MISS HORN AND THE PIPER.
When Miss Horn bethought herself that night, in prospect of
returning home the next day, that she had been twice in the company
of the laird and had not even thought of asking him about Phemy,
she reproached herself not a little; and it was with shame that
she set out, immediately on her arrival, to tell Malcolm that she
had seen him. No one at the House being able to inform her where
he was at the moment, she went on to Duncan’s cottage. There she
found the piper, who could not tell her where his boy was, but gave
her a hearty welcome, and offered her a cup of tea, which, as it
was now late in the afternoon, Miss Horn gladly accepted. As he
bustled about to prepare it, refusing all assistance from his guest,
he began to open his mind to her on a subject much in his thoughts
--namely, Malcolm’s inexplicable aversion to Mrs Stewart.
“Ta nem of Stewart will pe a nople worrt, mem,” he said.
“It’s guid eneuch to ken a body by,” answered Miss Horn.
“If ta poy will pe a Stewart,” he went on, heedless of the
indifference of her remark, “who’ll pe knowing put he’ll may pe of
ta plood royal!”
“There didna leuk to be muckle royalty aboot auld John, honest man,
wha cudna rule a wife, though he had but ane!” returned Miss Horn.
“If you’ll please, mem, ton’t you’ll pe too sherp on ta poor man
whose wife will not pe ta coot wife. If ta wife will pe ta paad
wife, she will pe ta paad wife however, and ta poor man will pe
hafing ta paad wife and ta paad plame of it too, and tat will pe
more as ’ll pe fair, mem.”
“’Deed ye never said a truer word, Maister MacPhail!” assented Miss
Horn. “It’s a mercy ’at a lone wuman like me, wha has a maisterfu’
temper o’ her ain, an’ nae feelin’s, was never putten to the
temptation o’ occkypeein’ sic a perilous position. I doobt gien
auld John had been merried upo’ me, I micht hae putten on the wrang
claes some mornin’ mysel’, an’ may be had ill gettin’ o’ them aff
again.”
The old man was silent, and Miss Horn resumed the main subject of
their conversation.
“But though he michtna objec’ till a father ’at he wasna jist Hector
or Golia’ o’ Gath,” she said, “ye canna wonner ’at the yoong laad
no carin’ to hae sic a mither.”
“And what would pe ta harm with ta mother? Will she not pe a coot
woman, and a coot letty more to ta bargain?”
“Ye ken what fowk says till her guideship o’ her son?”
“Yes; put tat will pe ta lies of ta peoples. Ta peoples wass always
telling lies.”
“Weel, allooin’, it’s a peety ye sudna ken, supposin’ him to be
hers, hoo sma’ fowk hauds the chance o’ his bein’ a Stewart, for
a’ that!”
“she’ll not pe comprestanding you,” said Duncan, bewildered.
“He’s a wise son ’at kens his ain faither!” remarked Miss Horn,
with more point than originality. “The leddy never bore the best
o’ characters, as far ’s my memory taks me,--an’ that’s back
afore John an’ her was merried ony gait. Na, na; John Stewart never
took a dwaum ’cause Ma’colm MacPhail was upo’ the ro’d.”
Miss Horn was sufficiently enigmatical; but her meaning had at
length, more through his own reflection than her exposition, dawned
upon Duncan. He leaped up with a Gaelic explosion of concentrated
force, and cried,
“Ta woman is not pe no mothers to Tuncan’s poy!”
“Huly, huly, Mr MacPhail!” interposed Miss Horn, with good-natured
revenge; “it may be naething but fowk’s lees, ye ken.”
“Ta woman tat ta peoples will pe telling lies of her, wass not pe
ta mother of her poy Malcolm. Why tidn’t ta poy tell her ta why
tat he wouldn’t pe hafing her?”
“Ye wadna hae him spread an ill report o’ his ain mither?”
“Put she’ll not pe his mother, and you’ll not pelieve it, mem.”
“Ye canna priv that--you nor him aither.”
“It will pe more as would kill her poy to haf a woman like tat to
ta mother of him.”
“It wad be near-han’ as ill ’s haein’ her for a wife,” assented
Miss Horn; “but no freely (_quite_),” she added.
The old man sought the door, as if for a breath of air; but as he
went, he blundered, and felt about as if he had just been struck
blind; ordinarily he walked, in his own house at least, as if he saw
every inch of the way. Presently he returned and resumed his seat.
“Was the bairn laid mither nakit intill yer han’s, Maister MacPhail?”
asked Miss Horn, who had been meditating.
“Och! no; he wass his clo’es on,” answered Duncan.
“Hae ye ony o’ them left?” she asked again.
“Inteet not,” answered Duncan. “Yes, inteet not.”
“Ye lay at the Salmon, didna ye?”
“Yes, mem, and they wass coot to her.”
“Wha drest the bairn till ye?”
“Och! she’ll trest him herself,” said Duncan, still jealous of
the women who had nursed the child.
“But no aye?” suggested Miss Horn.
“Mistress Partan will pe toing a coot teal of tressing him, sometimes.
Mistress Partan is a coot ’oman when she’ll pe coot--fery coot
when she’ll pe coot.”
Here Malcolm entered, and Miss Horn told him what she had seen of
the laird, and gathered concerning him.
“That luiks ill for Phemy,” remarked Malcolm, when she had described
his forlorn condition. “She canna be wi’ ’im, or he wadna be like
that. Hae ye onything by w’y o’ coonsel, mem?”
“I wad coonsel a word wi’ the laird himsel’--gien ’t be to be
gotten. He mayna ken what’s happent her, but he may tell ye the
last he saw o’ her, an’ that maun be mair nor ye ken.”
“He’s taen sic a doobt o’ me ’at I’m feart it’ll be hard to come
at him, an’ still harder to come at speech o’ ’im, for whan he’s
frichtit he can hardly muv is jawbane--no to say speyk. I maun
try though and du my best. Ye think he’s lurkin’ aboot Fife Hoose,
div ye, mem?”
“He’s been seen there awa’ this while--aff an’ on.”
“Weel, I s’ jist gang an’ put on my fisher-claes, an set oot
at ance. I maun haud ower to Scaurnose first, though, to lat them
ken ’at he’s been gotten sicht o’. It’ll be but sma’ comfort, I
doobt.”
“Malcolm, my son,” interjected Duncan, who had been watching for
the conversation to afford him an opening, “if you’ll pe meeting
any one will caal you ta son of tat woman, gif him a coot plow in
ta face, for you’ll pe no son of hers, efen if she’ll proof it--
no more as hersel’. If you’ll pe her son, old Tuncan will pe tisown
you for efer, and efermore, amen.”
“What’s broucht you to this, daddie?” asked Malcolm, who, ill as
he liked the least allusion to the matter, could not help feeling
curious, and indeed almost amused.
“Nefer you mind. Miss Horn will pe hafing coot reasons tat Mistress
Stewart’ll not can pe your mother.”
Malcolm turned to Miss Horn.
“I’ve said naething to Maister MacPhail but what I’ve said mair
nor ance to yersel’, laddie,” she replied to the eager questioning
of his eyes. “Gang yer wa’s. The trowth maun cow the lee i’ the
lang rin. Aff wi’ ye to Blue Peter!”
When Malcolm reached Scaurnose he found Phemy’s parents in a sad state.
Joseph had returned that morning from a fruitless search in a fresh
direction, and reiterated disappointment seemed to have at length
overcome Annie’s endurance, for she had taken to her bed. Joseph was
sitting before the fire on a three-legged stool rocking himself to and
fro in a dull agony. When he heard Malcolm’s voice, he jumped to his
feet, and a flash of hope shot from his eyes: but when he had heard
all, he sat down again without a word, and began rocking himself as
before.
Mrs Mair was lying in the darkened closet, where, the door being partly
open, she had been listening with all her might, and was now weeping
afresh. Joseph was the first to speak: still rocking himself with
hopeless oscillation, he said, in a strange muffled tone which seemed
to come from somewhere else--
“Gien I kent she was weel deid I wadna care. It’s no like a father to
be sittin’ here, but whaur’ll I gang neist? The wife thinks I micht be
duin’ something: I kenna what to du. This last news is waur nor nane.
I hae maist nae faith left. Ma’colm, man!”-- and with a bitter cry he
started to his feet--“I maist dinna believe there’s a God ava’. It
disna luik like it--dis ’t noo?”
There came an answering cry from the closet; Annie rushed out,
half-undressed, and threw her arms about her husband.
“Joseph! Joseph!” she said, in a voice hard with agony--almost
more dreadful than a scream--“gien ye speyk like that, ye’ll
drive me mad. Lat the lassie gang, but lea’ me my God!”
Joseph pushed her gently away; turned from her, fell on his knees, and
moaned out--
“O God, gien thoo has her, we s’ neither greit nor grum’le: but dinna
tak the faith frae ’s.”
He remained on his knees silent, with his head against the
chimney-jamb. His wife crept away to her closet.
“Peter,” said Malcolm, “I’m gaein’ aff the nicht to luik for the laird,
and see gien he can tell ’s onything aboot her: wadna ye better come
wi’ me?”
To the heart of the father it was as the hope of the resurrection of
the world. The same moment he was on his feet and taking down his
bonnet; the next he disappeared in the closet, and Malcolm heard the
tinkling of the money in the lidless teapot; then out he came with a
tear on his face and a glimmer in his eyes.
The sun was down, and a bone-piercing chill, incarnate in the vague
mist that haunted the ground, assailed them as they left the cottage.
The sea moaned drearily. A smoke seemed to ascend from the horizon
half-way to the zenith, something too thin for cloud, too black for
vapour; above that the stars were beginning to shine. Joseph shivered
and struck his hands against his shoulders.
“Care’s cauldrife,” he said, and strode on.
Almost in silence they walked together to the county town, put up at a
little inn near the river, and at once began to make inquiries. Not a
few persons had seen the laird at different times, but none knew where
he slept or chiefly haunted. There was nothing for it but to set out in
the morning, and stray hither and thither, on the chance of somewhere
finding him.