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CHAPTER III: MISS HORN
The door opened, and in walked a tall, gaunt, hard featured woman,
in a huge bonnet, trimmed with black ribbons, and a long black net
veil, worked over with sprigs, coming down almost to her waist. She
looked stern, determined, almost fierce, shook hands with a sort
of loose dissatisfaction, and dropped into one of the easy chairs
in which the library abounded. With the act the question seemed
shot from her--"Duv ye ca' yersel' an honest man, noo, Ma'colm?"
"I ca' myself naething," answered the youth; "but I wad fain be
what ye say, Miss Horn."
"Ow! I dinna doobt ye wadna steal, nor yet tell lees aboot a horse:
I ha'e jist come frae a sair waggin' o' tongues about ye. Mistress
Crathie tells me her man's in a sair vex 'at ye winna tell a wordless
lee aboot the black mere: that's what I ca't--no her. But lee it
wad be, an' dinna ye aither wag or haud a leein' tongue. A gentleman
maunna lee, no even by sayin' naething--na, no gien 't war to
win intill the kingdom. But, Guid be thankit, that's whaur leears
never come. Maybe ye're thinkin' I ha'e sma' occasion to say sic
like to yersel'. An' yet what's yer life but a lee, Ma'colm? You
'at's the honest Marquis o' Lossie to waur yer time an' the stren'th
o' yer boady an' the micht o' yer sowl tyauvin' (wrestling) wi' a
deevil o' a she horse, whan there's that half sister o' yer' ain
gauin' to the verra deevil o' perdition himsel' amang the godless
gentry o' Lon'on!"
"What wad ye ha'e me un'erstan' by that, Miss Horn?" returned
Malcolm. "I hear no ill o' her. I daursay she's no jist a sa'nt
yet, but that's no to be luiked for in ane o' the breed: they maun
a' try the warl' first ony gait. There's a heap o' fowk--an' no
aye the warst, maybe," continued Malcolm, thinking of his father,
"'at wull ha'e their bite o' the aipple afore they spite it oot.
But for my leddy sister, she's owre prood ever to disgrace hersel'."
"Weel, maybe, gien she bena misguidit by them she's wi'. But I'm
no sae muckle concernt aboot her. Only it's plain 'at ye ha'e no
richt to lead her intill temptation."
"Hoo am I temptin' at her, mem?"
"That's plain to half an e'e. Ir ye no lattin' her live believin'
a lee? Ir ye no allooin' her to gang on as gien she was somebody
mair nor mortal, when ye ken she's nae mair Marchioness o' Lossie
nor ye're the son o' auld Duncan MacPhail? Faith, ye ha'e lost
trowth gien ye ha'e gaint the warl' i' the cheenge o' forbeirs!"
"Mint at naething again the deid, mem. My father's gane till's
accoont; an it's weel for him he has his father an' no his sister
to pronoonce upo' him."
"'Deed ye're right there, laddie," said Miss Horn, in a subdued
tone.
"He's made it up wi' my mither afore noo, I'm thinkin'; an' ony
gait he confesst her his wife an' me her son afore he dee'd, an'
what mair had he time to du?"
"It's fac'," returned Miss Horn. "An' noo luik at yersel': what yer
father confesst wi' the verra deid thraw o' a labourin' speerit, to
the whilk naething cud ha'e broucht him but the deid thraws (death
struggles) o' the bodily natur' an' the fear o' hell, that same
confession ye row up again i' the cloot o' secrecy, in place o'
dightin' wi' 't the blot frae the memory o' ane wha I believe I
lo'ed mair as my third cousin nor ye du as yer ain mither!"
"There's no blot upo' her memory, mem," returned the youth, "or I
wad be markis the morn. There's never a sowl kens she was mither
but kens she was wife--ay, an' whase wife, tu."
Miss Horn had neither wish nor power to reply, and changed her
front.
"An' sae, Ma'colm Colonsay," she said, "ye ha'e no less nor made
up yer min' to pass yer days in yer ain stable, neither better nor
waur than an ostler at the Lossie Airms, an' that efter a' 'at I
ha'e borne an' dune to mak a gentleman o' ye, bairdin' yer father
here like a verra lion in 's den, an' garrin' him confess the thing
again' ilka hair upon the stiff neck o' 'im? Losh, laddie! it was
a pictur' to see him stan'in wi' 's back to the door like a camstairy
(obstinate) bullock!"
"Haud yer tongue, mem, gien ye please. I canna bide to hear my
father spoken o' like that. For ye see I lo'ed him afore I kent he
was ony drap 's blude to me."
"Weel, that's verra weel; but father an' mither's man and wife,
an' ye camna o' a father alane."
"That's true, mem, an' it canna be I sud ever forget yon face ye
shawed me i' the coffin, the bonniest, sairest sicht I ever saw,"
returned Malcolm, with a quaver in his voice.
"But what for cairry yer thouchts to the deid face o' her? Ye kent
the leevin' ane weel," objected Miss Horn.
"That's true, mem; but the deid face maist blottit the leevin' oot
o' my brain."
"I'm sorry for that.--Eh, laddie, but she was bonny to see!"
"I aye thoucht her the bonniest leddy I ever set e'e upo'. An' dinna
think, mem, I'm gaein to forget the deid, 'cause I'm mair concemt
aboot the leevin'. I tell ye I jist dinna ken what to du. What
wi' my father's deein' words committin' her to my chairge, an' the
more than regaird I ha'e to Leddy Florimel hersel', I'm jist whiles
driven to ane mair. Hoo can I tak the verra sunsheen oot o' her life
'at I lo'ed afore I kent she was my ain sister, an' jist thoucht
lang to win near eneuch till to du her ony guid turn worth duin? An'
here I am, her ane half brither, wi' naething i' my pooer but to
scaud the hert o' her, or else lee! Supposin' she was weel merried
first, hoo wad she stan' wi' her man whan he cam to ken 'at she
was nae marchioness--hed no lawfu' richt to ony name but her
mither's? An' afore that, what richt cud I ha'e to alloo ony man
to merry her ohn kent the trowth aboot her? Faith, it wad be a fine
chance though for the fin'in' oot whether or no the man was worthy
o' her! But, ye see that micht be to make a playock o' her hert.
Puir thing, she luiks doon upo' me frae the tap o' her bonny neck,
as frae a h'avenly heicht; but I s' lat her ken yet, gien only I
can win at the gait o' 't, that I ha'ena come nigh her for naething."
He gave a sigh with the words, and a pause followed.
"The trowth's the trowth," resumed Miss Horn, "neither mair nor
less."
"Ay," responded Malcolm; "but there's a richt an' a wrang time for
the telling' o' 't. It's no as gien I had had han' or tongue in
ony foregane lee. It was naething o' my duin', as ye ken, mem. To
mysel', I was never onything but a fisherman born. I confess 'at
whiles, when we wad be lyin' i' the lee o' the nets, tethered to
them like, wi' the win' blawin' strong 'an steady, I ha'e thocht
wi' mysel' 'at I kent naething aboot my father, an' what gien it
sud turn oot 'at I was the son o' somebody--what wad I du wi' my
siller?"
"An' what thoucht ye ye wad du, laddie?" asked Miss Horn gently.
"What but bigg a harbour at Scaurnose for the puir fisher fowk 'at
was like my ain flesh and blude!"
"Weel," rejoined Miss Horn eagerly, "div ye no look upo' that as a
voo to the Almichty--a voo 'at ye're bun' to pay, noo 'at ye ha'e
yer wuss? An' it's no merely 'at ye ha'e the means, but there's no
anither that has the richt; for they're yer ain fowk, 'at ye gaither
rent frae, an 'at's been for mony a generation sattlet upo' yer
lan'--though for the maitter o' the lan', they ha'e had little
mair o' that than the birds o' the rock ha'e ohn feued--an' them
honest fowks wi' wives an' sowls o' their ain! Hoo upo' airth are
ye to du yer duty by them, an' render yer accoont at the last,
gien ye dinna tak till ye yer pooer an' reign? Ilk man 'at 's in
ony sense a king o' men is bun' to reign ower them in that sense.
I ken little aboot things mysel', an' I ha'e no feelin's to guide
me, but I ha'e a wheen cowmon sense, an' that maun jist stan' for
the lave."
A silence followed.
"What for speak na ye, Ma'colm?" said Miss Horn, at length.
"I was jist tryin'," he answered, "to min' upon a twa lines 'at I
cam' upo' the ither day in a buik 'at Maister Graham gied me afore
he gaed awa--'cause I reckon he kent them a' by hert. They say
jist sic like's ye been sayin', mem--gien I cud but min' upo'
them. They're aboot a man 'at aye does the richt gait--made by
ane they ca' Wordsworth."
"I ken naething aboot him," said Miss Horn, with emphasized
indifference.
"An' I ken but little: I s' ken mair or lang though. This is hoo
the piece begins:
Who is the happy warrior? Who is he
That every Man in arms should wish to be?--
It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought.
--There! that's what ye wad hae o' me, mem!"
"Hear till him!" cried Miss Horn. "The man's i' the richt, though
naebody never h'ard o' 'im. Haud ye by that, Ma'colm, an' dinna ye
rist till ye ha'e biggit a harbour to the men an' women o' Scaurnose.
Wha kens hoo mony may gang to the boddom afore it be dune, jist
for the want o' 't?"
"The fundation maun be laid in richteousness, though, mem, else--
what gien 't war to save lives better lost?"
"That belangs to the Michty," said Miss Horn.
"Ay, but the layin' o' the fundation belangs to me. An' I'll no
du't till I can du't ohn ruint my sister."
"Weel, there's ae thing clear: ye'll never ken what to do sae lang's
ye hing on aboot a stable, fu' o' fower fittet animals wantin'
sense--an' some twa fittet 'at has less."
"I doobt ye're richt there, mem; and gien I cud but tak puir Kelpie
awa' wi' me--"
"Hoots! I'm affrontit wi ye. Kelpie--quo he! Preserve's a'! The
laad 'ill lat his ain sister gang, an' bide at hame wi' a mere!"
Malcolm held his peace.
"Ay, I'm thinkin' I maun gang," he said at length.
"Whaur till, than?" asked Miss Horn.
"Ow! to Lon'on--whaur ither?"
"And what'll yer lordship du there?"
"Dinna say lordship to me, mem, or I'll think ye're jeerin' at me.
What wad the caterpillar say," he added, with a laugh, "gien ye
ca'd her my leddie Psyche?"
Malcolm of course pronounced the Greek word in Scotch fashion.
"I ken naething aboot yer Seechies or yer Sukies," rejoined Miss
Horn. "I ken 'at ye're bun' to be a lord and no a stableman, an'
I s' no lat ye rist till ye up an' say what neist?"
"It's what I ha'e been sayin' for the last three month," said
Malcolm.
"Ay, I daursay; but ye ha'e been sayin' 't upo' the braid o' yer
back, and I wad ha'e ye up an' sayin' 't."
"Gien I but kent what to du!" said Malcolm, for the thousandth
time.
"Ye can at least gang whaur ye ha'e a chance o' learnin'," returned
his friend.--"Come an' tak yer supper wi' me the nicht--a
rizzart haddie an' an egg, an' I'll tell ye mair aboot yer mither."
But Malcolm avoided a promise, lest it should interfere with what
he might find best to do.
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