Now the candlestick had no business in the kitchen, and if it were scratched, the butler would be indignant; but the girl was a Campbell, and Duncan’s words so frightened her that she did not dare interfere. She soon saw, however, that the piper had not over-vaunted his skill: the skene left not a mark upon the metal; in a few minutes he had melted away the wax he could not otherwise reach, and had rubbed the candlestick perfectly bright, leaving behind him no trace except an unpleasant odour of train oil from the rag. From that hour he was cleaner of lamps and candlesticks, as well as blower of bagpipes, to the House of Lossie; and had everything provided necessary to the performance of his duties with comfort and success.
Before many weeks were over, he had proved the possession of such a talent for arrangement and general management, at least in everything connected with illumination, that the entire charge of the lighting of the house was left in his hands,—even to that of its stores of wax and tallow and oil; and great was the pleasure he derived, not only from the trust reposed in him, but from other more occult sources connected with the duties of his office.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE LIBRARY.
Malcolm’s first night was rather troubled,—not primarily from the fact that but a thin partition separated him from the wizard’s chamber, but from the deadness of the silence around him; for he had been all his life accustomed to the near noise of the sea, and its absence had upon him the rousing effect of an unaccustomed sound. He kept hearing the dead silence—was constantly dropping, as it were into its gulf; and it was no wonder that a succession of sleepless fits, strung together rather than divided by as many dozes little better than startled rousings, should at length have so shaken his mental frame as to lay it open to the assaults of nightly terrors, the position itself being sufficient to seduce his imagination, and carry it over to the interests of the enemy.
But Malcolm had early learned that a man’s will must, like a true monarch, rule down every rebellious movement of its subjects, and he was far from yielding to such inroads as now assailed him: still it was long before he fell asleep, and then only to dream without quite losing consciousness of his peculiar surroundings. He seemed to know that he lay in his own bed, and yet to be somehow aware of the presence of a pale woman in a white garment, who sat on the side of the bed in the next room, still and silent, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes on the ground. He thought he had seen her before, and knew, notwithstanding her silence, that she was lamenting over a child she had lost. He knew also where her child was,—that it lay crying in a cave down by the seashore; but he could neither rise to go to her, nor open his mouth to call. The vision kept coming and coming, like the same tune played over and over on a barrel organ, and when he woke seemed to fill all the time he had slept.
About ten o’clock he was summoned to the marquis’s presence, and found him at breakfast with Lady Florimel.
“Where did you sleep last night?” asked the marquis.
“Neist door to the auld warlock,” answered Malcolm.
Lady Florimel looked up with a glance of bright interest: her father had just been telling her the story.
“You did!” said the marquis. “Then Mrs Courthope—did she tell you the legend about him?”