MARQUISE OF LOSSIE'S ADVENTURES: Malcolm & The Marquis's Secret. George MacDonald
she answered.
"I wasna sure whether ye noddit 'cause ye wantit me or no," said Malcolm, and turned to reascend the dune.
"Where are you going now?" she asked.
"Ow! nae gait in particlar. I jist cam oot to see hoo things war luikin."
"What things?"
"Ow! jist the lift (sky), an' the sea, an' sic generals."
That Malcolm's delight in the presences of Nature—I say presences, as distinguished from forms and colours and all analyzed sources of her influences—should have already become a conscious thing to himself requires to account for it the fact that his master, Graham, was already under the influences of Wordsworth, whom he had hailed as a Crabbe that had burst his shell and spread the wings of an eagle the virtue passed from him to his pupil.
"I won't detain you from such important business," said Lady Florimel, and dropped her eyes on her book.
"Gien ye want my company, my leddy, I can luik aboot me jist as weel here as ony ither gait," said Malcolm.
And as he spoke, he gently stretched himself on the dune, about three yards aside and lower down. Florimel looked half amused and half annoyed, but she had brought it on herself, and would punish him only by dropping her eyes again on her book, and keeping silent. She had come to the Florimel of snow.
Malcolm lay and looked at her for a few moments pondering; then fancying he had found the cause of her offence, rose, and, passing to the other side of her, again lay down, but at a still more respectful distance.
"Why do you move?" she asked, without looking up.
"'Cause there's jist a possible air o' win' frae the nor'east."
"And you want me to shelter you from it?" said Lady Florimel.
"Na, na, my leddy," returned Malcolm, laughing; "for as bonny's ye are, ye wad be but sma' scoug (shelter)."
"Why did you move, then?" persisted the girl, who understood what he said just about half.
"Weel, my leddy, ye see it's het, an' I'm aye amang the fish mair or less, an' I didna ken 'at I was to hae the honour o' sittin' doon aside ye; sae I thocht ye was maybe smellin' the fish. It's healthy eneuch, but some fowk disna like it; an' for a' that I ken, you gran' fowk's senses may be mair ready to scunner (take offence) than oors. 'Deed, my leddy, we wadna need to be particlar, whiles, or it wad be the waur for 's."
Simple as it was, the explanation served to restore her equanimity, disturbed by what had seemed his presumption in lying down in her presence: she saw that she had mistaken the action. The fact was, that, concluding from her behaviour she had something to say to him, but was not yet at leisure for him, he had lain down, as a loving dog might, to await her time. It was devotion, not coolness. To remain standing before her would have seemed a demand on her attention; to lie down was to withdraw and wait. But Florimel, although pleased, was only the more inclined to torment—a peculiarity of disposition which she inherited from her father: she bowed her face once more over her book, and read though three whole stanzas, without however understanding a single phrase in them, before she spoke. Then looking up, and regarding for a moment the youth who lay watching her with the eyes of the servants in the psalm, she said,—"Well? What are you waiting for?"
"I thocht ye wantit me, my leddy! I beg yer pardon," answered Malcolm, springing to his feet, and turning to go.
"Do you ever read?" she asked.
"Aften that," replied Malcolm, turning again, and standing stock still. "An' I like best to read jist as yer leddyship's readin' the noo, lyin' o' the san' hill, wi' the haill sea afore me, an naething atween me an' the icebergs but the watter an' the stars an' a wheen islands. It's like readin' wi' fower een, that!"
"And what do you read on such occasions?" carelessly drawled his persecutor.
"Whiles ae thing an' whiles anither—whiles onything I can lay my han's upo'. I like traivels an' sic like weel eneuch; an' history, gien it be na ower dry like. I div not like sermons, an' there's mair o' them in Portlossie than onything ither. Mr Graham—that's the schoolmaister—has a gran' libbrary, but it's maist Laitin an' Greek, an' though I like the Laitin weel, it's no what I wad read i' the face o' the sea. When ye're in dreid o' wantin' a dictionar', that spiles a'."
"Can you read Latin then?"
"Ay: what for no, my leddy? I can read Virgil middlin'; an' Horace's Ars Poetica, the whilk Mr Graham says is no its richt name ava, but jist Epistola ad Pisones; for gien they bude to gie 't anither it sud ha' been Ars Dramatica. But leddies dinna care aboot sic things."
"You gentlemen give us no chance. You won't teach us."
"Noo, my leddy, dinna begin to mak' ghem o' me, like my lord. I cud ill bide it frae him, an' gien ye tak till 't as weel, 1 maun jist haud oot o' yer gait. I'm nae gentleman, an' hae ower muckle respeck for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at bein' ca'd ane. But as for the Laitin, I'll be prood to instruck yer leddyship whan ye please."
"I'm afraid I've no great wish to learn," said Florimel.
"I daur say no," said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself to go.
"Do you like novels?" asked the girl.
"I never saw a novelle. There's no ane amo' a' Mr Graham's buiks, an' I s' warran' there's full twa hunner o' them. I dinna believe there's a single novelle in a' Portlossie."
"Don't be too sure: there are a good many in our library."
"I hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the Hoose in Portlossie—Ye'll hae a sicht o' buiks up there, no?"
"Have you never been in the library?"
"I never set fut i' the hoose—'cep' i' the kitchie, an' ance or twise steppin' across the ha' frae the ae door to the tither. I wad fain see what kin' o' a place great fowk like you bides in, an' what kin' o' things, buiks an' a', ye hae aboot ye. It's no easy for the like o' huz 'at has but a but an' a ben (outer and inner room), to unnerstan' hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon. I wad be aye i' the libbrary, I think. But," he went on, glancing involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, "yer leddyship's sae licht fittit, ye'll be ower the haill dwallin', like a wee bird in a muckle cage. Whan I want room, I like it wantin' wa's."
Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained him.
"Do you ever read poetry?"
"Ay, sometimes—whan it's auld."
"One would think you were talking about wine! Does age improve poetry as well?"
"I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae me a glaiss the ither day, an' it tastit weel, but whether it was merum or mixtum, I couldna tell mair nor a haddick. Doobtless age does gar poetry smack a wee better; but I said auld only 'cause there's sae little new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait. Mr Graham's unco ta'en wi' Maister Wordsworth—no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken onything aboot him, my leddy?"
"I never heard of him."
"I wadna gie an auld Scots ballant for a barrowfu' o' his. There's gran' bits here an' there, nae doobt, but it 's ower mim mou'ed for me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's ower saft an' sliddery like i' yer mou', my leddy."
"What sort do you like then?"
"I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou'fu' o' him. I dinna like the verse 'at ye can murle (crumble) oot atween yer lips an' yer teeth. I like the verse 'at ye maun open yer mou' weel to lat gang. Syne it's worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan' 't or no."
"I don't see how you can say that."
"Jist hear, my leddy! Here's a bit I cam upo' last nicht:
His volant touch, Instinct through all proportions, low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.
Hear till 't! It's gran'—even though