“Weel, ye see, Providence has been kin’
till him as weel ’s ither blin’ craturs.
The toon’s pipin’ ‘s no to be despised;
an’ there’s the cryin’, an’
the chop, an’ the lamps. ’Deed he’s
been an eident (diligent) cratur—an’
for a blin’ man, as ye say, it’s jist
exterordinar.”
“Div ye min’ whan first he cam’
to the toon, lass?”
“Ay; what wad hinner me min’in’
that? It’s nae sae lang.”
“Ma’colm ’at’s sic a fine
laad noo, they tell me wasna muckle bigger nor a gey
haddie (tolerable haddock).”
“But the auld man was an auld man than, though
nae doobt he’s unco’ failed sin syne.”
“A dochter’s bairn, they say, the laad.”
“Ay, they say, but wha kens? Duncan could
never be gotten to open his mou’ as to the father
or mither o’ ‘im, an’ sae it weel
may be as they say. It’s nigh twenty year
noo, I’m thinkin’ sin he made’s
appearance. Ye wasna come frae Scaurnose er’
than.”
“Some fowk says the auld man’s name’s
no MacPhail, an’ he maun hae come here in hidin’
for some rouch job or ither ’at he’s been
mixed up wi’.
“I s’ believe nae ill o’ sic a puir,
hairmless body. Fowk ’at maks their ain
livin’, wantin’ the een to guide them,
canna be that far aff the straucht. Guid guide
’s! we hae eneuch to answer for, oor ainsels,
ohn passed (without passing) jeedgment upo ane anither.”
“I was but tellin’ ye what fowk telled
me,” returned the younger woman.
“Ay, ay, lass; I ken that, for I ken there was
fowk to tell ye.”
As soon as his grandfather left the house, Malcolm
went out also, closing the door behind him, and turning
the key, but leaving it in the lock. He ascended
to the upper town, only, however, to pass through
its main street, at the top of which he turned and
looked back for a few moments, apparently in contemplation.
The descent to the shore was so sudden that he could
see nothing of the harbour or of the village he had
left—nothing but the blue bay and the filmy
mountains of Sutherlandshire, molten by distance into
cloudy questions, and looking, betwixt blue sea and
blue sky, less substantial than either. After
gazing for a moment, he turned again, and held on
his way, through fields which no fence parted from
the road. The morning was still glorious, the
larks right jubilant, and the air filled with the
sweet scents of cottage flowers. Across the fields
came the occasional low of an ox, and the distant sounds
of children at play. But Malcolm saw without noting,
and heard without seeding, for his mind was full of
speculation concerning the lovely girl, whose vision
appeared already far off:—who might she
be? whence had she come? whither could she have vanished?
That she did not belong to the neighbourhood was certain,
he thought; but there was a farm house near the sea
town where they let lodgings; and, although it was
early in the season, she might belong to some family
which had come to spend a few of the summer weeks there;
possibly his appearance had prevented her from having
her bath that morning. If he should have the
good fortune to see her again, he would show her a
place far fitter for the purpose—a perfect
arbour of rocks, utterly secluded, with a floor of
deep sand, and without a hole for crab or lobster.
