Silence followed. Cosmo would go no farther in that direction: it would be fair neither to Lady Joan nor the gardener, who spoke as to one who knew nothing of the family.
“Noo the father,” resumed his new friend, “—puir man, he’s deid an’ damned this mony a day!—an’ eh, but he was an ill ane!—but as to Leddy Joan, he wad hardly bide her oot o’ his sicht. He cudna be jist that agreeable company to the likes o’ her, puir leddy! for he was a rouch-spoken, sweirin’ auld sinner as ever lived, but sic as he had he gae her, an’ was said to hae been a fine gentleman in ’s yoong days. Some wad hae ’t he cheenged a’ thegither o’ a suddent. An’ they wad hae ’t it cam o’ bluid-guiltiness—for they said he had liftit the reid han’ agen his neebor. An’ they warnt me, lang as it was sin’ I left it, no to lat ’im ken I cam frae yon pairt o’ the country, or he wad be rid o’ me in a jiffey, ae w’y or anither. —Ay, it was a gran’ name that o’ Warlock i’ thae pairts! though they tell me it gangs na for sae muckle noo. I hae h’ard said, ’at ever sin’ the auld lord here made awa’ wi’ the laird o’ Glenwarlock, the faimily there never had ony luck. I wad like to ken what you, as a man o’ sense, think o’ that same. It appears to me a’ some queer kin’ o’ justice! No’ ’at I’m daurin’ or wad daur to say a word agen the w’y ’at the warl’s goverrnt, but there’s some things ’at naebody can un’erstan’—I defy them!—an’ yon’s ane o’ them—what for, cause oor graceless auld lord—he was yoong than—tuik the life o’ the laird o’ Glenwarlock, the faimily o’ Warlock sud never thrive frae that day to this!—Read me that riddle, yoong man, gien ye can.”
“Maybe it was to haud them ’at cam efter frae ony mair keepin’ o’ sic ill company,” Cosmo ventured to suggest; for, knowing what his father was, and something also of what most of those who preceded him were, he could see no such inscrutable dispensation in the fact mentioned.
“That wad be hard lines, though,” insisted the gardener, unwilling to yield the unintelligibility of the ways of providence.
“But,” said Cosmo, “they say doon there, it was a brither o’ the laird, no the laird himsel’, ’at the English lord killt.”
“Na, na; they’re a’ wrang there, whaever says that. For auld Jean, wham I min’ a weel faured wuman, though doobtless no sae bonny as whan he broucht her wi’ ’im a yoong lass—maybe to gar her haud her tongue—auld Jean said as I say. But that was lang efter the thing was ower auld to be ta’en ony notice o’ mair. Forby, you ’at’s a man o’ sense, gien it wasna the laird himsel’ ’at he killt, hoo wad there, i’ that case, be onything worthy o’ remark i’ their no thrivin’ efter ’t? I’ that case, the no thrivin’ cud hae had naething ava to du wi’ the killin’. Na, na, it was the laird himsel’ ’at the maister killt—the father o’ the present laird, I’m thinkin’. What aged-man micht he be—did ye ever hear tell?”
“He’s a man well on to seventy,” answered Cosmo, with a pang at the thought.
“Ay; that’ll be aboot it! There can be no doobt it was his father oor lord killt—an’ as little ’at efter he did it he gaed doon the braid ro’d to the deevil as fest ’s ever he cud rin. It was jist like as wi’ Judas—he maun gang till ’s ain. Some said he had sellt himsel’ to the deevil, but I’m thinkin’ that wasna necessar’. He was to get him ony gait! An’ wad ye believe ’t, it’s baith said and believt—’at he cam by ’s deith i’ some exterordnar w’y, no accoontable for, but plainly no canny. Ae thing’s sure as deith itsel’, he was ta’en suddent, an’ i’ the verra hoose whaur, mony a lang year afore, he commitit the deed o’ darkness!”
A pause followed, and then the narrator, or rather commentator, resumed.
“I’m thinkin’ whan he begud to ken himsel’ growin’ auld, his deed cam back upon ’im fresh-like, an’ that wad be hoo he cudna bide to hae my lady oot o’ the sicht o’ his een, or at least ayont the cry o’ his tongue. Troth! he wad whiles come aboot the place efter her, whaur I wad be at my wark, as it micht be the day, cursin’ an’ sweirin’ as gien he had sellt his sowl to a’ the deevils thegither, an’ sae micht tak his wull o’ onything he cud get his tongue roon’! But I never heedit him that muckle, for ye see it wasna him ’at peyt me—the mair by token ’at gien it had been him ’at had the peyin’ o’ me, it’s never a baubee wad I hae seen o’ my ain siller; but the trustees peyt me, ilka plack, an’ sae I was indepen’ent like, an’ luit him say his say. But it was aye an oonsaitisfactory kin’ o’ a thing, for the trustees they caredna a bodle aboot keepin’ the place dacent, an’ tuik sae sma’ delicht in ony pleesurin’ o’ the auld lord, ’at they jist allooed him me, an’ no a man mair nor less—to the gairden, that is. That’s hoo the place comes to be in sic a disgracefu’ condeetion. Gien it hadna been for rizzons o’ my ain, I wad hae gane, mony’s the time, for the sicht o’ the ruin o’ things was beyon’ beirin’. But I bude to beir ’t; sae I bore ’t an’ bore ’t till I cam by beirin’ o’ ’t to tak it verra quaiet, an’ luik upo’ the thing as the wull o’ a Providence ’at sudna be meddlet wi’. I broucht mysel’ in fac’ to that degree o’ submission, ’at I gae mysel’ no trouble more, but jist confint my ainergies to the raisin’ o’ the kail an’ cabbage, the ingons an’ pitawtas wantit aboot the place.”