Robert Falconer

The rider had not yet spoken.

‘He’ll be efter some o’ ‘s deevil-ma’-care sculduddery. But jist rin to the door, Letty, or Lizzy ‘ll be there afore ye, and maybe she wadna be ower ceevil. What can he be efter noo?’

‘What wad the grew (grayhound) be efter but maukin (hare)?’ returned Miss Letty.

‘Hoot! nonsense! He kens naething aboot her. Gang to the door, lassie.’

Miss Letty obeyed.

‘Wha’s there?’ she asked, somewhat sharply, as she opened it, ‘that neither chaps (knocks) nor ca’s?—Preserve ‘s a’! is’t you, my lord?’

‘Hoo ken ye me, Miss Letty withoot seein’ my face?’

‘A’body at The Boar’s Heid kens Black Geordie as weel ‘s yer lordship’s ain sel’. But whaur comes yer lordship frae in sic a nicht as this?’

‘From Russia. Never dismounted between Moscow and Aberdeen. The ice is bearing to-night.’

And the baron laughed inside the upturned collar of his cloak, for he knew that strangely-exaggerated stories were current about his feats in the saddle.

‘That’s a lang ride, my lord, and a sliddery. And what’s yer lordship’s wull?’

‘Muckle ye care aboot my lordship to stand jawin’ there in a night like this! Is nobody going to take my horse?’

‘I beg yer lordship’s pardon. Caumill!—Yer lordship never said ye wanted yer lordship’s horse ta’en. I thocht ye micht be gaein’ on to The Bothie.—Tak’ Black Geordie here, Caumill.—Come in to the parlour, my lord.’

‘How d’ye do, Miss Naper?’ said Lord Rothie, as he entered the room. ‘Here’s this jade of a sister of yours asking me why I don’t go home to The Bothie, when I choose to stop and water here.’

‘What’ll ye tak’, my lord?—Letty, fess the brandy.’

‘Oh! damn your brandy! Bring me a gill of good Glendronach.’

‘Rin, Letty. His lordship’s cauld.—I canna rise to offer ye the airm-cheir, my lord.’

‘I can get one for myself, thank heaven!’

‘Lang may yer lordship return sic thanks.’

‘For I’m only new begun, ye think, Miss Naper. Well, I don’t often trouble heaven with my affairs. By Jove! I ought to be heard when I do.’

‘Nae doobt ye will, my lord, whan ye seek onything that’s fit to be gien ye.’

‘True. Heaven’s gifts are seldom much worth the asking.’

‘Haud yer tongue, my lord, and dinna bring doon a judgment upo’ my hoose, for it wad be missed oot o’ Rothieden.’

‘You’re right there, Miss Naper. And here comes the whisky to stop my mouth.’

The Baron of Rothie sat for a few minutes with his feet on the fender before Miss Letty’s blazing fire, without speaking, while he sipped the whisky neat from a wine-glass. He was a man about the middle height, rather full-figured, muscular and active, with a small head, and an eye whose brightness had not yet been dimmed by the sensuality which might be read in the condition rather than frame of his countenance. But while he spoke so pleasantly to the Miss Napiers, and his forehead spread broad and smooth over the twinkle of his hazel eye, there was a sharp curve on each side of his upper lip, half-way between the corner and the middle, which reminded one of the same curves in the lip of his ancestral boar’s head, where it was lifted up by the protruding tusks. These curves disappeared, of course, when he smiled, and his smile, being a lord’s, was generally pronounced irresistible. He was good-natured, and nowise inclined to stand upon his rank, so long as he had his own way.

‘Any customers by the mail to-night, Miss Naper?’ he asked, in a careless tone.

‘Naebody partic’lar, my lord.’

‘I thought ye never let anybody in that wasn’t particularly particular. No foot-passengers—eh?’

‘Hoot, my lord! that’s twa year ago. Gin I had jaloosed him to be a fren’ o’ yer lordship’s, forby bein’ a lord himsel’, ye ken as weel ‘s I du that I wadna hae sent him ower the gait to Luckie Happit’s, whaur he wadna even be ower sure o’ gettin’ clean sheets. But gin lords an’ lords’ sons will walk afit like ither fowk, wha’s to ken them frae ither fowk?’

‘Well, Miss Naper, he was no lord at all. He was nothing but a factor-body doon frae Glenbucket.’

‘There was sma’ hairm dune than, my lord. I’m glaid to hear ‘t. But what’ll yer lordship hae to yer supper?’

‘I would like a dish o’ your chits and nears (sweetbreads and kidneys).’

‘Noo, think o’ that!’ returned the landlady, laughing. ‘You great fowk wad hae the verra coorse o’ natur’ turned upside doon to shuit yersels. Wha ever heard o’ caure (calves) at this time o’ the year?’

‘Well, anything you like. Who was it came by the mail, did you say?’

‘I said naebody partic’lar, my lord.’

‘Well, I’ll just go and have a look at Black Geordie.’

‘Verra weel, my lord.—Letty, rin an’ luik efter him; and as sune ‘s he’s roon’ the neuk, tell Lizzie no to say a word aboot the leddy. As sure ‘s deith he’s efter her. Whaur cud he hae heard tell o’ her?’

Lord Rothie came, a moment after, sauntering into the bar-parlour, where Lizzie, the third Miss Napier, a red-haired, round-eyed, white-toothed woman of forty, was making entries in a book.

‘She’s a bonnie lassie that, that came in the coach to-night, they say, Miss Lizzie.’

‘As ugly ‘s sin, my lord,’ answered Lizzie.

‘I hae seen some sin ‘at was nane sae ugly, Miss Lizzie.’

‘She wad hae clean scunnert (disgusted) ye, my lord. It’s a mercy ye didna see her.’

‘If she be as ugly as all that, I would just like to see her.’

Miss Lizzie saw she had gone too far.

‘Ow, deed! gin yer lordship wants to see her, ye may see her at yer wull. I s’ gang and tell her.’

And she rose as if to go.

‘No, no. Nothing of the sort, Miss Lizzie. Only I heard that she was bonnie, and I wanted to see her. You know I like to look at a pretty girl.’

‘That’s ower weel kent, my lord.’

‘Well, there’s no harm in that, Miss Lizzie.’

‘There’s no harm in that, my lord, though yer lordship says ‘t.’