Part 66 (1/2)

The more thoughtful a man is, and the more conscious of what is going on within himself, the more interest will he take in what he can know of his progenitors, to the remotest generations; and a regard to ancestral honours, however contemptible the forms which the appropriation of them often a.s.sumes, is a plant rooted in the deepest soil of humanity. The high souled labourer will yield to none in his respect for the dignity of his origin, and Malcolm had been as proud of the humble descent he supposed his own, as Lord Lossie was of his mighty ancestry. Malcolm had indeed a loftier sense of resulting dignity than his master.

He reverenced Duncan both for his uprightness and for a certain grandeur of spirit, which, however ridiculous to the common eye, would have been glorious in the eyes of the chivalry of old; he looked up to him with admiration because of his gifts in poetry and music; and loved him endlessly for his unfailing goodness and tenderness to himself. Even the hatred of the grand old man had an element of unselfishness in its retroaction, of power in its persistency, and of greatness in its absolute contempt of compromise.

At the same time he was the only human being to whom Malcolm's heart had gone forth as to his own; and now, with the knowledge of yet deeper cause for loving him, he had to part with the sense of a filial relation to him! And this involved more; for so thoroughly had the old man come to regard the boy as his offspring, that he had nourished in him his own pride of family; and it added a sting of mortification to Malcolm's sorrow, that the greatness of the legendary descent in which he had believed, and the honourableness of the mournful history with which his thoughts of himself had been so closely a.s.sociated, were swept from him utterly. Nor was this all even yet: in losing these he had had, as it were, to let go his hold, not of his clan merely, but of his race: every link of kin that bound him to humanity had melted away from his grasp. Suddenly he would become aware that his heart was sinking within him, and questioning it why, would learn anew that he was alone in the world, a being without parents, without sister or brother, with none to whom he might look in the lovely confidence of a right bequeathed by some common mother, near or afar. He had waked into being, but all around him was dark, for there was no window, that is, no kindred eye, by which the light of the world whence he had come, entering might console him.

But a gulf of blackness was about to open at his feet, against which the darkness he now lamented would show purple and gray.

One afternoon, as he pa.s.sed through the Seaton from the harbour, to have a look at the cutter, he heard the Partaness calling after him.

”Weel, ye're a sicht for sair een--noo 'at ye're like to turn oot something worth luikin' at!” she cried, as he approached with his usual friendly smile.

”What du ye mean by that, Mistress Findlay?” asked Malcolm, carelessly adding: ”Is yer man in?”

”Ay!” she went on, without heeding either question; ”ye'll be gran'

set up noo! Ye'll no be hain' 'a fine day' to fling at yer auld freen's, the puir fisher fowk, or lang! Weel! it's the w'y o' the warl! Hech, sirs!”

”What on earth 's set ye aff like that Mrs Findlay?” said Malcolm.

”It's nae sic a feerious (furious) gran' thing to be my lord's skipper--or henchman, as my daddy wad hae 't--surely! It's a heap gran'er like to be a free fisherman, wi' a boat o' yer ain, like the Partan.”

”Hoots! Nane o' yer clavers! Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean--as weel 's ilka ither creat.i.t sowl o' Portlossie. An' gien ye dinna chowse to lat on aboot it till an auld freen' cause she's naething but a fisherwife, it's dune ye mair skaith a'ready nor I thocht it wad to the lang last, Ma'colm--for it 's yer ain name I s' ca'

ye yet, gien ye war ten times a laird!--didna I gie ye the breist whan ye cud du naething i' the wardle but sowk?--An' weel ye sowkit, puir innocent 'at ye was!”

”As sure's we're baith alive,” a.s.severated Malcolm, ”I ken nae mair nor a sawt.i.t herrin' what ye're drivin' at.”

”Tell me 'at ye dinna ken what a' the queentry kens--an' hit aboot yer ain sel'!” screamed the Partaness.

”I tell ye I ken naething; an' gien ye dinna tell me what ye're efter direckly, I s' haud awa' to Mistress Allison--she 'll tell me.”

This was a threat sufficiently prevailing.

”It's no in natur'!” she cried. ”Here's Mistress Stewart o' the Gersefell been cawin' (driving) like mad aboot the place, in her cairriage an' hoo mony horse I dinna ken, declarin', ay, sweirin', they tell me, 'at ane cowmonly ca'd Ma'colm MacPhail is neither mair nor less nor the son born o' her ain boady in honest wadlock!

--an' tell me ye ken naething aboot it! What are ye stan'in' like that for--as gray mou'd 's a deein' skate?”

For the first time in his life, Malcolm, young and strong as he was, felt sick. Sea and sky grew dim before him, and the earth seemed to reel under him. ”I dinna believe 't,” he faltered--and turned away.

”Ye dinna believe what I tell ye!” screeched the wrathful Partaness.

”Ye daur to say the word!”

But Malcolm did not care to reply. He wandered away, half unconscious of where he was, his head hanging, and his eyes creeping over the ground. The words of the woman kept ringing in his ears; but ever and anon, behind them as it were in the depth of his soul, he heard the voice of the mad laird, with its one lamentation: ”I dinna ken whaur I cam' frae.” Finding himself at length at Mr Graham's door, he wondered how he had got there.

It was Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and the master was in the churchyard.

Startled by Malcolm's look, he gazed at him in grave silent enquiry.

”Hae ye h'ard the ill news, sir?” said the youth.

”No; I'm sorry to hear there is any.”

”They tell me Mistress Stewart's rinnin' aboot the toon claimin'