WANDERING STARS.
He had not been gone many minutes, when the laird passed once more
through the strait, and stood a moment waiting for Phemy; she had
persuaded him to go home to her father’s for the night.
But the next instant he darted back, with trembling hands, caught
hold of Phemy, who was following him with the lantern, and stammered
in her ear,--
“There’s somebody there! I dinna ken whaur they come frae.”
Phemy went to the front of the passage and listened, but could hear
nothing, and returned.
“Bide ye whaur ye are, laird,” she said; “I’ll gang doon, an’ gien
I hear or see naething, I’ll come back for ye.”
With careful descent, placing her feet on the well-known points
unerringly, she reached the bottom, and peeped into the outer cave.
The place was quite dark. Through its jaws the sea glimmered faint
in the low light that skirted the northern horizon; and the slow
pulse of the tide upon the rocks, was the sole sound to be heard.
No: another in the cave close beside her!--one small solitary
noise, as of shingle yielding under the pressure of a standing
foot! She held her breath and listened, her heart beating so loud
that she feared it would deafen her to what would come next. A good
many minutes, half an hour it seemed to her, passed, during which
she heard nothing more; but as she peeped out for the twentieth
time, a figure glided into the field of vision bounded by the
cave’s mouth. It was that of a dumpy woman. She entered the cave,
tumbled over one of the forms, and gave a cry coupled with an
imprecation.
“The deevil roast them ’at laid me sic a trap!” she said. “I hae
broken the shins the auld markis laudit!”
“Hold your wicked tongue!” hissed a voice in return, almost in
Phemy’s very ear.
“Ow! ye’re there, are ye, mem!” rejoined the other, in a voice that
held internal communication with her wounded shins. “Coupit ye the
crans like me?”
The question, Englished, was, “Did you fall heels over head like
me?” but was capable of a metaphorical interpretation as well.
“Hold your tongue, I say, woman! Who knows but some of the saints
may be at their prayers within hearing?”
“Na, na, mem, there’s nae risk o’ that; this is no ane o’ yer
creepy caves whaur otters an wullcats hae their habitations; it’s
a muckle open-mou’d place, like them ’at prays intill ’t--as toom
an’ clear-sidit as a tongueless bell. But what for ye wad hae ’s
come here to oor cracks (_conversation_), I canna faddom. A body wad
think ye had an ill thoucht i’ yer heid--eh, mem?”
The suggestion was followed by a low, almost sneering laugh. As she
spoke, the sounds of her voice and step had been advancing, with
cautious intermittent approach.
“I hae ye noo,” she said, as she seated herself at length beside
the other. “The gowk, Geordie Bray!” she went on, “--to tak it
intill ’s oogly heid ’at the cratur wad be hurklin’ here! It’s no the
place for ane ’at has to hide ’s heid for verra shame o’ slippin’
aff the likes o’ himsel’ upo’ sic a braw mither! Could he get nae
ither door to win in at, haith!”
“Woman, you’ll drive me mad!” said the other.
“Weel, hinney,” returned the former, suddenly changing her tone, “I’m
mair an’ mair convenced ’at yon’s the verra laad for yer purpose.
For ae thing, ye see, naebody kens whaur he cam frae, as the
laird, bonny laad, wad say, an’ naebody can contradick a word--
the auld man less than onybody, for I can tell him what he kens to
be trowth. Only I winna muv till _I_ ken whaur he comes frae.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer not knowing for certain? You could swear with
the better grace.”
“Deil a bit! It maitters na to me whilk side o’ my teeth I chow wi’.
But I winna sweir till I ken the trowth--’at I may haud aff o’
’t. He’s the man, though, gien we can get a grip o’ ’im! He luiks
the richt thing, ye see, mem. He has a glisk (_slight look_) o’ the
markis tu--divna ye think, mem?”
“Insolent wretch!”
“Caw canny, mem--A’thing maun be considered. It wad but gar the
thing luik the mair likly. Fowk gangs the len’th o’ sayin’ ’at
Humpy himsel’ ’s no the sin (_son_) o’ the auld laird, honest man!”
“It’s a wicked lie,” burst with indignation from the other.
“There may be waur things nor a bit lee. Ony gait, ae thing’s easy
priven: ye lay verra dowie (_poorly_) for a month or sax ooks ance
upon a time at Lossie Hoose, an’ that was a feow years, we needna
speir hoo mony, efter ye was lichtened o’ the tither. Whan they
hear that at that time ye gae birth till a lad-bairn, the whilk was
stown awa’, an’ never hard tell o’ till noo--‘It may weel be,’
fowk’ll say: ‘them ’at has drunk wad drink again!’ It wad affoord
rizzons, ye see, an’ guid anes, for the bairn bein’ putten oot o’
sicht, and wad mak the haul story mair nor likly i’ the jeedgment
o’ a’ ’at hard it.”
“You scandalous woman! That would be to confess to all the world
that he was not the son of my late husband!”
“They say that o’ him ’at _is_, an’ hoo muckle the waur are ye? Lat
them say ’at they like, sae lang ’s we can shaw ’at he cam o’ your
body, an’ was born i’ wedlock? Ye hae yer lan’s ance mair, for ye
hae a sin ’at can guide them--and ye can guide him. He’s a bonny
lad--bonny eneuch to be yer leddyship’s--_and_ his lordship’s:
an’ sae, as I was remarkin’, i’ the jeedgment o’ ill-thouchtit
fowk, the mair likly to be heir to auld Stewart o’ Kirkbyres!”
She laughed huskily.
“But I maun hae a scart a’ yer pen, mem, afore I wag tongue aboot
it,” she went on. “I ken brawly hoo to set it gauin’! I sanna be the
first to ring the bell. Na, na; I s’ set Miss Horn’s Jean jawin’,
an’ it’ll be a’ ower the toon in a jiffy--at first in a kin’ o’
a sough ’at naebody ’ill unnerstan’: but it’ll grow looder an’
plainer. At the lang last it’ll come to yer leddyship’s hearin’:
an’ syne ye hae me taen up an’ questoned afore a justice o’ the
peace, that there may be no luik o’ ony compack atween the twa o’
’s. But, as I said afore, I’ll no muv till I ken a’ aboot the lad
first, an’ syne get a scart o’ yer pen, mem.”
“You must be the devil himself!” said the other, in a tone that
was not of displeasure.
“I hae been tellt that afore, an’ wi’ less rizzon,” was the reply
--given also in a tone that was not of displeasure.
“But what if we should be found out?”
“Ye can lay ’t a’ upo’ me.”
“And what will you do with it?”
“Tak it wi’ me,” was the answer, accompanied by another husky laugh.
“Where to?”
“Speir nae questons, an’ ye’ll be tellt nae lees. Ony gait, I
s’ lea’ nae track ahin’ me. An’ for that same sake, I maun hae my
pairt i’ my han’ the meenute the thing’s been sworn till. Gien ye
fail me, ye’ll sune see me get mair licht upo’ the subjec’, an’
confess till a great mistak. By the Michty, but I’ll sweir the verra
contrar the neist time I’m hed up! Ay, an’ ilka body ’ill believe
me. An’ whaur’ll ye be than, my leddy? For though _I_ micht mistak,
_ye_ cudna! Faith! they’ll hae ye ta’en up for perjury.”
“You’re a dangerous accomplice,” said the lady.
“I’m a tule ye maun tak by the han’le, or ye’ll rue the edge,”
returned the other quietly.
“As soon then as I get a hold of that misbegotten elf----”
“Mean ye the yoong laird, or the yoong markis, mem?”
“You forget, Mrs Catanach, that you are speaking to a lady!”
“Ye maun hae been unco like ane _ae_ nicht, ony gait, mem. But I’m
dune wi’ my jokin’.”
“As soon, I say, as I get my poor boy into proper hands, I shall
be ready to take the next step.”
“What for sud ye pit it aff till than? _He_ canna du muckle ae w’y
or ither.”
“I will tell you. His uncle, Sir Joseph, prides himself on being
an honest man, and if some busy-body were to tell him that poor
Stephen, as I am told people are saying, was no worse than harsh
treatment had made him--for you know his father could not bear
the sight of him till the day of his death--he would be the more
determined to assert his guardianship, and keep things out of my
hands. But if I once had the poor fellow in an asylum, or in my
own keeping--you see--”
“Weel, mem, gien I be potty, ye’re panny!” exclaimed the midwife with
her gelatinous laugh. “Losh, mem!” she burst out after a moment’s
pause, “gien you an’ me was to fa’ oot, there wad be a stramash!
He! he! he!”
They rose and left the cave together, talking as they went; and
Phemy, trembling all over, rejoined the laird.
She could understand little of what she had heard, and yet, enabled
by her affection, retained in her mind a good deal of it.
After-events brought more of it to her recollection, and what I have
here given is an attempted restoration of the broken mosaic. She
rightly judged it better to repeat nothing of what she had overheard
to the laird, to whom it would only redouble terror; and when
he questioned her in his own way concerning it, she had little
difficulty, so entirely did he trust her, in satisfying him with a
very small amount of information. When they reached her home, she
told all she could to her father; whose opinion it was, that the
best, indeed the only thing they could do, was to keep, if possible,
a yet more vigilant guard over the laird and his liberty.
Soon after they were gone, Malcolm returned, and little thinking
that there was no one left to guard, chose a sheltered spot in the
cave, carried thither a quantity of dry sand, and lay down to sleep,
covered with his tarpaulin coat. He found it something chilly,
however, and did not rest so well but that he woke with the first
break of day.
The morning, as it drew slowly on, was a strange contrast, in its
gray and saffron, to the gorgeous sunset of the night before.
The sea crept up on the land as if it were weary, and did not care
much to flow any more. Not a breath of wind was in motion, and yet
the air even on the shore seemed full of the presence of decaying
leaves and damp earth. He sat down in the mouth of the cave, and
looked out on the still, half-waking world of ocean and sky before
him--a leaden ocean, and a dull misty sky; and as he gazed, a
sadness came stealing over him, and a sense of the endlessness of
labour--labour ever returning on itself and making no progress.
The mad laird was always lamenting his ignorance of his origin:
Malcolm thought he knew whence he came--and yet what was the
much good of life? Where was the end to it all? People so seldom
got what they desired! To be sure his life was a happy one, or had
been--but there was the poor laird! Why should he be happier than
the laird? Why should the laird have a hump and he have none? If
all the world were happy but one man, that one’s misery would be
as a cairn on which the countless multitudes of the blessed must
heap the stones of endless questions and enduring perplexities.
It is one thing to know from whom we come, and another to know from
whom we come.
Then his thoughts turned to Lady Florimel. All the splendours of
existence radiated from her, but to the glory he could never draw
nearer; the celestial fires of the rainbow fountain of her life
could never warm him; she cared about nothing he cared about; if
they had a common humanity they could not share it; to her he was
hardly human. If he were to unfold before her the deepest layers of
his thought, she would look at them curiously, as she might watch
the doings of an ant or a spider. Had he no right to look for more?
He did not know, and sat brooding with bowed head.
Unseen from where he sat, the sun drew nearer the horizon, the
light grew; the tide began to ripple up more diligently; a glimmer
of dawn touched even the brown rock in the farthest end of the
cave.
Where there was light there was work, and where there was work for
any one, there was at least justification of his existence. That
work must be done, if it should return and return in a never broken
circle. Its theory could wait. For indeed the only hope of finding
the theory of all theories, the divine idea, lay in the going on
of things.
In the meantime, while God took care of the sparrows by himself, he
allowed Malcolm a share in the protection of a human heart capable
of the keenest suffering--that of the mad laird.