Part 9 (2/2)
'im, an' the rascal turned up a fricht.i.t kin' o' a dog-like face to me, I jist could not drive my steikit neive (clenched fist) intil't. Mem, a face is an awfu' thing! There's aye something luikin'
oot o' 't 'at ye canna do as ye like wi'. But my gran'father never saw a face in's life--lat alane Glenlyon's 'at's been dirt for sae mony a year. Gien he war luikin' intil the face o' that Glenlyon even, I do believe he wad no more drive his durk intill him.”
”Drive his dirk into him!” echoed Mrs Courthope, in horror at the very disclaimer.
”No, I'm sure he wad not,” persisted Malcolm, innocently. ”He micht not tak him oot o' a pot (hole in a riverbed), but he wad neither durk him nor fling him in. I'm no that sure he wadna even ran (reach) him a han'. Ae thing I am certain o',--that by the time he meets Glenlyon in haven, he'll be no that far frae lattin'
byganes be byganes.”
”Meets Glenlyon in heaven!” again echoed Mrs Courthope, who knew enough of the story to be startled at the taken for granted way in which Malcolm spoke. ”Is it probable that a wretch such as your legends describe him should ever get there?”
”Ye dinna think G.o.d's forgien him, than, mem?”
”I have no right to judge Glenlyon, or any other man; but, as you ask me, I must say I see no likelihood of it.”
”Hoo can ye compleen o' my puir blin' grandfather for no forgiein'
him, than?--I hae ye there, mem!”
”He may have repented, you know,” said Mrs Courthope feebly, finding herself in less room than was comfortable.
”In sic case,” returned Malcolm, ”the auld man 'ill hear a' aboot it the meenit he wins there; an' I mak nae doobt he'll du his best to perswaud himsel'.”
”But what if he shouldn't get there?” persisted Mrs Courthope, in pure benevolence.
”Hoot toot, mem! I wonner to hear ye! A Cawmill latten in, and my gran'father hauden oot! That wad be jist yallow faced Willie ower again!*--Na, na; things gang anither gait up there. My gran'father's a rale guid man, for a' 'at he has a wye o' luikin' at things 'at's mair efter the law nor the gospel.”
*[Lord Stair, the prime mover in the Ma.s.sacre of Glenco.]
Apparently Mrs Courthope had come at length to the conclusion that Malcolm was as much of a heathen as his grandfather, for in silence she chose her fish, in silence paid him his price, and then with only a sad Good day, turned and left him.
He would have gone back by the river side to the sea gate, but Mrs Courthope having waived her right to the fish in favour of Mrs Catanach, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so returned the way he had come.
”Here's yer troot, Mistress Cat'nach,” he called aloud at her door, which generally stood a little ajar. ”Ye s' hae't for the saxpence --an' a guid bargain tu, for ane o' sic dimensions!”
As he spoke, he held the fish in at the door, but his eyes were turned to the main street, whence the factor's gig was at the moment rounding the corner into that in which he stood; when suddenly the salmon trout was s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hand, and flung so violently in his face, that he staggered back into the road: the factor had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. His rout rather than retreat was followed by a burst of insulting laughter, and at the same moment, out of the house rushed a large vile looking mongrel, with hair like an ill used doormat and an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ashpit, caught up the trout, and rushed with it towards the gate.
”That's richt, my bairn!” shouted Mrs Catanach to the brute as he ran: ”tak it to Mrs Courthope. Tak it back wi' my compliments.”
Amidst a burst of malign laughter she slammed her door, and from a window sideways watched the young fisherman.
As he stood looking after the dog in wrath and bewilderment, the factor, having recovered from the fit of merriment into which the sudden explosion of events had cast him, and succeeded in quieting his scared horse, said, slackening his reins to move on,
”You sell your fish too cheap, Malcolm.”
”The deil's i' the tyke,” rejoined Malcolm, and, seized at last by a sense of the ludicrousness of the whole affair, burst out laughing, and turned for the High Street. .
”Na, na, laddie; the deil's no awa' in sic a hurry: he bed (remained),”
said a voice behind him.
Malcolm turned again and lifted his bonnet. It was Miss Horn, who had come up from the Seaton.
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