_ 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. _