CHAPTER XXXVI: THE BLOW
"Well, Malcolm," said his lordship, when the youth reported himself,
"how's Mrs Stewart?"
"No ower weel pleased, my lord," answered Malcolm.
"What!--you have n't been refusing to--?"
"Deed hev I, my lord!"
"Tut! tut!--Have you brought me any message from her?"
He spoke rather angrily.
"Nane but that she wasna weel, an' wad write the morn."
The marquis thought for a few moments.
"If I make a personal matter of it, MacPhail--I mean--you won't
refuse me if I ask a personal favour of you?"
"I maun ken what it is afore I say onything, my lord."
"You may trust me not to require anything you could n't undertake."
"There micht be twa opinions, my lord."
"You young boor! What is the world coming to? By Jove!"
"As far 's I can gang wi' a clean conscience, I'll gang,--no ae
step ayont," said Malcolm.
"You mean to say your judgment is a safer guide than mine?"
"No, my lord; I micht weel follow yer lordship's jeedgment, but
gien there be a conscience i' the affair, it's my ain conscience
I'm bun' to follow, an' no yer lordship's, or ony ither man's.
Suppose the thing 'at seemed richt to yer lordship, seemed wrang
to me, what wad ye hae me du than?"
"Do as I told you, and lay the blame on me."
"Na, my lord, that winna haud: I bude to du what I thoucht richt,
an' lay the blame upo' naebody, whatever cam o' 't."
"You young hypocrite! Why did n't you tell me you meant to set up
for a saint before I took you into my service?"
"'Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord. Surely a body micht ken
himsel' nae sant, an' yet like to haud his han's clean!"
"What did Mrs Stewart tell you she wanted of you?" asked the marquis
almost fiercely, after a moment's silence.
"She wantit me to get the puir laird to gang back till her; but
I sair misdoobt, for a' her fine words, it 's a closed door, gien
it bena a lid, she wad hae upon him; an' I wad suner be hangt nor
hae a thoom i' that haggis."
"Why should you doubt what a lady tells you?"
"I wadna be ower ready, but I hae hard things, ye see, an' bude to
be upo' my gaird."
"Well, I suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot--"
His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment;
but Malcolm's manner revealed nothing except waiting watchfulness.
"--I must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for
her," he concluded.
"Ye winna du that, my lord," cried Malcolm, in a tone of entreaty;
but his master chose to misunderstand him.
"Who's to prevent me, I should like to know?" he said.
Malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered--
but calmly:
"Me, my lord. I wull. At ony rate, I s' du my best."
"Upon my word!" exclaimed Lord Lossie, "you presume sufficiently
on my good nature, young man!"
"Hear me ae moment, my lord," returned Malcolm. "I've been turnin'
't ower i' my min', an' I see, plain as the daylicht, that I'm
bun', bein' yer lordship's servan' an' trustit by yer lordship, to
say that to yersel' the whilk I was nowise bun' to say to Mistress
Stewart. Sae, at the risk o' angerin' ye, I maun tell yer lordship,
wi' a' respec', 'at gien I can help it, there sall no han', gentle
or semple, be laid upo' the laird against his ain wull."
The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too,
and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right.
"Go to the devil you booby!" he said--even more in impatience
than in wrath.
"I'm thinkin' I needna budge," retorted Malcolm, angry also.
"What do you mean by that insolence?"
"I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. He canna
be far frae yer lordship's lug this meenute."
All the marquis's gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. He
started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and struck
him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by
the door.
"Hoot, my lord!" he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton
handkerchief, "ye sudna hae dune that: ye'll blaud the carpet!"
"You precious idiot!" cried his lordship, already repenting the
deed; "why did n't you defend yourself?"
"The quarrel was my ain, an' I cud du as I likit, my lord."
"And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a hand, even
to defend yourself!" said the marquis, vexed both with Malcolm and
with himself.
"Because I saw I was i' the wrang, my. lord. The quarrel was o'
my ain makin': I hed no richt to lowse my temper an' be impident.
Sae I didna daur defen' mysel'. An' I beg yer lordship's pardon.
But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, 'cause I took a
flewet (blow) in guid pairt whan I kent mysel' i' the wrang, 'at
that's hoo I wad cairry mysel' gien 'twas for the puir laird. Faith!
I s' gar ony man ken a differ there!"
"Go along with you--and do n't show yourself till you 're fit to
be seen. I hope it 'll be a lesson to you."
"It wull, my lord," said Malcolm. "But," he added, "there was nae
occasion to gie me sic a dirdum: a word wad hae pitten me mair i'
the wrang."
So saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face.
The marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because Malcolm,
without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so quietly. Malcolm
would, however, have had very much more the worse of it had he
defended himself, for his master had been a bruiser in his youth,
and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot their
cunning so far as to leave him less than a heavy overmatch for one
unskilled, whatever his strength or agility.
For some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and down the
room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfortable.
"The great lout!" he kept saying to himself; "why did he let me
strike him?"
Malcolm went to his grandfather's cottage. In passing the window,
he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his
knees, looking troubled. When he entered, he held out his arms to
him.
"Tere 'll pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son!" he
cried. "You'll pe hafing a hurt! She knows it. She has it within
her, though she couldn't chust see it. Where is it?"
As he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face. "God pless her
sowl! you are plooding, Malcolm!" he cried the same moment.
"It's naething to greit aboot, daddy. It's hardly mair nor the
flype o' a sawmon's tail."
"Put who 'll pe tone it?" asked Duncan angrily.
"Ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet!" answered Malcolm with
indifference.
"Where is he?" cried the piper, rising in wrath. "Take her to him,
Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. She will trife
her turk into his wicked pody."
"Na, na, daddy," said Malcolm; "we hae hed eneuch o' durks a'ready!"
"Tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, Malcolm? My prave poy!"
"No, daddy; I took my licks like a man, for I deserved them."
"Deserfed to pe peaten, Malcolm--to pe peaten like a tog? Ton't
tell her tat! Ton't preak her heart, my poy."
"It wasna that muckle, daddy. I only telled him auld Horny was at
's lug."
"And she'll make no toubt it was true," cried Duncan, emerging
sudden from his despondency.
"Ay, sae he was, only I had nae richt to say 't."
"Put you striked him pack, Malcolm? Ton't say you tidn't gif him
pack his plow. Ton't tell it to her, Malcolm!"
"Hoo cud I hit my maister, an' mysel' i' the wrang, daddy?"
"Then she 'll must to it herself," said Duncan quietly, and, with
the lips compressed of calm decision, turned towards the door, to
get his dirk from the next room.
"Bide ye still, daddy," said Malcolm, laying hold of his arm, "an'
sit ye doon till ye hear a' aboot it first."
Duncan yielded, for the sake of better instruction in the circumstances;
over the whole of which Malcolm now went. But before he came to a
close, he had skilfully introduced and enlarged upon the sorrows
and sufferings and dangers of the laird, so as to lead the old
man away from the quarrel, dwelling especially on the necessity of
protecting Mr Stewart from the machinations of his mother. Duncan
listened to all he said with marked sympathy.
"An' gien the markis daur to cross me in 't," said Malcolm at last,
as he ended, "lat him leuk till himsel', for it's no at a buffet
or twa I wad stick, gien the puir laird was intill 't."
This assurance, indicative of a full courageous intent on the part
of his grandson, for whose manliness he was jealous, greatly served
to quiet Duncan; and he consented at last to postpone all quittance,
in the hope of Malcolm's having the opportunity of a righteous
quarrel for proving himself no coward. His wrath gradually died
away, until at last he begged his boy to take his pipes, that he
might give him a lesson. Malcolm made the attempt, but found it
impossible to fill the bag with his swollen and cut lips, and had
to beg his grandfather to play to him instead. He gladly consented,
and played until bedtime; when, having tucked him up, Malcolm
went quietly to his own room, avoiding supper and the eyes of Mrs
Courthope together. He fell asleep in a moment, and spent a night
of perfect oblivion, dreamless of wizard lord or witch lady.
