THE LAIRD'S VISION.
Malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary ride when
one of the maids informed him that a man from Kirkbyres wanted him.
Hiding his reluctance, he went with her and found Tom, who was Mrs.
Stewart's grieve and had been about the place all his days.
"Mr. Stephen's come hame, sir," he said, touching his bonnet, a
civility for which Malcolm was not grateful.
"It's no possible," returned Malcolm. "I saw him last nicht."
"He cam aboot ten o'clock, sir, an' hed a turn o' the fa'in' sickness
o' the spot. He's verra ill the noo, an' the mistress sent me ower to
speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein' to see him."
"Has he ta'en till's bed?" asked Malcolm.
"We pat him infill 't, sir. He's ravin' mad, an' I'm thinkin' he's no
far frae his hin'er en'."
"I'll gang wi' ye direckly," said Malcolm.
In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to Kirkbyres,
neither with much to say to the other, for Malcolm distrusted every
one about the place, and Tom was by nature taciturn.
"What garred them sen' for me, div ye ken?" asked Malcolm at length
when they had gone about halfway.
"He cried oot upo' ye i' the nicht," answered Tom.
When they arrived Malcolm was shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs.
Stewart met him with red eyes. "Will you come and see my poor boy?"
she said.
"I wull du that, mem. Is he verra ill?"
"Very. I'm afraid he is in a bad way."
She led him to a dark, old-fashioned chamber, rich and gloomy. There,
sunk in the down of a huge bed with carved ebony posts, lay the
laird, far too ill to be incommoded by the luxury to which he was
unaccustomed. His head kept tossing from side to side and his eyes
seemed searching in vacancy.
"Has the doctor been to see 'im, mem?" asked Malcolm.
"Yes, but he says he can't do anything for him."
"Wha waits upon 'im, mem?"
"One of the maids and myself."
"I'll jist bide wi' 'im."
"That will be very kind of you."
"I s' bide wi' 'im till I see 'im oot o' this, ae w'y or ither,",
added Malcolm, and sat down by the bedside of his poor distrustful
friend. There Mrs. Stewart left him.
The laird was wandering in the thorny thickets and slimy marshes
which, haunted by the thousand misshapen horrors of delirium, beset
the gates of life. That one so near the light and slowly drifting into
it should lie tossing in hopeless darkness! Is it that the delirium
falls, a veil of love, to hide other and more real terrors?
His eyes would now and then meet those of Malcolm as they gazed
tenderly upon him, but the living thing that looked out of the windows
was darkened and saw him not. Occasionally a word would fall from him,
or a murmur of half-articulation float up like the sound of a river
of souls; but whether Malcolm heard, or only seemed to hear, something
like this, he could not tell, for he could not be certain that he had
not himself shaped the words by receiving the babble into the moulds
of the laird's customary thought and speech: "I dinna ken whaur I cam
frae--I kenna whaur I'm gaein' till.--Eh, gien He wad but come oot an'
shaw Himsel'!--O Lord! tak the deevil aff o' my puir back.--O Father
o' lichts! gar him tak the hump wi' him. I hae no fawvor for't, though
it's been my constant compainion this mony a lang."
But in general he only moaned, and after the words thus heard or
fashioned by Malcolm lay silent and nearly still for an hour.
All the waning afternoon Malcolm sat by his side, and neither mother,
maid nor doctor came near them.
"Dark wa's an' no a breath!" he murmured or seemed to murmur again.
"Nae gerse nor flooers nor bees! I hae na room for my hump, an' I
canna lie upo' 't, for that wad kill me. Wull I _ever_ ken whaur I cam
frae? The wine's unco guid. Gie me a drap mair, gien ye please, Lady
Horn.--I thought the grave was a better place. I hae lain safter afore
I dee'd.--Phemy! Phemy! Rin, Phemy, rin! I s' bide wi' them this time.
Ye rin, Phemy!"
As it grew dark the air turned very chill, and snow began to
fall thick and fast. Malcolm laid a few sticks on the smouldering
peat-fire, but they were damp and did not catch. All at once the laird
gave a shriek, and crying out, "Mither! mither!" fell into a fit so
violent that the heavy bed shook with his convulsions. Malcolm held
his wrists and called aloud. No one came, and, bethinking himself that
none could help, he waited in silence for what would soon follow.
The fit passed quickly, and he lay quiet. The sticks had meantime
dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up. The laird turned
his face toward the flame; a smile came over it; his eyes opened wide,
and with such an expression of seeing gazed beyond Malcolm that he
turned his in the same direction.
"Eh, the bonny man! The bonny man!" murmured the laird.
But Malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird: his jaw had
fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a
sunset. He was dead.
Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken
place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend was
at rest.
He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy on a
fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him.
"Whaur are ye for?" asked Malcolm. "I'm gaein' for Mistress Cat'nach,"
answered the boy.
"Gang yer w'ys than, an' dinna haud the deid waitin'," said Malcolm
with a shudder.
The boy cast a look of dismay behind him and galloped off.
The snow still fell and the night was dark. Malcolm spent nearly two
hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who told him that Mrs.
Catanach was not to be found.
His road lay down the glen, past Duncan's cottage, at whose door he
dismounted, but he did not find him. Taking the bridle on his arm, he
walked by his horse the rest of the way. It was about nine o'clock,
and the night very dark. As he neared the house, he heard Duncan's
voice. "Malcolm, my son! Will it pe your ownself?" it said.
"It wull that, daddy," answered Malcolm.
The piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling softly
upon him.
"But it's ower cauld for ye to be sittin' there i' the snaw, an' the
mirk tu," added Malcolm.
"Ta tarkness will not be ketting to ta inside of her," returned the
seer. "Ah, my poy! where ta light kets in, ta tarkness will pe ketting
in too. This now, your whole pody will pe full of tarkness, as ta
Piple will say, and Tuncan's pody tat will pe full of ta light." Then
with suddenly changed tone he said, "Listen, Malcolm, my son! Shell pe
ferry uneasy till you'll wass pe come home."
"What's the maitter noo, daddy?" returned Malcolm. "Onything wrang
aboot the hoose?"
"Something will pe wrong, yes, put she'll not can tell where. No, her
pody will not pe full of light! For town here, in ta curset Lowlands,
ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my son. It will now pe no more
as a co creeping troo' her, and shell nefer see plain no more till
she'll pe come pack to her own mountains."
"The puir laird's gane back to his," said Malcolm. "I won'er gien he
kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin' at ilk ane he meets gien he can
tell him whaur he cam frae. He's mad nae mair, ony gait."
"How? Will he pe not tead? Ta poor lairt! Ta poor maad lairt!"
"Ay, he's deid: maybe that's what'll be troublin' yer sicht, daddy."
"No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not ferry maad, and if he was maad
he was not paad, and it was not ta plame of him: he was coot always,
howefer."
"He wass that, daddy."
"But it will pe something ferry paad, and it will pe efer troubling
her speerit. When she'll pe take ta pipes to pe amusing herself, and
will plow 'Till an crodh a' Dhonnaehaidh' ('Turn the Cows, Duncan'),
out will pe come' Cumhadh an fhir mhoir' ('The Lament of the Big
Man'). Aal is not well, my son."
"Weel, dinna distress yersel', daddy. Lat come what wull come.
Foreseein' 's no forefen'in'. Ye ken yersel' at mony 's the time the
seer has broucht the thing on by tryin' to haud it aff."
"It will be true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come."
"Nae doubt. Sae ye jist come in wi' me, daddy, an' sit doon by the ha'
fire, an' I'll come to ye as sune's I've been to see 'at the maister
disna want me. But ye'll better come up wi' me to my room first," he
went on, "for the maister disna like to see me in onything but the
kilt."
"And why will he not pe in ta kilts aal as now?"
"I hae been ridin', ye ken, daddy, an' the trews fits the saiddle
better nor the kilts."
"She'll not pe knowing tat. Old Allister, your creat--her own
crandfather, was ta pest horseman ta worlt efer saw, and he'll nefer
pe hafing ta trews to his own lecks nor ta saddle to his horse's pack.
He'll chust make his men pe strap on an old plaid, and he'll be kive
a chump, and away they wass, horse and man, one peast, aal two of tem
poth together."
Thus chatting, they went to the stable, and from the stable to the
house, where they met no one, and went straight up to Malcolm's room,
the old man making as little of the long ascent as Malcolm himself.