Malcolm Part 64

It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, that he recounted the tale of Lord Gernon.

As the last words left his lips, Lady Florimel gave a startled cry, seized him by the arm, and crept close to him. The marquis jumped to his feet, knocked his head against the rock, uttered an oath, and sat down again.

"What ails ye, my leddy!" said Malcolm. "There's naething here to hurt ye."

"I saw a face," she said, "a white face!"

"Whaur?"

"Beyond you a little way--near the ground," she answered, in a tremulous whisper.

"It's as dark's pick!" said Malcolm, as if thinking it to himself.

--He knew well enough that it must be the laird or Phemy, but he was anxious the marquis should not learn the secret of the laird's refuge.

"I saw a face anyhow," said Florimel. "It gleamed white for one moment, and then vanished."

"I wonner ye didna cry oot waur, my leddy," said Malcolm, peering into the darkness.

"I was too frightened. It looked so ghastly!--not more than a foot from the ground."

"Cud it hae been a flash, like, frae yer ain een ?"

"No I am sure it was a face."

"How much is there of this cursed hole?" asked the marquis; rubbing the top of his head.

"A heap," answered Malcolm. "The grun' gangs down like a brae ahin'

's, intil a--"

"You don't mean right behind us?" cried the marquis.

"Nae jist doss, my lord. We're sittin' i' the mou' o' 't, like, wi'

the thrapple (throat) o' 't ahin' 's, an' a muckle stamach ayont that."

"I hope there's no danger," said the marquis.

"Nane 'at I ken o'."

"No water at the bottom ?"

"Nane, my lord--that is, naething but a bonny spring i' the rock side."

"Come away, papa!" cried Florimel. "I don't like it. I've had enough of this kind of thing."

"Nonsense!" said the marquis, still rubbing his head.

"Ye wad spile a', my leddy! It's ower late, forbye," said Malcolm; "I hear a fut."

He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a whisper:

"It's Mistress Catanach wi' a lantren! Haud yer tongue, my bonny leddy; ye ken weel she's no mowse. Dinna try to leuk, my lord; she micht get a glimp o' ye--she's terrible gleg. I hae been hearin'

mair yet aboot her. Yer lordship 's ill to convence, but depen'

upo' 't, whaurever that woman is, there there's mischeef! Whaur she taks a scunner at a body, she hates like the verra deevil. She winna aye lat them ken 't, but taks time to du her ill turns. An'

it 's no that only, but gien she gets a haud o' onything agane anybody, she 'll save 't up upo' the chance o' their giein' her some offence afore they dee. She never lowses haud o' the tail o'

a thing, an' at her ain proaper time, she 's in her natur' bun' to mak the warst use o' 't."

Malcolm was anxious both to keep them still, and to turn aside any further inquiry as to the face Florimel had seen. Again he peeped out.

"What is she efter noo? She 's comin' this gait," he went on, in a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his shoulder when he spoke. "Gien she thoucht ther was a hole i' the perris she didna ken a' the oots an' ins o', it wad baud her ohn sleepit.-- Weesht! weesht! here she comes!" he concluded, after a listening pause, in the silence of which he could hear her step approaching.

He stretched out his neck over the ledge, and saw her coming straight for the back of the cave, looking right before her with slow moving, keen, wicked eyes. It was impossible to say what made them look wicked: neither in form, colour, motion, nor light, were they ugly--yet in everyone of these they looked wicked, as her lantern, which, being of horn, she had opened for more light, now and then, as it swung in her hand, shone upon her pale, pulpy, evil countenance.

"Gien she tries to come up, I'll hae to caw her doon," he said to himself, "an' I dinna like it, for she 's a wuman efter a', though a deevilich kin' o' a ane; but there's my leddy! I hae broucht her intill 't, an' I maun see her safe oot o' 't!"

But if Mrs. Catanach was bent on an exploration, she was for the time prevented from prosecuting it by the approach of the first of the worshippers, whose voices they now plainly heard. She retreated towards the middle of the cave, and sat down in a dark corner, closing her lantern and hiding it with the skirt of her long cloak.

Presently a good many entered at once, some carrying lanterns, and most of them tallow candles, which they quickly lighted and disposed about the walls. The rest of the congregation, with its leaders, came trooping in so fast, that in ten minutes or so the service began.

As soon as the singing commenced, Malcolm whispered to Lady Florimel, "Was 't a man's face or a la.s.sie's ye saw, my leddy?"

"A man's face--the same we saw in the storm," she answered, and Malcolm felt her shudder as she spoke.

"It 's naething but the mad laird," he said. "He 's better nor hairmless. Dinna say a word to yer father my leddy. I dinna like to say that, but I 'll tell ye a' what for efterhin'."

But Florimel, knowing that her father had a horror of lunatics, was willing enough to be silent.

No sooner was her terror thus a.s.suaged, than the oddities of the singing laid hold upon her, stirring up a most tyrannous impulse to laughter. The prayer that followed made it worse. In itself the prayer was perfectly reverent, and yet, for dread of irreverence, I must not attempt a representation of the forms of its embodiment, or the manner of its utterance.

So uncontrollable did her inclination to merriment become, that she found at last the only way to keep from bursting into loud laughter was to slacken the curb, and go off at a canter--I mean, to laugh freely but gently. This so infected her father, that he straightway accompanied her, but with more noise. Malcolm sat in misery, from the fear not so much of discovery, though that would be awkward enough, as of the loss to the laird of his best refuge. But when he reflected, he doubted much whether it was even now a safe one; and, anyhow, knew it would be as vain to remonstrate as to try to stop the noise of a brook by casting pebbles into it.

When it came to the sermon, however, things went better; for MacLeod was the preacher,--an eloquent man after his kind, in virtue of the genuine earnestness of which he was full. If his anxiety for others appeared to be rather to save them from the consequences of their sins, his main desire for himself certainly was to be delivered from evil; the growth of his spiritual nature, while it rendered him more and more dissatisfied with himself, had long left behind all fear save of doing wrong. His sermon this evening was founded on the text: "The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of G.o.d." He spoke fervently and persuasively; nor, although his tone and accent were odd, and his Celtic modes and phrases to those Saxon ears outlandish, did these peculiarities in the least injure the influence of the man. Even from Florimel was the demon of laughter driven; and the marquis, although not a single notion of what the man intended pa.s.sed through the doors of his understanding, sat quiet, and disapproved of nothing. Possibly, had he been alone as he listened, he too, like one of old, might have heard, in the dark cave, the still small voice of a presence urging him forth to the light; but, as it was, the whole utterance pa.s.sed without a single word or phrase or sentence having roused a thought, or suggested a doubt, or moved a question, or hinted an objection or a need of explanation. That the people present should interest themselves in such things, only set before him the folly of mankind.

The text and the preacher both kept telling him that such as he could by no possibility have the slightest notion what such things were; but not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, wonder how the deluded fisher folk could sit and listen. The more tired he grew, the more angry he got with the parson who had sent him there with his foolery: and the more convinced that the men who prayed and preached were as honest as they were silly; and that the thing to die of itself had only to be let alone. He heard the Amen of the benediction with a sigh of relief, and rose at once-- cautiously this time.

"Ye maunna gang yet, my lord," said Malcolm. "They maun be a' oot first."

"I don't care who sees me," protested the weary man.

"But yer lordship wadna like to be descriet scram'lin' doon efter the back like the bear in Robinson Crusoe!"

The marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently.

At length Malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meeting had thoroughly skailed, peeped cautiously out to make sure. But after a moment, he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper,

"I 'm sorry ye canna gang yet, my lord. There's some half a dizzen o' ill luikin' chields, cairds (gipsies), I 'm thinkin', or maybe waur, congregat doon there, an' it 's my opinion they're efter nae guid, my lord."

"How do you know that?"

"Ony body wad ken that, 'at got a glimp o' them."