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Malcolm, a novel by George MacDonald |
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Chapter 18. The Quarrel |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. THE QUARREL For a few days the weather was dull and unsettled, with cold flaws, and an occasional sprinkle of rain. But after came a still gray morning, warm and hopeful, and ere noon the sun broke out, the mists vanished, and the day was glorious in blue and gold. Malcolm had been to Scaurnose, to see his friend Joseph Mair, and was descending the steep path down the side of the promontory, on his way home, when his keen eye caught sight of a form on the slope of the dune which could hardly be other than that of Lady Florimel. She did not lift her eyes until he came quite near, and then only to drop them again with no more recognition than if he had been any other of the fishermen. Already more than half inclined to pick a quarrel with him, she fancied that, presuming upon their very commonplace adventure and its resulting secret, he approached her with an assurance he had never manifested before, and her head was bent motionless over her book when he stood and addressed her. "My leddy," he began, with his bonnet by his knee. "Well?" she returned, without even lifting her eyes, for, with the inherited privilege of her rank, she could be insolent with coolness, and call it to mind without remorse. "I houp the bit buikie wasna muckle the waur, my leddy," he said. "'Tis of no consequence," she replied. "Gien it war mine, I wadna think sae," he returned, eyeing her anxiously. "--Here's yer leddyship's pocket nepkin," he went on. "I hae keepit it ready rowed up, ever sin' my daddy washed it oot. It's no ill dune for a blin' man, as ye'll see, an' I ironed it mysel' as weel's I cud." As he spoke he unfolded a piece of brown paper, disclosing a little parcel in a cover of immaculate post, which he humbly offered her. Taking it slowly from his hand, she laid it on the ground beside her with a stiff "thank you," and a second dropping of her eyes that seemed meant to close the interview. "I doobt my company's no welcome the day, my leddy," said Malcolm with trembling voice; "but there's ae thing I maun refar till. Whan I took hame yer leddyship's buik the ither day, ye sent me half a croon by the han' o' yer servan' lass. Afore her I wasna gaein' to disalloo onything ye pleased wi' regaird to me; an' I thocht wi' mysel' it was maybe necessar' for yer leddyship's dignity an' the luik o' things--" "How dare you hint at any understanding between you and me?" exclaimed the girl in cold anger. "Lord, mem! what hey I said to fess sic a fire flaucht oot o' yer bonny een? I thocht ye only did it 'cause ye wad' na like to luik shabby afore the lass--no giein' onything to the lad 'at brocht ye yer ain--an' lippened to me to unnerstan' 'at ye did it but for the luik o' the thing, as I say." He had taken the coin from his pocket, and had been busy while he spoke rubbing it in a handful of sand, so that it was bright as new when he now offered it. "You are quite mistaken," she rejoined, ungraciously. "You insult me by supposing I meant you to return it." "Div ye think I cud bide to be paid for a turn till a neebor, lat alane the liftin' o' a buik till a leddy?" said Malcolm with keen mortification. "That wad be to despise mysel' frae keel to truck. I like to be paid for my wark, an' I like to be paid weel: but no a plack by siclike (beyond such) sall stick to my loof (palm). It can be no offence to gie ye back yer half croon, my leddy." And again he offered the coin. "I don't in the least see why, on your own principles, you shouldn't take the money," said the girl, with more than the coldness of an uninterested umpire. "You worked for it, I'm sure--first accompanying me home in such a storm, and then finding the book and bringing it back all the way to the house!" "'Deed, my leddy, sic a doctrine wad tak a' grace oot o' the earth! What wad this life be worth gien a' was to be peyed for? I wad cut my throat afore I wad bide in sic a warl'.--Tak yer half croon, my leddy," he concluded, in a tone of entreaty. But the energetic outburst was sufficing, in such her mood, only to the disgust of Lady Florimel. "Do anything with the money you please; only go away, and don't plague me about it," she said freezingly. "What can I du wi' what I wadna pass throu' my fingers?" said Malcolm with the patience of deep disappointment. "Give it to some poor creature: you know some one who would be glad of it, I daresay." "I ken mony ane, my leddy, wham it wad weel become yer am bonny han' to gie 't till; but I'm no gaein' to tak' credit fer a leeberality that wad ill become me." "You can tell how you earned it." "And profess mysel' disgraced by takin' a reward frae a born leddy for what I wad hae dune for ony beggar wife i' the lan'. Na, na, my leddy." "Your services are certainly flattering, when you put me on a level with any beggar in the country!" "In regaird o' sic service, my leddy: ye ken weel eneuch what I mean. Obleege me by takin' back yer siller." "How dare you ask me to take back what I once gave?" "Ye cudna hae kent what ye was doin' whan ye gae 't, my leddy. Tak it back, an tak a hunnerweicht aff o' my hert." He actually mentioned his heart!--was it to be borne by a girl in Lady Florimel's mood? "I beg you will not annoy me," she said, muffling her anger in folds of distance, and again sought her book. Malcolm looked at her for a moment, then turned his face towards the sea, and for another moment stood silent. Lady Florimel glanced up, but Malcolm was unaware of her movement. He lifted his hand, and looked at the half crown gleaming on his palm; then, with a sudden poise of his body, and a sudden fierce action of his arm, he sent the coin, swift with his heart's repudiation, across the sands into the tide. Ere it struck the water he had turned, and, with long stride but low bent head, walked away. A pang shot to Lady Florimel's heart. "Malcolm!" she cried. He turned instantly, came slowly back, and stood erect and silent before her. She must say something. Her eye fell on the little parcel beside her, and she spoke the first thought that came. "Will you take this?" she said, and offered him the handkerchief. In a dazed way he put out his hand and took it, staring at it as if he did not know what it was. "It's some sair!" he said at length, with a motion of his hands as if to grasp his head between them. "Ye winna tak even the washin' o' a pocket nepkin frae me, an' ye wad gar me tak a haill half croon frae yersel'! Mem, ye're a gran' leddy an' a bonny; an ye hae turns aboot ye, gien 'twar but the set o' yer heid, 'at micht gar an angel lat fa' what he was carryin', but afore I wad affront ane that wantit naething o' me but gude will, I wad--I wad-- raither be the fisher lad that I am." A weak kneed peroration, truly; but Malcolm was over burdened at last. He laid the little parcel on the sand at her feet, almost reverentially, and again turned. But Lady Florimel spoke again. "It is you who are affronting me now," she said gently. "When a lady gives her handkerchief to a gentleman, it is commonly received as a very great favour indeed." "Gien I hae made a mistak, my leddy, I micht weel mak it, no bein' a gentleman, and no bein' used to the traitment o' ane. But I doobt gien a gentleman wad ha' surmised what ye was efter wi' yer nepkin', gien ye had offert him half a croon first." "Oh, yes, he would--perfectly!" said Florimel with an air of offence. "Then, my leddy, for the first time i' my life, I wish I had been born a gentleman." "Then I certainly wouldn't have given it you," said Florimel with perversity. "What for no, my leddy? I dinna unnerstan' ye again. There maun be an unco differ atween 's!" "Because a gentleman would have presumed on such a favour." "I'm glaidder nor ever 'at I wasna born ane," said Malcolm, and, slowly stooping, he lifted the handkerchief; "an' I was aye glaid o' that, my leddy, 'cause gien I had been, I wad hae been luikin' doon upo' workin' men like mysel' as gien they warna freely o' the same flesh an' blude. But I beg yer leddyship's pardon for takin' ye up amiss. An' sae lang's I live, I'll regaird this as ane o' her fedders 'at the angel moutit as she sat by the bored craig. An' whan I'm deid, I'll hae 't laid upo' my face, an' syne, maybe, I may get a sicht o' ye as I pass. Guid day my leddy." "Good day," she returned kindly. "I wish my father would let me have a row in your boat." "It's at yer service whan ye please, my leddy," said Malcolm. One who had caught a glimpse of the shining yet solemn eyes of the youth, as he walked home, would wonder no longer that he should talk as he did--so sedately, yet so poetically--so long windedly, if you like, yet so sensibly--even wisely. Lady Florimel lay on the sand, and sought again to read the "Faerie Queene." But for the last day or two she had been getting tired of it, and now the forms that entered by her eyes dropped half their substance and all their sense in the porch, and thronged her brain with the mere phantoms of things, with words that came and went and were nothing. Abandoning the harvest of chaff, her eyes rose and looked out upon the sea. Never, even from tropical shore, was richer hued ocean beheld. Gorgeous in purple and green, in shadowy blue and flashing gold, it seemed to Malcolm, as if at any moment the ever newborn Anadyomene might lift her shining head from the wandering floor, and float away in her pearly lustre to gladden the regions where the glaciers glide seawards in irresistible silence, there to give birth to the icebergs in tumult and thunderous uproar. But Lady Florimel felt merely the loneliness. One deserted boat lay on the long sand, like the bereft and useless half of a double shell. Without show of life the moveless cliffs lengthened far into a sea where neither white sail deepened the purple and gold, nor red one enriched it with a colour it could not itself produce. Neither hope nor aspiration awoke in her heart at the sight. Was she beginning to be tired of her companionless liberty? Had the long stanzas, bound by so many interwoven links of rhyme, ending in long Alexandrines, the long cantos, the lingering sweetness long drawn out through so many unended books, begun to weary her at last? Had even a quarrel with a fisher lad been a little pastime to her? and did she now wish she had detained him a little longer? Could she take any interest in him beyond such as she took in Demon, her father's dog, or Brazenose, his favourite horse? Whatever might be her thoughts or feelings at this moment, it remained a fact, that Florimel Colonsay, the daughter of a marquis, and Malcolm, the grandson of a blind piper, were woman and man-- and the man the finer of the two this time. As Malcolm passed on his way one of the three or four solitary rocks which rose from the sand, the skeleton remnants of larger masses worn down by wind, wave, and weather, he heard his own name uttered by an unpleasant voice, and followed by a more unpleasant laugh. He knew both the voice and the laugh, and, turning, saw Mrs Catanach, seated, apparently busy with her knitting, in the shade of the rock. "Weel?" he said curtly. "Weel!--Set ye up!--Wha's yon ye was play actin' wi' oot yonner?" "Wha telled ye to speir, Mistress Catanach?" "Ay, ay, laad! Ye'll be abune speykin' till an auld wife efter colloguin' wi' a yoong ane, an' sic a ane! Isna she bonny, Malkie? Isna hers a winsome shape an' a lauchin' ee? Didna she draw ye on, an' luik i' the hawk's een o' ye, an' lay herself oot afore ye, an' ?" "She did naething o' the sort, ye ill tongued wuman!" said Malcolm in anger. "Ho! ho!" trumpeted Mrs Catanach. "Ill tongued, am I? An' what neist?" "Ill deedit," returned Malcolm, "--whan ye flang my bonny salmon troot till yer oogly deevil o' a dog." "Ho! ho! ho! Ill deedit, am I? I s' no forget thae bonny names! Maybe yer lordship wad alloo me the leeberty o' speirin' anither question at ye, Ma'colm MacPhail." "Ye may speir 'at ye like, sae lang 's ye canna gar me stan' to hearken. Guid day to ye, Mistress Catanach. Yer company was nane o' my seekin': I may lea' 't whan I like." "Dinna ye be ower sure o' that," she called after him venomously. But Malcolm turned his head no more. As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs Catanach rose, ascended the dune, and propelled her rotundity along the yielding top of it. When she arrived within speaking distance of Lady Florimel, who lay lost in her dreary regard of sand and sea, she paused for a moment, as if contemplating her. Suddenly, almost by Lady Florimel's side, as if he had risen from the sand, stood the form of the mad laird. "I dinna ken whaur I come frae," he said. Lady Florimel started, half rose, and seeing the dwarf so near, and on the other side of her a repulsive looking woman staring at her, sprung to her feet and fled. The same instant the mad laird, catching sight of Mrs Catanach, gave a cry of misery, thrust his fingers in his ears, darted down the other side of the dune and sped along the shore. Mrs. Catanach shook with laughter. "I hae skailled (dispersed) the bonny doos!" she said. Then she called aloud after the flying girl,--"My leddy! My bonny leddy!" Florimel paid no heed, but ran straight for the door of the tunnel, and vanished. Thence leisurely climbing to the temple of the winds, she looked down from a height of safety upon the shore and the retreating figure of Mrs. Catanach. Seating herself by the pedestal of the trumpet blowing Wind, she assayed her reading again, but was again startled--this time by a rough salute from Demon. Presently her father appeared, and Lady Florimel felt something like a pang of relief at being found there, and not on the farther side of the dune making it up with Malcolm. _ |
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