As they talked they wandered up the garden, and had drawn near the spot where, in the side of the glen, was hollowed the cave of the hermit. They now turned towards the pretty arbour of moss that covered its entrance, each thinking the other led, but Malcolm not without reluctance. For how horribly and unaccountably had he not been shaken, the only time he ever entered it, at the sight of the hermit! The thing was a foolish wooden figure, no doubt, but the thought that it still sat over its book in the darkest corner of the cave, ready to rise and advance with outstretched hand to welcome its visitor, had, ever since then, sufficed to make him shudder. He was on the point of warning Clementina lest she too should be worse than startled, when he was arrested by the voice of John Jack, the old gardener, who came stooping after them, looking a sexton of flowers.
“Ma’colm, Ma’colm!” he cried, and crept up wheezing. “—I beg yer leddyship’s pardon, my leddy, but I wadna ha’e Ma’colm lat ye gang in there ohn tellt ye what there is inside.”
“Thank you, John. I was just going to tell my lady,” said Malcolm.
“Because, ye see,” pursued John, “I was ae day here i’ the gairden —an’ I was jist graftin’ a bonny wull rose-buss wi’ a Hector o’ France—an’ it grew to be the bonniest rose-buss in a’ the haill gairden—whan the markis, no the auld markis, but my leddy’s father, cam up the walk there, an’ a bonny yoong leddy wi’ his lordship, as it micht be yersels twa—an’ I beg yer pardon, my leddy, but I’m an auld man noo, an’ whiles forgets the differs ’atween fowk—an’ this yoong leddy ’at they ca’d Miss Cam’ell— ye kenned her yersel’ efterhin’, I daursay, Ma’colm—he was unco ta’en wi’ her, the markis, as ilka body cud see ohn luikit that near, sae ’at some saich ’at hoo he hed no richt to gang on wi’ her that gait, garrin’ her believe, gien he wasna gaein’ to merry her. That’s naither here nor there, hooever, seein’ it a’ cam to jist naething ava’. Sae up they gaed to the cave yon’er, as I was tellin’ ye; an’ hoo it was, was a won’er, for I s’ warran’ she had been aboot the place near a towmon (twelvemonth), but never had she been intill that cave, and kenned no more nor the bairn unborn what there was in ’t. An’ sae whan the airemite, as the auld minister ca’d him, though what for he ca’d a muckle block like yon an airy-mite, I’m sure I never cud fathom—whan he gat up, as I was sayin’, an’ cam foret wi’ his han’ oot, she gae a scraich ’at jist garred my lugs dirl, an’ doon she drappit, an’ there, whan I ran up, was she lyin’ i’ the markis his airms, as white ’s a cauk eemege, an’ it was lang or he broucht her till hersel’, for he wadna lat me rin for the hoosekeeper, but sent me fleein’ to the f’untain for watter, an’ gied me a gowd guinea to haud my tongue aboot it a’. Sae noo, my leddy, ye’re fore-warnt, an’ no ill can come to ye, for there’s naething to be fleyt at whan ye ken what’s gauin’ to meet ye.”
Malcolm had turned his head aside, and now moved on without remark. Struck by his silence, Clementina looked up, and saw his face very pale, and the tears standing in his eyes.
“You must tell me the sad story, Malcolm,” she murmured. “I could scarcely understand a word the old man said.”
He continued silent, and seemed struggling with some emotion. But when they were within a few paces of the arbour, he stopped short, and said—
“I would rather not go in there to-day. You would oblige me, my lady, if you would not go.”
She looked up at him again, with wonder but more concern in her lovely face, put her hand on his arm, gently turned him away, and walked back with him to the fountain. Not a word more did she say about the matter.