THE LIBRARY.
When she had finished her oats, Malcolm left her busy with her hay,
for she was a huge eater, and went into the house, passing through the
kitchen and ascending a spiral stone stair to the library--the only
room not now dismantled. As he went along the narrow passage on the
second floor leading to it from the head of the stair, the housekeeper,
Mrs Courthope, peeped after him from one of the many bedrooms opening
upon it, and watched him as he went, nodding her head two or three
times with decision: he reminded her so strongly --not of his father,
the last marquis, but the brother who had preceded him, that she felt
all but certain, whoever might be his mother, he had as much of the
Colonsay blood in his veins as any marquis of them all. It was in
consideration of this likeness that Mr Crathie had permitted the youth,
when his services were not required, to read in the library.
Malcolm went straight to a certain corner, and from amongst a dingy
set of old classics took down a small Greek book, in large type. It
was the manual of that slave among slaves, that noble among the free,
Epictetus. He was no great Greek scholar, but, with the help of the
Latin translation, and the gloss of his own rathe experience, he could
lay hold of the mind of that slave of a slave, whose very slavery was
his slave to carry him to the heights of freedom. It was not Greek he
cared for, but Epictetus. It was but little he read, however, for the
occurrence of the morning demanded, compelled thought. Mr Crathie’s
behaviour caused him neither anger nor uneasiness, but it rendered
necessary some decision with regard to the ordering of his future.
I can hardly say he recalled how, on his death-bed, the late marquis,
about three months before, having, with all needful observances,
acknowledged him his son, had committed to his trust the welfare of
his sister; for the memory of this charge was never absent from his
feeling even when not immediately present to his thought. But although
a charge which he would have taken upon him all the same had his father
not committed it to him, it was none the less a source of perplexity
upon which as yet all his thinking had let in but little light. For to
appear as Marquis of Lossie was not merely to take from his sister the
title she supposed her own, but to declare her illegitimate, seeing
that, unknown to the marquis, the youth’s mother, his first wife, was
still alive when Florimel was born. How to act so that as little evil
as possible might befall the favourite of his father, and one whom he
had himself loved with the devotion almost of a dog, before he knew she
was his sister, was the main problem.
For himself, he had had a rough education, and had enjoyed it: his
thoughts were not troubled about his own prospects. Mysteriously
committed to the care of a poor blind Highland piper, a stranger from
inland regions, settled amongst a fishing people, he had, as he grew
up, naturally fallen into their ways of life and labour, and but
lately abandoned the calling of a fisherman to take charge of the
marquis’s yacht, whence, by degrees, he had, in his helpfulness, grown
indispensable to him and his daughter, and had come to live in the
house of Lossie as a privileged servant. His book education, which he
owed mainly to the friendship of the parish schoolmaster, although
nothing marvellous, or in Scotland very peculiar, had opened for him
in all directions doors of thought and inquiry, but the desire of
knowledge was in his case, again through the influences of Mr Graham,
subservient to an almost restless yearning after the truth of things, a
passion so rare that the ordinary mind can hardly master even the fact
of its existence.
The Marchioness of Lossie, as she was now called, for the family
was one of the two or three in Scotland in which the title descends
to an heiress, had left Lossie House almost immediately upon her
father’s death, under the guardianship of a certain dowager countess.
Lady Bellair had taken her first to Edinburgh, and then to London.
Tidings of her Malcolm occasionally received through Mr Soutar of Duff
Harbour, the lawyer the marquis had employed to draw up the papers
substantiating the youth’s claim. The last amounted to this, that, as
rapidly as the proprieties of mourning would permit, she was circling
the vortex of the London season; and Malcolm was now almost in despair
of ever being of the least service to her as a brother to whom as a
servant he had seemed at one time of daily necessity. If he might but
once be her skipper, her groom, her attendant, he might then at least
learn how to discover to her the bond between them, without breaking it
in the very act, and so ruining the hope of service to follow.