Thus adjured, Malcolm read slowly and with choice of word and phrase:—
“‘And if any one shall say unto thee, that thou knowest nothing, notwithstanding thou must not be vexed: then know thou that thou hast begun thy work.’—That is,” explained Malcolm, “when you keep silence about principles in the presence of those that are incapable of understanding them.—‘For the sheep also do not manifest to the shepherds how much they have eaten, by producing fodder; but, inwardly digesting their food, they produce outwardly wool and milk. And thou therefore set not forth principles before the unthinking, but the actions that result from the digestion of them.’—That last is not quite literal, but I think it’s about right,” concluded Malcolm, putting the book again in the breast pocket of his silver-buttoned coat. “—That’s the passage I thought of, but I see now it won’t apply. He speaks of not saying what you know; I spoke of forgetting where you got it.”
“Come now,” said Lenorme, growing more and more interested in his new acquaintance, “tell me something about your life. Account for yourself.—If you will make a friendship of it, you must do that.”
“I will, sir,” said Malcolm, and with the word began to tell him most things he could think of as bearing upon his mental history up to and after the time also when his birth was disclosed to him. In omitting that disclosure he believed he had without it quite accounted for himself. Through the whole recital he dwelt chiefly on the lessons and influences of the schoolmaster.
“Well, I must admit,” said Lenorme when he had ended, “that you are no longer unintelligible, not to say incredible. You have had a splendid education, in which I hope you give the herring and Kelpie their due share.”
He sat silently regarding him for a few moments. Then he said:
“I’ll tell you what now: if I help you to buy a horse, you must help me to paint a picture.”
“I don’t know how I’m to do that,” said Malcolm, “but if you do, that’s enough. I shall only be too happy to do what I can.”
“Then I’ll tell you.—But you’re not to tell anybody: it’s a secret.—I have discovered that there is no suitable portrait of Lady Lossie’s father. It is a great pity. His brother and his father and grandfather are all in Portland Place, in Highland costume, as chiefs of their clan; his place only is vacant. Lady Lossie, however, has in her possession one or two miniatures of him, which, although badly painted, I should think may give the outlines of his face and head with tolerable correctness. From the portraits of his predecessors, and from Lady Lossie herself, I gain some knowledge of what is common to the family; and from all together I hope to gather and paint what will be recognizable by her as a likeness of her father—which afterwards I hope to better by her remarks. These remarks I hope to get first from her feelings unadulterated by criticism, through the surprise of coming upon the picture suddenly; afterwards from her judgment at its leisure. Now I remember seeing you wait at table—the first time I saw you—in the Highland dress: will you come to me so dressed, and let me paint from you?”
“I’ll do better than that, sir,” cried Malcolm, eagerly. “I’ll get up from Lossie House my lord’s very dress that he wore when he went to court—his jewelled dirk, and Andrew Ferrara broadsword with the hilt of real silver. That’ll greatly help your design upon my lady, for he dressed up in them all more than once just to please her.”