MALCOLM
by George MacDonald
CONTENTS.
I. MISS HORN
II. BARBARA CATANACH
III. THE MAD LAIRD
IV. PHEMY MAIR
V. LADY FLORIMEL
VI. DUNCAN MACPHAIL
VII. ALEXANDER GRAHAM
VIII. THE SWIVEL
IX. THE SALMON-TROUT
X. THE FUNERAL
XI. THE OLD CHURCH
XII. THE CHURCHYARD
XIII. THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE
XIV. MEG PARTAN’S LAMP
XV. SLOPE OF THE DUNE
XVI. THE STORM
XVII. THE ACCUSATION
XVIII. THE QUARREL
XIX. DUNCAN’S PIPES
XX. ADVANCES
XXI. MEDIATION
XXII. WHENCE AND WHITHER?
XXIII. ARMAGEDDON
XXIV. THE FEAST
XXV. THE NIGHT WATCH
XXVI. NOT AT CHURCH
XXVII. LORD GERNON
XXVIII. A FISHER-WEDDING
XXIX. FLORIMEL AND DUNCAN
XXX. THE REVIVAL
XXXI. WANDERING STARS
XXXII. THE SKIPPER’S CHAMBER
XXXIII. THE LIBRARY
XXXIV. MILTON AND THE BAY MARE
XXXV. KIRKBYRES
XXXVI. THE BLOW
XXXVII. THE CUTTER
XXXVIII. THE TWO DOGS
XXXIX. COLONSAY CASTLE
XL. THE DEIL’S WINNOCK
XLI. THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES
XLII. DUNCAN’S DISCLOSURE
XLIII. THE WIZARD’S CHAMBER
XLIV. THE HERMIT
XLV. MR CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS
XLVI. THE BALLIES’ BARN
XLVII. MRS STEWART’S CLAIM
XLVIII. THE BALLIES’ BARN AGAIN
XLIX. MOUNT PISGAH
L. LIZZY FINDLAY
LI. THE LAIRD’S BURROW
LII. CREAM OR SCUM
LIII. THE SCHOOLMASTER’S COTTAGE
LIV. ONE DAY
LV. THE SAME NIGHT
LVI. SOMETHING FORGOTTEN
LVII. THE LAIRD’S QUEST
LVIII. MALCOLM AND MRS STEWART
LIX. AN HONEST PLOT
LX. THE SACRAMENT
LXI. MISS HORN AND THE PIPER
LXII. THE CUTTLE-FISH AND THE CRAB
LXIII. MISS HORN AND LORD LOSSIE
LXIV. THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHER
LXV. THE LAIRD’S VISION
LXVI. THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER
LXVII. FEET OF WOOL
LXVIII. HANDS OF IRON
LXIX. THE MARQUIS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER
LXX. END OR BEGINNING
MALCOLM.
CHAPTER I.
MISS HORN.
“Na, na; I hae nae feelin’s, I’m thankfu’ to say. I never kent ony
guid come o’ _them_. They’re a terrible 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! Watty!” she called after the footsteps down
the stair.
“Yes, mem,” answered a gruff voice from below.
“Watty, whan ye fess the bit boxie, jist pit a hemmer an’ a puckle
nails i’ your 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 therein 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 yoong nor yet
sae sair.”
“Aih! but she was a patient cratur 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 gien 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 ’n this
ill-wulled warl’, there’s a feck[1] o’ them ’at has the wisdom o’ the
serpent. An’ the serpents mak sair wark wi’ the doos--lat alane
them ’at flees into the verra mouws o’ them.”
[1] _large amount_.
“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 ver’ 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--gien 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 hooked 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 something
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?”
“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 countryside but ye maun fess ’t hame aneth yer oxter, as
gin ’t were 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’ wad 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 dwyned awa efter he gaed, an’ never
was hersel’ again--ye dinna deny that?”
“It’s a’ havers,” persisted Miss Horn, but in accents considerably
softened. “She cared na mair aboot the chield 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 du wi’ the
tither.”
“Weel, weel; I’m sorry I said onything to offen’ ye, an’ I canna
say mair. Wi’ yer leave, Miss Horn, I’ll jist gang an’ tak’ a last
leuk at her, puir thing!”
“’Deed, ye s’ du naething o’ the kin’! I s’ lat naebody glower at her
’at wad gang an spairge sic havers aboot her, Mistress Mellis. To
say ’at sic a doo as my Grizel--puir, saft-hertit, winsome thing--
wad hae lookit 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 coffin, an’ I’ll be
quaiet i’ my temper. Syne I’ll lat ye see her--maybe.--I wuss
I 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 Mellis, to whom, however, they did not apply, but to the dead
body. She rose notwithstanding in considerable displeasure, 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
descended the stairs as slowly as if on every step she deliberated
whether the next would bear her weight. Miss Horn, who had followed
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 parlour,
but with a lingering look towards the opposite 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 feelin’s,” she said to herself. “To
even (_equal_) my bonny Grizel to sic a lang kyte-clung chiel as
yon! Aih, puir Grizel! She’s gane frae me like a knotless threid.”