Malcolm Part 34

"Well, well, we'll see."

"But I want.i.t to tell ye anither thing my lord," said Malcolm, as he followed the marquis down the stairs.

"What is that?"

"I cam upo' anither plot--a mair serious ane, bein' against a man 'at can ill haud aff o' himsel', an' cud waur bide onything than yer lords.h.i.+p--the puir mad laird."

"Who's he?"

"Ilka body kens him, my lord! He's son to the leddy o' Kirkbyres."

"I remember her--an old flame of my brother's."

"I ken naething aboot that, my lord; but he's her son."

"What about him, then?"

They had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impatient, Malcolm confined himself to the princ.i.p.al facts.

"I don't think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail," said his lords.h.i.+p, seriously. "His mother must know best."

"I'm no sae sure o' that, my lord! To say naething o' the ill guides.h.i.+p, which micht hae 'garred a minister sweer, it wud be a cruelty naething short o' deev'lich to lock up a puir hairmless cratur like that, as innocent as he 's ill shapit."

"He's as G.o.d made him," said the marquis.

"He 's no as G.o.d wull mak him," returned Malcolm.

"What do you mean by that?" asked the marquis.

"It stan's to rizzon, my lord," answered Malcolm, "that what's ill made maun be made ower again. There's a day comin' whan a' 'at's wrang 'll be set richt, ye ken."

"And the crooked made straight," suggested the marquis laughing.

"Doobtless, my lord. He'll be straucht.i.t oot bonny that day," said Malcolm with absolute seriousness.

"Bah! You don't think G.o.d cares about a misshapen lump of flesh like that!" exclaimed his lords.h.i.+p with contempt.

"As muckle's aboot yersel', or my leddy," said Malcolm. "Gien he didna, he wadna be nae G.o.d ava' (at all)."

The marquis laughed again: he heard the words with his ears, but his heart was deaf to the thought they clothed; hence he took Malcolm's earnestness for irreverence, and it amused him.

"You've not got to set things right, anyhow," he said. "You mind your own business."

"I'll try, my lord: it's the business o' ilka man, whaur he can, to lowse the weichty birns, an' lat the forfouchten gang free. Guid day to ye, my lord."

So saying the young fisherman turned, and left the marquis laughing in the hall.

CHAPTER XXVII: LORD GERNON

When his housekeeper returned from church, Lord Lossie sent for her.

"Sit down, Mrs Courthope," he said; "I want to ask you about a story I have a vague recollection of hearing when I spent a summer at this house some twenty years ago. It had to do with a room in the house that was never opened."

"There is such a story, my lord," answered the housekeeper. "The late marquis, I remember well, used to laugh at it, and threaten now and then to dare the prophecy; but old Eppie persuaded him not --or at least fancied she did."

"Who is old Eppie?"

"She's gone now, my lord. She was over a hundred then. She was born and brought up in the house, lived all her days in it, and died in it; so she knew more about the place than any one else."

"Is ever likely to know," said the marquis, superadding a close to her sentence. "And why wouldn't she have the room opened?" he asked.

"Because of the ancient prophecy, my lord."

"I can't recall a single point of the story."

"I wish old Eppie were alive to tell it," said Mrs Courthope.

"Don't you know it then?"

"Yes, pretty well; but my English tongue can't tell it properly.

It doesn't sound right out of my mouth. I've heard it a good many times too, for I had often to take a visitor to her room to hear it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it. But I couldn't help remarking that it had grown a good bit even in my time. The story was like a tree: it got bigger every year."

"That's the way with a good many stories," said the marquis. "But tell me the prophecy at least."

"That is the only part I can give just as she gave it. It's in rhyme. I hardly understand it, but I'm sure of the words."

"Let us have them then, if you please."

Mrs Courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the following lines:

"The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o' cauld airn, The ayr quha wad kythe a b.a.s.t.a.r.d and carena, The mayd quha wad tyne her man and her bairn, Lift the neck, and enter, and fearna."

"That's it, my lord," she said, in conclusion. "And there's one thing to be observed," she added, "--that that door is the only one in all the pa.s.sage that has a sneck, as they call it."

"What is a sneck?" asked his lords.h.i.+p, who was not much of a scholar in his country's tongue.

"What we call a latch in England, my lord. I took pains to learn the Scotch correctly, and I've repeated it to your lords.h.i.+p, word for word."

"I don't doubt it," returned Lord Lossie, "but for the sense, I can make nothing of it.--And you think my brother believed the story?"

"He always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to give in to old Eppie's entreaties."

"You mean that he was more near believing it than he liked to confess?"

"That's not what I mean, my lord."