What bitterest grief can stay To the marriage Death doth call. Of thy great marriage-throng! And hark! the stars are talking With human tone and tongue! Courage for life is hasting Lost, lost are all our losses; One poem spread abroad! Is the countenance of God. CHAPTER XIII. THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. THE next morning rose as lovely as if the mantle of the departing Resurrection-day had fallen upon it. Malcolm rose with it, hastened to his boat, and pulled out into the bay for an hour or two's fishing. Nearly opposite the great conglomerate rock at the western end of the dune, called the Bored Craig (Perforated Crag) because of a large hole that went right through it, he began to draw in his line. Glancing shoreward as he leaned over the gunwale, he spied at the foot of the rock, near the opening, a figure in white, seated, with bowed head. It was of course the mysterious lady, whom he had twice before seen thereabout at this unlikely if not untimely hour; but with yesterday fresh in his mind, how could he fail to see in her an angel of the resurrection waiting at the sepulchre to tell the glad news that the Lord was risen? Many were the glances he cast shoreward as he re-baited his line, and, having thrown it again into the water, sat waiting until it should be time to fire. the swivel. Still the lady sat on, in her whiteness a creature of the dawn, without even lifting her head. At length, having added a few more fishes to the little heap in the bottom of his boat, and finding his watch bear witness that the hour was at hand, he seated himself on his thwart, and rowed lustily to the shore, his bosom filled with the hope of yet another sight of the lovely face, and another hearing of the sweet English voice and speech. But the very first time he turned his head to look, he saw but the sloping foot of the rock sink bare into the shore. No white-robed angel sat at the gate of the resurrection; no moving thing was visible on the far-vacant sands. When he reached the top of the dune, there was no living creature beyond but a few sheep feeding on the thin grass. He fired the gun, rowed back to the Seaton, ate his breakfast, and set out to carry the best of his fish to the House. The moment he turned the corner of her street, he saw Mrs. Catanach standing on her threshold with her arms akimbo: although she was always tidy, and her house spotlessly trim, she yet seemed for ever about the door, on the outlook at least, if not on the watch. What hae ye in yer bit basket the day, Ma' colm?" she said, with a peculiar smile, which was not sweet enough to restore vanished confidence. "Naething guid for dogs," answered Malcolm, and was walking past. But she made a step forward and, with a laugh meant to indicate friendly amusement, said, "Lat's see what's intill't, ony gait (anyhow). The doggie's awa on 's traivels the day." "'Deed, Mistress Catanach," persisted Malcolm, "I canna say I like to hae my ain fish flung i' my face, nor yet to see ill-faured tykes rin awa' wi' 't afore my verra een." After the warning given him by Miss Horn, and the strange influence her presence had had on his grandfather, Malcolm preferred keeping up a negative quarrel with the woman. "Dinna ca' ill names," she returned: "my dog wad tak it waur to be ca'd an ill-faured tyke, nor to hae fish flung in his face. Lat's see what's i' yer basket, I say." As she spoke, she laid her hand on the basket, but Malcolm drew back, and turned away towards the gate. "Lord safe us!" she cried, with a yelling laugh; "ye're no feared at an auld wife like me?" "I dinna ken; maybe ay an' maybe no-I wadna say. But I dinna want to hae onything to du wi' ye, mem." "Ma'colm MacPhail," said Mrs. Catanach, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper, while every trace of laughter vanished from her countenance, "ye hae had mair to du wi' me nor ye ken, an' aiblins ye'll hae mair yet nor ye can weel help. Sae caw canny, my man." "Ye may hae the layin' o' me oot," said Malcolm, "but it sanna be wi' my wull; an' gien I hae ony life left i' me, I s' gie ye a fleg (fright).” "Ye may get a waur yersel': I hae frichtit the deid afore noo. Sae gang yer wa's to Mistress Coorthoup, wi' a flech (flea) i' yer lug (ear). I wuss ye luck-sic luck as I wad wuss ye!" Her last words sounded so like a curse, that to overcome a cauld creep, Malcolm had to force a laugh. The cook at the House bought all his fish, for they had had none for the last few days, because of the storm; and he was turning to go home by the riverside, when he heard a tap on a window, and saw Mrs. Courthope beckoning him to another door. "His lordship desired me to send you to him, Malcolm, the next time you called," she said. |