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

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СКАЧАТЬ faced countess, had gone, and the marquis, probably finding it a little duller in consequence, began to pay visits in the neighbourhood. Now and then he would be absent for a week or two—at Bog o' Gight, or Huntly Lodge, or Frendraught, or Balvenie, and although Lady Florimel had not much of his society, she missed him at meals, and felt the place grown dreary from his being nowhere within its bounds.

      On his return from one of his longer absences, he began to talk to her about a governess; but, though in a playful way, she rebelled utterly at the first mention of such an incubus. She had plenty of material for study, she said, in the library, and plenty of amusement in wandering about with the sullen Demon, who was her constant companion during his absences; and if he did force a governess upon her, she would certainly murder the woman, if only for the sake of bringing him into trouble. Her easygoing father was amused, laughed, and said nothing more on the subject at the time.

      Lady Florimel did not confess that she had begun to feel her life monotonous, or mention that she had for some time been cultivating the acquaintance of a few of her poor neighbours, and finding their odd ways of life and thought and speech interesting. She had especially taken a liking to Duncan MacPhail, in which, strange to say, Demon, who had hitherto absolutely detested the appearance of any one not attired as a lady or gentleman, heartily shared. She found the old man so unlike anything she had ever heard or read of—so full of grand notions in such contrast with his poor conditions; so proud yet so overflowing with service—dusting a chair for her with his bonnet, yet drawing himself up like an offended hidalgo if she declined to sit in it—more than content to play the pipes while others dined, yet requiring a personal apology from the marquis himself for a practical joke! so full of kindness and yet of revenges—lamenting over Demon when he hurt his foot, yet cursing, as she overheard him once, in fancied solitude, with an absolute fervour of imprecation, a continuous blast of poetic hate which made her shiver; and the next moment sighing out a most wailful coronach on his old pipes. It was all so odd, so funny, so interesting! It nearly made her aware of human nature as an object of study. But lady Florimel had never studied anything yet, had never even perceived that anything wanted studying, that is, demanded to be understood. What appeared to her most odd, most inconsistent, and was indeed of all his peculiarities alone distasteful to her, was his delight in what she regarded only as the menial and dirty occupation of cleaning lamps and candlesticks; the poetic side of it, rendered tenfold poetic by his blindness, she never saw.

      Then he had such tales to tell her—of mountain, stream, and lake; of love and revenge; of beings less and more than natural —brownie and Boneless, kelpie and fairy; such wild legends also, haunting the dim emergent peaks of mist swathed Celtic history; such songs—come down, he said, from Ossian himself—that sometimes she would sit and listen to him for hours together.

      It was no wonder then that she should win the heart of the simple old man speedily and utterly; for what can bard desire beyond a true listener—a mind into which his own may, in verse or tale or rhapsody, in pibroch or coronach, overflow? But when, one evening, in girlish merriment, she took up his pipes, blew the bag full, and began to let a highland air burst fitfully from the chanter, the jubilation of the old man broke all the bounds of reason. He jumped from his seat and capered about the room, calling her all the tenderest and most poetic names his English vocabulary would afford him; then abandoning the speech of the Sassenach, as if in despair of ever uttering himself through its narrow and rugged channels, overwhelmed her with a cataract of soft flowing Gaelic, returning to English only as his excitement passed over into exhaustion—but in neither case aware of the transition.

      Her visits were the greater comfort to Duncan, that Malcolm was now absent almost every night, and most days a good many hours asleep; had it been otherwise, Florimel, invisible for very width as was the gulf between them, could hardly have made them so frequent. Before the fishing season was over, the piper had been twenty times on the verge of disclosing every secret in his life to the high born maiden.

      "It's a pity you haven't a wife to take care of you, Mr MacPhail," she said one evening. "You must be so lonely without a woman to look after you!"

      A dark cloud came over Duncan's face, out of which his sightless eyes gleamed.

      "She'll haf her poy, and she'll pe wanting no wife," he said sullenly. "Wifes is paad."

      "Ah!" said Florimel, the teasing spirit of her father uppermost for the moment, "that accounts for your swearing so shockingly the other day?"

      "Swearing was she? Tat will pe wrong. And who was she'll pe swearing at?"

      "That's what I want you to tell me, Mr MacPhail."

      "Tid you'll hear me, my laty?" he asked in a tone of reflection, as if trying to recall the circumstance.

      "Indeed I did. You frightened me so that I didn't dare come in."

      "Ten she'll pe punished enough. Put it wass no harm to curse ta wicket Cawmill."

      "It was not Glenlyon—it wasn't a man at all; it was a woman you were in such a rage with."

      "Was it ta rascal's wife, ten, my laty?" he asked, as if he were willing to be guided to the truth that he might satisfy her, but so much in the habit of swearing, that he could not well recollect the particular object at a given time.

      "Is his wife as bad as himself then?"

      "Wifes is aalways worser."

      "But what is it makes you hate him so dreadfully? Is he a bad man?"

      "A fery pad man, my tear laty! He is tead more than a hundert years."

      "Then why do you hate him so?"

      "Och hone! Ton't you'll never hear why?"

      "He can't have done you any harm."

      "Not done old Tuncan any harm! Tidn't you'll know what ta tog would pe toing to her aancestors of Glenco? Och hone! Och hone! Gif her ta tog's heart of him in her teeth, and she'll pe tearing it—tearing it—tearing it!" cried the piper in a growl of hate, and with the look of a maddened tiger, the skin of his face drawn so tight over the bones that they seemed to show their whiteness through it.

      "You quite terrify me," said Florimel, really shocked. "If you talk like that, I must go away. Such words are not fit for a lady to hear."

      The old man heard her rise: he fell on his knees, and held out his arms in entreaty.

      "She's pegging your pardons, my laty. Sit town once more, anchel from hefen, and she'll not say it no more. Put she'll pe telling you ta story, and then you'll pe knowing tat what 'll not pe fit for laties to hear, as coot laties had to pear!"

      He caught up the Lossie pipes, threw them down again, searched in a frenzy till he found his own, blew up the bag with short thick pants, forced from them a low wail, which ended in a scream—then broke into a kind of chant, the words of which were something like what follows: he had sense enough to remember that for his listener they must be English. Doubtless he was translating as he went on. His chanter all the time kept up a low pitiful accompaniment, his voice only giving expression to the hate and execration of the song.

      Black rise the hills round the vale of Glenco; Hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky; Cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits; Bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer; False are the vapours that trail o'er the correi Blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain, Harder than crystals in the rock's bosom Colder than ice borne down in the torrents, More bitter than hail windswept o'er the correi, Falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice, Is the heart of the Campbell, the hell hound Glenlyon.

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