“I will fetch it, my lord,” he said, and disappeared in the milk-cellar, from which a steep stone-stair led down to the ancient dungeon.
“The maister’s gane wantin’ a licht,” muttered Grizzie; “I houp he winna see onything.”
It was an enigmatical utterance, and angered Lord Mergwain.
“What the deuce should he see, when he has got to feel his way with his hands?” he snarled.
“There’s some things, my lord, ’at can better affoord to come oot i’ the dark nor the licht,” replied Grizzie.
His lordship said nothing in rejoinder, but kept looking every now and then towards the door of the milk-cellar—whether solely in anxiety for the appearance of the magnum, may be doubtful. The moment the laird emerged from his dive into darkness, bearing with him the pearl-oyster of its deep, his lordship rose, proud that for an old man he could stand so steady, and straightened himself up to his full height, which was not great. The laird set down the bottle on the table, and proceeded to wrap him in a plaid, that he might not get a chill, nor heeded that his lordship, instead of showing recognition of his care, conducted himself like an ill-conditioned child, to whom his mother’s ministrations are unwelcome. But he did not resist, he only grumbled. As soon as the process was finished, he caught up the first bottle, in which, notwithstanding his assertion, he knew there was yet a glass or two, while the laird resumed the greater burden of the second, and gave his guest an arm, and Grizzie, leaving the door open to cast a little light on their way, followed close behind, to see them safe in.
When they reached the drawing-room, his lordship out of breath with the long stair, they found Lady Joan teaching and Cosmo learning backgammon, which they immediately abandoned until they had him in his former chair, with a small table by him, on it the first bottle, and the fresh one at his feet before the fire: with the contents of one such inside him, and another coming on, he looked more cheerful than since first he entered the house. But a fluctuating trouble was very visible in his countenance notwithstanding.
A few poverty-stricken attempts at conversation followed, to which Lord Mergwain contributed nothing. Lost in himself, he kept his eyes fixed on the ripening bottle, waiting with heroic self-denial, nor uttering a single audible oath, until the sound of its opening should herald the outbursting blossom of the nightly flower of existence. The thing hard to bear was, that there were no fresh wine-glasses on the table—only the one he had taken care to bring with the old bottle.
Presently Grizzie came with the tea-things, and as she set them down, remarked, with cunningly devised look of unconsciousness:
“It’s a gurly nicht; no a pinch o’ licht; an’ the win’ blawin’ like deevils; the Pooer o’ the air, he’s oot wi’ a rair, an’ the snaw rins roon’ upo’ sweevils.”