Warlock o' Glenwarlock Part 25

the hoose, war it his to withhaud, which I mainteen it is not."

"Weel rizzont, Grizzie!" cried the laird. "An' I thank ye mair for yer thoucht nor yer rizzons; the tane I was in want o', the t.i.ther I was na. The thing sall be luikit intil, an' that the first thing the morn's mornin'! The bit playock cam never i' my heid! I maun be growin' auld, Grizzie, no to hae thoucht o' a thing sae plain! But it's the w'y wi' a' the best things! They're sae guid whan ye get a grip o' them,'at ye canna un'erstan' hoo ye never thoucht o' them afore."

"I'm aul'er nor you, sir; sae it maun hae been the Lord himsel' 'at pat it intil me."

"We'll see the morn, Grizzie. I'm no that sure there's onything mair intil't nor a mere fule word. For onything I ken, the thing may be nae better nor a bit o' braiss. I hae thoucht mony a time it luikit, in places, unco like braiss. But Is' tak it the morn's mornin' to Jeemie Merson. We'll see what he says til 't. Gien ony body i' these pairts hae ony authority in sic maitters, it's Jeemie. An' I thank ye hertily, Grizzie."

But Grizzie was not well pleased that her master should so lightly pa.s.s the reasoned portion of her utterance; like many another prophet, she prized more the part of her prophecy that came from herself, than the part that came from the Lord.

"Sae plain as he cam an' gaed, laird, I thoucht ye micht hae been considerin' him."

The laird replied to her tone rather than her words.

"Hoots, Grizzie, wuman!" he said, "was na ye jist tellin' me no to heed him a hair? An' no ae hair wad I heed him,'cep' it wad gie ony rist til's puir wan'erin' sowl."

"I but thoucht the thing worth a thoucht, laird," said Grizzie, humbly and apologetically; and with a kind "Guid nicht to ye, laird," turned away, and went up the stairs to her room.

The moment she was gone, the laird fell on his knees, and gave G.o.d thanks for the word he had received by his messenger--if indeed it pleased him that such Grizzie should prove to be.

"O Lord," he said, "with thee the future is as the present, and the past as the future. In the long past it may be thou didst provide this supply for my present need--didst even then prepare the answer to the prayers with which thou knewest I should a.s.sail thine ear.

Never in all my need have I so much desired money as now for the good of my boy. But if this be but one of my hopes, not one of thy intents, give me the patience of a son, O Father."

With these words he rose from his knees, and taking his book, read and enjoyed into the dead of the night.

That same night, Cosmo, who, again in his own chamber, was the more troubled with the trouble of his father that he was no longer with him in his room, dreamed a very odd, confused dream, of which he could give himself but little account in the morning--something about horses shod with shoes of gold, which they cast from their heels in a shoe-storm as they ran, and which anybody might have for the picking up. And throughout the dream was diffused an unaccountable flavour of the old villain, the sea-captain, although nowhere did he come into the story.

CHAPTER XXI

THE WATCMAKER

When he came down to breakfast, his father told him, to his delight, that he was going to Muir of Warlock, and would like him to go with him. He ran like a hare up the waterside to let Mr.

Simon know, and was back by the time his father was ready.

It was a lovely day. There would be plenty of cold and rough weather yet, but the winter was over and gone, and even to that late region of the north, the time of the singing of birds was come. The air was soft, with streaks of cold in it. The fields lay about all wet, but there was the sun above them, whose business it was to dry them. There were no leaves yet on the few trees and hedges, but preparations had long been made, and the sap was now rising in their many stems, like the mercury in all the thermometers. Up also rose the larks, joy fluttering their wings, and quivering their throats. They always know when the time to praise G.o.d is come, for it is when they begin to feel happy: more cannot be expected of them. And are they not therein already on the level of most of us Christians who in this mood and that praise G.o.d? And indeed are not the birds and the rest of the creatures Christians in the same way as the vast ma.s.s of those that call themselves such? Do they not belong to the creation groaning after a redemption they do not know? Men and women groan in misery from not being yet the sons and daughters of G.o.d, who regard nothing else as redemption, but the getting of their own way, which the devil only would care to give them.

As they went, the laird told Cosmo what was taking him to the village, and the boy walked by his father's side as in a fairy tale; for had they not with them a strange thing that might prove the talismanic opener of many doors to treasure-caves?

They went straight to the shop, if shop it could be called, of Jeames Merson, the watchmaker of the village. There all its little ornamental business was done--a silver spoon might be engraved, a new pin put to a brooch, a wedding ring of sterling gold purchased, or a pair of earings of lovely gla.s.s, representing amethyst or topaz. There a second-hand watch might be had, with choice amongst a score, taken in exchange from ploughmen or craftsmen. Jeames was poor, for there was not much trade in his line, and so was never able to have much of a stock; but he was an excellent watchmaker--none better in the great city--so at least his town-folk believed, and in a village it soon appears whether a watchmaker has got it in him.

He was a thin, pale man, with a mixed look of rabbit and ferret, a high narrow forehead, and keen gray eyes. His work-shop and show-room was the kitchen, partly for the sake of his wife's company, partly because there was the largest window the cottage could boast. In this window was hung almost his whole stock, and a table before it was covered with his work and tools. He was stooping over it, his lens in his eye, busy with a watch, of which several portions lay beside him protected from the dust by footless wine-gla.s.ses, when the laird and Cosmo entered. He put down pinion and file, pushed back his chair, and rose to receive them.

"A fine mornin', Jeames!" said the laird. "I houp ye're weel, and duin' weel."

"Muckle the same as usual, laird, an' I thank ye," answered Jeames, with a large smile. "I'm no jist upo' the ro'd to be what they ca'

a millionaire, an' I'm no jist upon the perris--something atween the twa, I'm thinkin'."

"I doobt there's mair o' ane's in like condition, Jeames,"

responded the laird, "or we wad na be comin' to tax yer skeel at this present."

"Use yer freedom, laird; I'm yer heumble servan'. It wadna be a watch for the yoong laird? I kenna--"

He stopped, and cast an anxious eye towards the window.

"Na, na," interrupted the laird, sorry to have raised even so much of a vain hope in the mind of the man, "I'm as farfrae a watch as ye are frae the bank. But I hae here i' my pooch a bit silly playock,'at's been i' the hoose this mony a lang; an' jist this last nicht it was pitten intil my heid there micht be some guid intl the chattel, seein' i' the tradition o' the faimily it's aye been hauden for siller. For my ain pairt I hae my doobts; but gien onybody here aboot can tell the trowth on't, yersel' maun be the man; an' sae I hae brought it, to ken what ye wad say til 't."

"I'll du my best to lowse yer doobt, laird," returned Jeames.

"Lat's hae a luik at the article."

The laird took the horse from his pocket, and handed it to him.

Jeames regarded it for some time with interest, and examined it with care.

"It's a bonny bit o' carved work," he said; "--a bairnly kin' o' a thing for shape--mair like a timmer horsie; but whan ye come to the ornamentation o' the same, it's o' anither character frae the roon'

spots o' reid paint--an' sae's the sma' rubies an' stanes intil 't.

This has taen a heap o' time, an' painsfu' labour--a deal mair nor some o' 's wad think it worth, I doobt! It's the w'y o' the haithens wi' their graven eemages, but what for a horsie like this, I dinna ken. Hooever, that's naither here nor there: ye didna come to me to speir hoo or what for it was made; it's what is 't made o'

's the question. It's some yallow-like for siller; an' it's unco black, which is mair like it--but that may be wi' dirt.--An' dirt I'm thinkin' it maun be, barkit intil the gravin'," he went on, taking a tool and running the point of it along one of the fine lines. "Troth ohn test.i.t, I wadna like to say what it was. But it's an unco weicht!--I doobt--na, I mair nor doobt it canna be siller."

So saying he carried it to his table, put it down, and went to a corner-cupboard. Thence he brought a small stoppered phial. He gave it a little shake, and took out the stopper. It was followed by a dense white fume. With the stopper he touched the horse underneath, and looked closely at the spot. He then replaced the stopper and the bottle, and stood by the cupboard, gazing at nothing for a moment. Then turning to the laird, he said, with a peculiar look and a hesitating expression:

"Na, laird, it's no siller. Aquafortis winna bite up' 't. I wad mix 't wi' muriatic, an' try that, but I hae nane handy, an' forby it wad tak time to tell. Ken ye whaur it cam frae?--Ae thing I'm sure o'--it's no siller!"

"I'm sorry to hear it," rejoined the laird, with a faint smile and a little sigh.--"Well, we're no worse off than we were, Cosmo!--But poor Grizzie! she'll be dreadfully disappointed.--Gie me the bit horsie, Jeames; we'll e'en tak' him hame again. It's no his fau't, puir thing,'at he 's no better nor he was made!"

"Wad ye no tell me whaur the bit thing cam frae, or is supposit to hae come frae, sir; H'ard ye it ever said, for enstance,'at the auld captain they tell o' had broucht it?"

"That's what I hae h'ard said," answered the laird.

"Weel, sir," returned Jeames, "gien ye had nae objection, I wad fain mak' oot what the thing _is_ made o'."

"It matters little," said the laird, "seein' we ken what it 's _no_ made o'; but tak' yer wull o' 't, Jeames."

"Sit ye doon than, laird, gien ye hae naething mair pressin', an'

see what I mak' o' 't," said the watchmaker, setting him a chair.

"Wullin'ly," replied the laird, "--but I dinna like takin' up yer time."

"Ow, my time's no sae dooms precious! I can aye win throu' wi' my work ohn swatten," said Jeames, with a smile in which mingled a half comical sadness. "An' it wad set me to waur't (PUZZLE ME TO SPEND IT) better to my ain min' nor servin' yersel', i' the sma'est, sir."

The laird thanked him, and sat down. Cosmo placed himself on a stool beside him.

"I hae naething upo' han' the day," Jeames Merson went on, "but a watch o' Jeames Gracie's, up at the Know--ane o' yer ain fowk, laird. He tells me it was your gran'father, sir, gied it til his gran'father. It's a queer auld-fas.h.i.+ont kin' o' a thing--some complicat; an'whiles it's 'maist ower muckle for me. Ye see auld age is aboot the warst disease horses an' watches can be ta'en wi': there's sae little left to come an' gang upo'!"

While the homely a.s.sayer thus spoke, he was making his preparations.

"What for no men as weel's horses an' watches?" suggested the laird.