NOT AT CHURCH.
It being well known that Joseph Mair’s cottage was one of the
laird’s resorts, Malcolm, as soon as he learned his flight, set
out to inquire whether they knew anything of him there.
Scaurnose was perched almost on the point of the promontory, where
the land made its final slope, ending in a precipitous descent to
the shore. Beneath lay rocks of all sizes and of fantastic forms,
some fallen from the cape in tempests perhaps, some softly separated
from it by the slow action of the winds and waves of centuries. A
few of them formed, by their broken defence seawards, the unsafe
natural harbour which was all the place enjoyed.
If ever there was a place of one colour it was this village: everything
was brown; the grass near it was covered with brown nets; at the
doors were brown heaps of oak-bark, which, after dyeing the nets,
was used for fuel; the cottages were roofed with old brown thatch;
and the one street and the many _closes_ were dark brown with the
peaty earth which, well mixed with scattered bark, scantily covered
the surface of its huge foundation-rock. There was no pavement, and
it was the less needed that the ways were rarely used by wheels of
any description. The village was but a roost, like the dwellings
of the sea birds which also haunted the rocks.
It was a gray morning with a gray sky and a gray sea; all was brown and
gray, peaceful and rather sad. Brown-haired, gray-eyed Phemy Mair sat
in the threshold, intently rubbing in her hands a small object like a
moonstone. That she should be doing so on a Sunday would have shocked
few in Scaurnose at that time, for the fisher-folk then made but small
pretensions to religion; and for his part Joseph Mair could not believe
that the Almighty would be offended “at seein’ a bairn sittin’ douce
wi’ her playocks, though the day _was his_.”
“Weel, Phemy, ye’re busy!” said Malcolm.
“Ay,” answered the child, without looking up. The manner was not
courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet.
“What are ye doin’ there?” he asked.
“Makin’ a string o’ beads, to weir at aunty’s merriage.”
“What are ye makin’ them o’?” he went on.
“Haddicks’ een.”
“Are they a’ haddicks’?”
“Na, there’s some cods’ amo’ them; but they’re maistly haddicks’.
I pikes them oot afore they’re sautit, an’ biles them; an’ syne I
polish them i’ my han’s till they’re rale bonny.”
“Can ye tell me onything aboot the mad laird, Phemy?” asked Malcolm,
in his anxiety too abruptly.
“Ye can gang an’ speir at my father: he’s oot aboot,” she answered,
with a sort of marked coolness, which, added to the fact that
she had never looked him in the face, made him more than suspect
something behind.
“Div ye ken onything aboot him?” he therefore insisted.
“Maybe I div, an’ maybe I divna,” answered the child, with an
expression of determined mystery.
“Ye’ll tell me whaur ye _think_ he is, Phemy?”
“Na, I winna.”
“What for no?”
“Ow, jist for fear ye sud ken.”
“But I’m a freen’ till him.”
“Ye may think ay, an’ the laird may think no.”
“Does he think _you_ a freen’, Phemy?” asked Malcolm, in the hope of
coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation.
“Ay, he _kens_ I’m a freen’,” she replied.
“An’ do ye aye ken whaur he is?”
“Na, no aye. He gangs here an’ he gangs there--jist as he likes.
It’s whan _naebody_ kens whaur he is, that I ken, an’ gang till him.”
“Is he i’ the hoose?”
“Na, he’s no i’ the hoose.”
“Whaur is he than, Phemy?” said Malcolm coaxingly. “There’s ill
fowk aboot ’at’s efter deein’ him an ill turn.”
“The mair need no to tell!” retorted Phemy.
“But I want to tak care ’o ’im. Tell me whaur he is, like a guid
lassie, Phemy.”
“I’m no sure. I may say I dinna ken.”
“Ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna: noo naebody kens.”
“Hoo ken ye that?”
“’Cause he’s run awa.”
“Wha frae? His mither?”
“Na, na; frae Miss Horn.”
“I ken naething aboot _her_; but gien naebody kens, I ken whaur he
is weel eneuch.”
“Whaur than? Ye’ll be duin’ him a guid turn to tell me.”
“Whaur I winna tell, an’ whaur you nor nae ither body s’ get him.
An’ ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell; an’ gien ye
gang on speirin’, you an’ me winna be lang freen’s.”
As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with
wide-opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm dared
not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong.
“Ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye?” he said kindly.
“My father wadna speir. My father’s a guid man.”
“Weel, Phemy, though ye winna trust _me_--supposin’ I was to trust
_you_?”
“Ye can du that gien ye like.”
“An’ ye winna tell?”
“I s’ mak nae promises. It’s no trustin’, to gar me promise.”
“Weel, I wull trust ye.--Tell the laird to haud weel oot o’ sicht
for a whilie.”
“He’ll du that,” said Phemy.
“An’ tell him gien onything befa’ him, to sen’ to Miss Horn, for
Ma’colm MacPhail may be oot wi’ the boats.--Ye winna forget that?”
“I’m no lickly to forget it,” answered Phemy, apparently absorbed
in boring a hole in a haddock’s eye with a pin so bent as to act
like a brace and bit.
“Ye’ll no get yer string o’ beads in time for the weddin’, Phemy,”
remarked Malcolm, going on to talk from a desire to give the child
a feeling of his friendliness.
“Ay will I--fine that,” she rejoined.
“Whan is ’t to be?”
“Ow, neist Setterday. Ye’ll be comin’ ower?”
“I haena gotten a call.”
“Ye’ll be gettin’ ane.”
“Div ye think they’ll gie me ane?”
“As sune ’s onybody.--Maybe by that time I’ll be able to gie ye
some news o’ the laird.”
“There’s a guid lassie!”
“Na, na; I’m makin’ nae promises,” said Phemy.
Malcolm left her and went to find her father, who, although it
was Sunday, was already “oot aboot,” as she had said. He found him
strolling in meditation along the cliffs. They had a little talk
together, but Joseph knew nothing of the laird.
Malcolm took Lossie House on his way back, for he had not yet seen
the marquis, to whom he must report his adventures of the night
before. The signs of past revelling were plentifully visible as he
approached the house. The marquis was not yet up, but Mrs Courthope
undertaking to send him word as soon as his lordship was to be
seen, he threw himself on the grass and waited--his mind occupied
with strange questions, started by the Sunday coming after such a
Saturday--among the rest, how God could permit a creature to be
born so distorted and helpless as the laird, and then permit him
to be so abused in consequence of his helplessness. The problems
of life were beginning to _bite_. Everywhere things appeared uneven.
He was not one to complain of mere external inequalities: if he _was_
inclined to envy Lord Meikleham, it was not because of his social
position: he was even now philosopher enough to know that the life
of a fisherman was preferable to that of such a marquis as Lord
Lossie--that the desirableness of a life is to be measured by
the amount of interest and not by the amount of ease in it, for the
more ease the more unrest; neither was he inclined to complain of
the gulf that yawned so wide between him and Lady Florimel; the
difficulty lay deeper: such a gulf existing, by a social law only
less inexorable than a natural one, why should he feel the rent
invading his individual being? in a word, though Malcolm put it in
no such definite shape: Why should a fisher-lad find himself in
danger of falling in love with the daughter of a marquis? Why should
such a thing, seeing the very constitution of things rendered it
an absurdity, be yet a possibility?
The church bell began, rang on, and ceased. The sound of the psalms
came, softly mellowed, and sweetly harmonized, across the churchyard
through the gray Sabbath air, and he found himself, for the first
time, a stray sheep from the fold. The service must have been half
through before a lackey, to whom Mrs Courthope had committed the
matter when she went to church, brought him the message that the
marquis would see him.
“Well, MacPhail, what do you want with me?” said his lordship as
he entered.
“It’s my duty to acquant yer lordship wi’ certain proceedin’s ’at
took place last nicht,” answered Malcolm.
“Go on,” said the marquis.
Thereupon Malcolm began at the beginning, and told of the men he
had watched, and how, in the fancy of following them, he had found
himself in the garret, and what he saw and did there.
“Did you recognize either of the women?” asked Lord Lossie.
“Ane o’ them, my lord,” answered Malcolm. “It was Mistress Catanach,
the howdie.”
“What sort of a woman is she?”
“Some fowk canna bide her, my lord. I ken no ill to lay till her
chairge, but I winna lippen till her. My gran’father--an’ he’s
blin’, ye ken--jist trimles whan she comes near him.”
The marquis smiled.
“What do you suppose she was about?” he asked.
“I ken nae mair than the bonnet I flang in her face, my lord; but
it could hardly be guid she was efter. At ony rate, seein’ yer
lordship pat me in a mainner in chairge, I bude to haud her oot
o’ a closed room--an’ her gaein’ creepin’ aboot yer lordship’s
hoose like a worm.”
“Quite right. Will you pull the bell there for me?”
He told the man to send Mrs Courthope; but he said she had not yet
come home from church.
“Could you take me to the room, MacPhail?” asked his lordship.
“I’ll try, my lord,” answered Malcolm. As far as the proper quarter
of the attics, he went straight as a pigeon; in that labyrinth he
had to retrace his steps once or twice, but at length he stopped,
and said confidently--
“This is the door, my lord.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure ’s deith, my lord.”
The marquis tried the door and found it immovable. “You say she
had the key?”
“No, my lord: I said she had keys, but whether she had _the_ key, I
doobt if she kent hersel’. It may ha’ been ane o’ the bundle yet
to try.”
“You’re a sharp fellow,” said the marquis. “I wish I had such a
servant about me.”
“I wad mak a some rouch ane, I doobt,” returned Malcolm, laughing.
His lordship was of another mind, but pursued the subject no farther.
“I have a vague recollection,” he said, “of some room in the house
having an old story or legend connected with it. I must find out.
I daresay Mrs Courthope knows. Meantime you hold your tongue. We
may get some amusement out of this.”
“I wull, my lord, like a deid man an’ beeryt.”
“You can--can you?”
“I can, my lord.”
“You’re a rare one!” said the marquis.
Malcolm thought he was making game of him as heretofore, and held
his peace.
“You can go home now,” said his lordship. “I will see to this
affair.”
“But jist be canny middlin’ wi’ Mistress Catanach, my lord: she’s
no mowse.”
“What! you’re not afraid of an old woman?”
“Deil a bit, my lord!--that is, I’m no feart at a dogfish or a
rottan, but I wud tak tent an’ grip them the richt gait, for they
hae teeth. Some fowk think Mistress Catanach has mair teeth nor
she shaws.”
“Well, if she’s too much for me, I’ll send for you,” said the
marquis good-humouredly.
“Ye canna get me sae easy, my lord: we’re efter the herrin’ noo.”
“Well, well, we’ll see.”
“But I wantit 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 lordship--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 principal facts.
“I don’t think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail,” said
his lordship, seriously. “His mother must know best.”
“I’m no sae sure o’ that, my lord! To say naething o’ the ill
guideship, 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 God made him,” said the marquis.
“He’s no as God _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 strauchtit oot bonny that day,” said
Malcolm with absolute seriousness.
“Bah! You don’t think God cares about a misshapen lump of flesh
like that!” exclaimed his lordship with contempt.
“As muckle ’s aboot yersel’, or my leddy,” said Malcolm. “Gien he
didna, he wadna be nae God 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.[5]--Guid
day to ye, my lord.”
[5] Isa. lviii. (...to loose the weighty burdens and let the oppressed
go free...)
So saying the young fisherman turned, and left the marquis laughing in
the hall.