MARQUISE OF LOSSIE'S ADVENTURES: Malcolm & The Marquis's Secret. George MacDonald

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      "Good morning, Malcolm," said Mrs Courthope, when she turned and saw whose shadow fell on the marble floor. "What have you brought me?"

      "A fine salmon troot, mem. But gien ye had hard boo Mistress Catanach flytit (scolded) at me 'cause I wadna gie't to her! You wad hae thocht, mem, she was something no canny—the w'y 'at she first beggit, an' syne fleecht (flattered), an syne a' but banned an' swore."

      "She's a peculiar person, that, Malcolm. Those are nice whitings. I don't care about the trout. Just take it to her as you go back."

      "I doobt gien she'll take it, mem. She's an awfu' vengefu' cratur, fowk says."

      "You remind me, Malcolm," returned Mrs Courthope, "that I'm not at ease about your grandfather. He is not in a Christian frame of mind at all—and he is an old man too. If we don't forgive our enemies, you know, the Bible plainly tells us we shall not be forgiven ourselves."

      "I'm thinkin' it was a greater nor the Bible said that, mem," returned Malcolm, who was an apt pupil of Mr Graham. "But ye'll be meanin' Cawmill o' Glenlyon," he went on with a smile. "It canna maitter muckle to him whether my gran'father forgie him or no, seein' he's been deid this hunner year."

      "It's not Campbell of Glenlyon, it's your grandfather I am anxious about," said Mrs Courthope. "Nor is it only Campbell of Glenlyon he's so fierce against, but all his posterity as well."

      "They dinna exist, mem. There's no sic a bein' o' the face o' the yearth, as a descendant o' that Glenlyon."

      "It makes little difference, I fear," said Mrs Courthope, who was no bad logician. "The question isn't whether or not there's anybody to forgive, but whether Duncan MacPhail is willing to forgive."

      "That I do believe he is, mem; though he wad be as sair astonished to hear 't as ye are yersel'."

      "I don't know what you mean by that, Malcolm."

      "I mean, mem, 'at a blin' man, like my gran'father, canna ken himsel' richt, seein' he canna ken ither fowk richt. It's by kennin' ither fowk 'at ye come to ken yersel, mem—isna't noo?"

      "Blindness surely doesn't prevent a man from knowing other people. He hears them, and he feels them, and indeed has generally more kindness from them because of his affliction."

      "Frae some o' them, mem; but it's little kin'ness my gran'father has expairienced frae Cawmill o' Glenlyon, mem."

      "And just as little injury, I should suppose," said Mrs Courthope.

      "Ye're wrang there, mem: a murdered mither maun be an unco skaith to oye's oye (grandson's grandson). But supposin' ye to be richt, what I say's to the pint for a' that I maun jist explain a wee.—When I was a laddie at the schule, I was ance tell't that ane o' the loons was i' the wye o' mockin' my gran'father. Whan I hard it, I thocht I cud jist rive the hert o' 'im, an' set my teeth in't, as the Dutch sodger did to the Spainiard. But whan I got a grip o' 'im, an' the rascal turned up a frichtit kin' o' a dog-like face to me, I jist could not drive my steikit neive (clenched fist) intil't. Mem, a face is an awfu' thing! There's aye something luikin' oot o' 't 'at ye canna do as ye like wi'. But my gran'father never saw a face in's life—lat alane Glenlyon's 'at's been dirt for sae mony a year. Gien he war luikin' intil the face o' that Glenlyon even, I do believe he wad no more drive his durk intill him."

      "Drive his dirk into him!" echoed Mrs Courthope, in horror at the very disclaimer.

      "No, I'm sure he wad not," persisted Malcolm, innocently. "He micht not tak him oot o' a pot (hole in a riverbed), but he wad neither durk him nor fling him in. I'm no that sure he wadna even ran (reach) him a han'. Ae thing I am certain o',—that by the time he meets Glenlyon in haven, he'll be no that far frae lattin' byganes be byganes."

      "Meets Glenlyon in heaven!" again echoed Mrs Courthope, who knew enough of the story to be startled at the taken for granted way in which Malcolm spoke. "Is it probable that a wretch such as your legends describe him should ever get there?"

      "Ye dinna think God's forgien him, than, mem?"

      "I have no right to judge Glenlyon, or any other man; but, as you ask me, I must say I see no likelihood of it."

      "Hoo can ye compleen o' my puir blin' grandfather for no forgiein' him, than?—I hae ye there, mem!"

      "He may have repented, you know," said Mrs Courthope feebly, finding herself in less room than was comfortable.

      "In sic case," returned Malcolm, "the auld man 'ill hear a' aboot it the meenit he wins there; an' I mak nae doobt he'll du his best to perswaud himsel'."

      "But what if he shouldn't get there?" persisted Mrs Courthope, in pure benevolence.

"Hoot toot, mem! I wonner to hear ye! A Cawmill latten in, and my gran'father hauden oot! That wad be jist yallow faced Willie ower again!*—Na, na; things gang anither gait up there. My gran'father's a rale guid man, for a' 'at he has a wye o' luikin' at things 'at's mair efter the law nor the gospel."

      Apparently Mrs Courthope had come at length to the conclusion that Malcolm was as much of a heathen as his grandfather, for in silence she chose her fish, in silence paid him his price, and then with only a sad Good day, turned and left him.

      He would have gone back by the river side to the sea gate, but Mrs Courthope having waived her right to the fish in favour of Mrs Catanach, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so returned the way he had come.

      "Here's yer troot, Mistress Cat'nach," he called aloud at her door, which generally stood a little ajar. "Ye s' hae't for the saxpence—an' a guid bargain tu, for ane o' sic dimensions!"

      As he spoke, he held the fish in at the door, but his eyes were turned to the main street, whence the factor's gig was at the moment rounding the corner into that in which he stood; when suddenly the salmon trout was snatched from his hand, and flung so violently in his face, that he staggered back into the road: the factor had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. His rout rather than retreat was followed by a burst of insulting laughter, and at the same moment, out of the house rushed a large vile looking mongrel, with hair like an ill used doormat and an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ashpit, caught up the trout, and rushed with it towards the gate.

      "That's richt, my bairn!" shouted Mrs Catanach to the brute as he ran: "tak it to Mrs Courthope. Tak it back wi' my compliments."

      Amidst a burst of malign laughter she slammed her door, and from a window sideways watched the young fisherman.

      As he stood looking after the dog in wrath and bewilderment, the factor, having recovered from the fit of merriment into which the sudden explosion of events had cast him, and succeeded in quieting his scared horse, said, slackening his reins to move on,

      "You sell your fish too cheap, Malcolm."

      "The deil's i' the tyke," rejoined Malcolm, and, seized at last by a sense of the ludicrousness of the whole affair, burst out laughing, and turned for the High Street. .

      "Na, na, laddie; the deil's no awa' in sic a hurry: he bed (remained)," said a voice behind him.

      Malcolm turned again and lifted his bonnet. It was Miss Horn, who had come up from the Seaton.

      "Did ye see yon, mem?" he asked.

      "Ay, СКАЧАТЬ