Malcom by George MacDonald (e books for reading .txt) 📖

oot o' the toon or twa days be ower," said Malcolm.

"Wull he than?" she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the teeth she had left. "Ye'll be far hen wi' the markis, nae doobt! An' yon donnert auld deevil ye ca' yer gran'father 'ill be fain eneuch to be drummer, I'll sweir. Care 's my case!"

"My leddy, she's ower ill tongued for you to hearken till," said Malcolm, turning to Florimel who stood in the door white and trembling. "Jist gang doon, an' tell my gran'father to sen' the dog up. There's surely some gait o' garrin' her haud her tongue!"

Mrs Catanach threw a terrified glance towards Lady Florimel.

"Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind!" replied Florimel. "For shame!"

"Hoots, my leddy!" returned Malcolm; "I only said it to try the effec' o' 't. It seems no that ill."

"Ye son o' a deevil's soo!" cried the woman; "I s' hae amen's o' ye for this, gien I sud ro'st my ain hert to get it."

"'Deed, but ye re duin that fine a'ready! That foul brute o' yours has gotten his arles (earnest) tu. I wonner what he thinks o sawmon troot noo!-Eh, mem?"

"Have done, Malcolm," said Florimel. "I am ashamed of you. If the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her house."

"Hear till her!" cried Mrs Catanach contemptuously. "The woman!"

But Lady Florimel took no heed. She had already turned and was going down the stair. Malcolm followed in silence; nor did another word from Mrs Catanach overtake them.

Arrived in the street, Florimel restored his pipes to Duncan -who, letting the dog go, at once proceeded to fill the bag- and, instead of continuing her way to the harbour, turned back, accompanied by Malcolm, Demon, and Lady Stronach's Strathspey.

"What a horrible woman that is!" she said with a shudder.

"Ay is she; but I doobt she wad be waur gien she didna brak oot that gait whiles," rejoined Malcolm.

"How do you mean?"

"It frichts fowk at her, an' maybe sometimes pits 't oot o' her pooer to du waur. Gien ever she seek to mak it up wi' ye, my leddy, I wad hae little to say till her, gien I was you."

"What could I have to say to a low creature like that?"

"Ye wadna ken what she micht be up till, or hoo she micht set aboot it, my leddy. I wad hae ye mistrust her a'thegither. My daddy has a fine moral nose for vermin, an' he canna bide her, though he never had a glimp o' the fause face o' her, an' in trowth never spak till her."

"I will tell my father of her. A woman like that is not fit to live amongst civilized people."

"Ye're richt there, my leddy; but she wad only gang some ither gait amo' the same. Of coorse ye maun tell yer father, but she's no fit for him to tak ony notice o'."

As they sat at breakfast, Florimel did tell her father. His first emotion, however-at least the first he showed-was vexation with herself.

"You must not be going out alone-and at such ridiculous hours," he said. "I shall be compelled to get you a governess."

"Really, papa," she returned, "I don't see the good of having a marquis for a father, if I can't go about as safe as one of the fisher children. And I might just as well be at school, if I'm not to do as I like."

"What if the dog had turned on you!" he said.

"If he dared!" exclaimed the girl, and her eyes flashed.

Her father looked at her for a moment, said to himself-"There spoke a Colonsay!" and pursued the subject no further.

When they passed Mrs Catanach's cottage an hour after, on their way to the harbour, they saw the blinds drawn down, as if a dead man lay within: according to after report, she had the brute already laid out like a human being, and sat by the bedside awaiting a coffin which she had ordered of Watty Witherspail.


CHAPTER XXXIX: COLONSAY CASTLE


The day continued lovely, with a fine breeze. The whole sky and air and sea were alive-with moving clouds, with wind, with waves flashing in the sun. As they stepped on board amidst the little crowd gathered to see, Lady Florimel could hardly keep her delight within the bounds of so called propriety. It was all she could do to restrain herself from dancing on the little deck half swept by the tiller. The boat of a schooner which lay at the quay towed them out of the harbour. Then the creature spread her wings like a bird -mainsail and gaff topsail, staysail and jib-leaped away to leeward, and seemed actually to bound over the waves. Malcolm sat at the tiller, and Blue Peter watched the canvas.

Lady Florimel turned out to be a good sailor, and her enjoyment was so contagious as even to tighten certain strings about her father's heart which had long been too slack to vibrate with any simple gladness. Her questions were incessant-first about the sails and rigging, then about the steering; but when Malcolm proceeded to explain how the water reacted on the rudder, she declined to trouble herself with that.

"Let me steer first," she said, "and then tell me how things work."

"That is whiles the best plan," said Malcolm. "Jist lay yer han' upo' the tiller, my leddy, an' luik oot at yon pint they ca' the Deid Heid yonner. Ye see, whan I turn the tiller this gait, her heid fa's aff frae the pint; an' whan I turn't this ither gait, her heid turns till 't again: haud her heid jist aboot a twa yairds like aff o' 't."

Florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own hand ruling the cutter-so overjoyed indeed, that, instead of steering straight, she would keep playing tricks with the rudder-fretting the mouth of the sea palfrey, as it were. Every now and then Malcolm had to expostulate.

"Noo, my leddy, caw canny. Dinna steer sae wull. Haud her steddy. -My lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or I'll be forced to tak the tiller frae her."

But by and by she grew weary of the attention required, and, giving up the helm, began to seek the explanation of its influence, in a way that delighted Malcolm.

"Ye'll mak a guid skipper some day," he said: "ye spier the richt questions, an' that's 'maist as guid 's kennin' the richt answers."

At length she threw herself on the cushions Malcolm had brought for her, and, while her father smoked his cigar, gazed in silence at the shore. Here, instead of sands, low rocks, infinitively broken and jagged, filled all the tidal space-a region of ceaseless rush and shattered waters. High cliffs of gray and brown rock, orange and green with lichens here and there, and in summer crowned with golden furze, rose behind-untouched by the ordinary tide, but at high water lashed by the waves of a storm.

Beyond the headland which they were fast nearing, the cliffs and the sea met at half tide.

The moment they rounded it-

"Luik there, my lord," cried Malcolm, "-there's Colonsay Castel, 'at yer lordship gets yer name, I'm thinkin', an', ony gait, ane o' yer teetles frae. It maun be mony a hunner year sin' ever Colonsay baid intill 't!"

Well might he say so! for they looked but saw nothing-only cliff beyond cliff rising from a white fringed shore. Not a broken tower, not a ragged battlement invaded the horizon!

"There's nothing of the sort there!" said Lady Florimel.

"Ye maunna luik for tooer or pinnacle, my leddy, for nane will ye see: their time's lang ower. But jist taik the sea face o' the scaur (cliff) i' yer ee, an' traivel alang 't oontil ye come till a bit 'at luiks like mason wark. It scarce rises abune the scaur in ony but ae pairt, an' there it 's but a feow feet o' a wa'."

Following his direction, Lady Florimel soon found the ruin. The front of a projecting portion of the cliff was faced, from the very water's edge as it seemed, with mason work; while on its side, the masonry rested here and there upon jutting masses of the rock, serving as corbels or brackets, the surface of the rock itself completing the wall front. Above, grass grown heaps and mounds, and one isolated bit of wall pierced with a little window, like an empty eyesocket with no skull behind it, was all that was visible from the sea of the structure which had once risen lordly on the crest of the cliff.

"It is poor for a ruin even!" said Lord Lossie.

"But jist consider hoo auld the place is, my lord!-as auld as the time o' the sea rovin' Danes, they say. Maybe it's aulder nor King Alfred! Ye maun regaird it only as a foondation; there's stanes eneuch lyin' aboot to shaw 'at there maun hae been a gran' supperstructur on 't ance. I some think it has been ance disconneckit frae the lan', an' jined on by a drawbrig. Mony a lump o' rock an' castel thegither has rowed doon the brae upon a' sides, an' the ruins may weel hae filled up the gully at last. It's a wonnerfu' auld place, my lord."

"What would you do with it if it were yours, Malcolm?" asked Lady Florimel.

"I wad spen' a my spare time patchin' 't up to gar 't stan' oot agane the wither. It's crum'let awa' a heap sin' I min'."

"What would be the good of that? A rickle of old stones!" said the marquis.

"It's a growth 'at there winna be mony mair like," returned Malcolm. "I wonner 'at yer lordship!"

He was now steering for the foot of the cliff. As they approached, the ruin expanded and separated, grew more massy, and yet more detailed. Still it was a mere root clinging to the soil.

"Suppose you were Lord Lossie, Malcolm, what would you do with it?" asked Florimel, seriously, but with fun in her eyes.

"I wad win at the boddom o' 't first."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Ye'll see whan ye win in till 't. There 's a heap o' voutit places inside yon blin' face. Du ye see yon wee bit squaur winnock? That lats the licht in till ane o' them. There maybe vouts aneath vouts, for them 'at ye can win intill 's half fu' o' yird an' stanes. I wad hae a' that cleart oot, an syne begin frae the verra foondation, diggin', an' patchin', an' buttressin', till I got it a' as soun' as a whunstane; an' whan I cam to the tap o' the rock, there the castel sud tak to growin' again; an' grow it sud, till there it stude, as near what it was as the wit an' the han' o' man cud set it."

"That would ruin a tolerably rich man," said the marquis..

"Ony gait it's no the w'y fowk ruins themsel's nooadays, my lord. They'll pu' doon an auld hoose ony day to save themsel's blastin' poother. There's that gran' place they ca' Huntly Castel!- a suckin' bairn to this for age, but wi' wa's, they tell me, wad stan' for thoosan's o' years: wad ye believe 't? there's a sowlless chiel' o' a factor there diggin' park wa's an' a grainery oot o' 't, as gien