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Books: The Marquis of Lossie

G >> George MacDonald >> The Marquis of Lossie



This etext was produced by Martin Robb




THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. by George MacDonald



CHAPTER I: THE STABLE YARD


It was one of those exquisite days that come in every winter, in
which it seems no longer the dead body, but the lovely ghost of
summer. Such a day bears to its sister of the happier time something
of the relation the marble statue bears to the living form; the
sense it awakes of beauty is more abstract, more ethereal; it lifts
the soul into a higher region than will summer day of lordliest
splendour. It is like the love that loss has purified.

Such, however, were not the thoughts that at the moment occupied
the mind of Malcolm Colonsay. Indeed, the loveliness of the morning
was but partially visible from the spot where he stood--the stable
yard of Lossie House, ancient and roughly paved. It was a hundred
years since the stones had been last relaid and levelled: none of
the horses of the late Marquis minded it but one--her whom the
young man in Highland dress was now grooming--and she would have
fidgeted had it been an oak floor. The yard was a long and wide
space, with two storied buildings on all sides of it. In the centre
of one of them rose the clock, and the morning sun shone red on
its tarnished gold. It was an ancient clock, but still capable of
keeping good time--good enough, at least, for all the requirements
of the house, even when the family was at home, seeing it never
stopped, and the church clock was always ordered by it.

It not only set the time, but seemed also to set the fashion of
the place, for the whole aspect of it was one of wholesome, weather
beaten, time worn existence. One of the good things that accompany
good blood is that its possessor does not much mind a shabby coat.
Tarnish and lichens and water wearing, a wavy house ridge, and
a few families of worms in the wainscot do not annoy the marquis
as they do the city man who has just bought a little place in the
country. When an old family ceases to go lovingly with nature, I
see no reason why it should go any longer. An old tree is venerable,
and an old picture precious to the soul, but an old house, on which
has been laid none but loving and respectful hands, is dear to the
very heart. Even an old barn door, with the carved initials of hinds
and maidens of vanished centuries, has a place of honour in the
cabinet of the poet's brain. It was centuries since Lossie House
had begun to grow shabby--and beautiful; and he to whom it now
belonged was not one to discard the reverend for the neat, or let
the vanity of possession interfere with the grandeur of inheritance.

Beneath the tarnished gold of the clock, flushed with the red
winter sun, he was at this moment grooming the coat of a powerful
black mare. That he had not been brought up a groom was pretty
evident from the fact that he was not hissing; but that he was
Marquis of Lossie there was nothing about him to show. The mare
looked dangerous. Every now and then she cast back a white glance
of the one visible eye. But the youth was on his guard, and as wary
as fearless in his handling of her. When at length he had finished
the toilet which her restlessness--for her four feet were never
all still at once upon the stones--had considerably protracted,
he took from his pocket a lump of sugar, and held it for her to
bite at with her angry looking teeth.

It was a keen frost, but in the sun the icicles had begun to drop.
The roofs in the shadow were covered with hoar frost; wherever
there was shadow there was whiteness. But for all the cold, there
was keen life in the air, and yet keener life in the two animals,
biped and quadruped.

As they thus stood, the one trying to sweeten the other's relation
to himself, if he could not hope much for her general temper, a
man, who looked half farmer, half lawyer, appeared on the opposite
side of the court in the shadow.

"You are spoiling that mare, MacPhail," he cried.

"I canna weel du that, sir; she canna be muckle waur," said the
youth.

"It's whip and spur she wants, not sugar."

"She has had, and sail have baith, time aboot (in turn); and I houp
they'll du something for her in time, sir."

"Her time shall be short here, anyhow. She's not worth the sugar
you give her."

"Eh, sir! luik at her," said Malcolm, in a tone of expostulation,
as he stepped back a few paces and regarded her with admiring eyes.
"Saw ye ever sic legs? an' sic a neck? an' sic a heid? an' sic fore
an' hin' quarters? She's a' bonny but the temper o' her, an' that
she canna help like the likes o' you an me."

"She'll be the death o' somebody some day. The sooner we get rid
of her the better. Just look at that," he added, as the mare laid
back her ears and made a vicious snap at nothing in particular.

"She was a favourite o' my--maister, the marquis," returned the
youth, "an' I wad ill like to pairt wi' her."

"I'll take any offer in reason for her," said the factor. "You'll
just ride her to Forres market next week, and see what you can get
for her. I do think she's quieter since you took her in hand."

"I'm sure she is--but it winna laist a day. The moment I lea'
her, she'll be as ill's ever," said the youth. "She has a kin' a
likin' to me, 'cause I gi'e her sugar, an' she canna cast me; but
she's no a bit better i' the hert o' her yet. She's an oonsanctifeed
brute. I cudna think o' sellin' her like this."

"Lat them 'at buys tak' tent (beware)," said the factor.

"Ow ay! lat them; I dinna objec'; gien only they ken what she's
like afore they buy her," rejoined Malcolm.

The factor burst out laughing. To his judgment the youth had spoken
like an idiot.

"We'll not send you to sell," he said. "Stoat shall go with you,
and you shall have nothing to do but hold the mare and your own
tongue."

"Sir," said Malcolm, seriously, "ye dinna mean what ye say? Ye
said yersel' she wad be the deith o' somebody, an' to sell her ohn
tell't what she's like wad be to caw the saxt comman'ment clean to
shivers."

"That may be good doctrine i' the kirk, my lad, but it's pure heresy
i' the horse market. No, no! You buy a horse as you take a wife--
for better for worse, as the case may be. A woman's not bound to
tell her faults when a man wants to marry her. If she keeps off
the worst of them afterwards, it's all he has a right to look for."

"Hoot, sir! there's no a pair o' parallel lines in a' the
compairison," returned Malcolm. "Mistress Kelpie here 's e'en ower
ready to confess her fauts, an' that by giein' a taste o' them;
she winna bide to be speired; but for haudin' aff o' them efter the
bargain's made--ye ken she's no even responsible for the bargain.
An' gien ye expec' me to haud my tongue aboot them--faith,
Maister Crathie, I wad as sune think o' sellin' a rotten boat to
Blue Peter. Gien the man 'at has her to see tilt dinna ken to luik
oot for a storm o' iron shune or lang teeth ony moment, his wife
may be a widow that same market nicht: An' forbye, it's again' the
aucht comman'ment as weel's the saxt. There's nae exception there
in regaird o' horse flesh. We maun be honest i' that as weel's i'
corn or herrin', or onything ither 'at 's coft an' sell't atween
man an' his neibor."

"There's one commandment, my lad," said Mr Crathie, with the dignity
of intended rebuke, "you seem to find hard to learn, and that is,
to mind your own business."

"Gien ye mean catchin' the herrin', maybe ye're richt," said the
youth. "I ken muir aboot that nor the horse coupin', and it's full
cleaner."

"None of your impudence!" returned the factor. "The marquis is
not here to uphold you in your follies. That they amused him is no
reason why I should put up with them. So keep your tongue between
your teeth, or you'll find it the worse for you."

The youth smiled a little oddly, and held his peace.

"You're here to do what I tell you, and make no remarks," added
the factor.

"I'm awaur o' that, sir--within certain leemits," returned Malcolm.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean within the leemits o' duin' by yer neibor as ye wad ha'e
yer neibor du by you--that's what I mean, sir."

"I've told you already that doesn't apply in horse dealing.
Every man has to take care of himself in the horse market: that's
understood. If you had been brought up amongst horses instead of
herring, you would have known that as well as any other man."

"I doobt I'll ha'e to gang back to the herrin' than, sir, for they're
like to pruv' the honester o' the twa; But there's nae hypocrisy
in Kelpie, an' she maun ha'e her day's denner, come o' the morn's
what may."

At the word hypocrisy, Mr Crathie's face grew red as the sun in
a fog. He was an elder of the kirk, and had family worship every
night as regularly as his toddy. So the word was as offensive and
insolent as it was foolish and inapplicable. He would have turned
Malcolm adrift on the spot, but that he remembered--not the favour
of the late marquis for the lad--that was nothing to the factor
now: his lord under the mould was to him as if he had never been
above it--but the favour of the present marchioness, for all in
the house knew that she was interested in him. Choking down therefore
his rage and indignation, he said sternly;

"Malcolm, you have two enemies--a long tongue, and a strong
conceit. You have little enough to be proud of, my man, and the
less said the better. I advise you to mind what you're about, and
show suitable respect to your superiors, or as sure as judgment
you'll go back to fish guts."

While he spoke, Malcolm had been smoothing Kelpie all over with his
palms; the moment the factor ceased talking, he ceased stroking,
and with one arm thrown over the mare's back, looked him full in
the face.

"Gien ye imaigine, Maister Crathie," he said, "'at I coont it ony
rise i' the warl' 'at brings me un'er the orders o' a man less
honest than he micht be, ye're mista'en. I dinna think it's pride
this time; I wad ile Blue Peter's lang butes till him, but I winna
lee for ony factor atween this an' Davy Jones."

It was too much. Mr Crathie's feelings overcame him, and he was
a wrathful man to see, as he strode up to the youth with clenched
fist.

"Haud frae the mere, for God's sake, Maister Crathie," cried Malcolm.
But even as he spoke, two reversed Moorish arches of gleaming
iron opened on the terror quickened imagination of the factor
a threatened descent from which his most potent instinct, that of
self preservation, shrank in horror. He started back white with
dismay, having by a bare inch of space and a bare moment of time,
escaped what he called Eternity. Dazed with fear he turned and
had staggered halfway across the yard, as if going home, before he
recovered himself. Then he turned again, and with what dignity he
could scrape together said--"MacPhail, you go about your business."

In his foolish heart he believed Malcolm had made the brute strike
out.

"I canna weel gang till Stoat comes hame," answered Malcolm.

"If I see you about the place after sunset, I'll horsewhip you,"
said the factor, and walked away, showing the crown of his hat.

Malcolm again smiled oddly, but made no reply. He undid the mare's
halter, and took her into the stable. There he fed her, standing
by her all the time she ate, and not once taking his eyes off her.
His father, the late marquis, had bought her at the sale of the
stud of a neighbouring laird, whose whole being had been devoted
to horses, till the pale one came to fetch himself: the men about
the stable had drugged her, and, taken with the splendid lines of
the animal, nor seeing cause to doubt her temper as she quietly
obeyed the halter, he had bid for her, and, as he thought, had her
a great bargain. The accident that finally caused his death followed
immediately after, and while he was ill no one cared to vex him
by saying what she had turned out. But Malcolm had even then taken
her in hand in the hope of taming her a little before his master,
who often spoke of his latest purchase, should see her again. In
this he had very partially succeeded; but if only for the sake of
him whom he now knew for his father, nothing would have made him
part with the animal. Besides, he had been compelled to use her with
so much severity at times that he had grown attached to her from
the reaction of pity as well as from admiration of her physical
qualities, and the habitude of ministering to her wants and comforts.
The factor, who knew Malcolm only as a servant, had afterwards
allowed her to remain in his charge, merely in the hope, through
his treatment, of by and by selling her, as she had been bought,
for a faultless animal, but at a far better price.



CHAPTER II: THE LIBRARY


When she had finished her oats, Malcolm left her busy with her hay,
for she was a huge eater, and went into the house, passing through
the kitchen and ascending a spiral stone stair to the library--the
only room not now dismantled. As he went along the narrow passage
on the second floor leading to it from the head of the stair, the
housekeeper, Mrs Courthope, peeped after him from one of the many
bedrooms opening upon it, and watched him as he went, nodding her
head two or three times with decision: he reminded her so strongly
--not of his father, the last marquis, but the brother who had
preceded him, that she felt all but certain, whoever might be his
mother, he had as much of the Colonsay blood in his veins as any
marquis of them all. It was in consideration of this likeness that
Mr Crathie had permitted the youth, when his services were not
required, to read in the library.

Malcolm went straight to a certain corner, and from amongst a dingy
set of old classics took down a small Greek book, in large type.
It was the manual of that slave among slaves, that noble among the
free, Epictetus. He was no great Greek scholar, but, with the help
of the Latin translation, and the gloss of his own rath experience,
he could lay hold of the mind of that slave of a slave, whose very
slavery was his slave to carry him to the heights of freedom. It was
not Greek he cared for, but Epictetus. It was but little he read,
however, for the occurrence of the morning demanded, compelled
thought. Mr Crathie's behaviour caused him neither anger nor
uneasiness, but it rendered necessary some decision with regard to
the ordering of his future.

I can hardly say he recalled how, on his deathbed, the late marquis,
about three months before, having, with all needful observances,
acknowledged him his son, had committed to his trust the welfare
of his sister; for the memory of this charge was never absent from
his feeling even when not immediately present to his thought. But
although a charge which he would have taken upon him all the same
had his father not committed it to him, it was none the less a
source of perplexity upon which as yet all his thinking had let in
but little light. For to appear as Marquis of Lossie was not merely
to take from his sister the title she supposed her own, but to
declare her illegitimate, seeing that, unknown to the marquis, the
youth's mother, his first wife, was still alive when Florimel was
born. How to act so that as little evil as possible might befall
the favourite of his father, and one whom he had himself loved with
the devotion almost of a dog, before he knew she was his sister,
was the main problem.

For himself, he had had a rough education, and had enjoyed it: his
thoughts were not troubled about his own prospects. Mysteriously
committed to the care of a poor blind Highland piper, a stranger
from inland regions, settled amongst a fishing people, he had, as
he grew up, naturally fallen into their ways of life and labour,
and but lately abandoned the calling of a fisherman to take charge
of the marquis's yacht, whence, by degrees, he had, in his helpfulness,
grown indispensable to him and his daughter, and had come to live
in the house of Lossie as a privileged servant. His book education,
which he owed mainly to the friendship of the parish schoolmaster,
although nothing marvellous, or in Scotland very peculiar, had
opened for him in all directions doors of thought and inquiry, but
the desire of knowledge was in his case, again through the influences
of Mr Graham, subservient to an almost restless yearning after
the truth of things, a passion so rare that the ordinary mind can
hardly master even the fact of its existence.

The Marchioness of Lossie, as she was now called, for the family
was one of the two or three in Scotland in which the title descends
to an heiress, had left Lossie House almost immediately upon her
father's death, under the guardianship of a certain dowager countess.
Lady Bellair had taken her first to Edinburgh, and then to London.
Tidings of her Malcolm occasionally received through Mr Soutar of
Duff Harbour, the lawyer the marquis had employed to draw up the
papers substantiating the youth's claim. The last amounted to this,
that, as rapidly as the proprieties of mourning would permit, she
was circling the vortex of the London season; and Malcolm was now
almost in despair of ever being of the least service to her as
a brother to whom as a servant he had seemed at one time of daily
necessity. If he might but once be her skipper, her groom, her
attendant, he might then at least learn how to discover to her
the bond between them, without breaking it in the very act, and so
ruining the hope of service to follow.



CHAPTER III: MISS HORN


The door opened, and in walked a tall, gaunt, hard featured woman,
in a huge bonnet, trimmed with black ribbons, and a long black net
veil, worked over with sprigs, coming down almost to her waist. She
looked stern, determined, almost fierce, shook hands with a sort
of loose dissatisfaction, and dropped into one of the easy chairs
in which the library abounded. With the act the question seemed
shot from her--"Duv ye ca' yersel' an honest man, noo, Ma'colm?"

"I ca' myself naething," answered the youth; "but I wad fain be
what ye say, Miss Horn."

"Ow! I dinna doobt ye wadna steal, nor yet tell lees aboot a horse:
I ha'e jist come frae a sair waggin' o' tongues about ye. Mistress
Crathie tells me her man's in a sair vex 'at ye winna tell a wordless
lee aboot the black mere: that's what I ca't--no her. But lee it
wad be, an' dinna ye aither wag or haud a leein' tongue. A gentleman
maunna lee, no even by sayin' naething--na, no gien 't war to
win intill the kingdom. But, Guid be thankit, that's whaur leears
never come. Maybe ye're thinkin' I ha'e sma' occasion to say sic
like to yersel'. An' yet what's yer life but a lee, Ma'colm? You
'at's the honest Marquis o' Lossie to waur yer time an' the stren'th
o' yer boady an' the micht o' yer sowl tyauvin' (wrestling) wi' a
deevil o' a she horse, whan there's that half sister o' yer' ain
gauin' to the verra deevil o' perdition himsel' amang the godless
gentry o' Lon'on!"

"What wad ye ha'e me un'erstan' by that, Miss Horn?" returned
Malcolm. "I hear no ill o' her. I daursay she's no jist a sa'nt
yet, but that's no to be luiked for in ane o' the breed: they maun
a' try the warl' first ony gait. There's a heap o' fowk--an' no
aye the warst, maybe," continued Malcolm, thinking of his father,
"'at wull ha'e their bite o' the aipple afore they spite it oot.
But for my leddy sister, she's owre prood ever to disgrace hersel'."

"Weel, maybe, gien she bena misguidit by them she's wi'. But I'm
no sae muckle concernt aboot her. Only it's plain 'at ye ha'e no
richt to lead her intill temptation."

"Hoo am I temptin' at her, mem?"

"That's plain to half an e'e. Ir ye no lattin' her live believin'
a lee? Ir ye no allooin' her to gang on as gien she was somebody
mair nor mortal, when ye ken she's nae mair Marchioness o' Lossie
nor ye're the son o' auld Duncan MacPhail? Faith, ye ha'e lost
trowth gien ye ha'e gaint the warl' i' the cheenge o' forbeirs!"

"Mint at naething again the deid, mem. My father's gane till's
accoont; an it's weel for him he has his father an' no his sister
to pronoonce upo' him."

"'Deed ye're right there, laddie," said Miss Horn, in a subdued
tone.

"He's made it up wi' my mither afore noo, I'm thinkin'; an' ony
gait he confesst her his wife an' me her son afore he dee'd, an'
what mair had he time to du?"

"It's fac'," returned Miss Horn. "An' noo luik at yersel': what yer
father confesst wi' the verra deid thraw o' a labourin' speerit, to
the whilk naething cud ha'e broucht him but the deid thraws (death
struggles) o' the bodily natur' an' the fear o' hell, that same
confession ye row up again i' the cloot o' secrecy, in place o'
dightin' wi' 't the blot frae the memory o' ane wha I believe I
lo'ed mair as my third cousin nor ye du as yer ain mither!"

"There's no blot upo' her memory, mem," returned the youth, "or I
wad be markis the morn. There's never a sowl kens she was mither
but kens she was wife--ay, an' whase wife, tu."

Miss Horn had neither wish nor power to reply, and changed her
front.

"An' sae, Ma'colm Colonsay," she said, "ye ha'e no less nor made
up yer min' to pass yer days in yer ain stable, neither better nor
waur than an ostler at the Lossie Airms, an' that efter a' 'at I
ha'e borne an' dune to mak a gentleman o' ye, bairdin' yer father
here like a verra lion in 's den, an' garrin' him confess the thing
again' ilka hair upon the stiff neck o' 'im? Losh, laddie! it was
a pictur' to see him stan'in wi' 's back to the door like a camstairy
(obstinate) bullock!"

"Haud yer tongue, mem, gien ye please. I canna bide to hear my
father spoken o' like that. For ye see I lo'ed him afore I kent he
was ony drap 's blude to me."

"Weel, that's verra weel; but father an' mither's man and wife,
an' ye camna o' a father alane."

"That's true, mem, an' it canna be I sud ever forget yon face ye
shawed me i' the coffin, the bonniest, sairest sicht I ever saw,"
returned Malcolm, with a quaver in his voice.

"But what for cairry yer thouchts to the deid face o' her? Ye kent
the leevin' ane weel," objected Miss Horn.

"That's true, mem; but the deid face maist blottit the leevin' oot
o' my brain."

"I'm sorry for that.--Eh, laddie, but she was bonny to see!"

"I aye thoucht her the bonniest leddy I ever set e'e upo'. An' dinna
think, mem, I'm gaein to forget the deid, 'cause I'm mair concemt
aboot the leevin'. I tell ye I jist dinna ken what to du. What
wi' my father's deein' words committin' her to my chairge, an' the
more than regaird I ha'e to Leddy Florimel hersel', I'm jist whiles
driven to ane mair. Hoo can I tak the verra sunsheen oot o' her life
'at I lo'ed afore I kent she was my ain sister, an' jist thoucht
lang to win near eneuch till to du her ony guid turn worth duin? An'
here I am, her ane half brither, wi' naething i' my pooer but to
scaud the hert o' her, or else lee! Supposin' she was weel merried
first, hoo wad she stan' wi' her man whan he cam to ken 'at she
was nae marchioness--hed no lawfu' richt to ony name but her
mither's? An' afore that, what richt cud I ha'e to alloo ony man
to merry her ohn kent the trowth aboot her? Faith, it wad be a fine
chance though for the fin'in' oot whether or no the man was worthy
o' her! But, ye see that micht be to make a playock o' her hert.
Puir thing, she luiks doon upo' me frae the tap o' her bonny neck,
as frae a h'avenly heicht; but I s' lat her ken yet, gien only I
can win at the gait o' 't, that I ha'ena come nigh her for naething."

He gave a sigh with the words, and a pause followed.

"The trowth's the trowth," resumed Miss Horn, "neither mair nor
less."

"Ay," responded Malcolm; "but there's a richt an' a wrang time for
the telling' o' 't. It's no as gien I had had han' or tongue in
ony foregane lee. It was naething o' my duin', as ye ken, mem. To
mysel', I was never onything but a fisherman born. I confess 'at
whiles, when we wad be lyin' i' the lee o' the nets, tethered to
them like, wi' the win' blawin' strong 'an steady, I ha'e thocht
wi' mysel' 'at I kent naething aboot my father, an' what gien it
sud turn oot 'at I was the son o' somebody--what wad I du wi' my
siller?"

"An' what thoucht ye ye wad du, laddie?" asked Miss Horn gently.

"What but bigg a harbour at Scaurnose for the puir fisher fowk 'at
was like my ain flesh and blude!"

"Weel," rejoined Miss Horn eagerly, "div ye no look upo' that as a
voo to the Almichty--a voo 'at ye're bun' to pay, noo 'at ye ha'e
yer wuss? An' it's no merely 'at ye ha'e the means, but there's no
anither that has the richt; for they're yer ain fowk, 'at ye gaither
rent frae, an 'at's been for mony a generation sattlet upo' yer
lan'--though for the maitter o' the lan', they ha'e had little
mair o' that than the birds o' the rock ha'e ohn feued--an' them
honest fowks wi' wives an' sowls o' their ain! Hoo upo' airth are
ye to du yer duty by them, an' render yer accoont at the last,
gien ye dinna tak till ye yer pooer an' reign? Ilk man 'at 's in
ony sense a king o' men is bun' to reign ower them in that sense.
I ken little aboot things mysel', an' I ha'e no feelin's to guide
me, but I ha'e a wheen cowmon sense, an' that maun jist stan' for
the lave."