The Marquis of Lossie | Page 7

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.
CHAPTER IV
: KELPIE'S AIRING
When Miss Horn left him--with a farewell kindlier than her greeting--rendered yet more restless by her talk, he went back to the stable, saddled Kelpie, and took her out for an airing.
As he passed the factor's house, Mrs Crathie saw him from the window. Her colour rose. She arose herself also, and looked after him from the door--a proud and peevish woman, jealous of her husband's dignity, still more jealous of her own.
"The verra image o' the auld markis!" she said to herself; for in the recesses of her bosom she spoke the Scotch she scorned to utter aloud; "and sits jist like himsel', wi' a wee stoop i' the saiddle, and ilka noo an' than a swing o' his haill boady back, as gien some thoucht had set him straught.--Gien the fractious brute wad but brak a bane or twa o' him!" she went on in growing anger. "The impidence o' the fallow! He has his leave: what for disna he tak' it an' gang? But oot o' this gang he sail. To ca' a man like mine a heepocreet 'cause he wadna procleem till a haul market ilka secret fau't o' the horse he had to sell! Haith, he cam' upo' the wrang side o' the sheet to play the lord and maister here! and that