"Me!" exclaimed Malcolm with surprise. "—As gien he wad heed a word I said!"
"Very little sometimes will turn a man either in one direction or the other," said Mrs Courthope.
"But surely, mem, ye dinna believe in sic fule auld warld stories as that! It's weel eneuch for a tale, but to think o' a body turnin' 'ae fit oot o' 's gait for 't, blecks (nonplusses) me."
"I don't say I believe it," returned Mrs Courthope, a little pettishly; "but there's no good in mere foolhardiness."
"Ye dinna surely think, mem, 'at God wad lat onything depen' upo' whether a man opent a door in 's ain hoose or no! It's agane a' rizzon!" persisted Malcolm.
"There might be reasons we couldn't understand," she replied. "To do what we are warned against from any quarter, without good reason, must be foolhardy at best."
"Weel, mem, I maun hae the room neist the auld warlock's, ony gait, for in that gauin' to sleep, an' in nae ither in a' this muckle hoose."
Mrs Courthope rose, full of uneasiness, and walked up and down the room.
" takin' upo' me naething ayont his lordship's ain word," urged Malcolm.
"If you're to go by the very word," rejoined Mrs Courthope, stopping and looking him full in the face, "you might insist on sleeping in Lord Gernon's chamber itself."
"Weal, an' sae I micht," returned Malcolm.
The hinted possibility of having to change bad for so much worse, appeared to quench further objection.
"I must get it ready myself then," she said resignedly, "for the maids won't even go up that stair. And as to going into any of those rooms!"
"'Deed no, mem! ye sanna du that," cried Malcolm. "Sayna a word to ane o' them. I s' wadger as guid's the auld warlock himsel' at makin' a bed. Jist gie me the sheets an' the blankets, an' I'll du 't as trim 's ony lass i' the hoose."
"But the bed will want airing," objected the housekeeper.
"By a' accoonts, that's the last thing it 's likly to want—lyin' neist door to yon chaumer. But I hae sleepit mony 's the time er' noo upo' the tap o' a boat load o' herrin', an' gien that never did me ony ill, it 's no likly a guid bed 'll kill me gien it sud be a wee mochy (rather full of moths)."
Mrs Courthope yielded and gave him all that was needful, and before night Malcolm had made his new quarters quite comfortable. He did not retire to them, however, until he had seen his grandfather laid down to sleep in his lonely cottage.
About. noon the next day the old man made his appearance in the kitchen. How he had found his way to it, neither he nor any one else could tell. There happened to be no one there when he entered, and the cook when she returned stood for a moment in the door, watching him as he felt flitting about with huge bony hands whose touch was yet light as the poise of a butterfly. Not knowing the old man, she fancied at first he was feeling after something in the shape of food, but presently his hands fell upon a brass candlestick. He clutched it, and commenced fingering it all over. Alas! it was clean, and with a look of disappointment he replaced it. Wondering yet more what his quest could be, she watched on. The next instant he had laid hold of a silver candlestick not yet passed through the hands of the scullery maid; and for a moment she fancied him a thief, for he had rejected the brass and now took the silver; but he went no farther with it than the fireplace, where he sat down on the end of the large fender, and, having spread his pocket handkerchief over his kilted knees, drew a similar rag from somewhere, and commenced cleaning it.
By this time one of the maids who knew him had joined the cook, and also stood watching him with amusement. But when she saw the old knife drawn from his stocking, and about to be applied to the nozzle, to free it from adhering wax, it seemed more than time to break the silence.
"Eh! that's a siller can'lestick, Maister MacPhail," she cried, "an' ye maunna tak a knife till 't, or ye'll scrat it a' dreidfu'."
An angry flush glowed in the withered cheeks of the piper, as, without the least start at the suddenness of her interference, he turned his face in the direction of the speaker.
"You take old Tuncan's finkers for persons of no etchucation, mem! As if tey couldn't know ta silfer from ta prass! If tey wass so stupid, her nose would pe telling tem so. Efen old Tuncan's knife 'll pe knowing petter than to scratch ta silfer—or ta prass either; old Tuncan's knife would pe scratching nothing petter tan ta skin of a Cawmill."
Now the candlestick had no business in the kitchen, and if it were scratched, the butler would be indignant; but the girl was a Campbell, and Duncan's words so frightened her that she did not dare interfere. She soon saw, however, that the piper had not over vaunted his skilclass="underline" the skene left not a mark upon the metal; in a few minutes he had melted away the wax he could not otherwise reach, and had rubbed the candlestick perfectly bright, leaving behind him no trace except an unpleasant odour of train oil from the rag. From that hour he was cleaner of lamps and candlesticks, as well as blower of bagpipes, to the House of Lossie; and had everything provided necessary to the performance of his duties with comfort and success.
Before many weeks were over, he had proved the possession of such a talent for arrangement and general management, at least in everything connected with illumination, that the entire charge of the lighting of the house was left in his hands,—even to that of its stores of wax and tallow and oil; and great was the pleasure he derived, not only from the trust reposed in him, but from other more occult sources connected with the duties of his office.
CHAPTER XXXIII: THE LIBRARY
Malcolm's first night was rather troubled,—not primarily from the fact that but a thin partition separated him from the wizard's chamber, but from the deadness of the silence around him; for he had been all his life accustomed to the near noise of the sea, and its absence had upon him the rousing effect of an unaccustomed sound. He kept hearing the dead silence—was constantly dropping, as it were into its gulf; and it was no wonder that a succession of sleepless fits, strung together rather than divided by as many dozes little better than startled rousings, should at length have so shaken his mental frame as to lay it open to the assaults of nightly terrors, the position itself being sufficient to seduce his imagination, and carry it over to the interests of the enemy.
But Malcolm had early learned that a man's will must, like a true monarch, rule down every rebellious movement of its subjects, and he was far from yielding to such inroads as now assailed him: still it was long before he fell asleep, and then only to dream without quite losing consciousness of his peculiar surroundings. He seemed to know that he lay in his own bed, and yet to be somehow aware of the presence of a pale woman in a white garment, who sat on the side of the bed in the next room, still and silent, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes on the ground. He thought he had seen her before, and knew, notwithstanding her silence, that she was lamenting over a child she had lost. He knew also where her child was,—that it lay crying in a cave down by the seashore; but he could neither rise to go to her, nor open his mouth to call. The vision kept coming and coming, like the same tune played over and over on a barrel organ, and when he woke seemed to fill all the time he had slept.
About ten o'clock he was summoned to the marquis's presence, and found him at breakfast with Lady Florimel.
"Where did you sleep last night?" asked the marquis.
"Neist door to the auld warlock," answered Malcolm.
Lady Florimel looked up with a glance of bright interest: her father had just been telling her the story.