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CHAPTER XIII: TWO CONVERSATIONS
The next day Wallis came to see Malcolm and take him to the tailor's.
They talked about the guests of the previous evening.
"There's a great change on Lord Meikleham," said Malcolm.
"There is that," said Wallis. "I consider him much improved. But
you see he's succeeded; he's the earl now, and Lord Liftore--and
a menseful, broad shouldered man to the boot of the bargain. He
used to be such a windle straw!"
In order to speak good English, Wallis now and then, like some
Scotch people of better education, anglicized a word ludicrously.
"Is there no news of his marriage?" asked Malcolm, adding, "they
say he has great property."
"My love she's but a lassie yet," said Wallis, "--though she too
has changed quite as much as my lord."
"Who are you speaking of?" asked Malcolm, anxious to hear the talk
of the household on the matter.
"Why, Lady Lossie, of course. Anybody with half an eye can see as
much as that."
"Is it settled then?"
"That would be hard to say. Her ladyship is too like her father: no
one can tell what may be her mind the next minute. But, as I say,
she's young, and ought to have her fling first--so far, that
is, as we can permit it to a woman of her rank. Still, as I say,
anybody with half an eye can see the end of it all: he's for ever
hovering about her. My lady, too, has set her mind on it, and for
my part I can't see what better she can do. I must say I approve
of the match. I can see no possible objection to it."
"We used to think he drank too much," suggested Malcolm.
"Claret," said Wallis, in a tone that seemed to imply no one could
drink too much of that.
"No, not claret only. I've seen the whisky follow the claret."
"Well, he don't now--not whisky at least. He don't drink too
much--not much too much--not more than a gentleman should. He
don't look like it--does he now? A good wife, such as my Lady
Lossie will make him, will soon set him all right. I think of taking
a similar protection myself, one of these days."
"He is not worthy of her," said Malcolm.
"Well, I confess his family won't compare with hers. There's a
grandfather in it somewhere that was a banker or a brewer or a soap
boiler, or something of the sort, and she and her people have been
earls and marquises ever since they walked arm in arm out of the
ark. But, bless you! all that's been changed since I came to town.
So long as there's plenty of money and the mind to spend it, we have
learned not to be exclusive. It's selfish that. It's not Christian.
Everything lies in the mind to spend it though. Mrs Tredger--
that's our lady's maid--only this is a secret--says it's all
settled--she knows it for certain fact--only there's nothing
to be said about it yet--she's so young, you know."
"Who was the man that sat nearly opposite my lady, on the other
side of the table?" asked Malcolm.
"I know who you mean. Didn't look as if he'd got any business there
--not like the rest of them, did he? No, they never do. Odd and
end sort of people like he is, never do look the right thing--
let them try ever so hard. How can they when they ain't it? That's
a fellow that's painting Lady Lossie's portrait! Why he should
be asked to dinner for that, I'm sure I can't tell. He ain't paid
for it in victuals, is he? I never saw such land leapers let into
Lossie House, I know! But London's an awful place. There's no such
a thing as respect of persons here. Here you meet the butcher, the
baker, the candlestick maker, any night in my lady's drawing room.
I declare to you, Mawlcolm MacPhail, it makes me quite uncomfortable
at times to think who I may have been waiting upon without knowing
it. For that painter fellow, Lenorme they call him, I could knock
him on the teeth with the dish every time I hold it to him. And to
see him stare at Lady Lossie as he does!"
"A painter must want to get a right good hold of the face he's got
to paint," said Malcolm. "Is he here often?"
"He's been here five or six times already," answered Wallis, "and
how many times more I may have to fill his glass, I don't know. I
always give him second best sherry, I know. I'm sure the time that
pictur' 's been on hand! He ought to be ashamed of himself. If
she's been once to his studio, she's been twenty times--to give
him sittings as they call it. He's making a pretty penny of it, I'll
be bound! I wonder he has the cheek to show himself when my lady
treats him so haughtily. But those sort of people have no proper
feelin's, you see: it's not to be expected of such."
Wallis liked the sound of his own sentences, and a great deal
more talk of similar character followed before they got back from
the tailor's. Malcolm was tired enough of him, and never felt
the difference between man and man more strongly than when, after
leaving him, he set out for a walk with Blue Peter, whom he found
waiting him at his lodging. On this same Blue Peter, however,
Wallis would have looked down from the height of his share of the
marquisate as one of the lower orders--ignorant, vulgar, even
dirty.
They had already gazed together upon not a few of the marvels of
London, but nothing had hitherto moved or drawn them so much as the
ordinary flow of the currents of life through the huge city. Upon
Malcolm, however, this had now begun to pall, while Peter already
found it worse than irksome, and longed for Scaurnose. At the same
time loyalty to Malcolm kept him from uttering a whisper of his
homesickness. It was yet but the fourth day they had been in London.
"Eh, my lord!" said Blue Peter, when by chance they found themselves
in the lull of a little quiet court, somewhere about Gray's Inn,
with the roar of Holborn in their ears, "it's like a month sin' I
was at the kirk. I'm feart the din's gotten into my heid, an' I'll
never get it out again. I cud maist wuss I was a mackerel, for
they tell me the fish hears naething. I ken weel noo what ye meant,
my lord, whan ye said ye dreidit the din micht gar ye forget yer
Macker."
"I hae been wussin' sair mysel', this last twa days," responded
Malcolm, "'at I cud get ae sicht o' the jaws clashin' upo' the
Scaurnose, or rowin up upo' the edge o' the links. The din o' natur'
never troubles the guid thouchts in ye. I reckon it's 'cause it's
a kin' o' a harmony in 'tsel', an' a harmony's jist, as the maister
used to say, a higher kin' o' a peace. Yon organ 'at we hearkent
till ae day ootside the kirk, ye min'--man, it was a quaietness
in 'tsel', and cam' throu' the din like a bonny silence--like a
lull i' the win' o' this warl'! It wasna a din at a', but a gran'
repose like. But this noise tumultuous o' human strife, this din'
o' iron shune an' iron wheels, this whurr and whuzz o' buyin' an'
sellin' an' gettin' gain--it disna help a body to their prayers."
"Eh, na, my lord! Jist think o' the preevilege--I never saw nor
thoucht o' 't afore--o' haein' 't i' yer pooer, ony nicht 'at
ye're no efter the fish, to stap oot at yer ain door, an' be in
the mids o' the temple! Be 't licht or dark, be 't foul or fair,
the sea sleepin' or ragin', ye ha'e aye room, an' naething atween
ye an' the throne o' the Almichty, to the whilk yer prayers ken the
gait, as weel 's the herrin' to the shores o' Scotlan': ye ha'e but
to lat them flee, an' they gang straucht there. But here ye ha'e
aye to luik sae gleg efter yer boady, 'at, as ye say, my lord, yer
sowl's like to come aff the waur, gien it binna clean forgotten."
"I doobt there's something no richt aboot it, Peter," returned
Malcolm.
"There maun be a heap no richt aboot it" answered Peter
"Ay, but I'm no meanin' 't jist as ye du. I had the haill thing
throu' my heid last nicht, an' I canna but think there's something
wrang wi' a man gien he canna hear the word o' God as weel i' the
mids o' a multitude no man can number, a' made ilk ane i' the image
o' the Father--as weel, I say, as i' the hert o' win' an' watter
an' the lift an' the starns an' a'. Ye canna say 'at thae things
are a' made i' the image o' God, in the same w'y, at least, 'at ye
can say 't o' the body an' face o' a man, for throu' them the God
o' the whole earth revealed Himsel' in Christ."
"Ow, weel, I wad alloo what ye say, gien they war a' to be considered
Christians."
"Ow, I grant we canna weel du that i' the full sense, but I doobt,
gien they bena a' Christians 'at ca's themsel's that, there's a
heap mair Christianity nor get's the credit o' its ain name. I min'
weel hoo Maister Graham said to me ance 'at hoo there was something
o' Him 'at made him luikin' oot o' the een o' ilka man 'at he had
made; an' what wad ye ca' that but a scart or a straik o' Christianity."
"Weel, I kenna; but ony gait I canna think it can be again' the
trowth o' the gospel to wuss yersel' mair alane wi' yer God nor ye
ever can be in sic an awfu' Babylon o' a place as this."
"Na, na, Peter; I'm no sayin' that. I ken weel we're to gang
intill the closet and shut to the door. I'm only afeart 'at there
be something wrang in mysel' 'at tak's 't ill to be amon' sae
mony neibors. I'm thinkin' 'at, gien a' was richt 'ithin me, gien
I lo'ed my neibor as the Lord wad hae them 'at lo'ed Him lo'e ilk
ane his brither, I micht be better able to pray amang them--ay,
i' the verra face o' the bargainin' an' leein' a' aboot me."
"An' min' ye," said Peter, pursuing the train of his own thoughts,
and heedless of Malcolm's, "'at oor Lord himsel' bude whiles to
win awa', even frae his dissiples, to be him lane wi' the Father
o' 'im."
"Ay, ye're richt there, Peter," answered Malcolm, "but there's ae
p'int in 't ye maunna forget--and that is 'at it was never i'
the day-time--sae far's I min'--'at he did sae. The lee lang
day he was among 's fowk--workin' his michty wark. Whan the nicht
cam', in which no man could wark, he gaed hame till 's Father, as
't war. Eh me! but it's weel to ha'e a man like the schuilmaister
to put trowth intill ye. I kenna what comes o' them 'at ha'e drucken
maisters, or sic as cares for naething but coontin' an Laitin, an'
the likes o' that!"
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