Part 89 (1/2)
”Is there ony hurry aboot Sto't, my lord?” asked Malcolm, hesitating.
”I had a word to say to yer lords.h.i.+p mysel'.”
”Make haste then.”
”I 'm some fain to gang back to the fis.h.i.+n', my lord,” said Malcolm.
”This is ower easy a life for me. The deil wins in for the liftin'
o' the sneck. Forbye, my lord, a life wi'oot aither danger or wark 's some wersh-like (insipid); it wants saut, my lord. But a' that 's naither here nor there, I ken, sae lang's ye want me oot o' the hoose, my lord.”
”Who told you I wanted you out of the house? By Jove! I should have made shorter work of it. What put that in your head? Why should I?”
”Gien yer lords.h.i.+p kens nane, sma' occasion hae I to baud a rizzon to yer han'. I thoucht--but the thoucht itsel's impidence.”
”You young fool! You thought, because I came upon you as I did in the garret the other night--Bah!--You d.a.m.ned ape! As if I could not trust--! Pshaw!”
For the moment Malcolm forgot how angry his master had certainly been, although, for Florimel's sake doubtless, he had restrained himself; and fancied that, in the faint light of the one candle, he had seen little to annoy him, and had taken the storm and its results, which were indeed the sole reason, as a sufficient one for their being alone together. Everything seemed about to come right again. But his master remained silent.
”I houp my leddy's weel,” ventured Malcolm at length.
”Quite well. She's with Lady Bellair, in Edinburgh.”
Lady Bellair was the bold faced countess.
”I dinna like her,” said Malcolm.
”Who the devil asked you to like her?” said the marquis. But he laughed as he said it.
”I beg yer lords.h.i.+p's pardon,” returned Malcolm. ”I said it 'or I kent. It was nane o' my business wha my leddy was wi'.”
”Certainly not. But I don't mind confessing that Lady Bellair is not one I should choose to give authority over Lady Florimel. You have some regard for your young mistress, I know, Malcolm.”
”I wad dee for her, my lord.”
”That 's a common a.s.sertion,” said the marquis.
”No wi' fisher fowk. I kenna hoo it may be wi' your fowk, my lord.”
”Well, even with us it means something. It implies at least that he who uses it would risk his life for her whom he wishes to believe it. But perhaps it may mean more than that in the mouth of a fisherman? Do you fancy there is such a thing as devotion--real devotion, I mean--self sacrifice, you know?”
”I daurna doobt it, my lord.”
”Without fee or hope of reward?”
”There maun be some cawpable o' 't, my lord, or what for sud the warl' be? What ither sud haud it ohn been destroyt as Sodom was for the want o' the ten richteous? There maun be saut whaur corruption hasna the thing a' its ain gait.”
”You certainly have pretty high notions of things, MacPhail. For my part, I can easily enough imagine a man risking his life; but devoting it!--that 's another thing altogether.”
”There maun be 'at wad du a' 't cud be dune, my lord.”
”What, for instance, would you do for Lady Florimel, now? You say you would die for her: what does dying mean on a fisherman's tongue?”