CHAPTER XXXIV: MILTON, AND THE BAY MARE
For some days Malcolm saw nothing more of Lady Florimel; but with
his grandfather's new dwelling to see to, the carpenter's shop and
the blacksmith's forge open to him, and an eye to detect whatever
wanted setting right, the hours did not hang heavy on his hands.
At length, whether it was that she thought she had punished him
sufficiently for an offence for which she was herself only to blame,
or that she had indeed never been offended at all and had only
been keeping up her one sided game, she began again to indulge the
interest she could not help feeling in him, an interest heightened
by the mystery which hung over his birth, and by the fact that
she knew that concerning him of which he was himself ignorant. At
the same time, as I have already said, she had no little need of
an escape from the ennui which, now that the novelty of a country
life had worn off did more than occasionally threaten her. She
began again to seek his company under the guise of his help, half
requesting, half commanding his services; and Malcolm found himself
admitted afresh to the heaven of her favour. Young as he was, he
read himself a lesson suitable to the occasion.
One afternoon the marquis sent for him to the library, but when he
reached it his master was not yet there. He took down the volume of
Milton in which he had been reading before, and was soon absorbed
in it again.
"Faith! it's a big shame," he cried at length almost unconsciously,
and closed the book with a slam.
"What is a big shame?" said the voice of the marquis close behind
him.
Malcolm started, and almost dropped the volume.
"I beg yer lordship's pardon," he said; "I didna hear ye come in.
"What is the book you were reading?" asked the marquis.
"I was jist readin' a bit o' Milton's Eikonoklastes," answered
Malcolm, "--a buik I hae hard tell o', but never saw wi' my ain
een afore."
"And what's your quarrel with it?" asked his lordship.
"I canna mak oot what sud set a great man like Milton sae sair
agane a puir cratur like Cherles."
"Read the history, and you 'll see."
"Ow! I ken something aboot the politics o' the time, an' I 'm no
sayin' they war that wrang to tak the heid frae him, but what for
sud Milton hate the man efter the king was deid?"
"Because he didn't think the king dead enough, I suppose."
"I see!--an' they war settin' him up for a saint. Still he had
a richt to fair play.--Jist hearken, my lord."
So saying, Malcolm reopened the volume, and read the well known
passage, in the first chapter, in which Milton censures the king as
guilty of utter irreverence, because of his adoption of the prayer
of Pamela in the Arcadia.
"Noo, my lord," he said, half closing the book, "what wad ye expec'
to come upo', efter sic a denunciation as that, but some awfu'
haithenish thing? Weel, jist hearken again, for here's the verra
prayer itsel' in a futnote."
His lordship had thrown himself into a chair, had crossed one leg
over the other, and was now stroking its knee.
"Noo, my lord," said Malcolm again, as he concluded, "what think
ye o' the jeedgment passed?"
"Really I have no opinion to give about it," answered the marquis.
"I 'm no theologian. I see no harm in the prayer."
"Hairm in 't, my lord! It's perfetly gran'! It 's sic a prayer as
cudna weel be aiqualt. It vexes me to the verra hert o' my sowl that
a michty man like Milton--ane whase bein' was a crood o' hermonies
--sud ca' that the prayer o' a haithen wuman till a haithen God.
'O all seein' Licht, an' eternal Life o' a' things!'--Ca's he
that a haithen God?--or her 'at prayed sic a prayer a haithen
wuman?"
"Well, well," said the marquis, "I do n't want it all over again.
I see nothing to find fault with, myself, but I do n't take much
interest in that sort of thing."
"There's a wee bitty o' Laitin, here i' the note, 'at I canna freely
mak oot," said Malcolm, approaching Lord Lossie with his finger on
the passage, never doubting that the owner of such a library must
be able to read Latin perfectly: Mr Graham would have put him right
at once, and his books would have been lost in one of the window
corners of this huge place. But his lordship waved him back.
"I can't be your tutor," he said, not unkindly. "My Latin is far
too rusty for use."
The fact was that his lordship had never got beyond Maturin Cordier's
Colloquies.
"Besides," he went on, "I want you to do something for me."
Malcolm instantly replaced the book on its shelf, and approached
his master, saying--
"Wull yer lordship lat me read whiles, i' this gran' place? I mean
whan I'm no wantit ither gaits, an' there 's naebody here."
"To be sure," answered the marquis; "--only the scholar must n't
come with the skipper's hands."
"I s' tak guid care o' that, my lord. I wad as sune think o' han'lin'
a book wi' wark-like han's as I wad o' branderin' a mackeral ohn
cleaned it oot."
"And when we have visitors, you 'll be careful not to get in their
way."
"I wull that, my lord."
"And now," said his lordship rising, "I want you to take a letter
to Mrs Stewart of Kirkbyres.--Can you ride?"
"I can ride the bare back weel eneuch for a fisher loon," said
Malcolm; "but I never was upon a saiddle i' my life."
"The sooner you get used to one the better. Go and tell Stoat to
saddle the bay mare. Wait in the yard: I will bring the letter out
to you myself."
"Verra weel, my lord!" said Malcolm. He knew, from sundry remarks
he had heard about the stables, that the mare in question was a
ticklish one to ride, but would rather have his neck broken than
object.
Hardly was she ready, when the marquis appeared, accompanied by Lady
Florimel--both expecting to enjoy a laugh at Malcolm's expense.
But when the mare was brought out, and he was going to mount her
where she stood, something seemed to wake in the marquis's heart,
or conscience, or wherever the pigmy Duty slept that occupied the
all but sinecure of his moral economy: he looked at Malcolm for a
moment, then at the ears of the mare hugging her neck, and last at
the stones of the paved yard.
"Lead her on to the turf, Stoat," he said.
The groom obeyed, all followed, and Malcolm mounted. The same
instant he lay on his back on the grass, amidst a general laugh,
loud on the part of marquis and lady, and subdued on that of the
servants. But the next he was on his feet, and, the groom still
holding the mare, in the saddle again: a little anger is a fine
spur for the side of even an honest intent. This time he sat for
half a minute, and then found himself once more on the grass. It
was but once more: his mother earth had claimed him again only to
complete his strength. A third time he mounted--and sat. As soon
as she perceived it would be hard work to unseat him, the mare was
quiet.
"Bravo!" cried the marquis, giving him the letter.
"Will there be an answer, my lord?"
"Wait and see."
"I s' gar you pey for't, gien we come upon a broon rig atween this
an' Kirkbyres," said Malcolm, addressing the mare, and rode away.
Both the marquis and Lady Florimel, whose laughter had altogether
ceased in the interest of watching the struggle, stood looking
after him with a pleased expression, which, as he vanished up the
glen, changed to a mutual glance and smile.
"He's got good blood in him, however he came by it," said the
marquis. "The country is more indebted to its nobility than is
generally understood."
Otherwise indebted at least than Lady Florimel could gather from
her father's remark!
