THE NIGHT WATCH.
When Malcolm returned, Jean had retired for the night, and again
it was Miss Horn who admitted him, and led him to her parlour. It
was a low-ceiled room, with lean spider-legged furniture and dingy
curtains. Everything in it was suggestive of a comfort slowly
vanishing. An odour of withered rose-leaves pervaded the air. A
Japanese cabinet stood in one corner, and on the mantelpiece a pair
of Chinese fans with painted figures whose faces were embossed in
silk, between which ticked an old French clock, whose supporters
were a shepherd and shepherdess in prettily painted china. Long faded
as was everything in it, the room was yet very rich in the eyes of
Malcolm, whose home was bare even in comparison with that of the
poorest of the fisher-women; they had a passion for ornamenting
their chimneypieces with china ornaments, and their dressers with
the most gorgeous crockery that their money could buy--a certain
metallic orange being the prevailing hue; while in Duncan’s
cottage, where woman had never initiated the taste, there was not
even a china poodle to represent the finished development of luxury
in the combination of the ugly and the useless.
Miss Horn had made a little fire in the old-fashioned grate, whose
bars bellied out like a sail almost beyond the narrow chimney-shelf,
and a tea-kettle was singing on the hob, while a decanter,
a sugar basin, a nutmeg grater, and other needful things on a tray,
suggested negus, beyond which Miss Horn never went in the matter
of stimulants, asserting that, as she had no feelings, she never
required anything stronger. She made Malcolm sit down at the opposite
side of the fire, and mixing him a tumbler of her favourite drink,
began to question him about the day, and how things had gone.
Miss Horn had the just repute of discretion, for, gladly hearing all
the news, she had the rare virtue of not repeating things to the
prejudice of others without some _good_ reason for so doing; Malcolm
therefore, seated thus alone with her in the dead of the night, and
bound to her by the bond of a common well-doing, had no hesitation
in unfolding to her all his adventures of the evening. She sat with
her big hands in her lap, making no remark, not even an exclamation,
while he went on with the tale of the garret; but her listening
eyes grew--not larger--darker and fiercer as he spoke; the
space between her nostrils and mouth widened visibly; the muscles
knotted on the sides of her neck; and her nose curved more and more
to the shape of a beak.
“There’s some deevilry there!” she said at length after he had
finished, breaking a silence of some moments, during which she had
been staring into the fire. “Whaur twa ill women come thegither,
there maun be the auld man himsel’ atween them.”
“I dinna doobt it,” returned Malcolm. “An’ ane o’ the ’s an ill
wuman, sure eneuch; but I ken naething aboot the tither--only
’at she maun be a leddy, by the w’y the howdy-wife spak till her.”
“The waur token, when a leddy collogues wi’ a wuman aneth her ain
station, an’ ane ’at has keppit (_caught in passing_) mony a secret
in her day, an’ by her callin’ has had mair opportunity--no to say
farther--than ither fowk o’ duin’ ill things! An’ gien _ye_ dinna
ken her, that’s no rizzon ’at _I_ sudna hae a groff guiss at her by
the marks ye read aff o’ her. I’ll jist hae to tell ye a story sic
as an auld wife like me seldom tells till a yoong man like yersel’.”
“Yer ain bridle sall rule my tongue, mem,” said Malcolm.
“I s’ lippen to yer discretion,” said Miss Horn, and straightway
began.--“Some years ago--an’ I s’ warran’ it’s weel ower twinty
--that same wuman, Bawby Cat’nach,--wha was nae hame-born wuman,
nor had been lang aboot the toon--comin’ as she did frae naebody
kent whaur, ’cep maybe it was the markis ’at than was--preshumed to
mak up to me i’ the w’y o’ frien’ly acquantance--sic as a maiden
leddy micht hae wi’ a howdy--an’ no ’at she forgot her proaper
behaviour to ane like mysel’. But I cudna hae bidden (_endured_)
the jaud, ’cep ’at I had rizzons for lattin’ her jaw wag. She was
cunnin’, the auld vratch,--no that auld--maybe aboot forty,--
but I was ower mony for her. She had the design to win at somethin’
she thoucht I kent, an’ sae, to enteece me to open my pock, she
opent hers, an’ tellt me story efter story aboot this neebour an’
that--a’ o’ them things ’at ouchtna to ha’ been true, an ’at she
ouchtna to ha’ loot pass her lips gien they war true, seein’ she
cam by the knowledge o’ them so as she said she did. But she gat
naething o’ me--the fat-braint cat!--an’ she hates me like the
verra mischeef.”
Miss Horn paused and took a sip of her negus.
“Ae day, I cam upon her sittin’ by the ingleneuk i’ my ain kitchen,
haudin’ a close an’ a laich confab wi’ Jean. I had Jean than, an’
hoo I hae keepit the hizzy, I hardly ken. I think it maun be that,
haein’ nae feelin’s o’ my ain, I hae ower muckle regaird to ither
fowk’s, an’ sae I never likit to pit her awa’ wi’oot doonricht
provocation. But dinna ye lippen to Jean, Malcolm--na, na!--At
that time, my cousin, Miss Grizel Cammell--my third cousin, she
was--had come to bide wi’ me--a bonny yoong thing as ye wad
see, but in sair ill health; an’ maybe she had het freits (_whims_),
an’ maybe no, but she cudna bide to see the wuman Cat’nach aboot
the place. An’ in verra trowth, she was to mysel’ like ane o’ thae
ill-faured birds, I dinna min’ upo’ the name o’ them, ’at hings ower
an airmy; for wharever there was onybody nae weel, or onybody
deid, there was Bawby Cat’nach. I hae hard o’ creepin’ things ’at
veesits fowk ’at’s no weel--an’ Bawby was, an’ is, ane sic like!
Sae I was angert at seein’ her colloguin’ wi’ Jean, an’ I cried
Jean to me to the door o’ the kitchie. But wi’ that up jumps Bawby,
an’ comin’ efter her, says to me--says she, ‘Eh, Miss Horn!
there’s terrible news: Leddy Lossie’s deid;--she’s been three
ooks deid!’--‘Weel,’ says I, ‘what’s sae terrible aboot that?’
For ye ken I never had ony feelin’s, an’ I cud see naething sae
awfu’ aboot a body deein’ i’ the ord’nar’ w’y o natur’ like. ‘We’ll
no miss her muckle doon here,’ says I, ‘for I never hard o’ her
bein’ at the Hoose sin’ ever I can.’ ‘But that’s no a’,’ says she;
‘only I wad be laith to speyk aboot it i’ the transe (_passage_).
Lat me up the stair wi’ ye, an’ I’ll tell ye mair.’ Weel, pairtly
’at I was ta’en by surprise like, an’ pairtly ’at I wasna sae auld
as I am noo, an’ pairtly that I was keerious to hear--ill ’at
I likit her--what neist the wuman wad say, I did as I ouchtna,
an’ turned an’ gaed up the stair, an’ loot her follow me. Whan she
cam’ in, she pat tu the door ahint her, an’ turnt to me, an’ said
--says she: ‘An wha’s deid forbye, think ye?’--‘I hae hard o’
naebody,’ I answered. ‘Wha but the laird o’ Gersefell!’ says she.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, honest man!’ says I; for a’ body likit Mr
Stewart. ‘An’ what think ye o’ ’t?’ says she, wi’ a runklin o’ her
broos, an’ a shak o’ her heid, an’ a settin o’ her roon’ nieves upo’
the fat hips o’ her. ‘Think o’ ’t?’ says I ; ‘what sud I think o’
’t, but that it’s the wull o’ Providence?’ Wi’ that she leuch till
she wabblet a’ ower like cauld skink, an’ says she--‘Weel, that’s
jist what it is no, an’ that lat me tell ye, Miss Horn!’ I glowert
at her, maist frichtit into believin’ she was the witch fowk ca’d
her. ‘Wha’s son’s the hump-backit cratur,’ says she, ‘’at comes
in i’ the gig whiles wi’ the groom-lad, think ye?’--‘Wha’s but
the puir man’s ’at’s deid?’ says I. ‘Deil a bit o’ ’t!’ says she,
‘an’ I beg yer pardon for mentionin’ o’ _him_,’ says she. An’ syne
she screwt up her mou’, an’ cam closs up till me--for I wadna sit
doon mysel’, an’ less wad I bid her, an’ was sorry eneuch by this
time ’at I had broucht her up the stair--an’ says she, layin’ her
han’ upo’ my airm wi’ a clap, as gien her an’ me was to be freen’s
upo’ sic a gran’ foondation o’ dirt as that!--says she, makin’ a
laich toot-moot o’ ’t,--‘He’s Lord Lossie’s!’ says she, an’ maks
a face ’at micht hae turnt a cat sick--only by guid luck I had
nae feelin’s. ‘An’ nae suner’s my leddy deid nor _her_ man follows
her!’ says she. ‘An’ what do ye mak o’ that?’ says she. ‘Ay, what
do ye mak o’ that?’ says I till her again. ‘Ow! what ken I?’ says
she, wi’ anither ill leuk; an’ wi’ that she leuch an’ turned awa,
but turned back again or she wan to the door, an’ says she--‘Maybe
ye didna ken ’at she was broucht to bed hersel’ aboot a sax ooks
ago?’--‘Puir leddy!’ said I, thinkin’ mair o’ her evil report
nor o’ the pains o’ childbirth. ‘Ay,’ says she, wi’ a deevilich
kin’ o’ a lauch, like in spite o’ hersel’, ‘for the bairn’s deid,
they tell me--as bonny a lad-bairn as ye wad see, jist ooncoamon!
An’ whaur div ye think she had her doon-lying? Jist at Lossie Hoose!’
Wi’ that she was oot at the door wi’ a swag o’ her tail, an’ doon
the stair to Jean again. I was jist at ane mair wi’ anger at mysel’
an’ scunner at her, an’ in twa min’s to gang efter her an’ turn
her oot o’ the hoose, her an’ Jean thegither. I could hear her
snicherin’ till hersel’ as she gaed doon the stair. My verra stamack
turned at the poozhonous ted.
“I canna say what was true or what was fause i’ the scandal o’ her
tale, nor what for she tuik the trouble to cairry ’t to me, but
it sune cam to be said ’at the yoong laird was but half-wittet as
weel ’s humpit, an’ ’at his mither cudna bide him. An’ certain it
was ’at the puir wee chap cud as little bide his mither. Gien she
cam near him ohn luikit for, they said, he wad gie a great skriech,
and rin as fast as his wee weyver (_spider_) legs cud wag aneth the
wecht o’ ’s humpie--an’ whiles her after him wi’ onything she cud
lay her han’ upo’, they said--but I kenna. Ony gait, the widow
hersel’ grew waur and waur i’ the temper, an’ I misdoobt me sair
was gey hard upo’ the puir wee objeck--fell cruel til ’m, they
said--till at len’th, as a’ body kens, he forhooit (_forsook_) the
hoose a’thegither. An’ puttin’ this an’ that thegither, for I hear
a hantle said ’at I say na ower again, it seems to me ’at her first
scunner at her puir misformt bairn, wha they say was humpit whan
he was born an’ maist cost her her life to get lowst o’ him--
her scunner at ’im ’s been growin’ an’ growin’ till it’s grown to
doonricht hate.”
“It’s an awfu’ thing ’at ye say, mem, an’ I doobt it’s ower true.
But hoo _can_ a mither hate her ain bairn?” said Malcolm.
“’Deed it’s nae wonner ye sud speir, laddie! for it’s weel kent ’at
maist mithers, gien there be a shargar or a nat’ral or a crookit ane
amo’ their bairns, mak mair o’ that ane nor o’ a’ the lave putten
thegither--as gien they wad mak it up till ’im, for the fair
play o’ the warl. But ye see in this case, he’s aiblins (_perhaps_)
the child o’ sin--for a leear _may_ tell an ill trowth--an’ beirs
the marks o’ ’t, ye see; sae to her he’s jist her sin rinnin’ aboot
the warl incarnat; an’ that canna be pleesant to luik upo’.”
“But excep’ she war ashamed o’ ’t, she wadna tak it sae muckle to
hert to be remin’t o’ ’t.”
“Mony ane’s ashamed o’ the consequences ’at’s no ashamed o’ the
deed. Mony ane cud du the sin ower again, ’at canna bide the sicht
or even the word o’ ’t. I hae seen a body ’at wad steal a thing as
sune ’s luik at it, gang daft wi’ rage at bein’ ca’d a thief. An’
maybe she wadna care gien ’t warna for the oogliness o’ ’im. Sae
be he was a bonny sin, I’m thinkin’ she wad hide him weel eneuch.
But seein’ he’s naither i’ the image o’ her ’at bore ’im nor him
’at got ’im, but beirs on ’s back, for ever in her sicht, the sin
’at was the gettin’ o’ ’m, he’s a’ hump to her, an’ her hert’s
aye howkin a grave for ’im to lay ’im oot o’ sicht intill: she bore
’im, an’ she wad beery ’im. An’ I’m thinkin’ she beirs the markis
--gien sae it be sae--deid an’ gane as he is--a grutch yet,
for passin’ sic an offspring upo’ her, an’ syne no merryin’ her
efter an’ a’, an’ the ro’d clear o’ baith ’at stude atween them.
It _was_ said ’at the man ’at killt ’im in a twasum fecht (_duel_),
sae mony a year efter, was a freen’ o’ hers.”
“But _wad_ fowk du sic awfu’ ill things, mem--her a merried woman,
an’ him a merried man?”
“There’s nae sayin’, laddie, what a hantle o’ men and some women
wad du. I hae muckle to be thankfu’ for ’at I was sic as no man
ever luikit twise at. I wasna weel-faured eneuch; though I had
bonny hair, an’ my mither aye said ’at her Maggy hed guid sense;
whatever else she micht or micht not hae. But gien I cud hae gotten
a guid man, sic-like ’s is scarce, I cud hae lo’ed him weel eneuch.
But that’s naither here nor there, an’ has naething to du wi’
onybody ava’. The pint I had to come till was this: the wuman ye saw
haudin’ a toot-moot (_tout muet ?_) wi’ that Cat’nach wife, was nane
ither, I do believe, than Mistress Stewart, the puir laird’s mither.
An’ I hae as little doobt that whan ye tuik ’s pairt, ye broucht
to noucht a plot o’ the twasum (_two together_) against him. It bodes
guid to naebody whan there’s a conjunc o’ twa sic wanderin’ stars
o’ blackness as yon twa.”
“His ain mither!” exclaimed Malcolm, brooding in horror over the
frightful conjecture.
The door opened, and the mad laird came in. His eyes were staring
wide, but their look and that of his troubled visage showed that
he was awake only in some frightful dream. “Father o’ lichts!” he
murmured once and again, but making wild gestures, as if warding
off blows. Miss Horn took him gently by the hand. The moment he
felt her touch, his face grew calm, and he submitted at once to be
led back to bed.
“Ye may tak yer aith upo’ ’t, Ma’colm,” she said when she returned,
“she means naething but ill by that puir cratur; but you and me--
we’ll ding (_defeat_) her yet, gien ’t be _his_ wull. She wants a grip
o’ ’m for some ill rizzon or ither--to lock him up in a madhoose,
maybe, as the villains said, or ’deed, maybe, to mak awa’ wi’ him
a’thegither.”
“But what guid wad that du her?” said Malcolm.
“It’s ill to say, but she wad hae him oot o’ her sicht, ony gait.”
“She can hae but little sicht o’ him as ’tis,” objected Malcolm.
“Ay! but she aye kens he’s whaur she doesna ken, puttin’ her to
shame, a’ aboot the queentry, wi’ that hump o’ his. Oot o’ fowk’s
sicht wad be to her oot a’ thegither.”
A brief silence followed.
“Noo,” said Malcolm, “we come to the queston what the twa limmers
could want wi’ that door.”
“Dear kens! It bude to be something wrang--that’s a’ ’at mortal
can say; but ye may be sure o’ that--I hae hard tell,” she went
on reflectingly--“o’ some room or ither i’ the hoose ’at there’s
a fearsome story aboot, an’ ’at’s never opent on no accoont. I hae
hard a’ aboot it, but I canna min’ upo’ ’t noo, for I paid little
attention till ’t at the time, an’ it’s mony a year sin’ syne. But
it wad be some deevilich ploy o’ their ain they wad be efter: it’s
little the likes o’ them wad heed sic auld warld tales.”
“Wad ye hae me tell the markis?” asked Malcolm.
“Na, I wad no; an’ yet ye maun du ’t. Ye hae no business to ken o’
onything wrang in a body’s hoose, an’ no tell them--forbye ’at he
pat ye in chairge. But it’ll du naething for the laird; for what
cares the markis for onything or onybody but himsel’?”
“He cares for ’s dauchter,” said Malcolm.
“Ow ay!--as sic fowk ca’ carin’. There’s no a bla’guard i’ the
haill queentry he wadna sell her till, sae be he was o’ an auld
eneuch faimily, and had rowth o’ siller. Haith! noo a days the
last ’ill come first, an’ a fish-cadger wi’ siller ’ill be coontit
a better bargain nor a lord wantin ’t: only he maun hae a _heap_ o’
’t, to cower the stink o’ the fish.”
“Dinna scorn the fish, mem,” said Malcolm: “they’re innocent craturs,
an’ dinna smell waur nor they can help; an’ that’s mair nor ye can
say for ilka lord ye come athort.”
“Ay, or cadger aither,” rejoined Miss Horn. “They’re aft eneuch
jist sic like, the main differ lyin’ in what they’re defiled wi’;
an’ ’deed whiles there’s no differ there, or maist ony gait, maybe,
but i’ the set o’ the shoothers, an’ the wag o’ the tongue.”
“An’ what’ll we du wi’ the laird?” said Malcolm.
“We maun first see what we _can_ du wi’ him. I wad try to keep him
mysel’, that is, gien he wad bide--but there’s that jaud Jean!
She’s aye gabbin’, an’ claikin’, an’ cognostin’ wi’ the enemy,
an’ I canna lippen till her. I think it wad be better ye sud tak
chairge o’ ’m yersel’, Malcolm. I wad willin’ly beir ony expense
--for ye wadna be able to luik efter him an’ du sae weel at the
fishin’, ye ken.”
“Gien ’t had been my ain line-fishin’, I could aye ha’ taen him i’
the boat wi’ me; but I dinna ken for the herrin’. Blue Peter wadna
objeck, but it’s some much work, an’ for a waikly body like the
laird to be oot a’ nicht some nichts, sic weather as we hae to
encoonter whiles, micht be the deid o’ ’m.”
They came to no conclusion beyond this, that each would think it
over, and Malcolm would call in the morning. Ere then, however,
the laird had dismissed the question for them. When Miss Horn rose,
after an all but sleepless night, she found that he had taken the
affairs again into his own feeble hands, and vanished.