S3 he either had not heard or made no ac- count of — that the pubhc-hoiises 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 re- paired 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 differ- ent quality of English from that which now invaded them) took upon them- selves to expound the Scriptures ; that they taught antinomianism (for which assertion, it must be confessed, there was some appa7-ent 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 hith- erto 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 in- difference and some impatience : what did he or any other gentleman care about such things ? Besides, he had a friendly feeling toward the fisher-folk, and a de- cided disinclination to meddle with their liberty either of action or utterance. "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 with these people." "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 i^orals of the people." A shadow of truth rendered this as- sertion the worse misrepresentation : no blame to the marquis had even been hinted at — the speakers had only ani- madverted on the fishermen who had got drunk cm 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 buckie [spiral shell) 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 against them, 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 super- added. "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 every one's mouth." iS4 MALCOLM. " But you have not yourself heard any of their sermons, or what do they call them?" "No, my lord," said Mr. Cairns, hold- ing 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 po- sition to judge." "Your lordship's presence will put them on their guard." "If the mere sight of me is a check," returned the marquis, "extreme measures will hardly be necessary." He spoke definitively, and made a slight movement which his visitor ac- cepted as his dismissal. He laughed aloud when the door closed, for the spirit of what the Germans call Schadeiifreiide was never far from his elbow, and he re- joiced 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 naething muckle the maitter wi' hit or me aither, noo 'at we're up. But I was jist near- han' deid o' ower-muckle bed." " Hadn't you better come down out of that cockloft ?" said the marquis, drop- ping his eyes. "Na, my lord: I dinna care aboot partin' wi' my neebor yet." "What neighbor?" " Ow, the auld warlock, or whatever it may be 'at bauds a reemish [ruvunage) there." " W^hat ! is he troublesome next ?" "Ow, na ! I'm no thinkin' 't ; but 'deed ^I dinna ken, my lord," said Malcolm. "What do you mean, then i'" "Gicn yer lordship wad alloo me to force yon door, I wad be better able to tell ye." "Then the old man is noi quiet?" "There's something no quaiet." " Nonsense ! It's all your imagination, depend on it." "I dinna think it." " What do you think, then ? You're not afraid of ghosts, surely ?" "No muckle. I hae naething mair upo' my conscience nor I can bide i' the deidest o' the nicht." " Then you think ghosts come of a bad conscience — a kind of moral delirium tremens, eh ?" " I dinna ken, my lord ; but that's the only kin' o' ghaist I wad be fleyed at — at least, 'at I wad rin frae. I wad a heap raither hae a ghaist i' my hoose nor ane far'er benn. An ill man, or a wuman like Mistress Catanach, for en- stance, 'at 's a' boady, 'cep' what o' her 's deevil — " " Nonsense !" said the marquis angri- ly, but Malcolm went on : " — maun be jist fu' o' ghaists ! An', for onything I ken, that'll be what maks ghaists o' themsel's efter they're deid, settin' them walkin\ as they ca' 't. It's full waur nor bein' possessed wi' deevils, an' maun be a hantle mair ooncoamfort- able. But I wad hae yon door opent, my lord." "Nonsense!" exclaimed the marquis 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 fisher- folk." " Clandestine, my lord ? There's no cla7n aboot them but the clams upo' 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 peo- ple ?" " Ilka man, wuman an' bairn o' them," answered Malcolm. "And what sort are they ?" "Siclike as ye micht expec'." " That's not a very luminous answer." "Weel, they're nae waur nor ither fowk, to begin wi ; an' gien this bauds they'll be better nor mony." MALCOLM. 185 "What sort arc their leaders?" "Guid, respectable fowk, my lord." "Then there's not much harm in them .?" "There's nane but what they wad fain be rid o'. I canna say as muckle for a' 'at hings on to them. There's o' them, nae doobt, wha wad fain win to h'aven ohn left their sins ahin' them, but they get nae encouragement fra Maister Mac- Leod. Blue Peter, 'at gangs oot wi' 's i' yer lordship's boat — he's ane o' their best men, though he never gangs ayont prayin', I'm tauld." "Which is far enough, surely," said his lordship, who, belonging to the Epis- copal Church, had a different idea con- cerning the relative dignities of preach- ing and praying. "Ay, for a body's sel', surely; but maybe no aye eneuch for ither fowk," answered Malcolm, always ready after his clumsy fashion. "Have you been to any of these meet- ings ?" " I was at the first twa, my lord." "Why not more ?" " I didna care muckle aboot them, an' I hae aye plenty to du. Besides, I can get mair oot o' Maister Graham wi' twa words o' a queston nor the haill crew o' them could tell me atween this an' eternity." "Well, I am going to trust you," said the marquis slowly, with an air of ques- tion rather than of statement. "Ye may du that, my lord." "You mean I may with safety?" "I div mean that same, my lord." "You can hold your tongue, then ?" "I can, an' will, my lord," said Mal- colm ; but added in haste, " 'cep' it in- terfere wi' ony forgane agreement or nat'ral 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 formulas 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 ask- ing me to put a stop to these conven- ticles." "Wha has, my lord ?" "That's my business." "Lat it be nae ither body's, my lord." "That's my intention. I told him I would go and judge for myself." " Jist like yer lordship !" "What do you mean by that?" " I was aye sure ye was for fair play, my lord." " It's little enough I've ever had," said the marquis. " Sae lang's we gie plenty, my lord, it maitters less hoo muckle we get. A'body likes to get it." "That doctrine won't carry you far, my lad." " Far eneuch, gien 't cairry me throu', my lord." " How absolute the knave is !" said his lordship good-humoredly. "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 ken them better nor ony black-coat atween Cromarty an' Peterheid, an' I can tell yer lordship there winna be ae word o' 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 a' practical purposes it's easy eneuch, my lord. Jist gang ohn be seen the first nicht, an' the neist gang in a co'ch an' fower. Syne compaur." "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 ony public meetin', my lord, ye hae as guid a richt to be present as the puirest body i' the Ian'. An' forbye that, as lord o' the place ye hae a richt to ken what's gaein' on. I dinna ken hoo far the richt o' interferin' gangs : that's an- ither thing a'thegither." " I see you're a thorough-going rebel yourself." "Naething o' the kin', my lord. I'm iS6 MALCOLM. only sae far o' yer lordship's min' 'at I like fair play — gien a body could only be aye richt sure what was fair play !" " Yes, there's the very point : certainly, at least, when the question comes to be eavesdropping — not to mention that I could never condescend to play the spy." "What a body has a richt to hear he may hear as he likes, either shawin' himsel' or hidin' himsel'. An' it's the only plan 'at 's fair to them, my lord. It's no 's gien yer lordship was lyin' in wait to du them a mischeef : ye want raither to du them a kin'ness an' tak their pairt." "I don't know that, Malcolm. It de- pends." " It's plain yer lordship's prejudeezed i' their fawvor. Ony gait, I'm sartin it's fair play ye want ; an' I canna for the life o' me see a hair o' wrang i' yer lord- ship's gaein' m a cogue, as auld Tammy Dyster ca's 't ; for at the warst ye cud only interdic them, an' that ye cud du a' the same whether ye gaed or no. An' gien ye be sae wulled I can tak you an' my leddy whaur ye'll hear ilka word 'at 's uttered, an' no a body get a glimp o' ye, mair nor gien ye was sittin' at yer ain fireside as ye are the noo." "That does make a difference," said the marquis, a great part of whose un- willingness arose from the dread of dis- covery. "It would be very amusing." " I'll no promise ye that," returned Malcolm : " I dinna ken aboot that. There's jist ae objection, hooever: ye wad hae to gang a guid hoor afore they begoud to gaither. An' there's aye laad- dies aboot the place sin' they turned it in- till a kirk," he added thoughtfully. " But," he resumed, "we cud manage them." " How ?" " I wad get my gran'father to strik' up wi' a spring upo' the pipes o' the ither side o' the bored craig, or lat aff a shot o' the sweevil : they wad a' rin to see, an' i' the mean time we cud Ian' ye frae the cutter. We wad hae ye in an' oot o' sicht in a moment — Blue Peter an' me — as quaict as gien ye war ghaists an' the hoor midnicht." The marquis was persuaded, but ob- jected to the cutter. They would walk there, he said. So it was arranged that Malcolm should take him and Lady Florimel to the Baillies' Barn the very next time the fishermen had a meeting. CHAPTER XLVI. THE BAILLIES' 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 toward the promontory. There sat the piper on the swivel, ready to sound a pibroch the moment they should have reached the shelter of the bored craig, his signal be- ing Malcolm's whistle. The plan an- swered perfectly. In a few minutes all the children within hearing were gather- ed about Duncan — a rarer right 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 can- dle, 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 sto- ry, Malcolm," said Lady Florimel. " Do," said the marquis : "the place is not consecrated yet." " Did ye ever hear the tale o' the auld warlock, my leddy ?" asked Malcolm. "Only my lord kens 't," he added. "/don't," said Lady Florimel. "It's great nonsense," said the mar- quis. " 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 ane aboot Lossie Hoose, an' yon ane aboot Colonsay Castel, are verra likly but twa stalks frae the same rute. Ony gait, this ane aboot the warlock maun be the auldcst o' the twa. Ye s' hae 't sic 's I hae 't mysel'. Mistress Coorthoup taul' 't to me." MALCOLM. 187 It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, that he recounted the tale of Lord Gernon. 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 ye, my leddy ?" said Mal- colm, "There's naething here to hurt ye-" "I saw a face," she said — "a white face !" "Whaur?" "Beyond you a little way — near the ground," she answered in a tremulous whisper. "It's as dark 's pick," said Malcolm, as if thinking it to himself. He knew well enough that it must be the laird or Phemy, 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 wonner ye dinna cry oot waur, my leddy," said Malcolm, peering into the darkness. " I was too frightened. It looked so ghastly — not more than a foot from the ground." "Cud it hae been a flash, like, frae yer ain een .''" "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. "Aheap," answered Malcolm. "The grun' gangs doon like a brae ahin' 's in- till a—" "You don't mean right behind us?" cried the marquis. "Nae jist closs, my lord. We're sit- tin' i' the mou' o' 't like, wi' the thrap- ple {throat) o' 't ahin' 's, an' a muckle stamach ayont that." " I hope there's no danger," said the marquis. "Nane 'at I ken o'." " No water at the bottom ?" " Nane, my lord — that is, naething but a bonny spring i' 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. " Ye wad spile a', my leddy ! It's ower late, forbye," said Malcolm: "I hear a fut." He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a whisper, " It's Mis- tress Catanach wi' a lantren. Haud yer tongue, my bonny leddy : ye ken weel she's no mowse. Dinna try to leuk, my lord : she micht get a glimp o' ye — she's terrible gleg. I hae been hearin' mair yet aboot her. Yer lordship 's ill to con- vence, but depen' upo' 't whaurever that wuman is, there there's mischeef. Whaur she takes a scunner at a body she hates like the verra deevil. She winna aye lat them ken 't, but taks time to du her ill turns. An' it's no that only, but gien she gets a haud o' onything agane ony- body, she '11 save 't up upo' the chance o' their giein' her some offence afore they dee. She never lowses haud o' the tail o' a thing, an' at her ain proaper time she's in her natur' bun' to mak the warst use o' 't." 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 efter noo ? She's comin' this gait," he went on in a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his shoulder when he spoke. "Gien she thoucht there was a hole i' the perris she didna ken a' the oots an' ins o', it wad haud her ohn sleepit. Weesht ! weesht ! here she comes," he concluded after a listen- ing 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 be- fore 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 look- ed wicked, as her lantern, which being of horn she had opened for more light, now and then, as it swung in her hand, MALCOLM. shone up on her pale, pulpy, evil coun- tenance. "Gien she tries to come up, I'll hae to caw her doon," he said to himself; "an' I dinna like it, for she's a wuman cfter a', though a deevilich kin' o' a ane; but there's my leddy : I hae broucht her in- till 't, an' I maun see her safe oot o' 't." But if Mrs. Catanach was bent on an exploration, she was for the time prevent- ed from prosecuting it by the approach of the first of the worshipers, whose voices they now plainly heard. She re- treated toward 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, but most of them tallow can- dles, which they quickly lighted and dis- posed about the walls. The rest of the congregation, with its leaders, came troop- ing in so fast that in ten minutes or so the service began. As soon as the singing commenced, Malcolm whispered to Lady Florimel, "Was 't a man's face or a lassie's ye saw, my leddy ?" "A man's face — the same we saw in the storm," she answered, and Malcolm felt her shudder as she spoke. " It's naething but the mad laird," he said. " He's better nor hairmless. Din- na say a word to yer father, my leddy. I dinna like to say that, but I'll tell ye a' what for efterhin'." But Florimel, knowing that her father had a horror of lunatics, was willing enough to be silent. No sooner was her terror thus as- suaged 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 infect- ed her father that he straightway accom- panied her, but with more noise. Mal- colm 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 earnest- ness of which he was full. If his anx- iety for others appeared to be rather to save them from the consequences of their sins, his main desire for himself certain- ly 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, al- though not a single notion of what the man intended passed through the doors of his understanding, sat quiet and dis- approved 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 withcK.it a single word or phrase or sentence hav- ing roused a thought or suggested a doubt or moved a question or hinted an objec- tion 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 ; MALCOLM. 189 but not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, wonder how the deluded fisher-tblk 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 con- vinced 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 maunna gang yet, my lord," said Malcolm. "They maun be a' oot first." "I don't care who sees me," protested the weary man. "But yer lordship wadna like to be descriet scram'lin' doon efter the back like the bear in Robinso?i Crusoe?" The marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently. At length Malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meeting had thor- oughly skailed, peeped cautiously out to make sure. But after a moment he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper, " I'm sorry ye canna gang yet, my lord. There's some half a dizzen o' ill-luikin' chields — cairds [gypsies), I'm thinkin', or may- be waur — congregat doon there, an' it's my opingon they're efter nae guid, my lord." " How do you know that ?" "Onybody wad ken that 'at got a glimp o' them." "Let me look." "Na, my lord: ye dinna understan' the lie o' the stanes eneuch to baud oot 0' sicht." " How long do you mean to keep us here ?" asked the marquis impatiently. " Till it's safe to gang, my lord. For onything I ken, they may be efter comin' up here. They may be used to the place, though I dinna think it." "In that case we must go down at once. We must ttot let them find us here." "They wad tak 's ane by ane as we gaed doon, my lord, an' we wadna hae a chance. Think o' my leddy 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. "Nae waur nor I'll tak ye oot o', gien ye lippen to me, my lord, an' no speyk a word." " If you tell them who papa is," said Florimel, "they won't do us any harm, surely." "I'm nane sae sure o' that. They micht want to r}'pe 's pooches {seafch his pockets), an' my lord wad ill stan' that, I'm thinkin'. Na, na. Jist stan* ye back, my lord an' my leddy, an' dinna speyk a word. I s' sattle them. They're sic villains there's nae terms to be hauden wi' them." His lordship was far from satisfied, but a light shining up into the crevice at the moment gave powerful support to Mal- colm'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 pen- knife about me. It looks very awk- ward." "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 Mal- colm, outlined in fits of the approach- ing light, all but filling the narrow en- trance 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 pas- sage. The light came nearer, and they heard the sound of scrambling on the rock, but no voice : then for one mo- ment 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 be- neath. "Ane o' them, my lord," said Malcolm in a sharp whisper over his shoulder. igo MALCOLM. 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. Malcom heard them drag him out of the way. The second ascended more rapidly, and met his fate the sooner. As he de- livered the blow, Malcolm recognized one of the laird's assailants, and was now perfectly at his ease. "Twa o' them, my lord," he said. "Gien we had ane mair doon, we cud manage the lave." The second, however, had not lost his speech, and amidst the confused talk that followed Malcolm heard the words, " Rin doon to the coble for the gun," and immediately after the sound of feet hur- rying 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. " Gien ane o' ye muv han' or fit, I'll brain him wi' 's ain stick," he cried as he wrenched a cudgel from the grasp of one of them. Then catching up a lantern and hurry- ing behind the projecting rock, " Haste ye, an' come," he shouted. "The w'y 's clear, but only for a meenute." 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. "Noo," he said to himself, "they win- na ken but it's the laird an' Phemy wi' me." Then turning, and taking Florimel by the arm, he hurried her out of llie 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 stop- ped to take breath, but Malcolm was un- easy and hurried them on. "What are you frightened at now?" asked his lordship. "Naething," answered Malcolm, add- ing to himself, however, "I'm fleyt ai naething — I'm fleyt /frthe laird." As they approached the tunnel he fell behind. "Why don't you come on?" said his lordship. "I'm gaen' back noo 'at ye're safe," said Malcolm. " Going back ! What for ?" asked the marquis. " I maun see what thae villains are up till," answered Malcolm. "Not alone, surely!" exclaimed the marquis. "At least get some of youi people to go with you." "There's nae time, my lord. Dinna be fleyt for me : I s' tak care o' mysel'." He was already yards away, running at full speed. The marquis shouted after him, but Malcolm would not hear. When he reached the Baillies' Barn once more all was still. He groped his way in, and found his own lantern where they had been sitting, and, having light- ed it, descended and followed the wind- ings of the cavern a long way, but saw nothing of the laird or Phemy. 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 so far as Phemy's imagina- tion had represented the reach of the cavern. He might, however, have miss- ed a turn, he thought. The sound he heard was that of the Lossie Burn flowing along in the star- light through the grounds of the House. Of tliis he satisfied himself afterward; 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 MALCOLM. 191 was plainly visible. But perhaps the sea itself had used to go roaring along the great duct : Malcolm was no geolo- gist, and could not tell. CHAPTER XLVII. MRS. STEWART'S CLAIM. The weather became unsettled with the approach of winter, and the marquis had a boat-house built at the west end of the Seaton : 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 pro- genitors to the remotest generations, and a regard to ancestral honors, however contemptible the forms which the appro- priation 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 a^cestr}^ 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 glo- rious in the eyes of the chivalry of old : he looked up to him with admiration be- cause of his gifts in poetry and music, and loved him endlessly for his unfail- ing 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 Mal- colm'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 re- gard 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 asso- ciated, 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 hu- manity 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 dark- ness he now lamented would show pur- ple and gray. One afternoon as he passed through the Seaton from the harbor to have a look at the cutter, he heard the Partaness calling after him. "Weel, ye're a sicht for sair een, noo 'at ye're like to turn oot something worth luikin' at," she cried as he approached with his usual friendly smile. "What div ye mean by that. Mistress Findlay?" asked Malcolm, carelessly adding, "Is yer man in ?" "Ay," she went on, without heeding either question, "ye'll be gran' set up noo ! Ye'll no be haen' ' a fine day ' to fling at yer auld freen's, the puir fisher- fowk, er lang. Weel, it's the w'y o' the warl ! Hech, sirs !" "What on earth 's set ye aff like that, Mistress Findlay ?" said Malcolm. " It's nae sic a feerious [furious) gran' thing ig: MALCOLM. to be my lord's skipper — or henchmnn, as my daddy wad hae 't— surely ! It's a heap gran'er like to be a free fisherman, wi' a boat o' yer ain, like the Partan." " Hoots ! Nane o' yer clavers ! Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean — as weel 's ilka ither creatit sowl i' Portlossie. An' gien ye dinna chowse to lat on aboot it till an auld freen' 'cause she's naething but a fisherwife, it's dune ye mair skaith a'ready nor I thoucht it wad to the lang last, Ma'colm — for it's yer ain name I s' ca' ye yet, gien ye war ten times a laird. Didna I gie ye the breist whan ye cud du naething i' the wardle but sowk ? An' weel ye sowkit, puir innocent 'at ye was /" "As sure's we're baith alive," assever- ated Malcolm, " I ken nae mair nor a sawtit herrin' what ye're drivin' at." "Tell me 'at ye dinna ken what a' the queentry kens, an' hit aboot yer ain- sel' !" screamed the Partaness. "I tell ye I ken naething; an' gien ye dinna tell me what ye're efter direckly, I s' baud awa' to Mistress Allison : she '11 tell me." This was a threat sufficiently prevail- ing. " It's no in natur' !" she cried. " Here's Mistress Stewart o' the Gersefell been cawin' {^driving) like mad aboot the place, in her cairriage an' hoo mony horse I dinna ken, declarin' — ay, sweir- in', they tell me — 'at ane cowmonly ca'd Ma'colm MacPhail is neither mair nor less nor the son born o' her ain boady in honest wadlock. An' tell me ye ken naething aboot it ! What are ye stan'in' like that for, as gray-mou'd 's a deein' 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 dinna believe 't," he faltered, and turned away. " Ye dinna believe what I tell ye ?" screeched the wrathful Partaness. "Ye daur 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 depths of his soul, he heard the voice of the mad lord with its one lamentation, " I dinna ken whaur I cam' 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. "Hae ye h'ard the ill news, sir?" said the youth. "No : I'm sorry to hear there is any." "They tell me Mistress Stewart's rin- nin' aboot the toon claimin' me !" "Claiming you ! How do you mean ?" "For her ain." "Not for her son ?" " Ay, sir : that 's what they say. But ye haena h'ard o' 't ?" "Not a word." "Then I believe it's a' havers," cried Malcolm energetically. " It was sair eneuch upo' me a'ready to ken less o' whaur I cam frae than the puir laird himsel', but to come frae whaur he cam frae was a thoucht ower sair." "You don't surely despise the poor fellow so much as to scorn to have the same parents with him ?" said Mr. Gra- ham. "The verra contra', sir. But a wuman wha wad sae misguide the son o' her ain body, an' for naething but that as she had broucht him furth sic he was, — it 's no to be lichtly believed nor lichtly endured. I s' awa' to Miss Horn an' see whether she 's h'ard ony sic leein* 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. Gra- ham. " The report itself may be false — or true and the lady mistaken." " She'll hae to pruv 't weel afore I say hatid,'" rejoined Malcolm. "And suppose she does ?" "In that case," said Malcolm with a composure almost ghastly, "a man maun tak what mither it pleases God to gie MALCOLM. 193 him. But faith ! she winna du wi' me as wi' the puir laird. Gien she taks me up, she'll repent 'at she didna lat me lie. She'll be as little pleased wi' the tane o' her sons as the tither, I can tell her, ohn propheseed !" " But think what you might do between mother and son," suggested the master, willing to reconcile him to the possible worst. " It's ower late for that," he answered. "The puir man's thairms (fiddle-strings) are a' hingin' lowse, an there's no grip eneuch i' the pegs to set them again. He wad but think I had gane ower to the enemy, an' haud oot o' my gait as eident {diligently) as he bauds oot o' hers. Na, it wad du naething for him. Gien 't warna for what I see in him, I wad hae a gran' rebutter to her claim ; for hoo cud ony woman's ain son hae sic a scunner at her as I hae i' my hert an' brain an' verra stamach ? Gien she war my ain mither there bude to be some nait'ral drawin's atween 's, a body wad think. But it winna haud, for there's the laird. The verra name o' mither gars him steik his lugs an' rin." " Still, if she should be your mother, it's for better for worse, as much as if she had been your own choice." " I kenna weel hoo it cud be for waur," said Malcolm, who did not yet, even from his recollection of the things Miss Horn had said, comprehend what worst threatened him. " It does seem strange," said the mas- ter 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 — thief-babies, say — human parasites, with no choice but to feed on the social body." " I wonner what God thinks aboot it a' ? It gars a body speir whether He cares or no," said Malcolm gloomily. "It does," responded Mr. Graham solemnly. " Y)'\v ye alloo that, sir ?" returned Mal- colm aghast. "That soon's as gien a'thing war rushin' thegither back to the auld chaos." " I should not be surprised," continued the master, apparently heedless of Mal- »3 colm's consternation, "if the day should come when well-meaning men, excellent in the commonplace, but of dwarfed im- agination, refused 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 wad the clergy say to hear ye, sir ?" said Malcolm, himself almost trem- bling 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 shoe-latchet they are yet not worthy to unloose. But mind, my boy, you've not heard me speak ;;;/ thought on the matter at all." " But wadna 't be better to believe irt twa Gods nor nane ava' ?" propounded Malcolm — "ane a' guid, duin' the best for 's he cud, the ither a' ill, but as poo- erfu' as the guid ane — an' for ever an' aye a fecht atween them, whiles ane get- tin' the warst o' 't, an' whiles the ither ? It wad quaiet yer hert ony gait, an' the battle o' Armageddon wad gang on as gran' 's ever." " Two Gods there could not be," said Mr. Graham. "Of the two beings sup- posed, the evil one must be called devil, were he ten times the more powerful." "Wi' a' my hert," responded Mal- colm. "But I agree with you," the master went on, "that Manicheism is unspeak- ably better than atheism, and uiithink- ahly better than believing in an unjust God. But I am not driven to such a theory." " Hae ye ane o' yer ain 'at '11 fit, sir ?"" " 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 theor)- I should know but to avoid : such gaps are the eternal win- dows through which the dawn shall look in. A complete theory is a vault of 194 MALCOLM. stone around the theorist, whose very being yet depends on room to grow." " Weel, I wad like to hear what ye hae agane Manicheism ?" "The main objection of theologians would be, I presume, that it did not pre- sent a God perfect in power as in good- ness, but I think it a far more objection- able point »hat it presents evil as possess- ing 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 micht ken himsel' sure to win i' the lang rin." "Grant the same to the God of the Bible, and we come back to where we were before." "Does that satisfee yersel', Maister Graham ?" asked Malcolm, looking deep into the eyes of his teacher. "Not at all," answered the master. "Does onything?" "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 solu- tion." "Winna ye tell me a' 'at 's in yer hert aboot it, sir ?" " Not now, my boy. You have got one thing to mind now, before alj other things — namely, that you give this wo- man, whatever she be, fair play : if she be your' mother, as such you must take her — that is, as such you must treat her." "Ye're richt sir," returned Malcolm, and rose. "Come back to me," said Mr. Gra- ham, "with whatever news you gather." "I will, sir," answered Malcolm, and went to find Miss Horn. 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 Horn. "Sit doon, Ma'colm," she said gruffly. " Hae ye h'ard onything, mem ?" ask- ed Malcolm, standing. "Ay, ower muckle," answered Miss Horn with all but a scowl. "Ye been ower to Gersefell, I reckon." "Forbid it !" answered Malcolm. "Nev- er till this hoor — or at maist it's nae twa — sin' I h'ard the first cheep o' 't, an' that was frae Meg Partan. To no hu- man sowl hae I made mention o' 't yet 'cep' Maister Graham : to him I gaed direck." "Ye cudna hae dune better," said the grim woman with relaxing visage. "An* here I am the noo, straught frae him, to beg o' you. Miss Horn, to tell me the trowth o' the maitter." "What ken I aboot it?" she returned angrily. "What stid I ken .''" " Ye micht ken whether the wuman's been sayin' 't or no." " Wha has ony doobt aboot that ?" "Mistress Stewart has been sayin' she's my mither, than ?" "Ay: what for no?" returned Miss Horn with a piercing glower at the youth. "Guid forfen' !" exclaimed Malcolm. "Say ye that, laddie?" cried Miss Horn, and starting up she grasped his arm and stood gazing in his face. " What ither sud I say ?" rejoined Mal- colm, surprised. "Godbclaudit!" exclaimed Miss Horn. " The limmer may say 'at she likes noo." " Ye dinna believe 't than, mem ?" cried Malcolm. "Tell me ye dinna, an' baud me ohn curst like a cadger." " I dinna believe ac word o' 't, laddie," answered Miss Horn eagerly. "Wha MALCOLM. 195 cud believe sic a fine laad come o' sic a fause mither ?" "She micht be onybody's mither, an' fause tu," said Malcolm gloomily. "That's true, laddie; an' the mair mither the fauser. There's a warl' o' witness i' your face 'at gien she be yer mither, the markis, an no puir honest henpeckit John Stewart, was the father o' ye. The Lord forgi'e me ! what am I sayin' ?" adjected Miss Horn with a cry of self-accusation when she saw the pal- lor that overspread the countenance of the youth, and his head drop upon his bosom : the last arrow had sunk to the feather. "It's a' havers, ony gait," she quickly resumed. " I div not believe ye hae ae drap o' her bluid i' the body o' ye, man. But," she hurried on, as if eager to obliterate the scoring impression of her late words, "that she's been say- in' 't there can be no mainner o' doobt. I saw her mysel' rinnin" aboot the toon, frae ane till anither, wi' her lang hair doon the lang back o' her, an' ileein' i' the win' like a body dementit. The only question is, whether or no she believes 't hersel'." "What cud gar her say 't gien she didna believe 't ?" " Fowk says she expecs that w'y to get a grip o' things oot o' the ban's o' the puir laird's trustees : ye wad be a son o' her ain, cawpable o' mainagin' them. But ye dinna tell me she's never been at yersel' aboot it ?" "Never a blink o' the ee has passed atween's sin' that day I gaed till Gerse- fell, as I tellt ye, wi a letter frae the markis. I thoucht I was ower mony for her than : I wonner she daur be at me again." " She's daurt her God er' noo, an' may Aveel daur you. But what says yer gran'- father till 't noo?" " He hasna hard a chuckle's cheep o' 't." " What are we haverin' at than ? Can- na he sattle the maitter aff han' ?" Miss Horn eyed him keenly as she spoke. " He kens no more aboot whaur I come frae, mem, nor your Jean, wha 's heark- enin' at the keyhole this verra meenute." The quick ear of Malcolm had caught a slight sound of the handle, whose prox- imity to the keyhole was no doubt often troublesome to Jean. Miss Horn 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 Horn received it, and went back to Malcolm. "Na: Jean wadna du that," she said quietly. But she was wrong, for, hearing Mal- colm's words, Jean had retreated one step down the stair, and turned. " But what's this ye tell me aboot yer gran'father, honest man ?" Miss Horn continued. " Duncan MacPhail 's no bluid o' mine, the mair 's the pity !" said Malcolm sad- ly, and told her all he knew. Miss Horn's visage went through won- derful changes as he spoke. "Weel, it is a mercy I hae no feelin's," she said when he had done. " Ony wuman can lay a claim till me 'at likes, ye see," said Malcolm. "She may lay 'at she likes, but it's no illka &gg laid has a chuckie intill 't," answered Miss Horn sententiously. " Jist ye gang hame to auld Duncan, an' tell him to turn the thing ower in 's min' till he's able to sweir to the verra nicht he fan' the bairn in 's lap. But no ae word maun he say to leevin' sowl aboot it afore it's requiret o' 'im." " I wad be the son o' the puirest fish- er-wife i' the Seaton raither nor hers," said Malcolm gloomily. "An' it shaws ye better bred," said Miss Horn. "But she'll be at ye er lang, an' tak ye tent what ye say. Dinna flee in her face : lat her jaw awa', an' mark her words. She may lat a streak o' licht oot o' her dirk lantren oonawaurs." Malcolm returned to Mr. Graham. They agreed there was nothing for it but to wait. He went next to his grand- father and gave him Miss Horn's mes- sage. 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 hor- izon. Since the adventure in the Baillies' Barn, Lady Florimel had been on a visit 196 MALCOLM. 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 en- countered there before. The blood rush- ed to his face : he dropped his head, and saying merely, "It maun be a' as it maun," pursued the occupation of the moment. But her words sent a new wind blow- ing 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 de- mon of romance was at work. Uncor- rupted 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 coarse- ness had begun to influence her repul- sively. There were still to be found in Scotland old-fashioned gentlefolk speak- ing 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 Lossie 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 Mal- colm. From his behavior on the occa- sion 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 toward 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, say- ing once more, with a polite bow, " I din- na ken whaur I cam frae : 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 com- panion-scholars. He stopped midway, however, and returned to the desk, where, standing on tiptoe, he whispered in the master's ear, " I canna come upo' 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 it 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 mod- estly leaving with the rest when the mas- ter 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 MALCOLM. 197 staring up at him for a moment, then turned, and gently murmuring, " I canna win at the door," walked from the school- house. It was refuge the poor fellow sought — whether from temporal or spiritual foes will matter little to him who believes that the only shelter from the one is the only shelter from the other also. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE BAILLIES' BARN AGAIN. It began to be whispered about Port- lossie that the marquis had been present at one of the fishermen'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 Cov- enanters and persecution and martyr- dom. 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 — attrib- uted it to the spreading renown of the preaching and praying members of the community, and each longed for an op- portunity of exercising his individual gift upon the conscience of the marquis. The soberer portion took it for an act of mere curiosity, unlikely to be repeated. Malcolm saw that the only way of set- ting 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 Baillies' Barn. Be- ing 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 halfway 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 al- lowed 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 de- pendent for stimulus upon those of Vir- gil, 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 cha- racter of the Eastern dogs as contrasted with those of our dogs ; pointing out to his hearers 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 border -land separating animals domestic and ferine — filthy, dangerous and hated ; then associating with his text that passage in the Revelation, "Blessed are they that do his command- ments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city ; for without are dogs," he propounded, or rather assert- ed, that it described one variety of the many punishments of the wicked, show- ing at least a portion of them condemn- ed to rush howling for ever 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 Phlegethon !" 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 nigh- er ; see upon the dog-heads of them the signs and symbols of rank and authority which they wore when they walked erect, men — ay, 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 igS MALCOLM. 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 him- self, 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 defence — those walls high-up- lifted, 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, would they 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 backward from her seat. On all sides arose noises, loud or suppressed, mingled with murmurs of expostulation. Even Lady Florimel, in- vaded 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 Lizzy Findlay had ar- rived 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. Catanach. 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. Catanach's Sun- day 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 be- ing poured out upon them. The mar- quis, looking very pale, for he could never endure the cry of a woman, even in a play, rose, and taking Florimel by the arm, turned to leave the place. Mal- colm 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 shout- ed. "Go not hence, I charge you. On your lives I charge you ! Turn ye, turn ye : why will ye die ? There is no flee- ing from Satan. You must resist the devil. He that flies is lost. If you turn your backs upon ApoUyon, he will never slacken 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 be- yond 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 mar- quis : 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 mar- MALCOLM. 199 quis 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, point- ing 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 coun- tenance such things !" As to hysterics, the fisher-folk 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, "Gien a body comes to cor meetin'," cried one of them, a fine specimen of the argle-bargling Scotchman — a crea- iTire known and detested over the habit- ?.ble globe — ^"he maun just du as we du, an' sit it oot. It's for yer sowl's guid." 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 be again 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 mar- quis, "what would you say to that ?" "Ow, we wad jist tak doon the sticks," answered Ladle. "You would call it persecution, wouldn't you r" "Ay, it wad be that." "And what do you call it now, when you prevent a man from going his own way after he has had enough of your foolery ?" "Ow, we ca' 't dissiplene," 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 flap- ping, and her gray hair flying like an old Maenad's. Brandishing in her hand the 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 o' 't ! Come oot o' that, Liz- zy, ye limmer ! Ir ye gaun' frae ill to waur, i' the deevil's name ?" It was Meg Partan. She sent the con- gregation right and left from her, as a ship before the wind sends a wave from each side of her bows. Men and wo- men gave place to her, and she went surging into the midst of the assembly. "Whaur's that lass o' mine ?" she cried, looking about her in aggravated wrath at failing to pounce right upon her. "She's no verra weel, Mistress Find- lay," cried Mrs. Catanach in a loud whis- per, laden with an insinuating tone of intercession. "She'll be better in a meen- ute. The minister's jist ower pooerfu' the nicht." 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 mar- quis, 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 i^w 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 desig- nated the dune, taking the name of the rock at the end of it to be the Boar's Craig, and the last word to mean, as it often does, not crag, but neck, like 200 MALCOLM. the German kragen, and perhaps the Enghsh scrag. "I'm sorry for't, my lord," said Mal- colm, "but I'm sure yer lordship had the worth o' 't in fun." " I can't deny that," returned the mar- quis. "And / 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 girl's 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, / know." "What do you say to shutting up the place altogether?" ''Do, papa. It's shocking, vulgar and horrid !" " I wad think tvvise, my lord, afore I wad sair [serve) them as ill as they saired me." "Did I ask your advice?" said the marquis sternly. " It's nane the waur 'at it 's gien oon- soucht," said Malcolm. " It's the richt thing, ony gait." "You presume on this foolish report about you, I suppose, MacPhail," said his lordship ; "but that won't do." " God forgie ye, my lord, for I hae ill duin' 't ! [Jind it difficult)" said Mal- colm. 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 rsea had to say for itself. But the marquis smiled, and turned his face toward the wind which was {blowing from the south. In a few moments Malcolm came back, but to follow behind them and say noth- ing more that night. The marquis did not interfere with the fishermen. Having heard of their rude- ness, Mr. Cairns called again and press- ed 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 fig- ■ures 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, hard- ly more than a dull beating of time to the monotonous chanting of a few re- ligious phrases, rendered painfully com- monplace 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 M'ho 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. Nat- urally, such men as Joseph Mair now grew shy of the assemblies they had helped to originate, and withdrew — at least into the background: the reins slipped from the hands of the first lead- ers, and such windbags 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, con- tinued : 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 Sab- bath, and altogether there was a mark- ed improvement in the look of things along a good many miles of that north- ern shore. Strange as it may seem, however, mo- rality, in the deeper sense, remained very much at the same low ebb as before. It is much easier to persuade men that God MALCOLM. 20 1 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 com- monly called swearing will not even have a twinge of conscience after a whole morning of ill-tempered sullenness, ca- pricious scolding, villainously unfair ani- madversion or surly cross-grained treat- ment generally of wife and children. Such a man will omit 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 experi- ences, it was, for instance, no easier to get them to pay their debts than here- tofore. Of CO rse 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 obliga- tions or not. Such fulfilled the injunc- tion 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, whence 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 hus- band had left property would acknow- ledge no obligation to discharge his debts, it came to be rather more than a mere whim. Evidently, the religion of many of them was as yet of a very poor sort, precisely like that of tl\p negroes, whose devotion so far outstrips their morality. If there had but been 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 specially religious mode of working off their excitement than dan- cing I — that feeling is but the servant of character until it becomes its child, or, rather, th^t feeling is but a mere vapor until condensed into character! — that the onfy process through which it can be thus consolidated is well-doing, the put- ting 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 behold- ing the face of his Father ! " But have patience — give them time," said Mr. Graham, who had watched the whole thing from the beginning. " If their religion is religion, it will work till it puri- fies : 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 w-illing, 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 noth- ing 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 rea- sons. Many a screeching, dancing fish- er-lass in the Seaton was far nearer the kingdom of heaven than the most re- spectable 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. 202 MALCOLM. CHAPTER XLIX. 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 de- sire its realization. ' The claim that hung over him haunted his very life, turning the currents of his thought into channels of speculation un- known before. Imagine a young fisher- man 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 the winter, of all possible subjects — what analogy there might be 'twixt 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 breath- ed his breath into the form of Adam, still, at some crisis unknown in its crea- tion, 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 well-spring 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 fight- ing in his heart, he had for the hundredth time arrived thus far, all at once it seem- ed as if a soundless voice in the depth of his soul replied, " Even then — should the well-spring 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 wa- ter, 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 eld- est cause. Thy essence cannot be de- filed, 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 sombre 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 be- yond 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 out- look, but he had beheld neither sky nor ocean. The Soutars of Cromarty had all the time sat on their stools large in his view; the hills of Sutherland had in- vited 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 Caith- ness 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 ken, my leddy," he answer- ed : " somewhaur aboot the feet o' Mount Pisgah, I'm thinkin', if no freely upo' the held o' 't." " That's not the name of the hill up there ?" "Ow na: yon's the Binn." " What have you been about ? Look- ing at things in general, I suppose." "Na: they've been luikin' at me, ) MALCOLM. 203 daur say, but I didna heed them, an' they didna fash me." "You look so strangely bright," she said, " as if you had seen something both mar\-elous and beautiful." The words revealed a quality of in- sight not hitherto manifested by Flori- mel. In truth, INIalcolm's whole being was irradiated by the flash of inward peace that had just visited him — a state- ment intelligible and therefore credible enough to the mind accustomed to look over the battlements of the walls that clasp the fair windows of the senses. But Florimel's insight had reached its limit, and her judgment, vainly endeav- oring to penetrate farther, fell flounder- ing in the mud. "I know," she went on. "You have been to see your lady mother." jNIalcolm'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 tyran- nous 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 new-found 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 turn- ed and fled back through the woods, with again a horrible impulse to howl to the winds the cry of the mad laird, " I dinna ken whaur I cam frae !" When he came to himself he found his hands pressed hard on his ears, and for a mo- ment felt a sickening certainty that he too was a son of the lady of Gersefell. 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 Phemy plainly avoided him, had concluded that he had found another concealment, and that the child preferred not being ques- tioned concerning it. W'ith 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 mind 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 vanish- ed : the back-thrown smile of the depart- ing 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 toward 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, ex- ists 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 204 MALCOLM. 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 compul- sion of necessity. All over the house big fires were glow- ing and blazing. Nothing pleased the marquis worse than the least appearance of stinting the consumption of coal. In the library two huge gratefuls were burn- ing 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 ser- vant 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 worshiper of Mammon, and yet now he would often sit down indifferent to its hoarded splen- dors and gather no jewels. But one morning, as he sat there alone, in an oriel looking seaward, there lay on a table before him a thin folio, contain- ing the chief works of Sir Thomas Browne — amongst the rest his well-known Re- ligio Medici, from which he had just read the following passage: "When I take a full view and circle of myself, without this reasonable moderatour and equall piece of justice, Death, I doe con- ceive my self the most miserablest per- son extant ; were there not another life that I hoped for, all the vanities of this world should not intreat 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 abject a conceit of this com- mon 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 expecta- tion of a better, -I can with patience em- brace this life, yet in my best meditations do often desire death ; I honour any man that contcmnes it, nor can I highly love any that is afraid of it : this makes me naturally love a Soldier, and honour those tatter'd and contemptible Regiments that will die at the command of a Sergeant." These words so fell in with the pre- vailing 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 over-sea 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 mad- ness. 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, their seafaring over, had at length persuaded Malcolm to don the highland attire : it was an old custom of the House of Los- sie that its lord's henchman should be thus distinguished, and the marquis him- self 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 suc- ceeded 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. MALCOLM. 205 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 ser- vice 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 wad gie twa to be rid o' 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?" " It's a' ane to me," said Malcolm. " I dinna care what I weir, gien only I had a richt till 't," he added with a sigh. " It is too bad of you, Malcolm," re- joined 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 willing- ness to serve Mrs. Stewart, partly enticed by the romance of being Malcolm's com- forter, or perhaps confessor. "Ay is there, my leddy." "What is it ? Tell me : you can trust me?" " I could trust ye, but I canna tell ye. I daurna — I maunna." "I see you will not trust me," said Florimel, with a half-pretended, half-real offence. " I wad lay doon my life — what there is o' 't — for ye, my leddy ; but the verra natur' o* my trouble winna be tauld. I maun beir 't my lane." It flashed across Lady Florimel's brain that the cause of his misery, the thing he dared not confess, was love of her- self. Now, Malcolm, standing before her in his present dress and interpreted by the knowledge she believed she had of his history, was a very dilTerent per- son 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 any- thing 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. For the potency of a thought it is per- haps even better that it should not be logically displayed to the intellect : any- how, the germ of all this, undeveloped into the definite forms I have given, suf- ficed to the determining of Florimel's behavior. I do not mean that she had more than the natural tendency of wo- mankind 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 cjuite so re- pulsive 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 cat- women are not quite so cruel as they seem. ''Can't you trust me, Malcolm?" she said, looking in his eyes very sweetly and bending a little toward 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 2o6 MALCOLM. the pulses in his throat, "There's nae- thing I could na tell ye 'at ever I thoucht or did i' my life, my leddy ; but it's ither fowk, my leddy. It's like to burn a hole in' my hert, an' yet I daurna open my mou'." There was a half- angelic, half- dog- like entreaty in his up-looking 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 dinna ken, an' I 'maist dinna care : atween ae thing an' anither I'm near- han' distrackit," replied Malcolm, rising slowly, but not taking his eyes from her face. "An' there's my daddy," he went on, " 'maist won ower to the enemy ; an' I daurna tell even him what for I canna bide it. Ye haena been sayin' onything till him, hiv ye, my leddy?" "I don't quite understand you," re- turned Florimel, rather guiltily, for she had spoken on the subject to Duncan. " Saying anything to your grandfather ? About what?" "Aboot — aboot — her, ye ken, my led- dy." "What her?" asked Florimel. "Her 'at — The leddy o' Gersefell." "And why— ? What of her? Why, Malcolm, what can have possessed you ? You seem actually to dislike her." " I canna 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 trou- bled 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 canna tell ye." She supposed it an unreasoned an- tipathy. "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?" "Dinna say the word, my leddy," cried Malcolm in a tone of agony, "or ye'U gar me skirl an' rin like the mad laird. He's no a hair madder nor I wad be wi' sic a mithcr." 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 poor- est foam ? She would, she must, subdue him. Perhaps she did not know how much the sides of her intent were prick- ed 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 wuU, my leddy," answered Malcolm resignedly. " Bide then," she returned. " I haven't half done with you yet." "Ye maunna jist tear my hert oot," he rejoined with a sad half smile and an- other of his dog-like looks. "That's what you would do to your mother," said Florimel severely. "Say nae ill o' my mither!" cried Malcolm, suddenly changing almost to fierceness. "Why, Malcolm," said Florimel, be- wildered, "what ill was I saying of her?" " It's naething less than an \nsult to my mither to ca' yon wuman by her name," he replied with set teeth. It was to him an offence against the idea of motherhood — against the moth- er 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 wo- man — 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 ques- tion 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 him- self to hear and endure the worst. " Even if she should not be your moth- er," his tormentor resumed, "to show such a dislike to any woman is nothing less than cruelty." MALCOLM. 207 "She maun pruv' 't," murmured Mal- colm, 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 no Strang," returned Mal- colm: "there's comfort i' that. Gang on, my leddy." " Poor woman ! it was hard enough to lose her son, but to find him again such as you seem likely to turn out, / should think ten times worse." "Nae doobt, nae doobt. But there's ae thmg waur." "What is that?" "To come upon a mither 'at — " He stopped abruptly : his eyes went wandering about the room, and the mus- cles of his face worked convulsively. Florimel saw that she had been driv- ing against a stone wall. She paused a moment, and then resumed. "Anyhow, if she is your mother," she said, "noth- ing you can do will alter it." "She maun pruv' 't," was all Mal- colm's dogged reply. "Just so ; and if she can't," said Flori- mel, "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 immeas- urable distance, and in limitless wastes of exhausted being he stood alone. What time had passed when he came to him- self he had not an idea : it might have been hours for anything his conscious- ness was able to tell him. But although he recalled nothing of what she had been urging, he grew aware that Lady Flori- mel's voice, which was now in his ears, had been sounding in them all the lime. He was standing before her like a mar- ble statue with a dumb thrill in its help- less heart of stone. He must end this. Parting was bad enough, but an endless parting was unendurable. To know that measureless impassable leagues lay be- tween them, and yet to be for ever in the shroud of a cold leavetaking ! 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 as- sumed. As to the possibility she would bribe him with, was it not even the prom- ise of a glimpse of Abraham's bosom from the heart of hell ? With such an effort as breaks the bonds of a night- mare dream, he turned from her, and, heedless of her recall, went slowly, stead- ily 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 har- bor, launched it alive on the smooth wa- ter within the piers, rove his halliard, 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 north- ern gale. A moment more and he was sitting on the windward gunwale of his 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. 2o8 MALCOLM. Halfway to the point of Scaumose he came round on the other tack and stood for the Death Head. Glancing from the wallowing floor be- neath 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 distin- guished the very window whence, hard- ly an hour ago, from the centre 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 froni 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 con- sent 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 shall meet it face to face in the grapple : shall 1 re- joice 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 wan 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 can- not 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 Mal- colm 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 toward the harbor he had reascended the cloud-haunted Pisgah whence the words of Lady Florimel had hurled him. CHAPTER L. LIZZY FINDLAY. Leaving his boat again on the dry sand that sloped steep into the harbor, 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 at- titude and whole appearance were the very picture of misery. He drew near, and recognized her. "What on earth's gane wrang wi' ye, Lizzy?" he asked. "Ow, naething," she murmured with- out lifting her head. The brief reply was broken by a sob. "That canna be," persisted Malcolm, trouble of whose own had never yet rendered him indifferent to that of an- other. "Is 't onything 'at a body cud Stan' by ye in ?" Another sob was the only answer. "I'm in a peck o' troubles mysel'," said Malcolm : " I wad fain help a body gien I cud." "Naebody can help me," returned the girl with an agonized burst, as if the words were driven from her by a con- vulsion of her inner world, and there- with she gave way, weeping and sob- bing aloud. "I doobt I'll hae to droon mysel'," 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 MALCOLM. 209 white save where five fingers had brand- ed their shapes in red. Her eyes scarce- ly encountered his : again she buried her face in her hands and rocked herself to and fro, moaning in fresh agony. "Yer mither's been sair upo' ye, I doobt," he said. "But it'll sune blaw ower. She cuils as fcst 's she heats." As he spoke he sat himself down on the sand beside her. But Lizzy started to her feet, crying, "Dinna come near me, Ma'colm. I'm no fit for honest man to come nigh me. Stan' awa' ! I hae the plague." She laughed, but it was a pitiful laugh, and she looked wildly about, as if for some place to run to. " I wad na be sorry to tak it mysel', Lizzy. At ony rate, I'm ower auld a freen' to be driven frae ye that gait," 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 canna help a wuman, 'cep it be till her grave." Then turning suddenly she laid her hands on his shoulders and cried, " For the love o' God, Ma'colm, lea' me this moment ! Gien I cud tell ony man what ailed me, I wad tell you; but I canna, I canna ! Rin, laddie — rin' an' lea' me." It was impossible to resist her anguish- ed 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 toward the Seaton. 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 inter- changed looks. "Fine feathers mak fine birds," said one of them. 14 "Ay, but he luiks booed doon," said another. " An' weel he may. What'll his leddy- mither say to sic a ploy ? She'll no saw- vor bein' made a granny o' efter sic a fashion 's yon," said the third. " 'Deed, lass, there's few oucht to think less o' 't," returned the first. Although they took little pains to low- er 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 inter- cession 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, con- tinued his walk along the shore and up the red path to the village of Scaurnose. He found them sitting at their after- noon meal of tea and oatcake. 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 Goth- ic castle, from the topmost story of whose keep bloomed a few late autumn flowers. Phemy 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, ye're unco braw the day — i' yer kilt an' tartan hose !" remarked Mair as he welcomed him. " I pat them on to please my daddy an' the markis," said Malcolm, with a half-shamefaced laugh. "Are na ye some cauld aboot the k-nees ?" asked the guidwife. " Nae that cauld I ken 'at they're there, but I'll sune be used till 't." "Weel, sit ye doon an' tak a cup o' tay wi' 's." " I haena muckle time to spare," said Malcolm, "but I'll tak a cup o' tay wi' ye. Gien 't warna for wee bit luggies [small ears), I wad fain spcir yer advice MALCOLM. aboot ane 'at wants a wuman-freen', I'm thinkin'." Phemy, who had been regarding him with compressed hps and suspended op- erations, deposited her bread and but- ter on the table and shpped from her chair. " Whaur are ye gauin', Phemy ?" said her mother. "Takin' awa' my lugs," returned Phemy. "Ye cratur!" exclaimed Malcolm; " ye're ower wise. Wha wad hae thoucht ye sae gleg at the uptak ?" "Whan fowk winna lippen to me — " said Phemy, and ceased. "What can ye expect," returned Mal- colm, while father and mother listened with amused faces, " whan ye winna lip- pen to fowk ? Phemy. whaur'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 nane o' that name," she said. "Whaur's the laird o' Kirkbyres, than ?" "Whaur ye s' never lay han' upo" 'im," returned the child, her cheeks now rosy red and her eyes flashing. "Me lay han' upo' 'im !" cried Mal- ■ Golm, surprised at her behavior. "Gien 't hadna been for you naebody •wad hae fun' oot the w'y intil the cave," -she rejoined, her gray eyes, blue with fthe fire of anger, looking straight into his. " Phemy ! Phemy !" said her mother, "for shame!" "There's^ae shame intill 't," protest- ed -the child indignantly. "But there is shame intill 't," said Malcolm quietly, "for ye wrang an hon- est man." "Weel, ye canna deny," persisted Phemy, in mood to brave the Evil One himself, " 'at ye was ower at Kirkbyres on ane o' the markis's mears, an' heild a lang confab wi' the laird's mither." "I gaed upo' my maister's eeran'," answered Malcolm. " Ow, ay ! I daur say ! But wha kens, wi' sic a mither ?" She burst out crying and ran into the street. Malcolm understood it now. "She's like a' the lave (rest)^' he said sadly, turning to her mother. " I'm jist affrontit wi' the bairn," she replied, with manifest annoyance in her flushed face. "She's true to him," said Malcolm, "gien she binna fair to me. Sayna a word to the lassie. She'll ken me bet- ter er lang. An' noo for my story." Mrs. Mair said nothing while he told how he had come upon Lizzy, the state she was in, and what had passed be- tween them ; but he had scarcely finish- ed 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 jist gang as far's the Boar's Craig wi' ye mysel', Annie," he said. " I'm thinkin' ye'U fin' the puir lassie whaur I left her," remarked Malcolm. " I doobt she daured na gang hame." That night it was all over the town that Lizzy Findlay was in a woman's worst trouble, and that Malcolm was the cause of it. :bj^:h.t x:. CHAPTER LI. THE laird's burrow. ANNIE MAIR had a brother, a car- penter, who, following her to Scaur- nose, 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 se- curity, turned the matter over in her ac- tive little brain until pondering produced plans, and she betook herself to her un- cle, with whom she was a great favor- ite. Him she found no difficulty in per- suading 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 miser)' 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 sup- plemented 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 flow- er 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 develop- ment. For hence he grew capable of com- munion with her in all her moods, un- disabled 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 con- stantly mingled with — not unfrequently broken, indeed, by — the troublous ques- tion of his origin, but it was only on oc- casions 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-abandon- ed 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 211 2T2 MALCOLM. of all things accompanying the enjoy- ment of them. There was nothing, then, of insanity in his preference of a windovvless bed- room : 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 sub- jected 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 white- ness 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 emo- tions and desires informing their inarticu- late language. Many of them seemed to know him in return — either recognizing his person and from experience dedu- cing 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 peep- ing 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 utter- ance, indicated that they took him for a scarecrow, and t/ierefo7'e 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 neighbor- hood, 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 pas- sage flying in at his hospitable window would espy him unscared, and some- times partake of the food he had always at hand to offer them. He relied, in- deed, for the pleasures of social inter- course 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 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 dart- ed up the ladder, threw down the trap- door, and, lo ! hke 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 hurr)' 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 trap-door. "Come, come," he said hurriedly when her head appeared and came no farther. He stood holding the trap-door, eager to close it again as soon as she should step clear of it, and surprise was retard- ing her ascent. Before hearing his mind the carpenter had already made for him, by way of bedstead, a simple frame of wood, cross- ed 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 favorite cot- MALCOLM. 213 tage-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 odor appar- ently not sweet enough to content him, he had scattered a quantity of dried rose- leaves. A thick tartan plaid for sole cov- ering 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 are at han', an' they smell unco clean." At the opposite side of the room lay a correspondent 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 be- spangled with daisies. " Laird," said Phemy half reproach- fully as she stood gazing at the marvel, "ye hae been oot at nicht!" "Ay — a' nicht whiles, whan naebody was aboot 'cep' the win'" — he pro- nounced 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 mid- night closed around his new dwelling, and in the fields had with careful dis- crimination 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 pock- et-knife, often in pieces of only a few inches, removed the best of it and car- ried it home, to be fitted on the heap, and with every ministration and bland- ishment enticed to flourish. He pressed it down with soft firm hands, and be- showered 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 marvelous heap of all the bright sherds he could find — of crockery and glass and mirror — so ar- ranging them in the window that each threw its tiny reflex upon the turf. With this last contrivance Phemy was special- ly 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 wander- ed 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 in- genious trap, or man-spider web, for the catching of any human insect that might 214 MALCOLM. seek entrance at his window: the mo- ment the invading body should reach a certain point a number of hnes would drop all about him, making his way through which he would straightway be caught by the barbs of countless fish- hooks ; the whole strong enough at least to detain him until its inventor should have opened the trap-door and fled. CHAPTER Lll. CREAM OR SCUM? Of the new evil report abroad con- cerning 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 toward him. Attributing this to the reports concern- ing 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 bitter- ness toward his early world, and would now and then repeat to himself a misan- thropical 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 pos- itively 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 Bail- lies' Barn. Phemy, indeed, had not gone with her father and mother, but she was spending the evening with the mad laird. Lifting the latch, and seeing no one in the house, he was on the point of with- drawing 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 call- ed, 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 neigh- bor had observed and put her own con- struction 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 congrega- tion 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. "I'm 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," return- ed Malcolm. " It's a fac'," answered Peter. " The fowk '11 hardly hear a word noo frae ony o' the aulder an' soberer Christi-ans. They haena the gift o' the Speerit, they say. But in place o' sterrin' them up to tak hold upo' their Maker, their new lichts set them up to luik doon upo' ither fowk, propheseein' an' denuncin' as gien the Lord had committit jeedgment into their ban's." "What is 't they tak baud 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 I'm maybe no a fair jeedge, for I cudna be rid o' the no- tion 'at she was lattin' at mysel' a' the time : I dinna ken what for. An' I cud- na help wonnerin' gien she kent what fowk used to say aboot herscl' whan she MALCOLM. 215 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 gae- in' on wi' ye by this time, than, I'm thinkin'," said Malcolm. " I dinna like to say 't," returned Jo- seph ; " but there's a speerit o' speerit- ooal pride abroad amang 's, it seems to me, 'at 's no fawvorable 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 wi' Him an' He wad 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 con- siderations 'at hings some sair upo' me : see what we hae dune !" " What for dinna ye gang ower to Mais- ter 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 Clam- rock 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 wuU 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 '11 astonish ye." " He's taen unco little enterest in ony- thing '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 baud '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 ihey 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 unfavorable re- mark Blue Peter turned homeward. 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 cham- ber 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 2l6 MALCOLM. the schoolmaster's cottage in the Alton, and were soon deep in earnest conver- sation 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 cur- tain across the lower half. In the mid- dle of the sanded floor stood a table of white deal much stained with ink. The green-painted doors of the box-bed op- posite 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 pendent 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. I'm feart it '11 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 Saint Paul never seems to have blamed himself for preach- ing 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' op- pose 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 con- tinuing to take a part in those meet- ings?" "We 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 be- fore you forsook the parish church," said the schoolmaster with a smile. " But there was nae speeritooal noorish- ment to be gotten i' that houff [haunt)," said Jeames Gentle. "How did you come to know the want of it?" "0\v, that cam fra the Speerit himsel' — what else?" replied Gentle. " By what means ?" " By the readin' o' the word an' by prayer," answered Gentle. "By Hisain v'ice i' thehert," said Bow- o'-meal. "Then a public assembly is not neces- sary for the communication of the gifts of the Spirit?" They were silent. " Isn't it possible that the eagerness after such assemblies may have some- thing 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 convic- tion 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." "Wha but Ane was ever fit to lead sic a life 's that ?" "All might be trying after it. In pro- portion as our candle burns it will give light. No talking about light will sup- ply the lack of its presence either to the talker or the listeners." I "There's a heap made o' the preachin' MALCOLM. 217 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 niin' ouclit 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 quo- tation — 'The Lord hearkened and heard;' observe, the Lord is not here said to heark- en 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 ?" e.\claimed Bow-o'-meal. "I daur't, but there's little daur in- till 't," said Mr. Graham, breaking into Scotch. Bow-o'-meal rose from his chair in in- dignation. 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," supple- mented Peter, "That's a safe consequence: there's no fear of the second if he does the first. Any how, 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'Il never save yer sowl that gait, 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 y on. 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 wuU be ?" " Is He not telling you himself at this moment ? Do you not know what his will is ? How should / 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, /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 ac- cording to the will of God. If 1 were, even unwittingly, to attempt it in any other way, I should be casting stumbling- blocks in their path and separating my- self from my God — doing that which is 2l8 MALCOLM. 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 your 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 would 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 : 1 can do no more." "Ye dinna ca' that neeborly, whan a body comes speirin' 't !" "Are you prepared, then, to take my advice ?" " Ye wadna hae a body du that afore- han' ? We micht as weel a' be papists an' believe as we're tauld." "Precisely so. But you can exercise your judgment upon the principles where- on 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 walk- ed from the cottage. Jeames Gentle and Blue Peter bade the master a kindly good-night, and fol- lowed 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 con- versation with the schoolmaster. The following Sunday he went yOt again, and from that time, every Sunday even- ing, 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 chil- dren 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 catechised, 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, al- though he took little interest in what passed, went sometimes, and was wel- comed. The talk of the master not unfrequent- ly lapsed into monologue, and some- times grew eloquent. Seized occasion- ally by the might of the thoughts wliich arose in him — thoughts which would, to him, have lost all their splendor as well as worth had he imagined them the off- spring of his own faculty, mctcois of his own atmosphere, instead of phenomena of the heavenly region manifesting them- selves 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. MALCOLM. 219 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 under- stood 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 im- pulses, yet remained capable of treach- ery, because incapable of recognizing the temptation to it for what it was. These by and by began to confer to- gether and form an opposition — in this at least ungenerous, that they continued to assemble at his house and show little token 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 Saint Paul, Saint Peter and Saint John, they judged themselves bound to take measures to- ward the quenching of a dangerous heresy. For the more ignorant a man is, the more capable is he of being ab- solutely certain of many things — with such certainty, that is, as consists in the absence of doubt. Mr. Graham, in the mean time, full of love and quiet solemn fervor, placed completest confidence in their honesty and spoke his mind freely and faithfully. CHAPTER LIV. 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 at- mosphere 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 con- templated proposing to him as soon as he came back that he should leave his service and resume his former occupa- tion, 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 fre- quent sharp showers, and had grown into a gurly, gusty day. Now and then the sun sent a dim yellow glint through the troubled atmosphere, but this was straightway swallowed up in the volumes of vapor seething and tumbling in the upper regions. As he crossed the thresh- old 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, out- side and in. 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 be- tween them — some understanding of ac- cepted worship. Alas ! it was all weak- ness, 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 — some- thing that was neither opium nor strong drink, something that in torture sustain- ed, and when its fruition came would, even in the splendors of delight, far sur- pass their short-lived boon. He turned toward 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 church- yard, 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. MALCOLM. " 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. Gra- ham 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 feartto speyk, sir," said Malcolm. "Whatever I say, I'm bun' to mak a fule o' mysel'. What, in plain words, div ye mean, sir?" "Somebody has been accusing me of teaching heresy — in the school to my scholars, and in my own house to the fisher-folk : the presbytery has taken it up, and here is my summons to appear before them and answer to the charge." "Guid preserve 's, sir ! An' is this the first ye hae h'ard o' 't ?" " The very first." "An' what are ye gaun' to du?" "Appear, of course." "An' what'll ye say to them ?" " I shall answer their questions." "They'll condemn ye." "I do not doubt it." "An' what neist ?" " I shall have to leave Scotland, I sup- pose." "Sir, it's awfu' !" The horror-stricken expression of Mal- colm'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's something terrible wrang, sir, whan sic men hae pooer ower sic a man." " They have no power but what's given them. I shall accept their decision as the decree of Heaven." " It's weel to be you, sir, 'at can tak a thing sae quaiet." "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 world, and where the wicked them- selves are the greatest furtherance of godliness in the good." " But wha ever cud hae been baze eneuch to du 't?" said Malcolm, too much astounded for his usual eager at- tention to the words that fell from the master. "That I would rather not inquire," answered Mr. Graham. " In the mean time, 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 ye no mak ane ?" "Not till this is settled. I will after, so long as I may be here." "Gien onybody had been catecheesin' the bairns, I wad surely hae h'ard o' 't — " said Malcolm, after a pause of rumination : " Poochy wad hae tellt me. I saw him thestreen [yester-eveii). Wha 'ill ever say again a thing 's no poas- sible ?" "Whatever doctrine I may have omit- ted to press in the school," said Mr. Gra- ham, "I have inculcated nothing at va- riance with the Confession of Faith or the Shorter Catechism." " Hoo can ye say that, sir," returned Malcolm, "whan, in as well 's oot o' the schuil, ye hae aye insistit 'at God 's a just God — abune a' thing likin' to gie fair play ?" "Well, does the Catechism say any- thing to the contrary ?" "No in sae mony words, doobtless, but it says a sicht o' things 'at wad mak God oot the maist oonrichteous tyrant 'at ever was." "I'm not sure you can show that logic- ally," said Mr. Graham. "I will think it over, however — not that I mean to take up any defence 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. MALCOLM. 221 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 grand- father 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 say- ing the Lord's Prayer. It all fell to pieces just as he lifted his hand to Miss Horn's knocker. She received him with a cordiality such as even she had never shown him before. He told her Avhat threatened Mr. Gra- ham. She heai-d him to the end without re- mark, beyond the interjection of an oc- casional "Eh, sirs !" then sat for a min- ute in troubled silence. "There's a heap o' things an 'uman like me," she said at length, "canna unnerstan'. I dinna ken whether some fowk mair nor preten' to unnerstan' them. But set Sandy Graham doon upo' ae side, an' the presbytery doon upo' the ither, an' I hae wit enuch to ken whilk I wad tak my eternal chance wi'. Some o' the presbytery 's guid eneuch men, but haena ower muckle gumption ; an' some o' them has plenty o' gumption, but haena ower muckle grace, to jeedge by the w'y 'at they glower 'an rair, layin' doon the law as gien the Almichty had been driven to tak coonsel wi' them. But look at Sandy Graham ! Ye ken whether he has gumption or no ; an' gien he be a stickit minister, he stack by the grace o' moadesty. But, haith! I winna peety him, for, o' a' things, to peety a guid man i' the richt gait is a fule's folly. Troth ! I'm a hantle mair concernt aboot yersel', Ma'colm." Malcolm heard her without apprehen- sion. 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. "Onything fresh, mem?" he asked, with the image of Mrs. Stewart standing ghastly on the slopes of his imagination. " I wadna be fit to tell ye, laddie, gien 't warna, as ye ken, 'at the Almichty's been unco mercifu' to me i' the maitter o' feelin's. Yer freen's i' the Seaton an' ower at Scaurnose hae feelin's, an' that 's hoo nane o' them a' has pluckit up hert to tell ye o' the waggin' o' slander- ous tongues against ye." "What are they sayin' noo ?" asked Malcolm with considerable indifference. "Naither mair nor less than that ye're the father o' an oonborn wean," answer- ed Miss Horn. "I dinna freely unnerstan' ye," return- ed Malcolm, for the unexpectedness of the disclosure was scarcely to be master- ed at once. 1 shall not put on record the plain form of honest speech whereby she made him at once comprehend the nature of the ca- lumny. He started to his feet and shout- ed, "Wha daur say that?" so loud that the listening Jean almost fell down the stair. "Wha «/(^/say 't but the lassie hersel'?" answered Miss Horn simply. "She maun hae the best richt to say wha 's wha." " It wad better become o?iyhoAy but her," said Malcolm. "What mean ye there, laddie?" cried Miss Horn, alarmed. " ' At nane cud ken sae weel 's hersel' it was a damned lee. Wha is she ?" "Wha but Meg Partan's Lizzy?" " Poor lassie ! is that it ? Eh, but I'm sorry for her ! She never said it was me. An' whaever said it, surely ye dinna be- lieve 't o' me, mem ?" "Me believe 't! Ma'colm MacPhail, wuU ye daur insult a maiden wuman 'at's stude clear o' reproach till she's lang past the danger o' 't ? It's been wi' unco sma' diffeeclety, I maun alloo, for I haena' been led into ony temptation." "Eh, mem," returned Malcolm, per- ceiving 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 ! quo' he? What though I hae nae feelin's! Will he daur till im- aigine 'at he wad be sittin' there, an' me 222 MALCOLM. haudin' him company, gien I believe him cawpable o' turnin' oot sic a meeserable, contemptible wratch ? The Lord come atvveen me an' my wrath !" " I beg yer pardon, mem. A body canna aye put things thegither afore he speyks. I'm richt sair ableeged till ye for takin' my pairt." "I tak nobody's pairt but my ain, lad- die. Obleeged to me for haein' a wheen coammon sense — a thing 'at I was born wi' ! Toots ! Dinna haiver." "Weel, mem, what wad ye hae me du ? I canna sen' my auld daddie roon' the toon wi' his pipes to procleem 'at I'm no the man. I'm thinkin' I'll hae to lea' the place." "Wad ye sen' yer daddy roon' wi' the pipes to say 'at ye was the man ? Ye micht as weel du the tane as the tither. Mony a better man has been waur mis- ca'd, an' gart fowk forget 'at ever the lee was lee'd. Na, na, niver rin frae a lee. An' never say, naither, 'at ye didna du the thing, 'cep' it be laid straucht to yer face. Lat a lee lie i' the dirt. Gien ye pike it up, the dirt '11 stick till ye, though ye fling the lee ower the dyke at the warl's en'. Na, na ! Lat a lee lie, as ye wad the deevil's tail 'at the laird's Jock took aff wi the edge o' 's spaud." "A' thing's agane me the noo," sighed Malcolm. 'Auld Jobb ower again !" returned Miss Horn almost sarcastically. "The deil had the warst o' 't, though, an' wuU hae i' the langhinner en'. Meantime ye maun face him. There's nae airmor for the back aither i' the Bible or the Pilgrim's Pro- gress." "What wad ye hae me du, than, mem ?" " Du ! Wha said ye was to du ony- thing ? The best duin whiles is to bide still. Lat ye the jaw (7vave) gae ower ohn joukit (without ducking).'' "Gien I binna to du onything I maist wiss 1 hadna kent," said Malcolm, whose honorable nature writhed under the im- puted vileness. "It's aye better to ken in what licht ye Stan' wi" ither fowk. It bauds ye ohn lippent Qwer muckle, an' sae dune things or made remarks 'at wad be misread till ye. Yc maun baud an open ro'd, 'at the trowth whan it comes oot may hae free coorse. The ae thing 'at spites me is, 'at the verra fowk 'at was the first to spread yer ill report '11 be the first to wuss ye weel whan the trowth 's kent ; ay, an' they'll persuaud their verra sel's 'at they stack up for ye like born brithers." " There maun be some jeedgment upo' leein'." " The warst wuss I hae agane ony sic backbiter is that he may live to be af- frontit at himsel*. Efter that he'll be guid eneuch company for me. Gang yer wa's, laddie — say yer prayers an' haud up yer held. Wha wadna raither be accused o' a' the sins i' the comman'- ments nor be guilty o' ane o' 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 toss- ing — gray-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 consid- erably toward 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 Colon- say 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 ap- proached the last chamber, out of the Devil's Window flew, with clanging wing, an arrow-barbed sea-gull 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 aban- doned to the birds and the gusts, but that s/w would never think of the place MALCOLM. 223 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 the gaping clefts. Myriads of such rains had, with age-long inevitableness, crum- bled 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 fashioningtoilof her wasteful, greedy and slatternly children. In her genial bosom the exhausted gathers life, the effete be- comes generant, the disintegrate returns to resting and capable form. The roll- ing, oscillating globe dips it for an aeon in growing sea, lifts it from the sinking waters of its thousand-year bath to the furnace of the sun, remodels and re- moulds, turns ashes into flowers and di- vides 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. Oh, joy that all the hideous lacera- tions and vile gatherings of refuse which the worshipers 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 irrespirable 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 de- scended to the shore of the little bay and scrambled out upon the rocks, be- thought him 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 fan- tastic 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 sil- ver and stone. Like a soldier crab that had found a shell to his mind, he gazed through the yawning mouth of the cav- ern at the turmoil of the rising tide as it rushed straight toward 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 opin- ions 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 224 MALCOLM. drawing nearer — that period of vacant anguish in which Lady Florimel must vanish from his sight, and the splendor of his hfe 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, puritied again, once more all devotion and no desire, careless of recognition beyond the ac- ceptance of his offered service, and con- tent that the be-all should be the end-all. The cave seemed the friendliest place he had yet found. Earth herself had re- ceived 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 un- folded itself. The noises thickened around him as the tide rose, but so gradually that, al- though 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 some- thing smote the rock as with the ham- mer of Thor, and as suddenly the air around him grew stiflingly 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 the 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 un- heeded, and it was now impossible to leave the cavern until the tide had fallen. He returned into its penetral, and, sit- ting down with the patience of a fisher- man, again lost himself in reverie. The darkness kept him from perceiv- ing 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 afterward that perhaps he had fallen asleep : any- how, 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 sur- mount 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 highroad. The consequence was, that, what with fences and ditches, the violence of the wind and his 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. CHAPTER LV. THE SAME NIGHT. When he came within sight of it, how- ever, he perceived, by the hurried move- ment of lights, that instead of being fold- ed in silence the house was in unwonted 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 to- ward it ; and when at length he reached and opened it a blast, rushing up the glen straight from the sea, burst wide the op- posite one and roared through the hall like a torrent. Lady Florimel, flitting MALCOLM. 225 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 wrang, my leddy ?" 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 be all blown into the burn." "Nae fear o' that, my leddy," return- ed Malcolm. "The wa's o' the auld carcass are 'maist live rock, an' 'ill stan' the warst win' 'at ever blew — this side o' the tropics, ony gait. Gien 't war ance to get its nose in, I wadna say but it micht tirr [sirip) the rufe, but it winna blaw 's intill the burn, my leddy. I'll jist gang and see what's the mischeef." He was moving away, but Lady Flo- rimel stopped him. " No, no, Malcolm," she said. " It's very silly of me, I dare say, but I've been so frightened. They're such a set of geese — Mrs. Courthope and the butler, and all of them ! Don't leave me, please." "I viaun gang and see what's amiss, my leddy," answered Malcolm ; "but ye can come wi' me gien ye like. What's fa'en, div ye think ?" " Nobody knows. It fell with a noise like thunder, and shook the whole house." "It's far ower-dark to see onything frae the ootside," rejoined Malcolm — "at least afore the mune's up. It's as dark 's pick. But I can sune saitisfee mysel' whether the de'il 's i' the hoose or no." He took a candle from the hall-table and went up the square staircase, follow- ed by Florimel. "What w'y is 't, my leddy, 'at the hoose is no lockit up, an' ilka body i' their beds?" he asked. " My father is coming home to-night : didn't you know ? But I should have thought a storm like this enough to ac- count for people not being in bed." 15 " It's a fearfu' nicht for him to be sae far frae his. Whaur's he comin' frae ? Ye never speyk to me noo, my leddy, an' naebody tellt me." " He was to come from Fochabers to- night : Stoat took the bay mare to meet him yesterday." " He wad never start in sic a win'. It's fit to blaw the saiddle aff o' the mear's back." "He may have started before it came on to blow like this," said Lady Florimel. Malcolm liked the 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 any one else about the house. From one part to another, over the whole of it, he now led Lady Flori- mel. 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 fail- ures of the house, had floated up, gen- eration after generation, into that abode of helpless brooding, and there hung hovering above the fast fleeting life be- low, 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 re- gion 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 armv of demons were tearing at the roof to get in and find covert from pursuit. At length they approached Malcolm's own quartei's, where they would have to pass the very door of the wizard's cham- ber to reach a short ladder-like stair that led up into the midst of naked rafters, when, coming upon a small storm-win- dow near the end of a long passage, Lady Florimel stopped and peeped out. 226 MALCOLM. "The moon is rising," she said, and stood looking. Malcolm glanced over her shoulder. Eastward a dim light shone up from be- hind 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 jist gang till ae ither queer place," observed Malcolm, pretending not to have heard her, "and gien the rufe be a' richt there, I s' no bather my heid mair aboot it till the mornin'. It 's but a feow steps farther, an' syne a bit stair." A fit of her not unusual obstinacy had, however, seized Lady Florimel. "I won't move a step," she said, "un- til you have told me where the wizard's chamber is." "Ahint ye, my leddy, gien ye wull hae 't," answered Malcolm, not unwilling to punish her a little — "jist at the far en' o' the transe 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 some- where 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, draw- ing 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 appari- tion 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 expect- ing the last stroke of his evil fortune. The marquis looked pale, stern and agitated. Instead of kissing his daugh- ter 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 arm still round Lady Florimel. They walked away together down the long passage, vaguely visible in flicker- ing fits. All at once their light vanish- ed, 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. CHAPTER LVI. SOMETHING FORGOTfEN. I WILL not trouble my reader with the thoughts that kept rising, flickering and fading, one after another, 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 lock and bar was presently in the open air. First he sought a view of the building against the sky, but could not see that any por- tion was missing. He then proceeded to walk round the house, in order to find what had fallen. MALCOLM. 227 There was a certain neglected spot nearly under his own window, where a wall across an interior angle formed a litde court or yard : he had once peeped in at the door of it, which was always half open, and seemed incapable of be- ing 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 plaited Celtic band, yet again he fell a-thinking. The marquis must dismiss him in the morning : would it not be bet- ter 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 with- out 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. Push- ing 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 fore- sight 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 stair- case, 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 de- scended. There was most likely more of it buried below, probably communi- cating with an outlet in some part of the rock toward the burn, but the portion of it which, from long neglect, had gradu- ally 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 sim- ilar 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 beat- ing 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 latter 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 ne.Kt his own. Some exposure was surely not far off". Anyhow, here was room for counterplot on the chance of baffling something un- derhand — villainy most likely where Mrs.. !28 MALCOLM. Catanach 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 en- ter and range the building. He would not go, however, without revealing all to the marquis, and would at once make some provision toward 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 mysteri- ous 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 be- yond 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 for- gotten altogether : many villainies might have been effected by means of it. Mrs. Catanach must have discovered it the same night on which he found her there, had gone away by it then, and had cer- tainly been making use of it since. When he smelt the sulphur she must have been lighting a match. It was now getting toward morning, and at last he was tired. He went to bed and fell asleep. When he woke it was late, and as he dressed he heard the noise of hoofs and wheels in the stable- yard. He was sitting at his breakfast in Mrs. Courthope's room when she came in full of surprise at the sudden depart- ure of her lord and lady. The marquis had rung for his man, and Lady Flori- mel for her maid, as soon as it was light ; orders were sent at once to the stable ; four horses were put to the trav- eling carriage; and they were gone, Mrs. Courthope could not tell whither. Dreary as was the house without Flo- rimel, things had turned out a shade or two better than Malcolm had expected, and he braced himself to endure his loss. CHAPTER LVII. THE LAIRU'S QUEST. Things were going pretty well with the laird : Phemy 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 ut- terance 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 dis- paraging 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 Na- ture while she slept at the same time al- luring her greatly, Phemy had become, both for her own pleasure and his pro- tection, 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 ex- cept a thing were expressly so condition- ed, 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 pos- sibility 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 unfre- qucntly interpose with limitations, espe- cially 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 Phemy would enter the MALCOLM. 229 shop and grope her way until she stood under the trap-door. This was the near- est she could come to the laird's cham- ber, 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 him- self 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 Phemy 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 Phemy 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 dim- ness — or rather a semi-transparent dark- ness — hung over it, through which came now and then a gleam where the slow heave of some Triton 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 still- ed 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 listen- ed in silence to the inarticulate story of the night. At length the laird turned to Phemy, and taking one of her hands in both of his very solemnly said, as if breaking to her his life's trouble, "Phemy, I dinna ken whaur I cam frae." " Hoot, laird ! ye ken weel eneuch ye cam frae Go-od," answered Phemy, lengthening out the word with solemn utterance. The laird did not reply, and again the night closed around them and the sea hushed at dieir hearts. But a soft light air began to breathe from the south, and it waked the laird to more active thought. "Gien He wad but come oot an' shaw himsel' !" he said. "What for disna He come oot?" "Wha wad ye hae come oot ?" asked Phemy. " Ye ken wha, weel eneuch. They say He 's a' gait at ance : jist hearken. What for will He aye bide in, an' never come oot an' lat a puir 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 lown win' maun be his breath — sae quaiet ! He 's no hurryin' himsel' the nicht. There 's never naebody rins efter Him. — Eh, Phemy ! I jist thoucht He was gauin' to speyk." This last exclamation he uttered in a whisper as the louder gush of a larger tide-pulse died away on the shore. "Luik, Phemy, luik!" he resumed. "Luik oot yonner. Dinna ye see some- thing 'at micht 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 dim- ness of the wide night — a cold, faint splash of blue-gray. "I dinna think muckle o' that, sir," said Phemy. " It micht be the mark o' the sole o' his fut, though," returned the laird. " He micht hae jist setten 't doon, an' the wai- ter hae lowed [JIamed) up aboot it, an' the low no be willin' to gang oot. Luik sharp, Phemy ! there may come anither at the neist stride — anither futmark. Luik ye that gait an' I'll luik this. What for willna He come oot ? The lift maun be fu' o' Him, an' I'm hungert for a sicht o' Him. Gien ye see onything, Phemy, cry oot." "What will I cry?" asked Phemy. " Cry ' Father o' lichts !' " answered the laird. 23° MALCOLM. "Will He hear to that, div ye think, sir ?" "Whakens? He micht jist turn his heid, an' ae luik wad sair me for a hun- ner year." " I s' cry gien I see onything," said Phemy. 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 no oot o' the hoose yet," he said. "Surely it canna be but He comes oot ilka nicht. He wad never hae made sic a sicht o' bonny things to lat them lie wi'oot onybody to gaither them. An' there's nae ill fowk the furth at this time o' nicht to mak an oogly din or disturb Him wi' the sicht o' them. He maun come oot i' the quaiet o' the nicht, or else what's 't a' for ? Ay, He keeps the nicht till himsel', an' lea's the day to hiz {us). That'll be what the deep sleep fa's upo' men for, doobtless — to haud them oot o' his gait. Eh ! I wuss He wad come oot whan I was by. I micht get a glimpo' Him. Maybe He wad tak the hump aff o' me, and set things in order i' my heid, an' make me like ither fowk. Eh me ! that wad be gran' ! Naebody wad daur to touch me syne. Eh, Michty ! come oot! Father o' lichts ! Father o' lichts !" 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 passcth on also, but I perceive Him not. Call Thou, and I will answer ; or let me speak, and answer Thou me. Oh 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 hidcth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see Him." At length he rose and wandered away from the shore, his head sunk upon his chest. Phemy 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 brae she join- ed him, and said, putting her hand in his, but not looking at or even turning toward him, "Maybe He'll come oot upo' ye afore ye ken some day — whan ye're no luikin' 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 toward it without hastening a step, and coming to a fence that enclosed a space around it, opened a little gate and pass- ed through. A sleepy watchman chal- lenged them. " It's me," said the laird. "A fine nicht, laird," returned the voice, and said no more. The building was divided into several compartments, each with a separate en- trance. 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 cran- nies of the tiled roof. Ere it reached these, however, it had to pass through a great multitude of pendent 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 kipper- MALCOLM. 231 ing. It was a new venture in the place, and its success as yet a question. The laird went into one of the com- partments, 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. "What are ye duin' there, laird?" cried Phemy from without, whose nos- trils the resulting odor had quickly reached. " The fish is no yours." "Ye dinna think I wad tak it want- in' leave, Phemy ?" returned the laird. "Mony a supper hae I made this w'y, an' mony anither I houp to mak. It'll no be this sizzon, though, for this lot 's the last o' them. They're fine aitin', but I'm some feart they winna keep." "Wha gae ye leave, sir?" {>ersisted Phemy, showing herself the indivertible guardian of his morals as well as of his freedom. "Ow, Mr. Runcie himsel', of coorse," answered the laird. "WuU I pit ane on to you ?" " Did ye speir leave for me tu?" asked the righteous maiden. "Ow, na, but I'll tell him the neist time I see him." "I'm nae for ony," said Phemy. 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, how- ever, he gazed all around with a look which Phemy 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 farther along the coast. One of the peculiarities in the friend- ship of the strange couple was that, al- though so closely attached, they should maintain such a large amount of mu- tual independence. They never quarrel- ed, 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 un- derstood 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 linger- ed. 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 exclama- tion from Phemy reached him. He lis- tened. "Rin ! rin ! rin !" 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 Phemy, never imagining she might be less sacred in other eyes than in his, and knowing neither that her last cry of lov- ing solicitude 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 be- gan 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 with in hearing of its inhabitants, when he 232 MALCOLM. ascended hurriedly and ran home. But having reached his burrow, pulled down his rope-ladder and ascended, he found with trebled 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 window-sill 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 Scaurnose as if a visible pesti- lence had been behind him. CHAPTER LVIII. MALCOLM AND MRS. STEWART. When her parents discovered that Pliemy was not in her garret, it occa- sioned 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 be- fallen him, his hitherto invariable habit having been to house himself with the first gleam of returning day, they sup- posed that Phemy, 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 satis- factory 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 in- sinuated 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 re- port spread to the neighboring villages. In Portlossie, 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 pre- pared to suggest was one that had al- ready 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 car- ried off" his companion with him ; on which supposition there was every prob- ability that within a few days at farthest Phemy would be restored unhurt. "There can be little doobt they hae gotten a grip o' 'm at last, puir fallow !" said Joseph. "But whatever's come till him, we canna sit doon an' ait oor niait ohn kent hoo Phemy's farin", puir wee lamb ! Ye maun jist baud awa' ower to Kirkbyres, Ma'colm, an' get word o' yer mither, an' see gien onything can be made oot o' her." The proposal fell on Malcolm like a great billow. "Blue Peter," he said, looking him in the face, " I took it as a mark o' yer freen'ship 'at ye never spak the word to me. What richt has ony man to ca' that wuman my mither ? / hae never allooed it." "I'm thinkin'," returned Joseph, the more easily nettled that his horizon also was full of trouble, "your word upo' the the maitter winna gang sae far 's John o' Groat's. Ye'll no be suppeent ior your witness upo' the pint." "I wad as sune gang a mile infill the mou' o' hell as gang to Kirkbyres," said Malcolm. " I hae my answer," said Peter, and turned away. "But I s' gang," Malcolm went on. " The thing 'at maun be can be. Only I tell ye this, Peter," he added — "gien ever ye say sic a word 's yon i' my hear- in' again — that is, afore the wuman has priven hersel' what she says — I s' gang by ye ever efter ohn spoken, for I'll ken 'at ye want nae mair o' vieT Joseph, who had been standing with his back to his friend, turned and held out his hand. Malcolm took it. "Aequeston afore I gang, Peter," he said. "What for didna ye tell me what fowk was sayin' aboot me anent Lizzy Findlay ?" "'Cause I didna believe a word o' 't, an' I wasna gacn' to add onything to yer troubles." " Lizzy never mootit sic a thing ?" MALCOLM. 233 "Never." " I was sure o' that. Noo I'll awa' to Kirkbyres. God help me ! I wad raither face Sawtan an' his muckle tyke ! But dinna ye expec' ony news. Gien yon ane kens, she's a' the surer no to tell. Only ye sanna say I didna du my best for ye." It was the hardest trial of the will Mal- colm had yet had to encounter. Trials of submission he had had, and tolerably severe ones, but to go and do what the whole feeling recoils from is to be weigh- ed only against abstinence from what the whole feeling urges toward. He walk- ed determinedly home, where Stoat sad- dled a horse for him while he changed his dress, and once more he set out for Kirkbyres. Had Malcolm been at the time capa- ble of attempting an analysis of his feel- ing toward Mrs. Stewart, he would have found it very difficult to effect. 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 migJit spring from the relation she asserted, and part- ly that, whatever might be its root, it wrought upon him in a manner he hard- ly 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. "Na, na, mem," he said : "it takes twa to that." "Malcolm !" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion — of some kind. " Ye may ca' me your son, mem, but I ken nae gr'un' yet for ca'in' you my — " He could not say the word. "That is very true, Malcolm," she re- turned 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 my- .self," 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 handker- chief 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 in- sult me, surely ? Is there anything I can do for you ?' ' Malcolm felt the dignity of her be- havior, but not the less, after his own straightfonvard manner, answered her question to the point : " I cam aboot naething concernin' mysel', mem. I cam to see whether ye kent onything aboot Phemy Mair." "Is it a wo — ? 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. " Wha is she, mem ?" he re- turned. " I whiles think she maun be the' laird's guid angel, though in shape she's but a wee bit lassie. She maks up for a heap to the laird. Him an' her, mem, they've disappeart thegither, nae- body kens whaur." Mrs. Stewart laughed a low, unpleas- ant laugh, but made no other reply. Malcolm went on: "An' it's no to be wonnert at gien fowk wull hae 't 'at ye maun ken something aboot it, mem." 234 MALCOLM. " I know nothing whatever," she re- turned emphatically. " Believe me or not, as you please," she added with heightened color. " If I did know any- thing," she went on, with apparent truth- fulness, " 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 naething mair atween 's, mem," answered Malcolm without turn- ing even his face. "You will be sorry for treating me so some day." "Weel, than, mem, I will be, but that day's no the day {/o-daj)." "Think what you could do for your poor witless brother if — " "Mem," interrupted Malcolm, turning right round and drawing himself up in anger, "pruv' 'at I 'm your son, an' that meenute I speir at you wha was my father." Mrs. Stewart changed color — neither with the blush of innocence nor with the pallor of guilt, but with the gray of min- gled rage and hatred. She took a step forward with the quick movement of a snake about to strike, but stopped mid- way and stood looking at him with glit- tering eyes, teeth clenched and lips half open. Malcolm returned her gaze for a mo- ment or two. " Vi.' never was the mither, whaever was the father o' me," he said, and walked out of the room. He had scarcely reached the door when he heard a heavy fall, and look- ing 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 down stairs, where he found a maid and sent her to attend o her mistress. In a minute he was mount- ed and trotting fast home, considerably happier than before, inasmuch as he was now almost beyond doubt convinced that Mrs. Stewart was not his mother. CHAPTER LIX. AN HONEST PLOT. Ever since the visit of condolence with which the narrative of these events opened there had been a coolness be- tween Mrs. Mellis and Miss Horn. Mr. Mellis's shop was directly opposite Miss Horn's house, and his wife's parlor was over the shop, looking into the street ; hence the two neighbors could not but see each other pretty often : beyond a stiff nod, however, no sign of smoulder- ing friendship had as yet broken out. Miss Horn was consequently a good deal surprised when, having gone into the shop to buy some trifle, Mr. Mellis in- formed 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, betray- ing her first impulse to resentment, but her nobler nature, which was never far from the surface, constrained her com- pliance. Mrs. Mellis rose hurriedly when the plumb-line figure of her neighbor appear- ed, ushered in by her husband, and re- ceived her with a somewhat embarrassed empressevicnt, arising from the conscious- ness of good-will, disturbed by the fear of imputed meddlesomeness. She knew the inward justice of Miss Horn, how- ever, and relied upon that, even while she encouraged herself by waking up the ever-present conviction of her own great superiority in the petite morale of social intercourse. Her general tenden- cy, indeed, was to look down upon Miss Horn : 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 absolute- ly in the kingdoms of this world, while in the kingdom of heaven it is all look- ing up. "Sit ye doon. Miss Horn," she said: " it 's a lang time sin' we had a news the- gither." Miss Horn seated herself with a be- grudged acquiescence. Had Mrs. Mellis been more of a tac- tician, she would have dug a few ap- proaches ere she opened fire upon the MALCOLM. 235 fortress of her companion's fair-hearing; but instead of that she at once discharged the imprudent question: "Was ye at hame last nicht, mem, atween the hoors o' aucht an' nine ?" A shot which instantly awoke in reply the whole battery of Miss Horn's indig- nation : " Wha am I, to be speirt sic a queston ? Wha but yersel' wad hae daurt it, Mistress Mellis ?" "Huly [softly), huly. Miss Horn!" ex- postulated her questioner. " I hae no wuss to pry intill ony secrets o* yours, or — " "Secrets!" shouted Miss Horn. But her consciousness of good intent and all but assurance of final victory up- held Mrs. Mellis. " — or Jean's aither," she went on, apparently regardless ; "but I wad fain be sure ye kent a' aboot yer ain hoose 'at a body micht chance to see frae the croon o' the caus'ay [middle of the street)." " The parlor-blind 's gane up crookit sin' ever that thoomb- fingered cratur, Watty Witherspail, made a new roller till 't. Gien 't be that ye mean, Mistress Mellis — " " Hoots !" returned the other. " Hoo far can ye lippen to that Jean o' yours, mem ?" "Nae far'er nor the len'th o' my nose an' the breid o' my twa een," was the scornful answer. Although, however, she thus manifest- ed her resentment of Mrs. Mellis's cate- chetical attempts at introducing her sub- ject, Miss Horn had no desire to prevent the free outcome of her approaching communication. " In that case, I may speyk oot," said Mrs. MelHs. "Use yer freedom." "Weel, I wuU. Ye was hardly oot o' the hoose last nicht afore — " "Ye saw me gang oot?" "Ay, did I." " What gart ye speir, than ? What for sud a body come screwin' up a straucht stair — noo the face an' noo the back o* her?" "Weel, I nott [needed) na hae speirt. But that's naething to the p'int. Ye hadna been gane, as I was sayin', ower a five meenutes whan in cam a licht intill the bedroom neist the parlor, an' Jean appeart wi' a can'le in her han'. There was nae licht i' this room but the licht o' the fire — an' no muckle o' that, for 'twas maistly peat — sac I saw her weel eneuch ohn bein' seen mysel'. She cam straucht to the window and drew doon the blind, but lost hersel' a bit, or she wad never hae set doon her can'le whaur it cuist a shaidow o' hersel' an' her duin's upo' the blind." "An' what was 't she was efter, the jaud ?" cried Miss Horn, without any attempt to conceal her growing interest. "She made naethin' o' 't, whatever it was ; for doon the street cam the schuil- maister an' chappit at the door, an' gaed in an' waitit till ye cam hame." "Weel?" said Miss Horn. But Mrs. Mellis held her peace. "Weel?" repeated Miss Horn. "Weel," returned Mrs. Mellis, with a curious mixture of deference and con- scious sagacity in her tone, "a' 'at I tak upo' me to say is. Think ye twise afore ye lippen to that Jean o' yours." "I lippen naething till her. I wad as sune lippen to the dottle o' a pipe amo' dry strae. What saw ye. Mistress Mel- lis ?" " Ye needna speyk like that," returned Mrs. Mellis, for Miss Horn's tone was threatening: "I'm no Jean." "What saw ye?" repeated Miss Horn, more gently, but not less eagerly. "Whause is that kist o' mahogany drawers i' tliat bedroom, gien I may preshume to speir?" " Whause but mine ?" " They're no Jean's ?" "Jean's!" "Ye micht hae latten her keep her bit duds i' them, for onything I kent." "Jean's duds in my Grizel's drawers! A lik'ly thing!" " Hm ! They war poor Miss Cam'- el"s, war they ?" "They war Grizel Cam'ell's drawers as lang's she had use for ony ; but what for ye sud say poor till her I dinna ken, 'cep' it be 'at she 's gane whaur they haena muckle 'at needs layin' in draw- ers. That's neither here nor there. Div 236 MALCOLM. ye tell me 'at Jean was intromittin' wi' thae drawers ? They're a' lockit, ilk ane o' them ; an' they're guid locks." "No ower-guid to hae keyes to them, are they?" "The keyes are i' my pooch," said Miss Horn, clapping her hand to the skirt of her dress. "They're aye i' my pooch, though I haena had the fcelin's to mak use o' them sin' she left me." " Are ye sure they war there last nicht, mem ?" Miss Horn seemed struck. " I had on my black silk last nicht,' she answer- ed vaguely, and was silent, pondering doubtfully. " Weel, mem, jist y? put on yer black silk again the morn's nicht, an' come ower here aboot aucht o'clock, an' ye'U be able to jeedge by her ongang whan ye're no i' the hoose gien there be ony- thing amiss wi' Jean. There canna be muckle ill dune yet, that's a comfort." "What ill, by [beyond] meddlin' wi' what doesna concern her, cud the wu- man du ?" said Miss Horn, with attempt- ed confidence. "That ye sud ken best yersel', mem. But Jean's an awfu' gossip, an' a lady like yer cousin micht hae left dockiments ahint her 'at she wadna jist like to hear procleemt frae the hoosetap. No 'at she '11 ever hear onything mair, poor thing!" "What mean ye?" cried Miss Horn, half frightened, half angry. "Jist what I say, neither mair nor less," returned Mrs. Mellis. "Miss Cam'ell may weel hae left letters for enstance, an' hoo wad they fare in Jean's ban's?" "Whan / never had the hert to open her drawers!" exclaimed Miss Horn, en- raged at the very notion of the crime. "/ hae 7iae feelin's, thank God for the furnishin' o' me !" " I doobt Jean has her full share o' a' feelin's belangin' to fallen human na- tur'," said Mrs. Mellis with a slow hori- zontal oscillation of her head. " But ye jist come an' see wi' yer ain een, an' syne jeedge for yersel' : il's no business o' mine." "I'll come the nicht. Mistress Mellis. Only lat it be atween 's twa." " I can baud my tongue, mem — that is, frae a' but ane. Sae lang's merried fowk sleeps in ae bed, it's ill to baud onything till a body's sel'." "Mr. Mellis is a douce man, an' I carena what he kens," answered Miss Horn. She descended to the shop, and hav- ing 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 parlor 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 gaein' oot the nicht. The minister oucht to be spoken till aboot the schuilmaister, honest man ! Tak the lantren wi' ye to the manse aboot ten o'clock : that '11 be time eneuch." "Verra weel, mem. But I'm thinkin' there's a mune the nicht." " Naething but the doup o' ane, Jean. It's no to ca' a mune. It's a mercy we hae lantrens, an' sic a sicht o' cairds {gypsies) aboot!" "Ay, the lantren lats them see whaur ye are, an' baud oot o' yer gait," said Jean, who happened not to relish going that night. " Troth, wuman, ye 're richt there," re- turned her mistress with cheerful assent. " The mair they see o' ye, the less they '11 meddle wi' ye — caird or cadger. Haud ye the licht upo' yer ain face, lass, an' there 's feow 'ill hae the hert to luik again." "Haith, mem, there 's twa sic-like o* 's," returned Jean bitterly, and bounced from the room. "That's true tu," said her mistress; adding after the door was shut, "It's a peety we cudna haud on thegither." " I'm gaein' noo, Jean," she called into the kitchen as she crossed the threshold at eight o'clock. She turned toward 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. McUis's house by the garden at the back. In the parlor she found a supper pre- MALCOLM, 237 pared 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-complex- ioned butter, undebased with a particle of salt ; the self-satisfied hum of the kettle in attendance for the guidman's toddy ; the bright fire, the golden glow of the brass fender in its red light, and the dish of boiled potatoes set down be- fore it under a snowy cloth ; the pink eggs, the yellow haddock and the crim- son strawberry jam, all combined their influences — each with its private pleas- ure wondrously heightened by the zest of a secret watch and the hope of dis- comfited mischief — to draw into a friend- ship what had hitherto been but a some- what insecure neighborship. From be- low 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 pro- logue 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 Horn 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 drawer's had arisen mainly from the dread of finding justified a certain pain- ful 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 Gri- zel 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 Horn ; the shell was rough, the kernel absolute delicacy. Not for a moment had her suspicion altered her behavior to the gentle suffering crea- ture toward whom she had adopted the relation of an elder and stronger sister. To herself, when most satisfied of the ex- istence of a secret, she steadily excused her cousin's withholdment of confidence on the ground of her own lack of feel- ings : how could she unbosom herself to such as she ? And now the thought of eyes like Jean's exploring Grizel's for- saken treasures made her so indignant and restless that she could hardly even pretend to enjoy her friends' 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 win- dow of their watch, while she punished her husband for the virile claim to great- er 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. Mel- lis ; and her husband and Miss Horn made such haste to blow out the candle that they knocked their heads together, blew in each other's face, 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 Horn rose. " Sit doon, mem, sit doon ! ye hae nae- thing to gang upo' yet," exclaimed Mr. Mellis, who, being a baillie, was an au- thority. " I can sit nae langer, Mr. Mellis," re- turned Miss Horn. "I hae eneuch to gang upo' as lang's I hae my ain flure aneth my feet : the wuman has no busi- ness there. I'll jist slip across an' gang in as quaiet as a sowl intill a boady, but I s' warran' I s' mak a din afore I come oot again." With a grim diagonal nod she left the room. 238 MALCOLM. Although it was now quite dark, she yet deemed it prudent to go by the gar- den-gate into the baclc 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. Catanach's — 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 re- placing. 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. Catanach, 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, some one lifted the latch of the outer door and knocked at the inner. His invitation to enter was answered by the appearance of Miss Horn, 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 her- self at the other side of the deal table, and laid upon it a paper parcel, which she proceeded to open with much delib- eration and suppressed plenitude. Hav- ing at length untied the string with the long fingers of a hand which, notwith- standing its evident strength, trembled so as almost to defeat the attempt, she took from the parcel a packet of old let- ters sealed with spangled wax, and push- ed it across the table to the schoolmaster, saying, " Hae, Sandy Graham ! Naebody but yersel' has a richt to say what's to be dune wi' ihefn." He put out his hand and took them gently, with a look of sadness, but no surprise. " Dinna think I hae been readin' them, Sandy Graham. Na, na : I wad read nae honest man's letters, be they written to wha they micht." Mr. Graham was silent. "Ye're a guid man, Sandy Graham," Miss Horn resumed, "gien God ever took the pains to mak ane. Dinna think ony- thing atween you an' her wad hae brocht me at this time o' nicht to disturb ye in yer ain chaumer. Na, na. Whatever was atween you twa had an honest man intill't, an' I wad hae taen my time to gie ye back yer dockiments. But there's some o' anither 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 mak ye o' sic like as thae ?" she said. "Do you want me to — ?" asked the schoolmaster with trembling voice. " I jist div," she answered. They were a number of little notes — some of 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 start- ed 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 con- vulsed with his efforts at composure ; then laid it gently on the table, and said, but without turning his eyes to Miss Horn, "I cannot read this. You must not ask me. It refers doubtless to the time when Miss Campbell was governess to Lady Annabel. I see no end to be answered by my reading one of these letters." MALCOLM. 239 " I daur say. Wha ever saw 'at wad- na luik ?" returned Miss Horn with a glance keen as an eagle's into the thought- ful 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 wad be but thoomb-fingert wark, to lat gang the en' o' yer hank," exclaim- ed Miss Horn. " I do not understand you, ma'am." "Weel, I maun gar ye un'erstan' me. There's things whiles, Sandy Graham, 'at 's no easy to speyk aboot, but I hae nae feelin's, an' we'll a' be deid or lang, an' that's a comfort. Man 'at ye are, ye're the only human bein' I wad open my moo' till aboot this maitter, an' that's 'cause ye lo'e the memory 0' my puir lassie, Grizel Cam'ell." " It is not her memory, it is herself I love," said the schoolmaster with trem- bling voice. " Tell me what you please : you may trust me." "Gien I needit you to tell me that, I wad trust ye as I wad the black dog wi' butter. Hearken, 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 safe-keeping of a lawyer friend in the neighboring county town. Long before she reached home Mrs. Catanach had left — not without commu- nication with her ally, in spite of a cer- tain precaution adoped by her mistress, the first thing the latter did when she entered being to take the key of the cel- lar-stairs from her pocket and release Jean, who issued crestfallen and miser- able, and was sternly dismissed to bed. The next day, however, for reasons of her own, Miss Horn permitted her to re- sume her duties about the house without remark, as if nothing had happened serious enough to render further meas- ures necessary. :p_a.:e^t ixii. CHAPTER LX. THE SACRAMENT. ABANDONING all her remaining ef- fects to Jean's curiosity — if indeed it were no worse demon that possessed her — Miss Horn, 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 par- lor, 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 ap- parition 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 pre- ferring 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 en- trance 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 dis- charge of the excessive generation of muscle-working electricity. 240 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 douceur to the guard more liberal than was customary in acknowledgment ot 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 earli- ness 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 en- virons 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 do- main, the thought meets me : What would be the effect on us men of such a peri- odical alternation between nothing and abundance as these woods undergo? 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 pen- ury and labor. Such speculations were not in Miss Horn's way, but she was better than the loftiest of speculations, and we will fol- low 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 widc-ripplcd inno- cence from bank to bank, there lying silent and motionless and gloomy, as if MALCOLM. 241 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 Horn followed it out of the grounds and on to the beach. Here its channel was constantly chang- ing. 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 un- aware of having been followed and watch- ed 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 made a sudden movement as if to run and accost her, but had always drawn back again and concealed him- self more carefully than before. At length she turned in the direction of the town. It was a quaint old place — a royal burgh for five centuries, with streets irregular and houses of much in- dividuality. Most of the latter were hum- ble 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 Horn was walking up a certain street, called from its precipitousness the Strait (that is, Difficult) Path — an absolute Hill of Difficulty — when she was accost- ed by an elderly man who stood in the doorway of one of the houses. " Ken ye wha 's yon watchin' ye frae the tap o' the brae, mem ?" he said. 16 Miss Horn looked up : there was no one there. "That's it — he's awa' again. That's the w'y he's been duin' this last hoor, at least, to my knowledge. I saw him watchin' ilka mov' ye made, mem, a' the time ye was doon upo' the shore ; an' fhere he is noo, or was a meenute ago, at the heid o' the brae, glowerin' the een oot o' 's heid at ye, mem." " Div ye ken him ?" asked Miss Horn. "No, mem, 'cep' by sicht o' ee : he hasna been lang aboot the toon. Some fowk says he's dementit ; but he's unco quaiet, speyks to nobody, an' gien ony- body speyk to him jist rins. Cud he be kennin' you, no ? Ye're a stranger here, mem ?" "No sic a stranger, John," returned Miss Horn, calling the man by his name, for she recognized him as the beadle of the parish church. "What's the body like ?" "A puir, wee, hump-backit cratur, wi' the face o' a gentleman." "I ken him weel," said Miss Horn. " He is a gentleman, gien ever God made ane. But he's sair afflickit. Whaur does he lie at nicht, can ye tell me .''" "I ken naething aboot him, mem, by what comes o' seein' him sic like 's the day, an' ance teetin' [peeriJig) in at the door o' the kirk. I wad hae weised him till a seat, but the moment I luikit at him awa' he ran. He's unco cheenged, though, sin' the first time I saw him." Since he lost Phemy 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 any one accost- ed him, however, he fled like the wind. He had "no art to find the mind's con- struction in the face," and not knowing whom to trust, he distrusted all. Hu- manity was good in his eyes, but there was no "man. The vision of Miss Horn 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 invinci- ble repugnance to appearing before her, and hence it was that at a distance he 242 MALCOLM. 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 show- ing like a great peg over which thej* 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 Horn had presently an opportunity of marking the sad alteration. For ere she reached the head of the Strait 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 gar- den-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 toward the sport of ■ the persecutor was strong. To them any tliving thing that looked at once odd and rhelpless was an outlaw — a creature to be :.tormented, or at best hunted beyond the visible world. A meagre cat, an over- ■jfed pet spaniel, a ditchless frog, a horse -whose days hung over the verge of the Iknacker's yard — each was theirs in vir- ,.tue of the amusement latent in it, which it was their business to draw out ; but of aJl such property an idiot would yield the JTiost, and a hunchback idiot, such as was the laird in their eyes, was absolute- ly invaluable — beyond comparison the best game in the known universe. When he left Portlossie the laird knew pretty well what risks he ran, although he pre- ferred even them to the dangers he hoped by his flight to avoid. It was he whom the crowd in question surrounded. They had Ijcgun by rough teasing, to which he had responded with smiles — a rssult 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 Horn descried 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 Horn herself enough of the peculiar to mark her also, to the superficial observer, as the natural prey of boys ; and the moment the first bil- low 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 re- suming 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 smouldered, 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 Ama- zon 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 eneimy had gathered around their fallen com- rade, and, seized with some anxiety as to his condition, Miss Horn approached the group : the instant she turned toward it, the laird snatched his hand from hers, darted away like a hunting spider, and shot down the Strait Path to the low street : by the time his protectress had looked over the heads of the group, seen MALCOLM. 243 that the young miscreant was not seri- ously injured, and requested him to take that for meddhng with a helpless inno- cent, 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 Forsyth was one of a small sect of worshipers which had, not many years before, built a chapel in the town — a quiet, sober, devout company, differing from their neighbors in nothing deep- ly touching the welfare of humanity. Their chief fault was that, attributing to comparative trifles a hugely dispropor- tionate value, they would tear the gar- ment 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 Forsyth persuaded her relatiA'e to stop over the Sunday and go with her to their chapel. Bethinking herself next that her minister had no sermon to prepare, she took Miss Horn to call upon him. Mr. Bigg was one of those men whose faculty is always under-estimated by their acquaintances and over - estimated by their friends : to overvalue him was impos- sible. 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 neighbor- hood ; they radiate help and breathe comfort; they reprove, they counsel, they sympathize ; in a word, they are doorkeepers of the house of God. Con- stantly 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 cath- olic 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 reputa- tion 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 /tow and luhy of many things, espe- cially 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 Forsj-th recounted, with some hu- mor, her visitor's prowess on behalf of the laird — much to honest Mr. Bigg's delight. "What ither cud I du ?" said Miss Horn apologetically. "But I doobt I strack ower sair. Maybe ye wadna ob- jec', sir, to gang and speir efter the lad- die, and gie him some guid advice ?" " I'll do that," returned Mr. Bigg. "Are we to have the pleasure of your company in our conventicle to-morrow ?" he add- ed after a little pause. " Dr. Blair is go- ing to preach." "Will ye hae me, Mr. Bigg?" "Most willingly, ma'am; and we'll be still better pleased if you'll sit down with us to the Lord's table afterward." " I gang to the perris kirk, ye ken ?" said Miss Horn, supposing the good man unaware of the fact. "Oh, I know that, ma'am. But don't 244 MALCOLM. you think — as we shall, I trust, sit down together to his heavenly supper — it would be a good preparation to sit down to- gether, once at least, to his earthly sup- per first?" " I didna ken 'at ye wad hae ony but yer ain fowk. I hae aften thoucht, my- sel', it was jist the ae thing ony Christi-an sud be ready to du wi' ony ither. Is 't a new thing wi' ye to baud open hoose this gait, sir, glen I may tak the leeberty to speir ?" "We don't exactly keep open house. We wouldn't like to have any one 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 be- lieve in Jesus Christ, don't you, ma'am ?" " I dinna ken whether I believe in Him as ye wad ca' believin' or no : there 's sic a heap o' things broucht to the fore noo-a-days 'at I canna richtly say I un- 'erstan'. But as He dee'd for me, I wad dee for Him. Raither nor say I didna ken Him I wad hing aside Him. Peter an' a', I canna say less." Mr. Bigg's eyes began to smart, and he turned away his head. "Gien that 'U du wi' ye," Miss Horn went on, " an' ye mean no desertion o' the kirk o' my father, an' his fathers afore him, I wad willin'ly partak wi' ye." "You'll be welcome. Miss Horn — as welcome as any of my own flock." "Weel, noo, that I ca' Christi-an," said Miss Horn, rising. "An' 'deed I cud wuss," she added, "'at in oor ain kirk we had mair opportunity, for ance i' the tvvalmonth 's no verra aften to tak up the thouchts 'at belang to the holy ord'nance." The next day, after a powerful ser- mon from a man who, although in high esteem, was not for moral worth or heav- enly 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 Saint Paul's account of the institution of the Lord's Supper, accom- panied 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 Forsyth and Miss Horn were the last to enter one of them, and Miss Horn, very needlessly insisting on her custom of having her more capable ear toward her friend, oc- cupied 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 con- gregation 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 Horn 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 dea- con 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 Horn. 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 MALCOLM. 245 conservator of holy privileges, -with the words, " Hoots, man ! the puir body never had a taste o' the balm o' Gilead in a' 's persecutit life afore." The liberality of Mr. Bigg had not been lost upon her : freely she had re- ceived, 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 Horn heard him murmur, " Eh, the bonny man ! the bonny man !" He could hardly have meant the deacon. He might have meant Mr. Bigg, who had concluded the observance with a simple and loving exhortation. CHAPTER LXI. Miss HORN AND THE PIPER. When Miss Horn 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 Phemy, she reproached herself not a little ; and it was with shame that she set out, im- mediately 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 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 Horn 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. " Ta nem of Stewart will pe a nople wont, mem," he said. "It's guid eneuch to ken a body by," answered Miss Horn. " If ta poy will pe a Stewart," he went on, heedless of the indifference of her remark, "who'll pe knowing put he'll may pe of ta plood royal ?" "There didna leuk to be muckle roy- ^ty aboot auld John, honest man, wha cudna rule a wife, though he had but ane," returned Miss Horn. " If you '11 please, mem, ton't you'll pe too sherp on ta poor man whose wife will not pe ta coot wife. If ta wife will pe ta paad wife, she will pe ta paad wife however ; and ta poor man will pe hafing ta paad wife and ta paad plame of it too ; and tat will pe more as '11 pe fair, mem." "'Deed, ye never said a truer word, Maister MacPhail," assented Miss Horn. " It's a mercy 'at a lone wuman like me, wha has a maisterfu' temper o' her ain, an' no feelin's, was never putten to the temptation o' occkypeein' sic a perilous position. I doobt gien auld John had been merried upo' me, I micht hae put- ten on the wrang claes some mornin' mysel', an' maybe had ill gettin' o' them aff again." The old man was silent, and Miss Horn resumed the main subject of their con- versation. "But though he michtna ob- jec' till a father 'at he wasna jist Hector or Golia' o' Gath," she said, "ye canna wonner 'at the yoong laad no carin' to hae sic a mither." "And what would pe ta harm with ta mother ? Will she not pe a coot woman, and a coot letty more to ta bargain ?" " Ye ken what fowk says till her guide- ship o' her son ?" "Yes, put tat will pe ta lies of ta peo- ples. Ta peoples wass always telling lies." "Weel, allooin', it's a peety ye sudna ken, supposin' him to be hers, hoo sma' fowk bauds the chance 0' his bein' a Stewart, for a' that." "She '11 not pe comprestanding you," said Duncan, bewildered. " He's a wise son 'at kens his ain fa- ther," remarked Miss Horn, with more point than originality. "The leddy nev- er bore the best o' characters, as far 's my memory taks me, an' that's back afore John an' her was merried, ony gate. Na, na, John Stewart never took a dwaum 'cause Ma'colm MacPhail was upo' the ro'd." Miss Horn was sufficiently enigmati- cal, but her meaning had at length, more through his own reflection than her ex- position, dawned upon Duncan. He 246 MALCOLM. leaped up with a Gaelic explosion of concentrated force, and cried, " Ta wo- man is not pe no mothers to Tuncan's poy !" "Huly, huly, Mr. MacPhail!" inter- posed Miss Horn with good-natured re- venge, "it may be naething but fowk's lees, ye ken." " Ta woman tat ta peoples will pe tell- ing lies of her wass not pe ta mother of her poy Malcolm. Why tidn't ta poy tell her ta why tat he wouldn't pe haf- ing her?" "Ye wadna hae him spread an ill re- port o' his ain mither ?" "Put she'll not pe his mother, and you'll not pelieve it, mem." "Ye canna priv that — you nor him, aither." " It will pe more as would kill her poy to haf a woman like tat to ta mother of him." " It wad be nearhan' as ill 's haein' her for a wife," assented Miss Horn, "but no freely {quite),'' she added. The old man sought the door, as if for a breath of air, but as he went he blun- dered, and felt about as if he had just been struck blind : ordinarily, he walk- ed, in his own house at least, as if he saw every inch of the way. Presently he returned and resumed his seat. "Was the bairn laid mither-nakit in- till yer ban's, Maister MacPhail ?" asked Miss Horn, who had been meditating. "Och, no ! he wass his clo'es on," an- swered Duncan. " Hae ye ony o' them left ?" she asked again. "Inteet not," answered Duncan — "yes, inteet not." "Ye lay at the Salmon, didna ye?" "Yes, mem, and they was coot to her." " Wha dressed the bairn till ye ?" "Och! she'll trest him herself," said Duncan, still jealous of the women who had nursed the child. "But no aye?" suggested Miss Horn. " Mistress Partan will be toing a coot teal of tressing him sometimes. Mistress Partan is a coot 'oman when she '11 pe coot — ferry coot when she '11 pe coot." Here Malcolm entered, and Miss Horn told him what she had seen of the laird and gathered concerning him. "That luiks ill for Phemy," remarked Malcolm, when she had described his forlorn condition. "She canna be wi' 'im, or he wadna be like that. Hae ye onything by w'y o' coonsel, mem ?" " I wad coonsel a word wi' the laird himsel', gien 't be to be gotten. He mayna ken what 's happened her, but he may tell ye the last he saw o' her, an' that maun be mair nor ye ken." " He's ta'en sic a doobt o' me 'at I'm feart it '11 be hard to come at him, an' still harder to come at speech o' 'im, for whan he's frichtit he can hardly muv 's jawbane, no to say speyk. I maun try, though, and du my best. Ye think he's lurkin' aboot Fife Hobse, div ye, mem?" " He's been seen there-awa' this while — aff an' on." "Weel, I s' jist gang an' put on my fisher-claes, an' set oot at ance. I maun baud ower to Scaurnose first, though, to lat them ken 'at he's been gotten sicht o'. It '11 be but sma' comfort, I doobt." "Malcolm, my son," interjected Dun- can, who had been watching for the con- versation to afford him an opening, "if you'll pe meeting any one will caal you ta son of tat woman, gif him a coot plow in ta face, for you'll pe no son of hers, efen if she '11 proof it — no more as her- self If you'll pe her son, old Tuncan will pe tisown you for efer and efermore, amen." "What's broucht you to this, daddie ?" asked Malcolm, who, ill as he liked the least allusion to the matter, could not help feeling curious, and indeed almost amused. " Nefer you mind. Miss Horn will pe hafing coot reasons tat Mistress Stewart 'ill not can pe your mother." Malcolm turned to Miss Horn. " I've said naething to Maister Mac- Phail but what I've said mair nor ance to yersel', laddie," she replied to the eager questioning of his eyes. "Gang yer wa's. The trowth maun cow the lee i' the lang rin. Aff wi' ye to Blew Peter." When Malcolm reached Scaurnose he found Phemy's parents in a sad state. Joseph had returned that morning from MALCOLM. 247 a fruitless search in a fresh direction, and reiterated disappointment seemed to have at length overcome Annie'b 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 Mal- colm'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 him- self as before. Mrs. Mair was lying in the darkened closet, where, the door being partly open, she had been listening with all her might, and was now weeping afresh. Joseph was the first to speak : still rocking him- self with hopeless oscillation, he said, in a strange muffled tone which seemed to come from somewhere else, "Gien I kent she was weel deid I wadna care. It's no like a father to be sittin' here, but whaur '11 I gang neist ? The wife thinks I micht be duin' something : I kenna what to du. This last news is waur nor nane. I hae maist nae faith left, Ma'- colm man " — and with a bitter cry he started to his feet — " I 'maist dinna be- lieve there's a God ava'. It disna luik like it — dis 't noo ?" There came an answering cry from the closet : Annie rushed out, half undress- ed, and threw her arms about her hus- band. "Joseph I Joseph!" she said, in a voice hard with agony — almost more dreadful than a scream — "gien ye speyk like that ye'll drive me mad. Lat the lassie gang, but lea' me my God." Joseph pushed her gently away, turn- ed from her, fell on his knees and moaned out, " O God ! gien Thoo has her we s' neither greit nor grum'le, but dinna tak the faith frae 's." He remained on his knees, silent, with his head against the chimney-jamb. His wife crept away to her closet. "Peter," said Malcolm, "I'm gaein' afif the nicht to luik for the laird, and see gien he can tell 's onything aboot her : wadna ye better come wi' me ?" To the heart of the father it was as the hope of the resurrection to the world. The same moment he was on his feet and taking down his bonnet ; the next he disappeared in the closet, and Mal- colm 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-pier- cing 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 half to the zenith — something too thin for cloud, too black for vapor : above that the stars were be- ginning to shine. Joseph shivered and struck his hands against his shoulders. "Care's cauldrife," he said, 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 find- ing him. CHAPTER LXII. THE CUTTLEFISH AND THE CRAB. Although the better portion of the original assembly had forsaken the Bail- lies' Barn, there was still a regular gath- ering 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 al- ways 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 proceed- ings would have had them : the arrogant became still more arrogant, and the greedy more greedy ; the tongues of the talkative went yet faster, and the gad- abouts were yet seldomer at home ; while there was such a superabundance of pri- vate judgment that it overflowed the cis- terns of their own concerns, and invaded the walled gardens of other people's mo- 248 MALCOLM. lives. 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 cor- ruption of the Church, can destroy the eternal fact that the core of it is the heart of Jesus. Branches innumerable may have to be lopped off and cast into the fire, yet the word "I am the Vine" re- maineth. The demagogues had gloried in the expulsion of such men as Jeames Gentle and Blue Peter, and were soon rejoiced by the return of Bow-o'-meal— 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 the Barn. Amongst them, for reasons best known to herself, though they might be surmised by such as really knew her, was Mrs. Catanach. I do not know that she ever professed repentance and con- version, but for a time she attended pret- ty often. Possibly, business considera- tions had something to do with it. As- suredly, the young preacher, though he still continued to exhort, did so with fail- ing strength, and it was plain to see that he was going rapidly : the exercise of the second of her twin callings might be I'cquired. 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 a lover of old books half the delight in fitting together . a rare volume from scattered portions /picked up in his travels that Mrs. Cata- nach 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 consid- ered, 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 opin- ions, 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 nev- er 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. Catanach had assayed an approach to her mother, and not with- out success. After the discovery of the physical cause of Lizzy's ailment, how- ever, 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 cuttle- fish. On the evening of the Sunday follow- ing the events related in the last chapter, Mrs. Catanach had, not without difficulty, persuaded Mrs. Findlay to accompany her to the Baillies' Barn with the prom- ise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher — a ploughman on an inland farm. That she had an object in desir- ing her company that night may seem probable from the conversation which arose as they plodded their way thither along the sands. " I h'ard a queer tale aboot Meg Horn at Duff Harbor the ither 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 Horn. "Ay ! An* what micht that be ?" " But she's maybe a freen' o' yours, Mistress Findlay ? Some fowk likes her, though I canna say I'm ane o' them." "Freen' o' mine!" exclaimed the Par- taness. "We gree like twa bills [Int/is) \ the same park." " I wadna wonner, for they tcllt me 'at saw her fechtin' i' the High street wi' a MALCOLM. 249 muckle loon nearhan' as big 's hersel' ; an' haith ! but Meg had the best o' 't, an' dang him intil the gutter, an' maist fellt him. An' that's Meg Horn !" "She had been at the drink. But I never h'ard it laid till her afore." "Didna ye, than .'' Weel, I'm no say- in' onything • that's what I h'ard." "Ow! it's like eneuch. She was bul- lyraggin' at me nae langer ago nor thes- treen ; but I doobt I sent her awa' wi' a flech [flfd] in her lug." "Whaten a craw had she to pluck wi' you, no ?" "Ow, fegs ! ye wad hae ta'en her for a thief-catcher, and me for the thief. She wad threpe [insist) 'at 1 bude to hae keepit some o' the duds 'at happit Ma'colm MacPhail, the reprobat, whan first he cam to the Seaton — a puir scraich- in' brat, as reid 's a bilet lobster. Wae 's me 'at ever he was creatit ! It jist drives me horn-daft to think 'at ever he got the breist o' me. 'At he sud sair [serve] me sae ! But I s' hae a grip o' 'im yet, or my name 's no — what they ca' me." " It's the w'y o' the warl', Mistress Findlay. What cud ye expec' o' ane born in sin an' brought furth in ineequi- ty ?" — a stock phrase of Mrs. Catanach's, glancing at her profession, and embracing nearly the whole of her belief. " It's a true word. The mair's the peety he sud hae hed the milk o' an honest wuman upo' the tap o' that !" " But what cud the auld runt be efter ? What was //"^r business wi' 't ? She never did onything for the bairn." " Na, no she / She never had the chance, guid or ill. Ow ! doobtless it wad be anent what they ca' the eeden- tryfeein' o' 'im to the leddy 0' Gersefell. She had sent her. She micht hae waled [choscii] a mair welcome messenger, an' sent her a better eeran'. But she made little o' me." " Ye had naething o' the kin', I s' wad." " Never a threid. There luas a twal- hunner shift upo' the bairn, rowt roon 'im like deid-claes. Gien 't had been but the Lord's wuU ! It gart me wonner at the time, for that wasna hoo a bairn 'at had been caret for sud be cled." "Was there name or mark upo' 't ?" asked Cuttlefish. " Nane : there was but the place whaur the reid ingrain had been pykit oot," an- swered- Crab. "An' what cam o' the shift ?" " Ow ! I jist made it doon for a bit sark to the bairn whan he grew to be rinnin' aboot. 'At ever I sud hae ta'en steik in claith for sic a deil's buckie ! To me 'at was a mither till 'im ! The Lord haud me ohn gane mad whan I think o' 't !" "An' syne for Lizzy — " began Mrs. Catanach. prefacing fresh remark. But at her name the mother flew into such a rage that, fearful of scandal, see- ing it was the Sabbath and they were on their way to public worship, her com- panion would have exerted all her pow- ers of oiliest persuasion to appease her. But if there was one thing Mrs. Cata- nach did not understand, it was the heart of a mother : " Hoots, Mistress Findlay ! Fowk'U hear ye. Haud yer tongue, I beg. She may dee i' the strae for me. I s' never put han' to the savin' o' her, or her bairn aither," said the midwife, thinking thus to pacify her. Then, like the eruption following mere volcanic unrest, out brake the sore-heart- ed woman's wrath. And now at length the crustacean was too much for the mol- lusk. She raved and scolded and abused Mrs. Catanach, till at last she was driven to that final resource — the airs of an in- jured woman. She turned and walked back to the upper town, while Mrs. Find- lay went on to take what share she might in the worship of the congregation. Mrs. Mair had that evening gone once more to the Baillies' Barn in her hus- band's absence, for the words of unbe- lief 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 con- sequent on protracted suffering she had begun to fancy that the loss of Phemy was a punishment upon them for desert- ing the conventicle. Also the school- master was under an interdict, and that looked like a judgment too. She mitst 250 MALCOLM. find some prop for the faith that was now shaking hke a reed in the wind. So to the BailUes' Barn she had once more gone. The tempest which had convulsed Mrs. Findlay's atmosphere had swept its va- pors with it as it passed away ; and when she entered the cavern it was with an unwonted inchnation to be friendly all round. As Fate would have it, she un- wittingly took her place by Mrs. Mair. 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 quar- reling 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. Mair'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 : Phemy, poor little harm- less 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 neigh- bor's offer of the use in common of her psalm-book was enough to quiet for the moment the gaseous brain of the turbu- lent woman. She accepted the kindness, and, the singing over, did not refuse to look on the same page with her daugh- ter'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. Mair persisted in hers, and the other — which was odd enough — yielded and listened. "Wad the tale baud wi' lassies as weel 's laddies. Mistress Findlay, div ye think?" said Mrs. Mair. "Ow, surely," was the response, "it maun du that. There 's no respec' o' persons wi' Him. There's no a doobt but yer Phemy '11 come hame to ye safe an' soon'." " I was thinkin' aboot 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 va- riety where few of the sermons were either — but it made little impression on Mrs. Findlay or Mrs. Mair. As they left the cave together in the crowd of issuing worshipers Mrs. Mair whispered again. " I wad invete ye ower, but ye wad be wantin' Lizzy hame, an' I can ill spare the comfort o' her the noo," she said with the cunning of a dove. "An' what comes o' me?" rejoined Mrs. Findlay, her claws out in a moment where her personal consequence was touched. "Ye wadna surely tak her frae me a' at ance .''" pleaded Mrs. Mair. "Ye micht lat her bide, jist till Phemy comes hame ; an' syne — " But there she broke down, and the tempest of sobs that followed quite over- came 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 be- ing 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. Catanach ; seemed inclined to go with her all the way, but suddenly stopped, bade her good-night, and left her. CHAPTER LXIII. MISS HORN .'VND LORD LOSSIE. Notwithstanding the quarrel, Mrs. Catanach did not return without having gained something : she had learned that Miss Horn 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 MALCOLM. 2;i grateful one, for who could have told but there might be something in exist- ence 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. T^ old man explained his boy's absence, and as soon as he was dismissed took his way to the town and called upon Miss Horn. In half an hour the good lady started on foot for Duff Harbor, It was already growing dark, but there was one feeling Miss Horn 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 toward 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 bed-time. 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 human- ity somewhere in his lordship, one of whose indications was this spectacular interest in his kind. As to their bygone histor)', how they fared out of his sight or what might become of them, he nev- er gave a thought to anything of the kind — never felt the pull of one of the bonds of brotherhood, laughed at them the mo- ment 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 in- dolent life of the metropolis to the quiet- er and more active pursuits of the coun- tr}', his character had bettered a little, in- asmuch as it was a shade more access- ible 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 com- pany of his daughter had chiefly con- tributed ; for, if she was little more de- veloped in the right direction than him- self, 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 occurrence had had a share in it, occasioning a re- vival of old memories which had a con- siderably 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 pea- fowl's Qgg with deliberation, while he tried his best to recall in what connec- tion he could have heard the name be- fore, 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. Mys- 252 MALCOLM. terious 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 Horn speedily interrupted his courtesy. "Own to nae debt, my lord, till ye ken what it's 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. " Ken ye that han' o' wreet, 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 counte- nance curiosity had mingled with the expectation. He glanced at it. A sha- dow 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, whaur there's mair like it." "Show me them." " I hae shawn ye plenty for a swatch {^pattern), my lord." " You refuse ?" said the marquis ; and the tone of the question was like the first frosty puff that indicates a change of weather. "Idiv, my lord," she answered im- perturbably. " If they are not my property, why did you bring me this ?" "Are they your property, my lord?" "This is my handwriting." "Ye alloo that?" "Certainly, my good woman. You did not expect me to deny it ?" "God forbid, my lord! But will ye uphaud yerscl' the lawfu' heir to the de- ceased? It lies atween ycr lordship an' mysel' i' the mean time." He sat down, holding the scrap of pa- per 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 Horn's indignant soul never reach- ed her lips. " It's no my trade," she an- swered with the coldness of suppressed wrath. "1 dinna deal in sic waurs." "What do you deal in, then?" as]^d the marquis. "In trouth an' 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 ane thoucht them o' vail- ue," replied Miss Horn — and her voice trembled a little, but she hemmed away her emotion — "for a time at least, my lord ; an' for her sake they're o' vailue to me, be they what they may to yer lordship. But wha can tell ? Scots law may put life intill them yet, an' gie them a vailue to somebody forbye 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." " Guid forgie ye, my lord ! My advan- tage ! I thoucht yer lordship had been mair o' a gentleman by this time, or I wad hae sent a lawyer till ye, in place o' comin' mysel'." "What do you mean by that?" " It's plain ye cudna hae been muckle o' a gentleman ance, my lord ; an' it seems ye're no muckle mair o' ane yet, for a' ye maun hae come throu' i' the mean time." " I trust you have discovered nothing in those letters to afford ground for such a harsh judgment," said the marquis se- riously. " Na, no a word i' them, but the mair oot o' them. Ye winna threep upo' me 'at a man wha lea's a woman, lat alane his wife — or ane 'at he ca's his wife — to a' the pains o' a mithcr an' a' the penal- ties o' an Gonmerricd ane, ohn ever speirt MALCOLM. 253 hoo she wan throu' them, preserves the richt he was born till o' bein' coontit a gentleman ? Ony gait, a maiden wu- man like mysel', wha has nae feelin's, will not alloo him the teetle. Guid for- bid it!" "You are plain-spoken." "I'm plain made, my lord. I ken guid frae ill, an' little forbye, but aye fand that eneuch to sair my turn. Aither thae letters o' yer lordship's are ilk ane o' them a lee, or ye desertit yer wife an' bairn — " "Alas I" interrupted the marquis with some emotion, "she deserted me, and took the child with her." "Wha ever daurt sic a lee upo' my Grizel ?" shouted Miss Horn, clenching and shaking her bony fist at the world in general. " It was but a fortnicht or three weeks, as near as I can judge, efter the birth o' your bairn, that Grizel Cam'ell — " "Were you with her then ?" again in- terrupted the marquis, in a tone of sor- rowful interest. "No, my lord, I was not. Gien I had been, I wadna be upo' sic an eeran' this day. For nigh twenty lang years "at her an' me keepit hoose thegither, till she dee'd i' my airms, never a day was she cot o' my sicht, or ance — " The marquis leaped rather than start- ed to his feet, exclaiming, "What in the name of God do you mean, woman ?" " I kenna what ye mean, my lord. I ken 'at I'm but tellin' ye the trouth whan I tell ye 'at Grizel Cam'ell, up to that day — an' that's little ower sax month sin' syne — " " Good God !" cried the marquis ; "and here have I — Woman, are you speak- ing the truth ? If — " he added threat- eningly, and paused. "Leein' 's what I never cud bide, my lord, an' I'm no likely to tak till 't at my age, wi' the lang-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 Horn. "They're o' nae sic worth, my lord — I hae yer ain word for 't. But I carena the leg o' a spin-maggie [daddy-long- legs). Pairt wi' them I will not, 'cep' to him 'at proves himsel' the richtfu' heir to them." "A husband inherits from his wife." " Or maybe her son micht claim first . I dinna ken. But there 's lawyers, my lord, to redd the doobt." " Her son ? You don't mean — " " I div mean Malcolm MacPhail, my lord." "God in heaven !" "His name 's mair i' yer mou' nor i' yer hert, I'm doobtin', my lord. Ye a' cry oot upo' Him — the men o' ye — whan ye're in ony tribble or want to gar wo- men believe ye. But I'm thinkin' He peys but little heed to sic prayers." Thus Miss Horn ; 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 stop- ping and casting an almost wild look at Miss Horn, 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 Horn. " Then what the devil," roared the marquis, "do you mean by coming to me with such a cock-and-bull story ?" " There's naither cock-craw nor bill- rair intill it, my lord. I come to you wi' 't i' the houp ye'll help to redd [clear] it up, for I dinna weel ken what we can du, wantin' ye. There's but ane kens a' the trouth o' 't, an' she's the awfu'est leear oot o' purgatory — no 'at I believe in purgator)', but it's the langer an' licht- er word to mak' use o'." "Who is she ?" "By name she's Bawby Cat'nach, an' by natur' she's wat I tell ye ; an' gien I had her atween my twa een, it's what I wad say to the face o' her." " It can't be MacPhail. Mrs. Stewart says he is hcr%ox\, and the woman Cat- anach is her chief witness in support of the claim." "The deevil has a better to the twa o' them, my lord, as they'll ken some day. His claim 'ill want nae supportin'. Din- na ye believe a word Mistress Stewart, or 254 MALCOLM. Bawby Catanach aither, wad say to ye. Gien he be Mistress Stewart's, wha was his father?" "You think that he resembles my late brother : he has a look of him, I must confess." " He has, my lord. But onybody 'at kent the mither o' 'm, as you an' me did, my lord, wad see anither lik'ness as weel." " I grant nothing." "Ye grant Grizel Cam'ell yer wife, my lord, whan ye own to that wreet. Gien 't war naething but a written promise an' a bairn to follow, it wad be merriage eneuch i' this cuintry, though it mayna be in cuintries no sae ceevileest." " 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 cud, my lord, gien ye war as set upo' justice as I am. Gien ye win- na muv i' the maitter, we s' manage to hirple [go halting) throu', wantin' ye, though, wi' 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, turn- ed, strode back and said, "This is a very serious matter." " It's a' that, my lord," replied Miss Horn. "You must give me a little time to turn it over," said the marquis. " Isna twenty year time eneuch, my lord?" rejoined Miss Horn. " 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 at Brussels with the duke." Miss Horn made three great strides, caught the marquis's hand in both hers, and said, " I praise God ye're an honest man, my lord." "I hope so," said the marquis, and seized the advantage. "You'll hold your tongue about this ?" he added, half in- quiring, half requesting. "As lang as I see rizzon, my lord — nae langer," answered Miss Horn, dropping his hand. "Richt maun be dune." "Yes, if you can tell what right is, and avoid wrong to others." " Richt 's richt, my lord," persisted Miss Horn. " I'll hae nae modifi-quali- fications." His lordship once more began to walk up and down the room, every now and then taking a stolen glance at Miss Horn — a glance of uneasy anxious questioning. She stood rigid, a very Lot's wife of im- mobility, her eyes on the ground, wait- ing 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 Horn took no notice. " Why don't you speak, woman ?" cried the marquis with irritation. How he hated perplexity ! " Ye speired nae queston, my lord ; an' gien ye had, my word has ower little weicht to answer wi'." "Can I trust you, woman ? I want to know," said his lordship angrily. " No far'er, my lord, nor to du what I think's richt." " 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 du naething afore the morn. Far'er nor that I winna pledge mysel'," answered Miss Horn, and with the words moved toward the door. "Hadn't you better take this with you?" said the marquis, offering the lit- tle note, which he had carried all the time between his finger and thumb. "There's nae occasion: I hae plenty wantin' that. Only dinna lea' 't lyin' aboot." "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 MALCOLM. 25s 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 cast derive from the secresy of pleasure — that he had persuaded her to the unequal yoking of honesty and se- cresy. 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 appre- hend consequences that must lead to discovery, he had, in the difficulties of the case and the hope of a speedy re- turn, 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 en- durance ; for of all things he hated suffer- ing, 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 dews of his sorrow, but the tender buds of new life that had begun to mottle the withering tree of his nature. The desire after better things, which had, under his wife's genial influence, begun to pass into eftbrt, not only vanished ut- terly in the shameless round of evil dis- traction, but its memory became a mock- ery 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 com- panions. Reduced at length to straits, almost to want, he had married the mother of Florimel, to whom for a time he endeav- ored to conduct himself in some meas- ure like a gentleman. For this he had been rewarded by a decrease in the rate of his spiritual submergence, but his be- draggled 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 uninter- esting, took to repining and tears, alien- ated 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 toward 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 dis- covery that, while overwhelmed with re- morse for the vanished past, the present and the future had been calling him, but had now also — that present and that fu- ture — glided from him, and folded their wings of gloom in the land of shadows. All the fierce time he might have been blessedly growing better, instead of heap- ing 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 hus- band. And the blame of it all he did not fail to cast upon that Providence in which until now he had professed not to believe : such faith as he was yet capa- ble of awoke in the form of resentment. He judged himself hardly done by, and the few admonitory sermons he had hap- pened 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 lat- tice of his memory ; and a mighty cor- 256 MALCOLM. roboration of Malcolm's asserted birth lay in the look upon his face as he hur- ried 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 do- ing justice to a woman of Miss Horn's inflexibility in right, he could yet more than surmise the absoluteness of that in- flexibility — 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 inabil- ity to prove Malcolm his son without the testimony of Mrs. Catanach, and the latter was even now representing him as the son of Mrs. Stewart. That Mrs. Catanach 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-cur- tains? — which ring was a diamond he had given his wife from his own finger when they parted. She probably be- lieved the lady to have been Mrs. Stew- art, and the late marquis the father of the child. Should he see Mrs. Cata- nach ? And what then ? He found no difficulty in divining the reasons which must have induced his brother to provide for the secret ac- couchement of his wife in the wizard's chamber, and for the abduction of the child, if indeed his existence was not ow- ing to Mrs. Catanach's love of intrigue. The elder had judged the younger broth- er unlikely to live long, and had expect- ed his own daughter to succeed himself. But now the younger might any day mar- ry the governess and legahze the child ; and the elder had therefore secured the disappearance of the latter, and the be- lief of his brother in the death of both. Lord Lossie was roused from his rev- ery by a light tap at the door, which he knew for 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 Horn had already broken faith with him and found com- munication with Malcolm. He was soon satisfied of the contrary, however, but would have found it hard indeed to un- derstand, 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. "Ay, my lord." " Did you find Stewart ?" "Ay did we at last, my lord; but we made naething by 't, for he kent noucht aboot the lassie, an' 'maist lost his wuts at the news." "No great loss, that," said the mar- quis. "Go and send Stoat here." "Is there ony hurry aboot Stoat, my lord?" asked Malcolm, hesitating. "I had a word to say to yer lordship mysel'." "Make haste, then." "I'm some fain to gang back to the fishin', my lord,'' said Malcolm. "This is ower-easy a life for me. The deil wins in for the liftin' o' the sneck. Forbye, my lord, a life wi'oot aithcr danger or wark 's some wersh-like [insipid): it wants saut, my lord. But a' that's nai- ther here nor there, I ken, sae king 's ye want me oot o' the hoose, 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 ?" •• "Gien yer lordship kens nane, sma' occasion hae I to haud a rizzon to yer han'. I thoucht — But the thoucht it- scl 's impidence." MALCOLM. 257 "You young fool! You thought, be- cause 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. Every- thing seemed about to come right again. But his master remained silent. " I houp my leddy's weel," ventured Malcolm at length. "Quite well. She's with Lady Bellair in Edinburgh." Lady Bellair was the bold - faced countess. " I dinna like her," said Malcolm. "Who the devil asked you to like her ?" said the marquis. But he laughed as he said it. " I beg yer lordship's pardon," return- ed Malcolm. " I said it or I kent. It was nane o' my business wha my leddy was wi'." " Certainly not. But I don't mind con- fessing that Lady Bellair is not one I should choose to give authority over Lady florimel. You have some regard for your young mistress, I know, Mal- colm." " I wad dee for her, my lord." " That's a common assertion," said the marquis. "No wi' fisher-fowk : I kenna hoo it may be wi' your fowk, my lord." "Well, even with us it means some- thing. 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 devoticai — real devotion, I mean — self-sacrifice, you know ?" " I daurna doobt it, my lord." "Without fee or hope of reward ?" 17 "There maun be some cawpable o' 't, my lord, or what for sud the warl' be ? What ither sud haud it ohn been de- stroyt as Sodom was for the want o* the ten richteous ? There maun be saut whaur corruption hasna the thing a' its ain gait." "You certainly have pretty high no- tions of things, MacPhail. For my part, I can easily enough imagine a man risk- ing his life ; but devoting it ! That's an- other thing altogether." "There maun be 'at wad du a' 'at cud be dune, 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 a' thing, my lord — short o' ill. I wad sterve for her, but I wadna steal ; I wad fecht for her, but I wadna lee." "Would you be her servant all your days? Come, now !" " Mair nor willin'ly, my lord, gien she wad only hae me an' keep me." " But suppose you came to inherit the Kirkbyres property?" "My lord," said Malcolm solemnly, "that's a puir test to put me till : it gangs for naething. I wad raither clean my leddy's butes frae mornin' to nicht nor be the son o' that wuman gien she war a born duchess. Try me wi' something worth yer lordship's mou'." 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 a' aboot that, my lord," an- swered Malcolm, "ohn speirt at ony- body." Lord Lossie turned from the door, or- dered him to bring his riding-coat and boots, and, ringing the bell, sent a mes- sage to Stoat to saddle the bay mare. IPJLI^T 2^11. CHAPTER LXIV. THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHFR. WHEN Malcolm and Joseph set out from Duff Harbor 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 occasion- ally seen, in the hope of chancing upon him ; and they wandered in vain about the woods of Fife House all that week, returning disconsolate every evening to the litde 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 or- ganize a search for him. Monday pass- ed like the days that had preceded it, and they were returning dejectedly down the left bank of the Wan Water in the gloaming, 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 at them 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 reach- ■ ed 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've ta'en awa' Phemy, an' we dinna ken whaur to luik 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 look- ed. Neither exposure nor privation had thus wrought upon him : he was simply dying of fear. Having greeted Joseph 358 with embarrassment, he kept glancing doubtfully at Malcolm, as if ready to run on his least movement. In few words Joseph explained their quest — with trem- bling voice and tears that would not be denied enforcing the tale. Ere he had done the laird's jaw had fallen and fur- ther speech was impossible to him. But by gestures sad and plain enough he in- dicated 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 toward the sound, and Malcolm unconsciously followed his movement. When they turned again the laird had vanished, and they took their way home- ward in sadness. What passed next with the laird can be but conjectured. It came to be well enough known afterward where he had been hiding ; and had it not been dusk as they came down the river-bank the two men might, looking up to the bridge from below, have had it suggested to them. For in the half-spandrel wall be- tween the first arch and the bank they might havd spied a small window look- ing 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 vanished lord as a kind of summer-house — long neg- lected, 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 game- keepers for traps and fishing-gear and odds and ends of things, and was gen- crallj supposed to be locked up. The MALCOLM. 259 laird had, however, found it open, and his refuge in it had been connived at by one of the men, who, as they heard after- ward, had given him the key and assist- ed him in carrying out a plan he had de- vised 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 draw- ing-room alone : she seldom had visitors at Kirkbyres — not that she liked being alone, or indeed being there at all, for she would have lived on the Continent, but that her son's trustees, partly to in- dulge their own aversion to her, taking upon them a larger discretionary power than rightly belonged to them, kept her too straitened, 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 Homburg, where she was at home. There her sojourn was determined by her good or ill fortune at faro. What she meditated over her knitting by the firelight — she had put out her candles — it would be hard to say, per- haps 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 to the past, no man can make for himself, seeing the very making of it must testify its false- hood. She looked up, gave a cry and started to her feet : Stephen stood before her, halfway between her and the door. Re- vealed 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 flash- ed again there was her son, regarding her out of great eyes that looked as if * Com' io fui dentro, in un bogliente vetro Gittato mi sarei per rinfrescarmi, Tant' era ivi lo'ncendio senza metro. Del Purgatorio, xxvii. 49. they had seen death. A ghastly air hung about him, as if he had just come back from Hades, but in his silent bear- ing there was a sanity, even dignity, which strangely impressed her. He came forward a pace or two, stopped, and said, " Dinna be frichtit, mem. I'm come. Sen' the lassie hame an' du wi' me as ye like. I canna baud aff o' me. But I think I'm deein', an' ye 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 re- sponded. 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, Ste- phen," 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. "Stephen 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, point- ing 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 un- wieldy log and carried him, convulsed, from the room. Stephen's mother sat down again by the fire and resumed her knitting. CHAPTER LXV. 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 Kirkbyres wanted him. Hiding his re- 26o MALCOLM. luctance, he went with her and found Tom, who was Mrs. Stewart's grieve and had been about the place all his days. "Mr. Stephen's come hame, sir," he said, touching his bonnet, a civility for which Malcolm was not grateful. "It's no possible," returned Malcolm. "I saw him last nicht." "He cam aboot ten o'clock, sir, an' hed a turn o' the fa'in' sickness o' the spot. He's verra ill the noo, an' the mistress sent me ower to speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein' to see him." " Has he ta'en till 's bed ?" asked Malcolm. "We pat him intill 't, sir. He's ravin' mad, an' I'm thinkin' he's no far frae his hin'er en'." "I'll gang wi' ye direckly," said Mal- colm. In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to Kirkbyres, neither with much to say to the other, for Malcolm distrusted every one about the place, and Tom was by nature taciturn. "What garred them sen' for me, div ye ken ?" asked Malcolm at length when they had gone about halfway. "He cried oot upo' ye i' the nicht," answered Tom. When they arrived Malcolm was shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Stew- art met him with red eyes. " Will you come and see my poor boy ?" she said. " I wuU du that, mem. Is he verra 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 'im, mem ?" asked Malcolm. "Yes, but he says he can't do anything for him." " Wha waits upon 'im, mem ?" "One of the maids and myself" " I'll jist bide wi' 'im." "That will be very kind of you." "I s' bide wi' 'im till I see 'im oot o' this, ae w'y or ither," 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, haunt- ed 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 dark- ness ! Is it that the delirium falls, a veil of love, to hide other and more real ter- rors? His eyes would now and then meet those of Malcolm as they gazed tender- ly upon him, but the living thing that looked out of the windows was darken- ed and saw him not. Occasionally a word would fall from him, or a murmur of half-articulation float 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 bab- ble into the moulds of the laird's cus- tomary thought and speech : " I dinna ken whaur I cam frae — I kenna whaur I'm gaein' till. — Eh, gien He wad but come oot an' shaw Himsel' ! — O Lord ! tak the deevil aff o' my puir back. — O Father o' lichts ! gar him tak the hump wi' him. I hae no fawvor for't, though it's been my constant compainion this mony 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 wa's an' no a breath !" he mur- mured or seemed to murmur again. " Nae gerse nor flooers nor bees ! I hae na room for my hump, an' I canna lie upo' 't, for that wad kill me. WuU I ever ken whaur I cam frae ? The wine's unco guid. Gie me a drap mair, gien ye please. Lady Horn. — I thought the grave was a better place. I hae lain saftcr afore I dce'd. — Phcmy ! Phemy ! Rin, Phemy, rin ! I s' bide wi' them this time. Ye rin, Phemy !" MALCOLM, 261 As it grew dark the air turned very chill, and snow began to fall thick and fast. Malcolm laid a few sticks on the smouldering 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 vio- lent 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 soon 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 toward the flame ; a smile came over it ; his eyes opened wide, and with such an ex- pression of seeing gazed beyond Mal- colm that he turned his in the same direction. " Eh, the bonny man ! The bonny man !" murmured the laird. But Malcolm saw nothing, and turn- ed again to the laird : his jaw had fall- en, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a sunset. He was dead. Malcolm rang the bell, told the wo- man 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. "Whaurare ye for?" asked Malcolm. "I'm gaein' for Mistress Cat'nach," answered the boy. "Gang yer w'ys than, an' dinna haud the deid waitin'," 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. Catanach was not to be found. His road lay down the glen, past Dun- can's cottage, at whose door he dismount- ed, 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 pe your ownself ?" it said. "It wuU that, daddy," answered Mal- colin. The piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling softly upon him. " But it's ower cauld for ye to be sittin' there i' the snaw, an' the mirk tu," added Malcolm. " Ta tarkness will not be ketting to ta inside of her," returned the seer. "Ah, my poy ! where ta light kets in, ta tark- ness will pe ketting in too. This now, your whole pody will pe full of tarkness, as ta Piple will say, and Tuncan's pody tat will pe full of ta light." Then with suddenly changed tone he said, " Listen, Malcolm, my son ! She'll pe ferry un- easy till you'll wass pe come home." "What's the maitter noo, daddy ?" re- turned Malcolm. "Onythingwrangaboot the hoose ?" "Something will pe wrong, yes, put she'll not can tell where. No, her pody will not pe full of light ! For town here, in ta curset Lowlands, ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my son. It will now pe no more as a co creeping troo' her, and she'll nefer see plain no more till she'll pe come pack to her own mountains." "The puir laird's gane back to his," said Malcolm. "I won'er gien he kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin' at ilk ane he meets gien he can tell him whaur he cam frae. He's mad nae mair, onygait." "How? Will he pe not tead? Ta poor lairt ! Ta poor maad lairt !" " Ay, he's deid : maybe that's what'll be troublin' yer sicht, daddy." "No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not ferry maad, and if he was maad he was not paad, and it was not to ta plame of him : he was coot always, howefer." "He wass that, daddy." "But it will pe something ferry paad, and it will pe efer troubling her speerit. When she'll pe take ta pipes to pe amus- ing herself, and will plow ' Till an crodh a' Dhonnachaidh' ('Turn the Cows, Dun- can'), out will pe come ' Cumhadh an fhir 262 MALCOLM. mhoir' ('The Lament of the Big Man'). Aal is not well, my son." "Weel, dinna distress yersel', daddy. Lat come what wull come. Foreseein' 's no forefen'in'. Ye ken yersel' at mony 's the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin' to haud it aff." " It will be true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come." "Nae doubt. Sae ye jist come in wi' me, daddy, an' sit doon by the ha' fire, an' I'll come to ye as sune 's I've been to see 'at the maister disna want me. But ye'U better come up wi' me to my room first," he went on' " for the mais- ter disna like to see me in onything but the kilt." "And why will he not pe in ta kilts aal as now ?" "I hae been ridin', ye ken, daddy, an' the trews fits the saiddle better nor the kilts." " She'll not pe knowing tat. Old Al- lister, your creat — her own crandfather, was ta pest horseman ta worlt efer saw, and he'll nefer pe hafing ta trews to his own leeks nor ta saddle to his horse's pack. He'll chust make his men pe strap on an old plaid, and he'll be kive a chump, and away they wass, horse and man, one peast, aal two of tern poth 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. CHAPTER LXVI. THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER. Brooding — if a man of his tempera- ment 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 never had 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 advan- tages he could secure him in the army, still better in the navy, well enough push his way in the world. Miss Horn could produce no testimony, and Mrs. Catanach had asserted him to be 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 Kirkbyres. No : there was bub one hopeful measure, one which he had even already approach- ed in a tentative way — an appeal, name- ly, to Malcolm himself, in which, while acknowledging his probable rights, but representing in the strongest manner the difficulty of proving them, he would set forth in their full dismay the conse- quences to Florimel of their public rec- ognition, 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 Mistress Catanach, 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 butlei 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. "/didn't say I heard it, my lord." " Heard what, in the name of Beelze- bub ?" MALCOLM. 263 "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 mar- quis — "the whole kit of you !" "That's what I say, my lord. I don't know what to do with them, stericking and screaming. Mrs. Courthope is try- ing her best with them, but it's my be- lief 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 si- lence that the marquis heard the low howl of the waking wind, and the snow like the patting 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 ]\Ialcolm had but just en- tered the bed-room 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 out- cry. 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. "Noo, daddy," he said, " I'm gaein' to drive in the door o' the neist room. There's some deevil- ry at wark there. Stan' ye i' the door, an' ghaist or deevil 'at wad win by ye, grip it, an' haud on like Demon the dog." "She will so, she will so," muttered Duncan in a strange tone. "Ochone! that she'll not pe hafing her turk with her! Ochone! ochone!" 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. Catanach. 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 for- ward like a rampant beast prepared to spring. In his face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust — an enmity of all mingled kinds. Malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she turned Mrs. Catanach saw only Duncan's white face of hatred gleaming through the darkness. "Ye auld donnert deevil !" 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 mur- der. 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. Stoat and two of the footmen. Heartily enjoying a row, he stopped instantly, and, signing a halt to his followers, stood listening to the; i64 MALCOLM. mud-geyser that now burst from Mrs. Catanach's throat. "Ye bhn' abortion o' Sawtan's soo !" she cried, "didna I tak ye to du wi' ye as I hkit ? An' that deil's tripe ye ca' yer oye [grandson) — He! he! /lini yer gran'son ! He's naething but ane o' yer hatit Cawm'ells !" "A teanga a' diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag denamh breug (O tongue of the great devil ! thou art making a he)," screamed Duncan, speaking for the first time. " God lay me deid i' my sins gien he be onything but a bastard Cawm'ell!" she asseverated with a laugh of demo- niacal scorn. "Yerdautit [petted) Ma'- colm's naething but the dyke-side brat o' the late Grizel Cawm'ell, 'at the fowk tuik for a sant 'cause she grat an' said naething. I laid the Cawm'ell pup i' yer boody [scarecrow) airms wi' my ain ban's, upo' the tap o' yer curst scraighin' bagpipes 'at sae aften drave the sleep frae my een. Na, ye wad nane o' me ! But I ga'e ye a Cawm'ell bairn to yer hert for a' that, ye auld, hungert, weyver (^/?V/^r)-leggit, worm-aten idiot !" A torrent of Gaelic broke from Dun- can, into the midst of which rushed an- other from Mrs. Catanach, 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 old piper drew himself up to his full height and stood silent. Mrs. Catanach, red as fire with exertion and wrath, turn- ed ashy pale. The marquis cast on her a searching and significant look. "See here, my lord," said Malcolm. Candle in hand, his lordship approach- ed the bed. At the same moment Mrs. Catanach glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of mutual intelli- gence to the group at the door, and van- ished. 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 Phemy, my lord — Blue Peter's lassie, 'at was tint," said Malcolm. "It begins to look serious," said the marquis. — " Mrs. Catanach ! Mrs. Court- hope !" He turned toward 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 Catanach woman gone ?" cried the marquis. "Cone!" shouted the piper. "Cone! and her huspant will be waiting to pe killing her ! Och nan ochan !" " Her husband !" echoed the marquis. "Ach! she'll not can pe helping it, my lort — no more till one will pe tead ; and tat should pe ta woman, for she'll pe a paad woman — ta worstest woman efer was married, my lort." " That's saying a good deal," returned the marquis. "Not one wort more as enough, my lort," said Duncan. "She was only pe her next wife, put, ochone ! ochone ! why did she'll pe marry her ? You would haf stapt her long aco, my lort, if she'll was your wife and you was knowing ta tamned fox and padger she was pe. Ochone ! and she tidn't pe have her turk at her bench nor her sgian in her hose." He shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and wept in the agony of frustrated rage. Mrs. Courthope took Phemy 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, Mal- colm set out to bear the good tidings to her father and mother. Only a few nights before had Phemy 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. Catanach'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 fright- ened ; and when questioned as to what had made her do so then, she knew noth- ing of it : she remembered only that a horrible creature appeared by the bed- MALCOLM. 265 side, after which all was blank. On the floor they found a hideous death-mask, doubtless the cause of the screams which Mrs. Catanach had sought to stifle with the pillows and bed-clothes. When Malcolm returned he went at once to the piper's cottage, where he found him in bed, utterly exhausted and as utterly restless. "VVeel, daddy," he said, " I doobt I daurna come near ye noo." "Come to her arms, my poor poy," faltered Duncan. "She'll pe sorry in her sore heart for her poy. Nefer you pe minding, my son : you couldn't help ta Cam'ell mother, and you'll pe her own poy however. Ochone ! it will pe a plot xipon you aal your tays, my son, and she'll not can help you, and it'll pe preaking her old heart." " Gien God thoucht the Cam'ells worth makin', daddy, I dinna see 'at I hae ony' richt to compleen 'at I cam' o' them." " She hopes you'll pe forgifing ta plind old man, however. She couldn't see, or she would haf known at once petter." " I dinna ken what ye're efter noo, daddy," said Malcolm. " That she'll do you a creat wrong, and she'll be ferry sorry for it, my son." "What wrang did ye ever du me, daddy ?" "That she w-as let you crow up a Cam'ell, my poy. If she tid put know ta paad blood was pe in you, she wouldn't pe tone you ta wrong as pring you up." "That's a wrang no ill to forgi'e, dad- dy. But it's a pity ye didna lat me lie, for maybe syne Mistress Catanach wad hae broucht me up hersel', an' I micht hae come to something." "Ta duvil mhor [great) would pe in your heart and prain and poosom, my son." " Weel, ye see what ye hae saved me frae." "Yes; put ta duvil will be to pay, for she couldn't safe you from ta Cam'ell plood, my son. Malcolm, my poy," he added after a pause, and with the solem- nity of a mighty hate, "ta efil woman her- self will pe a Cam'ell — ta woman Catan- ach will pe a Cam'ell, and her nainsel' she'll not know it pefore she'll be in ta ped with ta worstest Cam'ell tat ever God made ; and she pecks his pardon, for she'll not pelieve He wass making ta Cam'ells." " Divna ye think God made me, dad- dy ?" asked Malcolm. The old man thought for a little. " Tat will tepend on who was pe your father, my son," he replied. " If he too will be a Cam'ell — ochone ! ochone ! Put tere may pe some coot plood co into you — more as enough to say God will pe make you, my son. Put don't pe asking, Mal- colm — ton't you'll pe asking." "What am I no to ask, daddy ?" "Ton't pe asking who made you, who was ta father to you, my poy. She would rather not pe knowing, for ta man might pe a Cam'ell poth. And if she couldn't pe lofing you no more, my son, she would pe tie before her time, and her tays would pe long in ta land under ta crass, my son." But the remembrance of the sweet face whose cold loveliness he had once kissed was enough to outweigh with Malcolm all the prejudices of Duncan's instilla- tion, 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-dis- covered 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. Mal- colm 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 Mal- colm think as he gazed around it that it was the room in which he had first breath- 266 MALCOLM. ed the air of the world ; in which his mother had wept over her own false po- sition 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 be- tween the conflicting emotions of a gra- cious love for him and the frightful hate of her. CHAPTER LXVII. FEET OK WOOL. The next day, Miss Horn, punctual as Fate, presented herself at Lossie House, and was shown at once into the marquis's study, as it was called. When his lord- ship entered she took the lead the mo- ment the door was shut. " By this time, my lord, ye'U doobtless hae made up yer min' to du what's richt?" she said. "That's what I have always wanted to do," returned the marquis. " Hm !" remarked Miss Horn as plain- ly as inarticulately. " In this affair," he supplemented ; add- ing, " It's not always so easy to tell what is right." " It's no aye easy to luik for 't wi' baith yer een," said Miss Horn. "This woman Catanach — we must get her to give credible testimony. What- ever the fact may be, we must have strong evidence. And there comes the difficulty, that she has already made an altogether different statement." " It gangs for naething, my lord. It was never made afore a justice o' the peace." " I wish you would go to her and see how she is inclined." "Me gang to Bawbie Catanach!" ex- claimed Miss Horn. "I wad as sune gang an' kittle Sawtan's nose wi' the p'int o' 's tail. Na, na, my lord. Gien onybody gang till her wi' my wull, it s' be a limb o' the law. I s' hae nae cog- nostin' wi' her." "You would have no objection, how- ever, 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 Horn could not long re- main in ignorance of the declaration her fury had, the night previous, forced from Mrs. Catanach ; but he must, he thought, put her off and keep her quiet, if pos- sible, until he had come to an under- standing with Malcolm, after which he would no doubt have his trouble with her. "Ye can du as yer lordship likes," an- swered Miss Horn, "but I wadna hae 't said o' me 'at I had ony dealin's wi' her. Wha kens but she micht say ye tried to bribe her ? There's naething she wad bogle at gien she thoucht it worth her while. No 'at I 'm feart at her. Lat her lee! I'm no sae blate but — Only dinna lippen till a word she says, my lord." The marquis hesitated. "I wonder whether the real source of my perplexity occurs to you, Miss Horn," he said at length. "You know I have a daughter ?" "Weel eneuch that, my lord." " By my second marriage." "Nae merridge ava', my lord." "True, if I confess to the first." "A' 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 eneuch, 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 wad hae yer lawfu' son beir the lawless name." " No, no : it need never come out what he is. I will provide for him — as a gen- tleman, of course." " It canna be, my lord. Ye can du naething for him, wi' that face o' his, but oot comes the trouth as to the fath- er o' 'im ; an' it wadna be lang afore the tale was ekit oot wi' the name o' his mither — Mistress Catanach wad see to that, gien 'twas only to spite me — an' I wunna hae my Grizel ca'd what she is not for ony lord's dauchter i' the three kynriks." "What docs it matter, now she's dead and gone ?" said the marquis, false to the dead in his love for the living. MALCOLM. 267 "Deid an' gane, my lord? What ca' ye deid an' gane ? Maybe the great anes o' the yerth get sic a forlethie [surfeit) o' grand'ur 'at they're for nae mair, an' wad perish like the brute beast. For onything I ken, they may hae their wuss, but for mysel', I wad warstle to haud my sowl waukin' [awake') i' the verra article o' deith, for the bare chance o' seein' my bonny Grizel again. It's a mercy I hae nae feelin's," 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 ye, ray lord, I wad du naething but what I saw to be richt. Lat this af- fair oot o' my ban's I daurna. That laad ye micht work to onything 'at made agane himsel'. He's jist like his puir mither there." "If Miss Campbell was his mother," said the marquis. "Miss Cam'ell !" cried Miss Horn. " I'll thank yer lordship to ca' her by her ain, an' that's Lady Lossie." What of the something ruinous heart of the marquis was habitable was occu- pied by his daughter, and had no accom- modation 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 Horn 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 an' scare the stane lion-beast at yer ha'-door. Haud oot o' the gait an' lat me gang." " Not until I know what you are going to do," said the marquis very seriously. " I hae naething mair to transac' wi' yer lordship. You an' me 's strangers, my lord." " Tut ! tut ! I was but trying you." "An' gien I had ta'en the disgrace ye offert me, ye wad hae drawn back ?" "No, certainly." "Ye wasna tryin' me, then: ye was duin' yer best to corrup' me." "I'm no splitter of hairs." " My lord, it's nane but the corrup'ible wad seek to corrup'." The marquis gnawed a nail or two in silence. Miss Horn dragged an easy- chair within a couple of yards of him. "We'll see wha tires o' this ghem first, my lord," she said as she sank into its hospitable embrace. The 9;iarquis 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. " Hae ye h'ard o' puir Sandy Graham — hoo they're misguidin' him, my lord ?" she asked with composure. The marquis was first astounded, and then tickled by her assurance. "No," he answered. "They hae turnt him oot o' hoose an' ha' — schuil, at least, an' hame," she re- joined. " I may say they hae turnt him oot o' Scotlan', for what presbytery wad hae him efter he had been fun' guilty o' no thinkin' like ither fowk ? Ye maun Stan' his guid freen', my lord." "He shall be Malcolm's tutor," an- swered the marquis, not to be outdone in coolness, "and go with him to Edinburgh — or Oxford, if he prefers it." "Never yerl o' Colonsay had a better," said Miss Horn. "Softly, softly, ma'am," returned the marquis. " I did not say he should go in that style." " He s' gang as my lord o' Colonsay or hes' no gang at /(??/r 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 wuss I war, my lord : I sud gar ye hear risson upo' baith sides o' yer heid, I s' warran'." The marquis laughed. "Well, I can't 268 MALCOLM. stand here all day," he said, impatiently swinging one leg. "I'm weel awaur o' that, my lord," an- swered Miss Horn, rearranging her scanty skirt. " How long are you going to keep me, then ?" " I wadna hae ye bide a meenute langer nor 's agreeable to yersel'. But /'m in nae hurry sae lang 's ye're afore me. Ye're nae ill to luik at, though ye maun hae been bonnier the day ye wan the hert o' my Grizel." 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." " Whaur's the use ? A' the thinkin' i' the warl' canna alter a single fac'. Ye maun do richt by my laddie o' yer ain- sel', or I maun gar ye." "You would find a lawsuit heavy. Miss Horn." " An' ye wad fin' the scandal o' 't ill to bide, my lord. It wad come sair upo' Miss — I kenna what name she has a richt till, my lord." The marquis uttered a frightful impre- cation, left the door, and, sitting down, hid his face in his hands. Miss Horn rose, but instead of securing her retreat, approached him gently and stood by his side. "My lord," she said, " I canna thole to see a man in tribble. Women 's born till 't, an' they tak it an' are thankfu' ; but a man never gies in till't, an' sae it comes harder upo' him nor upo' them. Hear me, my lord : gien there be a man upo' this earth wha wad shield a woman, that man 's Ma'colm Colonsay." "If only she weren't his sister!" mur- mured the marquis. "An' jist bethink ye, my lord : wad it be onything less nor an imposition to lat a man merry her ohn tellt him what she was ?" "You insolent old woman !" cried the marquis, losing his temper, discretion and manners all together. "Go and do your worst, and be damned to you !" So saying, he left the room, and Miss Horn found her way out of the house in a temper quite as fierce as his — in cha- racter, however, entirely different, inas- much 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 fol- lowed 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-rein, which had fretted his temper the more, and when he let go the devil ran away with him. " I thoucht yer lordship wad like to see an auld stair I cam upo' the ither day, 'at gangs frae the wizard's chaumer — " "Go to hell with your damned tomfool- ery !" 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 sym- pathy 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 minutes he stood in the wiz- ard's chamber, and glanced around 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 self- ishness had brought upon the woman he loved : then spying the door in the far- thest corner, he made for it, and in a MALCOLM. 269 moment more, his curiosity now thor- oughly roused, was slowly gyrating down the steps of the old screw-stair. But Malcolm had gone to his own room, and, hearing some one 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 whaever ye are ! tak care hoo ye gang or ye'll get a ter- rible fa'." 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 descend- ed 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. Hurry- ing 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, how- ever, he got up, swore a good deal and limped swearing into the house. *> The doctor, who was sent for instant- ly, pronounced the knee - cap 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 marquis's temperament the enforced quiet was worse. CHAPTER LXVin. HANDS OF IRON. The marquis was loved by his do- mestics, and his accident, with its con- sequences, although none more serious were anticipated, cast a gloom over Los- sie House. Far apart as was his cham- ber from all the centres 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 Horn was too generous not to delay proceedings while her adversary was ill. Besides, what she most of all desired was the marquis'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 de- liverance from Mrs. Stewart, but Mr. Graham had not acquainted him with the discovery Miss Horn had made, or her belief concerning his large interest therein, to which Malcolm's report of the wrath-born declaration of Mrs. Cat- anach had now supplied the only testi- mony wanting, for the right of disclosure was Miss Horn's. To her he had car- ried Malcolm's narrative of late events, tenfold strengthening her position ; but she was anxious in her turn that the rev- elation 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 marquis had said about the tutorship, but the schoolmaster only shook his head with a smile, and went on with his prep- arations for departure. The hours went by, the days length- ened into weeks, and the marquis's con- dition 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 pres- ence 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. 270 MALCOLM. The inflammation continued, increased, spread, and at length the doctors deter- mined to amputate. Rut the marquis was absolutely horrified at the idea — shrank from it with invincible repug- nance. 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, turn- ing away his face, lay silent. The two men looked at each other and said nothing. Malcolm was by, and a pang shot to his heart at the verdict. The men retired to consult. Malcolm approach- ed the bed. "My lord !" he said gently. No reply came. "Dinna lea 's oor lanes, my lord — no yet," Malcolm persisted. "What's to come o' my leddy ?" The marquis gave a gasp. Still he made no reply. "She has naebody, ye ken, my lord, 'at ye wad like to lippen her wi'." " You must take care of her when I am gone, Malcolm," murmured the marquis; and his voice was now gentle with sad- ness and broken with misery. "Me, my lord!" returned Malcolm. "Wha wad min' me.'' An' what cud I du wi' her ? I cudna even haud her ohn wat her feet. Her leddy's maid cud du mair wi' her, though I wad lay doon my life for her, as I tauld ye, my lord; an' she kens 't weel eneuch." Silence followed. Both men were thinking. "Gie me a richt, my lord, an' I'll du my best," said Malcolm, at length break- ing the silence. "What do you mean?" growled the marquis, whose mood had altered. "Gie me a legal richt, my lord, an' see gien I dinna." "See what ?" " See gien I dinna luik weel efter my leddy." " How am I to see ? I shall be dead and damned." "Please God, my lord, ye'll be alive an' weel — in a better place, if no here to luik efter my leddy yersel'." " Oh, I dare say," muttered the mar- quis. " But ye'll hearken to the doctors, my lord," Malcolm went on, "an' no dee wantin' time to consider o' 't." "Yes, yes : to-morrow I'll have anoth- er 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 dinna 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 w'y o' makin' ae body guairdian till anither, sae 'at the law 'II uphaud him — isna 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 man- ner. He felt he could stand any amount of chaff from him now, and so tiie prop- osition he had made in seriousness he MALCOLM. 271 went on to defend in the hope of giving amusement, yet with a secret wild dehght in the dream of such full devotion to the service of Lady Florimel. "It wad soon' queer eneuch, my lord, nae doobt, but fowk maunna min' the soon' o' a thing gien 't be a' straucht an' fair, an' strong eneuch to stan'. They cudna lauch me oot o' my richts, be they 'at they likit — Lady Bellair or ony o' them — na, nor jaw me oot o' them aither." "They might do a good deal to ren- der those rights of little use," said the marquis. "That wad come till a trial o' brains, my lord," returned Malcolm: "an' ye dinna think I wadna hae the wit to speir advice; an', what's mair, to ken whan it was guid, an' tak it. There's lawyers, my lord." "And their expenses ?" "Ye cud lea' sae muckle to be waured [spent] upo' the cairryin' oot o' yer lord- ship's wuU." "Who would see that you applied it properly ?" "My ain conscience, my lord, or Mr. Graham gien ye likit." " And how would you live yourself?" "Ow! lea' ye that to me, my lord. Only dinna imagine I wad be behauden to yer lordship. I houp I hae mair pride nor that. Ilka poun'-not', shillin' an' bawbee sud be laid oot for her, an' what was left hainet [saved] for her." "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 nei- ther strength of body nor of mind with it. Again his professional attendants be- sought 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. I Your damned medicines, I haven't a ! doubt." I "You are in the greatest danger, my lord. It is all but too late even now." " To-morrow, then, if it must be. To- day I could not endure to have my hair cut, positively ; and as to having my leg off — pooh ! the thing's preposterous." He turned white and shuddered, for all the nonchalance of his speech. When to-morrow 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 con- vinced of the necessity of the measure. " You may do as you please," he said : " I am ready." "Not to-day, my lord," replied the doc- tor — "your lordship is not equal to it to- day." " I understand," said the marquis, and 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 a tear. 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 an- swered. "I know: you think I'm not fit to die; and, damn it! 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 into 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 anytime these 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 any better." 272 MALCOLM. "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 fel- low's name. I've been bad enough, God knows, but 1 haven't sunk to the level of his help yet. If he's God Almighty's fac- tor, 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 somewhat, 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 fel- low isn't a gentleman. And yet all he cares for the cloth is that he thinks it makes a gentleman of him — as if any- thing 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 (o Aberdeen to-morrow, Malcolm," he said. "Verra weel, my lord." "And bring Mr. Glennie, the lawyer, back with you." "Yes, my lord." "Go to bed, then." " I wad raither bide, my lord. I cudna sleep a wink for wantin' to be back aside ye." The marquis yielded, and Malcolm sat by him all the night through. He toss- ed 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 that Mrs. Courthope uttered, kept forget- ting 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. Glennie with you ?" asked his master feebly. "Yes, my lord." "Tell him to come here at once." When Malcolm returned with the law- yer the marquis directed him to place a table and chair by the bedside, light four candles, provide everything necessary for writing and efo to bed. CHAPTER LXIX. THK MARQUIS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. Before Malcolm was awake his lord- ship had sent for him. When he re-en- tered the sick chamber Mr. Glennie had vanished, the table had been removed, and, instead of the radiance of the wax- lights, the cold gleam of a vapor-dim- med sun, with its sickly blue-white reflex from the widespread snow, filled the room. The marquis looked ghastly, but was sip- ping chocolate with a spoon. "What w'y are ye the day, my lord ?" asked Malcolm. "Nearly well," heanswered; "butthose cursed carrion-crows are set upon killing me — damn their souls !" "We'll hae Leddy Florimel sweirin' aw- fu' gien ye gang on that gait, my lord," said Malcolm. The marquis laughed feebly. "An' what'smair," Malcolm continued, " I doobt they're some partic'lar aboot the turn o' their phrases up yonncr, 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 pre- cise." " Dinna brak my hcrt, my lord," cried Malcolm, the tears rushing to his eyes. " I should be sorry to hurt you, Mal- calm," rejoined the marquis gently, al- most 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 MALCOLM. 273 of myself. The fact is, I'm not fit for such company, and I don't beheve 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 for ever 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." "Wadna ye hae a word wi' somebody 'at kens, my lord ?" said Malcolm, scarce- ly able to reply. "No," answered the marquis fiercely. "That Cairns is a fool." "He's a' that, an' mair, my lord. I didna mean him.'' "They're all fools together." "Ow, na, my lord. There's a heap o' them no muckle better, it may be ; but there's guid men an' true amang them, or the Kirk wad hae been wi' Sodom and Gomorrah by this time. But it's no a minister I wad hae yer lordship confar wi'." "Who, then? Mrs. Courthope, eh ?" "Ow na, my lord — no Mistress Court- houp. She's a guid body, but she wadna believe her ain een gien onybody ca'd a minister said contrar' to them." "Who the devil do you mean, then?" "Nae deevil, but an honest man 'at 's been his warst enemy sae lang 's I hae kent him — Maister Graham, the schuil- maister." "Pooh !" said the marquis with a puff. " I'm too old to go to school." "I dinna ken the man 'at isna a bairn till him, my lord." " In Greek and Latin ?" "r richteousness an' trouth, my lord — in what's been an' what is to be." "What! has he the second sight, like the piper?" " He has the second sicht, my lord, but ane 'at gangs a sicht farther nor my auld daddy's." "He could tell me, then, what's going to become of me?" "As weel 's ony man, my lord." "That's not saying much, I fear." "Maybe mair nor ye think, my lord." 18 " Well, take him my compliments and tell him I should like to see him," said the marquis after a minute's silence. "He'll come direckly, my lord." "Of course he will," said the marquis. "Jist as readily, my lord, as he wad gang to ony tramp 'at sent for 'im at sic 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 such a serious affair, do you ?" "My lord, ye haena a chance." The marquis was dumb. He had act- ually 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 mes- sage 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 ?" return- ed the marquis. " Waitin' 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, mv 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 an- 274 MALCOLM. other thing I never trouble my head about." "Ah! you're hke me. then, /don't care much about going to heaven. What do you care about ?" "The will of God. I hope your lord- ship 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." "Well, 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 a? 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 lord- ship." "And what, pray, sir, would be the main point with you ?" "To get nearer to God." "Well, I can't say /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 love- liest of women, my lord," said Mr. Gra- ham with solemn, faltering voice, "and you left her to die in neglect and her child to be brought up by strangers." The marquis gave a cry. The unex- pected 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 ime to introduce what I chose of them. lYou 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 meet- ing as awkward. " Because you wronged her ?" suggest- ed 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. — "O 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 leg under me, I would throw you out of the window." " I shall go by the door, my lord. MALCOLM. 275 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 over- took him with a second message from his master. He turned at once, saying only, "I expected it." "Mr. Graham," said the marquis, look- ing 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 sorr}^ my lord — that will be enough for her." "Ah ! but there's more than her con- cerned." "You are right, my lord. There is an- other — 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 chil- dren. 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 for- give you?" "She will, when I explain." " Then why should you think the for- giveness of God, which created her for- giveness, 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 argu- ment, 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 T^ " Knock him down and horsewhip him." It v,^as Mr. Graham who broke the si- lence 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." " That's it, of course ; but there's no time, I tell you — no time ; at least, so those cursed doctors will keep telling me." " If there were but time to draw an- 276 MALCOLM. other 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 in the Lord Jesus Christ." "That's cant." "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, Saviour, 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.' — 'To-day shalt thou 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 are speaking 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 in- iquity.' " " 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. CHAPTER LXX. END OR BEGINNING? When the fit was over and he found Mr. Graham was gone, he asked Mal- colm, who had resumed his watch, how long it would take Lady Florimel to come from Edinburgh. " Mr. Crathie left wi' fower horses frae the Lossie Airnis last nicht, my lord," said Malcolm ; "but the ro'ds are ill, an' she winna be here afore some time the morn." The marquis stared aghast : they had sent for her without his orders. " What shall I do ?" he m.urmured. " If once I look in her eyes, I shall be damned. — Malcolm !" "Yes, my lord." " Is there a lawyer in Portlossie ?" "Yes, my lord: there's auld Maister Carmichael." "He won't do: he was my brother's rascal. Is there no one besides ?" "No in Portlossie, my lord. There can be nane nearer than Duff Harbor, I doobt." "Take the chariot and bring him here directly. Tell them to put four horses to : Stokes can ride one." "I'll ride the ither, my lord." "You'll do nothing of the kind : you're not used to the pole." "I can tak 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." "Soutar, my lord, gien ye please." "Be off, then. Don't wait to feed. The brutes have been eating all day, and MALCOLM. 277 they can cat all night. You must have him here in an hour." In an hour and a quarter Miss Horn's friend stood by the marquis's bedside. Malcolm was dismissed, but was pres- ently 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 a justice of the peace, a neighbor laird. The distance was great- er 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." "What the devil kept you so long? The bay mare would have carried me there and back in an hour and a half." "The roads war verra heavy, my lord. An' jist hear till the win'." 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. Soutar ?" "I dinna ken, my lord. I'm only jist come, an' I've seen naebody." "Go and tell Mrs. Courthope I want Soutar. You'll find her crying some- where — the old chicken! — because I swore at her. What harm could that do the old goose ?" " It'll be mair for love o' yer lordship than fricht at the sweirin', my lord." "You think so? Why should ^Z/,? care ? Go and tell her I'm sorry. But really she ought to be used to me by this time. Tell her to send Soutar directly." Mr. Soutar was not to be found, the fact being that he had gone to see Miss Horn. 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 gait. He canna like to hear that kin' o' speech ; an' frae ane o' his ain' tu !" The marquis stopped, aghast at his presumption and choking with rage, but Malcolm's eyes filled with tears, and, in- stead of breaking out again, his master turned his head away and was silent. Mr. Soutar 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 en- tered the last a huge vague form came down upon him like a deeper darkness through the dark. Instinctively he step- ped aside. It passed noiselessly, with a long stride, and not even a rustle of its garments — at least Malcolm heard noth ing but the roar of the wind. He turn- ed 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-light- ed thoroughfares of the house it showed as a large figure in a long cloak, indis- tinct in outline. It turned a corner close by the mar- quis'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 marquis's, but nothing was to be seen. The conclusion was that it had entered the marquis's room. He must not dis- turb the conclave in the sick chamber with what might be but "a false crea- tion proceeding from the heat-oppressed 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 dark and still, for the 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 pall — black, but bordered and hearted with purple and gold ; and the terrible still- ness seemed to tremble as with the in- 278 MALCOLM. audible tones of a great organ at the close or commencement of some mighty symphony. With beating heart he walked softly toward 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. Catanach, type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the dignity of death, came walking to- ward him like one at home, her great round body lighty 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 doc- tors 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 mo- ments, 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 mur- mured. "I wull, my lord," said Malcolm sol- emnly. 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 minute 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 sea- son. The marquis appeared a little re- vived, but was hardly able to speak. Mostly by signs he made Malcolm un- derstand that he wanted Mr. Graham, but that some one 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 weep- ing 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 diedst Thyself, and in Thyself knowest it all, heal this man in his sore need — heal him with strength to die." A h'mtA/n^n came 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 cleansest 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 terrors of humanity, even death itself, and liveth for evermore, sitting at Thy right hand, our God-brother, blessed to all ages. Amen." "Amen !" murmured the marquis, and, slowly lifting his hand from the coverlid, he laid it on the head of Malcolm, who did not know it was the hand of his fa- ther 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 satis- fied. Gathering all his force, he said again, "Be good to her." " I wull, I wull,''* burst from Malcolm in sobs ; and he wailed aloud. The day wore on, and the afternoon came. Still Lady Florimel had not ar- rived, and still the marquis lingered. MALCOLM. 279 As the gloom of the twihght was deep- ening into the early darkness of the win- ter night he opened wide his eyes, and was evidently listening. Malcolm could hear nothing, but the light in his mas- ter's face grew and the strain of his lis- tening 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, throw- ing her arm over him, laid her cheek to his. The marquis could not return her em- brace : 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 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, and left the room to get help. 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. Soutar had come. When Malcolm re-entered the schoolmaster took him kindly by the arm and said, "Malcolm, there can be neither place nor moment fitter for the solemn communication I am commis- sioned to make to you : I have, as in the presence of your dead father, to inform you that you are now marquis of Lossie ; and God forbid you should be less worthy as marquis than you have been as fisher- man !" 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, how- ever, he recovered himself, rose, and, rejoining the two men, said, "Gentle- men, hoo mony kens this turn o' things ?" "None but Mr. Morrison, Mrs. Cata- nach and ourselves — so far as I know," answered Mr. Soutar. "And Miss Horn," 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 s' tell her mysel.'," returned Mal- colm. " But, gentlemen, I beg o' ye, till I ken what I'm aboot an' gie ye leave, dinna open yer moo' to leevin' cratur' aboot this. There's time eneuch for the warl' to ken 't." "Your lordship commands me," said Mr. Soutar. "Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave," said Mr. Graham. "Whaur's Mr. Morrison?" asked Mal- colm. "He is still in the house," said Mr, Soutar. "Gang till him, sir, an' gar him prom- ise, on the word o' a gentleman, to baud his tongue. I canna bide to hae't blaret a' gait an' a' at ance. For Mistress Cat- anach, I s' deal wi' her mysel'." The door opened, and, in all the con- scious dignity conferred by the immuni- ties and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs. Catanach walked into the room. "A word wi' ye. Mistress Catanach," said Malcolm. "Certainly, my lord," answered the howdy with mingled presumption and respect, and followed him to the dining- room. "Weel, 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 con- ferred a great benefit, and expecting its recognition. "Mistress Catanach," interrupted Mal- colm, turning and facing her, "gien I be un'er ony obligation to yop, it 's frae an- ither tongue I maun hear 't. But I hae an offer to mak ye : Sae lang as it disna coom oot 'at I'm onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s' hae yer twinty poun' i' the year, peyed ye quarterly. 28o MALCOLM. But the moment fowk says vvha I am ye touch na a poun'-not' mair, an' I coont mysel' free to pursue onything 1 can pruv agane ye." Mrs. Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was gray as putty and its muscles declined response. ''Ay or no?'' said Malcolm. "I winna gar ye sweir, for I wad lippen to yer aith no a hair." "Ay, my lord," said the howdy, reas- suming at least outward composure, and with it her natural brass, for as she spoke she held out her open palm. "Na, na," said Malcolm, "nae forhan' payments. Three months o' tongue- haudin', an' there's yer five poun' ; an' Maister Soutar o' Duff Harbor 'ill pay 't intill yer ain han'. But brack troth wi' me, an' ye s' hear o' 't; for gien ye war hangt the warl' wad be a' the cleaner. Noo quit the hoose, an' never lat me see ye aboot the place again. But afore ye gang I gie ye fair warnin' 'at I mean to win at a' yer byganes." The blood of red wrath was seething in Mrs. Catanach's face : she drew her- self up and stood flaming before him, on the verge of explosion. "Gang frae the hoose," said Malcolm, "or I'll set the muckle hun' to shaw ye the gait." 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 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 was that about a week before a boy had spied him sitting on a rock in the Baillies' Barn with his pipes in his lap. Searching the cot- tage, he found that his broadsword and dirk, with all his poor finery, were gone. That same night Mrs. Catanach also disappeared. A week after, what was left of Lord Lossie was buried. Malcolm followed the hearse with the household. Miss Horn 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 gratifica- tion in hearing herself called the mar- chioness ; on the sixth she tried on her mourning and was pleased ; on the sev- enth she went with the funeral and wept again ; on the eighth came Lady Bellair, who on the ninth carried her away. To Malcolm she had not spoken once. Mr. Graham left Portlossie. Miss Horn took to her bed for a week. Mr. Crathie 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 Stoat with the horses and did odd jobs for Mr. Crathie. 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A NEW AND REVISED EDITION or CHAMBERS'S MISCELLANY OF Instructive and Entertaining Tracts. FEQFWBSLT ILLUBTEATEB.. Complete in Twenty lamo volumes. Neatly bound in boards. Only 50 cents per volume. Two volumes bound in one volume, fine cloth, $1.25. C O NT ENTS. VOZVJflE I. Life of George Stephenson ; Picciola, or the Prison Flower: Abyssinia and Theodore ; Cases of Circumstantial Evidence ; Home Plants, Water Animals, and the Aquarium ; Anecdotes of Dogs ; Poems of Domestic Affections, etc. VOLUME II. Journal of a Poor Vicar ; Romance of Geology : Larocbejaquelin and the War in La Ven- dee ; Anecdotes of the Horse ; Curiosities of Vegeta- tion ; Children of lhe Wilds ; Select Poems on Love of Flowers, etc. TOI TIME III. Life of Nelson ; Story of the Indian Mutiny ; Story of 'jilvio Pelico ; William Tell and Swit- lerland ; The H ;rring and the Whale ; Scottish Tra- ditionary Stories Selections from American Poetry, etc. VOLUME ir, Wallace and Bruce; Anecdotes of Ants ; The Sh'p'Teck of the Medusa ; The History of Poland; Arct' ; Explorations ; Flora Macdonald, etc. VOL UME V. Louis Napoleon, Emperor of the French ; Lee is Power ; Anecdotes of Spiders ; The Plague in I ondon ; Narrative of the Mutiny of the Bounty ; Select Poetry of Scott, etc. VOLUME ri. Captain Cook; Earthquakes and Volcanoes ; Anecdotes of the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind ; Richard F ilconer ; History of the Mormons ; The Scottish A Iventurers ; Walter Ruysdael ; Poems of Kindness t5 Animals, etc. VOLUME VII. Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans; Annals of the Poor ; Gold and Gold Diggers ; There is no Hur"/ ! — A Tale ; Anecdotes of Elephants ; The Russian (.arapaign : The Ancient Mariner, and other Poems, e:c VOLUME VIII. 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