“Wull yer lordship lat me read whiles, i’ this gran’ place? I mean whan I’m no wantit ither gaits, an’ there’s naebody here.”
“To be sure,” answered the marquis; “—only the scholar mustn’t come with the skipper’s hands.”
“I s’ tak guid care o’ that, my lord. I wad as sune think o’ han’lin’ a buik wi’ wark-like han’s as I wad o’ branderin’ a mackeral ohn cleaned it oot.”
“And when we have visitors, you’ll be careful not to get in their way.”
“I wull that, my lord.”
“And now,” said his lordship rising, “I want you to take a letter to Mrs Stewart of Kirkbyres.—Can you ride?”
“I can ride the bare back weel eneuch for a fisher-loon,” said Malcolm; “but I never was upon a saiddle i’ my life.”
“The sooner you get used to one the better. Go and tell Stoat to saddle the bay mare. Wait in the yard: I will bring the letter out to you myself.”
“Verra weel, my lord!” said Malcolm. He knew, from sundry remarks he had heard about the stables, that the mare in question was a ticklish one to ride, but would rather have his neck broken than object.
Hardly was she ready, when the marquis appeared, accompanied by Lady Florimel—both expecting to enjoy a laugh at Malcolm’s expense. But when the mare was brought out, and he was going to mount her where she stood, something seemed to wake in the marquis’s heart, or conscience, or wherever the pigmy Duty slept that occupied the all-but sinecure of his moral economy: he looked at Malcolm for a moment, then at the ears of the mare hugging her neck, and last at the stones of the paved yard.