Malcolm went down the river-side, not over pleased with the marquis; for, although unconscious of it as such, he had a strong feeling of personal dignity.
As he threaded the tortuous ways of the Seaton towards his own door, he met sounds of mingled abuse and apology. Such were not infrequent in that quarter, for one of the women who lived there was a termagant, and the door of her cottage was generally open. She was known as Meg Partan. Her husband’s real name was of as little consequence in life as it is in my history, for almost everybody in the fishing villages of that coast was and is known by his to-name, or nickname, a device for distinction rendered absolutely necessary by the paucity of surnames occasioned by the persistent intermarriage of the fisher-folk. Partan is the Scotch for crab, but the immediate recipient of the name was one of the gentlest creatures in the place, and hence it had been surmised by some that, the grey mare being the better horse, the man was thus designated from the crabbedness of his wife; but the probability is he brought the agnomen with him from school, where many such apparently misfitting names are unaccountably generated.
In the present case, however, the apologies were not issuing as usual from the mouth of Davy Partan, but from that of the blind piper. Malcolm stood for a moment at the door to understand the matter of contention, and prepare him to interfere judiciously.
“Gien ye suppose, piper, ’at ye’re peyed to drive fowk oot o’ their beds at sic hoors as yon, it’s time the toon-cooncil was informed o’ yer mistak,” said Meg Partan, with emphasis on the last syllable.
“Ta coot peoples up in ta town are not half so hart upon her as you, Mistress Partan,” insinuated poor Duncan, who, knowing himself in fault, was humble; “and it’s tere tat she’s paid,” he added, with a bridling motion, “and not town here pelow.”
“Dinna ye glorifee yersel’ to suppose there’s a fisher, lat alane a fisher’s wife, in a’ the haill Seaton ’at wad lippen (trust) till an auld haiveril like you to hae them up i’ the mornin’! Haith! I was oot o’ my bed hoors or I hard the skirlin’ o’ your pipes. Troth I ken weel hoo muckle ower ear’ ye was! But what fowk taks in han’, fowk sud put oot o’ han’ in a proper mainner, and no misguggle ’t a’thegither like yon. An’ for what they say i’ the toon, there’s Mistress Catanach——”
“Mistress Catanach is a paad ’oman,” said Duncan.
“I wad advise you, piper, to haud a quaiet sough aboot her. She’s no to be meddlet wi’, Mistress Catanach, I can tell ye. Gien ye anger her, it’ll be the waur for ye. The neist time ye hae a lyin’ in, she’ll be raxin’ (reaching) ye a hairless pup, or, deed, maybe a stan’ o’ bagpipes, as the produck.”
“Her nainsel will not pe requiring her sairvices, Mistress Partan; she’ll pe leafing tat to you, if you’ll excuse me,” said Duncan.
“Deed, ye’re richt there! An auld speldin’ (dried haddock) like you! Ha! ha! ha!”