Malcolm Part 43

"Hae ye dune onything my lord," he said, "aboot Mistress Catanach?"

"What do you mean?"

"Anent yon cat prowl aboot the hoose, my lord."

"No. You have n't discovered anything more--have you?"

"Na, my lord; I haena had a chance. But ye may be sure she had nae guid design in 't."

"I don't suspect her of any."

"Weel, my lord, hae ye ony objection to lat me sleep up yonner?"

"None at all--only you'd better see what Mrs Courthope has to say to it. Perhaps you won't be so ready after you hear her story."

"But I hae yer lords.h.i.+p's leave to tak ony room I like?"

"Certainly. Go to Mrs Courthope, and tell her I wish you to choose your own quarters."

Having straightway delivered his lords.h.i.+p's message, Mrs Courthope, wondering a little thereat, proceeded to show him those portions of the house set apart for the servants. He followed her from floor to floor--last to the upper regions, and through all the confused rambling roofs of the old pile, now descending a sudden steep yawning stair, now ascending another where none could have been supposed to exist--oppressed all the time with a sense of the mult.i.tudinous and intricate, such as he had never before experienced, and such as perhaps only the works of man can produce, the intricacy and variety of those of nature being ever veiled in the grand simplicity which springs from primal unity of purpose.

I find no part of an ancient house so full of interest as the garret region. It has all the mystery of the dungeon cellars with a far more striking variety of form, and a bewildering curiosity of adaptation, the peculiarities of roof shapes and the consequent complexities of their relations and junctures being so much greater than those of foundation plans. Then the sense of lofty loneliness in the deeps of air, and at the same time of proximity to things aerial--doves and martins, vanes and gilded b.a.l.l.s and lightning conductors, the waves of the sea of wind, breaking on the chimneys for rocks, and the cras.h.i.+ng roll of the thunder--is in harmony with the highest spiritual instincts; while the clouds and the stars look, if not nearer, yet more germane, and the moon gazes down on the lonely dweller in uplifted places, as if she had secrets with such. The cellars are the metaphysics, the garrets the poetry of the house.

Mrs Courthope was more than kind, for she was greatly pleased at having Malcolm for an inmate. She led him from room to room, suggesting now and then a choice, and listening amusedly to his remarks of liking or disliking, and his marvel at strangeness or extent. At last he found himself following her along the pa.s.sage in which was the mysterious door, but she never stayed her step, or seemed to intend showing one of the many rooms opening upon it.

"Sic a bee's byke o' rooms!" said Malcolm, making a halt "Wha sleeps here?"

"n.o.body has slept in one of these rooms for I dare not say how many years," replied Mrs Courthope, without stopping; and as she spoke she pa.s.sed the fearful door.

"I wad like to see intil this room," said Malcolm.

"That door is never opened," answered Mrs Courthope, who had now reached the end of the pa.s.sage, and turned, lingering as in act while she spoke to move on.

"And what for that?" asked Malcolm, continuing to stand before it.

"I would rather not answer you just here. Come along. This is not a part of the house where you would like to be, I am sure."

"Hoo ken ye that, mem? An' hoo can I say mysel' afore ye hae shawn me what the room 's like? It may be the verra place to tak my fancy.

Jist open the door, mem, gien ye please, an lat's hae a keek intill 't."

"I daren't open it. It's never opened, I tell you. It's against the rules of the house. Come to my room, and I'll tell you the story about it."

"Weel, ye 'll lat me see intil the neist--winna ye? There's nae law agane openin' hit--is there?" said Malcolm, approaching the door next to the one in dispute.

"Certainly not; but I'm pretty sure, once you've heard the story I have to tell, you won't choose to sleep in this part of the house."

"Lat's luik, ony gait."

So saying, Malcolm took upon himself to try the handle of the door. It was not locked: he peeped in, then entered. It was a small room, low ceiled, with a deep dormer window in the high pediment of a roof, and a turret recess on each side of the window. It seemed very light after the pa.s.sage, and looked down upon the burn. It was comfortably furnished, and the curtains of its tent bed were chequered in squares of blue and white.

"This is the verra place for me, mem," said Malcolm, reissuing;-- "that is," he added, "gien ye dinna think it's ower gran' for the likes o' me 'at 's no been used to onything half sae guid."

"You're quite welcome to it," said Mrs Courthope, all but confident he would not care to occupy it after hearing the tale of Lord Gernon.

She had not moved from the end of the pa.s.sage while Malcolm was in the room--somewhat hurriedly she now led the way to her own. It seemed half a mile off to the wondering Malcolm, as he followed her down winding stairs, along endless pa.s.sages, and round innumerable corners. Arrived at last, she made him sit down, and gave him a gla.s.s of home made wine to drink, while she told him the story much as she had already told it to the marquis, adding a hope to the effect that, if ever the marquis should express a wish to pry into the secret of the chamber, Malcolm would not encourage him in a fancy, the indulgence of which was certainly useless, and might be dangerous.

"Me!" exclaimed Malcolm with surprise. "--As gien he wad heed a word I said!"

"Very little sometimes will turn a man either in one direction or the other," said Mrs Courthope.

"But surely, mem, ye dinna believe in sic fule auld warld stories as that! It's weel eneuch for a tale, but to think o' a body turnin'

'ae fit oot o' 's gait for 't, blecks (nonplusses) me."

"I don't say I believe it," returned Mrs Courthope, a little pettishly; "but there's no good in mere foolhardiness."

"Ye dinna surely think, mem, 'at G.o.d wad lat onything depen' upo'

whether a man opent a door in 's ain hoose or no! It's agane a'

rizzon!" persisted Malcolm.

"There might be reasons we couldn't understand," she replied. "To do what we are warned against from any quarter, without good reason, must be foolhardy at best."

"Weel, mem, I maun hae the room neist the auld warlock's, ony gait, for in that I'm gauin' to sleep, an' in nae ither in a' this muckle hoose."

Mrs Courthope rose, full of uneasiness, and walked up and down the room.

"I'm takin' upo' me naething ayont his lords.h.i.+p's ain word," urged Malcolm.

"If you're to go by the very word," rejoined Mrs Courthope, stopping and looking him full in the face, "you might insist on sleeping in Lord Gernon's chamber itself."

"Weal, an' sae I micht," returned Malcolm.

The hinted possibility of having to change bad for so much worse, appeared to quench further objection.

"I must get it ready myself then," she said resignedly, "for the maids won't even go up that stair. And as to going into any of those rooms!"

"'Deed no, mem! ye sanna du that," cried Malcolm. "Sayna a word to ane o' them. I s' wadger I'm as guid's the auld warlock himsel' at makin' a bed. Jist gie me the sheets an' the blankets, an' I'll du 't as trim 's ony la.s.s i' the hoose."

"But the bed will want airing," objected the housekeeper.

"By a' acc.o.o.nts, that's the last thing it's likly to want--lyin'

neist door to yon chaumer. But I hae sleepit mony 's the time er'

noo upo' the tap o' a boat load o' herrin', an' gien that never did me ony ill, it's no likly a guid bed 'll kill me gien it sud be a wee mochy (rather full of moths)."

Mrs Courthope yielded and gave him all that was needful, and before night Malcolm had made his new quarters quite comfortable. He did not retire to them, however, until he had seen his grandfather laid down to sleep in his lonely cottage.

About. noon the next day the old man made his appearance in the kitchen. How he had found his way to it, neither he nor any one else could tell. There happened to be no one there when he entered, and the cook when she returned stood for a moment in the door, watching him as he felt flitting about with huge bony hands whose touch was yet light as the poise of a b.u.t.terfly. Not knowing the old man, she fancied at first he was feeling after something in the shape of food, but presently his hands fell upon a bra.s.s candlestick.

He clutched it, and commenced fingering it all over. Alas! it was clean, and with a look of disappointment he replaced it. Wondering yet more what his quest could be, she watched on. The next instant he had laid hold of a silver candlestick not yet pa.s.sed through the hands of the scullery maid; and for a moment she fancied him a thief, for he had rejected the bra.s.s and now took the silver; but he went no farther with it than the fireplace, where he sat down on the end of the large fender, and, having spread his pocket handkerchief over his kilted knees, drew a similar rag from somewhere, and commenced cleaning it.

By this time one of the maids who knew him had joined the cook, and also stood watching him with amus.e.m.e.nt. But when she saw the old knife drawn from his stocking, and about to be applied to the nozzle, to free it from adhering wax, it seemed more than time to break the silence.