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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:29:07 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:29:07 -0700 |
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diff --git a/7174-h/7174-h.htm b/7174-h/7174-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a8888c --- /dev/null +++ b/7174-h/7174-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,18508 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Marquis of Lossie | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.small {font-size: 0.8em;} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td, +table.autotable th { padding: 4px; } +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Footnotes */ + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 5%; text-indent: 0em;} +.x-ebookmaker .poetry {margin-left: 5%;} +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry in browsers */ +/* .poetry {display: inline-block;} */ +/* large inline blocks don't split well on paged devices */ +@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } +.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;} + + + /* ]]> */ </style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 7174 ***</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1 class="nobreak" id="THE_MARQUIS_OF_LOSSIE">THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE</h1> + +<p class="center p2"> +by George MacDonald</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</h2> +</div> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I. <span class="smcap">The Stable-yard</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II. <span class="smcap">The Library</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III. <span class="smcap">Miss Horn</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV. <span class="smcap">Kelpie’s Airing</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V. <span class="smcap">Lizzy Findlay</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI. <span class="smcap">Mr Crathie</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII. <span class="smcap">Blue Peter</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII. <span class="smcap">Voyage to London</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX. <span class="smcap">London Streets</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X. <span class="smcap">The Tempest</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI. <span class="smcap">Demon and the Pipes</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII. <span class="smcap">A New Library</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII. <span class="smcap">Two Conversations</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV. <span class="smcap">Florimel</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV. <span class="smcap">Portlossie</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI. <span class="smcap">St James the Apostle</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII. <span class="smcap">A Difference</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII. <span class="smcap">Lord Liftore</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX. <span class="smcap">Kelpie in London</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX. <span class="smcap">Blue Peter</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI. <span class="smcap">Mr Graham</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII. <span class="smcap">Richmond Park</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII. <span class="smcap">Painter and Groom</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV. <span class="smcap">A Lady</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV. <span class="smcap">The Psyche</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI. <span class="smcap">The Schoolmaster</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII. <span class="smcap">The Preacher</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII. <span class="smcap">The Portrait</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX. <span class="smcap">An Evil Omen</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX. <span class="smcap">A Quarrel</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI. <span class="smcap">The Two Daimons</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII. <span class="smcap">A Chastisement</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII. <span class="smcap">Lies</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV. <span class="smcap">An Old Enemy</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV. <span class="smcap">The Evil Genius</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI. <span class="smcap">Conjunctions</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII. <span class="smcap">An Innocent Plot</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII. <span class="smcap">The Journey</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX. <span class="smcap">Discipline</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XL">XL. <span class="smcap">Moonlight</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">XLI. <span class="smcap">The Swift</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">XLII. <span class="smcap">St Ronan’s Well</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">XLIII. <span class="smcap">A Perplexity</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">XLIV. <span class="smcap">The Mind of the Author</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">XLV. <span class="smcap">The Ride Home</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">XLVI. <span class="smcap">Portland Place</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">XLVII. <span class="smcap">Portlossie and Scaurnose</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">XLVIII. <span class="smcap">Torture</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX">XLIX. <span class="smcap">The Philtre</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_L">L. <span class="smcap">The Demoness at Bay</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LI">LI. <span class="smcap">The Psyche</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LII">LII. <span class="smcap">Hope Chapel</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LIII">LIII. <span class="smcap">A New Pupil</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LIV">LIV. <span class="smcap">The Fey Factor</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LV">LV. <span class="smcap">The Wanderer</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LVI">LVI. <span class="smcap">Mid-Ocean</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LVII">LVII. <span class="smcap">The Shore</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LVIII">LVIII. <span class="smcap">The Trench</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LIX">LIX. <span class="smcap">The Peacemaker</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LX">LX. <span class="smcap">An Offering</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXI">LXI. <span class="smcap">Thoughts</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXII">LXII. <span class="smcap">The Dune</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXIII">LXIII. <span class="smcap">Confession of Sin</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXIV">LXIV. <span class="smcap">A Visitation</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXV">LXV. <span class="smcap">The Eve of the Crisis</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXVI">LXVI. <span class="smcap">Sea</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXVII">LXVII. <span class="smcap">Shore</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXVIII">LXVIII. <span class="smcap">The Crew of the Bonnie Annie</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXIX">LXIX. <span class="smcap">Lizzy’s Baby</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXX">LXX. <span class="smcap">The Disclosure</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXXI">LXXI. <span class="smcap">The Assembly</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXXII">LXXII. <span class="smcap">Knotted Strands</span></a></td></tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br><span class="small">THE STABLE-YARD.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>It was one of those exquisite days that come in every winter, in which +it seems no longer the dead body, but the lovely ghost of summer. Such +a day bears to its sister of the happier time something of the relation +the marble statue bears to the living form; the sense it awakes of +beauty is more abstract, more ethereal; it lifts the soul into a higher +region than will summer day of lordliest splendour. It is like the love +that loss has purified.</p> + +<p>Such, however, were not the thoughts that at the moment occupied the +mind of Malcolm Colonsay. Indeed, the loveliness of the morning was +but partially visible from the spot where he stood—the stable-yard of +Lossie House, ancient and roughly paved. It was a hundred years since +the stones had been last relaid and levelled: none of the horses of +the late Marquis minded it but one—her whom the young man in Highland +dress was now grooming—and she would have fidgeted had it been an oak +floor. The yard was a long and wide space, with two-storied buildings +on all sides of it. In the centre of one of them rose the clock, and +the morning sun shone red on its tarnished gold. It was an ancient +clock, but still capable of keeping good time—good enough, at least, +for all the requirements of the house, even when the family was at +home, seeing it never stopped, and the church clock was always ordered +by it.</p> + +<p>It not only set the time, but seemed also to set the fashion of the +place, for the whole aspect of it was one of wholesome, weather-beaten, +time-worn existence. One of the good things that accompany good blood +is that its possessor does not much mind a shabby coat. Tarnish and +lichens and water-wearing, a wavy house-ridge, and a few families of +worms in the wainscot do not annoy the marquis as they do the city man +who has just bought a little place in the country. When an old family +ceases to go lovingly with nature, I see no reason why it should go +any longer. An old tree is venerable, and an old picture precious to +the soul, but an old house, on which has been laid none but loving and +respectful hands, is dear to the very heart. Even an old barn door, +with the carved initials of hinds and maidens of vanished centuries, +has a place of honour in the cabinet of the poet’s brain. It was +centuries since Lossie House had begun to grow shabby—and beautiful; +and he to whom it now belonged was not one to discard the reverend for +the neat, or let the vanity of possession interfere with the grandeur +of inheritance.</p> + +<p>Beneath the tarnished gold of the clock, flushed with the red winter +sun, he was at this moment grooming the coat of a powerful black mare. +That he had not been brought up a groom was pretty evident from the +fact that he was not hissing; but that he was Marquis of Lossie there +was nothing about him to show. The mare looked dangerous. Every now +and then she cast back a white glance of the one visible eye. But the +youth was on his guard, and as wary as fearless in his handling of her. +When at length he had finished the toilet which her restlessness—for +her four feet were never all still at once upon the stones—had +considerably protracted, he took from his pocket a lump of sugar, and +held it for her to bite at with her angry-looking teeth.</p> + +<p>It was a keen frost, but in the sun the icicles had begun to drop. The +roofs in the shadow were covered with hoar frost; wherever there was +shadow there was whiteness. But for all the cold, there was keen life +in the air, and yet keener life in the two animals, biped and quadruped.</p> + +<p>As they thus stood, the one trying to sweeten the other’s relation to +himself, if he could not hope much for her general temper, a man, who +looked half farmer, half lawyer, appeared on the opposite side of the +court in the shadow.</p> + +<p>“You are spoiling that mare, MacPhail,” he cried.</p> + +<p>“I canna weel du that, sir; she canna be muckle waur,” said the youth.</p> + +<p>“It’s whip and spur she wants, not sugar.”</p> + +<p>“She has had, and sall hae baith, time aboot (<i>in turn</i>); and I houp +they’ll du something for her in time, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Her time shall be short here, anyhow. She’s not worth the sugar you +give her.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, sir! luik at her,” said Malcolm, in a tone of expostulation, as he +stepped back a few paces and regarded her with admiring eyes. “Saw ye +ever sic legs? an’ sic a neck? an’ sic a heid? an’ sic fore an’ hin’ +quarters? She’s a’ bonny but the temper o’ her, an’ that she canna help +like the likes o’ you an’ me.”</p> + +<p>“She’ll be the death o’ somebody some day. The sooner we get rid of her +the better. Just look at that,” he added, as the mare laid back her +ears and made a vicious snap at nothing in particular.</p> + +<p>“She was a favourite o’ my—maister, the marquis,” returned the youth, +“an’ I wad ill like to pairt wi’ her.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll take any offer in reason for her,” said the factor. “You’ll just +ride her to Forres market next week, and see what you can get for her. +I do think she’s quieter since you took her in hand.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure she is—but it winna laist a day. The moment I lea’ her, +she’ll be as ill ’s ever,” said the youth. “She has a kin’ o’ a likin’ +to me, ’cause I gi’e her sugar, an’ she canna cast me; but she’s no +a bit better i’ the hert o’ her yet. She’s an oonsanctifeed brute. I +cudna think o’ sellin’ her like this.”</p> + +<p>“Lat them ’at buys tak tent (<i>beware</i>),” said the factor.</p> + +<p>“Ow ay! lat them; I dinna objec’; gien only they ken what she’s like +afore they buy her,” rejoined Malcolm.</p> + +<p>The factor burst out laughing. To his judgment the youth had spoken +like an idiot.</p> + +<p>“We’ll not send you to sell,” he said. “Stoat shall go with you, and +you shall have nothing to do but hold the mare and your own tongue.”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said Malcolm, seriously, “ye dinna mean what ye say? Ye said +yersel’ she wad be the deith o’ somebody, an’ to sell her ohn tell’t +what she’s like wad be to caw the saxt comman’ment clean to shivers.”</p> + +<p>“That may be good doctrine i’ the kirk, my lad, but it’s pure heresy +i’ the horse-market. No, no! You buy a horse as you take a wife— for +better for worse, as the case may be. A woman’s not bound to tell her +faults when a man wants to marry her. If she keeps off the worst of +them afterwards, it’s all he has a right to look for.”</p> + +<p>“Hoot, sir! there’s no a pair o’ parallel lines in a’ the compairison,” +returned Malcolm. “Mistress Kelpie here’s e’en ower ready to confess +her fauts, an’ that by giein’ a taste o’ them; she winna bide to be +speired; but for haudin’ aff o’ them efter the bargain’s made—ye ken +she’s no even responsible for the bargain. An’ gien ye expec’ me to +haud my tongue aboot them—faith, Maister Crathie, I wad as sune think +o’ sellin’ a rotten boat to Blue Peter. Gien the man ’at has her to see +till, dinna ken to luik oot for a storm o’ iron shune or lang teeth ony +moment, his wife may be a widow that same market nicht. An’ forbye, +it’s again’ the aucht comman’ment as weel ’s the saxt. There’s nae +exception there in regaird o’ horse flesh. We maun be honest i’ that +as weel ’s i’ corn or herrin’, or onything ither ’at’s coft an’ sell’t +atween man an’ his neibor.”</p> + +<p>“There’s one commandment, my lad,” said Mr Crathie, with the dignity of +intended rebuke, “you seem to find hard to learn, and that is, to mind +your own business.”</p> + +<p>“Gien ye mean catchin’ the herrin’, maybe ye’re richt,” said the youth. +“I ken muir aboot that nor the horse-coupin’, an’ it’s full cleaner.”</p> + +<p>“None of your impudence!” returned the factor. “The marquis is not here +to uphold you in your follies. That they amused him is no reason why +I should put up with them. So keep your tongue between your teeth, or +you’ll find it the worse for you.”</p> + +<p>The youth smiled a little oddly, and held his peace.</p> + +<p>“You’re here to do what I tell you, and make no remarks,” added the +factor.</p> + +<p>“I’m awaur o’ that, sir—within certain leemits,” returned Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by that?”</p> + +<p>“I mean within the leemits o’ duin’ by yer neibor as ye wad ha’e yer +neibor du by you—that’s what I mean, sir.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve told you already that doesn’t apply in horse-dealing. Every man +has to take care of himself in the horse-market: that’s understood. If +you had been brought up amongst horses instead of herring, you would +have known that as well as any other man.”</p> + +<p>“I doobt I’ll ha’e to gang back to the herrin’ than, sir, for they’re +like to pruv’ the honester o’ the twa. But there’s nae hypocrisy in +Kelpie, an’ she maun ha’e her day’s denner, come o’ the morn’s what +may.”</p> + +<p>At the word <i>hypocrisy</i>, Mr Crathie’s face grew red as the sun in a +fog. He was an elder of the kirk, and had family worship every night as +regularly as his toddy. So the word was as offensive and insolent as it +was foolish and inapplicable. He would have turned Malcolm adrift on +the spot, but that he remembered—not the favour of the late marquis +for the lad—that was nothing to the factor now: his lord under the +mould was to him as if he had never been above it—but the favour +of the present marchioness, for all in the house knew that she was +interested in him. Choking down therefore his rage and indignation, he +said sternly:</p> + +<p>“Malcolm, you have two enemies—a long tongue, and a strong conceit. +You have little enough to be proud of, my man, and the less said the +better. I advise you to mind what you’re about, and show suitable +respect to your superiors, or as sure as judgment, you’ll go back to +fish-guts.”</p> + +<p>While he spoke, Malcolm had been smoothing Kelpie all over with his +palms; the moment the factor ceased talking, he ceased stroking, and +with one arm thrown over the mare’s back, looked him full in the face.</p> + +<p>“Gien ye imaigine, Maister Crathie,” he said, “’at I coont it ony rise +i’ the warl’ ’at brings me un’er the orders o’ a man less honest than +he micht be, ye’re mista’en. I dinna think it’s pride this time; I wad +ile Blue Peter’s lang butes till him, but I winna lee for ony factor +atween this an’ Davy Jones.”</p> + +<p>It was too much. Mr Crathie’s feelings overcame him, and he was a +wrathful man to see, as he strode up to the youth with clenched fist.</p> + +<p>“Haud frae the mere, for God’s sake, Maister Crathie,” cried Malcolm.</p> + +<p>But even as he spoke, two reversed Moorish arches of gleaming iron +opened on the terror-quickened imagination of the factor a threatened +descent from which his most potent instinct, that of self-preservation, +shrank in horror. He started back white with dismay, having by a +bare inch of space and a bare moment of time, escaped what he called +Eternity. Dazed with fear he turned and had staggered half-way across +the yard, as if going home, before he recovered himself. Then he turned +again, and with what dignity he could scrape together said—</p> + +<p>“MacPhail, you go about your business.”</p> + +<p>In his foolish heart he believed Malcolm had made the brute strike out.</p> + +<p>“I canna weel gang till Stoat comes hame,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“If I see you about the place after sunset, I’ll horsewhip you,” said +the factor, and walked away, showing the crown of his hat.</p> + +<p>Malcolm again smiled oddly, but made no reply. He undid the mare’s +halter, and took her into the stable. There he fed her, standing by +her all the time she ate, and not once taking his eyes off her. His +father, the late marquis, had bought her at the sale of the stud of +a neighbouring laird, whose whole being had been devoted to horses, +till the pale one came to fetch himself: the men about the stable had +drugged her, and, taken with the splendid lines of the animal, nor +seeing cause to doubt her temper as she quietly obeyed the halter, +he had bid for her, and, as he thought, had her a great bargain. The +accident that finally caused his death followed immediately after, +and while he was ill no one cared to vex him by saying what she had +turned out. But Malcolm had even then taken her in hand in the hope +of taming her a little before his master, who often spoke of his +latest purchase, should see her again. In this he had very partially +succeeded; but if only for the sake of him whom he now knew for his +father, nothing would have made him part with the animal. Besides, he +had been compelled to use her with so much severity at times that he +had grown attached to her from the reaction of pity as well as from +admiration of her physical qualities, and the habitude of ministering +to her wants and comforts. The factor, who knew Malcolm only as a +servant, had afterwards allowed her to remain in his charge, merely in +the hope, through his treatment, of by-and-by selling her, as she had +been bought, for a faultless animal, but at a far better price.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br><span class="small">THE LIBRARY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When she had finished her oats, Malcolm left her busy with her hay, +for she was a huge eater, and went into the house, passing through the +kitchen and ascending a spiral stone stair to the library—the only +room not now dismantled. As he went along the narrow passage on the +second floor leading to it from the head of the stair, the housekeeper, +Mrs Courthope, peeped after him from one of the many bedrooms opening +upon it, and watched him as he went, nodding her head two or three +times with decision: he reminded her so strongly —not of his father, +the last marquis, but the brother who had preceded him, that she felt +all but certain, whoever might be his mother, he had as much of the +Colonsay blood in his veins as any marquis of them all. It was in +consideration of this likeness that Mr Crathie had permitted the youth, +when his services were not required, to read in the library.</p> + +<p>Malcolm went straight to a certain corner, and from amongst a dingy +set of old classics took down a small Greek book, in large type. It +was the manual of that slave among slaves, that noble among the free, +Epictetus. He was no great Greek scholar, but, with the help of the +Latin translation, and the gloss of his own rathe experience, he could +lay hold of the mind of that slave of a slave, whose very slavery was +his slave to carry him to the heights of freedom. It was not Greek he +cared for, but Epictetus. It was but little he read, however, for the +occurrence of the morning demanded, compelled thought. Mr Crathie’s +behaviour caused him neither anger nor uneasiness, but it rendered +necessary some decision with regard to the ordering of his future.</p> + +<p>I can hardly say he recalled how, on his death-bed, the late marquis, +about three months before, having, with all needful observances, +acknowledged him his son, had committed to his trust the welfare of +his sister; for the memory of this charge was never absent from his +feeling even when not immediately present to his thought. But although +a charge which he would have taken upon him all the same had his father +not committed it to him, it was none the less a source of perplexity +upon which as yet all his thinking had let in but little light. For to +appear as Marquis of Lossie was not merely to take from his sister the +title she supposed her own, but to declare her illegitimate, seeing +that, unknown to the marquis, the youth’s mother, his first wife, was +still alive when Florimel was born. How to act so that as little evil +as possible might befall the favourite of his father, and one whom he +had himself loved with the devotion almost of a dog, before he knew she +was his sister, was the main problem.</p> + +<p>For himself, he had had a rough education, and had enjoyed it: his +thoughts were not troubled about his own prospects. Mysteriously +committed to the care of a poor blind Highland piper, a stranger from +inland regions, settled amongst a fishing people, he had, as he grew +up, naturally fallen into their ways of life and labour, and but +lately abandoned the calling of a fisherman to take charge of the +marquis’s yacht, whence, by degrees, he had, in his helpfulness, grown +indispensable to him and his daughter, and had come to live in the +house of Lossie as a privileged servant. His book education, which he +owed mainly to the friendship of the parish schoolmaster, although +nothing marvellous, or in Scotland very peculiar, had opened for him +in all directions doors of thought and inquiry, but the desire of +knowledge was in his case, again through the influences of Mr Graham, +subservient to an almost restless yearning after the truth of things, a +passion so rare that the ordinary mind can hardly master even the fact +of its existence.</p> + +<p>The Marchioness of Lossie, as she was now called, for the family +was one of the two or three in Scotland in which the title descends +to an heiress, had left Lossie House almost immediately upon her +father’s death, under the guardianship of a certain dowager countess. +Lady Bellair had taken her first to Edinburgh, and then to London. +Tidings of her Malcolm occasionally received through Mr Soutar of Duff +Harbour, the lawyer the marquis had employed to draw up the papers +substantiating the youth’s claim. The last amounted to this, that, as +rapidly as the proprieties of mourning would permit, she was circling +the vortex of the London season; and Malcolm was now almost in despair +of ever being of the least service to her as a brother to whom as a +servant he had seemed at one time of daily necessity. If he might but +once be her skipper, her groom, her attendant, he might then at least +learn how to discover to her the bond between them, without breaking it +in the very act, and so ruining the hope of service to follow.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br><span class="small">MISS HORN</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The door opened, and in walked a tall, gaunt, hard-featured woman, in +a huge bonnet, trimmed with black ribbons, and a long black net veil, +worked over with sprigs, coming down almost to her waist. She looked +stern, determined, almost fierce, shook hands with a sort of loose +dissatisfaction, and dropped into one of the easy chairs in which the +library abounded. With the act the question seemed shot from her—</p> + +<p>“Duv ye ca’ yersel’ an honest man, noo, Ma’colm?”</p> + +<p>“I ca’ mysel’ naething,” answered the youth; “but I wad fain be what ye +say, Miss Horn.”</p> + +<p>“Ow! I dinna doobt ye wadna steal, nor yet tell lees aboot a horse: +I ha’e jist come frae a sair waggin’ o’ tongues aboot ye. Mistress +Crathie tells me her man’s in a sair vex ’at ye winna tell a wordless +lee aboot the black mere: that’s what I ca ’t—no her. But lee it wad +be, an’ dinna ye aither wag or haud a leein’ tongue. A gentleman maunna +lee, no even by sayin’ naething—na, no gien ’t war to win intill the +kingdom. But, Guid be thankit, that’s whaur leears never come. Maybe +ye’re thinkin’ I ha’e sma’ occasion to say sic like to yersel’. An’ +yet what’s yer life but a lee, Ma’colm? You ’at’s the honest Marquis +o’ Lossie to waur yer time an’ the stren’th o’ yer boady an’ the micht +o’ yer sowl tyauvin’ (<i>wrestling</i>) wi’ a deevil o’ a she-horse, whan +there’s that half-sister o’ yer ain gauin’ to the verra deevil o’ +perdition himsel’ amang the godless gentry o’ Lon’on!”</p> + +<p>“What wad ye ha’e me un’erstan’ by that, Miss Horn?” returned Malcolm. +“I hear no ill o’ her. I daursay she’s no jist a sa’nt yet, but that’s +no to be luiked for in ane o’ the breed: they maun a’ try the warl’ +first ony gait. There’s a heap o’ fowk—an’ no aye the warst, maybe,” +continued Malcolm, thinking of his father, “’at wull ha’e their bite o’ +the aipple afore they spite it oot. But for my leddy sister, she’s owre +prood ever to disgrace hersel’.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, maybe, gien she bena misguidit by them she’s wi’. But I’m no sae +muckle concernt aboot her. Only it’s plain ’at ye ha’e no richt to lead +her intill temptation.”</p> + +<p>“Hoo am I temptin’ at her, mem?”</p> + +<p>“That’s plain to half an e’e. Ir ye no lattin’ her live believin’ a +lee? Ir ye no allooin’ her to gang on as gien she was somebody mair nor +mortal, when ye ken she’s nae mair Marchioness o’ Lossie nor ye’re the +son o’ auld Duncan MacPhail? Faith, ye ha’e lost trowth gien ye ha’e +gaint the warl’ i’ the cheenge o’ forbeirs!”</p> + +<p>“Mint at naething again’ the deid, mem. My father’s gane till ’s +accoont; an it’s weel for him he has his father an’ no his sister to +pronoonce upo’ him.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed ye’re right there, laddie,” said Miss Horn, in a subdued tone.</p> + +<p>“He’s made it up wi’ my mither afore noo, I’m thinkin’; an’ ony gait, +he confesst her his wife an’ me her son afore he dee’d, an’ what mair +had he time to du?”</p> + +<p>“It’s fac’,” returned Miss Horn. “An’ noo luik at yersel’: what yer +father confesst wi’ the verra deid thraw o’ a labourin’ speerit, to +the whilk naething cud ha’e broucht him but the deid thraws (_death +struggles_) o’ the bodily natur’ an’ the fear o’ hell, that same +confession ye row up again i’ the cloot o’ secrecy, in place o’ +dightin’ wi’ ’t the blot frae the memory o’ ane wha I believe I lo’ed +mair as my third cousin nor ye du as yer ain mither!”</p> + +<p>“There’s no blot upo’ her memory, mem,” returned the youth, “or I wad +be markis the morn. There’s never a sowl kens she was mither but kens +she was wife—ay, an’ whase wife, tu.”</p> + +<p>Miss Horn had neither wish nor power to reply, and changed her front.</p> + +<p>“An’ sae, Ma’colm Colonsay,” she said, “ye ha’e no less nor made up yer +min’ to pass yer days in yer ain stable, neither better nor waur than +an ostler at the Lossie Airms, an’ that efter a’ ’at I ha’e borne an’ +dune to mak a gentleman o’ ye, bairdin’ yer father here like a verra +lion in ’s den, an’ garrin’ him confess the thing again’ ilka hair upon +the stiff neck o’ ’im? Losh, laddie! it was a pictur to see him stan’in +wi’ ’s back to the door like a camstairy (<i>obstinate</i>) bullock!”</p> + +<p>“Haud yer tongue, mem, gien ye please. I canna bide to hear my father +spoken o’ like that. For ye see I lo’ed him afore I kent he was ony +drap’s blude to me.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, that’s verra weel; but father an’ mither’s man and wife, an’ ye +camna o’ a father alane.”</p> + +<p>“That’s true, mem, an’ it canna be I sud ever forget yon face ye shawed +me i’ the coffin, the bonniest, sairest sicht I ever saw,” returned +Malcolm, with a quaver in his voice.</p> + +<p>“But what for cairry yer thouchts to the deid face o’ her? Ye kent the +leevin’ ane weel,” objected Miss Horn.</p> + +<p>“That’s true, mem; but the deid face maist blottit the leevin’ oot o’ +my brain.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry for that.—Eh, laddie, but she was bonny to see!”</p> + +<p>“I aye thoucht her the bonniest leddy I ever set e’e upo’. An’ dinna +think, mem, I’m gaein to forget the deid, ’cause I’m mair concernt +aboot the leevin’. I tell ye I jist dinna ken what to du. What wi’ my +father’s deein’ words committin’ her to my chairge, an’ the more than +regaird I ha’e to Leddy Florimel hersel’, I’m jist whiles driven to +ane mair. Hoo can I tak the verra sunsheen oot o’ her life ’at I lo’ed +afore I kent she was my ain sister, an’ jist thoucht lang to win near +eneuch till, to du her ony guid turn worth duin? An’ here I am, her ane +half-brither, wi’ naething i’ my pooer but to scaud the hert o’ her, +or else lee! Supposin’ she was weel merried first, hoo wad she stan’ +wi’ her man whan he cam to ken ’at she was nae marchioness—hed no +lawfu’ richt to ony name but her mither’s? An’ afore that, what richt +cud I ha’e to alloo ony man to merry her ohn kent the trowth aboot +her? Faith, it wad be a fine chance though for the fin’in’ oot whether +or no the man was worthy o’ her! But, ye see that micht be to make a +playock o’ her hert. Puir thing, she luiks doon upo’ me frae the tap o’ +her bonny neck, as frae a h’avenly heicht; but I s’ lat her ken yet, +gien only I can win at the gait o’ ’t, that I ha’ena come nigh her for +naething.”</p> + +<p>He gave a sigh with the words, and a pause followed.</p> + +<p>“The trowth’s the trowth,” resumed Miss Horn, “neither mair nor less.”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” responded Malcolm; “but there’s a richt an’ a wrang time for the +tellin’ o’ ’t. It’s no as gien I had had han’ or tongue in ony foregane +lee. It was naething o’ my duin’, as ye ken, mem. To mysel’, I was +never onything but a fisherman born. I confess ’at whiles, when we wad +be lyin’ i’ the lee o’ the nets, tethered to them like, wi’ the win’ +blawin’ strong an’ steady, I ha’e thocht wi’ mysel’ ’at I kent naething +aboot my father, an’ what gien it sud turn oot ’at I was the son o’ +somebody—what wad I du wi’ my siller?”</p> + +<p>“An’ what thoucht ye ye wad du, laddie?” asked Miss Horn gently.</p> + +<p>“What but bigg a harbour at Scaurnose for the puir fisher-fowk ’at was +like my ain flesh and blude!”</p> + +<p>“Weel,” rejoined Miss Horn eagerly, “div ye no look upo’ that as a voo +to the Almichty—a voo ’at ye’re bun’ to pay, noo ’at ye ha’e yer wuss? +An’ it’s no merely ’at <i>ye</i> ha’e the means, but there’s no anither that +has the richt; for they’re yer ain fowk, ’at ye gaither rent frae, an +’at’s been for mony a generation sattlet upo’ yer lan’—though for +the maitter o’ the lan’, they ha’e had little mair o’ that than the +birds o’ the rock ha’e ohn feued—an’ them honest fowks wi’ wives an’ +sowls o’ their ain! Hoo upo’ airth are ye to du yer duty by them, an’ +render yer accoont at the last, gien ye dinna tak till ye yer pooer an’ +reign? Ilk man ’at’s in ony sense a king o’ men is bun’ to reign ower +them <i>in</i> that sense. I ken little aboot things mysel’, an’ I ha’e no +feelin’s to guide me, but I ha’e a wheen cowmon sense, an’ that maun +jist stan’ for the lave.”</p> + +<p>A silence followed.</p> + +<p>“What for speak na ye, Ma’colm?” said Miss Horn, at length.</p> + +<p>“I was jist tryin’,” he answered, “to min’ upon a twa lines ’at I cam +upo’ the ither day in a buik ’at Maister Graham gied me afore he gaed +awa’—’cause I reckon he kent them a’ by hert. They say jist sic like +’s ye been sayin’, mem—gien I cud but min’ upo’ them. They’re aboot a +man ’at aye does the richt gait—made by ane they ca’ Wordsworth.”</p> + +<p>“I ken naething aboot him,” said Miss Horn, with emphasized +indifference.</p> + +<p>“An’ I ken but little: I s’ ken mair or lang though. This is hoo the +piece begins:—</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who is the happy warrior? Who is he</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That every Man in arms should wish to be?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought.</span><br> +</p> + +<p>—There! that’s what ye wad hae o’ me, mem!”</p> + +<p>“Hear till him!” cried Miss Horn. “The man’s i’ the richt, though +naebody never h’ard o’ ’im. Haud ye by that, Ma’colm, an’ dinna ye rist +till ye ha’e biggit a harbour to the men an’ women o’ Scaurnose. Wha +kens hoo mony may gang to the boddom afore it be dune, jist for the +want o’ ’t?”</p> + +<p>“The fundation maun be laid in richteousness, though, mem, else— what +gien ’t war to save lives better lost?”</p> + +<p>“That belangs to the Michty,” said Miss Horn.</p> + +<p>“Ay, but the layin’ o’ the fundation belangs to me. An’ I’ll no du ’t +till I can du ’t ohn ruint my sister.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, there’s ae thing clear: ye’ll never ken what to do sae lang +’s ye hing on aboot a stable, fu’ o’ fower-fittet animals wantin’ +sense—an’ some twa fittet ’at has less.”</p> + +<p>“I doobt ye’re richt there, mem; and gien I cud but tak puir Kelpie +awa’ wi’ me——”</p> + +<p>“Hoots! I’m affrontit wi ye. Kelpie—quo he! Preserve ’s a’! The laad +’ill lat his ain sister gang, an’ bide at hame wi’ a mere!”</p> + +<p>Malcolm held his peace.</p> + +<p>“Ay, I’m thinkin’ I maun gang,” he said at length.</p> + +<p>“Whaur till, than?” asked Miss Horn.</p> + +<p>“Ow! to Lon’on—whaur ither?”</p> + +<p>“And what’ll yer lordship du there?”</p> + +<p>“Dinna say <i>lordship</i> to me, mem, or I’ll think ye’re jeerin’ at me. +What wad the caterpillar say,” he added, with a laugh, “gien ye ca’d +her <i>my leddie Psyche</i>?”</p> + +<p>Malcolm of course pronounced the Greek word in Scotch fashion.</p> + +<p>“I ken naething aboot yer Seechies or yer Sukies,” rejoined Miss Horn. +“I ken ’at ye’re bun’ to be a lord and no a stableman, an’ I s’ no lat +ye rist till ye up an’ say <i>what neist</i>?”</p> + +<p>“It’s what I ha’e been sayin’ for the last three month,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ay, I daursay; but ye ha’e been sayin’ ’t upo’ the braid o’ yer back, +and I wad ha’e ye up an’ sayin’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>“Gien I but kent what to du!” said Malcolm, for the thousandth time.</p> + +<p>“Ye can at least gang whaur ye ha’e a chance o’ learnin’,” returned his +friend.—“Come an’ tak yer supper wi’ me the nicht—a rizzart haddie +an’ an egg, an’ I’ll tell ye mair aboot yer mither.”</p> + +<p>But Malcolm avoided a promise, lest it should interfere with what he +might find best to do.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br><span class="small">KELPIE’S AIRING.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When Miss Horn left him—with a farewell kindlier than her +greeting—rendered yet more restless by her talk, he went back to the +stable, saddled Kelpie, and took her out for an airing.</p> + +<p>As he passed the factor’s house, Mrs Crathie saw him from the window. +Her colour rose. She arose herself also, and looked after him from the +door—a proud and peevish woman, jealous of her husband’s dignity, +still more jealous of her own.</p> + +<p>“The verra image o’ the auld markis!” she said to herself; for in the +recesses of her bosom she spoke the Scotch she scorned to utter aloud; +“and sits jist like himsel’, wi’ a wee stoop i’ the saiddle, and ilka +noo an’ than a swing o’ his haill boady back, as gien some thoucht had +set him straught.—Gien the fractious brute wad but brak a bane or twa +o’ him!” she went on in growing anger. “The impidence o’ the fallow! He +has his leave: what for disna he tak it an’ gang? But oot o’ this, gang +he sall. To ca’ a man like mine a heepocreet ’cause he wadna procleem +till a haill market ilka secret fau’t o’ the horse he had to sell! +Haith, he cam upo’ the wrang side o’ the sheet to play the lord and +maister here! and that I can tell him!”</p> + +<p>The mare was fresh, and the roads through the policy hard both by +nature and by frost, so that he could not let her go, and had enough +to do with her. He turned, therefore, towards the sea-gate, and soon +reached the shore. There, westward of the Seaton, where the fisher-folk +lived, the sand lay smooth, flat, and wet along the edge of the +receding tide: he gave Kelpie the rein, and she sprang into a wild +gallop, every now and then flinging her heels as high as her rider’s +head. But finding, as they approached the stony part from which rose +the great rock called the Bored Craig, that he could not pull her up +in time, he turned her head towards the long dune of sand which, a +little beyond the tide, ran parallel with the shore. It was dry and +loose, and the ascent steep. Kelpie’s hoofs sank at every step, and +when she reached the top, with wide-spread struggling haunches, and +“nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,” he had her in hand. She +stood panting, yet pawing and dancing, and making the sand fly in all +directions.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a woman with a child in her arms rose, as it seemed to +Malcolm, under Kelpie’s very head. She wheeled and reared, and, in +wrath or in terror, strained every nerve to unseat her rider, while, +whether from faith or despair, the woman stood still as a statue, +staring at the struggle.</p> + +<p>“Haud awa’ a bit, Lizzy,” cried Malcolm. “She’s a mad brute, an’ I +mayna be able to haud her. Ye ha’e the bairnie, ye see!”</p> + +<p>She was a young woman, with a sad white face. To what Malcolm said she +paid no heed, but stood with her child in her arms and gazed at Kelpie +as she went on plunging and kicking about on the top of the dune.</p> + +<p>“I reckon ye wadna care though the she-deevil knockit oot yer harns; +but ye ha’e the bairn, woman! Ha’e mercy on the bairn, an’ rin to the +boddom.”</p> + +<p>“I want to speak to ye, Ma’colm MacPhail,” she said, in a tone whose +very stillness revealed a depth of trouble.</p> + +<p>“I doobt I canna hearken to ye richt the noo,” said Malcolm. “But bide +a wee.” He swung himself from Kelpie’s back, and, hanging hard on the +bit with one hand, searched with the other in the pocket of his coat, +saying, as he did so—</p> + +<p>“Sugar, Kelpie! sugar!”</p> + +<p>The animal gave an eager snort, settled on her feet, and began +snuffing about him. He made haste, for, if her eagerness should turn +to impatience, she would do her endeavour to bite him. After crunching +three or four lumps, she stood pretty quiet, and Malcolm must make the +best of what time she would give him.</p> + +<p>“Noo, Lizzy!” he said hurriedly. “Speyk while ye can.”</p> + +<p>“Ma’colm,” said the girl, and looked him full in the face for a moment, +for agony had overcome shame; then her gaze sought the far horizon, +which to seafaring people is as the hills whence cometh their aid to +the people who dwell among mountains; “—Ma’colm, he’s gaein’ to merry +Leddy Florimel.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm started. Could the girl have learned more concerning his sister +than had yet reached himself? A fine watching over her was his, truly! +But who was this <i>he</i>?</p> + +<p>Lizzy had never uttered the name of the father of her child, and all +her people knew was that he could not be a fisherman, for then he would +have married her before the child was born. But Malcolm had had a +suspicion from the first, and now her words all but confirmed it.—And +was that fellow going to marry his sister? He turned white with +dismay—then red with anger, and stood speechless.</p> + +<p>But he was quickly brought to himself by a sharp pinch under the +shoulder blade from Kelpie’s long teeth: he had forgotten her, and she +had taken the advantage.</p> + +<p>“Wha tellt ye that, Lizzy?” he said.</p> + +<p>“I’m no at leeberty to say, Ma’colm, but I’m sure it’s true, an’ my +hert’s like to brak.”</p> + +<p>“Puir lassie!” said Malcolm, whose own trouble had never at any time +rendered him insensible to that of others. “But is ’t onybody ’at +<i>kens</i> what he says?” he pursued.</p> + +<p>“Weel, I dinna jist richtly ken gien she <i>kens</i>, but I think she maun +ha’e gude rizzon, or she wadna say as she says. Oh me! me! my bairnie +’ill be scornin’ me sair whan he comes to ken. Ma’colm, ye’re the only +ane ’at disna luik doon upo’ me, an whan ye cam ower the tap o’ the +Boar’s Tail, it was like an angel in a fire-flaucht, an’ something +inside me said—<i>Tell ’im; tell ’im;</i> an’ sae I bude to tell ye.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm was even too simple to feel flattered by the girl’s confidence, +though to be trusted is a greater <i>compliment</i> than to be loved.</p> + +<p>“Hearken, Lizzy!” he said. “I canna e’en think, wi’ this brute ready +ilka meenute to ate me up. I maun tak her hame. Efter that, gien ye +wad like to tell me onything, I s’ be at yer service. Bide aboot +here—or, luik ye: here’s the key o’ yon door; come throu’ that intill +the park—throu’ aneth the toll ro’d, ye ken. There ye’ll get into the +lythe (<i>lee</i>) wi’ the bairnie; an’ I’ll be wi’ ye in a quarter o’ an +hoor. It’ll tak me but twa meenutes to gang hame. Stoat ’ill put up the +mere, and I’ll be back—I can du ’t in ten meenutes.”</p> + +<p>“Eh! dinna hurry for me, Ma’colm: I’m no worth it,” said Lizzy.</p> + +<p>But Malcolm was already at full speed along the top of the dune.</p> + +<p>“Lord preserve ’s!” cried Lizzy, when she saw him clear the brass +swivel. “Sic a laad as that is! Eh, he maun ha’e a richt lass to lo’e +him some day! It’s a’ ane to him, boat or beast. He wadna turn frae the +deil himsel’. An syne he’s jist as saft ’s a deuk’s neck whan he speyks +till a wuman or a bairn—ay, or an auld man aither!”</p> + +<p>And full of trouble as it was about another, Lizzy’s heart yet ached at +the thought that she should be so unworthy of one like him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br><span class="small">LIZZY FINDLAY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>From the sands she saw him gain the turnpike road with a bound and a +scramble. Crossing it he entered the park by the sea-gate; she had to +enter it by the tunnel that passed under the same road. She approached +the grated door, unlocked it, and looked in with a shudder. It was +dark, the other end of it being obscured by trees, and the roots of the +hill on whose top stood the temple of the winds. Through the tunnel +blew what seemed quite another wind —one of death, from regions +beneath. She drew her shawl, one end of which was rolled about her +baby, closer around them both ere she entered. Never before had she +set foot within the place, and a strange horror of it filled her: she +did not know that by that passage, on a certain lovely summer night, +Lord Meikleham had issued to meet her on the sands under the moon. The +sea was not terrible to her; she knew all its ways nearly as well as +Malcolm knew the moods of Kelpie; but the earth and its ways were less +known to her, and to turn her face towards it and enter by a little +door into its bosom was like a visit to her grave. But she gathered +her strength, entered with a shudder, passed in growing hope and +final safety through it, and at the other end came out again into the +light, only the cold of its death seemed to cling to her still. But +the day had grown colder; the clouds that, seen or unseen, ever haunt +the winter sun, had at length caught and shrouded him, and through +the gathering vapours he looked ghastly. The wind blew from the sea. +The tide was going down. There was snow in the air. The thin leafless +trees were all bending away from the shore, and the wind went sighing, +hissing, and almost wailing through their bare boughs and budless +twigs. There would be a storm, she thought, ere the morning, but none +of their people were out.</p> + +<p>Had there been—well, she had almost ceased to care about anything, and +her own life was so little to her now, that she had become less able to +value that of other people. To this had the <i>ignis fatuus</i> of a false +love brought her! She had dreamed heedlessly, to awake sorrowfully. +But not until she heard he was going to be married, had she come right +awake, and now she could dream no more. Alas! alas! what claim had she +upon him? How could she tell, since such he was, what poor girl like +herself she might not have robbed of her part in him?</p> + +<p>Yet even in the midst of her misery and despair, it was some +consolation to think that Malcolm was her friend.</p> + +<p>Not knowing that he had already suffered from the blame of her fault, +or the risk at which he met her, she would have gone towards the house +to meet him the sooner, had not this been a part of the grounds where +she knew Mr Crathie tolerated no one without express leave given. The +fisher-folk in particular must keep to the road by the other side of +the burn, to which the sea-gate admitted them. Lizzy therefore lingered +near the tunnel, afraid of being seen.</p> + +<p>Mr Crathie was a man who did well under authority, but upon the top +of it was consequential, overbearing, and far more exacting than the +marquis. Full of his employer’s importance when he was present, and +of his own when he was absent, he was yet in the latter circumstances +so doubtful of its adequate recognition by those under him, that he +had grown very imperious, and resented with indignation the slightest +breach of his orders. Hence he was in no great favour with the fishers.</p> + +<p>Now all the day he had been fuming over Malcolm’s behaviour to him in +the morning, and when he went home and learned that his wife had seen +him upon Kelpie, as if nothing had happened, he became furious, and, in +this possession of the devil, was at the present moment wandering about +the grounds, brooding on the words Malcolm had spoken. He could not get +rid of them. They caused an acrid burning in his bosom, for they had in +them truth, like which no poison stings.</p> + +<p>Malcolm, having crossed by the great bridge at the house, hurried down +the western side of the burn to find Lizzy, and soon came upon her, +walking up and down.</p> + +<p>“Eh, lassie, ye maun be cauld!” he said.</p> + +<p>“No that cauld,” she answered, and with the words burst into tears: +“But naebody says a kin’ word to me noo,” she said in excuse, “an’ I +canna weel bide the soun’ o’ ane when it comes; I’m no used till ’t.”</p> + +<p>“Naebody?” exclaimed Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Na, naebody,” she answered. “My mither winna, my father daurna, an’ +the bairnie canna, an I gang near naebody forbye.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, we maunna stan’ oot here i’ the cauld: come this gait,” said +Malcolm. “The bairnie’ll get its deid.”</p> + +<p>“There wadna be mony to greit at that,” returned Lizzy, and pressed the +child closer to her bosom.</p> + +<p>Malcolm led the way to the little chamber contrived under the temple +in the heart of the hill, and unlocking the door made her enter. There +he seated her in a comfortable chair, and wrapped her in the plaid he +had brought for the purpose. It was all he could do to keep from taking +her in his arms for very pity, for, both body and soul, she seemed too +frozen to shiver. He shut the door, sat down on the table near her, and +said:</p> + +<p>“There’s naebody to disturb ’s here, Lizzy: what wad ye say to me noo?”</p> + +<p>The sun was nearly down, and its light already almost smothered in +clouds, so that the little chamber, whose door and window were in the +deep shadow of the hill, was nearly dark.</p> + +<p>“I wadna hae ye tell me onything ye promised no to tell,” resumed +Malcolm, finding she did not reply, “but I wad like to hear as muckle +as ye can say.”</p> + +<p>“I hae naething to tell ye, Ma’colm, but jist ’at my leddy Florimel’s +gauin’ to be merried upo’ Lord Meikleham—Lord Liftore, they ca’ him +noo. Hech me!”</p> + +<p>“God forbid she sud be merried upon ony sic a bla’guard!” cried Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Dinna ca’ ’im ill names, Ma’colm. I canna bide it, though I hae no +richt to tak up the stick for him.”</p> + +<p>“I wadna say a word ’at micht fa’ sair on a sair hert,” he returned; +“but gien ye kent a’, ye wad ken I hed a gey-sized craw to pluck wi’ ’s +lordship mysel’.”</p> + +<p>The girl gave a low cry.</p> + +<p>“Ye wadna hurt ’im, Ma’colm?” she said, in terror at the thought of the +elegant youth in the clutches of an angry fisherman, even if he were +the generous Malcolm MacPhail himself.</p> + +<p>“I wad raither not,” he replied, “but we maun see hoo he cairries +himsel’.”</p> + +<p>“Du naething till ’im for my sake, Ma’colm. Ye can hae naething again’ +him yersel’.”</p> + +<p>It was too dark for Malcolm to see the keen look of wistful regret with +which Lizzy tried to pierce the gloom and read his face: for a moment +the poor girl thought he meant he had loved her himself. But far other +thoughts were in Malcolm’s mind: one was, that her whom, as a scarce +approachable goddess, he had loved before he knew her of his own blood, +he would rather see married to an honest fisherman in the Seaton of +Portlossie, than to such a lord as Meikleham. He had seen enough of +him at Lossie House to know what he was, and puritanical fish-catching +Malcolm had ideas above those of most marquises of his day: the thought +of the alliance was horrible to him. It was possibly not inevitable, +however; only what could he do, and at the same time avoid grievous +hurt?</p> + +<p>“I dinna think he’ll ever merry my leddy,” he said.</p> + +<p>“What gars ye say that, Ma’colm?” returned Lizzy, with eagerness.</p> + +<p>“I canna tell ye jist i’ the noo; but ye ken a body canna weel be +aye aboot a place ohn seein’ things. I’ll tell ye something o’ mair +consequence hooever,” he continued. “Some fowk say there’s a God, an’ +some say there’s nane, an’ I ha’e no richt to preach to ye, Lizzy; but +I maun jist tell ye this—’at gien God dinna help them ’at cry till ’im +i’ the warst o’ tribles, they micht jist as weel ha’e nae God at a’. +For my ain pairt I ha’e been helpit, an’ I think it was him intill ’t. +Wi’ his help, a man may warstle throu’ onything. I say I think it was +himsel’ tuik me throu’ ’t, an’ here I stan’ afore ye, ready for the +neist trible, an’ the help ’at ’ll come wi’ ’t. What it may be, God +only kens!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br><span class="small">MR CRATHIE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>He was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door, and the voice of +the factor in exultant wrath.</p> + +<p>“MacPhail!” it cried. “Come out with you. Don’t think to sneak there. +<i>I</i> know you. What right have you to be on the premises? Didn’t I send +you about your business this morning?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, sir, but ye didna pay me my wauges,” said Malcolm, who had sprung +to the door and now stood holding it half shut, while Mr Crathie pushed +it half open.</p> + +<p>“No matter. You’re nothing better than a housebreaker if you enter any +building about the place.”</p> + +<p>“I brak nae lock,” returned Malcolm. “I ha’e the key my lord gae me to +ilka place ’ithin the wa’s excep’ the strong room.”</p> + +<p>“Give it me directly. <i>I’m</i> master here now.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, I s’ du nae sic thing, sir. What he gae me I’ll keep.”</p> + +<p>“Give up that key, or I’ll go at once and get a warrant against you for +theft.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, we s’ refar ’t to Maister Soutar.”</p> + +<p>“Damn your impudence—’at I sud say ’t!—what has he to do with my +affairs? Come out of that directly.”</p> + +<p>“Huly, huly, sir!” returned Malcolm, in terror lest he should discover +who was with him.</p> + +<p>“You low-bred rascal! Who have you there with you?”</p> + +<p>As he spoke Mr Crathie would have forced his way into the dusky +chamber, where he could just perceive a motionless undefined form. But +stiff as a statue Malcolm kept his stand, and the door was immovable. +Mr Crathie gave a second and angrier push, but the youth’s corporeal as +well as his mental equilibrium was hard to upset, and his enemy drew +back in mounting fury.</p> + +<p>“Get out of there,” he cried, “or I’ll horsewhip you for a damned +blackguard.”</p> + +<p>“Whup awa’,” said Malcolm, “but in here ye s’ no come the nicht.”</p> + +<p>The factor rushed at him, his heavy whip upheaved—and the same moment +found himself, not in the room, but lying on the flower-bed in front of +it. Malcolm instantly stepped out, locked the door, put the key in his +pocket, and turned to assist him. But he was up already, and busy with +words unbefitting the mouth of an elder of the kirk.</p> + +<p>“Didna I say ’at ye sudna come in, sir? What for wull fowk no tak a +tellin’?” expostulated Malcolm.</p> + +<p>But the factor was far beyond force of logic or illumination of reason. +He raved and swore.</p> + +<p>“Get oot o’ my sicht,” he cried, “or I’ll shot ye like a tyke.”</p> + +<p>“Gang an’ fess yer gun,” said Malcolm, “an’ gien ye fin’ me waitin’ for +ye, ye can lat at me.”</p> + +<p>The factor uttered a horrible imprecation on himself if he did not make +him pay dearly for his behaviour.</p> + +<p>“Hoots, sir! Be asham’t o’ yersel’. Gang hame to the mistress, an’ I s’ +be up the morn’s mornin’ for my wauges.”</p> + +<p>“If ye set foot on the grounds again, I’ll set every dog in the place +upon you.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm laughed.</p> + +<p>“Gien I was to turn the order the ither gait, wad they min’ you or me, +div ye think, Maister Crathie?”</p> + +<p>“Give me that key, and go about your business.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, sir! What my lord gae me I s’ keep—for a’ the factors atween +this an’ the Land’s En’,” returned Malcolm. “An’ for lea’in’ the place, +gien I be na in your service, Maister Crathie, I’m nae un’er your +orders. I’ll gang whan it suits me. An’ mair yet, ye s’ gang oot o’ +this first, or I s’ gar ye, an that ye’ll see.”</p> + +<p>It was a violent proceeding, but for a matter of manners he was not +going to risk what of her good name poor Lizzy had left: like the books +of the Sibyl, that grew in value. He made, however, but one threatful +stride towards the factor, for the great man turned and fled.</p> + +<p>The moment he was out of sight, Malcolm unlocked the door, led Lizzy +out, and brought her through the tunnel to the sands. There he left +her, and set out for Scaurnose.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br><span class="small">BLUE PETER.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The door of Blue Peter’s cottage was opened by his sister. Not much +at home in the summer, when she carried fish to the country, she was +very little absent in the winter, and as there was but one room for +all uses, except the closet bedroom and the garret at the top of the +ladder, Malcolm, instead of going in, called to his friend, whom he saw +by the fire with his little Phemy upon his knee, to come out and speak +to him.</p> + +<p>Blue Peter at once obeyed the summons.</p> + +<p>“There’s naething wrang, I houp, Ma’colm?” he said, as he closed the +door behind him.</p> + +<p>“Maister Graham wad say,” returned Malcolm, “naething ever was wrang +but what ye did wrang yersel’, or wadna pit richt whan ye had a chance. +I ha’e him nae mair to gang till, Joseph, an’ sae I’m come to you. Come +doon by, an’ i’ the scoug o’ a rock, I’ll tell ye a’ aboot it.”</p> + +<p>“Ye wadna ha’e the mistress no ken o’ ’t?” said his friend. “I dinna +jist like haein’ secrets frae <i>her</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Ye sall jeedge for yersel’, man, an’ tell her or no jist as ye like. +Only she maun haud her tongue, or the black dog’ll ha’e a’ the butter.”</p> + +<p>“She can haud her tongue like the tae-stane o’ a grave,” said Peter.</p> + +<p>As they spoke they reached the cliff that hung over the shattered +shore. It was a clear, cold night. Snow, the remnants of the last +storm, which frost had preserved in every shadowy spot, lay all about +them. The sky was clear, and full of stars, for the wind that blew +cold from the north-west had dispelled the snowy clouds. The waves +rushed into countless gulfs and crannies and straits on the ruggedest +of shores, and the sounds of waves and wind kept calling like voices +from the unseen. By a path, seemingly fitter for goats than men, they +descended half-way to the beach, and under a great projection of rock +stood sheltered from the wind. Then Malcolm turned to Joseph Mair, +commonly called Blue Peter, because he had been a man-of-war’s man, and +laying his hand on his arm said:</p> + +<p>“Blue Peter, did ever I tell ye a lee?”</p> + +<p>“No, never,” answered Peter. “What gars ye speir sic a thing?”</p> + +<p>“Cause I want ye to believe me noo, an’ it winna be easy.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll believe onything ye tell me—’at <i>can</i> be believed.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I ha’e come to the knowledge ’at my name’s no MacPhail: it’s +Colonsay. Man, I’m the Markis o’ Lossie.”</p> + +<p>Without a moment’s hesitation, without a single stare of unbelief +or even astonishment, Blue Peter pulled off his bonnet, and stood +bareheaded before the companion of his toils.</p> + +<p>“Peter!” cried Malcolm, “dinna brak my hert: put on yer bonnet.”</p> + +<p>“The Lord o’ lords be thankit, my lord!” said Blue Peter: “the puir man +has a freen’ this day.”</p> + +<p>Then replacing his bonnet he said—</p> + +<p>“An’ what’ll be yer lordship’s wull?”</p> + +<p>“First and foremost, Peter, that my best freen’, efter my auld daddy +and the schulemaister, ’s no to turn again’ me ’cause I hed a markis +an’ neither piper nor fisher to my father.”</p> + +<p>“It’s no like it, my lord,” returned Blue Peter, “whan the first thing +I say is—what wad ye ha’e o’ me? Here I am—no speirin’ a queston!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I wad ha’e ye hear the story o’ ’t a’.”</p> + +<p>“Say on, my lord,” said Peter.</p> + +<p>But Malcolm was silent for a few moments.</p> + +<p>“I was thinkin’, Peter,” he said at last, “whether I cud bide to hear +you say <i>my lord</i> to me. Dootless, as it’ll ha’e to come to that, it +wad be better to grow used till ’t while we’re thegither, sae ’at whan +it maun be, it mayna ha’e the luik o’ cheenge intil it, for cheenge is +jist the thing I canna bide. I’ the meantime, hooever, we canna gi’e in +till ’t, ’cause it wad set fowk jaloosin’. But I wad be obleeged till +ye, Peter, gien you wad say <i>my lord</i> whiles, whan we’re oor lanes, +for I wad fain grow sae used till ’t ’at I never kent ye said it, for +’atween you an’ me, I dinna like it. An’ noo I s’ tell ye a’ ’at I ken.”</p> + +<p>When he had ended the tale of what had come to his knowledge, and how +it had come, and paused:</p> + +<p>“Gie ’s a grup o’ yer han’, my lord,” said Blue Peter, “an’ may God +haud ye lang in life an’ honour to reule ower us. Noo, gien ye please, +what are ye gauin’ to du?”</p> + +<p>“Tell ye me, Peter, what ye think I oucht to du.”</p> + +<p>“That wad tak a heap o’ thinkin’,” returned the fisherman; “but ae +thing seems aboot plain: ye ha’e no richt to lat yer sister gang +exposed to temptations ye cud haud frae her. That’s no, as ye promised, +to be kin’ till her. I canna believe that’s hoo yer father expeckit +o’ ye. I ken weel ’at fowk in his poseetion ha’ena the preevileeges +o’ the like o’ hiz—they ha’ena the win, an’ the watter, an’ whiles a +lee shore to gar them know they are but men, an’ sen’ them rattlin’ +at the wicket of h’aven; but still I dinna think, by yer ain accoont, +specially noo ’at I houp he’s forgi’en an’ latten in—God grant +it!—I div <i>not</i> think he wad like my leddy Florimel to be oon’er the +influences o’ sic a ane as that Leddy Bellair. Ye maun gang till her. +Ye ha’e nae ch’ice, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“But what am I to do, whan I div gang?”</p> + +<p>“That’s what ye hev to gang an’ see.”</p> + +<p>“An’ that’s what I ha’e been tellin’ mysel’, an’ what Miss Horn’s +been tellin’ me tu. But it’s a gran’ thing to get yer ain thouchts +corroborat. Ye see I’m feart for wrangin’ her for pride, and bringin’ +her doon to set mysel’ up.”</p> + +<p>“My lord,” said Blue Peter, solemnly, “ye ken the life o’ puir +fisher-fowk; ye ken hoo it micht be lichtened, sae lang as it laists, +an’ mony a hole steikit ’at the cauld deith creeps in at the noo: coont +ye them naething, my lord? Coont ye the wull o’ Providence, ’at sets +ye ower them, naething? What for could the Lord ha’e gie ye sic an +upbringin’ as no markis’s son ever hed afore ye, or maybe ever wull +ha’e efter ye, gien it bena ’at ye sud tak them in han’ to du yer pairt +by them? Gien ye forsak them noo, ye’ll be forgettin’ him ’at made them +an’ you, an’ the sea, an’ the herrin’ to be taen intill ’t. Gien ye +forget them, there’s nae houp for them, but the same deith ’ill keep on +swallowin’ at them upo’ sea an’ shore.”</p> + +<p>“Ye speyk the trowth as I ha’e spoken ’t till mysel’, Peter. Noo, +hearken: will ye sail wi’ me the nicht for Lon’on toon?”</p> + +<p>The fisherman was silent a moment—then answered, “I wull, my lord; but +I maun tell my wife.”</p> + +<p>“Rin, an’ fess her here than, for I’m fleyed at yer sister, honest +wuman, an’ little Phemy. It wad blaud a’ thing gien I was hurried to du +something afore I kenned what.”</p> + +<p>“I s’ ha’e her oot in a meenute,” said Joseph, and scrambled up the +cliff.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br><span class="small">VOYAGE TO LONDON.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>For a few minutes Malcolm stood alone in the dim starlight of winter, +looking out on the dusky sea, dark as his own future, into which +the wind now blowing behind him would soon begin to carry him. He +anticipated its difficulties, but never thought of perils: it was +seldom anything oppressed him but the doubt of what he ought to do. +This was ever the cold mist that swallowed the airy castles he built +and peopled with all the friends and acquaintances of his youth. But +the very first step towards action is the death-warrant of doubt, and +the tide of Malcolm’s being ran higher that night, as he stood thus +alone under the stars, than he had ever yet known it run. With all +his common-sense, and the abundance of his philosophy, which the much +leisure belonging to certain phases of his life had combined with +the slow strength of his intellect to render somewhat long-winded in +utterance, there was yet room in Malcolm’s bonnet for a bee above the +ordinary size, and if it buzzed a little too romantically for the taste +of the nineteenth century, about disguises and surprises and bounty +and plots and rescues and such like, something must be pardoned to +one whose experience had already been so greatly out of the common, +and whose nature was far too child-like and poetic, and developed in +far too simple a surrounding of labour and success, difficulty and +conquest, danger and deliverance, not to have more than the usual +amount of what is called <i>the romantic</i> in its composition.</p> + +<p>The buzzing of his bee was for the present interrupted by the return of +Blue Peter with his wife. She threw her arms round Malcolm’s neck, and +burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“Hoots, my woman!” said her husband, “what are ye greitin’ at?”</p> + +<p>“Eh, Peter!” she answered, “I canna help it. It’s jist like a deith. +He’s gauin’ to lea’ us a’, an’ gang hame till ’s ain, an’ I canna bide +’at he sud grow strange-like to hiz ’at ha’e kenned him sae lang.”</p> + +<p>“It’ll be an ill day,” returned Malcolm, “whan I grow strange to ony +freen’. I’ll ha’e to gang far down the laich (<i>low</i>) ro’d afore that be +poassible. I mayna aye be able to du jist what ye wad like; but lippen +ye to me: I s’ be fair to ye. An’ noo I want Blue Peter to gang wi’ me, +an’ help me to what I ha’e to du—gien ye ha’e nae objection to lat +him.”</p> + +<p>“Na, nane ha’e I. I wad gang mysel’ gien I cud be ony use,” answered +Mrs Mair; “but women are i’ the gait whiles.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I’ll no even say thank ye; I’ll be awin’ ye that as weel ’s the +lave. But gien I dinna du weel, it winna be the fau’t o’ ane or the +ither o’ you twa freen’s. Noo, Peter, we maun be aff.”</p> + +<p>“No the nicht, surely?” said Mrs Mair, a little taken by surprise.</p> + +<p>“The suner the better, lass,” replied her husband. “An’ we cudna ha’e a +better win’. Jist rin ye hame, an’ get some vicktooals thegither, an’ +come efter hiz to Portlossie.”</p> + +<p>“But hoo ’ill ye get the boat to the watter ohn mair han’s? I’ll need +to come mysel’ an’ fess Jean.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na; let Jean sit. There’s plenty i’ the Seaton to help. We’re +gauin’ to tak the markis’s cutter. She’s a heap easier to lainch, an’ +she’ll sail a heap fester.”</p> + +<p>“But what’ll Maister Crathie say?”</p> + +<p>“We maun tak oor chance o’ that,” answered her husband, with a smile +of confidence; and thereupon he and Malcolm set out for the Seaton, +while Mrs Mair went home to get ready some provisions for the voyage, +consisting chiefly of oatcakes.</p> + +<p>The prejudice against Malcolm from his imagined behaviour to Lizzy +Findlay, had by this time, partly through the assurances of Peter, +partly through the power of the youth’s innocent presence, almost died +out, and when the two men reached the Seaton, they found plenty of +hands ready to help them to reach the little sloop. Malcolm said he was +going to take her to Peterhead, and they asked no questions but such as +he contrived to answer with truth, or to leave unanswered. Once afloat, +there was very little to be done to her, for she had been laid up in +perfect condition, and as soon as Mrs Mair appeared with her basket, +and they had put that, a keg of water, some fishing-lines, and a pan of +mussels for bait, on board, they were ready to sail, and wished their +friends a light good-bye, leaving them to imagine they were gone but +for a day or two, probably on some business of Mr Crathie’s.</p> + +<p>With the wind from the north-west, they soon reached Duff Harbour, +where Malcolm went on shore and saw Mr Soutar. He, with a landsman’s +prejudice, made strenuous objections to such a mad prank as sailing to +London at that time of the year, but in vain. Malcolm saw nothing mad +in it, and the lawyer had to admit he ought to know best. He brought +on board with him a lad of Peter’s acquaintance, and now fully manned, +they set sail again, and by the time the sun appeared were not far from +Peterhead.</p> + +<p>Malcolm’s spirits kept rising as they bowled along over the bright cold +waters. He never felt so capable as when at sea. His energies had been +first called out in combat with the elements, and hence he always felt +strongest, most at home, and surest of himself on the water. Young +as he was, however, such had been his training under Mr Graham, that +a large part of this elevation of spirit was owing to an unreasoned +sense of being there more immediately in the hands of God. Later in +life, he interpreted the mental condition thus—that of course he was +always and in every place equally in God’s hands, but that at sea he +felt the truth more keenly. Where a man has nothing firm under him, +where his life depends on winds invisible and waters unstable, where +a single movement may be death, he learns to feel what is at the same +time just as true every night he spends asleep in the bed in which +generations have slept before him, or any sunny hour he spends walking +over ancestral acres.</p> + +<p>They put in at Peterhead, purchased a few provisions, and again set +sail.</p> + +<p>And now it seemed to Malcolm that he must soon come to a conclusion +as to the steps he must take when he reached London. But think as +he would, he could plan nothing beyond finding out where his sister +lived, going to look at the house, and getting into it if he might. +Nor could his companion help him with any suggestions, and indeed he +could not talk much with him because of the presence of Davy, a rough, +round-eyed, red-haired young Scot, of the dull invaluable class that +can only do what they are told, but do that to the extent of their +faculty.</p> + +<p>They knew all the coast as far as the Frith of Forth; after that they +had to be more careful. They had no charts on board, nor could have +made much use of any. But the wind continued favourable, and the +weather cold, bright, and full of life. They spoke many coasters on +their way, and received many directions.</p> + +<p>Off the Nore they had rough weather, and had to stand off and on for +a day and a night till it moderated. Then they spoke a fishing boat, +took a pilot on board, and were soon in smooth water. More and more +they wondered as the channel narrowed, and ended their voyage at length +below London Bridge, in a very jungle of masts.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br><span class="small">LONDON STREETS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Leaving Davy to keep the sloop, the two fishermen went on shore. +Passing from the narrow precincts of the river, they found themselves +at once in the roar of London city. Stunned at first, then excited, +then bewildered, then dazed, without plan to guide their steps, they +wandered about until, unused to the hard stones, their feet ached. It +was a dull day in March. A keen wind blew round the corners of the +streets. They wished themselves at sea again.</p> + +<p>“Sic a sicht o’ fowk!” said Blue Peter.</p> + +<p>“It’s hard to think,” rejoined Malcolm, “what w’y the God ’at made them +can luik efter them a’ in sic a tumult. But they say even the sheep-dog +kens ilk sheep i’ the flock ’at’s gien him in chairge.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, but ye see,” said Blue Peter, “they’re mair like a shoal o’ +herrin’ nor a flock o’ sheep.”</p> + +<p>“It’s no the num’er o’ them ’at plagues me,” said Malcolm. “The gran’ +diffeeculty is hoo He can lat ilk ane tak his ain gait an’ yet luik +efter them a’. But gien He does ’t, it stan’s to rizzon it maun be in +some w’y ’at them ’at’s sae luikit efter canna by ony possibeelity +un’erstan’.”</p> + +<p>“That’s trowth, I’m thinkin’. We maun jist gi’e up an’ confess there’s +things abune a’ human comprehension.”</p> + +<p>“Wha kens but that may be ’cause i’ their verra natur’ they’re ower +semple for craturs like hiz ’at’s made sae mixed-like, an’ see sae +little intill the hert o’ things?”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re ayont me there,” said Blue Peter, and a silence followed.</p> + +<p>It was a conversation very unsuitable to London Streets—but then these +were raw Scotch fisherman, who had not yet learned how absurd it is to +suppose ourselves come from anything greater than ourselves, and had no +conception of the liberty it confers on a man to know that he is the +child of a protoplasm, or something still more beautifully small.</p> + +<p>At length a policeman directed them to a Scotch eating-house, where +they fared after their country’s fashions, and from the landlady +gathered directions by which to guide themselves towards Curzon Street, +a certain number in which Mr Soutar had given Malcolm as Lady Bellair’s +address.</p> + +<p>The door was opened to Malcolm’s knock by a slatternly charwoman, who, +unable to understand a word he said, would, but for its fine frank +expression, have shut the door in his face. From the expression of +hers, however, Malcolm suddenly remembered that he must speak English, +and having a plentiful store of the book sort, he at once made himself +intelligible in spite of tone and accent. It was, however, only a +shifting of the difficulty, for he now found it nearly impossible to +understand her. But by repeated questioning and hard listening he +learnt at last that Lady Bellair had removed her establishment to Lady +Lossie’s house in Portland Place.</p> + +<p>After many curious perplexities, odd blunders, and vain endeavours to +understand shop signs and notices in the windows; after they had again +and again imagined themselves back at a place they had left miles +away; after many a useless effort to lay hold of directions given +so rapidly that the very sense could not gather the sounds, they at +length stood—not in Portland Place, but in front of Westminster Abbey. +Inquiring what it was, and finding they could go in, they entered.</p> + +<p>For some moments not a word was spoken between them, but when they +had walked slowly half-way up the nave, Malcolm turned and said, “Eh, +Peter! sic a blessin’!” and Peter replied, “There canna be muckle o’ +this i’ the warl’!”</p> + +<p>Comparing impressions afterwards, Peter said that the moment he stepped +in, he heard the rush of the tide on the rocks of Scaurnose; and +Malcolm declared he felt as if he had stepped out of the world into the +regions of eternal silence.</p> + +<p>“What a mercy it maun be,” he went on, “to mony a cratur, in sic a +whummle an’ a rum’le an’ a remish as this Lon’on, to ken ’at there is +sic a cave howkit oot o’ the din, ’at he can gang intill an’ say his +prayers intill! Man, Peter! I’m jist some feared whiles ’at the verra +din i’ my lugs mayna ’maist drive the thoucht o’ God oot o’ me.”</p> + +<p>At length they found their way into Regent Street, and leaving its mean +assertion behind, reached the stately modesty of Portland Place; and +Malcolm was pleased to think the house he sought was one of those he +now saw.</p> + +<p>It was one of the largest in the Place. He would not, however, yield +to the temptation to have a good look at it, for fear of attracting +attention from its windows and being recognised. They turned therefore +aside into some of the smaller thoroughfares lying between Portland +Place and Great Portland Street, where searching about, they came upon +a decent-looking public house and inquired after lodgings. They were +directed to a woman in the neighbourhood, who kept a dingy little +curiosity-shop. On payment of a week’s rent in advance, she allowed +them a small bedroom. But Malcolm did not want Peter with him that +night; he wished to be perfectly free; and besides it was more than +desirable that Peter should go and look after the boat and the boy.</p> + +<p>Left alone he fell once more to his hitherto futile scheming: How was +he to get near his sister? To the whitest of lies he had insuperable +objection, and if he appeared before her with no reason to give, would +she not be far too offended with his presumption to retain him in her +service? And except he could be near her as her servant, he did not see +a chance of doing anything for her without disclosing facts which might +make all such service as he would most gladly render her impossible, +by causing her to hate the very sight of him. Plan after plan rose and +passed from his mind rejected, and the only resolution he could come to +was to write to Mr Soutar, to whom he had committed the protection of +Kelpie, to send her up by the first smack from Aberdeen. He did so, and +wrote also to Miss Horn, telling her where he was, then went out, and +made his way back to Portland Place.</p> + +<p>Night had closed in, and thick vapours hid the moon, but lamps and +lighted windows illuminated the wide street. Presently it began +to snow. But through the snow and the night went carriages in all +directions, with great lamps that turned the flakes into white stars +for a moment as they gleamed past. The hoofs of the horses echoed hard +from the firm road.</p> + +<p>Could that house really belong to him? It did, yet he dared not enter +it. That which was dear and precious to him was in the house, and just +because of that he could not call it his own. There was less light +in it than in any other within his range. He walked up and down the +opposite side of the street its whole length some fifty times, but saw +no sign of vitality about the house. At length a brougham stopped at +the door, and a man got out and knocked. Malcolm instantly crossed, but +could not see his face. The door opened, and he entered. The brougham +waited. After about a quarter of an hour he came out again, accompanied +by two ladies, one of whom he judged by her figure to be Florimel. They +all got into the carriage, and Malcolm braced himself for a terrible +run. But the coachman drove carefully, the snow lay a few inches deep, +and he found no difficulty in keeping near them, following with fleet +foot and husbanded breath.</p> + +<p>They stopped at the doors of a large dark-looking building in a narrow +street. He thought it was a church, and wondered that so his sister +should be going there on a week night. Nor did the aspect of the +entrance hall, into which he followed them, undeceive him. It was more +showy, certainly, than the vestibule of any church he had ever been +in before, but what might not churches be in London? They went up a +great flight of stairs—to reach the gallery, as he thought, and still +he went after them. When he reached the top, they were just vanishing +round a curve, and his advance was checked: a man came up to him, said +he could not come there, and gruffly requested him to show his ticket.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t got one. What is this place?” said Malcolm, whom the aspect +of the man had suddenly rendered doubtful, mouthing his English with +Scotch deliberation.</p> + +<p>The man gave him a look of contemptuous surprise, and turning to +another who lounged behind him with his hands in his pockets, said—</p> + +<p>“Tom, here’s a gentleman as wants to know where he is: can you tell +him?”</p> + +<p>The person addressed laughed, and gave Malcolm a queer look.</p> + +<p>“Every cock crows on his own midden,” said Malcolm, “but if I were on +mine, I would try to be civil.”</p> + +<p>“You go down there, and pay for a pit ticket, and you’ll soon know +where you are, mate,” said Tom.</p> + +<p>He obeyed, and after a few inquiries, and the outlay of two shillings, +found himself in the pit of one of the largest of the London theatres.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br><span class="small">THE TEMPEST.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The play was begun, and the stage was the centre of light. Thither +Malcolm’s eyes were drawn the instant he entered. He was all but +unaware of the multitude of faces about him, and his attention was +at once fascinated by the lovely show revealed in soft radiance. But +surely he had seen the vision before! One long moment its effect +upon him was as real as if he had been actually deceived as to +its nature: was it not the shore between Scaurnose and Portlossie, +betwixt the Boar’s Tail and the sea? and was not that the marquis, +his father, in his dressing gown, pacing to and fro upon the +sands? He yielded himself to illusion—abandoned himself to the +wonderful, and looked only for what would come next.</p> + +<p>A lovely lady entered: to his excited fancy it was Florimel. A +moment more and she spoke.</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If by your art, my dearest father, you have</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.</span><br> +</p> + +<p>Then first he understood that before him rose in wondrous realization +the play of Shakspere he knew best—the first he had ever read: _The +Tempest_, hitherto a lovely phantom for the mind’s eye, now embodied +to the enraptured sense. During the whole of the first act he never +thought either of Miranda or Florimel apart. At the same time so taken +was he with the princely carriage and utterance of Ferdinand that, +though with a sigh, he consented he should have his sister.</p> + +<p>The drop-scene had fallen for a minute or two before he began to look +around him. A moment more and he had commenced a thorough search for +his sister amongst the ladies in the boxes. But when at length he found +her, he dared not fix his eyes upon her lest his gaze should make +her look at him, and she should recognise him. Alas, her eyes might +have rested on him twenty times without his face once rousing in her +mind the thought of the fisher-lad of Portlossie! All that had passed +between them in the days already old was virtually forgotten.</p> + +<p>By degrees he gathered courage, and soon began to feel that there was +small chance indeed of her eyes alighting upon him for the briefest of +moments. Then he looked more closely, and felt through rather than saw +with his eyes that some sort of change had already passed upon her. It +was Florimel, yet not the very Florimel he had known. Already something +had begun to supplant the girl-freedom that had formerly in every look +and motion asserted itself. She was more beautiful, but not so lovely +in his eyes; much of what had charmed him had vanished. She was more +stately, but the stateliness had a little hardness mingled with it: +and could it be that the first of a cloud had already gathered on her +forehead? Surely she was not so happy as she had been at Lossie House. +She was dressed in black, with a white flower in her hair.</p> + +<p>Beside her sat the bold-faced countess, and behind them her nephew, +Lord Meikleham that was now Lord Liftore. A fierce indignation seized +the heart of Malcolm at the sight. Behind the form of the earl, his +mind’s eye saw that of Lizzy, out in the wind on the Boar’s Tail, her +old shawl wrapped about herself and the child of the man who sat there +so composed and comfortable. His features were fine and clear-cut, +his shoulders broad, and his head well set: he had much improved +since Malcolm offered to fight him with one hand in the dining-room +of Lossie House. Every now and then he leaned forward between his +aunt and Florimel, and spoke to the latter. To Malcolm’s eyes she +seemed to listen with some haughtiness. Now and then she cast him an +indifferent glance. Malcolm was pleased: Lord Liftore was anything but +the Ferdinand to whom he could consent to yield his Miranda. They would +make a fine couple certainly, but for any other fitness, knowing what +he did, Malcolm was glad to perceive none. The more annoyed was he when +once or twice he fancied he caught a look between them that indicated +more than acquaintanceship— some sort of intimacy at least. But he +reflected that in the relation in which they stood to Lady Bellair it +could hardly be otherwise.</p> + +<p>The play was tolerably well put upon the stage, and free of the +absurdities attendant upon too ambitious an endeavour to represent +to the sense things which Shakspere and the dramatists of his period +freely committed to their best and most powerful ally, the willing +imagination of the spectators. The opening of the last scene, where +Ferdinand and Miranda are discovered at chess, was none the less +effective for its simplicity, and Malcolm was turning from a delighted +gaze at its loveliness to glance at his sister and her companions, when +his eyes fell on a face near him in the pit which had fixed an absorbed +regard in the same direction. It was that of a man a few years older +than himself, with irregular features, but a fine mouth, large chin; +and great forehead. Under the peculiarly prominent eyebrows shone dark +eyes of wondrous brilliancy and seeming penetration. Malcolm could not +but suspect that his gaze was upon his sister, but as they were a long +way from the boxes, he could not be certain. Once he thought he saw her +look at him, but of that also he could be in no wise certain.</p> + +<p>He knew the play so well that he rose just in time to reach the +pit-door ere exit should be impeded with the outcomers, and thence with +some difficulty he found his way to the foot of the stair up which +those he watched had gone. There he had stood but a little while, when +he saw in front of him, almost within reach of an outstretched hand, +the same young man waiting also. After what seemed a long time, he saw +his sister and her two companions come slowly down the stair in the +descending crowd. Her eyes seemed searching amongst the multitude that +filled the lobby. Presently an indubitable glance of still recognition +passed between them, and by a slight movement the young man placed +himself so that she must pass next him in the crowd. Malcolm got one +place nearer in the change, and thought they grasped hands. She turned +her head slightly back, and seemed to put a question—with her lips +only. He replied in the same manner. A light rushed into her face and +vanished. But not a feature moved and not a word had been spoken. +Neither of her companions had seen the dumb show, and her friend stood +where he was till they had left the house. Malcolm stood also, much +inclined to follow him when he went, but, his attention having been +attracted for a moment in another direction, when he looked again he +had disappeared. He sought him where he fancied he saw the movement +of his vanishing, but was soon convinced of the uselessness of the +attempt, and walked home.</p> + +<p>Before he reached his lodging, he had resolved on making trial of a +plan which had more than once occurred to him, but had as often been +rejected as too full of the risk of repulse.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br><span class="small">DEMON AND THE PIPES.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>His plan was to watch the house until he saw some entertainment going +on, then present himself as if he had but just arrived from her +ladyship’s country seat. At such a time no one would acquaint her with +his appearance, and he would, as if it were but a matter of course, at +once take his share in waiting on the guests. By this means he might +perhaps get her a little accustomed to his presence before she could be +at leisure to challenge it.</p> + +<p>When he put Kelpie in her stall the last time for a season, and ran +into the house to get his plaid for Lizzy, who was waiting him near +the tunnel, he bethought himself that he had better take with him also +what other of his personal requirements he could carry. He looked about +therefore, and finding a large carpet-bag in one of the garret rooms, +hurried into it some of his clothes—amongst them the Highland dress he +had worn as henchman to the marquis, and added the great Lossie pipes +his father had given to old Duncan as well, but which the piper had +not taken with him when he left Lossie House. The said Highland dress +he now resolved to put on, as that in which latterly Florimel had been +most used to see him: in it he would watch his opportunity of gaining +admission to the house.</p> + +<p>The next morning Blue Peter made his appearance early. They went +out together, spent the day in sight-seeing, and, on Malcolm’s part +chiefly, in learning the topography of London.</p> + +<p>In Hyde Park Malcolm told his friend that he had sent for Kelpie.</p> + +<p>“She’ll be the deid o’ ye i’ thae streets, as fu’ o’ wheels as the sea +o’ fish: twize I’ve been ’maist gr’un to poother o’ my ro’d here,” said +Peter.</p> + +<p>“Ay, but ye see, oot here amo’ the gentry it’s no freely sae ill, an’ +the ro’ds are no a’ stane; an’ here, ye see, ’s the place whaur they +come, leddies an’ a’, to ha’e their rides thegither. What I’m fleyt for +is ’at she’ll be brackin’ legs wi’ her deevilich kickin’.”</p> + +<p>“Haud her upo’ dry strae an’ watter for a whilie, till her banes begin +to cry oot for something to hap them frae the cauld: that’ll quaiet her +a bit,” said Peter.</p> + +<p>“It’s a’ ye ken!” returned Malcolm. “She’s aye the wau-natur’d, the +less she has to ate. Na, na; she maun be weel lined. The deevil in her +maun lie warm, or she’ll be neither to haud nor bin’. There’s nae doobt +she’s waur to haud in whan she’s in guid condeetion; but she’s nane sae +like to tak a body by the sma’ o’ the back, an’ shak the inside oot o’ +’im, as she maist did ae day to the herd-laddie at the ferm, only he +had an auld girth aboot the mids o’ ’im for a belt, an’ he tuik the +less scaith.”</p> + +<p>“Cudna we gang an’ see the maister the day?” said Blue Peter, changing +the subject.</p> + +<p>He meant Mr Graham, the late schoolmaster of Portlossie, whom the +charge of heretical teaching had driven from the place.</p> + +<p>“We canna weel du that till we hear whaur he is. The last time Miss +Horn h’ard frae him, he was changin’ his lodgin’s, an’ ye see the kin’ +o’ a place this Lon’on is,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>As soon as Peter was gone to return to the boat, Malcolm dressed +himself in his kilt and its belongings, and when it was fairly dusk, +took his pipes under his arm, and set out for Portland Place. He +had the better hope of speedy success to his plan, that he fancied +he had read on his sister’s lips, in the silent communication that +passed between her and her friend in the crowd, the words <i>come</i> and +<i>to-morrow</i>. It might have been the merest imagination, yet it was +something: how often have we not to be grateful for shadows! Up and +down the street he walked a long time, without seeing a sign of life +about the house. But at length the hall was lighted. Then the door +opened, and a servant rolled out a carpet over the wide pavement, which +the snow had left wet and miry—a signal for the street children, +ever on the outlook for sights, to gather. Before the first carriage +arrived, there was already a little crowd of humble watchers and +waiters about the gutter and curb-stone. But they were not destined to +much amusement that evening, the visitors amounting only to a small +dinner-party. Still they had the pleasure of seeing a few grand ladies +issue from their carriages, cross the stage of their Epiphany, the +pavement, and vanish in the paradise of the shining hall, with its +ascent of gorgeous stairs. No broken steps, no missing balusters there! +And they have the show all for nothing! It is one of the perquisites of +street-service. What one would give to see the shapes glide over the +field of those cameræ obscuræ, the hearts of the street Arabs! once to +gaze on the jewelled beauties through the eyes of those shocked-haired +girls! I fancy they do not often begrudge them what they possess, +except perhaps when feature or hair or motion chances to remind them of +some one of their own people, and they feel wronged and indignant that +<i>she</i> should flaunt in such splendour, “when <i>our Sally</i> would set off +grand clothes so much better!” It is neither the wealth nor the general +consequence it confers that they envy, but, as I imagine, the power of +making a show—of living in the eyes and knowledge of neighbours for a +few radiant moments: nothing is so pleasant to ordinary human nature +as to know itself by its reflection from others. When it turns from +these warped and broken mirrors to seek its reflection in the divine +thought, then it is redeemed; then it beholds itself in the perfect law +of liberty.</p> + +<p>Before he became himself an object of curious interest to the crowd +he was watching, Malcolm had come to the same conclusion with many a +philosopher and observer of humanity before him—that on the whole the +rags are inhabited by the easier hearts; and he would have arrived at +the conclusion with more certainty but for the <i>high</i> training that +cuts off intercourse between heart and face.</p> + +<p>When some time had elapsed, and no more carriages appeared, Malcolm, +judging the dinner must now be in full vortex, rang the bell of the +front door. It was opened by a huge footman, whose head was so small in +proportion that his body seemed to have absorbed it. Malcolm would have +stepped in at once, and told what of his tale he chose at his leisure; +but the servant, who had never seen the dress Malcolm wore, except on +street-beggars, with the instinct his class shares with watch-dogs, +quickly closed the door. Ere it reached the post, however, it found +Malcolm’s foot between.</p> + +<p>“Go along, Scotchy. You’re not wanted here,” said the man, pushing the +door hard. “Police is round the corner.”</p> + +<p>Now one of the weaknesses Malcolm owed to his Celtic blood was an utter +impatience of rudeness. In his own nature entirely courteous, he was +wrathful even to absurdity at the slightest suspicion of insult. But +that, in part through the influence of Mr Graham, the schoolmaster, +he had learned to keep a firm hold on the reins of action, this +foolish feeling would not unfrequently have hurried him into conduct +undignified. On the present occasion, I fear the main part of his +answer, but for the shield of the door, would have been a blow to fell +a bigger man than the one that now glared at him through the shoe-broad +opening. As it was, his words were fierce with suppressed wrath.</p> + +<p>“Open the door, an’ lat me in,” was, however, all he said.</p> + +<p>“What’s your business?” asked the man, on whom his tone had its effect.</p> + +<p>“My business is with my Lady Lossie,” said Malcolm, recovering his +English, which was one step towards mastering, if not recovering, his +temper.</p> + +<p>“You can’t see her. She’s at dinner.”</p> + +<p>“Let me in, and I’ll wait. I come from Lossie House.”</p> + +<p>“Take away your foot and I’ll go and see,” said the man.</p> + +<p>“No. You open the door,” returned Malcolm.</p> + +<p>The man’s answer was an attempt to kick his foot out of the doorway. If +he were to let in a tramp, what would the butler say?</p> + +<p>But thereupon Malcolm set his port-vent to his mouth, rapidly filled +his bag, while the man stared as if it were a petard with which he was +about to blow the door to shivers, and then sent from the instrument +such a shriek, as it galloped off into the Lossie Gathering, that +involuntarily his adversary pressed both hands to his ears. With a +sudden application of his knee Malcolm sent the door wide, and entered +the hall, with his pipes in full cry. The house resounded with their +yell—but only for one moment. For down the stair, like bolt from +catapult, came Demon, Florimel’s huge Irish stag-hound, and springing +on Malcolm, put an instant end to his music. The footman laughed with +exultation, expecting to see him torn to pieces. But when instead +he saw the fierce animal, a foot on each of his shoulders, licking +Malcolm’s face with long fiery tongue, he began to doubt.</p> + +<p>“The dog knows you,” he said sulkily.</p> + +<p>“So shall you, before long,” returned Malcolm. “Was it my fault that I +made the mistake of looking for civility from you? One word to the dog, +and he has you by the throat.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go and fetch Wallis,” said the man, and closing the door, left +the hall.</p> + +<p>Now this Wallis had been a fellow-servant of Malcolm’s at Lossie House, +but he did not know that he had gone with Lady Bellair when she took +Florimel away: almost everyone had left at the same time. He was now +glad indeed to learn that there was one amongst the servants who knew +him.</p> + +<p>Wallis presently made his appearance, with a dish in his hands, on his +way to the dining-room, from which came the confused noises of the +feast.</p> + +<p>“You’ll be come up to wait on Lady Lossie,” he said. “I haven’t a +moment to speak to you now, for we’re at dinner, and there’s a party.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind me. Give me that dish; I’ll take it in: you can go for +another,” said Malcolm, laying his pipes in a safe spot.</p> + +<p>“You can’t go into the dining-room that figure,” said Wallis, who was +in the Bellair livery.</p> + +<p>“This is how I waited on my lord,” returned Malcolm, “and this is how +I’ll wait on my lady.”</p> + +<p>Wallis hesitated. But there was that about the fisher-fellow was too +much for him. As he spoke, Malcolm took the dish from his hands, and +with it walked into the dining-room.</p> + +<p>There one reconnoitring glance was sufficient. The butler was at the +sideboard opening a champagne bottle. He had cut wire and strings, +and had his hand on the cork as Malcolm walked up to him. It was a +critical moment, yet he stopped in the very article, and stared at the +apparition.</p> + +<p>“I’m Lady Lossie’s man from Lossie House. I’ll help you to wait,” said +Malcolm.</p> + +<p>To the eyes of the butler he looked a savage. But there he was in the +room with the dish in his hands, and speaking at least intelligibly; +the cork of the champagne bottle was pushing hard against his palm, and +he had no time to question. He peeped into Malcolm’s dish.</p> + +<p>“Take it round, then,” he said. So Malcolm settled into the business of +the hour.</p> + +<p>It was some time, after he knew where she was, before he ventured to +look at his sister: he would have her already familiarised with his +presence before their eyes met. That crisis did not arrive during +dinner.</p> + +<p>Lord Liftore was one of the company, and so, to Malcolm’s pleasure, +for he felt in him an ally against the earl, was Florimel’s mysterious +friend.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br><span class="small">A NEW LIVERY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Scarcely had the ladies gone to the drawing-room, when Florimel’s maid, +who knew Malcolm, came in quest of him. Lady Lossie desired to see him.</p> + +<p>“What is the meaning of this, MacPhail?” she said, when he entered the +room where she sat alone. “I did not send for you. Indeed, I thought +you had been dismissed with the rest of the servants.”</p> + +<p>How differently she spoke! And she used to call him <i>Malcolm</i>! The girl +Florimel was gone, and there sat—the marchioness, was it? —or some +phase of riper womanhood only? It mattered little to Malcolm. He was no +curious student of man or woman. He loved his kind too well to study +it. But one thing seemed plain: she had forgotten the half friendship +and whole service that had had place betwixt them, and it made him feel +as if the soul of man no less than his life were but as a vapour that +appeareth for a little and then vanisheth away.</p> + +<p>But Florimel had not so entirely forgotten the past as Malcolm +thought—not so entirely at least but that his appearance, and certain +difficulties in which she had begun to find herself, brought something +of it again to her mind.</p> + +<p>“I thought,” said Malcolm, assuming his best English, “your ladyship +might not choose to part with an old servant at the will of a factor, +and so took upon me to appeal to your ladyship to decide the question.”</p> + +<p>“But how is that? Did you not return to your fishing when the household +was broken up?”</p> + +<p>“No, my lady. Mr Crathie kept me to help Stoat, and do odd jobs about +the place.”</p> + +<p>“And now he wants to discharge you?”</p> + +<p>Then Malcolm told her the whole story, in which he gave such a +description of Kelpie, that her owner, as she imagined herself, +expressed a strong wish to see her; for Florimel was almost +passionately fond of horses.</p> + +<p>“You may soon do that, my lady,” said Malcolm. “Mr Soutar, not being +of the same mind as Mr Crathie, is going to send her up. It will be +but the cost of the passage from Aberdeen, and she will fetch a better +price here if your ladyship should resolve to part with her. She won’t +fetch the third of her value anywhere, though, on account of her bad +temper and ugly tricks.”</p> + +<p>“But as to yourself, MacPhail—where are you going to go?” said +Florimel. “I don’t like to send you away, but, if I keep you, I don’t +know what to do with you. No doubt you could serve in the house, but +that would not be suitable at all to your education and previous life.”</p> + +<p>“A body wad tak you for a granny grown!” said Malcolm to himself. But +to Florimel he replied—“If your ladyship should wish to keep Kelpie, +you will have to keep me too, for not a creature else will she let near +her.”</p> + +<p>“And pray tell me what use then can I make of such an animal,” said +Florimel.</p> + +<p>“Your ladyship, I should imagine, will want a groom to attend you when +you are out on horseback, and the groom will want a horse— and here am +I and Kelpie!” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Florimel laughed.</p> + +<p>“I see,” she said. “You contrive I shall have a horse nobody can manage +but yourself.”</p> + +<p>She rather liked the idea of a groom so mounted, and had too much +well-justified faith in Malcolm to anticipate dangerous results.</p> + +<p>“My lady,” said Malcolm, appealing to her knowledge of his character to +secure credit, for he was about to use his last means of persuasion, +and as he spoke, in his eagerness he relapsed into his mother +tongue,—“My lady, did I ever tell ye a lee?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not, Malcolm, so far as I know. Indeed I am sure you never +did,” answered Florimel, looking up at him in a dominant yet kindly way.</p> + +<p>“Then,” continued Malcolm, “I’ll tell your ladyship something you +may find hard to believe, and yet is as true as that I loved your +ladyship’s father.—Your ladyship knows he had a kindness for me.”</p> + +<p>“I do know it,” answered Florimel gently, moved by the tone of +Malcolm’s voice, and the expression of his countenance.</p> + +<p>“Then I make bold to tell your ladyship that on his deathbed your +father desired me to do my best for you—took my word that I would be +your ladyship’s true servant.”</p> + +<p>“Is it so, indeed, Malcolm?” returned Florimel, with a serious wonder +in her tone, and looked him in the face with an earnest gaze. She had +loved her father, and it sounded in her ears almost like a message from +the tomb.</p> + +<p>“It’s as true as I stan’ here, my leddy,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Florimel was silent for a moment. Then she said, “How is it that only +now you come to tell me?”</p> + +<p>“Your father never desired me to tell you, my lady—only he never +imagined you would want to part with me, I suppose. But when you did +not care to keep me, and never said a word to me when you went away, +I could not tell how to do as I had promised him. It wasn’t that one +hour I forgot his wish, but that I feared to presume; for if I should +displease your ladyship my chance was gone. So I kept about Lossie +House as long as I could, hoping to see my way to some plan or other. +But when at length Mr Crathie turned me away, what was I to do but come +to your ladyship? And if your ladyship will let things be as before +in the way of service, I mean—I canna doot, my leddy, but it’ll be +pleesant i’ the sicht o’ yer father, whanever he may come to ken o’ ’t, +my leddy.”</p> + +<p>Florimel gave him a strange, half-startled look. Hardly more than once +since her father’s funeral had she heard him alluded to, and now this +fisher-lad spoke of him as if he were still at Lossie House.</p> + +<p>Malcolm understood the look.</p> + +<p>“Ye mean, my leddy—I ken what ye mean,” he said. “I canna help it. For +to lo’e onything is to ken ’t immortal. He’s livin’ to me, my leddy.”</p> + +<p>Florimel continued staring, and still said nothing.</p> + +<p>I sometimes think that the present belief in mortality is nothing but +the almost universal although unsuspected unbelief in immortality grown +vocal and articulate.</p> + +<p>But Malcolm gathered courage and went on,</p> + +<p>“An’ what for no, my leddy?” he said, floundering no more in attempted +English, but soaring on the clumsy wings of his mother-dialect. “Didna +he turn his face to the licht afore he dee’d? an’ him ’at rase frae +the deid said ’at whaever believed in him sud never dee. Sae we maun +believe ’at he’s livin’, for gien we dinna believe what <i>he</i> says, what +<i>are</i> we to believe, my leddy?”</p> + +<p>Florimel continued yet a moment looking him fixedly in the face. The +thought did arise that perhaps he had lost his reason, but she could +not look at him thus and even imagine it. She remembered how strange +he had always been, and for a moment had a glimmering idea that in +this young man’s friendship she possessed an incorruptible treasure. +The calm, truthful, believing, almost for the moment enthusiastic, +expression of the young fisherman’s face wrought upon her with a +strangely quieting influence. It was as if one spoke to her out of a +region of existence of which she had never even heard, but in whose +reality she was compelled to believe because of the sound of the voice +that came from it.</p> + +<p>Malcolm seldom made the mistake of stamping into the earth any seeds of +truth he might cast on it: he knew when to say no more, and for a time +neither spoke. But now for all the coolness of her upper crust, Lady +Florimel’s heart glowed—not indeed with the power of the shining truth +Malcolm had uttered, but with the light of gladness in the possession +of such a strong, devoted, disinterested squire.</p> + +<p>“I wish you to understand,” she said at length, “that I am not at +present mistress of this house, although it belongs to me. I am but +the guest of Lady Bellair who has rented it of my guardians. I cannot +therefore arrange for you to be here. But you can find accommodation +in the neighbourhood, and come to me every day for orders. Let me know +when your mare arrives: I shall not want you till then. You will find +room for her in the stables. You had better consult the butler about +your groom’s-livery.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm was astonished at the womanly sufficiency with which she gave +her orders. He left her with the gladness of one who has had his +righteous desire, held consultation with the butler on the matter +of the livery, and went home to his lodging. There he sat down and +meditated.</p> + +<p>A strange new yearning pity rose in his heart as he thought about his +sister and the sad facts of her lonely condition. He feared much that +her stately composure was built mainly on her imagined position in +society, and was not the outcome of her character. Would it be cruelty +to destroy that false foundation, hardly the more false as a foundation +for composure that beneath it lay a mistake? —or was it not rather +a justice which her deeper and truer self had a right to demand of +him? At present, however, he need not attempt to answer the question. +Communication even such as a trusted groom might have with her, and +familiarity with her surroundings, would probably reveal much. Meantime +it was enough that he would now be so near her that no important change +of which others might be aware, could well approach her without his +knowledge, or anything take place without his being able to interfere +if necessary.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.<br><span class="small">TWO CONVERSATIONS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The next day Wallis came to see Malcolm and take him to the tailor’s. +They talked about the guests of the previous evening.</p> + +<p>“There’s a great change on Lord Meikleham,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“There is that,” said Wallis. “I consider him much improved. But +you see he’s succeeded; he’s the earl now, and Lord Liftore—and a +menseful, broad-shouldered man to the boot of the bargain. He used to +be such a windle-straw!”</p> + +<p>In order to speak good English, Wallis now and then, like some Scotch +people of better education, anglicized a word ludicrously.</p> + +<p>“Is there no news of his marriage?” asked Malcolm, adding, “they say he +has great property.”</p> + +<p>“My love she’s but a lassie yet,” said Wallis, “—though she too has +changed quite as much as my lord.”</p> + +<p>“Who are you speaking of?” asked Malcolm, anxious to hear the talk of +the household on the matter.</p> + +<p>“Why, Lady Lossie, of course. Anybody with half an eye can see as much +as that.”</p> + +<p>“Is it settled then?”</p> + +<p>“That would be hard to say. Her ladyship is too like her father: no one +can tell what may be her mind the next minute. But, as I say, she’s +young, and ought to have her fling first—so far, that is, as we can +permit it to a woman of her rank. Still, as I say, anybody with half +an eye can see the end of it all: he’s for ever hovering about her. My +lady, too, has set her mind on it, and for my part I can’t see what +better she can do. I must say I approve of the match. I can see no +possible objection to it.”</p> + +<p>“We used to think he drank too much,” suggested Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Claret,” said Wallis, in a tone that seemed to imply no one could +drink too much of that.</p> + +<p>“No, not claret only. I’ve seen the whisky follow the claret.”</p> + +<p>“Well, he don’t now—not whisky at least. He don’t drink too much—not +much too much—not more than a gentleman should. He don’t look like +it—does he now? A good wife, such as my Lady Lossie will make him, +will soon set him all right. I think of taking a similar protection +myself, one of these days.”</p> + +<p>“He is not worthy of her,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Well, I confess his family won’t compare with hers. There’s a +grandfather in it somewhere that was a banker or a brewer or a soap +boiler, or something of the sort, and she and her people have been +earls and marquises ever since they walked arm in arm out of the ark. +But, bless you! all that’s been changed since I came to town. So long +as there’s plenty of money and the mind to spend it, we have learned +not to be exclusive. It’s selfish that. It’s not Christian. Everything +lies in the mind to spend it though. Mrs Tredger— that’s our +lady’s-maid—only this is a secret—says it’s all settled—she knows it +for certain fact—only there’s nothing to be said about it yet—she’s +so young, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Who was the man that sat nearly opposite my lady, on the other side of +the table?” asked Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“I know who you mean. Didn’t look as if he’d got any business there +—not like the rest of them, did he? No, they never do. Odd and end +sort of people like he is, never do look the right thing— let them try +ever so hard. How can they when they ain’t it? That’s a fellow that’s +painting Lady Lossie’s portrait! Why he should be asked to dinner for +that, I’m sure I can’t tell. He ain’t paid for it in victuals, is he? +I never saw such land leapers let into Lossie House, <i>I</i> know! But +London’s an awful place. There’s no such a thing as respect of persons +here. Here you meet the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, any +night in my lady’s drawing-room. I declare to <i>you</i>, Mawlcolm MacPhail, +it makes me quite uncomfortable at times to think who I may have been +waiting upon without knowing it. For that painter-fellow, Lenorme they +call him, I could knock him on the teeth with the dish every time I +hold it to him. And to see him stare at Lady Lossie as he does!”</p> + +<p>“A painter must want to get a right good hold of the face he’s got to +paint,” said Malcolm. “Is he here often?”</p> + +<p>“He’s been here five or six times already,” answered Wallis, “and how +many times more I may have to fill his glass, I don’t know. <i>I</i> always +give him second-best sherry, <i>I</i> know. I’m sure the time that pictur’s +been on hand! He ought to be ashamed of himself. If she’s been once +to his studio, she’s been twenty times—to give him sittings, as they +call it. He’s making a pretty penny of it, I’ll be bound! I wonder he +has the cheek to show himself when my lady treats him so haughtily. But +those sort of people have no proper feelin’s, you see: it’s not to be +expected of such.”</p> + +<p>Wallis liked the sound of his own sentences, and a great deal more talk +of similar character followed before they got back from the tailor’s. +Malcolm was tired enough of him, and never felt the difference between +man and man more strongly than when, after leaving him, he set out +for a walk with Blue Peter, whom he found waiting him at his lodging. +On this same Blue Peter, however, Wallis would have looked down +from the height of his share of the marquisate as one of the lower +orders—ignorant, vulgar, even dirty.</p> + +<p>They had already gazed together upon not a few of the marvels of +London, but nothing had hitherto moved or drawn them so much as the +ordinary flow of the currents of life through the huge city. Upon +Malcolm, however, this had now begun to pall, while Peter already +found it worse than irksome, and longed for Scaurnose. At the same +time loyalty to Malcolm kept him from uttering a whisper of his +home-sickness. It was yet but the fourth day they had been in London.</p> + +<p>“Eh, my lord!” said Blue Peter, when by chance they found themselves +in the lull of a little quiet court, somewhere about Gray’s Inn, with +the roar of Holborn in their ears, “it’s like a month sin’ I was at the +kirk. I’m feart the din’s gotten into my heid, an’ I’ll never get it +oot again. I cud maist wuss I was a mackerel, for they tell me the fish +hears naething. I ken weel noo what ye meant, my lord, whan ye said ye +dreidit the din micht gar ye forget yer Macker.”</p> + +<p>“I hae been wussin’ sair mysel’, this last twa days,” responded +Malcolm, “’at I cud get ae sicht o’ the jaws clashin’ upo’ the +Scaurnose, or rowin’ up upo’ the edge o’ the links. The din o’ natur’ +never troubles the guid thouchts in ye. I reckon it’s ’cause it’s a +kin’ o’ a harmony in ’tsel’, an’ a harmony’s jist, as the maister used +to say, a higher kin’ o’ a peace. Yon organ ’at we hearkent till ae day +ootside the kirk, ye min’—man, it was a quaietness in ’tsel’, and cam +throu’ the din like a bonny silence—like a lull i’ the win’ o’ this +warl’! It wasna a din at a’, but a gran’ repose like. But this noise +tumultuous o’ human strife, this din’ o’ iron shune an’ iron wheels, +this whurr and whuzz o’ buyin’ an’ sellin’ an’ gettin’ gain—it disna +help a body to their prayers.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, na, my lord! Jist think o’ the preevilege—I never saw nor thoucht +o’ ’t afore—o’ haein’ ’t i’ yer pooer, ony nicht ’at ye’re no efter +the fish, to stap oot at yer ain door, an’ be in the mids o’ the +temple! Be ’t licht or dark, be ’t foul or fair, the sea sleepin’ or +ragin’, ye ha’e aye room, an’ naething atween ye an’ the throne o’ the +Almichty, to the whilk yer prayers ken the gait, as weel ’s the herrin’ +to the shores o’ Scotlan’: ye ha’e but to lat them flee, an’ they gang +straucht there. But here ye ha’e aye to luik sae gleg efter yer boady, +’at, as ye say, my lord, yer sowl’s like to come aff the waur, gien it +binna clean forgotten.”</p> + +<p>“I doobt there’s something no richt aboot it, Peter,” returned Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“There maun be a heap no richt aboot it,” answered Peter.</p> + +<p>“Ay, but I’m no meanin’ ’t jist as ye du. I had the haill thing throu’ +my heid last nicht, an’ I canna but think there’s something wrang +wi’ a man gien he canna hear the word o’ God as weel i’ the mids o’ +a multitude no man can number, a’ made ilk ane i’ the image o’ the +Father—as weel, I say, as i’ the hert o’ win’ an’ watter an’ the lift +an’ the starns an’ a’. Ye canna say ’at thae things are a’ made i’ the +image o’ God, in the same w’y, at least, ’at ye can say ’t o’ the body +an’ face o’ a man, for throu’ them the God o’ the whole earth revealed +Himsel’ in Christ.”</p> + +<p>“Ow, weel, I wad alloo what ye say, gien they war a’ to be considered +Christi-ans.”</p> + +<p>“Ow, I grant we canna weel du that i’ the full sense, but I doobt, gien +they bena a’ Christi-ans ’at ca’s themsels that, there’s a heap mair +Christi-anity nor gets the credit o’ its ain name. I min’ weel hoo +Maister Graham said to me ance ’at hoo there was something o’ Him ’at +made him, luikin’ oot o’ the een o’ ilka man ’at he had made; an’ what +wad ye ca’ that but a scart or a straik o’ Christi-anity.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I kenna; but ony gait I canna think it can be again’ the trowth +o’ the gospel to wuss yersel’ mair alane wi’ yer God nor ye ever can be +in sic an awfu’ Babylon o’ a place as this.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, Peter; I’m no sayin’ that. I ken weel we’re to gang intill the +closet and shut to the door. I’m only afeart ’at there be something +wrang in mysel’ ’at taks ’t ill to be amon’ sae mony neibors. I’m +thinkin’ ’at, gien a’ was richt ’ithin me, gien I lo’ed my neibor +as the Lord wad hae them ’at lo’ed Him lo’e ilk ane his brither, I +micht be better able to pray amang them—ay, i’ the verra face o’ the +bargainin’ an’ leein’ a’ aboot me.”</p> + +<p>“An’ min’ ye,” said Peter, pursuing the train of his own thoughts, and +heedless of Malcolm’s, “’at oor Lord himsel’ bude whiles to win awa’, +even frae his dissiples, to be him-lane wi’ the Father o’ ’im.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ye’re richt there, Peter,” answered Malcolm, “but there’s ae +p’int in ’t ye maunna forget—and that is ’at it was never i’ the +day-time—sae far ’s I min’—’at he did sae. The lee-lang day he was +among ’s fowk—workin’ his michty wark. Whan the nicht cam, in which no +man could wark, he gaed hame till ’s Father, as ’t war. Eh me! but it’s +weel to ha’e a man like the schuilmaister to put trowth intill ye. I +kenna what comes o’ them ’at ha’e drucken maisters, or sic as cares for +naething but coontin’ an Laitin, an’ the likes o’ that!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.<br><span class="small">FLORIMEL.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>That night Florimel had her thoughts as well as Malcolm. Already life +was not what it had been to her, and the feeling of a difference is +often what sets one a-thinking first. While her father lived, and the +sureness of his love over-arched her consciousness with a heaven of +safety, the physical harmony of her nature had supplied her with a more +than sufficient sense of well-being. Since his death, too, there had +been times when she even fancied an enlargement of life in the sense of +freedom and power which came with the knowledge of being a great lady, +possessed of the rare privilege of an ancient title and an inheritance +which seemed to her a yet greater wealth than it was. But she had soon +found that, as to freedom, she had less of that than before—less of +the feeling of it within her: not much freedom of any sort is to be +had without fighting for it, and she had yet to discover that the only +freedom worth the name —that of heart, and soul, and mind—is not to +be gained except through the hardest of battles. She was very lonely, +too. Lady Bellair had never assumed with her any authority, and had +always been kind even to petting, but there was nothing about her to +make a home for the girl’s heart. She felt in her no superiority, and +for a spiritual home that is essential. As she learned to know her +better, this sense of loneliness went on deepening, for she felt more +and more that her guardian was not one in whom she could place genuine +confidence, while yet her power over her was greater than she knew. The +innocent nature of the girl had begun to recoil from what she saw in +the woman of the world, and yet she had in herself worldliness enough +to render her fully susceptible of her influences. Notwithstanding her +fine health and natural spirits, Florimel had begun to know what it +is to wake suddenly of a morning between three and four, and lie for +a long weary time, sleepless. In youth bodily fatigue ensures falling +asleep, but as soon as the body is tolerably rested, if there be unrest +in the mind, that wakes it, and consciousness returns in the shape of +a dull misgiving like the far echo of the approaching trump of the +arch-angel. Indeed, those hours are as a vestibule to the great hall +of judgment, and to such as, without rendering it absolute obedience, +yet care to keep on some sort of terms with their conscience, is +a time of anything but comfort. Nor does the court in those hours +sitting, concern itself only with heavy questions of right or wrong, +but whoever loves and cares himself for his appearance before the eyes +of men, finds himself accused of paltry follies, stupidities, and +indiscretions, and punished with paltry mortifications, chagrins, and +anxieties. From such arraignment no man is free but him who walks in +the perfect law of liberty—that is, the will of the Perfect—which +alone is peace.</p> + +<p>On the morning after she had thus taken Malcolm again into her service, +Florimel had one of these experiences—a foretaste of the Valley of +the Shadow: she awoke in the hour when judgment sits upon the hearts +of men. Or is it not rather the hour for which a legion of gracious +spirits are on the watch—when, fresh raised from the death of sleep, +cleansed a little from the past and its evils by the gift of God, the +heart and brain are most capable of their influences?—the hour when, +besides, there is no refuge of external things wherein the man may +shelter himself from the truths they would so gladly send conquering +into the citadel of his nature, —no world of the senses to rampart +the soul from thought, when the eye and the ear are as if they were +not, and the soul lies naked before the infinite of reality. This live +hour of the morning is the most real hour of the day, the hour of the +motions of a prisoned and persecuted life, of its effort to break +through and breathe. A good man then finds his refuge in the heart of +the Purifying Fire; the bad man curses the swarms of Beelzebub that +settle upon every sore spot in his conscious being.</p> + +<p>But it was not the general sense of unfitness in the conditions of her +life, neither was it dissatisfaction with Lady Bellair, or the want of +the pressure of authority upon her unstable being; it was not the sense +of loneliness and unshelteredness in the sterile waste of fashionable +life, neither was it weariness with the same and its shows, or all +these things together, that could have waked the youth of Florimel +and kept it awake at this hour of the night —for night that hour is, +however near the morning.</p> + +<p>Some few weeks agone, she had accompanied to the study of a certain +painter, a friend who was then sitting to him for her portrait. The +moment she entered, the appearance of the man and his surroundings laid +hold of her imagination. Although on the very verge of popularity, +he was young—not more than five and twenty. His face, far from what +is called handsome, had a certain almost grandeur in it, owed mainly +to the dominant forehead, and the regnant life in the eyes. To this +the rest of the countenance was submissive. The mouth was sweet yet +strong, seeming to derive its strength from the will that towered +above and overhung it, throned on the crags of those eyebrows. The +nose was rather short, not unpleasantly so, and had mass enough. +In figure he was scarcely above the usual height, but well formed. +To a first glance even, the careless yet graceful freedom of his +movements was remarkable, while his address was manly, and altogether +devoid of self-recommendation. Confident modesty and unobtrusive ease +distinguished his demeanour. His father, Arnold Lenorme, descended from +an old Norman family, had given him the Christian name of Raoul, which, +although outlandish, tolerably fitted the surname, notwithstanding +the contiguous <i>l</i>’s, objectionable to the fastidious ear of their +owner. The earlier and more important part of his education, the +beginnings, namely, of everything he afterwards further followed, +his mother herself gave him, partly because she was both poor and +capable, and partly because she was more anxious than most mothers +for his best welfare. The poverty they had crept through, as those +that strive after better things always will, one way or another, with +immeasurable advantage, and before the time came when he must leave +home, her influence had armed him in adamant—a service which alas! few +mothers seem capable of rendering the knights whom they send out into +the battle-field of the world. Most of them give their children the +best they have; but how shall a foolish woman ever be a wise mother? +The result in his case was, that reverence for her as the type of +womanhood, working along with a natural instinct for refinement, a keen +feeling of the incompatibility with art of anything in itself low or +unclean, and a healthful and successful activity of mind, had rendered +him so far upright and honourable that he had never yet done that in +one mood which in another he had looked back upon with loathing. As +yet he had withstood the temptations belonging to his youth and his +profession—in great measure also the temptations belonging to success; +he had not yet been tried with disappointment, or sorrow, or failure.</p> + +<p>As to the environment in which Florimel found him, it was to her a +region of confused and broken colour and form—a kind of chaos out of +which beauty was ever ready to start. Pictures stood on easels, leaned +against chair-backs, glowed from the wall—each contributing to the +atmosphere of solved rainbow that seemed to fill the space. Lenorme +was seated—not at his easel, but at a grand piano, which stood away, +half-hidden in a corner, as if it knew itself there on sufferance, +with pictures all about the legs of it. For they had walked straight +in without giving his servant time to announce them. A bar of a song, +in a fine tenor voice, broke as they opened the door; and the painter +came to meet them from the farther end of the study. He shook hands +with Florimel’s friend, and turned with a bow to her. At the first +glance the eyes of both fell. Raised the same instant, they encountered +each other point blank, and then the eloquent blood had its turn at +betrayal. What the moment meant, Florimel did not understand; but it +seemed as if Raoul and she had met somewhere long ago, were presumed +not to know it, but could not help remembering it, and agreeing to +recognise it as a fact. A strange pleasure filled her heart. While +Mrs Barnardiston sat, she flitted about the room like a butterfly, +looking at one thing after another, and asking now the most ignorant, +now the most penetrative question, disturbing not a little the work, +but sweetening the temper of the painter, as he went on with his study +of the mask and helmet into which the Gorgon stare of the Unideal had +petrified the face and head of his sitter. He found the situation +trying nevertheless. It was as if Cupid had been set by Jupiter to +take a portrait of Io in her stall, while evermore he heard his Psyche +fluttering about among the peacocks in the yard. For the girl had +bewitched him at first sight. He thought it was only as an artist, +though to be sure a certain throb, almost of pain, in the region of the +heart, when first his eyes fell before hers, might have warned, and +perhaps did in vain warn him otherwise. Sooner than usual he professed +himself content with the sitting, and then proceeded to show the ladies +some of his sketches and pictures. Florimel asked to see one standing +as in disgrace with its front to the wall. He put it, half reluctantly, +on an easel, and said it was meant for the unveiling of Isis, as +presented in a mӓhrchen of Novalis, introduced in _Die Lehrlinge zu +Sais_, in which the goddess of Nature reveals to the eager and anxious +gaze of the beholder the person of his Rosenblüthchen, whom he had left +behind him when he set out to visit the temple of the divinity. But +on the great pedestal where should have sat the goddess there was no +gracious form visible. That part of the picture was a blank. The youth +stood below, gazing enraptured with parted lips and outstretched arms, +as if he had already begun to suspect what had begun to dawn through +the slowly thinning veil—but to the eye of the beholder he gazed as +yet only on vacancy, and the picture had not reached an attempt at +self-explanation. Florimel asked why he had left it so long unfinished, +for the dust was thick on the back of the canvas.</p> + +<p>“Because I have never seen the face or figure,” the painter answered, +“either in eye of mind or of body, that claimed the position.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, his eyes seemed to Florimel to lighten strangely, and as +if by common consent they turned away, and looked at something else. +Presently Mrs Barnardiston, who cared more for sound than form or +colour, because she could herself sing a little, began to glance over +some music on the piano, curious to find what the young man had been +singing, whereupon Lenorme said to Florimel hurriedly, and almost in a +whisper, with a sort of hesitating assurance,</p> + +<p>“If <i>you</i> would give me a sitting or two—I know I am presumptuous, but +if you would—I—I should send the picture to the Academy in a week.”</p> + +<p>“I will,” replied Florimel, flushing like a wild poppy, and as she said +it, she looked up in his face and smiled.</p> + +<p>“It would have been selfish,” she said to herself as they drove away, +“to refuse him.”</p> + +<p>This first interview, and all the interviews that had followed, now +passed through her mind as she lay awake in the darkness preceding the +dawn, and she reviewed them not without self-reproach. But for some of +my readers it will be hard to believe that one of the feelings that +now tormented the girl was a sense of lowered dignity because of the +relation in which she stood to the painter—seeing there was little or +no ground for moral compunction, and the feeling had its root merely +in the fact that he was a painter-fellow, and she a marchioness. Her +rank had already grown to seem to her so identified with herself +that she was hardly any longer capable of the analysis that should +show it distinct from her being. As to any <i>duty</i> arising from her +position, she had never heard the word used except as representing +something owing to, not owed by rank. Social standing in the eyes of +the super-excellent few of fashion was the Satan of unrighteousness +worshipped around her. And the precepts of this worship fell upon soil +prepared for it. For with all the simplicity of her nature, there +was in it an inborn sense of rank, of elevation in the order of the +universe above most others of the children of men—of greater intrinsic +worth therefore in herself. How could it be otherwise with the +offspring of generations of pride and falsely conscious superiority? +Hence, as things were going now with the mere human part of her, some +commotion, if not earthquake indeed, was imminent. Nay the commotion +had already begun, as manifest in her sleeplessness and the thoughts +that occupied it.</p> + +<p>Rightly to understand the sense of shame and degradation she had not +unfrequently felt of late, we must remember that in the circle in +which she moved she heard professions, arts, and trades alluded to +with the same unuttered, but the more strongly implied contempt —a +contempt indeed regarded as so much a matter of course, so thoroughly +understood, so reasonable in its nature, so absolute in its degree, +that to utter it would have been bad taste from very superfluity. +Yet she never entered the painter’s study but with trembling heart, +uncertain foot, and fluttering breath, as of one stepping within the +gates of an enchanted paradise, whose joy is too much for the material +weight of humanity to ballast even to the steadying of the bodily step, +and the outward calm of the bodily carriage. How far things had gone +between them we shall be able to judge by-and-by; it will be enough at +present to add that it was this relation and the inward strife arising +from it that had not only prematurely, but over rapidly ripened the +girl into the woman.</p> + +<p>This my disclosure of her condition, however, has not yet uncovered +the sorest spot upon which the flies of Beelzebub settled in the +darkness of this torture hour of the human clock. Although still the +same lively, self-operative nature she had been in other circumstances, +she was so far from being insensible or indifferent to the opinions of +others, that she had not even strength enough to keep a foreign will +off the beam of her choice: the will of another, in no way directly +brought to bear on hers, would yet weigh to her encouragement where +her wish was doubtful, or to her restraint where impulse was strong; +it would even move her towards a line of conduct whose anticipated +results were distasteful to her. Ever and anon her pride would rise +armed against the consciousness of slavery, but its armour was too weak +either for defence or for deliverance. She knew that the heart of Lady +Bellair, what of heart she had, was set upon her marriage with her +nephew, Lord Liftore. Now she recoiled from the idea of marriage, and +dismissed it into a future of indefinite removal; she had no special +desire to please Lady Bellair from the point of gratitude, for she +was perfectly aware that her relation to herself was far from being +without advantage to that lady’s position as well as means: a whisper +or two that had reached her had been enough to enlighten her in that +direction; neither could she persuade herself that Lord Liftore was +at all the sort of man she could become proud of as a husband; and +yet she felt destined to be his wife. On the other hand she had no +dislike to him: he was handsome, well-informed, capable—a gentleman, +she thought, of good regard in the circles in which they moved, and +one who would not in any manner disgrace her, although to be sure he +was her inferior in rank, and she would rather have married a duke. +At the same time, to confess all the truth, she was by no means +indifferent to the advantages of having for a husband a man with money +enough to restore the somewhat tarnished prestige of her own family to +its pristine brilliancy. She had never said a word to encourage the +scheming of Lady Bellair; neither, on the other hand, had she ever +said a word to discourage her hopes, or give her ground for doubting +the acceptableness of her cherished project. Hence Lady Bellair had +naturally come to regard the two as almost affianced. But Florimel’s +aversion to the idea of marriage, and her horror at the thought of +the slightest whisper of what was between her and Lenorme, increased +together.</p> + +<p>There were times too when she asked herself in anxious discomfort +whether she was not possibly a transgressor against a deeper and +simpler law than that of station—whether she was altogether maidenly +in the encouragement she had given and was giving to the painter. It +must not be imagined that she had once visited him without a companion, +though that companion was indeed sometimes only her maid—her real +object being covered by the true pretext of sitting for her portrait, +which Lady Bellair pleased herself with imagining would one day be +presented to Lord Liftore. But she could not, upon such occasions of +morning judgment as this, fail to doubt sorely whether the visits she +paid him, and the liberties which upon fortunate occasions she allowed +him, were such as could be justified on any ground other than that +she was prepared to give him all. All, however, she was by no means +prepared to give him: that involved consequences far too terrible to be +contemplated even as possibilities.</p> + +<p>With such causes for disquiet in her young heart and brain, it is not +then wonderful that she should sometimes be unable to slip across this +troubled region of the night in the boat of her dreams, but should +suffer shipwreck on the waking coast, and have to encounter the staring +and questioning eyes of more than one importunate truth. Nor is it +any wonder either that, to such an inexperienced and so troubled a +heart, the assurance of one absolutely devoted friend should come with +healing and hope—even if that friend should be but a groom, altogether +incapable of understanding her position, or perceiving the phantoms +that crowded about her, threatening to embody themselves in her ruin. A +clumsy, ridiculous fellow, she said to herself, from whose person she +could never dissociate the smell of fish, who talked a horrible jargon +called Scotch, and who could not be prevented from uttering unpalatable +truths at uncomfortable moments; yet whose thoughts were as chivalrous +as his person was powerful, and whose countenance was pleasing if only +for the triumph of honesty therein: she actually felt stronger and +safer to know he was near, and at her beck and call.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.<br><span class="small">PORTLOSSIE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Mr Crathie, seeing nothing more of Malcolm, believed himself at last +well rid of him; but it was days before his wrath ceased to flame, +and then it went on smouldering. Nothing occurred to take him to the +Seaton, and no business brought any of the fisher-people to his office +during that time. Hence he heard nothing of the mode of Malcolm’s +departure. When at length in the course of ordinary undulatory +propagation the news reached him that Malcolm had taken the yacht with +him, he was enraged beyond measure at the impudence of the theft, as he +called it, and ran to the Seaton in a fury. He had this consolation, +however: the man who had accused him of dishonesty and hypocrisy had +proved but a thief.</p> + +<p>He found the boat-house indeed empty, and went storming from cottage +to cottage, but came upon no one from whom his anger could draw +nourishment, not to say gain satisfaction. At length he reached the +Partan’s, found him at home, and commenced, at hap-hazard, abusing him +as an aider and abettor of the felony. But Meg Partan was at home also, +as Mr Crathie soon learned to his cost; for, hearing him usurp her +unique privilege of falling out upon her husband, she stole from the +ben end, and having stood for a moment silent in the doorway, listening +for comprehension, rushed out in a storm of tongue.</p> + +<p>“An’ what for sudna my man,” she cried, at full height of her +screeching voice, “lay tu his han’ wi’ ither honest fowk to du for the +boat what him ’at was weel kent for the captain o’ her, sin’ ever she +was a boat, wantit dune? Wad ye tak the comman’ o’ the boat, sir, as +weel ’s o’ a’ thing ither aboot the place?”</p> + +<p>“Hold your tongue, woman,” said the factor; “I have nothing to say to +you.”</p> + +<p>“Aigh, sirs! but it’s a peety ye wasna foreordeent to be markis +yersel’! It maun be a sair vex to ye ’at ye’re naething but the factor.”</p> + +<p>“If ye don’t mind your manners, Mistress Fin’lay,” said Mr Crathie in +glowing indignation, “perhaps you’ll find that the factor is as much as +the marquis, when he’s all there is for one.”</p> + +<p>“Lord safe ’s! hear till ’im!” cried the Partaness. “Wha wad hae +thoucht it o’ ’im? There’s fowk ’at it sets weel to tak upo’ them! His +father, honest man, wad ne’er hae spoken like that to Meg Partan; but +syne he <i>was</i> an honest man, though he was but the heid-shepherd upo’ +the estate. Man, I micht hae been yer mither—gien I had been auld +eneuch for ’s first wife, for he wad fain hae had me for ’s second.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve a great mind to take out a warrant against you, John Fin’lay, +otherwise called the Partan, as airt an’ pairt in the stealing of the +Marchioness of Lossie’s pleasure-boat,” said the factor. “And for you, +Mistress Fin’lay, I would have you please to remember that this house, +as far at least as you are concerned, is mine, although I am but the +factor, and not the marquis; and if you don’t keep that unruly tongue +of yours a little quieter in your head, I’ll set you in the street the +next quarter day but one, as sure ’s ever you gutted a herring, and +then you may bid good-bye to Portlossie, for there’s not a house, as +you very well know, in all the Seaton, that belongs to another than her +ladyship.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, Mr Crathie,” returned Meg Partan, a little sobered by the +threat, “ye wad hae mair sense nor rin the risk o’ an uprisin’ o’ the +fisher-fowk. They wad ill stan’ to see my auld man an’ me misused, no +to say ’at her leddyship hersel’ wad see ony o’ her ain fowk turned oot +o’ hoose an’ haudin’ for naething ava.”</p> + +<p>“Her ladyship wad gi’e hersel’ sma’ concern gien the haill bilin’ o’ ye +war whaur ye cam frae,” returned the factor. “An’ for the toon here, +the fowk kens the guid o’ a quaiet caus’ay ower weel to lament the loss +o’ ye.”</p> + +<p>“The deil’s i’ the man!” cried the Partaness in high scorn. “He wad +threep upo’ me ’at I was ane o’ thae lang-tongued limmers ’at maks +themsels h’ard frae ae toon’s en’ to the tither! But I s’ gar him priv +’s words yet!”</p> + +<p>“Ye see, sir,” interposed the mild Partan, anxious to shove extremities +aside, “we didna ken ’at there was onything intill ’t by ord’nar. Gien +we had but kent ’at he was oot o’ yer guid graces,——”</p> + +<p>“Haud yer tongue afore ye lee, man,” interrupted his wife. “Ye ken weel +eneuch ye wad du what Ma’colm MacPhail wad hae ye du, for ony factor in +braid Scotlan’.”</p> + +<p>“You <i>must</i> have known,” said the factor to the Partan, apparently +heedless of this last outbreak of the generous evil temper, and laying +a cunning trap for the information he sorely wanted, but had as yet +failed in procuring—“else why was it that not a soul went with him? He +could ill manage the boat alone.”</p> + +<p>“What put sic buff an’ styte i’ yer heid, sir?” rejoined Meg; defiant +of the hints her husband sought to convey to her. “There’s mony ane wad +hae been ready to gang, only wha sud gang but him ’at gaed wi’ him an’ +’s lordship frae the first?”</p> + +<p>“And who was that?” asked Mr Crathie.</p> + +<p>“Ow! wha but Blue Peter?” answered Meg.</p> + +<p>“Hm!” said the factor, in a tone that for almost the first time in her +life made the woman regret that she had spoken, and therewith he rose +and left the cottage.</p> + +<p>“Eh, mither!” cried Lizzy, in her turn appearing from the ben-end, with +her child in her arms, “ye hae wroucht ruin i’ the earth! He’ll hae +Peter an’ Annie an’ a’ oot o’ hoose an’ ha’, come midsummer.”</p> + +<p>“I daur him till ’t!” cried her mother, in the impotence and +self-despite of a mortifying blunder; “I’ll raise the toon upon ’im.”</p> + +<p>“What wad that du, mither?” returned Lizzy, in distress about her +friends. “It wad but mak ill waur.”</p> + +<p>“An’ wha are ye to oppen yer mou’ sae wide to yer mither?” burst forth +Meg Partan, glad of an object upon which the chagrin that consumed her +might issue in flame. “Ye ha’ena luikit to yer ain gait sae weel ’at ye +can thriep to set richt them ’at broucht ye forth.—Wha are ye, I say?” +she repeated in rage.</p> + +<p>“Ane ’at folly’s made wiser, maybe, mither,” answered Lizzie sadly, +and proceeded to take her shawl from behind the door: she would go to +her friends at Scaurnose, and communicate her fears for their warning. +But her words smote the mother within the mother, and she turned and +looked at her daughter with more of the woman and less of the Partan +in her rugged countenance than had been visible there since the first +week of her married life. She had been greatly injured by the gaining +of too easy a conquest and resultant supremacy over her husband, whence +she had ever after revelled in a rule too absolute for good to any +concerned. As she was turning away, her daughter caught a glimpse of +her softened eyes, and went out of the house with more comfort in her +heart than she had felt ever since first she had given her conscience +cause to speak daggers to her.</p> + +<p>The factor kept raging to himself all the way home, flung himself +trembling on his horse, vouchsafing his anxious wife scarce any answer +to her anxious enquiries, and galloped to Duff Harbour to Mr Soutar.</p> + +<p>I will not occupy my tale with their interview. Suffice it to say that +the lawyer succeeded at last in convincing the demented factor that it +would be but prudent to delay measures for the recovery of the yacht +and the arrest and punishment of its abductors, until he knew what Lady +Lossie would say to the affair. She had always had a liking for the +lad, Mr Soutar said, and he would not be in the least surprised to hear +that Malcolm had gone straight to her ladyship and put himself under +her protection. No doubt by this time the cutter was at its owner’s +disposal: it would be just like the fellow! He always went the nearest +road anywhere. And to prosecute him for a thief would in any case but +bring down the ridicule of the whole coast upon the factor, and breed +him endless annoyance in the getting in of his rents—especially among +the fishermen. The result was that Mr Crathie went home—not indeed +a humbler or wiser man than he had gone, but a thwarted man, and +therefore the more dangerous in the channels left open to the outrush +of his angry power.</p> + +<p>When Lizzy reached Scaurnose, her account of the factor’s behaviour, to +her surprise, did not take much effect upon Mrs Mair: a queer little +smile broke over her countenance, and vanished. An enforced gravity +succeeded, however, and she began to take counsel with Lizzy as to what +they could do, or where they could go, should the worst come to the +worst, and the doors, not only of her own house, but of Scaurnose and +Portlossie as well, be shut against them. But through it all reigned +a calm regard and fearlessness of the future which, to Lizzy’s roused +and apprehensive imagination, was strangely inexplicable. Annie Mair +seemed possessed of some hidden and upholding assurance that raised her +above the fear of man or what he could do to her. The girl concluded +it must be the knowledge of God, and prayed more earnestly that night +than she had prayed since the night on which Malcolm had talked to +her so earnestly before he left. I must add this much, that she was +not altogether astray: God was in Malcolm, giving new hope to his +fisher-folk.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.<br><span class="small">ST JAMES THE APOSTLE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When Malcolm left his sister, he had a dim sense of having lapsed into +Scotch, and set about buttressing and strengthening his determination +to get rid of all unconscious and unintended use of the northern +dialect, not only that, in his attendance upon Florimel, he might be +neither offensive nor ridiculous, but that, when the time should come +in which he must appear what he was, it might be less of an annoyance +to her to yield the marquisate to one who could speak like a gentleman +and one of the family. But not the less did he love the tongue he +had spoken from his childhood, and in which were on record so many +precious ballads and songs, old and new; and he resolved that, when he +came out as a marquis, he would at Lossie House indemnify himself for +the constraint of London. He would not have an English servant there +except Mrs Courthope: he would not have the natural country speech +corrupted with cockneyisms, and his people taught to speak like Wallis! +To his old friends the fishers and their families, he would never +utter a sentence but in the old tongue, haunted with all the memories +of relations that were never to be obliterated or forgotten, its very +tones reminding him and them of hardships together endured, pleasures +shared, and help willingly given. At night, notwithstanding, he found +that in talking with Blue Peter, he had forgotten all about his +resolve, and it vexed him with himself not a little. He now saw that if +he could but get into the way of speaking English to <i>him</i>, the victory +would be gained, for with no one else would he find any difficulty then.</p> + +<p>The next morning he went down to the stairs at London Bridge, and took +a boat to the yacht. He had to cross several vessels to reach it. When +at length he looked down from the last of them on the deck of the +little cutter, he saw Blue Peter sitting on the coamings of the hatch, +his feet hanging down within. He was lost in the book he was reading. +Curious to see, without disturbing him, what it was that so absorbed +him, Malcolm dropped quietly on the tiller, and thence on the deck, +and approaching softly peeped over his shoulder. He was reading the +epistle of James the apostle. Malcolm fell a-thinking. From Peter’s +thumbed Bible his eyes went wandering through the thicket of masts, in +which moved so many busy seafarers, and then turned to the docks and +wharfs and huge warehouses lining the shores; and while they scanned +the marvellous vision, the thoughts that arose and passed through his +brain were like these: “What are ye duin’ here, Jeames the Just? Ye was +naething but a fisher-body upon a sma’ watter i’ the hert o’ the hills, +’at wasna even saut; an’ what can the thochts that gaed throu’ your +fish-catchin’ brain hae to du wi’ sic a sicht ’s this? I won’er gien +at this moment there be anither man in a’ Lon’on sittin’ readin’ that +epis-tle o’ yours but Blue Peter here? <i>He</i> thinks there’s naething +o’ mair importance, ’cep’ maybe some ither pairts o’ the same buik; +but syne he’s but a puir fisher-body himsel’, an’ what kens he o’ +the wisdom an’ riches an’ pooer o’ this michty queen o’ the nations, +thron’t aboot him?—Is ’t possible the auld body kent something ’at +was jist as necessar’ to ilka man, the busiest in this croodit mairt, +to ken an’ gang by, as it was to Jeames an’ the lave o’ the michty +apostles themsels? For me, I dinna doobt it—but hoo it sud ever be +onything but an auld-warld story to the new warld o’ Lon’on, I think it +wad bleck Maister Graham himsel’ til imaigine.”</p> + +<p>Before this, Blue Peter had become aware that some one was near him, +but, intent on the words of his brother fisher of the old time, had +half-unconsciously put off looking up to see who was behind him. When +now he did so, and saw Malcolm, he rose and touched his bonnet.</p> + +<p>“It was jist i’ my heid, my lord,” he said, without any preamble, “sic +a kin’ o’ a h’avenly Jacobin as this same Jacobus was! He’s sic a +leveller as was feow afore ’im, I doobt, wi’ his gowd-ringt man, an’ +his cloot-cled brither! He pat me in twa min’s, my lord, whan I got up, +whether I wad touch my bonnet to yer lordship or no.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm laughed with hearty appreciation.</p> + +<p>“When I am king of Lossie,” he said, “be it known to all whom it may +concern, that it is and shall be the right of Blue Peter, and all his +descendants, to the end of time, to stand with bonneted heads in the +presence of Lord or—no, not Lady, Peter—of the house of Lossie.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, but ye see, Ma’colm,” said Peter, forgetting his address, and his +eye twinkling in the humour of the moment, “it’s no by your leave, or +ony man’s leave; it’s the richt o’ the thing; an’ that I maun think +aboot, an’ see whether I be at leeberty to ca’ ye <i>my lord</i> or no.”</p> + +<p>“Meantime, don’t do it,” said Malcolm, “lest you should have to change +afterwards. You might find it difficult.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re cheengt a’ready,” said Blue Peter, looking up at him sharply. “I +ne’er h’ard ye speyk like that afore.”</p> + +<p>“Make nothing of it,” returned Malcolm. “I am only airing my English +on you; I have made up my mind to learn to speak in London as London +people do, and so, even to you, in the meantime only, I am going to +speak as good English as I can.—It’s nothing between you and me, Peter +and you must not mind it,” he added, seeing a slight cloud come over +the fisherman’s face.</p> + +<p>Blue Peter turned away with a sigh. The sounds of English speech from +the lips of Malcolm addressed to himself, seemed vaguely to indicate +the opening of a gulf between them, destined ere long to widen to the +whole social width between a fisherman and a marquis, swallowing up in +it not only all old memories, but all later friendship and confidence. +A shadow of bitterness crossed the poor fellow’s mind, and in it the +seed of distrust began to strike root, and all because a newer had been +substituted for an older form of the same speech and language. Truly +man’s heart is a delicate piece of work, and takes gentle handling or +hurt. But that the pain was not all of innocence is revealed in the +strange fact, afterwards disclosed by the repentant Peter himself, +that, in that same moment, what had just passed his mouth as a joke, +put on an important, serious look, and appeared to involve a matter +of doubtful duty: was it really right of one man to say <i>my lord</i> to +another? Thus the fisherman, and not the marquis, was the first to sin +against the other because of altered fortune. Distrust awoke pride in +the heart of Blue Peter, and he erred in the lack of the charity that +thinketh no evil.</p> + +<p>But the lack and the doubt made little show as yet. The two men rowed +in the dinghy down the river to the Aberdeen wharf to make arrangements +about Kelpie, whose arrival Malcolm expected the following Monday, then +dined together, and after that had a long row up the river.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.<br><span class="small">A DIFFERENCE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Notwithstanding his keenness of judgment and sobriety in action, +Malcolm had yet a certain love for effect, a delight, that is, in the +show of concentrated results, which, as I believe I have elsewhere +remarked, belongs especially to the Celtic nature, and is one form +in which the poetic element vaguely embodies itself. Hence arose the +temptation to try on Blue Peter the effect of a literally theatrical +surprise. He knew well the prejudices of the greater portion of the +Scots people against every possible form of artistic, most of all, +dramatic representation. He knew, therefore, also, that Peter would +never be persuaded to go with him to the theatre: to invite him would +be like asking him to call upon Beelzebub; but as this feeling was +cherished in utter ignorance of its object, he judged he would be doing +him no wrong if he made experiment how the thing itself would affect +the heart and judgment of the unsophisticated fisherman.</p> + +<p>Finding that <i>The Tempest</i> was still the play represented, he +contrived, as they walked together, so to direct their course that they +should be near Drury Lane towards the hour of commencement. He did not +want to take him in much before the time: he would not give him scope +for thought, doubt, suspicion, discovery.</p> + +<p>When they came in front of the theatre, people were crowding in, and +carriages setting down their occupants. Blue Peter gave a glance at the +building.</p> + +<p>“This’ll be ane o’ the Lon’on kirks, I’m thinkin’?” he said. “It’s +a muckle place; an’ there maun be a heap o’ guid fowk in Lon’on, +for as ill ’s it’s ca’d, to see sae mony, an’ i’ their cairritches, +comin’ to the kirk—on a Setterday nicht tu. It maun be some kin’ o’ a +prayer-meetin’, I’m thinkin’.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm said nothing, but led the way to the pit entrance.</p> + +<p>“That’s no an ill w’y o’ getherin’ the baubees,” said Peter, seeing how +the in-comers paid their money. “I hae h’ard o’ the plate bein’ robbit +in a muckle toon afore noo.”</p> + +<p>When at length they were seated, and he had time to glance reverently +around him, he was a little staggered at sight of the decorations; +and the thought crossed his mind of the pictures and statues he had +heard of in catholic churches; but he remembered Westminster Abbey, +its windows and monuments, and returned to his belief that he was, if +in an episcopal, yet in a protestant church. But he could not help the +thought that the galleries were a little too gaudily painted, while +the high pews in them astonished him. Peter’s nature, however, was one +of those calm, slow ones which, when occupied by an idea or a belief, +are by no means ready to doubt its correctness, and are even ingenious +in reducing all apparent contradictions to theoretic harmony with +it—whence it came that to him all this was only part of the church +furniture according to the taste and magnificence of London. He sat +quite tranquil, therefore, until the curtain rose, revealing the ship’s +company in all the confusion of the wildest of sea storms.</p> + +<p>Malcolm watched him narrowly. But Peter was first so taken by surprise, +and then so carried away with the interest of what he saw, that +thinking had ceased in him utterly, and imagination lay passive as a +mirror to the representation. Nor did the sudden change from the first +to the second scene rouse him, for before his thinking machinery could +be set in motion, the delight of the new show had again caught him in +its meshes. For to him, as it had been to Malcolm, it was the shore at +Portlossie, while the cave that opened behind was the Bailie’s Barn, +where his friends the fishers might at that moment, if it were a fine +night, be holding one of their prayer meetings. The mood lasted all +through the talk of Prospero and Miranda; but when Ariel entered there +came a snap, and the spell was broken. With a look in which doubt +wrestled with horror, Blue Peter turned to Malcolm, and whispered with +bated breath—</p> + +<p>“I’m jaloosin’—it canna be—it’s no a playhoose, this?”</p> + +<p>Malcolm merely nodded, but from the nod Peter understood that <i>he</i> had +had no discovery to make as to the character of the place they were in.</p> + +<p>“Eh!” he groaned, overcome with dismay. Then rising suddenly— “Guid +nicht to ye, my lord,” he said, with indignation, and rudely forced his +way from the crowded house.</p> + +<p>Malcolm followed in his wake, but said nothing till they were in the +street. Then, forgetting utterly his resolves concerning English in the +distress of having given his friend ground to complain of his conduct +towards him, he laid his hand on Blue Peter’s arm, and stopped him in +the middle of the narrow street.</p> + +<p>“I but thoucht, Peter,” he said, “to get ye to see wi’ yer ain een, an’ +hear wi’ yer ain ears, afore ye passed jeedgment; but ye’re jist like +the lave.”</p> + +<p>“An’ what for sudna I be jist like the lave?” returned Peter, fiercely.</p> + +<p>“’Cause it’s no fair to set doon a thing for wrang ’at ye ha’e been +i’ the w’y o’ hearing aboot by them ’at kens as little aboot them as +yersel’. I cam here mysel’, ohn kent whaur I was gaein’, the ither +nicht, for the first time i’ my life; but I wasna fleyt like you, +’cause I kent frae the buik a’ ’at was comin’. I ha’e h’ard in a kirk +in ae ten meenutes jist a sicht o’ what maun ha’e been sair displeasin’ +to the hert a’ the maister o’ ’s a’; but that nicht I saw nae ill an’ +h’ard nae ill, but was weel peyed back upo’ them ’at did it an’ said +it afore the business was ower, an’ that’s mair nor ye’ll see i’ the +streets o’ Portlossie ilka day. The play-hoose is whaur ye gang to see +what comes o’ things ’at ye canna follow oot in ordinar’ life.”</p> + +<p>Whether Malcolm, after a year’s theatre-going, would have said +precisely the same is hardly doubtful. He spoke of the ideal theatre to +which Shakspere is true, and in regard to that he spoke rightly.</p> + +<p>“Ye decoy’t me intill the hoose o’ ineequity!” was Peter’s indignant +reply; “an’ it’s no what ye ever ga’e me cause to expec’ o’ ye, sae ’at +I micht ha’e ta’en tent o’ ye.”</p> + +<p>“I thoucht nae ill o’ ’t,” returned Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Weel, <i>I div</i>,” retorted Peter.</p> + +<p>“Then perhaps you are wrong,” said Malcolm, “for charity thinketh no +evil. You wouldn’t stay to see the thing out.”</p> + +<p>“There ye are at yer English again! an’ misgugglin’ Scriptur’ wi’ ’t, +an’ a’ this upo’ Setterday nicht—maist the Sawbath day! Weel, I ha’e +aye h’ard ’at Lon’on was an awfu’ place, but I little thoucht the verra +air o’ ’t wad sae sune turn an honest laad like Ma’colm MacPhail intill +a scoffer. But maybe it’s the markis o’ ’im, an’ no the muckle toon +’at’s made the differ. Ony gait, I’m thinkin’ it’ll be aboot time for +me to be gauin’ hame.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm was vexed with himself, and both disappointed and troubled at +the change which had come over his friend, and threatened to destroy +the life-long relation between them; his feelings therefore held him +silent. Peter concluded that <i>the marquis</i> was displeased, and it +clenched his resolve to go.</p> + +<p>“What w’y am I to win hame, my lord?” he said, when they had walked +some distance without word spoken.</p> + +<p>“By the Aberdeen smack,” returned Malcolm. “She sails on Tuesday. +I will see you on board. You must take young Davy with you, for I +wouldn’t have him here after you are gone. There will be nothing for +him to do.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re unco ready to pairt wi’ ’s noo ’at ye ha’e nae mair use for ’s,” +said Peter.</p> + +<p>“No sae ready as ye seem to pairt wi’ yer chairity,” said Malcolm, now +angry too.</p> + +<p>“Ye see Annie ’ill be thinkin’ lang,” said Peter, softening a little.</p> + +<p>No more angry words passed between them, but neither did any thoroughly +cordial ones, and they parted at the stairs in mutual, though, with +such men, it could not be more than superficial estrangement.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.<br><span class="small">LORD LIFTORE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The chief cause of Malcolm’s anxiety had been, and perhaps still was, +Lord Liftore. In his ignorance of Mr Lenorme there might lie equal +cause with him, but he knew such evil of the other that his whole +nature revolted against the thought of his marrying his sister. At +Lossie he had made himself agreeable to her, and now, if not actually +living in the same house, he was there at all hours of the day.</p> + +<p>It took nothing from his anxiety to see that his lordship was greatly +improved. Not only had the lanky youth passed into a well-formed +man, but in countenance, whether as regarded expression, complexion, +or feature, he was not merely a handsomer but looked in every way a +healthier and better man. Whether it was from some reviving sense of +duty, or that, in his attachment to Florimel, he had begun to cherish a +desire of being worthy of her, I cannot tell; but he looked altogether +more of a man than the time that had elapsed would have given ground +to expect, even had he then seemed on the mend, and indeed promised to +become a really fine-looking fellow. His features were far more regular +if less <i>informed</i> than those of the painter, and his carriage prouder +if less graceful and energetic. His admiration of and consequent +attachment to Florimel had been growing ever since his visit to Lossie +House the preceding summer, and if he had said nothing quite definite, +it was only because his aunt represented the impolicy of declaring +himself just yet: she was too young. She judged thus, attributing her +evident indifference to an incapacity as yet for falling in love. +Hence, beyond paying her all sorts of attentions and what compliments +he was capable of constructing, Lord Liftore had not gone far towards +making himself understood—at least, not until just before Malcolm’s +arrival, when his behaviour had certainly grown warmer and more +confidential.</p> + +<p>All the time she had been under his aunt’s care he had had abundant +opportunity for recommending himself, and he had made use of the +privilege. For one thing, credibly assured that he looked well in the +saddle, he had constantly encouraged Florimel’s love of riding and +desire to become a thorough horsewoman, and they had ridden a good +deal together in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. This practice they +continued as much as possible after they came to London early in the +spring; but the weather of late had not been favourable, and Florimel +had been very little out with him.</p> + +<p>For a long time Lady Bellair had had her mind set on a match between +the daughter of her old friend the Marquis of Lossie and her nephew, +and it was with this in view that, when invited to Lossie House, she +had begged leave to bring Lord Meikleham with her. The young man was +from the first sufficiently taken with the beautiful girl to satisfy +his aunt, and would even then have shown greater fervour in <i>his</i> +attentions, had he not met Lizzy Findlay at the wedding of Joseph +Mair’s sister, and found her more than pleasing. I will not say that +from the first he purposed wrong to her: he was too inexperienced in +the ways of evil for that; but even when he saw plainly enough to +what their mutual attraction was tending, he gave himself no trouble +to resist it; and through the whole unhappy affair had not had one +smallest struggle with himself for the girl’s sake. To himself he was +all in all as yet, and such was his opinion of his own precious being, +that, had he thought about it, he would have considered the honour of +his attentions far more than sufficient to make up to any girl in such +a position for whatever mishap his acquaintance might bring upon her. +What were the grief and mortification of parents to put in the balance +against his condescension? what the shame and the humiliation of the +girl herself compared with the honour of having been shone upon for +a period, however brief, by his enamoured countenance? Must not even +the sorrow attendant upon her loss be rendered more than endurable—be +radiantly consoled by the memory that she had held such a demigod in +her arms? When he left her at last, with many promises, not one of +which he ever had the intention of fulfilling, he did purpose sending +her a present. But at that time he was poor—dependent, indeed, for +his pocket-money upon his aunt; and, up to this hour, he had never +since his departure from Lossie House taken the least notice of her +either by gift or letter. He had taken care also that it should not +be in her power to write to him, and now he did not even know that he +was a father. Once or twice the possibility of such being the case +occurred to him, and he thought within himself that if he were, and +it should come to be talked of, it might, in respect of his present +hopes, be awkward and disagreeable; for, although such a predicament +was nowise unusual, in this instance the circumstances were. More +than one of his bachelor friends had a small family even, but then it +was in the regular way of an open and understood secret: the fox had +his nest in some pleasant nook, adroitly masked, where lay his vixen +and her brood; one day he would abandon them for ever, and, with such +gathered store of experience, set up for a respectable family man. A +few tears, a neat legal arrangement, and all would be as it had never +been, only that the blood of the Montmorencies or Cliffords would +meander unclaimed in this or that obscure channel, beautifying the +race, and rousing England to noble deeds! But in his case it would be +unpleasant—a little—that every one of his future tenantry should +know the relation in which he stood to a woman of the fisher-people. +He did not fear any resentment—not that he would have cared a straw +for it, on such trifling grounds, but people in their low condition +never thought anything of such slips on the part of their women +especially where a great man was concerned. What he did fear was that +the immediate relations of the woman—that was how he spoke of Lizzy +to himself —might presume upon the honour he had done them. Lizzy, +however, was a good girl, and had promised to keep the matter secret +until she heard from him, whatever might be the consequences; and +surely there was fascination enough in the holding of a secret with +such as he to enable her to keep her promise. She must be perfectly +aware, however appearances might be against him, that he was not one to +fail in appreciation of her conduct, however easy and natural all that +he required of her might be. He would requite her royally when he was +Lord of Lossie. Meantime, although it was even now in his power to make +her rich amends, he would prudently leave things as they were, and not +run the risk that must lie in opening communications.</p> + +<p>And so the young earl held his head high, looked as innocent as may be +desirable for a gentleman, had many a fair clean hand laid in his, and +many a maiden waist yielded to his arm, while “the woman” flitted about +half an alien amongst her own, with his child wound in her old shawl of +Lossie tartan; wandering not seldom in the gloaming when her little one +slept, along the top of the dune, with the wind blowing keen upon her +from the regions of eternal ice, sometimes the snow settling softly on +her hair, sometimes the hailstones nestling in its meshes; the skies +growing blacker about her, and the sea stormier, while hope retreated +so far into the heavenly regions, that hope and heaven both were lost +to her view. Thus, alas! the things in which he was superior to her, +most of all that he was a gentleman, while she was but a peasant girl— +the things whose witchery drew her to his will, he made the means +of casting her down from the place of her excellency into the mire +of shame and loss. The only love worthy of the name ever and always +uplifts.</p> + +<p>Of the people belonging to the upper town of Portlossie, which raised +itself high above the sea-town in other respects besides the topical, +there were none who did not make poor Lizzy feel they were aware of her +disgrace, and but one man who made her feel it by being kinder than +before. That man, strange to say, was the factor. With all his faults +he had some chivalry, and he showed it to the fisher-girl. Nor did he +alter his manner to her because of the rudeness with which her mother +had taken Malcolm’s part.</p> + +<p>It was a sore proof to Mr Crathie that his discharged servant was in +favour with the marchioness when the order came from Mr Soutar to send +up Kelpie. She had written to himself when she wanted her own horse; +now she sent for this brute through her lawyer. It was plain that +Malcolm had been speaking against him; and he was the more embittered +therefore against his friends.</p> + +<p>Since his departure he had been twice on the point of poisoning the +mare.</p> + +<p>It was with difficulty he found two men to take her to Aberdeen. There +they had an arduous job to get her on board and secure her. But it had +been done, and all the Monday night Malcolm was waiting her arrival at +the wharf—alone, for after what had passed between them, he would not +ask Peter to go with him, and besides he was no use with horses. At +length, in the grey of a gurly dawn, the smack came alongside. They had +had a rough passage, and the mare was considerably subdued by sickness, +so that there was less difficulty in getting her ashore, and she paced +for a little while in tolerable quietness. But with every step on dry +land, the evil spirit in her awoke, and soon Malcolm had to dismount +and lead her. The morning was little advanced, and few vehicles +were about, otherwise he could hardly have got her home uninjured, +notwithstanding the sugar with which he had filled a pocket. Before he +reached the mews he was very near wishing he had never seen her. But +when he led her into the stable, he was a little encouraged as well as +surprised to find that she had not forgotten Florimel’s horse. They had +always been a little friendly, and now they greeted each other with an +affectionate neigh; after which, with the help of all she could devour, +the demoness was quieter.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.<br><span class="small">KELPIE IN LONDON.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Before noon Lord Liftore came round to the mews: his riding horses were +there. Malcolm was not at the moment in the stable.</p> + +<p>“What animal is that?” he asked of his own groom, catching sight of +Kelpie in her loose box.</p> + +<p>“One just come up from Scotland for Lady Lossie, my lord,” answered the +man.</p> + +<p>“She looks a clipper! Lead her out, and let me see her.”</p> + +<p>“She’s not sound in the temper, my lord, the groom that brought her +says. He told me on no account to go near her till she got used to the +sight of me.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! you’re afraid, are you?” said his lordship, whose breeding had not +taught him courtesy to his inferiors.</p> + +<p>At the word the man walked into her box. As he did so he looked out +for her hoofs, but his circumspection was in vain: in a moment she had +wheeled, jammed him against the wall, and taken his shoulder in her +teeth. He gave a yell of pain. His lordship caught up a stable-broom, +and attacked the mare with it over the door; but it flew from his hand +to the other end of the stable, and the partition began to go after it. +But she still kept her hold of the man. Happily, however, Malcolm was +not far off, and hearing the noise, rushed in. He was just in time to +save the groom’s life. Clearing the stall-partition, and seizing the +mare by the nose with a mighty grasp, he inserted a fore-finger behind +her tusk, for she was one of the few mares tusked like a horse, and +soon compelled her to open her mouth. The groom staggered and would +have fallen, so cruelly had she mauled him, but Malcolm’s voice roused +him.</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake gang oot, as lang ’s there’s twa limbs o’ ye stickin’ +thegither.”</p> + +<p>The poor fellow just managed to open the door, and fell senseless on +the stones. Lord Liftore called for help, and they carried him into the +saddle room, while one ran for the nearest surgeon.</p> + +<p>Meantime Malcolm was putting a muzzle on Kelpie, which he believed +she understood as a punishment, and while he was thus occupied, his +lordship came from the saddle-room and approached the box.</p> + +<p>“Who are you?” he said. “I think I have seen you before.”</p> + +<p>“I was servant to the late Marquis of Lossie, my lord, and now I am +groom to her ladyship.”</p> + +<p>“What a fury you’ve brought up with you! She’ll never do for London.”</p> + +<p>“I told the man not to go near her, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the use of her if no one can go near her?”</p> + +<p>“I can, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“By Jove, she’s a splendid creature to look at! but I don’t know what +you can do with her here, my man. She’s fit to go double with Satan +himself.”</p> + +<p>“She’ll do for me to ride after my lady well enough. If only I had room +to exercise her a bit!”</p> + +<p>“Take her into the park early in the morning, and gallop her round. +Only mind she don’t break your neck. What can have made Lady Lossie +send for such a devil as that!”</p> + +<p>Malcolm held his peace.</p> + +<p>“I’ll try her myself some morning,” said his lordship, who thought +himself a better horseman than he was.</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t advise you, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“Who the devil asked your advice?”</p> + +<p>“Ten to one she’ll kill you, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“That’s my look out,” said Liftore, and went into the house.</p> + +<p>As soon as he had done with Kelpie, Malcolm dressed himself in his new +livery, and went to tell his mistress of her arrival. She sent him +orders to bring the mare round in half-an-hour. He went back to her, +took off her muzzle, fed her, and while she ate her corn, put on the +spurs he had prepared expressly for her use—a spike without a rowel, +rather blunt, but sharp indeed when sharply used —like those of the +Gauchos of the Pampas. Then he saddled her, and rode her round.</p> + +<p>Having had her fit of temper, she was, to all appearance, going to be +fairly good for the rest of the day, and looked splendid. She was a +large mare, nearly thoroughbred, but with more bone than usual for her +breeding, which she carried triumphantly—an animal most men would have +been pleased to possess—and proud to ride. Florimel came to the door +to see her, accompanied by Liftore, and was so delighted with the very +sight of her that she sent at once to the stables for her own horse, +that she might ride out attended by Malcolm. His lordship also ordered +his horse.</p> + +<p>They went straight to Rotten Row for a little gallop, and Kelpie was +behaving very well for her.</p> + +<p>“What <i>did</i> you have two such savages, horse and groom both, up from +Scotland for, Florimel?” asked his lordship, as they cantered gently +along the Row, Kelpie coming sideways after them, as if she would fain +alter the pairing of her legs.</p> + +<p>Florimel turned and cast an admiring glance on the two.</p> + +<p>“Do you know I am rather proud of them,” she said.</p> + +<p>“He’s a clumsy fellow, the groom; and for the mare, she’s downright +wicked,” said Liftore.</p> + +<p>“At least neither is a hypocrite,” returned Florimel, with Malcolm’s +account of his quarrel with the factor in her mind. “The mare is just +as wicked as she looks, and the man as good. Believe me, my lord, that +man you call a savage never told a lie in his life!”</p> + +<p>As she spoke she looked him hard in the face—with her father in her +eyes.</p> + +<p>Liftore could not return the look with equal steadiness. It seemed for +the moment to be inquiring too curiously.</p> + +<p>“I know what you mean,” he said. “You don’t believe my professions.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he edged his horse close up to hers.</p> + +<p>“But,” he went on, “if I know that I speak the truth when I swear that +I love every breath of wind that has but touched your dress as it +passed, that I would die gladly for one loving touch of your hand—why +should you not let me ease my heart by saying so? Florimel, my life has +been a different thing from the moment I saw you first. It has grown +precious to me since I saw that it might be —Confound the fellow! +what’s he about now with his horse-devil?”</p> + +<p>For at that moment his lordship’s horse, a high-bred but timid animal, +sprang away from the side of Florimel’s, and there stood Kelpie on +her hind legs, pawing the air between him and his lady, and Florimel, +whose old confidence in Malcolm was now more than revived, was +laughing merrily at the discomfiture of his attempt at love-making. +Her behaviour and his own frustration put him in such a rage that, +wheeling quickly round, he struck Kelpie, just as she dropped on all +fours, a great cut with his whip across the haunches. She plunged and +kicked violently, came within an inch of breaking his horse’s leg, and +flew across the rail into the park. Nothing could have suited Malcolm +better. He did not punish her as he would have done had she been to +blame, for he was always just to lower as well as higher animals, but +he took her a great round at racing speed, while his mistress and +her companion looked on, and everyone in the Row stopped and stared. +Finally, he hopped her over the rail again, and brought her up dripping +and foaming to his mistress. Florimel’s eyes were flashing, and Liftore +looked still angry.</p> + +<p>“Dinna du that again, my lord,” said Malcolm. “Ye’re no my maister; an’ +gien ye war, ye wad hae no richt to brak my neck.”</p> + +<p>“No fear of that! That’s not how your neck will be broken, my man,” +said his lordship, with an attempted laugh; for though he was all the +angrier that he was ashamed of what he had done, he dared not further +wrong the servant before his mistress.</p> + +<p>A policeman came up and laid his hand on Kelpie’s bridle.</p> + +<p>“Take care what you’re about,” said Malcolm; “the mare’s not safe. +—There’s my mistress, the Marchioness of Lossie.”</p> + +<p>The man saw an ugly look in Kelpie’s eye, withdrew his hand, and turned +to Florimel.</p> + +<p>“My groom is not to blame,” said she. “Lord Liftore struck his mare, +and she became ungovernable.”</p> + +<p>The man gave a look at Liftore, seemed to take his likeness, touched +his hat, and withdrew.</p> + +<p>“You’d better ride the jade home,” said Liftore.</p> + +<p>Malcolm only looked at his mistress. She moved on, and he followed.</p> + +<p>He was not so innocent in the affair as he had seemed. The expression +of Liftore’s face as he drew nearer to Florimel, was to him so hateful, +that he interfered in a very literal fashion: Kelpie had been doing no +more than he had made her until the earl struck her.</p> + +<p>“Let us ride to Richmond to-morrow,” said Florimel, “and have a good +gallop in the park. Did you ever see a finer sight than that animal on +the grass?”</p> + +<p>“The fellow’s too heavy for her,” said Liftore. “I should very much +like to try her myself.”</p> + +<p>Florimel pulled up, and turned to Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“MacPhail,” she said, “have that mare of yours ready whenever Lord +Liftore chooses to ride her.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, my lady,” returned Malcolm, “but would your +ladyship make a condition with my lord that he shall not mount her +anywhere on the stones.”</p> + +<p>“By Jove!” said Liftore scornfully. “You fancy yourself the only man +that can ride!”</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing to me, my lord, if you break your neck; but I am bound to +tell you I do <i>not</i> think your lordship will sit my mare. Stoat can’t; +and I can only because I know her as well as my own palm.”</p> + +<p>The young earl made no answer and they rode on—Malcolm nearer than his +lordship liked.</p> + +<p>“I can’t think, Florimel,” he said, “why you should want that fellow +about you again. He is not only very awkward, but insolent as well.”</p> + +<p>“I should call it straightforward,” returned Florimel.</p> + +<p>“My dear Lady Lossie! See how close he is riding to us now.”</p> + +<p>“He is anxious, I daresay, as to your Lordship’s behaviour. He is like +some dogs that are a little too careful of their mistresses— touchy +as to how they are addressed—not a bad fault in dog—or groom either. +He saved my life once, and he was a great favourite with my father: I +won’t hear anything against him.”</p> + +<p>“But for your own sake—just consider:—what will people say if you +show any preference for a man like that?” said Liftore, who had already +become jealous of the man who in his heart he feared could ride better +than himself.</p> + +<p>“My lord!” exclaimed Florimel, with a mingling of surprise and +indignation in her voice, and suddenly quickening her pace, dropped him +behind.</p> + +<p>Malcolm was after her so instantly, that it brought him abreast of +Liftore.</p> + +<p>“Keep your own place,” said his lordship, with stern rebuke.</p> + +<p>“I keep my place to my mistress,” returned Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Liftore looked at him as if he would strike him. But he thought better +of it apparently, and rode after Florimel.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.<br><span class="small">BLUE PETER.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>By the time he had put up Kelpie, Malcolm found that his only chance +of seeing Blue Peter before he left London, lay in going direct to the +wharf. On his road he reflected on what had just passed, and was not +altogether pleased with himself. He had nearly lost his temper with +Liftore; and if he should act in any way unbefitting the position he +had assumed, from the duties of which he was in no degree exonerated +by the fact that he had assumed it for a purpose, it would not only +be a failure in himself, but an impediment perhaps insurmountable in +the path of his service. To attract attention was almost to insure +frustration. When he reached the wharf he found they had nearly got her +freight on board the smack. Blue Peter stood on the forecastle. He went +to him and explained how it was that he had been unable to join him +sooner.</p> + +<p>“I didna ken ye,” said Blue Peter, “in sic playactor kin’ o’ claes.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody in London would look at me twice now. But you remember how we +were stared at when first we came,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ow ay!” returned Peter with almost a groan; “there’s a sair cheenge +past upo’ you, but I’m gauin’ hame to the auld w’y o’ things. The +herrin’ ’ll be aye to the fore, I’m thinkin’; an’ gien we getna a +harbour we’ll get a h’aven.”</p> + +<p>Judging it better to take no notice of this pretty strong expression of +distrust and disappointment, Malcolm led him aside, and putting a few +sovereigns in his hand, said,</p> + +<p>“Here, Peter, that will take you home.”</p> + +<p>“It’s ower muckle—a heap ower muckle. I’ll tak naething frae ye but +what’ll pay my w’y.”</p> + +<p>“And what is such a trifle between friends?”</p> + +<p>“There <i>was</i> a time, Ma’colm, whan what was mine was yours, an’ what +was yours was mine, but that time’s gane.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry to hear that, Peter; but still I owe you as much as that for +bare wages.”</p> + +<p>“There was no word o’ wauges when ye said, Peter, come to Lon’on wi’ +me.—Davie there—he maun hae his wauges.”</p> + +<p>“Weel,” said Malcolm, thinking it better to give way, “I’m no abune +bein’ obleeged to ye, Peter. I maun bide my time, I see, for ye winna +lippen till me. Eh man! your faith’s sune at the wa’.”</p> + +<p>“Faith! what faith?” returned Peter, almost fiercely. “We’re tauld +to put no faith in man; an’ gien I bena come to that yet freely, I’m +nearer till ’t nor ever I was afore.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, Peter, a’ ’at I can say is, I ken my ain hert, an’ ye dinna ken +’t.”</p> + +<p>“Daur ye tell me!” cried Peter. “Disna the Scriptur’ itsel’ say the +hert o’ man is deceitfu’ an’ despratly wickit: who can know it?”</p> + +<p>“Peter,” said Malcolm, and he spoke very gently, for he understood that +love and not hate was at the root of his friend’s anger and injustice, +“gien ye winna lippen to me, there’s naething for ’t but I maun lippen +to you. Gang hame to yer wife, an’ gi’e her my compliments, an’ tell +her a’ ’at’s past atween you an’ me, as near, word for word, as ye can +tell the same; an’ say till her, I pray her to jeedge atween you an’ +me—an’ to mak the best o’ me to ye ’at she can, for I wad ill thole to +loss yer freenship, Peter.”</p> + +<p>The same moment came the command for all but passengers to go ashore. +The men grasped each other’s hand, looked each other in the eyes with +something of mutual reproach, and parted—Blue Peter down the river to +Scaurnose and Annie, Malcolm to the yacht lying still in the Upper Pool.</p> + +<p>He saw it taken properly in charge, and arranged for having it towed up +the river and anchored in the Chelsea Reach.</p> + +<p>When Blue Peter found himself once more safe out at sea, with twelve +hundred yards of canvas spread above him in one mighty wing betwixt +boom and gaff; and the wind blowing half a gale, the weather inside him +began to change a little. He began to see that he had not been behaving +altogether as a friend ought. It was not that he saw reason for being +better satisfied with Malcolm or his conduct, but reason for being +worse satisfied with himself; and the consequence was that he grew +still angrier with Malcolm, and the wrong he had done him seemed more +and more an unpardonable one.</p> + +<p>When he was at length seated on the top of the coach running betwixt +Aberdeen and Fochabers, which would set him down as near Scaurnose as +coach could go, he began to be doubtful how Annie, formally retained +on Malcolm’s side by the message he had to give her, would judge in +the question between them; for what did she know of theatres and such +places? And the doubt strengthened as he neared home. The consequence +was that he felt in no haste to execute Malcolm’s commission; and +hence, the delights of greeting over, Annie was the first to open her +bag of troubles: Mr Crathie had given them notice to quit at Midsummer.</p> + +<p>“Jist what I micht hae expeckit!” cried Blue Peter, starting up. “Woe +be to the man ’at puts his trust in princes! I luikit till him to +save the fisher-fowk, an’ no to the Lord; an’ the tooer o’ Siloam’s +fa’en upo’ my heid:—what does he, the first thing, but turn his ain +auld freen’s oot o’ the sma beild they had! That his father nor his +gran’father, ’at was naither o’ them God-fearin’ men, wad never hae put +their han’ till. Eh, wuman! but my hert’s sair ’ithin me. To think o’ +Ma’colm MacPhail turnin’ his back upo’ them ’at’s been freens wi’ ’im +sin ever he was a wee loonie, rinnin’ aboot in coaties!”</p> + +<p>“Hoot, man! what’s gotten intill yer heid?” returned his wife. “It’s no +Ma’colm; it’s the illwully factor. Bide ye till he comes till ’s ain, +an’ Maister Crathie ’ll hae to lauch o’ the wrang side o’ ’s mou’.”</p> + +<p>But thereupon Peter began his tale of how he had fared in London, and +in the excitement of keenly anticipated evil, and with his recollection +of events wrapped in the mist of a displeasure which had deepened +during his journey, he so clothed the facts of Malcolm’s conduct in the +garments of his own feelings that the mind of Annie Mair also became +speedily possessed with the fancy that their friend’s good fortune +had upset his moral equilibrium, and that he had not only behaved to +her husband with pride and arrogance, breaking all the ancient bonds +of friendship between them, but had tried to seduce him from the ways +of righteousness by inveigling him into a playhouse, where marvels +of wickedness were going on at the very time. She wept a few bitter +tears of disappointment, dried them hastily, lifted her head high, and +proceeded to set her affairs in order as if death were at the door.</p> + +<p>For indeed it was to them as a death to leave Scaurnose. True, Annie +came from inland, and was not of the fisher-race, but this part of +the coast she had known from childhood, and in this cottage all her +married years had been spent, while banishment of the sort involved +banishment from every place they knew, for all the neighbourhood was +equally under the power of the factor. And poor as their accommodation +here was, they had plenty of open air and land room; whereas if they +should be compelled to go to any of the larger ports, it would be to +circumstances greatly inferior, and a neighbourhood in all probability +very undesirable for their children.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.<br><span class="small">MR GRAHAM.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When Malcolm at length reached his lodging, he found there a letter +from Miss Horn, containing the much desired information as to where +the schoolmaster was to be found in the London wilderness. It was +now getting rather late, and the dusk of a spring night had begun to +gather; but little more than the breadth of the Regent’s Park lay +between him and his best friend—his only one in London— and he set +out immediately for Camden Town.</p> + +<p>The relation between him and his late schoolmaster was indeed of the +strongest and closest. Long before Malcolm was born, and ever since, +had Alexander Graham loved Malcolm’s mother; but not until within the +last few months had he learned that Malcolm was the son of Griselda +Campbell. The discovery was to the schoolmaster like the bursting out +of a known flower on an unknown plant. He knew then, not why he had +loved the boy, for he loved every one of his pupils more or less, but +why he had loved him with such a peculiar tone of affection.</p> + +<p>It was a lovely evening. There had been rain in the afternoon as +Malcolm walked home from the Pool, but before the sun set, it had +cleared up; and as he went through the park towards the dingy suburb, +the first heralds of the returning youth of the year met him from all +sides in the guise of odours—not yet those of flowers, but the more +ethereal if less sweet, scents of buds and grass, and ever pure earth +moistened with the waters of heaven. And to his surprise he found that +his sojourn in a great city, although as yet so brief, had already made +the open earth with its corn and grass more dear to him and wonderful. +But when he left the park, and crossed the Hampstead Road into a dreary +region of dwellings crowded and commonplace as the thoughts of a +worshipper of Mammon, houses upon houses, here and there shepherded by +a tall spire, it was hard to believe that the spring was indeed _coming +slowly up this way_.</p> + +<p>After not a few inquiries, he found himself at a stationer’s shop, a +poor little place, and learned that Mr Graham lodged over it, and was +then at home.</p> + +<p>He was shown up into a shabby room, with an iron bedstead, a chest of +drawers daubed with sickly paint, a table with a stained red cover, a +few bookshelves in a recess over the wash-stand, and two chairs seated +with hair-cloth. On one of these, by the side of a small fire in a +neglected grate, sat the schoolmaster reading his Plato. On the table +beside him lay his Greek New Testament, and an old edition of George +Herbert. He looked up as the door opened, and, notwithstanding his +strange dress, recognising at once his friend and pupil, rose hastily, +and welcomed him with hand and eyes and countenance, but without word +spoken. For a few moments the two stood silent, holding each the +other’s hand, and gazing each in the other’s eyes, then sat down, still +speechless, one on each side of the fire.</p> + +<p>They looked at each other and smiled, and again a minute passed. Then +the schoolmaster rose, rang the bell, and when it was answered by a +rather careworn young woman, requested her to bring tea.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry I cannot give you cakes or fresh butter, my lord,” he said +with a smile, and they were the first words spoken. “The former is not +to be had, and the latter is beyond my means. But what I have will +content one who is able to count that abundance which many would count +privation.”</p> + +<p>He spoke in the choice word, measured phrase, and stately speech which +Wordsworth says “grave livers do in Scotland use,” but under it all +rang a tone of humour, as if he knew the form of his utterance too +important for the subject-matter of it, and would gently amuse with it +both his visitor and himself.</p> + +<p>He was a man of middle height, but so thin that notwithstanding a +slight stoop in the shoulders, he looked rather tall; much on the young +side of fifty, but apparently a good way on the other, partly from +the little hair he had being grey. He had sandy-coloured whiskers, +and a shaven chin. Except his large sweetly closed mouth, and rather +long upper lip, there was nothing very notable in his features. At +ordinary moments, indeed, there was nothing in his appearance other +than insignificant to the ordinary observer. His eyes were of a pale +quiet blue, but when he smiled they sparkled and throbbed with light. +He wore the same old black tail-coat he had worn last in his school at +Portlossie, but the white neckcloth he had always been seen in there +had given place to a black one: that was the sole change in the aspect +of the man.</p> + +<p>About Portlossie he had been greatly respected, notwithstanding the +rumour that he was a “stickit minister,” that is, one who had failed +in the attempt to preach; and when the presbytery dismissed him on the +charge of heresy, there had been many tears on the part of his pupils, +and much childish defiance of his unenviable successor.</p> + +<p>Few words passed between the two men until they had had their tea, +and then followed a long talk, Malcolm first explaining his present +position, and then answering many questions of the master as to how +things had gone since he left. Next followed anxious questions on +Malcolm’s side as to how his friend found himself in the prison of +London.</p> + +<p>“I do miss the air, and the laverocks (<i>skylarks</i>), and the gowans,” +he confessed; “but I have them all in my mind, and at my age a man +ought to be able to satisfy himself with the idea of a thing in his +soul. Of outer things that have contributed to his inward growth, the +memory alone may then well be enough. The sights which, when I lie down +to sleep, rise before that inward eye Wordsworth calls the bliss of +solitude, have upon me power almost of a spiritual vision, so purely +radiant are they of that which dwells in them, the divine thought which +is their substance, their <i>hypostasis</i>. My boy! I doubt if you can tell +what it is to know the presence of the living God in and about you.”</p> + +<p>“I houp I hae a bit notion o’ ’t, sir,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“But believe me that in any case, however much a man may have of it, +he may have it endlessly more. Since I left the cottage where I hoped +to end my days under the shadow of the house of your ancestors, since +I came into this region of bricks and smoke, and the crowded tokens +too plain of want and care, I have found a reality in the things I had +been trying to teach you at Portlossie, such as I had before imagined +only in my best moments. And more still: I am now far better able to +understand how it must have been with our Lord when he was trying to +teach the men and women of Palestine to have faith in God. Depend upon +it, we get our best use of life in learning by the facts of its ebb and +flow to understand the Son of Man. And again, when we understand Him, +then only do we understand our life and ourselves. Never can we know +the majesty of the will of God concerning us except by understanding +Jesus and the work the Father gave Him to do. Now, nothing is of a more +heavenly delight than to enter into a dusky room in the house of your +friend, and there, with a blow of the heavenly rod, draw light from +the dark wall—open a window, a fountain of the eternal light, and +let in the truth which is the life of the world. Joyously would a man +spend his life, right joyously even if the road led to the gallows, +in showing the grandest he sees—the splendid purities of the divine +religion—the mountain top up to which the voice of God is ever calling +his children. Yes, I can understand even how a man might live, like the +good hermits of old, in triumphant meditation upon such all-satisfying +truths, and let the waves of the world’s time wash by him in unheeded +flow until his cell changed to his tomb, and his spirit soared free. +But to spend your time in giving little lessons when you have great +ones to give; in teaching the multiplication table the morning after +you made at midnight a grand discovery upon the very summits of the +moonlit mountain range of the mathematics; in enforcing the old law, +<i>Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself</i>, when you know in your own +heart that not a soul can ever learn to keep it without first learning +to fulfil an infinitely greater one—_to love his neighbour even as +Christ hath loved him_ —then indeed one may well grow disheartened, +and feel as if he were not in the place prepared for, and at the work +required of him. But it is just then that he must go back to school +himself and learn not only the patience of God who keeps the whole +dull obstinate world alive, while generation after generation is born +and vanishes, and of the mighty multitude only one here and there +rises up from the fetters of humanity into the freedom of the sons of +God—and yet goes on teaching the whole, and bringing every man who +will but turn his ear a little towards the voice that calls him, nearer +and nearer to the second birth—of sonship and liberty—not only this +divine patience must he learn, but the divine insight as well, which +in every form spies the reflex of the truth it cannot contain, and +in every lowliest lesson sees the highest drawn nearer, and the soul +growing alive unto God.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.<br><span class="small">RICHMOND PARK.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The next day at noon, mounted on Kelpie, Malcolm was in attendance +upon his mistress, who was eager after a gallop in Richmond Park. Lord +Liftore, who had intended to accompany her, had not made his appearance +yet, but Florimel did not seem the less desirous of setting out at the +time she had appointed Malcolm. The fact was she had said one o’clock +to Liftore, intending twelve, that she might get away without him. +Kelpie seemed on her good behaviour, and they started quietly enough. +By the time they had got out of the park upon the Kensington Road, +however, the evil spirit had begun to wake in her. But even when she +was quietest, she was nothing to be trusted, and about London Malcolm +found he dared never let his thoughts go, or take his attention +quite off her ears. They got to Kew Bridge in safety nevertheless, +though whether they were to get safely across was doubtful all the +time they were upon it, for again and again she seemed on the very +point of clearing the stone balustrade, but for the terrible bit and +chain without which Malcolm never dared ride her. Still, whatever her +caracoles or escapades, they caused Florimel nothing but amusement, for +her confidence in Malcolm—that he could do whatever he believed he +could—was unbounded. They got through Richmond—with some trouble, but +hardly were they well into the park, when Lord Liftore, followed by his +groom, came suddenly up behind them at such a rate as quite destroyed +the small stock of equanimity Kelpie had to go upon. She bolted.</p> + +<p>Florimel was a good rider, and knew herself quite mistress of her +horse, and if she now followed, it was at her own will, and with a +design; she wanted to make the horses behind her bolt also if she +could. His lordship came flying after her, and his groom after him, +but she kept increasing her pace until they were all at full stretch, +thundering over the grass—upon which Malcolm had at once turned +Kelpie, giving her little rein and plenty of spur. Gradually Florimel +slackened speed, and at last pulled up suddenly. Liftore and his groom +went past her like the wind. She turned at right angles and galloped +back to the road. There, on a gaunt thoroughbred, with a furnace of old +life in him yet, sat Lenorme, whom she had already passed and signalled +to remain thereabout. They drew alongside of each other, but they did +not shake hands; they only looked each in the other’s eyes, and for a +few moments neither spoke. The three riders were now far away over the +park, and still Kelpie held on and the other horses after her.</p> + +<p>“I little expected <i>such</i> a pleasure,” said Lenorme.</p> + +<p>“I meant to give it you, though,” said Florimel, with a merry laugh. +“Bravo, Kelpie! take them with you,” she cried, looking after the +still retreating horsemen. “I have got a familiar since I saw you +last, Raoul,” she went on. “See if I don’t get some good for us out of +him!—We’ll move gently along the road here, and by the time Liftore’s +horse is spent, we shall be ready for a good gallop. I want to tell you +all about it. I did not mean Liftore to be here when I sent you word, +but he has been too much for me.”</p> + +<p>Lenorme replied with a look of gratitude; and as they walked their +horses along, she told him all concerning Malcolm and Kelpie.</p> + +<p>“Liftore hates him already,” she said, “and I can hardly wonder; but +<i>you</i> must not, for you will find him useful. He is one I can depend +upon. You should have seen the look Liftore gave him when he told him +he could not sit his mare! It would have been worth gold to you.”</p> + +<p>Lenorme winced a little.</p> + +<p>“He thinks no end of his riding,” Florimel continued; “but if it were +not so improper to have secrets with another gentleman, I would tell +you that he rides—just pretty well.”</p> + +<p>Lenorme’s great brow gloomed over his eyes like the Eiger in a mist, +but he said nothing yet.</p> + +<p>“He wants to ride Kelpie, and I have told my groom to let him have her. +Perhaps she’ll break his neck.”</p> + +<p>Lenorme smiled grimly.</p> + +<p>“You wouldn’t mind, would you, Raoul?” added Florimel, with a roguish +look.</p> + +<p>“Would you mind telling me, Florimel, what you mean by the impropriety +of having secrets with another gentleman? Am <i>I</i> the other gentleman?”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course! You know Liftore imagines he has only to name the day.”</p> + +<p>“And you allow an idiot like that to cherish such a degrading idea of +you.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Raoul! what does it matter what a fool like him thinks?”</p> + +<p>“If you don’t mind it, I do. I feel it an insult to me that he should +dare think of you like that.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I suppose I shall have to marry him some day.”</p> + +<p>“Lady Lossie, do you want to make me hate you?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be foolish, Raoul. It won’t be to-morrow—nor the next day. +<i>Freuet euch des Lebens!</i>”</p> + +<p>“O Florimel! what is to come of this? Do you want to break my heart? +—I hate to talk rubbish. You won’t kill me—you will only ruin my +work, and possibly drive me mad.”</p> + +<p>Florimel drew close to his side, laid her hand on his arm, and looked +in his face with a witching entreaty.</p> + +<p>“We have the present, Raoul,” she said.</p> + +<p>“So has the butterfly,” answered Lenorme; “but I had rather be the +caterpillar with a future.—Why don’t you put a stop to the man’s +lovemaking? He can’t love you or any woman. He does not know what love +means. It makes me ill to hear him when he thinks he is paying you +irresistible compliments. They are so silly! so mawkish! Good heavens, +Florimel! can you imagine that smile every day and always? Like the +rest of his class he seems to think himself perfectly justified in +making fools of women. <i>I</i> want to help you to grow as beautiful as +God meant you to be when he thought of you first. I want you to be my +embodied vision of life, that I may for ever worship at your feet—live +in you, die with you: such bliss, even were there nothing beyond, would +be enough for the heart of a God to bestow.”</p> + +<p>“Stop, stop, Raoul; I’m not worthy of such love,” said Florimel, again +laying her hand on his arm. “I do wish for your sake I had been born a +village-girl.”</p> + +<p>“If you had been, then I might have wished for your sake that I had +been born a marquis. As it is I would rather be a painter than any +nobleman in Europe—that is, with you to love me. Your love is my +patent of nobility. But I may glorify what you love—and tell you that +I can confer something on you also—what none of your noble admirers +can.—God forgive me! you will make me hate them all!”</p> + +<p>“Raoul, this won’t do at all,” said Florimel, with the authority that +should belong only to the one in the right. And indeed for the moment +she felt the dignity of restraining a too impetuous passion. “You will +spoil everything. I dare not come to your studio if you are going to +behave like this. It would be very wrong of me. And if I am never to +come and see you, I shall die—I know I shall.”</p> + +<p>The girl was so full of the delight of the secret love between them, +that she cared only to live in the present as if there were no future +beyond: Lenorme wanted to make that future like but better than the +present. The word marriage put Florimel in a rage. She thought herself +superior to Lenorme, because he, in the dread of losing her, would have +her marry him at once, while she was more than content with the bliss +of seeing him now and then. Often and often her foolish talk stung him +with bitter pain—worst of all when it compelled him to doubt whether +there was that in her to be loved as he was capable of loving. Yet +always the conviction that there was a deep root of nobleness in her +nature again got uppermost; and, had it not been so, I fear he would, +nevertheless, have continued to prove her irresistible as often as she +chose to exercise upon him the full might of her witcheries. At one +moment she would reveal herself in such a sudden rush of tenderness +as seemed possible only to one ready to become his altogether and for +ever; the next she would start away as if she had never meant anything, +and talk as if not a thought were in her mind beyond the cultivation +of a pleasant acquaintance doomed to pass with the season, if not with +the final touches to her portrait. Or she would fall to singing some +song he had taught her, more likely a certain one he had written in a +passionate mood of bitter tenderness, with the hope of stinging her +love to some show of deeper life; but would, while she sang, look with +merry defiance in his face, as if she adopted in seriousness what he +had written in loving and sorrowful satire.</p> + +<p>They rode in silence for some hundred yards. At length he spoke, +replying to her last asseveration.</p> + +<p>“Then what <i>can</i> you gain, child,” he said——</p> + +<p>“Will you dare to call <i>me</i> child—a marchioness in my own right!” she +cried, playfully threatening him with uplifted whip, in the handle of +which the little jewels sparkled.</p> + +<p>“What, then, can you gain, my lady marchioness,” he resumed, with soft +seriousness, and a sad smile, “by marrying one of your own rank?—I +should lay new honour and consideration at your feet. I am young. I +have done fairly well already. But I have done nothing to what I could +do now, if only my heart lay safe in the port of peace:—you know +where alone that is for me my—lady marchioness. And you know too that +the names of great painters go down with honour from generation to +generation, when my lord this or my lord that is remembered only as a +label to the picture that makes the painter famous. I am not a great +painter yet, but I will be one if you will be good to me. And men shall +say, when they look on your portrait, in ages to come: No wonder he was +such a painter when he had such a woman to paint.”</p> + +<p>He spoke the words with a certain tone of dignified playfulness.</p> + +<p>“When shall the woman sit to you again, painter?” said Florimel— sole +reply to his rhapsody.</p> + +<p>The painter thought a little. Then he said:</p> + +<p>“I don’t like that tire-woman of yours. She has two evil eyes— one for +each of us. I have again and again caught their expression when they +were upon us, and she thought none were upon her: I can see without +lifting my head when I am painting, and my art has made me quick at +catching expressions, and, I hope, at interpreting them.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t altogether like her myself,” said Florimel. “Of late I am not +so sure of her as I used to be. But what can I do? I must have somebody +with me, you know.—A thought strikes me. Yes. I won’t say now what it +is lest I should disappoint my—painter; but— yes—you shall see what +I will dare for you, faithless man!”</p> + +<p>She set off at a canter, turned on to the grass, and rode to meet +Liftore, whom she saw in the distance returning, followed by the two +grooms.</p> + +<p>“Come on, Raoul,” she cried, looking back; “I must account for you. He +sees I have not been alone.”</p> + +<p>Lenorme joined her, and they rode along side by side.</p> + +<p>The earl and the painter knew each other: as they drew near, the +painter lifted his hat, and the earl nodded.</p> + +<p>“You owe Mr Lenorme some acknowledgment, my lord, for taking charge of +me after your sudden desertion,” said Florimel. “Why did you gallop off +in such a mad fashion?”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry,” began Liftore a little embarrassed.</p> + +<p>“Oh! don’t trouble yourself to apologise,” said Florimel. “I have +always understood that great horsemen find a horse more interesting +than a lady. It is a mark of their breed, I am told.”</p> + +<p>She knew that Liftore would not be ready to confess he could not hold +his hack.</p> + +<p>“If it hadn’t been for Mr Lenorme,” she added, “I should have been left +without a squire, subject to any whim of my four-footed servant here.”</p> + +<p>As she spoke she patted the neck of her horse. The earl, on his side, +had been looking the painter’s horse up and down with a would-be +humorous expression of criticism.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, marchioness,” he replied; “but you pulled up so +quickly that we shot past you. I thought you were close behind, and +preferred following.—Seen his best days, eh, Lenorme?” he concluded, +willing to change the subject.</p> + +<p>“I fancy he doesn’t think so,” returned the painter. “I bought him out +of a butterman’s cart, three months ago. He’s been coming to himself +ever since. Look at his eye, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“Are you knowing in horses, then?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t say I am, beyond knowing how to treat them something like +human beings.”</p> + +<p>“That’s no ill,” said Malcolm to himself. He was just near enough, on +the pawing and foaming Kelpie, to catch what was passing.— “The fallow +’ll du. He’s worth a score o’ sic yerls as yon.”</p> + +<p>“Ha! ha!” said his lordship; “I don’t know about that.—He’s not +the best of tempers, I can see. But look at that demon of Lady +Lossie’s—that black mare there! I wish you could teach her some of +your humanity.</p> + +<p>“—By the way, Florimel, I think now we <i>are</i> upon the grass,”— he +said it loftily, as if submitting to an injustice—“I will presume to +mount the reprobate.”</p> + +<p>The gallop had communicated itself to Liftore’s blood, and, besides, +he thought after such a run Kelpie would be less extravagant in her +behaviour.</p> + +<p>“She is at your service,” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>He dismounted, his groom rode up, he threw him the reins, and called +Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Bring your mare here, my man,” he said.</p> + +<p>Malcolm rode her up half way, and dismounted.</p> + +<p>“If your lordship is going to ride her,” he said, “will you please get +on her here. I would rather not take her near the other horses.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you know her better than I do.—You and I must ride about the +same length, I think.”</p> + +<p>So saying his lordship carelessly measured the stirrup-leather against +his arm, and took the reins.</p> + +<p>“Stand well forward, my lord. Don’t mind turning your back to her head: +I’ll look after her teeth; you mind her hind-hoof,” said Malcolm, with +her head in one hand and the stirrup in the other.</p> + +<p>Kelpie stood rigid as a rock, and the earl swung himself up cleverly +enough. But hardly was he in the saddle, and Malcolm had just let her +go, when she plunged and lashed out; then, having failed to unseat her +rider, stood straight up on her hind legs.</p> + +<p>“Give her her head, my lord,” cried Malcolm.</p> + +<p>She stood swaying in the air, Liftore’s now frightened face half hid in +her mane, and his spurs stuck in her flanks.</p> + +<p>“Come off her, my lord, for God’s sake. Off with you!” cried Malcolm, +as he leaped at her head. “She’ll be on her back in a moment.”</p> + +<p>Liftore only clung the harder. Malcolm caught her head—just in time: +she was already falling backwards.</p> + +<p>“Let all go, my lord. Throw yourself off.”</p> + +<p>He swung her towards him with all his strength, and just as his +lordship fell off behind her, she fell sideways to Malcolm, and clear +of Liftore.</p> + +<p>Malcolm was on the side away from the little group, and their own +horses were excited, so those who had looked breathless on at the +struggle could not tell how he had managed it, but when they expected +to see the groom writhing under the weight of the demoness, there he +was with his knee upon her head—while Liftore was gathering himself up +from the ground, only just beyond the reach of her iron-shod hoofs.</p> + +<p>“Thank God!” said Florimel, “there is no harm done.—Well, have you had +enough of her yet, Liftore?”</p> + +<p>“Pretty nearly, I think,” said his lordship, with an attempt at a +laugh, as he walked rather feebly and foolishly towards his horse. He +mounted with some difficulty, and looked very pale.</p> + +<p>“I hope you’re not much hurt,” said Florimel kindly, as she moved +alongside of him.</p> + +<p>“Not in the least—only disgraced,” he answered, almost angrily. “The +brute’s a perfect Satan. You <i>must</i> part with her. With such a horse +and such a groom you’ll get yourself talked of all over London. I +believe the fellow himself was at the bottom of it. You really <i>must</i> +sell her.”</p> + +<p>“I would, my lord, if <i>you</i> were my groom,” answered Florimel, whom his +accusation of Malcolm had filled with angry contempt; and she moved +away towards the still prostrate mare.</p> + +<p>Malcolm was quietly seated on her head. She had ceased sprawling, and +lay nearly motionless, but for the heaving of her sides with her huge +inhalations. She knew from experience that struggling was useless.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said Malcolm, “but I daren’t get up.”</p> + +<p>“How long do you mean to sit there then?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“If your ladyship wouldn’t mind riding home without me, I would give +her a good half hour of it. I always do when she throws herself over +like that.—I’ve gat my Epictetus?” he asked himself, feeling in his +coat pocket.</p> + +<p>“Do as you please,” answered his mistress. “Let me see you when you get +home. I should like to know you are safe.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, my lady; there’s little fear of that,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Florimel returned to the gentlemen, and they rode homewards. On the way +she said suddenly to the earl,</p> + +<p>“Can you tell me, Liftore, who Epictetus was?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered his lordship. “One of the old +fellows.”</p> + +<p>She turned to Lenorme. Happily the Christian heathen was not altogether +unknown to the painter.</p> + +<p>“May I inquire why your ladyship asks?” he said, when he had told all +he could at the moment recollect.</p> + +<p>“Because,” she answered, “I left my groom sitting on his horse’s head +reading Epictetus.”</p> + +<p>“By Jove!” exclaimed Liftore. “Ha! ha! ha! In the original, I suppose!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t doubt it,” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>In about two hours Malcolm reported himself. Lord Liftore had gone +home, they told him. The painter-fellow, as Wallis called him, had +stayed to lunch, but was now gone also, and Lady Lossie was alone in +the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>She sent for him.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to see you safe, MacPhail,” she said. “It is clear your +Kelpie—don’t be alarmed; I am not going to make you part with her—but +it is clear she won’t always do for you to attend me upon. Suppose now +I wanted to dismount and make a call, or go into a shop?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a sort of a friendship between your Abbot and her, my lady; +she would stand all the better if I had him to hold.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but how would you put me up again?”</p> + +<p>“I never thought of that, my lady. Of course I daren’t let you come +near Kelpie.”</p> + +<p>“Could you trust yourself to buy another horse to ride after me about +town?”</p> + +<p>“No, my lady, not without a ten days’ trial. If lies stuck like London +mud, there’s many a horse would never be seen again. But there’s Mr +Lenorme! If he would go with me, I fancy between us we could do pretty +well.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! a good idea,” returned his mistress. “But what makes you think of +him?” she added, willing enough to talk about him.</p> + +<p>“The look of the gentleman and his horse together, and what I heard him +say,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“What did you hear him say?”</p> + +<p>“That he knew he had to treat horses something like human beings. I’ve +often fancied, within the last few months, that God does with some +people something like as I do with Kelpie.”</p> + +<p>“I know nothing about theology.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t fancy you do, my lady; but this concerns biography rather than +theology. No one could tell what I meant except he had watched his own +history, and that of people he knew.”</p> + +<p>“And horses too?”</p> + +<p>“It’s hard to get at their insides, my lady, but I suspect it must be +so. I’ll ask Mr Graham.”</p> + +<p>“What Mr Graham?”</p> + +<p>“The schoolmaster of Portlossie.”</p> + +<p>“Is he in London, then?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady. He believed too much to please the presbytery, and they +turned him out.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to see him. He was very attentive to my father on his +death-bed.”</p> + +<p>“Your ladyship will never know till you are dead yourself what Mr +Graham did for my lord.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean? What could he do for him?”</p> + +<p>“He helped him through sore trouble of mind, my lady.”</p> + +<p>Florimel was silent for a little, then repeated, “I should like to see +him. I ought to pay him some attention. Couldn’t I make them give him +his school again?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know about that, my lady; but I am sure he would not take it +against the will of the presbytery.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to do something for him. Ask him to call.”</p> + +<p>“If your ladyship lays your commands upon me,” answered Malcolm; +“otherwise I would rather not.”</p> + +<p>“Why so, pray?”</p> + +<p>“Because, except he can be of any use to you, he will not come.”</p> + +<p>“But I want to be of use to him.”</p> + +<p>“How, if I may ask, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“That I can’t exactly say on the spur of the moment. I must know the +man first—especially if you are right in supposing he would not enjoy +a victory over the presbytery. <i>I</i> should. He wouldn’t take money, I +fear.”</p> + +<p>“Except it came of love or work, he would put it from him as he would +brush the dust from his coat.”</p> + +<p>“I could introduce him to good society. That is no small privilege to +one of his station.”</p> + +<p>“He has more of that and better than your ladyship could give him. He +holds company with Socrates and St. Paul, and greater still.”</p> + +<p>“But they’re not like living people.”</p> + +<p>“Very like them, my lady—only far better company in general. But Mr +Graham would leave Plato himself—yes, or St. Paul either, though +he were sitting beside him in the flesh, to go and help any old +washerwoman that wanted him.”</p> + +<p>“Then I want him.”</p> + +<p>“No, my lady, you don’t want him.”</p> + +<p>“How dare you say so?”</p> + +<p>“If you did, you would go to him.”</p> + +<p>Florimel’s eyes flashed, and her pretty lip curled. She turned to her +writing-table, annoyed with herself that she could not find a fitting +word wherewith to rebuke his presumption—rudeness, was it not?—and +a feeling of angry shame arose in her, that she, the Marchioness of +Lossie, had not dignity enough to prevent her own groom from treating +her like a child. But he was far too valuable to quarrel with.</p> + +<p>She sat down and wrote a note.</p> + +<p>“There,” she said, “take that note to Mr Lenorme. I have asked him to +help you in the choice of a horse.”</p> + +<p>“What price would you be willing to go to, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“I leave that to Mr Lenorme’s judgment—and your own,” she added.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, my lady,” said Malcolm, and was leaving the room, when +Florimel called him back.</p> + +<p>“Next time you see Mr Graham,” she said, “give him my compliments, and +ask him if I can be of any service to him.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do that, my lady. I am sure he will take it very kindly.”</p> + +<p>Florimel made no answer, and Malcolm went to find the painter.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.<br><span class="small">PAINTER AND GROOM.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The address upon the note Malcolm had to deliver took him to a house +in Chelsea—one of a row of beautiful old houses fronting the Thames, +with little gardens between them and the road. The one he sought was +overgrown with creepers, most of them now covered with fresh spring +buds. The afternoon had turned cloudy, and a cold east wind came up +the river, which, as the tide was falling, raised little waves on its +surface and made Malcolm think of the herring. Somehow, as he went up +to the door, a new chapter of his life seemed about to commence.</p> + +<p>The servant who took the note, returned immediately, and showed him up +to the study, a large back room, looking over a good-sized garden, with +stables on one side. There Lenorme sat at his easel.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” he said, “I’m glad to see that wild animal has not quite torn you +to pieces. Take a chair. What on earth made you bring such an incarnate +fury to London?”</p> + +<p>“I see well enough now, sir, she’s not exactly the one for London use, +but if you had once ridden her, you would never quite enjoy another +between your knees.”</p> + +<p>“She’s such an infernal brute!”</p> + +<p>“You can’t say too ill of her. But I fancy a gaol chaplain sometimes +takes the most interest in the worst villain under his charge. I should +be a proud man to make <i>her</i> fit to live with decent people.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid she’ll be too much for you. At last you’ll have to part +with her, I fear.”</p> + +<p>“If she had bitten you as often as she has me, sir, you wouldn’t part +with her. Besides, it would be wrong to sell her. She would only be +worse with anyone else. But, indeed, though you will hardly believe it, +she is better than she was.”</p> + +<p>“Then what must she have been!”</p> + +<p>“You may well say that, sir!”</p> + +<p>“Here your mistress tells me you want my assistance in choosing another +horse.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir—to attend upon her in London.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t profess to be knowing in horses: what made you think of me?”</p> + +<p>“I saw how you sat your own horse, sir, and I heard you say you bought +him out of a butterman’s cart, and treated him like a human being: +that was enough for me, sir. I’ve long had the notion that the beasts, +poor things, have a half-sleeping, half-waking human soul in them, and +it was a great pleasure to hear you say something of the same sort. +‘That gentleman,’ I said to myself, ‘—he and I would understand one +another.’”</p> + +<p>“I am glad you think so,” said Lenorme, with entire courtesy.—It was +not merely that the very doubtful recognition of his profession by +society had tended to keep him clear of his prejudices, but both as a +painter and a man he found the young fellow exceedingly attractive;—as +a painter from the rare combination of such strength with such beauty, +and as a man from a certain yet rarer clarity of nature which to +the vulgar observer seems fatuity until he has to encounter it in +action, when the contrast is like meeting a thunderbolt. Naturally the +dishonest takes the honest for a fool. Beyond his understanding, he +imagines him beneath it. But Lenorme, although so much more a man of +the world, was able in a measure to look into Malcolm and appreciate +him. His nature and his art combined in enabling him to do this.</p> + +<p>“You see, sir,” Malcolm went on, encouraged by the simplicity of +Lenorme’s manner, “if they were nothing like us, how should we be able +to get on with them at all, teach them anything, or come a hair nearer +them, do what we might? For all her wickedness I firmly believe Kelpie +has a sort of regard for me—I won’t call it affection, but perhaps it +comes as near that as may be possible in the time to one of her temper.”</p> + +<p>“Now I hope you will permit me, Mr MacPhail,” said Lenorme, who had +been paying more attention to Malcolm than to his words, “to give a +violent wrench to the conversation, and turn it upon yourself. You +can’t be surprised, and I hope you will not be annoyed, if I say you +strike one as not altogether like your calling. No London groom I have +ever spoken to, in the least resembles you. How is it?”</p> + +<p>“I hope you don’t mean to imply, sir, that I don’t know my business,” +returned Malcolm, laughing.</p> + +<p>“Anything but that! It were nearer the thing to say, that for all I +know you may understand mine as well.”</p> + +<p>“I wish I did, sir. Except the pictures at Lossie House and those in +Portland Place, I’ve never seen one in my life. About most of them I +must say I find it hard to imagine what better the world is for them. +Mr Graham says that no work that doesn’t tend to make the world better +makes it richer. If he were a heathen, he says, he would build a temple +to Ses, the sister of Psyche.”</p> + +<p>“Ses?—I don’t remember her,” said Lenorme.</p> + +<p>“The moth, sir;—‘the moth and the rust,’ you know.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes; now I know! Capital! Only more things may tend to make the +world better than some people think.—Who is this Mr Graham of yours? +He must be no common man.”</p> + +<p>“You are right there, sir; there is not another like him in the whole +world, I believe.”</p> + +<p>And thereupon Malcolm set himself to give the painter an idea of the +schoolmaster.</p> + +<p>When they had talked about him for a little while,</p> + +<p>“Well, all this accounts for your being a scholar,” said Lenorme; +“but——”</p> + +<p>“I am little enough of that, sir,” interrupted Malcolm. “Any Scotch boy +that likes to learn finds the way open to him.”</p> + +<p>“I am aware of that. But were you really reading Epictetus when we left +you in the park this morning?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir: why not?”</p> + +<p>“In the original?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir; but not very readily. I am a poor Greek scholar. But my copy +has a rough Latin translation on the opposite page, and that helps me +out. It’s not difficult. You would think nothing of it if it had been +Cornelius Nepos, or Cordery’s Colloquies. It’s only a better, not a +more difficult book.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know about that. It’s not every one who can read Greek that +can understand Epictetus. Tell me what you have learned from him?”</p> + +<p>“That would be hard to do. A man is very ready to forget how he came +first to think of the things he loves best. You see they are as much +a necessity of your being as they are of the man’s who thought them +first. I can no more do without the truth than Plato. It is as much my +needful food and as fully mine to possess as his. His having it, Mr +Graham says, was for my sake as well as his own. —It’s just like what +Sir Thomas Browne says about the faces of those we love—that we cannot +retain the idea of them because they are ourselves. Those that help +the world must be served like their master and a good deal forgotten, +I fancy. Of course they don’t mind it.—I remember another passage I +think says something to the same purpose—one in Epictetus himself,” +continued Malcolm, drawing the little book from his pocket and turning +over the leaves, while Lenorme sat waiting, wondering, and careful not +to interrupt him.</p> + +<p>He turned to the forty-second chapter, and began to read from the Greek.</p> + +<p>“I’ve forgotten all the Greek I ever had,” said Lenorme.</p> + +<p>Then Malcolm turned to the opposite page and began to read the Latin.</p> + +<p>“Tut! tut!” said Lenorme, “I can’t follow your Scotch pronunciation.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a pity,” said Malcolm: “it’s the right way.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t doubt it. You Scotch are always in the right! But just read it +off in English—will you?”</p> + +<p>Thus adjured, Malcolm read slowly and with choice of word and phrase:—</p> + +<p>“‘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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>He sat silently regarding him for a few moments. Then he said:</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you what now: if I help you to buy a horse, you must help me +to paint a picture.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know how I’m to do that,” said Malcolm, “but if <i>you</i> do, +that’s enough. I shall only be too happy to do what I can.”</p> + +<p>“Then I’ll tell you.—But you’re not to tell <i>any</i>body: 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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said Lenorme very heartily; “that will be of immense +advantage. Write at once.”</p> + +<p>“I will, sir.—Only I’m a bigger man than my—late master, and you must +mind that.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll see to it. You get the clothes, and all the rest of the +accoutrements—rich with barbaric gems and gold, and——”</p> + +<p>“Neither gems nor gold, sir;—honest Scotch cairngorms and plain +silver,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“I only quoted Milton,” returned Lenorme.</p> + +<p>“Then you should have quoted correctly, sir.—‘Showers on her kings +barbaric pearl and gold,’—that’s the line, and you can’t better it. Mr +Graham always pulled me up if I didn’t quote correctly.— By-the-bye, +sir, some say it’s <i>kings barbaric</i>, but there’s <i>barbaric gold</i> in +Virgil.”</p> + +<p>“I dare say you are right,” said Lenorme. “But you’re far too learned +for me.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t make game of me, sir. I know two or three books pretty well, and +when I get a chance I can’t help talking about them. It’s so seldom +now I can get a mouthful of Milton. There’s no cave here to go into, +and roll the mimic thunder in your mouth. If the people here heard me +reading loud out, they would call me mad. It’s a mercy in this London, +if a working-man get loneliness enough to say his prayers in!”</p> + +<p>“You do say your prayers then?” asked Lenorme, looking at him curiously.</p> + +<p>“Yes; don’t you, sir? You had so much sense about the beasts I thought +you must be a man that said his prayers.”</p> + +<p>Lenorme was silent. He was not altogether innocent of saying prayers; +but of late years it had grown a more formal and gradually a rarer +thing. One reason of this was that it had never come into his head that +God cared about pictures, or had the slightest interest whether he +painted well or ill. If a man’s earnest calling, to which of necessity +the greater part of his thought is given, is altogether dissociated +in his mind from his religion, it is not wonderful that his prayers +should by degrees wither and die. The question is whether they ever +had much vitality. But one mighty negative was yet true of Lenorme: +he had not got in his head, still less had he ever cherished in his +heart, the thought that there was anything fine in disbelieving in a +God, or anything contemptible in imagining communication with a being +of grander essence than himself. That in which Socrates rejoiced with +exultant humility, many a youth now-a-days thinks himself a fine fellow +for casting from him with ignorant scorn.</p> + +<p>A true conception of the conversation above recorded can hardly be had +except my reader will take the trouble to imagine the contrast between +the Scotch accent and inflection, the largeness and prolongation of +vowel sounds, and, above all, the Scotch tone of Malcolm, and the pure, +clear articulation, and decided utterance of the perfect London speech +of Lenorme. It was something like the difference between the blank +verse of Young and the prose of Burke.</p> + +<p>The silence endured so long that Malcolm began to fear he had hurt his +new friend, and thought it better to take his leave.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go and write to Mrs Courthope—that’s the housekeeper— to-night, +to send up the things at once. When would it be convenient for you to +go and look at some horses with me, Mr Lenorme?” he said.</p> + +<p>“I shall be at home all to-morrow,” answered the painter, “and ready to +go with you any time you like to come for me.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he held out his hand, and they parted like old friends.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.<br><span class="small">A LADY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The next morning, Malcolm took Kelpie into the park, and gave her a +good breathing. He had thought to jump the rails, and let her have her +head, but he found there were too many park-keepers and police about: +he saw he could do little for her that way. He was turning home with +her again when one of her evil fits came upon her, this time taking +its first form in a sudden stiffening of every muscle: she stood stock +still with flaming eyes. I suspect we human beings know but little of +the fierceness with which the vortices of passion rage in the more +purely animal natures. This beginning he knew well would end in a wild +paroxysm of rearing and plunging. He had more than once tried the +exorcism of patience, sitting sedate upon her back until she chose to +move; but on these occasions the tempest that followed had been of the +very worst description; so that he had concluded it better to bring +on the crisis, thereby sure at least to save time; and after he had +adopted this mode with her, attacks of the sort, if no less violent, +had certainly become fewer. The moment therefore that symptoms of +an approaching fit showed themselves, he used his spiked heels with +vigour. Upon this occasion he had a stiff tussle with her, but as usual +gained the victory, and was riding slowly along the Row, Kelpie tossing +up now her head now her heels in indignant protest against obedience in +general and enforced obedience in particular, when a lady on horseback, +who had come galloping from the opposite direction, with her groom +behind her, pulled up, and lifted her hand with imperative grace: she +had seen something of what had been going on. Malcolm reined in. But +Kelpie, after her nature, was now as unwilling to stop as she had been +before to proceed, and the fight began again, with some difference of +movement and aspect, but the spurs once more playing a free part.</p> + +<p>“Man! man!” cried the lady, in most musical reproof, “do you know what +you are about?”</p> + +<p>“It would be a bad job for her and me too if I did not, my lady,” said +Malcolm, whom her appearance and manner impressed with a conviction +of rank, and as he spoke he smiled in the midst of the struggle: he +seldom got angry with Kelpie. But the smile instead of taking from the +apparent roughness of his speech, only made his conduct appear in the +lady’s eyes more cruel.</p> + +<p>“How is it possible you can treat the poor animal so unkindly —and in +cold blood too?” she said, and an indescribable tone of pleading ran +through the rebuke. “Why, her poor sides are actually——” A shudder, +and look of personal distress completed the sentence.</p> + +<p>“You don’t know what she is, my lady, or you would not think it +necessary to intercede for her.”</p> + +<p>“But if she is naughty, is that any reason why you should be cruel?”</p> + +<p>“No, my lady; but it is the best reason why I should try to make her +good.”</p> + +<p>“You will never make her good that way.”</p> + +<p>“Improvement gives ground for hope,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“But you must not treat a poor dumb animal as you would a responsible +human being.”</p> + +<p>“She’s not so very poor, my lady. She has all she wants, and does +nothing to earn it—nothing to speak of; and nothing at all with good +will. For her dumbness, that’s a mercy. If she could speak she wouldn’t +be fit to live among decent people. But for that matter, if some one +hadn’t taken her in hand, dumb as she is, she would have been shot long +ago.”</p> + +<p>“Better that than live with such usage.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think she would agree with you, my lady. My fear is that, for +as cruel as it looks to your ladyship, take it altogether, she enjoys +the fight. In any case, I am certain she has more regard for me than +any other being in the universe.”</p> + +<p>“Who <i>can</i> have any regard for you,” said the lady very gently, in +utter mistake of his meaning, “if you have no command of your temper? +You must learn to rule yourself first.”</p> + +<p>“That’s true, my lady; and so long as my mare is not able to be a law +to herself, I must be a law to her too.”</p> + +<p>“But have you never heard of the law of kindness? You could do so much +more without the severity.”</p> + +<p>“With some natures I grant you, my lady, but not with such as she. +Horse or man—they never show kindness till they have learned fear. +Kelpie would have torn me to pieces before now if I had taken your +way with her. But except I can do a great deal more with her yet she +will be nothing better than a natural brute beast made to be taken and +destroyed.”</p> + +<p>“The Bible again!” murmured the lady to herself. “Of how much cruelty +has not that book to bear the blame!”</p> + +<p>All this time Kelpie was trying hard to get at the lady’s horse to bite +him. But she did not see that. She was much too distressed— and was +growing more and more so.</p> + +<p>“I wish you would let my groom try her,” she said, after a pitiful +pause. “He’s an older and more experienced man than you. He has +children. He would show you what can be done by gentleness.”</p> + +<p>From Malcolm’s words she had scarcely gathered even a false meaning +—not a glimmer of his nature—not even a suspicion that he meant +something. To her he was but a handsome, brutal young groom. From the +world of thought and reasoning that lay behind his words, not an echo +had reached her.</p> + +<p>“It would be a great satisfaction to my old Adam to let him try her,” +said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“The Bible again!” said the lady to herself.</p> + +<p>“But it would be murder,” he added, “not knowing myself what experience +he has had.”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said the lady to herself; but loud enough for Malcolm to hear, +for her tender-heartedness had made her both angry and unjust, “his +self-conceit is equal to his cruelty—just what I might have expected!”</p> + +<p>With the words she turned her horse’s head and rode away, leaving a +lump in Malcolm’s throat.</p> + +<p>“I wuss fowk”—he still spoke in Scotch in his own chamber— “wad du as +they’re tell’t, an’ no jeedge ane anither. I’m sure it’s Kelpie’s best +chance o’ salvation ’at I gang on wi’ her. Stable-men wad ha’e had her +brocken doon a’thegither by this time; an’ life wad ha’e had little +relish left.”</p> + +<p>It added hugely to the bitterness of being thus rebuked, that he had +never in his life seen such a radiance of beauty’s softest light as +shone from the face and form of the reproving angel.— “Only she canna +be an angel,” he said to himself; “or she wad ha’e ken’t better.”</p> + +<p>She was young—not more than twenty, tall and graceful, with a touch +of the matronly, which she must have had even in childhood, for it +belonged to her—so staid, so stately was she in all her grace. With +her brown hair, her lily complexion, her blue-gray eyes, she was all +of the moonlight and its shadows—even now, in the early morning, and +angry. Her nose was so nearly perfect that one never thought of it. +Her mouth was rather large, but had gained in value of shape, and in +the expression of indwelling sweetness, with every line that carried +it beyond the measure of smallness. Most little mouths are pretty, +some even lovely, but not one have I seen beautiful. Her forehead was +the sweetest of half-moons. Of those who knew her best some absolutely +believed that a radiance resembling moonlight shimmered from its +precious expanse.</p> + +<p>“Be ye angry and sin not,” had always been a puzzle to Malcolm, who +had, as I have said, inherited a certain Celtic fierceness; but now, +even while he knew himself the object of the anger, he understood the +word. It tried him sorely, however, that such gentleness and beauty +should be unreasonable. Could it be that he should never have a chance +of convincing her how mistaken she was concerning his treatment of +Kelpie! What a celestial rosy red her face had glowed! and what summer +lightnings had flashed up in her eyes, as if they had been the horizons +of heavenly worlds up which flew the dreams that broke from the brain +of a young sleeping goddess, to make the worlds glad also in the night +of their slumber.</p> + +<p>Something like this Malcolm felt: whoever saw her must feel as he had +never felt before. He gazed after her long and earnestly.</p> + +<p>“It’s an awfu’ thing to ha’e a wuman like that angert at ye!” he said +to himself when at length she had disappeared, “—as bonny as she is +angry! God be praised ’at he kens a’thing, an’ ’s no angert wi’ ye for +the luik o’ a thing! But the wheel may come roon’ again—wha kens? Ony +gait I s’ mak the best o’ Kelpie I can.— I won’er gien she kens Leddy +Florimel! She’s a heap mair boontifu’ like in her beauty nor her. The +man micht haud ’s ain wi’ an archangel ’at had a wuman like that to +the wife o’ ’m.—Hoots! I’ll be wussin’ I had had anither upbringin’, +’at I micht ha’ won a step nearer to the hem o’ her garment! an’ that +wad be to deny him ’at made an’ ordeen’t me. I wull not du that. But +I maun hae a crack wi’ Maister Graham, anent things twa or three, +jist to haud me straucht, for I’m jist girnin’ at bein’ sae regairdit +by sic a Revelation. Gien she had been an auld wife, I wad ha’e only +lauchen: what for ’s that? I doobt I’m no muckle mair rizzonable nor +hersel’! The thing was this, I fancy it was sae clear she spak frae no +ill-natur’, only frae pure humanity. She’s a gran’ ane yon, only some +saft, I doobt.”</p> + +<p>For the lady, she rode away sadly strengthened in her doubts whether +there could be a God in the world—not because there were in it such +men as she took Malcolm for, but because such a lovely animal had +fallen into his hands.</p> + +<p>“It’s a sair thing to be misjeedged,” said Malcolm to himself as he +put the demoness in her stall; “but it’s no more than the Macker o’ ’s +pits up wi’ ilka hoor o’ the day, an’ says na a word. Eh, but God’s +unco quaiet! Sae lang as he kens till himsel’ ’at he’s a’ richt, he +lats fowk think ’at they like—till he has time to lat them ken better. +Lord, mak clean my hert within me, an’ syne I’ll care little for ony +jeedgement but thine.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.<br><span class="small">THE PSYCHE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>It was a lovely day, but Florimel would not ride: Malcolm must go at +once to Mr Lenorme; she would not go out again until she could have a +choice of horses to follow her.</p> + +<p>“Your Kelpie is all very well in Richmond Park, and I wish I were able +to ride her myself, Malcolm, but she will never do in London.”</p> + +<p>His name sounded sweet on her lips, but somehow to-day, for the first +time since he saw her first, he felt a strange sense of superiority in +his protection of her: could it be because he had that morning looked +unto a higher orb of creation? It mattered little to Malcolm’s generous +nature that the voice that issued therefrom had been one of unjust +rebuke.</p> + +<p>“Who knows, my lady,” he answered his mistress, “but you may ride +her some day! Give her a bit of sugar every time you see her— on +your hand, so that she may take it with her lips, and not catch your +fingers.”</p> + +<p>“You shall show me how,” said Florimel, and gave him a note for Mr +Lenorme.</p> + +<p>When he came in sight of the river, there, almost opposite the +painter’s house, lay his own little yacht! He thought of Kelpie in the +stable, saw Psyche floating like a swan in the reach, made two or three +long strides, then sought to exhale the pride of life in thanksgiving.</p> + +<p>The moment his arrival was announced to Lenorme, he came down and went +with him, and in an hour or two they had found very much the sort of +horse they wanted. Malcolm took him home for trial, and Florimel was +pleased with him. The earl’s opinion was not to be had, for he had hurt +his shoulder when he fell from the rearing Kelpie the day before, and +was confined to his room in Curzon Street.</p> + +<p>In the evening Malcolm put on his yachter’s uniform, and set out +again for Chelsea. There he took a boat, and crossed the river to the +yacht, which lay near the other side, in charge of an old salt whose +acquaintance Blue Peter had made when lying below the bridges. On board +he found all tidy and ship-shape. He dived into the cabin, lighted a +candle, and made some measurements: all the little luxuries of the +nest, carpets, cushions, curtains, and other things, were at Lossie +House, having been removed when the Psyche was laid up for the winter: +he was going to replace them. And he was anxious to see whether he +could not fulfil a desire he had once heard Florimel express to her +father—that she had a bed on board, and could sleep there. He found +it possible, and had soon contrived a berth: even a tiny stateroom was +within the limits of construction.</p> + +<p>Returning to the deck, he was consulting Travers about a carpenter, +when, to his astonishment, he saw young Davy, the boy he had brought +from Duff Harbour, and whom he understood to have gone back with Blue +Peter, gazing at him from before the mast.</p> + +<p>“Gien ye please, Maister MacPhail,” said Davy, and said no more.</p> + +<p>“How on earth do <i>you</i> come to be here, you rascal?” said Malcolm. +“Peter was to take you home with him!”</p> + +<p>“I garred him think I was gauin’,” answered the boy, scratching his red +poll, which glowed in the dusk.</p> + +<p>“I gave him your wages,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ay, he tauld me that, but I loot them gang an’ gae him the slip, an’ +was ashore close ahint yersel’, sir, jist as the smack set sail. I +cudna gang ohn hed a word wi’ yersel’, sir, to see whether ye wadna lat +me bide wi’ ye, sir. I haena muckle wut, they tell me, sir, but gien I +michtna aye be able to du what ye tell’t me to du, I cud aye haud ohn +dune what ye tell’t me no to.”</p> + +<p>The words of the boy pleased Malcolm more than he judged it wise to +manifest. He looked hard at Davy. There was little to be seen in his +face except the best and only thing—truth. It shone from his round +pale blue eyes; it conquered the self-assertion of his unhappy nose; it +seemed to glow in every freckle of his sunburnt cheeks, as earnestly he +returned Malcolm’s gaze.</p> + +<p>“But,” said Malcolm, almost satisfied, “how is this, Travers? I never +gave you any instructions about the boy.”</p> + +<p>“There’s where it is, sir,” answered Travers. “I seed the boy aboard +before, and when he come aboard again, jest arter you left, I never as +much as said to myself, It’s all right. I axed him no questions, and he +told me no lies.”</p> + +<p>“Gien ye please, sir,” struck in Davy, “Maister Trahvers gied me my +mait, an’ I tuik it, ’cause I hed no sil’er to buy ony: I houp it wasna +stealin’, sir. An’ gien ye wad keep me, ye cud tak it aff o’ my wauges +for three days.”</p> + +<p>“Look here, Davy,” said Malcolm, turning sharp upon him, “can you swim?”</p> + +<p>“Ay can I, sir,—weel that,” answered Davy.</p> + +<p>“Jump overboard then, and swim ashore,” said Malcolm, pointing to the +Chelsea bank.</p> + +<p>The boy made two strides to the larboard gunwale, and would have been +over the next instant, but Malcolm caught him by the shoulder.</p> + +<p>“That’ll do, Davy; I’ll give you a chance, Davy,” he said, “and if I +get a good account of you from Travers, I’ll rig you out like myself +here.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, sir,” said Davy. “I s’ du what I can to please ye, sir. An’ +gien ye wad sen’ my wauges hame to my mither, sir, ye wad ken ’at I +cudna be gauin’ stravaguin’, and drinkin’ whan yer back was turn’t.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll write to your mother, and see what she says,” said Malcolm. +“Now I want to tell you, both of you, that this yacht belongs to the +Marchioness of Lossie, and I have the command of her, and I must have +everything on board ship-shape, and as clean, Travers, as if she were +a seventy-four. If there’s the head of a nail visible, it must be +as bright as silver. And everything must be at the word. The least +hesitation, and I have done with that man. If Davy here had grumbled +one mouthful, even on his way overboard, I wouldn’t have kept him.”</p> + +<p>He then arranged that Travers was to go home that night, and bring with +him the next morning an old carpenter friend of his. He would himself +be down by seven o’clock to set him to work.</p> + +<p>The result was that, before a fortnight was over, he had the cabin +thoroughly fitted up, with all the luxuries it had formerly possessed, +and as many more as he could think of—to compensate for the loss of +the space occupied by the daintiest little stateroom —a very jewel box +for softness and richness and comfort. In the cabin, amongst the rest +of his additions, he had fixed in a corner a set of tiny bookshelves, +and filled them with what books he knew his sister liked, and some that +he liked for her. It was not probable she would read in them much, he +said to himself, but they wouldn’t make the boat heel, and who could +tell when a drop of celestial nepenthe might ooze from one or another +of them! So there they stood, in their lovely colours, of morocco, +russia, calf or vellum —types of the infinite rest in the midst of the +ever restless— the types for ever tossed, but the rest remaining.</p> + +<p>By that time also he had arranged with Travers and Davy a code of +signals.</p> + +<p>The day after Malcolm had his new hack, he rode him behind his mistress +in the park, and nothing could be more decorous than the behaviour of +both horse and groom. It was early, and in Rotten Row, to his delight, +they met the lady of rebuke. She and Florimel pulled up simultaneously, +greeted, and had a little talk. When they parted, and the lady came to +pass Malcolm, whom she had not suspected, sitting a civilised horse +in all serenity behind his mistress, she cast a quick second glance +at him, and her fair face flushed with the red reflex of yesterday’s +anger. He expected her to turn at once and complain of him to her +mistress, but to his disappointment, she rode on.</p> + +<p>When they left the park, Florimel went down Constitution Hill, and +turning westward, rode to Chelsea. As they approached Mr Lenorme’s +house, she stopped and said to Malcolm—</p> + +<p>“I am going to run in and thank Mr Lenorme for the trouble he has been +at about the horse. Which is the house?”</p> + +<p>She pulled up at the gate. Malcolm dismounted, but before he could get +near to assist her, she was already halfway up the walk— flying, and +he was but in time to catch the rein of Abbot, already moving off, +curious to know whether he was actually trusted alone. In about five +minutes she came again, glancing about her all ways but behind, with a +scared look, Malcolm thought. But she walked more slowly and statelily +than usual down the path. In a moment Malcolm had her in the saddle, +and she cantered away—past the hospital into Sloane Street, and across +the park home. He said to himself, “She knows the way.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI.<br><span class="small">THE SCHOOLMASTER.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Alexander Graham, the schoolmaster, was the son of a grieve, or +farm-overseer, in the North of Scotland. By straining every nerve, +his parents had succeeded in giving him a university education, the +narrowness of whose scope was possibly favourable to the development +of what genius, rare and shy, might lurk among the students. He had +laboured well, and had gathered a good deal from books and lectures, +but far more from the mines they guided him to discover in his own +nature. In common with so many Scotch parents, his had cherished the +most wretched as well as hopeless of all ambitions, seeing it presumes +to work in a region into which <i>no</i> ambition can enter—I mean that +of seeing their son a clergyman. In presbyter, curate, bishop, or +cardinal, ambition can fare but as that of the creeping thing to build +its nest in the topmost boughs of the cedar. Worse than that; my simile +is a poor one; for the moment a thought of ambition is <i>cherished</i>, +that moment the man is out of the kingdom. Their son with already a +few glimmering insights, which had not yet begun to interfere with +his acceptance of the doctrines of his church, made no opposition to +their wish, but having qualified himself to the satisfaction of his +superiors, at length ascended the pulpit to preach his first sermon.</p> + +<p>The custom of the time as to preaching was a sort of compromise +between reading a sermon and speaking extempore, a mode morally as +well as artistically false: the preacher learned his sermon by rote, +and repeated it—as much like the man he therein was not, and as +little like the parrot he was, as he could. It is no wonder, in such +an attempt, either that memory should fail a shy man, or assurance +an honest man. In Mr Graham’s case it was probably the former: +the practice was universal, and he could hardly yet have begun to +question it, so as to have had any conscience of evil. Blessedly, +however, for his dawning truth and well-being, he failed —failed +utterly—pitifully. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; his +lips moved, but shaped no sound; a deathly dew bathed his forehead; +his knees shook; and he sank at last to the bottom of the chamber +of his torture, whence, while his mother wept below, and his father +clenched hands of despair beneath the tails of his Sunday coat, he +was half led, half dragged down the steps by the bedral, shrunken +together like one caught in a shameful deed, and with the ghastly look +of him who has but just revived from the faint supervening on the +agonies of the rack. Home they crept together, speechless and hopeless +all three, to be thenceforth the contempt and not the envy of their +fellow-parishioners. For if the vulgar feeling towards the home-born +prophet is superciliousness, what must the sentence upon failure be in +ungenerous natures, to which every downfall of another is an uplifting +of themselves! But Mr Graham’s worth had gained him friends in the +presbytery, and he was that same week appointed to the vacant school of +another parish.</p> + +<p>There it was not long before he made the acquaintance of Griselda +Campbell, who was governess in the great house of the neighbourhood, +and a love, not the less fine that it was hopeless from the first, +soon began to consume the chagrin of his failure, and substitute for +it a more elevating sorrow;—for how could an embodied failure, to +offer whose miserable self would be an insult, dare speak of love to +one before whom his whole being sank worshipping. Silence was the sole +armour of his privilege. So long as he was silent, the terrible arrow +would never part from the bow of those sweet lips; he might love on, +love ever, nor be grudged the bliss of such visions as to him, seated +on its outer steps, might come from any chance opening of the heavenly +gate. And Miss Campbell thought of him more kindly than he knew. But +before long she accepted the offered situation of governess to Lady +Annabel, the only child of the late marquis’s elder brother, at that +time himself marquis, and removed to Lossie House. There the late +marquis fell in love with her, and persuaded her to a secret marriage. +There also she became, in the absence of her husband, the mother of +Malcolm. But the marquis of the time, jealous for the succession of his +daughter, and fearing his brother might yet marry the mother of his +child, contrived, with the assistance of the midwife, to remove the +infant and persuade the mother that he was dead, and also to persuade +his brother of the death of both mother and child; after which, +imagining herself wilfully deserted by her husband, yet determined to +endure shame rather than break the promise of secrecy she had given +him, the poor lady accepted the hospitality of her distant relative, +Miss Horn, and continued with her till she died.</p> + +<p>When he learned where she had gone, Mr Graham seized a chance of +change to Portlossie that occurred soon after, and when she became her +cousin’s guest, went to see her, was kindly received, and for twenty +years lived in friendly relations with the two. It was not until after +her death that he came to know the strange fact that the object of his +calm unalterable devotion had been a wife all those years, and was the +mother of his favourite pupil. About the same time he was dismissed +from the school on the charge of heretical teaching, founded on certain +religious conversations he had had with some of the fisher-people +who sought his advice; and thereupon he had left the place, and gone +to London, knowing it would be next to impossible to find or gather +another school in Scotland after being thus branded. In London he +hoped, one way or another, to avoid dying of cold or hunger, or in +debt: that was very nearly the limit of his earthly ambition.</p> + +<p>He had just one acquaintance in the whole mighty city, and no more. Him +he had known in the days of his sojourn at King’s College, where he +had grown with him from bejan to magistrand. He was the son of a linen +draper in Aberdeen, and was a decent, good humoured fellow, who, if he +had not distinguished, had never disgraced himself. His father, having +somewhat influential business relations, and finding in him no leanings +to a profession, bespoke the good offices of a certain large retail +house in London, and sent him thither to learn the business. The result +was that he had married a daughter of one of the partners, and become +a partner himself. His old friend wrote to him at his shop in Oxford +Street, and then went to see him at his house in Haverstock Hill.</p> + +<p>He was shown into the library—in which were two mahogany cases with +plate-glass doors, full of books, well cared for as to clothing and +condition, and perfectly placid, as if never disturbed from one week’s +end to another. In a minute Mr Marshal entered—so changed that he +could never have recognized him—still, however, a kind-hearted, genial +man. He received his classfellow cordially and respectfully—referred +merrily to old times, and begged to know how he was getting on, asked +whether he had come to London with any special object, and invited +him to dine with them on Sunday. He accepted the invitation, met him, +according to agreement, at a certain chapel in Kentish Town, of which +he was a deacon, and walked home with him and his wife.</p> + +<p>They had but one of their family at home—the youngest son, whom his +father was having educated for the dissenting ministry, in the full +conviction that he was doing not a little for the truth, and justifying +its cause before men, by devoting to its service the son of a man of +standing and worldly means, whom he might have easily placed in a +position to make money. The youth was of simple character and good +inclination—ready to do what he saw to be right, but slow in putting +to the question anything that interfered with his notions of laudable +ambition, or justifiable self-interest. He was attending lectures at a +dissenting college in the neighbourhood, for his father feared Oxford +or Cambridge, not for his morals, but his opinions in regard to church +and state.</p> + +<p>The schoolmaster spent a few days in the house. His friend was +generally in town, and his wife, regarding him as very primitive and +hardly fit for what she counted society—the class, namely, that she +herself represented, was patronising and condescending; but the young +fellow, finding, to his surprise, that he knew a great deal more about +his studies than he did himself, was first somewhat attracted and then +somewhat influenced by him, so that at length an intimacy tending to +friendship arose between them.</p> + +<p>Mr Graham was not a little shocked to discover that his ideas in +respect of the preacher’s calling were of a very worldly kind. The +notions of this fledgling of dissent differed from those of a clergyman +of the same stamp in this:—the latter regards the church as a society +with accumulated property for the use of its officers; the former +regarded it as a community of communities, each possessing a preaching +house which ought to be made commercially successful. Saving influences +must emanate from it of course— but dissenting saving influences.</p> + +<p>His mother was a partisan to a hideous extent. To hear her talk you +would have thought she imagined the apostles the first dissenters, +and that the main duty of every Christian soul was to battle for +the victory of Congregationalism over Episcopacy, and Voluntaryism +over State Endowment. Her every mode of thinking and acting was of +a levelling common-place. With her, love was liking, duty something +unpleasant—generally to other people, and kindness patronage. But she +was just in money-matters, and her son too had every intention of being +worthy of his hire, though wherein lay the value of the labour with +which he thought to counterpoise that hire, it were hard to say.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII.<br><span class="small">THE PREACHER.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The sermon Mr Graham heard at the chapel that Sunday morning in +Kentish Town was not of an elevating, therefore not of a strengthening +description. The pulpit was at that time in offer to the highest +bidder—in orthodoxy, that is, combined with popular talent. The first +object of the chapel’s existence—I do not say in the minds of those +who built it, for it was an old place, but certainly in the minds +of those who now directed its affairs—was not to save its present +congregation, but to gather a larger—ultimately that they might be +saved, let us hope, but primarily that the drain upon the purses of +those who were responsible for its rent and other outlays, might be +lessened. Mr Masquar, therefore, to whom the post was a desirable +one, had been mainly anxious that morning to prove his orthodoxy, and +so commend his services. Not that in those days one heard so much of +the dangers of heterodoxy: that monster was as yet but growling far +off in the jungles of Germany; but certain whispers had been abroad +concerning the preacher which he thought desirable to hush, especially +as they were founded in truth. He had tested the power of heterodoxy to +attract attention, but having found that the attention it did attract +was not of a kind favourable to his wishes, had so skilfully remodelled +his theories that, although to his former friends he declared them in +substance unaltered, it was impossible any longer to distinguish them +from the most uncompromising orthodoxy; and his sermon of that morning +had tended neither to the love of God, the love of man, nor a hungering +after righteousness—its aim being to disprove the reported heterodoxy +of Jacob Masquar.</p> + +<p>As they walked home, Mrs Marshal, addressing her husband in a tone of +conjugal disapproval, said, with more force than delicacy,</p> + +<p>“The pulpit is not the place to give a man to wash his dirty linen in.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you see, my love,” answered her husband in a tone of apology, +“people won’t submit to be told their duty by mere students, and just +at present there seems nobody else to be had. There’s none in the +market but old stagers and young colts—eh, Fred? But Mr Masquar is at +least a man of experience.”</p> + +<p>“Of more than enough, perhaps,” suggested his wife. “And the young ones +must have their chance, else how are they to learn? You should have +given the principal a hint. It is a most desirable thing that Frederick +should preach a little oftener.”</p> + +<p>“They have it in turn, and it wouldn’t do to favour one more than +another.”</p> + +<p>“He could hand his guinea, or whatever they gave him, to the one whose +turn it ought to have been, and that would set it all right.”</p> + +<p>At this point the silk-mercer, fearing that the dominie, as he called +him, was silently disapproving, and willing therefore to change the +subject, turned to him and said,</p> + +<p>“Why shouldn’t <i>you</i> give us a sermon, Graham?”</p> + +<p>The schoolmaster laughed.</p> + +<p>“Did you never hear,” he said, “how I fell like Dagon on the threshold +of the church, and have lain there ever since.”</p> + +<p>“What has that to do with it?” returned his friend, sorry that his +forgetfulness should have caused a painful recollection. “That is +ages ago, when you were little more than a boy. Seriously,” he added, +chiefly to cover his little indiscretion, “will you preach for us the +Sunday after next?”</p> + +<p>Deacons generally ask a man to preach <i>for</i> them.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Mr Graham.</p> + +<p>But even as he said it, a something began to move in his heart— +a something half of jealousy for God, half of pity for poor souls +buffeted by such winds as had that morning been roaring, chaff-laden, +about the church, while the grain fell all to the bottom of the pulpit. +Something burned in him: was it the word that was as a fire in his +bones, or was it a mere lust of talk? He thought for a moment.</p> + +<p>“Have you any gatherings between Sundays?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes; every Wednesday evening,” replied Mr Marshal. “And if you won’t +preach on Sunday, we shall announce to-night that next Wednesday a +clergyman of the Church of Scotland will address the prayer meeting.”</p> + +<p>He was glad to get out of it so, for he was uneasy about his friend, +both as to his nerve, which might fail him, and his Scotch oddities, +which would not.</p> + +<p>“That would be hardly true,” said Mr Graham, “seeing I never got beyond +a licence.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody here knows the difference between a licentiate and a placed +minister; and if they did they would not care a straw. So we’ll just +say <i>clergyman</i>.”</p> + +<p>“But I won’t have it announced in any terms. Leave that alone, and I +will try to speak at the prayer meeting.”</p> + +<p>“It won’t be in the least worth your while except we announce it. You +won’t have a soul to hear you but the pew-openers, the woman that +cleans the chapel, Mrs Marshal’s washerwoman, and the old greengrocer +we buy our vegetables from. We must really announce it.”</p> + +<p>“Then I won’t do it. Just tell me—what would our Lord have said to +Peter or John if they had told Him that they had been to synagogue +and had been asked to speak, but had declined because there were only +the pew-openers, the chapel-cleaner, a washerwoman, and a greengrocer +present?”</p> + +<p>“I said it only for your sake, Graham; you needn’t take me up so +sharply.”</p> + +<p>“And ra-a-ther irreverently—don’t you think—excuse me, sir?” said Mrs +Marshal very softly. But the very softness had a kind of jelly-fish +sting in it.</p> + +<p>“I think,” rejoined the schoolmaster, indirectly replying, “we must be +careful to show our reverence in a manner pleasing to our Lord. Now I +cannot discover that he cares for any reverences but the shaping of our +ways after his; and if you will show me a single instance of respect of +persons in our Lord, I will press my petition no farther to be allowed +to speak a word to your pew-openers, washerwoman, and greengrocer.”</p> + +<p>His entertainers were silent—the gentleman in the consciousness of +deserved rebuke, the lady in offence.</p> + +<p>Just then the latter bethought herself that their guest, belonging to +the Scotch Church, was, if no Episcopalian, yet no dissenter, and that +seemed to clear up to her the spirit of his disapproval.</p> + +<p>“By all means, Mr Marshal,” she said, “let your friend speak on the +Wednesday evening. It would not be to his advantage to have it said +that he occupied a dissenting pulpit. It will not be nearly such +an exertion either; and if he is unaccustomed to speak to large +congregations, he will find himself more comfortable with our usual +week-evening one.”</p> + +<p>“I have never attempted to speak in public but once,” rejoined Mr +Graham, “and then I failed.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! that accounts for it,” said his friend’s wife, and the simplicity +of his confession, while it proved him a simpleton, mollified her.</p> + +<p>Thus it came that he spent the days between Sunday and Thursday in +their house, and so made the acquaintance of young Marshal.</p> + +<p>When his mother perceived their growing intimacy, she warned her son +that their visitor belonged to an unscriptural and worldly community, +and that notwithstanding his apparent guilelessness— deficiency +indeed—he might yet use cunning arguments to draw him aside from the +faith of his fathers. But the youth replied that, although in the +firmness of his own position as a Congregationalist, he had tried to +get the Scotchman into a conversation upon church government, he had +failed; the man smiled queerly and said nothing. But when a question of +New Testament criticism arose, he came awake at once, and his little +blue eyes gleamed like glow-worms.</p> + +<p>“Take care, Frederick,” said his mother. “The Scriptures are not to be +treated like common books and subjected to human criticism.”</p> + +<p>“We must find out what they mean, I suppose, mother,” said the youth.</p> + +<p>“You’re to take just the plain meaning that he that runneth may +read,” answered his mother.—“More than that no one has any business +with. You’ve got to save your own soul first, and then the souls of +your neighbours if they will let you; and for that reason you must +cultivate, not a spirit of criticism, but the talents that attract +people to the hearing of the Word. You have got a fine voice, and it +will improve with judicious use. Your father is now on the outlook for +a teacher of elocution to instruct you how to make the best of it, and +speak with power on God’s behalf.”</p> + +<p>When the afternoon of Wednesday began to draw towards the evening, +there came on a mist, not a London fog, but a low wet cloud, which +kept slowly condensing into rain; and as the hour of meeting drew nigh +with the darkness, it grew worse. Mrs Marshal had forgotten all about +the meeting and the schoolmaster: her husband was late, and she wanted +her dinner. At twenty minutes past six, she came upon her guest in the +hall, kneeling on the door-mat, first on one knee, then on the other, +turning up the feet of his trousers.</p> + +<p>“Why, Mr Graham,” she said kindly, as he rose and proceeded to look for +his cotton umbrella, easily discernible in the stand among the silk +ones of the house, “you’re never going out on a night like this?”</p> + +<p>“I am going to the prayer-meeting, ma’am,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense! You’ll be wet to the skin before you get half way.”</p> + +<p>“I promised, you may remember, ma’am, to talk a little to them.”</p> + +<p>“You only said so to my husband. You may be very glad, seeing it has +turned out so wet, that I would not allow him to have it announced +from the pulpit. There is not the slightest occasion for your going. +Besides, you have not had your dinner.”</p> + +<p>“That’s not of the slightest consequence, ma’am. A bit of bread and +cheese before I go to bed is all I need to sustain nature, and fit me +for understanding my proposition in Euclid. I have been in the habit, +for the last few years, of reading one every night before I go to bed.”</p> + +<p>“We dissenters consider a chapter of the Bible the best thing to read +before going to bed,” said the lady, with a sustained voice.</p> + +<p>“I keep that for the noontide of my perceptions—for mental high +water,” said the schoolmaster. “Euclid is good enough after supper. Not +that I deny myself a small portion of the Word,” he added with a smile, +as he proceeded to open the door—“when I feel very hungry for it.”</p> + +<p>“There is no one expecting you,” persisted the lady, who could ill +endure not to have her own way, even when she did not care for the +matter concerned. “Who will be the wiser or the worse if you stay at +home?”</p> + +<p>“My dear lady,” returned the schoolmaster, “when I have on good grounds +made up my mind to a thing, I always feel as if I had promised God to +do it; and indeed it amounts to the same thing very nearly. Such a +resolve then is not to be unmade except on equally good grounds with +those upon which it was made. Having resolved to try whether I could +not draw a little water of refreshment for souls which if not thirsting +are but fainting the more, shall I allow a few drops of rain to prevent +me?”</p> + +<p>“Pray don’t let me persuade you against your will,” said his hostess, +with a stately bend of her neck over her shoulder, as she turned into +the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>Her guest went out into the rain, asking himself by what theory of the +will his hostess could justify such a phrase—-too simple to see that +she had only thrown it out, as the cuttlefish its ink, to cover her +retreat.</p> + +<p>But the weather had got a little into his brain: into his soul it was +seldom allowed to intrude. He felt depressed and feeble and dull. But +at the first corner he turned, he met a little breath of wind. It blew +the rain in his face, and revived him a little, reminding him at the +same time that he had not yet opened his umbrella. As he put it up he +laughed.</p> + +<p>“Here I am,” he said to himself, “lance in hand, spurring to meet my +dragon!”</p> + +<p>Once when he used a similar expression, Malcolm had asked him what he +meant by his dragon; “I mean,” replied the schoolmaster, “that huge +slug, <i>The Commonplace</i>. It is the wearifulest dragon to fight in the +whole miscreation. Wound it as you may, the jelly-mass of the monster +closes, and the dull one is himself again—feeding all the time so +cunningly that scarce one of the victims whom he has swallowed suspects +that he is but pabulum slowly digesting in the belly of the monster.”</p> + +<p>If the schoolmaster’s dragon, spread abroad as he lies, a vague +dilution, everywhere throughout human haunts, has yet any +<i>head</i>-quarters, where else can they be than in such places as that to +which he was now making his way to fight him? What can be fuller of the +wearisome, depressing, beauty-blasting commonplace than a dissenting +chapel in London, on the night of the weekly prayer meeting, and +that night a drizzly one? The few lights fill the lower part with a +dull, yellow, steamy glare, while the vast galleries, possessed by an +ugly twilight, yawn above like the dreary openings of a disconsolate +eternity. The pulpit rises into the dim damp air, covered with brown +holland, reminding one of desertion and charwomen, if not of a chamber +of death and spiritual undertakers, who have shrouded and coffined the +truth. Gaping, empty, unsightly, the place is the very skull of the +monster himself—the fittest place of all wherein to encounter the +great slug, and deal him one of those death blows which every sunrise, +every repentance, every child-birth, every true love deals him. Every +hour he receives the blow that kills, but he takes long to die, for +every hour he is right carefully fed and cherished by a whole army of +purveyors, including every trade and profession, but officered chiefly +by divines and men of science.</p> + +<p>When the dominie entered, all was still, and every light had a nimbus +of illuminated vapour. There were hardly more than three present beyond +the number Mr Marshal had given him to expect; and their faces, some +grim, some grimy, most of them troubled, and none blissful, seemed +the nervous ganglions of the monster whose faintly gelatinous bulk +filled the place. He seated himself in a pew near the pulpit, communed +with his own heart and was still. Presently the ministering deacon, +a humbler one in the worldly sense than Mr Marshal, for he kept a +small ironmongery shop in the next street to the chapel, entered, +twirling the wet from his umbrella as he came along one of the passages +intersecting the pews. Stepping up into the desk which cowered humbly +at the foot of the pulpit, he stood erect, and cast his eyes around the +small assembly. Discovering there no one that could lead in singing, he +chose out and read one of the monster’s favourite hymns, in which never +a sparkle of thought or a glow of worship gave reason wherefore the +holy words should have been carpentered together. Then he prayed aloud, +and then first the monster found tongue, voice, articulation. If this +was worship, surely it was the monster’s own worship of itself! No God +were better than one to whom such were fitting words of prayer. What +passed in the man’s soul, God forbid I should judge: I speak but of the +words that reached the ears of men.</p> + +<p>And over all the vast of London lay the monster, filling it like the +night—not in churches and chapels only—in almost all theatres, and +most houses—most of all in rich houses: everywhere he had a foot, a +tail, a tentacle or two—everywhere suckers that drew the life-blood +from the sickening and somnolent soul.</p> + +<p>When the deacon, a little brown man, about five-and-thirty, had ended +his prayer, he read another hymn of the same sort—one of such as form +the bulk of most collections, and then looked meaningly at Mr Graham, +whom he had seen in the chapel on Sunday with his brother deacon, +and therefore judged one of consequence, who had come to the meeting +with an object, and ought to be propitiated: he had intended speaking +himself. After having thus for a moment regarded him,</p> + +<p>“Would you favour us with a word of exhortation, sir?” he said, in a +stage-like whisper.</p> + +<p>Now the monster had by this time insinuated a hair-like sucker into +the heart of the schoolmaster, and was busy. But at the word, as the +Red-Cross Knight when he heard Orgoglio in the wood staggered to meet +him, he rose at once, and although his umbrella slipped and fell with +a loud discomposing clatter, calmly approached the reading desk. To +look at his outer man, this knight of the truth might have been the +very high priest of the monster which, while he was sitting there, had +been twisting his slimy, semi-electric, benumbing tendrils around his +heart. His business was nevertheless to fight him, though to fight him +in his own heart and that of other people at one and the same moment, +he might well find hard work. And the loathly worm had this advantage +over the knight, that it was the first time he had stood up to speak in +public since his failure thirty years ago. That hour again for a moment +overshadowed his spirit. It was a wavy harvest morning in a village of +the north. A golden wind was blowing, and little white clouds flying +aloft in the sunny blue. The church was full of well-known faces, +upturned, listening, expectant, critical. The hour vanished in a slow +mist of abject misery and shame. But had he not learned to rejoice over +all dead hopes, and write <i>Te Deums</i> on their coffin-lids? And now he +stood in dim light, in the vapour from damp garments, in dinginess and +ugliness, with a sense of spiritual squalor and destitution in his very +soul. He had tried to pray his own prayer while the deacon prayed his; +but there had come to him no reviving—no message for this handful of +dull souls—there were nine of them in all —and his own soul crouched +hard and dull within his bosom. How to give them one deeper breath? How +to make them know they were alive? Whence was his aid to come?</p> + +<p>His aid was nearer than he knew. There were no hills to which he could +lift his eyes, but help may hide in the valley as well as come down +from the mountain, and he found his under the coal-scuttle bonnet of +the woman that swept out and dusted the chapel. She was no interesting +young widow. A life of labour and vanished children lay behind as well +as before her. She was sixty years of age, seamed with the small-pox, +and in every seam the dust and smoke of London had left a stain. She +had a troubled eye, and a gaze that seemed to ask of the universe +why it had given birth to her. But it was only her face that asked +the question; her mind was too busy with the ever recurring enigma, +which, answered this week, was still an enigma for the next—how she +was to pay her rent—too busy to have any other question to ask. Or +would she not rather have gone to sleep altogether, under the dreary +fascination of the slug monster, had she not had a severe landlady, +who <i>would</i> be paid punctually, or turn her out? Anyhow, every time +and all the time she sat in the chapel, she was brooding over ways +and means, calculating pence and shillings—the day’s charing she had +promised her, and the chances of more—mingling faint regrets over past +indulgences —the extra half-pint of beer she drank on Saturday—the +bit of cheese she bought on Monday. Of this face of care, revealing a +spirit which Satan had bound, the schoolmaster caught sight,— caught +from its commonness, its grimness, its defeature, inspiration and +uplifting, for there he beheld the oppressed, down-trodden, mire-fouled +humanity which the man in whom he believed had loved because it was +his father’s humanity divided into brothers, and had died straining to +lift back to the bosom of that Father. Oh tale of horror and dreary +monstrosity, if it be such indeed as the bulk of its priests on the one +hand, and its enemies on the other represent it! Oh story of splendrous +fate, of infinite resurrection and uplifting, of sun and breeze, of +organ-blasts and exultation, for the heart of every man and woman, +whatsoever the bitterness of its care or the weight of its care, if it +be such as the Book itself has held it from age to age!</p> + +<p>It was the mere humanity of the woman, I say, and nothing in her +individuality of what is commonly called the interesting, that +ministered to the breaking of the schoolmaster’s trance. “_Oh ye of +little faith!_” were the first words that flew from his lips—he knew +not whether uttered concerning himself or the charwoman the more; and +at once he fell to speaking of him who said the words, and of the +people that came to him and heard him gladly;—how this one, whom he +described, must have felt, <i>Oh, if that be true!</i> how that one, whom +also he described, must have said, <i>Now he means me!</i> and so laid bare +the secrets of many hearts, until he had concluded all in the misery of +being without a helper in the world, a prey to fear and selfishness and +dismay. Then he told them how the Lord pledged himself for all their +needs—meat and drink and clothes for the body, and God and love and +truth for the soul, if only they would put them in the right order and +seek the best first.</p> + +<p>Next he spoke a parable to them—of a house and a father and his +children. The children would not do what their father told them, and +therefore began to keep out of his sight. After a while they began to +say to each other that he must have gone out, it was so long since they +had seen him—only they never went to look. And again after a time some +of them began to say to each other that they did not believe they had +ever had any father. But there were some who dared not say that—who +thought they had a father somewhere in the house, and yet crept about +in misery, sometimes hungry and often cold, fancying he was not +friendly to them, when all the time it was they who were not friendly +to him, and said to themselves he would not give them anything. They +never went to knock at his door, or call to know if he were inside and +would speak to them. And all the time there he was sitting sorrowful, +listening and listening for some little hand to come knocking, and some +little voice to come gently calling through the key-hole; for sorely +did he long to take them to his bosom and give them everything. Only +if he did that without their coming to him, they would not care for +his love or him, would only care for the things he gave them, and soon +would come to hate their brothers and sisters, and turn their own souls +into hells, and the earth into a charnel of murder.</p> + +<p>Ere he ended he was pleading with the charwoman to seek her father in +his own room, tell him her troubles, do what he told her, and fear +nothing. And while he spoke, lo! the dragon-slug had vanished; the +ugly chapel was no longer the den of the hideous monster; it was but +the dusky bottom of a glory shaft, adown which gazed the stars of the +coming resurrection.</p> + +<p>“The whole trouble is that we won’t let God help us,” said the +preacher, and sat down.</p> + +<p>A prayer from the greengrocer followed, in which he did seem to be +feeling after God a little; and then the ironmonger pronounced the +benediction, and all went—among the rest, Frederick Marshal, who +had followed the schoolmaster, and now walked back with him to his +father’s, where he was to spend one night more.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII.<br><span class="small">THE PORTRAIT.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Florimel had found her daring visit to Lenorme stranger and more +fearful than she had expected: her courage was not quite so masterful +as she had thought. The next day she got Mrs Barnardiston to meet her +at the studio. But she contrived to be there first by some minutes, +and her friend found her seated, and the painter looking as if he had +fairly begun his morning’s work. When she apologised for being late, +Florimel said she supposed her groom had brought round the horses +before his time; being ready, she had not looked at her watch. She was +sharp on other people for telling stories —but had of late ceased to +see any great harm in telling one to protect herself. The fact however +had begun to present itself in those awful morning hours that seem a +mingling of time and eternity, and she did not like the discovery that, +since her intimacy with Lenorme, she had begun to tell lies: what would +he say if he knew?</p> + +<p>Malcolm found it dreary waiting in the street while she sat to the +painter. He would not have minded it on Kelpie, for she was always +occupation enough, but with only a couple of quiet horses to hold, it +was dreary. He took to scrutinizing the faces that passed him, trying +to understand them. To his surprise he found that almost everyone +reminded him of somebody he had known before, though he could not +always identify the likeness.</p> + +<p>It was a pleasure to see his yacht lying so near him, and Davy on the +deck, and to hear the blows of the hammer and the <i>swish</i> of the plane +as the carpenter went on with the alterations to which he had set +him, but he got tired of sharing in activity only with his ears and +eyes. One thing he had by it, however, and that was—a good lesson in +quiescent waiting—a grand thing for any man, and most of all for those +in whom the active is strong.</p> + +<p>The next day Florimel did not ride until after lunch, but took her maid +with her to the studio, and Malcolm had a long morning with Kelpie. +Once again he passed the beautiful lady in Rotten Row, but Kelpie was +behaving in a most exemplary manner, and he could not tell whether +she even saw him. I believe she thought her lecture had done him +good. The day after that Lord Liftore was able to ride, and for some +days Florimel and he rode in the park before dinner, when, as Malcolm +followed on the new horse, he had to see his lordship make love to his +sister, without being able to find the least colourable pretext of +involuntary interference.</p> + +<p>At length the parcel he had sent for from Lossie House arrived. He had +explained to Mrs Courthope what he wanted the things for, and she had +made no difficulty of sending them to the address he gave her. Lenorme +had already begun the portrait, had indeed been working at it very +busily, and was now quite ready for him to sit. The early morning being +the only time a groom could contrive to spare—and that involved yet +earlier attention to his horses, they arranged that Malcolm should be +at the study every day by seven o’clock, until the painter’s object was +gained. So he mounted Kelpie at half-past six of a fine breezy spring +morning, rode across Hyde Park and down Grosvenor Place, and so reached +Chelsea, where he put up his mare in Lenorme’s stable—fortunately +large enough to admit of an empty stall between her and the painter’s +grand screw, else a battle frightful to relate might have fallen to my +lot.</p> + +<p>Nothing could have been more to Malcolm’s mind than such a surpassing +opportunity of learning with assurance what sort of man Lenorme was; +and the relation that arose between them extended the sittings far +beyond the number necessary for the object proposed. How the first of +them passed I must recount with some detail.</p> + +<p>As soon as he arrived, he was shown into the painter’s bedroom, where +lay the portmanteau he had carried thither himself the night before: +out of it, with a strange mingling of pleasure and sadness, he now +took the garments of his father’s vanished state—the filibeg of the +dark tartan of his clan, in which green predominated; the French coat +of black velvet of Genoa, with silver buttons; the bonnet, which ought +to have had an eagle’s feather, but had only an aigrette of diamonds; +the black sporran of long goat’s hair, with the silver clasp; the +silver-mounted dirk, with its appendages, set all with pale cairngorms +nearly as good as oriental topazes; and the claymore of the renowned +Andrew’s forging, with its basket hilt of silver, and its black, +silver-mounted sheath. He handled each with the reverence of a son. +Having dressed in them, he drew himself up with not a little of the +Celt’s pleasure in fine clothes, and walked into the painting-room. +Lenorme started with admiration of his figure, and wonder at the +dignity of his carriage, while, mingled with these feelings, he was +aware of an indescribable doubt, something to which he could give no +name. He almost sprang at his palette and brushes: whether he succeeded +with the likeness of the late marquis or not, it would be his own fault +if he did not make a good picture! He painted eagerly, and they talked +little, and only about things indifferent.</p> + +<p>At length the painter said,</p> + +<p>“Thank you. Now walk about the room while I spread a spadeful of paint: +you must be tired standing.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm did as he was told, and walked straight up to the Temple of +Isis, in which the painter had now long been at work on the goddess. He +recognised his sister at once, but a sudden pinch of prudence checked +the exclamation that had almost burst from his lips.</p> + +<p>“What a beautiful picture!” he said. “What does it mean?— Surely it is +Hermione coming to life, and Leontes dying of joy! But no; that would +not fit. They are both too young, and——”</p> + +<p>“You read Shakspere, I see,” said Lenorme, “as well as Epictetus.”</p> + +<p>“I do—a good deal,” answered Malcolm. “But please tell me what you +painted this for.”</p> + +<p>Then Lenorme told him the parable of Novalis, and Malcolm saw what the +poet meant. He stood staring at the picture, and Lenorme sat working +away, but a little anxious—he hardly knew why: had he bethought +himself he would have put the picture out of sight before Malcolm came.</p> + +<p>“You wouldn’t be offended if I made a remark, would you, Mr Lenorme?” +said Malcolm at length.</p> + +<p>“Certainly not,” replied Lenorme, something afraid nevertheless of what +might be coming.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know whether I can express what I mean,” said Malcolm, “but +I’ll try. I could do it better in Scotch, I believe, but then you +wouldn’t understand me.”</p> + +<p>“I think I should,” said Lenorme. “I spent six months in Edinburgh +once.”</p> + +<p>“Ow ay! but ye see they dinna thraw the words there jist the same gait +they du at Portlossie. Na, na! I maunna attemp’ it.”</p> + +<p>“Hold, hold!” cried Lenorme. “I want to have your criticism. I don’t +understand a word you are saying. You must make the best you can of the +English.”</p> + +<p>“I was only telling you in Scotch that I wouldn’t try the Scotch,” +returned Malcolm. “Now I will try the English.—In the first place, +then—but really it’s very presumptuous of me, Mr Lenorme; and it may +be that I am blind to something in the picture.——”</p> + +<p>“Go on,” said Lenorme impatiently.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think then, that one of the first things you would look for +in a goddess would be—what shall I call it?—an air of mystery?”</p> + +<p>“That was so much involved in the very idea of Isis, in her especially, +that they said she was always veiled, and no man had ever seen her +face.”</p> + +<p>“That would greatly interfere with my notion of mystery,” said Malcolm. +“There must be revelation before mystery. I take it that mystery is +what lies behind revelation; that which as yet revelation has not +reached. You must see something—a part of something, before you can +feel any sense of mystery about it. The Isis for ever veiled is the +absolutely Unknown, not the Mysterious.”</p> + +<p>“But, you observe, the idea of the parable is different. According to +that, Isis is for ever unveiling, that is, revealing herself, in her +works, chiefly in the women she creates, and then chiefly in each of +them to the man who loves her.”</p> + +<p>“I see what you mean well enough; but not the less she remains the +goddess, does she not?”</p> + +<p>“Surely she does.”</p> + +<p>“And can a goddess ever reveal all she is and has?”</p> + +<p>“Never.”</p> + +<p>“Then ought there not to be mystery about the face and form of your +Isis on her pedestal?”</p> + +<p>“Is it not there? Is there not mystery in the face and form of every +woman that walks the earth?”</p> + +<p>“Doubtless; but you desire—do you not?—to show—that although this is +the very lady the young man loved before ever he sought the shrine of +the goddess, not the less is she the goddess Isis herself?”</p> + +<p>“I do—or at least I ought; only—by Jove! you have already looked +deeper into the whole thing than I!”</p> + +<p>“There may be things to account for that on both sides,” said Malcolm. +“But one word more to relieve my brain:—if you would embody the full +meaning of the parable, you must not be content that the mystery is +there; you must show in your painting that you feel it there; you must +paint the invisible veil that no hand can lift, for there it is, and +there it ever will be, though Isis herself raise it from morning to +morning.”</p> + +<p>“How am I to do that?” said Lenorme, not that he did not see what +Malcolm meant, or agree with it: he wanted to make him talk.</p> + +<p>“How can I, who never drew a stroke, or painted anything but the gunnel +of a boat, tell you that?” rejoined Malcolm. “It is your business. You +must paint that veil, that mystery in the forehead, and in the eyes, +and in the lips—yes, in the cheeks and the chin and the eyebrows and +everywhere. You must make her say without saying it, that she knows oh! +so much, if only she could make you understand it!—that she is all +there for you, but the all is infinitely more than you can know. As she +stands there now,——”</p> + +<p>“I must interrupt you,” cried Lenorme, “just to say that the picture is +not finished yet.”</p> + +<p>“And yet I will finish my sentence, if you will allow me,” returned +Malcolm. “—As she stands there—the goddess—she looks only a +beautiful young woman, with whom the young man spreading out his arms +to her is very absolutely in love. There is the glow and the mystery of +love in both their faces, and nothing more.”</p> + +<p>“And is not that enough?” said Lenorme.</p> + +<p>“No,” answered Malcolm. “And yet it may be too much,” he added, “if you +are going to hang it up where people will see it.”</p> + +<p>As he said this, he looked hard at the painter for a moment. The dark +hue of Lenorme’s cheek deepened; his brows lowered a little farther +over the black wells of his eyes; and he painted on without answer.</p> + +<p>“By Jove!” he said at length.</p> + +<p>“Don’t swear, Mr Lenorme,” said Malcolm. “—Besides, that’s my Lord +Liftore’s oath.—If <i>you</i> do, you will teach my lady to swear.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by that?” asked Lenorme, with offence plain enough in +his tone.</p> + +<p>Thereupon Malcolm told him how on one occasion, himself being present, +the marquis her father happening to utter an imprecation, Lady Florimel +took the first possible opportunity of using the very same words +on her own account, much to the marquis’s amusement and Malcolm’s +astonishment. But upon reflection he had come to see that she only +wanted to cure her father of the bad habit.</p> + +<p>The painter laughed heartily, but stopped all at once and said, “It’s +enough to make any fellow swear though, to hear a—groom talk as you do +about art.”</p> + +<p>“Have I the impudence? I didn’t know it,” said Malcolm, with some +dismay. “I seemed to myself merely saying the obvious thing, the common +sense, about the picture, on the ground of your own statement of your +meaning in it. I am annoyed with myself if I have been talking of +things I know nothing about.”</p> + +<p>“On the contrary, MacPhail, you are so entirely right in what you say, +that I cannot for the life of me understand where or how you can have +got it.”</p> + +<p>“Mr Graham used to talk to me about everything.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but he was only a country schoolmaster.”</p> + +<p>“A good deal more than that, sir,” said Malcolm, solemnly. “He is a +disciple of him that knows everything. And now I think of it, I do +believe that what I’ve been saying about your picture, I must have got +from hearing him talk about <i>the</i> revelation, in which is included Isis +herself, with her brother and all their train.”</p> + +<p>Lenorme held his peace. Malcolm had taken his place again +unconsciously, and the painter was working hard, and looking very +thoughtful. Malcolm went again to the picture.</p> + +<p>“Hillo!” cried Lenorme, looking up and finding no object in the focus +of his eyes.</p> + +<p>Malcolm returned directly.</p> + +<p>“There was just one thing I wanted to see,” he said, “—whether the +youth worshipping his goddess, had come into her presence <i>clean</i>.”</p> + +<p>“And what is your impression of him?” half murmured Lenorme, without +lifting his head.</p> + +<p>“The one that’s painted <i>there</i>,” answered Malcolm, “does look as if +he might know that the least a goddess may claim of a worshipper is, +that he should come into her presence pure enough to understand her +purity. I came upon a fine phrase the other evening in your English +prayer-book. I never looked into it before, but I found one lying on +a book-stall, and it happened to open at the marriage service. There, +amongst other good things, the bridegroom says: ‘With my body I thee +worship.’—‘That’s grand,’ I said to myself. ‘That’s as it should be. +The man whose body does not worship the woman he weds, should marry a +harlot.’ God bless Mr William Shakspere!—<i>he</i> knew that. I remember Mr +Graham telling me once, before I had read the play, that the critics +condemn <i>Measure for Measure</i> as failing in poetic justice. I know +little about the critics, and care less, for a man who has to earn +his bread and feed his soul as well, has enough to do with the books +themselves without what people say about them; and Mr Graham would +not tell me whether he thought the critics right or wrong; he wanted +me to judge for myself. But when I came to read the play, I found, to +my mind, a most absolute and splendid justice in it. They think, I +suppose, that my lord Angelo should have been put to death. It just +reveals the low breed of them; they think death the worst thing, +therefore the greatest punishment. But Angelo prays for death, that it +may hide him from his shame: it is too good for him, and he shall <i>not</i> +have it. He must live to remove the shame from Mariana. And then see +how Lucio is served!”</p> + +<p>While Malcolm talked, Lenorme went on painting diligently, listening +and saying nothing. When he had thus ended, a pause of some duration +followed.</p> + +<p>“A goddess has a right to claim that one thing—has she not, Mr +Lenorme?” said Malcolm at length, winding up a silent train of thought +aloud.</p> + +<p>“What thing?” asked Lenorme, still without lifting his head.</p> + +<p>“Purity in the arms a man holds out to her,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” replied Lenorme, with a sort of mechanical absoluteness.</p> + +<p>“And according to your picture, every woman whom a man loves is a +goddess—<i>the</i> goddess of nature?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly;—but what <i>are</i> you driving at? I can’t paint for you. +There you stand,” he went on, half angrily, “as if you were Socrates +himself, driving some poor Athenian buck into the corner of his +deserts! <i>I</i> don’t deserve any such insinuations, I would have you +know.”</p> + +<p>“I am making none, sir. I dare never insinuate except I were prepared +to charge. But I have told you I was bred up a fisher-lad, and partly +among the fishers, to begin with. I half learned, half discovered +things that tended to give me what some would count severe notions: I +count them common sense. Then, as you know, I went into service, and in +that position it is easy enough to gather that many people hold very +loose and very nasty notions about some things; so I just wanted to see +how you felt about such. If I had a sister now, and saw a man coming +to woo her, all beclotted with puddle-filth—or if I knew that he had +just left some woman as good as she, crying eyes and heart out over his +child—I don’t know that I could keep my hands off him—at least if +I feared she might take him. What do you think now? Mightn’t it be a +righteous thing to throttle the scum and be hanged for it?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Lenorme, “I don’t know why I should justify myself, +especially where no charge is made, MacPhail; and I don’t know why +to you any more than another man; but at this moment I am weak, or +egotistic, or sympathetic enough to wish you to understand that, so far +as the poor matter of one virtue goes, I might without remorse act Sir +Galahad in a play.”</p> + +<p>“Now you are beyond me,” said Malcolm. “I don’t know what you mean.”</p> + +<p>So Lenorme had to tell him the old Armoric tale which Tennyson has +since rendered so lovelily, for, amongst artists at least, he was one +of the earlier borrowers in the British legends. And as he told it, in +a half sullen kind of way, the heart of the young marquis glowed within +him, and he vowed to himself that Lenorme and no other should marry +his sister. But, lest he should reveal more emotion than the obvious +occasion justified, he restrained speech, and again silence fell, +during which Lenorme was painting furiously.</p> + +<p>“Confound it!” he cried at last, and sprang to his feet, but without +taking his eyes from his picture, “what have I been doing all this +time but making a portrait of you, MacPhail, and forgetting what you +were there for! And yet,” he went on, hesitating and catching up the +miniature, “I <i>have</i> got a certain likeness! Yes, it must be so, for +I see in it also a certain look of Lady Lossie. Well! I suppose a man +can’t altogether help what he paints any more than what he dreams. That +will do for this morning, anyhow, I think, MacPhail. Make haste and put +on your own clothes, and come into the next room to breakfast. You must +be tired with standing so long.”</p> + +<p>“It <i>is</i> about the hardest work I ever tried,” answered Malcolm; “but I +doubt if I am as tired as Kelpie. I’ve been listening for the last half +hour to hear the stalls flying.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX.<br><span class="small">AN EVIL OMEN.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Florimel was beginning to understand that the shield of the portrait +was not large enough to cover many more visits to the studio. Still she +must and would venture; and should anything be said, there at least was +the portrait. For some weeks it had been all but finished, was never +off its easel, and always showed a touch of wet paint somewhere—he +kept the last of it lingering, ready to prove itself almost yet not +altogether finished. What was to follow its absolute completion, +neither of them could tell. The worst of it was that their thoughts +about it differed discordantly. Florimel not unfrequently regarded the +rupture of their intimacy as a thing not undesirable—this chiefly +after such a talk with Lady Bellair as had been illustrated by some +tale of misalliance or scandal between high or low, of which kind of +provision for age the bold-faced countess had a large store: her memory +was little better than an ashpit of scandal. Amongst other biographical +scraps one day she produced the case of a certain earl’s daughter, +who, having disgraced herself by marrying a low fellow—an artist, +she believed—was as a matter of course neglected by the man whom, in +accepting him, she had taught to despise her, and, before a twelvemonth +was over—her family finding it impossible to hold communication with +her—was actually seen by her late maid scrubbing her own floor.</p> + +<p>“Why couldn’t she leave it dirty?” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“Why indeed,” returned Lady Bellair, “but that people sink to their +fortunes! Blue blood won’t keep them out of the gutter.”</p> + +<p>The remark was true, but of more general application than she intended, +seeing she herself was in the gutter and did not know it. She spoke +only of what followed on marriage beneath one’s natal position, than +which she declared there was nothing worse a woman of rank could do.</p> + +<p>“She may get over anything but that,” she would say, believing, but not +saying, that she spoke from experience.</p> + +<p>Was it part of the late marquis’s purgatory to see now, as the natural +result of the sins of his youth, the daughter whose innocence was dear +to him exposed to all the undermining influences of this good natured +but low-moralled woman, whose ideas of the most mysterious relations of +humanity were in no respect higher than those of a class which must not +even be mentioned in my pages? At such tales the high-born heart would +flutter in Florimel’s bosom, beat itself against its bars, turn sick at +the sight of its danger, imagine it had been cherishing a crime, and +resolve—soon—before very long—at length—finally—to break so far at +least with the painter as to limit their intercourse to the radiation +of her power across a dinner-table, the rhythmic heaving of their two +hearts at a dance, or the quiet occasional talk in a corner, when the +looks of each would reveal to the other that they knew themselves the +martyrs of a cruel and inexorable law. It must be remembered that she +had had no mother since her childhood, that she was now but a girl, +and that the passion of a girl to that of a woman is “as moonlight +unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.” Of genuine love she had little +more than enough to serve as salt to the passion; and passion, however +bewitching, yea, entrancing a condition, may yet be of more worth +than that induced by opium or hashish, and a capacity for it may be +conjoined with anything or everything contemptible and unmanly or +unwomanly. In Florimel’s case, however, there was chiefly much of the +childish in it. Definitely separated from Lenorme, she would have been +merry again in a fortnight; and yet, though she half knew this herself, +and at the same time was more than half ashamed of the whole affair, +she did not give it up —would not—only intended by and by to let it +go, and meantime gave—occasionally—pretty free flutter to the half +grown wings of her fancy.</p> + +<p>Her liking for the painter had therefore, not unnaturally, its fits. +It was subject in a measure to the nature of the engagements she +had—that is, to the degree of pleasure she expected from them; it +was subject, as we have seen, to skilful battery from the guns of +her chaperon’s entrenchment; and more than to either was it subject +to those delicate changes of condition which in the microcosm are as +frequent, and as varied both in kind and degree, as in the macrocosm. +The spirit has its risings and settings of sun and moon, its seasons, +its clouds and stars, its solstices, its tides, its winds, its storms, +its earthquakes—infinite vitality in endless fluctuation. To rule +these changes, Florimel had neither the power that comes of love, +nor the strength that comes of obedience. What of conscience she had +was not yet conscience toward God, which is the guide to freedom, +but conscience toward society, which is the slave of a fool. It was +no wonder then that Lenorme, believing—hoping she loved him, should +find her hard to understand. He said <i>hard</i>; but sometimes he meant +<i>impossible</i>. He loved as a man loves who has thought seriously, +speculated, tried to understand; whose love therefore is consistent +with itself, harmonious with its nature and history, changing only +in form and growth, never in substance and character. Hence the idea +of Florimel became in his mind the centre of perplexing thought; the +unrest of her being metamorphosed on the way, passed over into his, +and troubled him sorely. Neither was his mind altogether free of the +dread of reproach. For self-reproach he could find little or no ground, +seeing that to pity her much for the loss of consideration her marriage +with him would involve, would be to undervalue the honesty of his love +and the worth of his art; and indeed her position was so independently +based that she could not lose it even by marrying one who had not the +social standing of a brewer or a stockbroker; but his pride was uneasy +under the foreseen criticism that his selfishness had taken advantage +of her youth and inexperience to work on the mind of an ignorant +girl—a criticism not likely to be the less indignant that those who +passed it would, without a shadow of compunction, have handed her over, +body, soul, and goods, to one of their own order, had he belonged to +the very canaille of the race.</p> + +<p>The painter was not merely in love with Florimel: he loved her. I +will not say that he was in no degree dazzled by her rank, or that he +felt no triumph, as a social nomad camping on the No-Man’s-Land of +society, at the thought of the justification of the human against the +conventional, in his scaling of the giddy heights of superiority, and, +on one of its topmost peaks, taking from her nest that rare bird in the +earth, a landed and titled marchioness. But such thoughts were only +changing hues on the feathers of his love, which itself was a mighty +bird with great and yet growing wings.</p> + +<p>A day or two passed before Florimel went again to the studio +accompanied, notwithstanding Lenorme’s warning and her own doubt, yet +again by her maid, a woman, unhappily, of Lady Bellair’s finding. At +Lossie House, Malcolm had felt a repugnance to her, both moral and +physical. When first he heard her name, one of the servants speaking of +her as Miss Caley, he took it for Scaley, and if that was not her name, +yet scaly was her nature.</p> + +<p>This time Florimel rode to Chelsea with Malcolm, having directed Caley +to meet her there; and, the one designing to be a little early, and the +other to be a little late, two results naturally followed —first, that +the lovers had a few minutes alone; and second, that when Caley crept +in, noiseless and unannounced as a cat, she had her desire, and saw +the painter’s arm round Florimel’s waist, and her head on his bosom. +Still more to her contentment, not hearing, they did not see her, and +she crept out again quietly as she had entered: it would of course be +to her advantage to let them know that she had seen, and that they were +in her power, but it might be still more to her advantage to conceal +the fact so long as there was a chance of additional discovery in the +same direction. Through the success of her trick it came about that +Malcolm, chancing to look up from Honour’s back to the room where he +always breakfasted with his new friend, saw in one of the windows, as +in a picture, a face radiant with such an expression as that of the +woman-headed snake might have worn when he saw Adam take the apple from +the hand of Eve.</p> + +<p>Caley was of the common class of servants in this, that she considered +service servitude, and took her amends in selfishness; she was unlike +them in this, that while false to her employers, she made no common +cause with her fellows against them—regarded and sought none but +her own ends. Her one thought was to make the most of her position; +for that, to gain influence with, and, if it might be, power over +her mistress; and, thereto, first of all, to find out whether she +had a secret: she had now discovered not merely that she had one, +but the secret itself! She was clever, greedy, cunning; equally +capable, according to the faculty with which she might be matched, +of duping or of being duped. She rather liked her mistress, but +watched her in the interests of Lady Bellair. She had a fancy for the +earl, a natural dislike for Malcolm which she concealed in distant +politeness, and for all the rest of the house, indifference. As to +her person, she had a neat oval face, thin and sallow, in expression +subacid; a lithe, rather graceful figure, and hands too long, with +fingers almost too tapering—of which hands and fingers she was very +careful, contemplating them in secret with a regard amounting almost +to reverence: they were her sole witnesses to a descent in which she +believed, but of which she had no other shadow of proof.</p> + +<p>Caley’s face, then, with its unsaintly illumination, gave Malcolm +something to think about as he sat there upon Honour, the new horse. +Clearly she had had a triumph: what could it be? The nature of the +woman was not altogether unknown to him even from the first, and he +could not for months go on meeting her occasionally in passages and on +stairs without learning to understand his own instinctive dislike: it +was plain the triumph was not in good. It was plain too that it was +in something which had that very moment occurred, and could hardly +have to do with anyone but her mistress. Then her being in that room +revealed more. They would never have sent her out of the study, and so +put themselves in her power. She had gone into the house but a moment +before, a minute or two behind her mistress, and he knew with what +a cat-like step she went about: she had surprised them—-discovered +how matters stood between her mistress and the painter! He saw +everything—almost as it had taken place. She had seen without being +seen, and had retreated with her prize! Florimel was then in the +woman’s power: what was he to do? He must at least let her gather what +warning she could from the tale of what he had seen.</p> + +<p>Once arrived at a resolve, Malcolm never lost time. They had turned but +one corner on their way home, when he rode up to her.</p> + +<p>“Please, my lady,” he began.</p> + +<p>But the same instant Florimel was pulling up.</p> + +<p>“Malcolm,” she said, “I have left my pocket-handkerchief. I must go +back for it.”</p> + +<p>As she spoke, she turned her horse’s head. But Malcolm, dreading lest +Caley should yet be lingering, would not allow her to expose herself to +a greater danger than she knew.</p> + +<p>“Before you go, my lady, I must tell you something I happened to see +while I waited with the horses,” he said.</p> + +<p>The earnestness of his tone struck Florimel. She looked at him with +eyes a little wider, and waited to hear.</p> + +<p>“I happened to look up at the drawing-room windows, my lady, and Caley +came to one of them with <i>such</i> a look on her face! I can’t exactly +describe it to you, my lady, but——”</p> + +<p>“Why do you tell me?” interrupted his mistress, with absolute +composure, and hard, questioning eyes.</p> + +<p>But she had drawn herself up in the saddle. Then, before he could +reply, a flash of thought seemed to cross her face with a quick single +motion of her eyebrows, and it was instantly altered and thoughtful. +She seemed to have suddenly perceived some cause for taking a mild +interest in his communication.</p> + +<p>“But it cannot be, Malcolm,” she said, in quite a changed tone. “You +must have taken some one else for her. She never left the studio all +the time I was there.”</p> + +<p>“It was immediately after her arrival, my lady. She went in about two +minutes after your ladyship, and could not have had <i>much</i> more than +time to go upstairs when I saw her come to the window. I felt bound to +tell your ladyship.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Malcolm,” returned Florimel kindly. “You did right to tell +me,—but—it’s of no consequence. Mr Lenorme’s housekeeper and she must +have been talking about something.”</p> + +<p>But her eyebrows were now thoughtfully contracted over her eyes.</p> + +<p>“There had been no time for that, I think, my lady,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Florimel turned again and rode on, saying no more about the +handkerchief. Malcolm saw that he had succeeded in warning her, and was +glad. But had he foreseen to what it would lead, he would hardly have +done it.</p> + +<p>Florimel was indeed very uneasy. She could not help strongly suspecting +that she had betrayed herself to one who, if not an intentional spy, +would yet be ready enough to make a spy’s use of anything she might +have picked up. What was to be done? It was now too late to think of +getting rid of her: that would be but her signal to disclose whatever +she had seen, and so not merely enjoy a sweet revenge, but account with +clear satisfactoriness for her dismissal. What would not Florimel now +have given for some one who could sympathise with her and yet counsel +her! She was afraid to venture another meeting with Lenorme, and +besides was not a little shy of the advantage the discovery would give +him in pressing her to marry him. And now first she began to feel as if +her sins were going to find her out.</p> + +<p>A day or two passed in alternating psychical flaws and fogs— with +poor glints of sunshine between. She watched her maid, but her maid +knew it, and discovered no change in her manner or behaviour. Weary of +observation she was gradually settling into her former security, when +Caley began to drop hints that alarmed her. Might it not be altogether +the safest thing to take her into confidence? It would be such a +relief, she thought, to have a woman she could talk to! The result was +that she began to lift a corner of the veil that hid her trouble; the +woman encouraged her, and at length the silly girl threw her arms round +the scaly one’s neck, much to that person’s satisfaction, and told her +that she loved Mr Lenorme. She knew of course, she said, that she could +not marry him. She was only waiting a fit opportunity to free herself +from a connection which, however delightful, she was unable to justify. +How the maid interpreted her confession, I do not care to enquire +very closely, but anyhow it was in a manner that promised much to her +after influence. I hasten over this part of Florimel’s history, for +that confession to Caley was perhaps the one thing in her life she had +most reason to be ashamed of, for she was therein false to the being +she thought she loved best in the world. Could Lenorme have known her +capable of unbosoming herself to such a woman, it would almost have +slain the love he bore her. The notions of that odd-and-end sort of +person, who made his livelihood by spreading paint, would have been too +hideously shocked by the shadow of an intimacy between his love and +such as she.</p> + +<p>Caley first comforted the weeping girl, and then began to insinuate +encouragement. She must indeed give him up—there was no help for +that; but neither was there any necessity for doing so all at once. Mr +Lenorme was a beautiful man, and any woman might be proud to be loved +by him. She must take her time to it. She might trust her. And so on +and on—for she was as vulgar-minded as the worst of those whom ladies +endure about their persons, handling their hair, and having access to +more of their lock-fast places than they would willingly imagine.</p> + +<p>The first result was that, on the pretext of bidding him farewell, and +convincing him that he and she must meet no more, fate and fortune, +society and duty being all alike against their happiness —I mean on +that pretext to herself, the only one to be deceived by it—Florimel +arranged with her woman one evening to go the next morning to the +studio: she knew the painter to be an early riser, and always at his +work before eight o’clock. But although she tried to imagine she had +persuaded herself to say farewell, certainly she had not yet brought +her mind to any ripeness of resolve in the matter.</p> + +<p>At seven o’clock in the morning, the marchioness habited like a +housemaid, they slipped out by the front door, turned the corners of +two streets, found a hackney coach waiting for them, and arrived in due +time at the painter’s abode.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX.<br><span class="small">A QUARREL.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When the door opened and Florimel glided in, the painter sprang to his +feet to welcome her, and she flew softly, soundless as a moth, into his +arms; for the study being large and full of things, she was not aware +of the presence of Malcolm. From behind a picture on an easel, he saw +them meet, but shrinking from being an open witness to their secret, +and also from being discovered in his father’s clothes by the sister +who knew him only as a servant, he instantly sought escape. Nor was it +hard to find, for near where he stood was a door opening into a small +intermediate chamber, communicating with the drawing-room, and by it +he fled, intending to pass through to Lenorme’s bedroom, and change +his clothes. With noiseless stride he hurried away, but could not help +hearing a few passionate words that escaped his sister’s lips before +Lenorme could warn her that they were not alone—words which, it seemed +to him, could come only from a heart whose very pulse was devotion.</p> + +<p>“How <i>can</i> I live without you, Raoul?” said the girl as she clung to +him.</p> + +<p>Lenorme gave an uneasy glance behind him, saw Malcolm disappear, and +answered,</p> + +<p>“I hope you will never try, my darling.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but you know this can’t last,” she returned, with playfully +affected authority. “It must come to an end. They will interfere.”</p> + +<p>“Who can? Who will dare?” said the painter with confidence.</p> + +<p>“People will. We had better stop it ourselves—before it all comes out, +and we are shamed,” said Florimel, now with perfect seriousness.</p> + +<p>“Shamed!” cried Lenorme. “—Well, if you can’t help being ashamed of +me—and perhaps, as you have been brought up, you can’t— do you not +then love me enough to encounter a little shame for my sake? I should +welcome worlds of such for yours!”</p> + +<p>Florimel was silent. She kept her face hidden on his shoulder, but was +already halfway to a quarrel.</p> + +<p>“You don’t love me, Florimel!” he said, after a pause, little thinking +how nearly true were the words.</p> + +<p>“Well, suppose I don’t!” she cried, half defiantly, half merrily; and +drawing herself from him, she stepped back two paces, and looked at +him with saucy eyes, in which burned two little flames of displeasure, +that seemed to shoot up from the red spots glowing upon her cheeks. +Lenorme looked at her. He had often seen her like this before, and +knew that the shell was charged and the fuse lighted. But within lay a +mixture even more explosive than he suspected; for not merely was there +more of shame and fear and perplexity mingled with her love than he +understood, but she was conscious of having now been false to him, and +that rendered her temper dangerous.</p> + +<p>Lenorme had already suffered severely from the fluctuations of her +moods. They had been almost too much for him. He could endure them, +he thought, to all eternity, if he had her to himself, safe and sure; +but the confidence to which he rose every now and then that she would +one day be his, just as often failed him, rudely shaken by some new +symptom of what almost seemed like cherished inconstancy. If after all +she should forsake him! It was impossible, but she might. If even that +should come, he was too much of a man to imagine anything but a stern +encounter of the inevitable, and he knew he would survive it; but he +knew also that life could never be the same again; that for a season +work would be impossible— the kind of work he had hitherto believed +his own rendered for ever impossible perhaps, and his art degraded +to the mere earning of a living. At best he would have to die and be +buried and rise again before existence could become endurable under the +new squalid condition of life without her. It was no wonder then if her +behaviour sometimes angered him; for even against a Will o’ the Wisp +that has enticed us into a swamp, a glow of foolish indignation will +spring up. And now a black fire in his eyes answered the blue flash in +hers; and the difference suggests the diversity of their loves: hers +might vanish in fierce explosion, his would go on burning like a coal +mine. A word of indignant expostulation rose to his lips, but a thought +came that repressed it. He took her hand, and led her—the wonder +was that she yielded, for she had seen the glow in his eyes, and the +fuse of her own anger burned faster; but she did yield, partly from +curiosity, and followed where he pleased —her hand lying dead in his. +It was but to the other end of the room he led her, to the picture of +her father, now all but finished. Why he did so, he would have found +it hard to say. Perhaps the Genius that lies under the consciousness +forefelt a catastrophe, and urged him to give his gift ere giving +should be impossible.</p> + +<p>Malcolm stepped into the drawing-room, where the table was laid as +usual for breakfast: there stood Caley, helping herself to a spoonful +of honey from Hymettus. At his entrance she started violently, and her +sallow face grew earthy. For some seconds she stood motionless, unable +to take her eyes off the apparition, as it seemed to her, of the late +marquis, in wrath at her encouragement of his daughter in disgraceful +courses. Malcolm, supposing only she was ashamed of herself, took no +farther notice of her, and walked deliberately towards the other door. +Ere he reached it she knew him. Burning with the combined ires of +fright and shame, conscious also that, by the one little contemptible +act of greed in which he had surprised her, she had justified the +aversion which her woman-instinct had from the first recognized in him, +she darted to the door, stood with her back against it, and faced him +flaming.</p> + +<p>“So!” she cried, “this is how my lady’s kindness is abused! The +insolence! Her groom goes and sits for his portrait in her father’s +court dress!”</p> + +<p>As she ceased, all the latent vulgarity of her nature broke loose, +and with a contracted <i>pff</i> she seized her thin nose between her +thumb and fore-finger, to the indication that an evil odour of fish +interpenetrated her atmosphere, and must at the moment be defiling the +garments of the dead marquis.</p> + +<p>“My lady shall know of this,” she concluded, with a vicious clenching +of her teeth, and two or three nods of her neat head.</p> + +<p>Malcolm stood regarding her with a coolness that yet inflamed +her wrath. He could not help smiling at the reaction of shame in +indignation. Had her anger been but a passing flame, that smile would +have turned it into enduring hate. She hissed in his face.</p> + +<p>“Go and have the first word,” he said; “only leave the door and let me +pass.”</p> + +<p>“Let you pass indeed! What would you pass for?—The bastard of old +Lord James and a married woman!—I don’t care <i>that</i> for you.” And she +snapped her fingers in his face.</p> + +<p>Malcolm turned from her and went to the window, taking a newspaper from +the breakfast-table as he passed, and there sat down to read until the +way should be clear. Carried beyond herself by his utter indifference, +Caley darted from the room and went straight into the study.</p> + +<p>Lenorme led Florimel in front of the picture. She gave a great start, +and turned and stared pallid at the painter. The effect upon her was +such as he had not foreseen, and the words she uttered were not such as +he could have hoped to hear.</p> + +<p>“What would <i>he</i> think of me if he knew?” she cried, clasping her hands +in agony.</p> + +<p>That moment Caley burst into the room, her eyes lamping like a cat’s.</p> + +<p>“My lady!” she shrieked, “there’s MacPhail, the groom, my lady, dressed +up in your honoured father’s bee-utiful clo’es as he always wore when +he went to dine with the Prince! And, please, my lady, he’s that rude I +could ’ardly keep my ’ands off him.”</p> + +<p>Florimel flashed a dagger of question in Lenorme’s eyes. The painter +drew himself up.</p> + +<p>“It was at my request, Lady Lossie,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” returned Florimel, in high scorn, and glanced again at the +picture.</p> + +<p>“I see!” she went on. “How could I be such an idiot! It was my groom’s, +not my father’s likeness you meant to surprise me with!”</p> + +<p>Her eyes flashed as if she would annihilate him.</p> + +<p>“I have worked hard in the hope of giving you pleasure, Lady Lossie,” +said the painter, with wounded dignity.</p> + +<p>“And you have failed,” she adjoined cruelly.</p> + +<p>The painter took the miniature after which he had been working, from +a table near, handed it to her with a proud obeisance, and the same +moment dashed a brushful of dark paint across the face of the picture.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, sir,” said Florimel, and for a moment felt as if she hated +him.</p> + +<p>She turned away and walked from the study. The door of the drawing-room +was open, and Caley stood by the side of it. Florimel, too angry to +consider what she was about, walked in: there sat Malcolm in the +window, in her father’s clothes, and his very attitude, reading the +newspaper. He did not hear her enter. He had been waiting till he could +reach the bedroom unseen by her, for he knew from the sound of the +voices that the study door was open. Her anger rose yet higher at the +sight.</p> + +<p>“Leave the room,” she said.</p> + +<p>He started to his feet, and now perceived that his sister was in the +dress of a servant. He took one step forward and stood—a little +mazed—gorgeous in dress and arms of price, before his mistress in the +cotton gown of a housemaid.</p> + +<p>“Take those clothes off instantly,” said Florimel slowly, replacing +wrath with haughtiness as well as she might. Malcolm turned to the door +without a word. He saw that things had gone wrong where most he would +have wished them go right.</p> + +<p>“I’ll see to them being well aired, my lady,” said Caley, with sibilant +indignation.</p> + +<p>Malcolm went to the study. The painter sat before the picture of the +marquis, with his elbows on his knees, and his head between his hands.</p> + +<p>“Mr Lenorme,” said Malcolm, approaching him gently.</p> + +<p>“Oh, go away,” said Lenorme, without raising his head. “I can’t bear +the sight of you yet.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm obeyed, a little smile playing about the corners of his mouth. +Caley saw it as he passed, and hated him yet worse. He was in his own +clothes, booted and belted, in two minutes. Three sufficed to replace +his father’s garments in the portmanteau, and in three more he and +Kelpie went plunging past his mistress and her maid as they drove home +in their lumbering vehicle.</p> + +<p>“The insolence of the fellow!” said Caley, loud enough for her mistress +to hear notwithstanding the noise of the rattling windows. “A pretty +pass we are come to!”</p> + +<p>But already Florimel’s mood had begun to change. She felt that she had +done her best to alienate men on whom she could depend, and that she +had chosen for a confidante one whom she had no ground for trusting.</p> + +<p>She got safe and unseen to her room; and Caley believed she had only to +improve the advantage she had now gained.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI.<br><span class="small">THE TWO DAIMONS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Things had taken a turn that was not to Malcolm’s satisfaction, and +his thoughts were as busy all the way home as Kelpie would allow. He +had ardently desired that his sister should be thoroughly in love +with Lenorme, for that seemed to open a clear path out of his worst +difficulties; now they had quarrelled; and besides were both angry +with him. The main fear was that Liftore would now make some progress +with her. Things looked dangerous. Even his warning against Caley had +led to a result the very opposite of his intent and desire. And now it +recurred to him that he had once come upon Liftore talking to Caley, +and giving her something that shone like a sovereign.</p> + +<p>Earlier on the same morning of her visit to the studio, Florimel had +awaked and found herself in the presence of the spiritual Vehmgericht. +Every member of the tribunal seemed against her. All her thoughts were +busy accusing, none of them excusing one another. So hard were they +upon her that she fancied she had nearly come to the conclusion that, +if only she could do it pleasantly, without pain or fear, the best +thing would be to swallow something and fall asleep; for like most +people she was practically an atheist, and therefore always thought of +death as the refuge from the ills of life. But although she was often +very uncomfortable, Florimel knew nothing of such genuine downright +misery as drives some people to what can be no more to their purpose +than if a man should strip himself naked because he is cold. When she +returned from her unhappy visit, and had sent her attendant to get her +some tea, she threw herself upon her bed, and found herself yet again +in the dark chambers of the spiritual police. But already even their +company was preferable to that of Caley, whose officiousness began +to enrage her. She was yet tossing in the Nessus-tunic of her own +disharmony, when Malcolm came for orders. To get rid of herself and +Caley both, she desired him to bring the horses round at once.</p> + +<p>It was more than Malcolm had expected. He ran: he might yet have a +chance of trying to turn her in the right direction. He knew that +Liftore was neither in the house nor at the stable. With the help of +the earl’s groom, he was round in ten minutes. Florimel was all but +ready: like some other ladies she could dress quickly when she had +good reason. She sprang from Malcolm’s hand to the saddle, and led +as straight northward as she could go, never looking behind her till +she drew rein on the top of Hampstead Heath. When he rode up to her, +“Malcolm,” she said, looking at him half ashamed, “I don’t think my +father <i>would</i> have minded you wearing his clothes.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, my lady,” said Malcolm. “At least he would have forgiven +anything meant for your pleasure.”</p> + +<p>“I was too hasty,” she said. “But the fact was, Mr Lenorme had +irritated me, and I foolishly mixed you up with him.”</p> + +<p>“When I went into the studio, after you left it, this morning my lady,” +Malcolm ventured, “he had his head between his hands and would not even +look at me.”</p> + +<p>Florimel turned her face aside, and Malcolm thought she was sorry; but +she was only hiding a smile: she had not yet got beyond the kitten +stage of love, and was pleased to find she gave pain.</p> + +<p>“If your ladyship never had another true friend, Mr Lenorme is one,” +added Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“What opportunity can you have had for knowing?” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“I have been sitting to him every morning for a good many days,” +answered Malcolm. “<i>He</i> is something like a man!”</p> + +<p>Florimel’s face flushed with pleasure. She liked to hear him praised, +for he loved her.</p> + +<p>“You should have seen, my lady, the pains he took with that portrait! +He would stare at the little picture you lent him of my lord for +minutes, as if he were looking through it at something behind it; then +he would get up and go and gaze at your ladyship on the pedestal, as +if you were the goddess herself able to tell him everything about your +father; and then he would hurry back to his easel, and give a touch or +two to the face, looking at it all the time as if he loved it. It must +have been a cruel pain that drove him to smear it as he did!”</p> + +<p>Florimel began to feel a little motion of shame somewhere in the +mystery of her being. But to show that to her servant, would be to +betray herself—the more that he seemed the painter’s friend.</p> + +<p>“I will ask Lord Liftore to go and see the portrait, and if he thinks +it like, I will buy it,” she said. “Mr Lenorme is certainly very clever +with his brush.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm saw that she said this not to insult Lenorme, but to blind her +groom, and made no answer.</p> + +<p>“I will ride there with you to-morrow morning,” she added in +conclusion, and moved on.</p> + +<p>Malcolm touched his hat, and dropped behind. But the next moment he was +by her side again.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, my lady, but would you allow me to say one word +more?”</p> + +<p>She bowed her head.</p> + +<p>“That woman Caley, I am certain, is not to be trusted. She does not +love you, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“How do you know that?” asked Florimel, speaking steadily, but writhing +inwardly with the knowledge that the warning was too late.</p> + +<p>“I have tried her spirit,” answered Malcolm, “and know that it is of +the devil. She loves herself too much to be true.”</p> + +<p>After a little pause Florimel said,</p> + +<p>“I know you mean well, Malcolm; but it is nothing to me whether she +loves me or not. We don’t look for that now-a-days from servants.”</p> + +<p>“It is because I love you, my lady,” said Malcolm, “that I know Caley +does not. If she should get hold of anything your ladyship would not +wish talked about,—”</p> + +<p>“That she cannot,” said Florimel, but with an inward shudder. “She may +tell the whole world all she can discover.”</p> + +<p>She would have cantered on as the words left her lips, but something +in Malcolm’s looks held her. She turned pale; she trembled: her father +was looking at her as only once had she seen him—in doubt whether his +child lied. The illusion was terrible. She shook in her saddle. The +next moment she was galloping along the grassy border of the heath +in wild flight from her worst enemy, whom yet she could never by the +wildest of flights escape; for when, coming a little to herself as she +approached a sand pit, she pulled up, there was her enemy—neither +before nor behind, neither above nor beneath nor within her: it was the +self which had just told a lie to the servant of whom she had so lately +boasted that he never told one in his life. Then she grew angry. What +had she done to be thus tormented? <i>She</i> a marchioness, thus pestered +by her own menials —pulled in opposing directions by a groom and a +maid. She would turn them both away, and have nobody about her, either +to trust or suspect.</p> + +<p>She might have called them her good and her evil demon; for she +knew—that is, she had it somewhere about her, but did not look it +out—that it was her own cowardice and concealment, her own falseness +to the traditional, never failing courage of her house, her ignobility, +and unfitness to represent the Colonsays—her double dealing in short, +that had made the marchioness in her own right the slave of her woman, +the rebuked of her groom!</p> + +<p>She turned and rode back, looking the other way as she passed Malcolm.</p> + +<p>When they reached the top of the heath, riding along to meet them +came Liftore—this time to Florimel’s consolation and comfort: she +did not like riding unprotected with a good angel at her heels. So +glad was she that she did not even take the trouble to wonder how he +had discovered the road she went. She never suspected that Caley had +sent his lordship’s groom to follow her until the direction of her +ride should be evident, but took his appearance without question, as a +loverlike attention, and rode home with him, talking the whole way, and +cherishing a feeling of triumph over both Malcolm and Lenorme. Had she +not a protector of her own kind? Could she not, when they troubled her, +pass from their sphere into one beyond their ken? For the poor moment, +the weak lord who rode beside her seemed to her foolish heart a tower +of refuge. She was particularly gracious to her lover as they rode, and +fancied again and again that perhaps the best way out of her troubles +would be to encourage and at last accept him, so getting rid of honeyed +delights and rankling stings together, of good and evil angels and +low-bred lover at one sweep. Quiet would console for dulness, innocence +for weariness. She would fain have a good conscience toward Society— +that image whose feet are of gold and its head a bag of chaff and +sawdust.</p> + +<p>Malcolm followed, sick at heart that she should prove herself so +shallow. Riding Honour, he had plenty of leisure to brood.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII.<br><span class="small">A CHASTISEMENT.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When she went to her room, there was Caley taking from a portmanteau +the Highland dress which had occasioned so much. A note fell, and she +handed it to her mistress. Florimel opened it, grew pale as she read +it, and asked Caley to bring her a glass of water. No sooner had her +maid left the room than she sprang to the door and bolted it. Then the +tears burst from her eyes, she sobbed despairingly, and but for the +help of her handkerchief would have wailed aloud. When Caley returned, +she answered to her knock that she was lying down, and wanted to sleep. +She was, however, trying to force further communication from the note. +In it the painter told her that he was going to set out the next +morning for Italy, and that her portrait was at the shop of certain +carvers and gliders, being fitted with a frame for which he had made +drawings. Three times she read it, searching for some hidden message to +her heart; she held it up between her and the light; then before the +fire till it crackled like a bit of old parchment; but all was in vain: +by no device, intellectual or physical, could she coax the shadow of a +meaning out of it, beyond what lay plain on the surface. She must, she +<i>would</i> see him again.</p> + +<p>That night she was merrier than usual at dinner; after it, sang +ballad after ballad to please Liftore; then went to her room and told +Caley to arrange for yet a visit, the next morning, to Mr Lenorme’s +studio. She positively must, she said, secure her father’s portrait +ere the ill-tempered painter—all men of genius were hasty and +unreasonable—should have destroyed it utterly, as he was certain to do +before leaving—and with that she showed her Lenorme’s letter. Caley +was all service, only said that this time she thought they had better +go openly. She would see Lady Bellair as soon as Lady Lossie was in +bed, and explain the thing to her.</p> + +<p>The next morning therefore they drove to Chelsea in the carriage. When +the door opened, Florimel walked straight up to the study. There she +saw no one, and her heart, which had been fluttering strangely, sank, +and was painfully still, while her gaze went wandering about the room. +It fell upon the pictured temple of Isis: a thick dark veil had fallen +and shrouded the whole figure of the goddess, leaving only the outline; +and the form of the worshipping youth had vanished utterly: where he +had stood, the tesselated pavement, with the serpent of life twining +through it, and the sculptured walls of the temple, shone out clear +and bare, as if Hyacinth had walked out into the desert to return no +more. Again the tears gushed from the heart of Florimel: she had sinned +against her own fame—had blotted out a fair memorial record that might +have outlasted the knight of stone under the Norman canopy in Lossie +church. Again she sobbed, again she choked down a cry that had else +become a scream.</p> + +<p>Arms were around her. Never doubting whose the embrace, she leaned her +head against his bosom, stayed her sobs with the one word “<i>Cruel!</i>” +and slowly opening her tearful eyes, lifted them to the face that bent +over hers. It was Liftore’s. She was dumb with disappointment and +dismay. It was a hateful moment. He kissed her forehead and eyes, and +sought her mouth. She shrieked aloud. In her very agony at the loss +of one to be kissed by another!—and there! It was too degrading! too +horrid!</p> + +<p>At the sound of her cry someone started up at the other end of the +room. An easel with a large canvas on it fell, and a man came forward +with great strides. Liftore let her go, with a muttered curse on the +intruder, and she darted from the room into the arms of Caley, who +had had her ear against the other side of the door. The same instant +Malcolm received from his lordship a well planted blow between the +eyes, which filled them with flashes and darkness. The next, the earl +was on the floor. The ancient fury of the Celt had burst up into the +nineteenth century, and mastered a noble spirit. All Malcolm could +afterwards remember was that he came to himself dealing Liftore +merciless blows, his foot on his back, and his weapon the earl’s whip. +His lordship, struggling to rise, turned up a face white with hate and +impotent fury.</p> + +<p>“You damned flunkie!” he panted. “I’ll have you shot like a mangy dog.”</p> + +<p>“Meanwhile I will chastise you like an insolent nobleman,” said +Malcolm, who had already almost recovered his self-possession. “You +dare to touch my mistress!”</p> + +<p>And with the words he gave him one more stinging cut with the whip.</p> + +<p>“Stand off, and let it be man to man,” cried Liftore, with a fierce +oath, clenching his teeth in agony and rage.</p> + +<p>“That it cannot be, my lord; but I have had enough, and so I hope has +your lordship,” said Malcolm; and as he spoke he threw the whip to the +other end of the room, and stood back. Liftore sprang to his feet, and +rushed at him. Malcolm caught him by the wrist with a fisherman’s grasp.</p> + +<p>“My lord, I don’t want to kill you. Take a warning, and let ill be, for +fear of worse,” he said, and threw his hand from him with a swing that +nearly dislocated his shoulder.</p> + +<p>The warning sufficed. His lordship cast him one scowl of concentrated +hate and revenge, and leaving the room hurried also from the house.</p> + +<p>At the usual morning hour, Malcolm had ridden to Chelsea, hoping to +find his friend in a less despairing and more companionable mood than +when he left him. To his surprise and disappointment he learned that +Lenorme had sailed by the packet to Ostend the night before. He asked +leave to go into the study. There on its easel stood the portrait of +his father as he had last seen it—disfigured with a great smear of +brown paint across the face. He knew that the face was dry, and he +saw that the smear was wet: he would see whether he could not, with +turpentine and a soft brush, remove the insult. In this endeavour he +was so absorbed, and by the picture itself was so divided from the rest +of the room, that he neither saw nor heard anything until Florimel +cried out.</p> + +<p>Naturally, those events made him yet more dissatisfied with his +sister’s position. Evil influences and dangers were on all sides +of her—the worst possible outcome being that, loving one man, she +should marry another, and him such a man as Liftore. Whatever he heard +in the servants’ hall, both tone and substance, only confirmed the +unfavourable impression he had had from the first of the bold-faced +countess. The oldest of her servants had, he found, the least respect +for their mistress, although all had a certain liking for her, which +gave their disrespect the heavier import. He <i>must</i> get Florimel away +somehow. While all was right between her and the painter he had been +less anxious about her immediate surroundings, trusting that Lenorme +would ere long deliver her. But now she had driven him from the very +country, and he had left no clue to follow him up by. His housekeeper +could tell nothing of his purposes. The gardener and she were left in +charge as a matter of course. He might be back in a week, or a year; +she could not even conjecture.</p> + +<p>Seeming possibilities, in varied mingling with rank absurdities passing +through Malcolm’s mind, as, after Liftore’s punishment, he lifted the +portrait, set it again upon its easel, and went on trying to clean the +face of it—with no small promise of success. But as he made progress +he grew anxious—lest with the defilement, he should remove some of +the colour as well: the painter alone, he concluded at length could be +trusted to restore the work he had ruined.</p> + +<p>He left the house, walked across the road to the river-bank, and gave +a short sharp whistle. In an instant Davy was in the dinghy, pulling +for the shore. Malcolm went on board the yacht, saw that all was right, +gave some orders, went ashore again, and mounted Kelpie.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII.<br><span class="small">LIES.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>In pain, wrath, and mortification, Liftore rode home. What would +the men at his club say if they knew that he had been thrashed by a +scoundrel of a groom for kissing his mistress? The fact would soon +be out: he must do his best to have it taken for what it ought to +be—namely, fiction. It was the harder upon him that he knew himself +no coward. He must punish the rascal somehow—he owed it to society +to punish him; but at present he did not see how, and the first thing +was to have the first word with Florimel; he must see her before she +saw the ruffian. He rode as hard as he dared to Curzon Street, sent +his groom to the stables, telling him he should want the horses again +before lunch, had a hot bath, of which he stood in dire need, and some +brandy with his breakfast, and then, all unfit for exercise as he was, +walked to Portland Place.</p> + +<p>Mistress and maid rode home together in silence. The moment Florimel +heard Malcolm’s voice she had left the house. Caley following had +heard enough to know that there was a scuffle at least going on in +the study, and her eye witnessed against her heart that Liftore could +have no chance with the detested groom if the respect of the latter +gave way: would MacPhail thrash his lordship? If he did, it would be +well she should know it. In the hoped event of his lordship’s marrying +her mistress, it was desirable, not only that she should be in favour +with both of them, but that she should have some hold upon each of a +more certainly enduring nature: if she held secrets with husband and +wife separately, she would be in clover for the period of her natural +existence. As to Florimel, she was enraged at the liberties Liftore +had taken with her. But alas! was she not in some degree in his power? +He had found her there, and in tears! How did he come to be there? If +Malcolm’s judgment of her was correct, Caley might have told him. Was +she already false? She pondered within herself, and cast no look upon +her maid until she had concluded how best to carry herself towards the +earl. Then glancing at the hooded cobra beside her—</p> + +<p>“What an awkward thing that Lord Liftore, of all moments, should appear +just then!” she said. “How could it be?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure I haven’t an idea, my lady,” returned Caley. “My lord has +been always kind to Mr Lenorme, and I suppose he has been in the way of +going to see him at work. Who would have thought my lord had been such +an early riser! There are not many gentlemen like him now-a-days, my +lady! Did your ladyship hear the noise in the studio after you left it?”</p> + +<p>“I heard high words,” answered her mistress, “—nothing more. How on +earth did MacPhail come to be there as well?—From you, Caley, I will +not conceal that his lordship behaved indiscreetly; in fact he was +rude; and I can quite imagine that MacPhail thought it his duty to +defend me. It is all very awkward for me. Who could have imagined <i>him</i> +there, and sitting behind amongst the pictures! It almost makes me +doubt whether Mr Lenorme be really gone.”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me, my lady,” returned Caley, “that the man is always +just where he ought not to be, always meddling with something he has +no business with. I beg your pardon, my lady,” she went on, “but +wouldn’t it be better to get some staid elderly man for a groom, one +who has been properly bred up to his duties and taught his manners in a +gentleman’s stable? It is so odd to have a groom from a rough seafaring +set—one who behaves like the rude fisherman he is, never having had +to obey orders of lord or lady! The worst of it is, your ladyship will +soon be the town’s talk if you have such a groom on such a horse after +you everywhere.”</p> + +<p>Florimel’s face flushed. Caley saw she was angry, and held her peace.</p> + +<p>Breakfast was hardly over, when Liftore walked in, looking pale, and, +in spite of his faultless <i>get-up</i>, somewhat disreputable: for shame, +secret pain, and anger do not favour a good carriage or honest mien. +Florimel threw herself back in her chair—an action characteristic +of the bold-faced countess, and held out her left hand to him in an +expansive, benevolent sort of way.</p> + +<p>“How dare you come into my presence, looking so well pleased with +yourself, my lord, after giving me such a fright this morning?” she +said. “You might at least have made sure that there was—that we +were——” She could not bring herself to complete the sentence.</p> + +<p>“My dearest girl!” said his lordship, not only delighted to get off so +pleasantly, but profoundly flattered by the implied understanding, “I +found you in tears, and how could I think of anything else? It may have +been stupid, but I trust you will think it pardonable.”</p> + +<p>Caley had not fully betrayed her mistress to his lordship, and he had, +entirely to his own satisfaction, explained the liking of Florimel +for the society of the painter as the mere fancy of a girl for the +admiration of one whose employment, although nothing above the +servile, yet gave him a claim something beyond that of a milliner or +hair-dresser, to be considered a judge in matters of appearance. As to +anything more in the affair—and with <i>him</i> in the field—of such a +notion he was simply incapable: he could not have wronged the lady he +meant to honour with his hand, by regarding it as within the bounds of +the possible.</p> + +<p>“It was no wonder I was crying,” said Florimel. “A seraph would have +cried to see the state my father’s portrait was in.”</p> + +<p>“Your father’s portrait!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Did you not know? Mr Lenorme has been painting one from a +miniature I lent him—under my supervision, of course; and just because +I let fall a word that showed I was not altogether satisfied with the +likeness, what should the wretched man do but catch up a brush full of +filthy black paint, and smudge the face all over!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Lenorme will soon set it to rights again. He’s not a bad fellow +though he does belong to the <i>genus irritabile</i>. I will go about it +this very day.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll not find him, I’m sorry to say. There’s a note I had from him +yesterday. And the picture’s quite unfit to be seen—utterly ruined. +But I <i>can’t</i> think how you could miss it!”</p> + +<p>“To tell you the truth, Florimel, I had a bit of a scrimmage after +you left me in the studio.” Here his lordship did his best to imitate +a laugh. “Who should come rushing upon me out of the back regions of +paint and canvas but that mad groom of yours! I don’t suppose you knew +he was there?”</p> + +<p>“Not I. I saw a man’s feet—that was all.”</p> + +<p>“Well, there he was, for what reason the devil knows, perdu amongst +the painter’s litter; and when he heard your little startled cry +—most musical, most melancholy—what should he fancy but that you +were frightened, and he must rush to the rescue! And so he did with a +vengeance: I don’t know when I shall quite forget the blow he gave me.” +And again Liftore laughed, or thought he did.</p> + +<p>“He struck you!” exclaimed Florimel, rather astonished, but hardly able +for inward satisfaction to put enough of indignation into her tone.</p> + +<p>“He did, the fellow!—But don’t say a word about it, for I thrashed him +so unmercifully that, to tell the truth, I had to stop because I grew +sorry for him. I am sorry now. So I hope you will take no notice of it. +In fact, I begin to like the rascal: you know I was never favourably +impressed with him. By Jove! it is not every mistress that can have +such a devoted attendant. I only hope his over-zeal in your service may +never get you into some compromising position. He is hardly, with all +his virtues, the proper servant for a young lady to have about her; +he has had no training—no <i>proper</i> training at all, you see. But you +must let the villain nurse himself for a day or two anyhow. It would be +torture to make him ride, after what I gave him.”</p> + +<p>His lordship spoke feelingly, with heroic endurance indeed; and if +Malcolm should dare give <i>his</i> account of the fracas, he trusted to the +word of a gentleman to outweigh that of a groom.</p> + +<p>Not all to whom it may seem incredible that a nobleman should thus lie, +are themselves incapable of doing likewise. Any man may put himself in +training for a liar by doing things he would be ashamed to have known. +The art is easily learned, and to practise it well is a great advantage +to people with <i>designs</i>. Men of ability, indeed, if they take care +not to try hard to speak the truth, will soon become able to lie as +truthfully as any sneak that sells grease for butter to the poverty of +the New Cut.</p> + +<p>It is worth remarking to him who can from the lie factual carry his +thought deeper to the lie essential, that all the power of a lie comes +from the truth; it has none in itself. So strong is the truth that a +mere resemblance to it is the source of strength to its opposite—until +it be found that <i>like</i> is not <i>the same</i>.</p> + +<p>Florimel had already made considerable progress in the art, but +proficiency in lying does not always develop the power of detecting it. +She knew that her father had on one occasion struck Malcolm, and that +he had taken it with the utmost gentleness, confessing himself in the +wrong. Also she had the impression that for a menial to lift his hand +against a gentleman, even in self-defence, was a thing unheard of. The +blow Malcolm had struck Liftore was for her, not himself. Therefore, +while her confidence in Malcolm’s courage and prowess remained +unshaken, she was yet able to believe that Liftore had done as he +said, and supposed that Malcolm had submitted. In her heart she pitied +without despising him.</p> + +<p>Caley herself took him the message that he would not be wanted. As she +delivered it, she smiled an evil smile and dropped a mocking courtesy, +with her gaze well fixed on his two black eyes and the great bruise +between them.</p> + +<p>When Liftore mounted to accompany Lady Lossie, it took all the pluck +that belonged to his high breed to enable him to smile and smile, with +twenty counsellors in different parts of his body feelingly persuading +him that he was at least a liar. As they rode, Florimel asked him how +he came to be at the studio that morning. He told her that he had +wanted very much to see her portrait before the final touches were +given it. He could have made certain suggestions, he believed, that +no one else could. He had indeed, he confessed— and felt absolutely +virtuous in doing so, because here he spoke a fact—heard from his +aunt that Florimel was to be there that morning for the last time: it +was therefore his only chance; but he had expected to be there hours +before she was out of bed. For the rest, be hoped he had been punished +enough, seeing her rascally groom—and once more his lordship laughed +peculiarly—had but just failed of breaking his arm; it was all he +could do to hold the reins.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV.<br><span class="small">AN OLD ENEMY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>One Sunday evening—it must have been just while Malcolm and Blue Peter +stood in the Strand listening to a voluntary that filled and overflowed +an otherwise empty church—a short, stout, elderly woman was walking +lightly along the pavement of a street of small houses, not far from a +thoroughfare which, crowded like a market the night before, had now two +lively borders only—of holiday-makers mingled with church-goers. The +bells for evening prayers were ringing. The sun had vanished behind the +smoke and steam of London; indeed he might have set—it was hard to say +without consulting the almanac: but it was not dark yet. The lamps in +the street were lighted, however, and also in the church she passed. +She carried a small Bible in her hand, folded in a pocket-handkerchief, +and looked a decent woman from the country. Her quest was a place where +the minister said his prayers and did not read them out of a book: she +had been brought up a Presbyterian, and had prejudices in favour of +what she took for the simpler form of worship. Nor had she gone much +farther before she came upon a chapel which seemed to promise all she +wanted. She entered, and a sad-looking woman showed her to a seat. +She sat down square, fixing her eyes at once on the pulpit, rather +dimly visible over many pews, as if it were one of the mountains that +surrounded her Jerusalem. The place was but scantily lighted, for +the community at present could ill afford to burn daylight. When the +worship commenced, and the congregation rose to sing, she got up with +a jerk that showed the duty as unwelcome as unexpected, but seemed by +the way she settled herself in her seat for the prayer, already thereby +reconciled to the differences between Scotch church-customs and English +chapel-customs. She went to sleep softly, and woke warily as the prayer +came to a close.</p> + +<p>While the congregation again sang, the minister who had officiated +hitherto left the pulpit, and another ascended to preach. When he began +to read the text, the woman gave a little start, and leaning forward, +peered very hard to gain a satisfactory sight of his face between the +candles on each side of it, but without success; she soon gave up her +attempted scrutiny, and thence-forward seemed to listen with marked +attention. The sermon was a simple, earnest, at times impassioned +appeal to the hearts and consciences of the congregation. There was +little attempt in it at the communication of knowledge of any kind, but +the most indifferent hearer must have been aware that the speaker was +earnestly straining after something. To those who understood, it was as +if he would force his way through every stockade of prejudice, ditch +of habit, rampart of indifference, moat of sin, wall of stupidity, and +curtain of ignorance, until he stood face to face with the conscience +of his hearer.</p> + +<p>“Rank Arminianism!” murmured the woman. “Whaur’s the gospel o’ that?” +But still she listened with seeming intentness, while something of +wonder mingled with the something else that set in motion every live +wrinkle in her forehead, and made her eyebrows undulate like writhing +snakes.</p> + +<p>At length the preacher rose to eloquence, an eloquence inspired by +the hunger of his soul after truth eternal, and the love he bore to +his brethren who fed on husks—an eloquence innocent of the tricks of +elocution or the arts of rhetoric: to have discovered himself using one +of them would have sent him home to his knees in shame and fear—an +eloquence not devoid of discords, the strings of his instrument being +now slack with emotion, now tense with vision, yet even in those +discords shrouding the essence of all harmony. When he ceased, the +silence that followed seemed instinct with thought, with that speech of +the spirit which no longer needs the articulating voice.</p> + +<p>“It <i>canna</i> be the stickit minister!” said the woman to herself.</p> + +<p>The congregation slowly dispersed, but she sat motionless until all +were gone, and the sad-faced woman was putting out the lights. Then +she rose, drew near through the gloom, and asked her the name of the +gentleman who had given them such a grand sermon. The woman told her, +adding that, although he had two or three times spoken to them at the +prayer meeting—such words of comfort, the poor soul added, as she had +never in her life heard before—this was the first time he had occupied +the pulpit. The woman thanked her, and went out into the street.</p> + +<p>“God bless me!” she said to herself, as she walked away; “it <i>is</i> the +stickit minister! Weel, won’ers ’ill never cease. The age o’ mirracles +’ill be come back, I’m thinkin’!” And she laughed an oily contemptuous +laugh in the depths of her profuse person.</p> + +<p>What caused her astonishment need cause none to the thoughtful mind. +The man was no longer burdened with any anxiety as to his reception +by his hearers; he was hampered by no necromantic agony to raise the +dead letter of the sermon buried in the tail-pocket of his coat; he had +thirty years more of life, and a whole granary filled with such truths +as grow for him who is ever breaking up the clods of his being to the +spiritual sun and wind and dew; and above all, he had an absolute yet +expanding confidence in his Father in heaven, and a tender love for +everything human. The tongue of the dumb had been in training for song. +And first of all he had learned to be silent while he had nought to +reveal. He had been trained to babble about religion, but through God’s +grace had failed in his babble, and that was in itself a success. He +would have made one of the swarm that year after year cast themselves +like flies on the burning sacrifice that they may live on its flesh, +with evil odours extinguishing the fire that should have gone up in +flame; but a burning coal from off the altar had been laid on his lips, +and had silenced them in torture. For thirty years he had held his +peace, until the word of God had become as a fire in his bones: it was +now breaking forth in flashes.</p> + +<p>On the Monday, Mrs Catanach sought the shop of the deacon that was an +ironmonger, secured for herself a sitting in the chapel for the next +half-year, and prepaid the sitting.</p> + +<p>“Wha kens,” she said to herself, “what birds may come to gether worms +an’ golachs (<i>beetles</i>) aboot the boody-craw (<i>scarecrow</i>), Sanny +Grame!”</p> + +<p>She was one to whom intrigue, founded on the knowledge of private +history, was as the very breath of her being: she could not exist in +composure without it. Wherever she went, therefore—and her changes +of residence had not been few—it was one of her first cares to enter +into connection with some religious community, first that she might +have scope for her calling—that of a midwife, which in London would +probably be straightened towards that of mere monthly nurse—and next +that thereby she might have good chances for the finding of certain +weeds of occult power that spring mostly in walled gardens, and are +rare on the roadside—poisonous things mostly, called generically +<i>secrets</i>.</p> + +<p>At this time she had been for some painful months in possession of a +most important one—painful, I say, because all those months she had +discovered no possibility of making use of it. The trial had been +hard. Her one passion was to drive the dark horses of society, and +here she had been sitting week after week on the coach-box over the +finest team she had ever handled, ramping and “foming tarre,” unable +to give them their heads because the demon-grooms had disappeared and +left the looped traces dangling from their collars. She had followed +Florimel from Portlossie—to Edinburgh, and then to London, but not yet +had seen how to approach her with probable advantage. In the meantime +she had renewed old relations with a certain herb-doctor in Kentish +Town, at whose house she was now accommodated. There she had already +begun to entice the confidences of maid-servants, by use of what evil +knowledge she had, and pretence to more, giving herself out as a wise +woman. Her faith never failed her that, if she but kept handling the +fowls of circumstance, one or other of them must at length drop an egg +of opportunity in her lap. When she stumbled upon the schoolmaster, +preaching in a chapel near her own haunts, she felt something more like +a gust of gratitude to the dark power that sat behind and pulled the +strings of events—for thus she saw through her own projected phantom +the heart of the universe—than she had ever yet experienced. If there +were such things as special providences, here, she said, was one; if +not, then it was better luck than she had looked for. The main point in +it was that the dominie seemed likely after all to turn out a popular +preacher; then beyond a doubt other Scotch people would gather to him; +this or that person might turn up, and anyone might turn out useful; +one thread might be knotted to another, until all together had made a +clue to guide her straight through the labyrinth to the centre, to lay +her hand on the collar of the demon of the house of Lossie. It was the +biggest game of her life, and had been its game long before the opening +of my narrative.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV.<br><span class="small">THE EVIL GENIUS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When Malcolm first visited Mr Graham, the schoolmaster had already +preached two or three times in the pulpit of Hope Chapel. His +ministrations at the prayer-meetings had led to this. For every night +on which he was expected to speak, there were more people present than +on the last; and when the deacons saw this, they asked him to preach on +the Sundays. After two Sundays they came to him in a body, and besought +him to become a candidate for the vacant pulpit, assuring him of +success if he did so. He gave a decided refusal, however, nor mentioned +his reasons. His friend Marshal urged him, pledging himself for his +income to an amount which would have been riches to the dominie, but in +vain. Thereupon the silk mercer concluded that he must have money, and, +kind man as he was, grew kinder in consequence, and congratulated him +on his independence.</p> + +<p>“I depend more on the fewness of my wants than on any earthly store for +supplying them,” said the dominie.</p> + +<p>Marshal’s thermometer fell a little, but not his anxiety to secure +services which, he insisted, would be for the glory of God and the +everlasting good of perishing souls. The schoolmaster only smiled +queerly and held his peace.</p> + +<p>He consented, however, to preach the next Sunday, and on the Monday, +consented to preach the next again. For several weeks the same thing +occurred. But he would never promise on a Sunday, or allow the briefest +advertisement to be given concerning him. All said he was feeling his +way.</p> + +<p>Neither had he, up to this time, said a word to Malcolm about the +manner in which his Sundays were employed, while yet he talked much +about a school he had opened in a room occupied in the evenings by a +debating club, where he was teaching such children of small shopkeepers +and artisans as found their way to him—in part through his connection +with the chapel-folk. When Malcolm had called on a Sunday, his landlady +had been able to tell him nothing more than that Mr Graham had gone out +at such and such an hour—she presumed to church; and when he had once +or twice expressed a wish to accompany him wherever he went to worship, +Mr Graham had managed somehow to let him go without having made any +arrangement for his doing so.</p> + +<p>On the evening after his encounter with Liftore, Malcolm visited the +schoolmaster, and told him everything about the affair. He concluded +by saying that Lizzie’s wrongs had loaded the whip far more than his +sister’s insult; but that he was very doubtful whether he had had any +right to constitute himself the avenger of either after such a fashion. +Mr Graham replied that a man ought never to be carried away by wrath, +as he had so often sought to impress upon him, and not without success: +but that, in the present case, as the rascal deserved it so well, he +did not think he need trouble himself much. At the same time he ought +to remind himself that the rightness or wrongness of any particular act +was of far less consequence than the rightness or wrongness of the will +whence sprang the act; and that, while no man could be too anxious as +to whether a contemplated action ought or ought not to be done, at the +same time no man <i>could</i> do anything absolutely right until he was one +with him whose was the only absolute self-generated purity —that is, +until God dwelt in him and he in God.</p> + +<p>Before he left, the schoolmaster had acquainted him with all that +portion of his London history which he had hitherto kept from him, and +told him where he was preaching.</p> + +<p>When Caley returned to her mistress after giving Malcolm the message +that she did not require his services, and reported the condition of +his face, Florimel informed her of the chastisement he had received +from Liftore, and desired her to find out for her how he was, for she +was anxious about him. Somehow Florimel felt sorrier for him than she +could well understand, seeing he was but a groom —a great lumbering +fellow, all his life used to hard knocks, which probably never hurt +him. That her mistress should care so much about him added yet an acrid +touch to Caley’s spite; but she put on her bonnet and went to the +mews, to confer with the wife of his lordship’s groom, who, although +an honest woman, had not yet come within her dislike. She went to +make her inquiries, however, full of grave doubt as to his lordship’s +statement to her mistress; and the result of them was a conviction +that, beyond his facial bruises, of which Mrs Merton had heard no +explanation, Malcolm had had no hurt. This confirmed her suspicion +that his lordship had received what he professed to have given: from +a window she had seen him mount his horse; and her woman’s-fancy for +him; while it added to her hate of Malcolm, did not prevent her from +thinking of the advantage the discovery might bring in the prosecution +of her own schemes. But now she began to fear Malcolm a little as well +as hate him. And indeed he was rather a dangerous person to have about, +where all but himself had secrets more or less bad, and one at least +had dangerous ones—as Caley’s conscience, or what poor monkey-rudiment +in her did duty for one, in private asserted. Notwithstanding her hold +upon her mistress, she would not have felt it quite safe to let her +know all her secrets. She would not have liked to say, for instance, +how often she woke suddenly with a little feeble wail sounding in the +ears that fingers cannot stop, or to confess that it cried out against +a double injustice, that of life and that of death: she had crossed the +border of the region of horror, and went about with a worm coiled in +her heart, like a centipede in the stone of a peach.</p> + +<p>“Merton’s wife knows nothing, my lady,” she said on her return. “I +saw the fellow in the yard going about much as usual. He will stand a +good deal of punishing, I fancy, my lady—like that brute of a horse +he makes such a fuss with. I can’t help wishing, for your ladyship’s +sake, we had never set eyes on him. He’ll do us all a mischief yet +before we get rid of him. I’ve had a hinstinc’ of it, my lady, from the +first moment I set eyes on him;”—Caley’s speech was never classic. +When she was excited it was low.—“And when I ’ave a hinstinc’ of +anythink, he’s not a dog as barks for nothink. Mark my words—and I’m +sure I beg your pardon, my lady —but that man will bring shame on the +house. He’s that arrergant an’ interferin’ as is certain sure to bring +your ladyship into public speech an’ a scandal: things will come to be +spoke, my lady, that hadn’t ought to be mentioned. Why, my lady, he +must ha’ struck his lordship, afore he’d ha’ give him two such black +eyes as them! And him that good-natured an’ condescendin’!—I’m sure I +don’t know what’s to come on it, but your ladyship might cast a thought +on the rest of us females as can’t take the liberties of born ladies +without sufferin’ for it. Think what the world will say of <i>us</i>. It’s +hard, my lady, on the likes of us.”</p> + +<p>But Florimel was not one to be talked into doing what she did not +choose. Neither would she to her maid render her reasons for not +choosing. She had repaired her fortifications, strengthened herself +with Liftore, and was confident.</p> + +<p>“The fact is, Caley,” she said, “I have fallen in love with Kelpie, +and never mean to part with her—at least till I can ride her —or she +kills me. So I can’t do without MacPhail. And I hope she won’t kill him +before he has persuaded her to let me mount her. The man must go with +the mare. Besides, he is such a strange fellow, if I turned him away I +should quite expect him to poison her before he left.”</p> + +<p>The maid’s face grew darker. That her mistress had the slightest +intention of ever mounting that mare she did not find herself fool +enough to believe, but of other reasons she could spy plenty behind. +And such there truly were, though none of the sort which Caley’s +imagination, swift to evil, now supplied. The kind of confidence she +reposed in her groom, Caley had no faculty for understanding, and was +the last person to whom her mistress could impart the fact of her +father’s leaving her in charge to his young henchman. To the memory of +her father she clung, and so far faithfully that, even now when Malcolm +had begun to occasion her a feeling of awe and rebuke, she did not the +less confidently regard him as her good genius that he was in danger of +becoming an unpleasant one.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI.<br><span class="small">CONJUNCTIONS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>As the days passed on, and Florimel heard nothing of Lenorme, the +uneasiness that came with the thought of him gradually diminished, and +all the associations of opposite complexion returned. Untrammelled +by fear, the path into a scaring future seeming to be cut off, her +imagination began to work in the quarry of her late experience, shaping +its dazzling material into gorgeous castles, with foundations deep-dug +in the air, wherein lorded the person and gifts and devotion of the +painter. When lost in such blissful reveries, not seldom moments +arrived in which she imagined herself—even felt as if she were +capable, if not of marrying Lenorme in the flushed face of outraged +society, yet of fleeing with him from the judgment of the all but +all-potent divinity to the friendly bosom of some blessed isle of the +southern seas, whose empty luxuriance they might change into luxury, +and there living a long harmonious idyll of wedded love, in which +old age and death should be provided against by never taking them +into account. This mere fancy, which, poor in courage as it was in +invention, she was far from capable of carrying into effect, yet seemed +to herself the outcome and sign of a whole world of devotion in her +bosom. If one of the meanest of human conditions is conscious heroism, +paltrier yet is heroism before the fact, incapable of self-realization! +But even the poorest dreaming has its influences, and the result of +hers was that the attentions of Liftore became again distasteful to +her. And no wonder, for indeed his lordship’s presence in the actual +world made a poor show beside that of the painter in the ideal world +of the woman who, if she could not with truth be said to love him, yet +certainly had a powerful fancy for him: the mean phrase is good enough, +even although the phantom of Lenorme roused in her all the twilight +poetry of her nature, and the presence of Liftore set her whole +consciousness in the perpendicular shadowless gas-light of prudence and +self-protection.</p> + +<p>The pleasure of her castle-building was but seldom interrupted by any +thought of the shamefulness of her behaviour to him. That did not +matter much! She could so easily make up for all he had suffered! Her +selfishness closed her eyes to her own falsehood. Had she meant it +truly she would have been right both for him and for herself. To have +repented and become as noble a creature as Lenorme was capable of +imagining her—not to say as God had designed her, would indeed have +been to make up for all he had suffered. But the poor blandishment +she contemplated as amends, could render him blessed only while its +intoxication blinded him to the fact that it meant nothing of what +it ought to mean, that behind it was no entire, heart-filled woman. +Meantime, as the past, with its delightful imprudences, its trembling +joys, glided away, swiftly widening the space between her and her +false fears and shames, and seeming to draw with it the very facts +themselves, promising to obliterate at length all traces of them, +she gathered courage; and as the feeling of exposure that had made +the covert of Liftore’s attentions acceptable, began to yield, her +variableness began to re-appear, and his lordship to find her uncertain +as ever. Assuredly, as his aunt said, she was yet but a girl incapable +of knowing her own mind, and he must not press his suit. Nor had he +the spur of jealousy or fear to urge him: society regarded her as his; +and the shadowy repute of the bold-faced countess intercepted some +favourable rays which would otherwise have fallen upon the young and +beautiful marchioness from fairer luminaries even than Liftore.</p> + +<p>But there was one good process, by herself little regarded, going on +in Florimel: notwithstanding the moral discomfort oftener than once +occasioned her by Malcolm, her confidence in him was increasing; +and now that the kind of danger threatening her seemed altered, she +leaned her mind upon him not a little—and more than she could well +have accounted for to herself on the only grounds she could have +adduced—namely that he was an attendant authorized by her father, and, +like herself loyal to his memory and will; and that, faithful as a dog, +he would fly at the throat of anyone who dared touch her—of which she +had had late proof, supplemented by his silent endurance of consequent +suffering. Demon sometimes looked angry—when she teased him—had even +gone so far as to bare his teeth; but Malcolm had never shown temper. +In a matter of imagined duty, he might presume—but that was a small +thing beside the sense of safety his very presence brought with it. She +shuddered indeed at the remembrance of one look he had given her, but +that had been for no behaviour to himself; and now that the painter +was gone, she was clear of all temptation to the sort of thing that +had caused it; and never, never more would she permit herself to be +drawn into circumstances the least equivocal!—If only Lenorme would +come back, and allow her to be his friend—his <i>best</i> friend —his only +young lady friend, leaving her at perfect liberty to do just as she +liked, then all would be well—absolutely comfortable! In the meantime, +life was endurable without him—and would be, provided Liftore did not +make himself disagreeable. If he did, there were other gentlemen who +might be induced to keep him in check: she would punish him—she knew +how. She liked him better, however, than any of those.</p> + +<p>It was out of pure kindness to Malcolm, upon Liftore’s representation +of how he had punished him, that for the rest of the week she dispensed +with his attendance upon herself. But he, unaware of the lies Liftore +had told her, and knowing nothing, therefore, of her reason for doing +so, supposed she resented the liberty he had taken in warning her +against Caley, feared the breach would go on widening, and went about, +if not quite downcast, yet less hopeful still. Everything seemed going +counter to his desires. A whole world of work lay before him:—a +harbour to build; a numerous fisher-clan to house as they ought to be +housed; justice to do on all sides; righteous servants to appoint in +place of oppressors; and, all over, to show the heavens more just than +his family had in the past allowed them to appear; he had mortgages +and other debts to pay off—clearing his feet from fetters and his +hands from manacles, that he might be the true lord of his people; he +had Miss Horn to thank, and the schoolmaster to restore to the souls +and hearts of Portlossie; and, next of all to his sister, he had old +Duncan, his first friend and father, to find and minister to. Not a day +passed, not a night did he lay down his head, without thinking of him. +But the old man, whatever his hardships, and even the fishermen, with +no harbour to run home to from the wild elements, were in no dangers +to compare with such as threatened his sister. To set her free was his +first business, and that business as yet refused to be done. Hence he +was hemmed in, shut up, incarcerated in stubborn circumstance, from a +long-reaching range of duties, calling aloud upon his conscience and +heart to hasten with the first, that he might reach the second. What +rendered it the more disheartening was, that, having discovered, as he +hoped, how to compass his first end, the whole possibility had by his +sister’s behaviour, and the consequent disappearance of Lenorme, been +swept from him, leaving him more resourceless than ever.</p> + +<p>When Sunday evening came, he found his way to Hope Chapel, and walking +in, was shown to a seat by a grimy-faced pew-opener. It was with +strange feelings he sat there, thinking of the past, and looking for +the appearance of his friend on the pulpit-stair. But his feelings +would have been stranger still had he seen who sat immediately in +the pew behind him, watching him like a cat watching a mouse, or +rather like a half-grown kitten watching a rat, for she was a little +frightened at him, even while resolved to have him. But how could she +doubt her final success, when her plans were already affording her so +much more than she had expected? Who would have looked for the great +red stag himself to come browsing so soon about the scarecrow! He was +too large game, however, to be stalked without due foresight.</p> + +<p>When the congregation was dismissed, after a sermon the power of +whose utterance astonished Malcolm, accustomed as he was to the +schoolmaster’s best moods, he waited until the preacher was at liberty +from the unwelcome attentions and vulgar congratulations of the richer +and more forward of his hearers, and then joined him to walk home +with him.—He was followed to the schoolmaster’s lodging, and thence, +an hour after, to his own, by a little boy far too little to excite +suspicion, the grandson of Mrs Catanach’s friend, the herb-doctor.</p> + +<p>Until now the woman had not known that Malcolm was in London. When she +learned that he was lodged so near Portland Place, she concluded that +he was watching his sister, and chuckled over the idea of his being +watched in turn by herself.</p> + +<p>Every day for weeks after her declaration concerning the birth of +Malcolm, had the mind of Mrs Catanach been exercised to the utmost to +invent some mode of undoing her own testimony. She would have had no +scruples, no sense of moral disgust, in eating every one of her words; +but a magistrate and a lawyer had both been present at the uttering of +them, and she feared the risk. Malcolm’s behaviour to her after his +father’s death had embittered the unfriendly feelings she had cherished +towards him for many years. While she believed him base-born, and was +even ignorant as to his father, she had thought to secure power over +him for the annoyance of the blind old man to whom she had committed +him, and whom she hated with the hatred of a wife with whom for the +best of reasons he had refused to live; but she had found in the boy a +rectitude over which although she had assailed it from his childhood, +she could gain no influence. Either a blind repugnance in Malcolm’s +soul, or a childish instinct of and revulsion from embodied evil, had +held them apart. Even then it had added to her vile indignation that +she regarded him as owing her gratitude for not having murdered him +at the instigation of his uncle; and when at length, to her endless +chagrin, she had herself unwittingly supplied the only lacking link in +the testimony that should raise him to rank and wealth, she imagined, +that by making affidavit to the facts she had already divulged, she +enlarged the obligation infinitely, and might henceforth hold him in +her hand a tool for further operations. When, therefore, he banished +her from Lossie House, and sought to bind her to silence as to his +rank by the conditional promise of a small annuity, she hated him +with her whole huge power of hating. And now she must make speed, for +his incognito in a great city afforded a thousandfold facility for +doing him a mischief. And first she must draw closer a certain loose +tie she had already looped betwixt herself and the household of Lady +Bellair. This tie was the conjunction of her lying influence with the +credulous confidence of a certain very ignorant and rather wickedly +romantic scullery-maid with whom, having in espial seen her come from +the house she had scraped acquaintance, and to whom, for the securing +of power over her through her imagination, she had made the strangest +and most appalling disclosures. Amongst other secret favours, she +had promised to compound for her a horrible mixture—some of whose +disgusting ingredients, as potent as hard to procure, she named in her +awe-stricken hearing—which, administered under certain conditions +and with certain precautions, one of which was absolute secrecy in +regard to the person who provided it, must infallibly secure for her +the affections of any man on whom she might cast a loving eye, and +whom she could, either with or without his consent, contrive to cause +partake of the same. This girl she now sought, and from her learned +all she knew about Malcolm. Pursuing her enquiries into the nature and +composition of the household, however, Mrs Catanach soon discovered a +far more capable and indeed less scrupulous associate and instrument in +Caley. I will not introduce my reader to any of their evil councils, +although, for the sake of my own credit, it might be well to be less +considerate, seeing that many, notwithstanding the super-abundant +evidence of history, find it all but impossible to believe in the +existence of such moral abandonment as theirs. I will merely state +concerning them, and all the relations of the two women, that Mrs +Catanach assumed and retained the upper hand, in virtue of her superior +knowledge, invention, and experience, gathering from Caley, as she had +hoped, much valuable information, full of reactions, and tending to +organic development of scheme in the brain of the arch-plotter. But +their designs were so mutually favourable as to promise from the first +a final coalescence in some common plan for their attainment.</p> + +<p>Those who knew that Miss Campbell, as Portlossie regarded her, had +been in reality Lady Lossie, and was the mother of Malcolm, knew as +well that Florimel had no legal title even to the family cognomen; but +if his mother, and therefore the time of his mother’s death, remained +unknown, the legitimacy of his sister would remain unsuspected even +upon his appearance as the heir. Now there were but three besides Mrs +Catanach and Malcolm who did know who was his mother, namely, Miss +Horn, Mr Graham, and a certain Mr Morrison, a laird and magistrate near +Portlossie, an elderly man, and of late in feeble health. The lawyers +the marquis had employed on his death-bed did not know: he had, for +Florimel’s sake taken care that they should not. Upon what she knew +and what she guessed of these facts regarded in all their relations +according to her own theories of human nature the midwife would found a +scheme of action.</p> + +<p>Doubtless she saw, and prepared for it, that after a certain point +should be reached the very similarity of their designs must cause a +rupture between her and Caley; neither could expect the other to endure +such a rival near her hidden throne of influence; for the aim of both +was power in a great family, with consequent money, and consideration, +and midnight councils, and the wielding of all the weapons of hint +and threat and insinuation. There was one difference, indeed, that +in Caley’s eye money was the chief thing, while power itself was the +Swedenborgian hell of the midwife’s bliss.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII.<br><span class="small">AN INNOCENT PLOT.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Florimel and Lady Clementina Thornicroft, the same who in the park +rebuked Malcolm for his treatment of Kelpie, had met several times +during the spring, and had been mutually attracted—Florimel as to a +nature larger, more developed, more self-supporting than her own, and +Lady Clementina as to one who, it was plain, stood in sore need of what +countenance and encouragement to good and free action the friendship +of one more experienced might afford her. Lady Clementina was but a +few years older than Florimel, it is true, but had shown a courage +which had already wrought her an unquestionable influence, and that +chiefly with the best. The root of this courage was compassion. Her +rare humanity of heart would, at the slightest appearance of injustice, +drive her like an angel with a flaming sword against customs regarded, +consciously or unconsciously, as the very buttresses of social +distinction. Anything but a wise woman, she had yet so much in her of +what is essential to all wisdom— love to her kind—that, if as yet she +had done little but blunder, she had at least blundered beautifully. On +every society that had for its declared end the setting right of wrong +or the alleviation of misery, she lavished, and mostly wasted, her +money. Every misery took to her the shape of a wrong. Hence to every +mendicant that could trump up a plausible story, she offered herself a +willing prey. Even when the barest-faced imposition was brought home to +one of the race parasitical, her first care was to find all possible +excuse for his conduct: it was matter of pleasure to her friends when +she stopped there, and made no attempt at absolute justification.</p> + +<p>Left like Florimel an orphan, but at a yet earlier age, she had been +brought up with a care that had gone over into severity, against which +her nature had revolted with an energy that gathered strength from her +own repression of its signs; and when she came of age, and took things +into her own hands, she carried herself in its eyes so oddly, yet with +such sweetness and dignity and consistency in her oddest extravagances, +that society honoured her even when it laughed at her, loved her, +listened to her, applauded, approved—did everything except imitate +her—which indeed was just as well, for else confusion would have +been worse confounded. She was always rushing to defence—with money, +with indignation, with refuge. It would look like a caricature did I +record the number of charities to which she belonged, and the various +societies which, in the exuberance of her passionate benevolence, she +had projected and of necessity abandoned. Yet still the fire burned, +for her changes were from no changeableness: through them all the +fundamental operation of her character remained the same. The case was +that, for all her headlong passion for deliverance, she could not help +discovering now and then, through an occasional self-assertion of that +real good sense which her rampant and unsubjected benevolence could but +overlay, not finally smother, that she was either doing nothing at all, +or more evil than good.</p> + +<p>The lack of discipline in her goodness came out in this, at times +amusingly, that she would always at first side with the lower or weaker +or worse. If a dog had torn a child, and was going to be killed in +consequence, she would not only intercede for the dog, but absolutely +side with him, mentioning this and that provocation which the naughty +child must have given him ere he could have been goaded to the deed. +Once when the schoolmaster in her village was going to cane a boy +for cruelty to a cripple, she pleaded for his pardon on the ground +that it was worse to be cruel than to be a cripple, and therefore +more to be pitied. Everything painful was to her cruel, and softness +and indulgence, moral honey and sugar and nuts to all alike, was the +panacea for human ills. She could not understand that infliction might +be loving kindness. On one occasion when a boy was caught in the act of +picking her pocket, she told the policeman he was doing nothing of the +sort—he was only searching for a lozenge for his terrible cough; and +in proof of her asserted conviction, she carried him home with her, but +lost him before morning, as well as the spoon with which he had eaten +his gruel.</p> + +<p>As to her person I have already made a poor attempt at describing it. +She might have been grand but for loveliness. When she drew herself up +in indignation, however, she would look grand for the one moment ere +the blood rose to her cheek, and the water to her eyes. She would have +taken the whole world to her infinite heart, and in unwisdom coddled it +into corruption. Praised be the grandeur of the God who can endure to +make and see his children suffer. Thanks be to him for his north winds +and his poverty, and his bitterness that falls upon the spirit that +errs: let those who know him thus praise the Lord for his goodness. But +Lady Clementina had not yet descried the face of the Son of Man through +the mists of Mount Sinai, and she was not one to justify the ways of +God to men. Not the less was it the heart of God in her that drew her +to the young marchioness, over whom was cast the shadow of a tree +that gave but baneful shelter. She liked her frankness, her activity, +her daring, and fancied that, like herself she was at noble feud with +that infernal parody of the kingdom of heaven, called Society. She did +not well understand her relation to Lady Bellair, concerning whom she +was in doubt whether or not she was her legal guardian, but she saw +plainly enough that the countess wanted to secure her for her nephew, +and this nephew had about him a certain air of perdition, which even +the catholic heart of Lady Clementina could not brook. She saw too +that, being a mere girl, and having no scope of choice in the limited +circle of their visitors, she was in great danger of yielding without +a struggle, and she longed to take her in charge like a poor little +persecuted kitten, for the possession of which each of a family of +children was contending. What if her father had belonged to a rowdy +set, was that any reason why his innocent daughter should be devoured, +body and soul and possessions, by those of the same set who had not +yet perished in their sins? Lady Clementina thanked Heaven that she +came herself of decent people, who paid their debts, dared acknowledge +themselves in the wrong, and were as honest as if they had been born +peasants; and she hoped a shred of the mantle of their good name had +dropped upon her, big enough to cover also this poor little thing +who had come of no such parentage. With her passion for redemption +therefore, she seized every chance of improving her acquaintance with +Florimel, and it was her anxiety to gain such a standing in her favour +as might further her coveted ministration, that had prevented her +from bringing her charge of brutality against Malcolm as soon as she +discovered whose groom he was: when she had secured her footing on the +peak of her friendship, she would unburden her soul, and meantime the +horse must suffer for his mistress—a conclusion in itself a great +step in advance, for it went dead against one of her most confidently +argued principles, namely, that the pain of any animal is, in every +sense, of just as much consequence as the pain of any other, human or +inferior: pain is pain, she said; and equal pains are equal wherever +they sting;—in which she would have been right, I think, if pain and +suffering were the same thing; but, knowing well that the same degree +and even the same kind of pain means two very different things in the +foot and in the head, I refuse the proposition.</p> + +<p>Happily for Florimel, she had by this time made progress enough to +venture a proposal—namely, that she should accompany her to a small +estate she had on the south coast, with a little ancient house upon +it—a strange place altogether, she said—to spend a week or two in +absolute quiet—only she must come alone— without even a maid: she +would take none herself. This she said because, with the instinct, if +not quite insight, of a true nature, she could not endure the woman +Caley.</p> + +<p>“Will you come with me there for a fortnight?” she concluded.</p> + +<p>“I shall be delighted,” returned Florimel, without a moment’s +hesitation. “I am getting quite sick of London. There’s no room in it. +And there’s the spring all outside, and can’t get in here! I shall be +only too glad to go with you, you dear creature!”</p> + +<p>“And on those hard terms—no maid, you know?” insisted Clementina.</p> + +<p>“The only thing wanted to make the pleasure complete! I shall be +charmed to be rid of her.”</p> + +<p>“I am glad to see you so independent.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t imagine me such a baby as not to be able to get on without a +maid! You should have seen me in Scotland! I hated having a woman about +me then. And indeed I don’t like it a bit better now —only everybody +has one, and your clothes want looking after,” added Florimel, thinking +what a weight it would be off her if she could get rid of Caley +altogether. “—But I <i>should</i> like to take my horse,” she said. “I +don’t know what I should do in the country without Abbot.”</p> + +<p>“Of course; we must have our horses,” returned Clementina. “And— +yes—you had better bring your groom.”</p> + +<p>“Please. You will find him very useful. He can do anything and +everything—-and is so kind and helpful!”</p> + +<p>“Except to his horse,” Clementina was on the point of saying, but +thought again she would first secure the mistress, and bide her time to +attack the man.</p> + +<p>Before they parted, the two ladies had talked themselves into ecstasies +over the anticipated enjoyments of their scheme. It must be carried out +at once.</p> + +<p>“Let us tell nobody,” said Lady Clementina, “and set off to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Enchanting!” cried Florimel, in full response.</p> + +<p>Then her brow clouded.</p> + +<p>“There is one difficulty, though,” she said. “—No man could ride +Kelpie with a led horse; and if we had to employ another, Liftore would +be sure to hear where we had gone.”</p> + +<p>“That would spoil all,” said Clementina. “But how much better it would +be to give that poor creature a rest, and bring the other I see him on +sometimes!”</p> + +<p>“And by the time we came back, there would not be a living creature, +horse or man, anything bigger than a rat, about the stable. Kelpie +herself would be dead of hunger, if she hadn’t been shot. No, no; where +Malcolm goes Kelpie must go. Besides, she’s such fun—you can’t think!”</p> + +<p>“Then I’ll tell you what!” cried Clementina, after a moment’s pause of +perplexity: “we’ll <i>ride</i> down! It’s not a hundred miles, and we can +take as many days on the road as we please.”</p> + +<p>“Better and better!” cried Florimel. “We’ll run away with each +other.—But what will dear old Bellair say?”</p> + +<p>“Never mind her,” rejoined Clementina. “She will have nothing to say. +You can write and tell her as much as will keep her from being really +alarmed. Order your man to get everything ready, and I will instruct +mine. He is such a staid old fellow, you know, he will be quite +protection. To-morrow morning we shall set out together for a ride in +Richmond Park—that lying in our way. You can leave a letter on the +breakfast-table, saying you are gone with me for a little quiet. You’re +not in chancery—are you?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” answered Florimel. “I suppose I’m all right.— Any how, +whether I’m in chancery or not, here I am, and going with you; and if +chancery don’t like it, chancery may come and fetch me.”</p> + +<p>“Send anything you think you may want to my house. I shall get a box +ready, and we will write from some town on our way to have it sent +there, and then we can write for it from The Gloom. We shall find all +mere <i>necessaries</i> there.”</p> + +<p>So the thing was arranged: they would start quite early the next +morning; and that there might be no trouble in the streets, Malcolm +should go before with Kelpie, and wait them in the park.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br><span class="small">THE JOURNEY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Malcolm was overjoyed at the prospect of an escape to the country —and +yet more to find that his mistress wanted to have him with her—more +still to understand, that the journey was to be kept a secret. Perhaps +now, far from both Caley and Liftore, he might say something to open +her eyes; yet how should he avoid the appearance of a tale-bearer?</p> + +<p>It was a sweet fresh morning, late in the spring—those loveliest of +hours that unite the seasons, like the shimmering question of green +or blue in the feathers of a peacock. He had set out an hour before +the rest, and now, a little way within the park, was coaxing Kelpie +to stand, that he might taste the morning in peace. The sun was but +a few degrees above the horizon, shining with all his heart, and the +earth was taking the shine with all hers. “I too am light,” she was +saying, “although I can but receive it.” The trees were covered with +baby-leaves, half wrapped in their swaddling clothes, and their breath +was a warm aromatic odour in the glittering air. The air and the light +seemed one, and Malcolm felt as if his soul were breathing the light +into its very depths, while his body was drinking the soft spicy wind. +For Kelpie, she was as full of life as if she had been meant for a +winged horse, but by some accident of nature the wing-cases had never +opened, and the wing-life was for ever trying to get out at her feet. +The consequent restlessness, where there was plenty of space as here, +caused Malcolm no more discomposure than, in his old fishing-days, +a gale with plenty of sea-room. And the song of the larks was one +with the light and the air. The budding of the trees was their way +of singing; but the larks beat them at that. “What a power of joy,” +thought Malcolm, “there must be in God, to be able to keep so many +larks so full of bliss!” He was going to say—“without getting tired;” +but he saw that it was the eternal joy itself that bubbled from their +little fountains: weariness there would be the silence of all song, +would be death, utter vanishment to the gladness of the universe. The +sun would go out like a spark upon burnt paper, and the heart of man +would forget the sound of laughter. Then he said to himself: “The larks +do not make their own singing; do mortals make their own sighing?” And +he saw that at least they might open wider the doors of their hearts +to the Perseus Joy that comes to slay the grief-monsters. Then he +thought how his life had been widening out with the years. He could not +say that it was now more pleasant than it had been; he had Stoicism +enough to doubt whether it would ever become so from any mere change +of circumstances. Dangers and sufferings that one is able for, are not +misfortunes or even hardships—so far from such, that youth delights +in them. Indeed he sorely missed the adventure of the herring fishing. +Kelpie, however, was as good as a stiff gale. If only all were well +with his sister! Then he would go back to Portlossie and have fishing +enough. But he must be patient and follow as he was led. At three and +twenty, he reflected, Milton was content to seem to himself but a poor +creature, and was careful only to be ready for whatever work should +hereafter be required of him: such contentment, with such hope and +resolve at the back of it, he saw to be the right and the duty both of +every man. He whose ambition is to be ready when he is wanted, whatever +the work may be, may wait not the less watchful that he is content. His +heart grew lighter, his head clearer, and by the time the two ladies +with their attendant appeared, he felt such a masterdom over Kelpie as +he had never felt before.</p> + +<p>They rode twenty miles that day with ease, putting up at the first +town. The next day they rode about the same distance. They next day +they rode nearly thirty miles. On the fourth, with an early start, and +a good rest in the middle, they accomplished a yet greater distance, +and at night arrived at The Gloom, Wastbeach—after a journey of +continuous delight to three at least of the party, Florimel and Malcolm +having especially enjoyed that portion of it which led through Surrey, +where England and Scotland meet and mingle in waste, heathery moor, and +rich valley. Much talk had passed between the ladies, and Florimel had +been set thinking about many things, though certainly about none after +the wisest fashion.</p> + +<p>A young half-moon was still up when, after riding miles through pine +woods, they at length drew near the house. Long before they reached it, +however, a confused noise of dogs met them in the forest. Clementina +had written to the housekeeper, and every dog about the place, and the +dogs were multitudinous, had been expecting her all day, had heard +the sound of their horses’ hoofs miles off and had at once begun +to announce her approach. Nor were the dogs the only cognisant or +expectant animals. Most of the creatures about the place understood +that something was happening, and probably associated it with their +mistress; for almost every live thing knew her—from the rheumatic +cart-horse, forty years of age, and every whit as respectable in +Clementina’s eyes as her father’s old butler, to the wild cats that +haunted the lofts and garrets of the old Elizabethan hunting-lodge.</p> + +<p>When they dismounted, the ladies could hardly get into the house for +dogs; those which could not reach their mistress, turned to Florimel, +and came swarming about her and leaping upon her, until, much as she +liked animal favour, she would gladly have used her whip—but dared +not, because of the presence of their mistress. If the theories of that +mistress allowed them anything of a moral nature, she was certainly +culpable in refusing them their right to a few cuts of the whip.</p> + +<p>Mingled with all the noises of dogs and horses, came a soft nestling +murmur that filled up the interspaces of sound which even their +tumult could not help leaving. Florimel was too tired to hear it, but +Malcolm heard it, and it filled all the interspaces of his soul with a +speechless delight. He knew it for the still small voice of the awful +sea.</p> + +<p>Florimel scarcely cast a glance around the dark old-fashioned room +into which she was shown, but went at once to bed, and when the old +housekeeper carried her something from the supper-table at which she +had been expected, she found her already fast asleep. By the time +Malcolm had put Kelpie to rest, he also was a little tired, and lay +awake no moment longer than his sister.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX.<br><span class="small">DISCIPLINE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>What with rats and mice, and cats and owls, and creaks and cracks, +there was no quiet about the place from night to morning; and what with +swallows and rooks, and cocks and kine, and horses and foals, and dogs +and pigeons and peacocks, and guinea-fowls and turkeys and geese, and +every farm creature but pigs, which, with all her zootrophy, Clementina +did not like, no quiet from morning to night. But if there was no +quiet, there was plenty of calm, and the sleep of neither brother nor +sister was disturbed.</p> + +<p>Florimel awoke in the sweetest concert of pigeon-murmuring, +duck-diplomacy, fowl-foraging, foal-whinnering—the word wants an <i>r</i> +in it—and all the noises of rural life. The sun was shining into the +room by a window far off at the further end, bringing with him strange +sylvan shadows, not at once to be interpreted. He must have been +shining for hours, so bright and steady did he shine. She sprang out of +bed—with no lazy London resurrection of the old buried, half-sodden +corpse, sleepy and ashamed, but with the new birth of the new day, +refreshed and strong, like a Hercules-baby. A few aching remnants of +stiffness was all that was left of the old fatigue. It was a heavenly +joy to think that no Caley would come knocking at her door. She glided +down the long room to the sunny window, drew aside the rich old faded +curtain, and peeped out. Nothing but pines and pines—Scotch firs all +about and everywhere! They came within a few yards of the window. She +threw it open. The air was still, the morning sun shone hot upon them, +and the resinous odour exhaled from their bark and their needles and +their fresh buds, filled the room—sweet and clean. There was nothing, +not even a fence, between this wing of the house and the wood.</p> + +<p>All through his deep sleep, Malcolm heard the sound of the sea +—whether of the phantom sea in his soul, or of the world-sea to whose +murmurs he had listened with such soft delight as he fell asleep, +matters little: the sea was with him in his dreams. But when he awoke +it was to no musical crushing of water-drops, no half-articulated tones +of animal speech, but to tumult and out-cry from the stables. It was +but too plain that he was wanted. Either Kelpie had waked too soon, +or he had overslept himself: she was kicking furiously. Hurriedly +induing a portion of his clothing, he rushed down and across the yard, +shouting to her as he ran, like a nurse as she runs up the stair to a +screaming child. She stopped once to give an eager whinny, and then +fell to again. Griffiths, the groom, and the few other men about the +place, were looking on appalled. He darted to the corn-bin, got a +great pottleful of oats, and shot into her stall. She buried her nose +in them like the very demon of hunger, and he left her for the few +moments of peace that would follow. He must finish his dressing as +fast as he could: already, after four days of travel, which with her +meant anything but a straight-forward jog-trot struggle with space, she +needed a good gallop! When he returned, he found her just finishing +her oats, and beginning to grow angry with her own nose for getting +so near the bottom of the manger. While yet there was no worse sign, +however, than the fidgetting of her hind quarters, and she was still +busy, he made haste to saddle her. But her unusually obstinate refusal +of the bit, and his difficulty in making her open her unwilling jaws, +gave unmistakable indication of coming conflict. Anxiously he asked the +bystanders after some open place where he might let her go—fields or +tolerably smooth heath, or sandy beach. He dared not take her through +the trees, he said, while she was in such a humour; she would dash +herself to pieces. They told him there was a road straight from the +stables to the shore, and there miles of pure sand without a pebble. +Nothing could be better. He mounted and rode away.</p> + +<p>Florimel was yet but half-dressed, when the door of her room opened +suddenly, and Lady Clementina darted in—the lovely chaos of her night +not more than half as far reduced to order as that of Florimel’s. +Her moonlight hair, nearly as long as that of the fabled Godiva, was +flung wildly about her in heavy masses. Her eyes were wild also; she +looked like a holy Maenad. With a glide like the swoop of an avenging +angel, she pounced upon Florimel, caught her by the wrist and pulled +her towards the door. Florimel was startled, but made no resistance. +She half led, half dragged her up a stair that rose from a corner of +the hall gallery to the battlements of a little square tower, whence +a few yards of the beach, through a chain of slight openings amongst +the pines, was visible. Upon that spot of beach, a strange thing was +going on—at which afresh Clementina gazed with indignant horror, but +Florimel eagerly stared with the forward-borne eyes of a spectator of +the Roman arena. She saw Kelpie reared on end, striking out at Malcolm +with her fore-hoofs, and snapping with angry teeth—then upon those +teeth receive such a blow from his fist that she swerved, and wheeling, +flung her hind hoofs at his head. But Malcolm was too quick for her; +she spent her heels in the air, and he had her by the bit. Again she +reared, and would have struck at him, but he kept well by her side, and +with the powerful bit forced her to rear to her full height. Just as +she was falling backwards, he pushed her head from him, and bearing her +down sideways, seated himself on it the moment it touched the ground. +Then first the two women turned to each other. An arch of victory bowed +Florimel’s lip; her eyebrows were uplifted; the blood flushed her +cheek, and darkened the blue in her wide opened eyes. Lady Clementina’s +forehead was gathered in vertical wrinkles over her nose, and all +about her eyes was contracted as if squeezing from them the flame of +indignation, while her teeth and lips were firmly closed. The two made +a splendid contrast. When Clementina’s gaze fell on her visitor, the +fire in her eyes burned more angry still: her soul was stirred by the +presence of wrong and cruelty, and here, her guest, and looking her +straight in the eyes, was a young woman, one word from whom would stop +it all, actually enjoying the sight!</p> + +<p>“Lady Lossie, I am ashamed of you!” she said, with severest reproof; +and turning from her, she ran down the stair.</p> + +<p>Florimel turned again towards the sea. Presently she caught sight +of Clementina glimpsing though the pines, “now in glimmer and now +in gloom,” as she sped swiftly to the shore, and, after a few short +minutes of disappearance, saw her emerge upon the space of sand where +sat Malcolm on the head of the demoness. But alas! she could only see. +She could hardly even hear the sound of the tide.</p> + +<p>“MacPhail, are you a man?” cried Clementina, startling him so that in +another instant the floundering mare would have been on her feet. With +a right noble anger in her face, and her hair flying like a wind-torn +cloud, she rushed out of the wood upon him, where he sat quietly +tracing a proposition of Euclid on the sand with his whip.</p> + +<p>“Ay, and a bold one,” was on Malcolm’s lips for reply, but he bethought +himself in time.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry what I am compelled to do should annoy your ladyship,” he +said.</p> + +<p>What with indignation and breathlessness—she had run so fast— +Clementina had exhausted herself in that one exclamation, and stood +panting and staring. The black bulk of Kelpie lay outstretched on +the yellow sand, giving now and then a sprawling kick or a wamble +like a lumpy snake, and her soul commiserated each movement as if it +had been the last throe of dissolution, while the grey fire of the +mare’s one-visible fierce eye, turned up from the shadow of Malcolm’s +superimposed bulk, seemed to her tender heart a mute appeal for woman’s +help.</p> + +<p>As Malcolm spoke, he cautiously shifted his position, and, half-rising, +knelt with one knee where he had sat before, looking observant at Lady +Clementina. The champion of oppressed animality soon recovered speech.</p> + +<p>“Get off the poor creature’s head instantly,” she said, with dignified +command. “I will permit no such usage of living thing on my ground.”</p> + +<p>“I am very sorry to seem rude, my lady,” answered Malcolm, “but to obey +you would perhaps be to ruin my mistress’s property. If the mare were +to break away, she would dash herself to pieces in the wood.”</p> + +<p>“You have goaded her to madness.”</p> + +<p>“I’m the more bound to take care of her then,” said Malcolm. “But +indeed it is only temper—such temper, however, that I almost believe +she is at times possessed of a demon.”</p> + +<p>“The demon is in yourself. There is nothing in her but what your +cruelty has put there. Let her up, I command you.”</p> + +<p>“I dare not, my lady. If she were to get loose she would tear your +ladyship to pieces.”</p> + +<p>“I will take my chance.”</p> + +<p>“But I will not my lady. I know the danger, and have to take care of +you who do not. There is no occasion to be uneasy about the mare. She +is tolerably comfortable. I am not hurting her—not much. Your ladyship +does not reflect how strong a horse’s skull is. And you see what great +powerful breaths she draws!”</p> + +<p>“She is in agony,” cried Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Not in the least, my lady. She is only balked of her own way, and does +not like it.”</p> + +<p>“And what right have you to balk her of her own way? Has she no right +to a mind of her own?”</p> + +<p>“She may of course have her mind, but she can’t have her way. She has +got a master.”</p> + +<p>“And what right have you to be her master?”</p> + +<p>“That my master, my Lord Lossie, gave me the charge of her.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t mean that sort of right; that goes for nothing. What right in +the nature of things can you have to tyrannize over any creature?”</p> + +<p>“None, my lady. But the higher nature has the right to rule the lower +in righteousness. Even you can’t have your own way always, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“I certainly cannot now, so long as you keep in that position. Pray, is +it in virtue of <i>your</i> being the higher nature that you keep <i>my</i> way +from <i>me</i>?”</p> + +<p>“No, my lady. But it is in virtue of right. If I wanted to take your +ladyship’s property, your dogs would be justified in refusing me my +way.—I do not think I exaggerate when I say that, if my mare here had +<i>her</i> way, there would not be a living creature about your house by +this day week.”</p> + +<p>Lady Clementina had never yet felt upon her the power of a stronger +nature than her own. She had had to yield to authority, but never to +superiority. Hence her self-will had been abnormally developed. Her +very compassion was self-willed. Now for the first time, she continuing +altogether unaware of it, the presence of such a nature began to +operate upon her. The calmness of Malcolm’s speech and the immovable +decision of his behaviour told.</p> + +<p>“But,” she said, more calmly, “your mare has had four long journeys, +and she should have rested to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Rest is just the one thing beyond her, my lady. There is a volcano of +life and strength in her you have no conception of. I could not have +dreamed of horse like her. She has never in her life had enough to do. +I believe that is the chief trouble with her. What we all want, my +lady, is a master—a real right master. I’ve got one myself; and—”</p> + +<p>“You mean you want one yourself,” said Lady Clementina. “You’ve only +got a mistress, and she spoils you.”</p> + +<p>“That is not what I meant, my lady,” returned Malcolm. “But one thing +I know, is that Kelpie would soon come to grief without me. I shall +keep her here till her half-hour is out, and then let her take another +gallop.”</p> + +<p>Lady Clementina turned away. She was defeated. Malcolm knelt there +on one knee, with a hand on the mare’s shoulder, so calm, so +imperturbable, so ridiculously full of argument, that there was nothing +more for her to do or say. Indignation, expostulation, were powerless +upon him as mist upon a rock. He was the oddest, most incomprehensible +of grooms.</p> + +<p>Going back to the house, she met Florimel, and turned again with her to +the scene of discipline. Ere they reached it, Florimel’s delight with +all around her had done something to restore Clementina’s composure: +the place was precious to her, for there she had passed nearly the +whole of her childhood. But to anyone with a heart open to the +expressions of Nature’s countenance, the place could not but have a +strange as well as peculiar charm.</p> + +<p>Florimel had lost her way. I would rather it had been in the moonlight, +but slant sunlight was next best. It shone through a slender multitude +of mast-like stems, whose shadows complicated the wonder, while the +light seemed amongst them to have gathered to itself properties +appreciable by other organs besides the eyes, and to dwell bodily +with the trees. The soil was mainly of sand, the soil to delight the +long tap-roots of the fir-trees, covered above with a thick layer of +slow-forming mould, in the gradual odoriferous decay of needles and +cones and flakes of bark and knots of resinous exudation. It grew +looser and sandier, and its upper coat thinner, as she approached +the shore. The trees shrunk in size, stood farther apart, and grew +more individual, sending out knarled boughs on all sides of them, and +asserting themselves as the tall slender branchless ones in the social +restraint of the thicker wood dared not do. They thinned and thinned, +and the sea and the shore came shining through, for the ground sloped +to the beach without any intervening abruption of cliff or even bank; +they thinned and thinned until all were gone, and the bare long yellow +sands lay stretched out on both sides for miles, gleaming and sparkling +in the sun, especially at one spot where the water of a little stream +wandered about over them, as if it had at length found its home, but +was too weary to enter and lose its weariness, and must wait for the +tide to come up and take it. But when Florimel reached the strand, she +could see nothing of the group she sought: the shore took a little +bend, and a tongue of forest came in between.</p> + +<p>She was on her way back to the house when she met Clementina, also +returning discomfited. Pleased as she was with them, her hostess soon +interrupted her ecstasies by breaking out in accusation of Malcolm, not +untempered, however, with a touch of dawning respect. At the same time +her report of his words was anything but accurate, for as no one can be +just without love, so no one can truly report without understanding. +But they had not time to discuss him now, as Clementina insisted on +Florimel’s putting an immediate stop to his cruelty.</p> + +<p>When they reached the spot, there was the groom again seated on his +animal’s head, with a new proposition in the sand before him.</p> + +<p>“Malcolm,” said his mistress, “let the mare get up. You must let her +off the rest of her punishment this time.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm rose again to his knee.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady,” he said. “But perhaps your ladyship wouldn’t mind +helping me to unbuckle her girths before she gets to her feet. I want +to give her a bath.—Come to this side,” he went on, as Florimel +advanced to his request, “—round here by her head. If your ladyship +would kneel upon it, that would be best. But you mustn’t move till I +tell you.”</p> + +<p>“I will do anything you bid me—exactly as you say, Malcolm,” responded +Florimel.</p> + +<p>“There’s the Colonsay blood! I can trust that!” cried Malcolm, with +a pardonable outbreak of pride in his family. Whether most of his +ancestors could so well have appreciated the courage of obedience, is +not very doubtful.</p> + +<p>Clementina was shocked at the insolent familiarity of her poor little +friend’s groom, but Florimel saw none, and kneeled, as if she had been +in church, on the head of the mare, with the fierce crater of her fiery +brain blazing at her knee. Then Malcolm lifted the flap of the saddle, +undid the buckles of the girths, and drawing them a little from under +her, laid the saddle on the sand, talking all the time to Florimel, +lest a sudden word might seem a direction, and she should rise before +the right moment had come.</p> + +<p>“Please, my lady Clementina, will you go to the edge of the wood. +I can’t tell what she may do when she gets up. And please, my lady +Florimel, will you run there too, the moment you get off her head.”</p> + +<p>When he got her rid of the saddle, he gathered the reins together in +his bridle hand, took his whip in the other, and softly and carefully +straddled across her huge barrel without touching her.</p> + +<p>“Now, my lady!” he said. “Run for the wood.”</p> + +<p>Florimel rose and fled, heard a great scrambling behind her, and +turning at the first tree, which was only a few yards off, saw Kelpie +on her hind legs, and Malcolm, whom she had lifted with her, sticking +by his knees on her bare back. The moment her fore feet touched the +ground, he gave her the spur severely, and after one plunging kick, +off they went westward over the sands, away from the sun; nor did they +turn before they had dwindled to such a speck that the ladies could not +have told by their eyes whether it was moving or not. At length they +saw it swerve a little; by and by it began to grow larger; and after +another moment or two they could distinguish what it was, tearing along +towards them like a whirlwind, the lumps of wet sand flying behind like +an upward storm of clods. What a picture it was!—only neither of the +ladies was calm enough to see it picturewise: the still sea before, +type of the infinite always, and now of its repose; the still straight +solemn wood behind, like a past world that had gone to sleep—out of +which the sand seemed to come flowing down, to settle in the long +sand-lake of the beach; that flameless furnace of life tearing along +the shore, betwixt the sea and the land, between time and eternity, +guided, but only half controlled, by the strength of a higher will; +and the two angels that had issued—whether out of the forest of the +past or the sea of the future, who could tell?—and now stood, with +hand-shaded eyes, gazing upon that fierce apparition of terrene life.</p> + +<p>As he came in front of them, Malcolm suddenly wheeled Kelpie, so +suddenly and in so sharp a curve that he made her “turne close to the +ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she wheeles about after a mouse,” +as Sir Philip Sidney says, and dashed her straight into the sea. The +two ladies gave a cry, Florimel of delight, Clementina of dismay, for +she knew the coast, and that there it shelved suddenly into deep water. +But that was only the better to Malcolm: it was the deep water he +sought, though he got it with a little pitch sooner than he expected. +He had often ridden Kelpie into the sea at Portlossie, even in the cold +autumn weather when first she came into his charge, and nothing pleased +her better or quieted her more. He was a heavy weight to swim with, but +she displaced much water. She carried her head bravely, he balanced +sideways, and they swam splendidly. To the eyes of Clementina the mare +seemed to be labouring for her life.</p> + +<p>When Malcolm thought she had had enough of it, he turned her head to +the shore. But then came the difficulty. So steeply did the shore +shelve that Kelpie could not get a hold with her hind hoofs to scramble +up into the shallow water. The ladies saw the struggle, and Clementina, +understanding it, was running in an agony right into the water, with +the vain idea of helping them, when Malcolm threw himself off, drawing +the reins over Kelpie’s head as he fell, and swimming but the length +of them shorewards, felt the ground with his feet, and stood, Kelpie, +relieved of his weight, floated a little farther on to the shelf, got +a better hold with her fore feet, some hold with her hind ones, and +was beside him in a moment. The same moment Malcolm was on her back +again, and they were tearing off eastward at full stretch. So far did +the lessening point recede in the narrowing distance, that the two +ladies sat down on the sand, and fell a-talking about Florimel’s most +uncategorical groom, as Clementina, herself the most uncategorical of +women, to use her own scarcely justifiable epithet, called him. She +asked if such persons abounded in Scotland. Florimel could but answer +that this was the only one she had met with. Then she told her about +Richmond Park and Lord Liftore and Epictetus.</p> + +<p>“Ah, that accounts for him!” said Clementina. “Epictetus was a Cynic, a +very cruel man: he broke his slave’s leg once, I remember.”</p> + +<p>“Mr Lenorme told me that <i>he</i> was the slave, and that his master broke +<i>his</i> leg,” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“Ah, yes! I daresay.—That <i>was</i> it. But it is of little consequence: +his principles were severe, and your groom has been his too ready +pupil. It is a pity he is such a savage: he might be quite an +interesting character.—Can he read?”</p> + +<p>“I have just told you of his reading Greek over Kelpie’s head,” said +Florimel, laughing.</p> + +<p>“Ah! but I meant English,” said Clementina, whose thoughts were a +little astray. Then laughing at herself she explained:—“I mean, can he +read aloud? I put the last of the Waverley novels in the box we shall +have to-morrow, or the next day at latest, I hope: and I was wondering +whether he could read the Scotch—as it ought to be read. I have never +heard it spoken, and I don’t know how to imagine it.”</p> + +<p>“We can try him,” said Florimel. “It will be great fun anyhow. He is +<i>such</i> a character! You will be <i>so</i> amused with the remarks he will +make!”</p> + +<p>“But can you venture to let him talk to you?”</p> + +<p>“If you ask him to read, how will you prevent him? Unfortunately he has +thoughts, and they <i>will</i> out.”</p> + +<p>“Is there no danger of his being rude?”</p> + +<p>“If speaking his mind about anything in the book be rudeness, he will +most likely be rude. Any other kind of rudeness is as impossible to +Malcolm as to any gentleman in the land.”</p> + +<p>“How can you be so sure of him?” said Clementina, a little anxious as +to the way in which her friend regarded the young man.</p> + +<p>“My father was—yes, I may say so—attached to him—so much so that +he—I can’t quite say what—but something like made him promise never +to leave my service. And this I know for myself, that not once, ever +since that man came to us, has he done a selfish thing or one to be +ashamed of. I could give you proof after proof of his devotion.”</p> + +<p>Florimel’s warmth did not reassure Clementina; and her uneasiness +wrought to the prejudice of Malcolm. She was never quite so generous +towards human beings as towards animals. She could not be depended on +for justice except to people in trouble, and then she was very apt to +be unjust to those who troubled them.</p> + +<p>“I would not have you place too much confidence in your Admirable +Crichton of menials, Florimel,” she said. “There is something about him +I cannot get at the bottom of. Depend upon it, a man who can be cruel +would betray on the least provocation.”</p> + +<p>Florimel smiled superior—as she had good reason to do; but Clementina +did not understand the smile, and therefore did not like it. She +feared the young fellow had already gained too much influence over his +mistress.</p> + +<p>“Florimel, my love,” she said, “listen to me. Your experience is not so +ripe as mine. That man is not what you think him. One day or other he +will, I fear, make himself worse than disagreeable. How <i>can</i> a cruel +man be unselfish?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think him cruel at all. But then I haven’t such a soft heart +for animals as you. We should think it silly in Scotland. You wouldn’t +teach a dog manners at the expense of a howl. You would let him be a +nuisance rather than give him a cut with a whip. What a nice mother of +children you will make, Clementina! That’s how the children of good +people are so often a disgrace to them.”</p> + +<p>“You are like all the rest of the Scotch I ever knew,” said Lady +Clementina: “the Scotch are always preaching! I believe it is in their +blood. You are a nation of parsons. Thank goodness! my morals go no +farther than doing as I would be done by. I want to see creatures happy +about me. For my own sake even, I would never cause pang to person—it +gives me such a pang myself.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the way you are made, I suppose, Clementina,” returned +Florimel. “For me, my clay must be coarser. I don’t mind a little pain +myself, and I can’t break my heart for it when I see it— except it +be very bad—such as I should care about myself.—But here comes the +tyrant.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm was pulling up his mare some hundred yards off. Even now she +was unwilling to stop—but it was at last only from pure original +objection to whatever was wanted of her. When she did stand she stood +stock still, breathing hard.</p> + +<p>“I have actually succeeded in taking a little out of her at last, my +lady,” said Malcolm as he dismounted. “Have you got a bit of sugar in +your pocket, my lady? She would take it quite gently now.”</p> + +<p>Florimel had none, but Clementina had, for she always carried sugar for +her horse. Malcolm held the demoness very watchfully, but she took the +sugar from Florimel’s palm as neatly as an elephant, and let her stroke +her nose over her wide red nostrils without showing the least of her +usual inclination to punish a liberty with death. Then Malcolm rode +her home, and she was at peace till the evening —when he took her out +again.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL.<br><span class="small">MOONLIGHT.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>And now followed a pleasant time. Wastbeach was the quietest of all +quiet neighbourhoods; it was the loveliest of spring-summer weather; +and the variety of scenery on moor, in woodland, and on coast, within +easy reach of such good horse-women, was wonderful. The first day they +rested the horses that would rest, but the next day were in the saddle +immediately after an early breakfast. They took the forest way. In many +directions were tolerably smooth rides cut, and along them they had +good gallops, to the great delight of Florimel after the restraints +of Rotten Row, where riding had seemed like dancing a minuet with a +waltz in her heart. Malcolm, so far as human companionship went, found +it dull, for Lady Clementina’s groom regarded him with the contempt +of superior age, the most contemptible contempt of all, seeing years +are not the wisdom they ought to bring, and the first sign of that is +modesty. Again and again his remarks tempted Malcolm to incite him to +ride Kelpie, but conscience, the thought of the man’s family, and the +remembrance that it required all his youthful strength, and that it +would therefore be the challenge of the strong to the weak, saved him +from the sin, and he schooled himself to the endurance of middle-aged +arrogance. For the learning of the lesson he had practice enough: they +rode every day, and Griffith did not thaw; but the one thundering +gallop he had every morning along the sands with Kelpie, whom<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> +no ordinary day’s work was enough to save from the heart-burning +ferment of repressed activity, was both preparation and amends for the +annoyance.</p> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> According to the grammars, I ought to have written +<i>which</i>, but it will not do. I could, I think, tell why, but prefer +leaving the question to the reader.</p> + +</div> + +<p>When his mistress mentioned the proposal of her friend with regard +to the new novel, he at once expressed his willingness to attempt +compliance, fearing only, he said, that his English would prove +offensive and his Scotch unintelligible. The task was nowise alarming +to him, for he had read aloud much to the schoolmaster, who had also +insisted that he should read aloud when alone, especially verse, +in order that he might get all the good of its outside as well as +inside—its sound as well as thought, the one being the ethereal body +of the other. And he had the best primary qualifications for the art, +namely, a delight in the sounds of human speech, a value for the true +embodiment of thought, and a good ear, mental as well as vocal, for the +assimilation of sound to sense. After these came the quite secondary, +yet valuable gift of a pleasant voice, manageable for reflection; and +with such an outfit, the peculiarities of his country’s utterance, the +long-drawn vowels, and the outbreak of feeling in chant-like tones +and modulations, might be forgiven, and certainly were forgiven by +Lady Clementina, who, even in his presence, took his part against the +objections of his mistress. On the whole, they were so much pleased +with his first reading, which took place the very day the box arrived, +that they concluded to restrain the curiosity of their interest in +persons and events, for the sake of the pleasure of meeting them always +in the final fulness of local colour afforded them by his utterance. +While he read, they busied their fingers with their embroidery; for +as yet that graceful work, so lovelily described by Cowper in his +<i>Task</i>, had not begun to vanish before the crude colours and mechanical +vulgarity of Berlin wool, now happily in its turn vanishing like a dry +dust-cloud into the limbo of the art universe:</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">The well-depicted flower,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Follow the nimble finger of the fair;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With most success when all besides decay.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></span><br> +</p> +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> “The Winter Evening.”</p> + +</div> + +<p>There was not much of a garden about the place, but there was a +little lawn amongst the pines, in the midst of which stood a huge old +patriarch, with red stem and grotesquely contorted branches: beneath +it was a bench, and there, after their return from their two hours’ +ride, the ladies sat, while the sun was at its warmest, on the mornings +of their first and second readings: Malcolm sat on a wheelbarrow. +After lunch on the second day, which they had agreed from the first, +as ladies so often do, when free of the more devouring sex, should be +their dinner, and after due visits paid to a multitude of animals, the +desire awoke simultaneously in them for another portion of “St Ronan’s +Well.” They resolved therefore to send for their reader as soon as they +had had tea. But when they sent he was nowhere to be found, and they +concluded on a stroll.</p> + +<p>Anticipating no further requirement of his service that day, Malcolm +had gone out. Drawn by the sea, he took his way through the dim solemn +boughless wood, as if to keep a moonlight tryst with his early love. +But the sun was not yet down, and among the dark trees, shot through +by the level radiance, he wandered, his heart swelling in his bosom +with the glory and the mystery. Again the sun was <i>in</i> the wood, its +burning centre, the marvel of the home which he left in the morning +only to return thither at night, and it was now a temple of red light, +more gorgeous, more dream-woven than the morning. How he glowed on the +red stems of the bare pines, fit pillars for that which seemed temple +and rite, organ and anthem in one—the worship of the earth, uplifted +to its Hyperion! It was a world of faery; anything might happen in it. +Who, in that region of marvel, would start to see suddenly a knight +on a great sober war-horse come slowly pacing down the torrent of +carmine splendour, flashing it, like the Knight of the Sun himself, in +a flood from every hollow, a gleam from every flat, and a star from +every round and knob of his armour? As the trees thinned away, and his +feet sank deeper in the looser sand, and the sea broke blue out of the +infinite, talking quietly to itself of its own solemn swell into being +out of the infinite thought unseen, Malcolm felt as if the world with +its loveliness and splendour were sinking behind him, and the cool +entrancing sweetness of the eternal dreamland of the soul, where the +dreams are more real than any sights of the world, were opening wide +before his entering feet.</p> + +<p>“Shall not death be like this?” he said, and threw himself upon the +sand, and hid his face and his eyes from it all. For there is this +strange thing about all glory embodied in the material, that, when the +passion of it rises to its height, we hurry from its presence that its +idea may perfect itself in silent and dark and deaf delight. Of its +material self we want no more: its real self we have, and it sits at +the fountain of our tears. Malcolm hid his face from the source of his +gladness, and worshipped the source of that source.</p> + +<p>Rare as they are at any given time, there have been, I think, such +youths in all ages of the world—youths capable of glorying in the +fountain whence issues the torrent of their youthful might. Nor is +the reality of their early worship blasted for us by any mistral of +doubt that may blow upon their spirit from the icy region of the +understanding. The cold fevers, the vital agues that such winds breed, +can but prove that not yet has the sun of the perfect arisen upon them; +that the Eternal has not yet manifested himself in all regions of +their being; that a grander, more obedient, therefore more blissful, +more absorbing worship yet, is possible, nay, is essential to them. +These chills are but the shivers of the divine nature, unsatisfied, +half-starved, banished from its home, divided from its origin, after +which it calls in groanings it knows not how to shape into sounds +articulate. They are the spirit-wail of the holy infant after the bosom +of its mother. Let no man long back to the bliss of his youth—but +forward to a bliss that shall swallow even that, and contain it, and be +more than it. Our history moves in cycles, it is true, ever returning +toward the point whence it started; but it is in the imperfect circles +of a spiral it moves; it returns—but ever to a point above the former: +even the second childhood, at which the fool jeers, is the better, the +truer, the fuller childhood, growing strong to cast off altogether, +with the husk of its own enveloping age, that of its family, its +country, its world as well. Age is not all decay: it is the ripening, +the swelling of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the husk.</p> + +<p>When Malcolm lifted his head, the sun had gone down. He rose and +wandered along the sand towards the moon—at length blooming out of +the darkening sky, where she had hung all day like a washed-out rag of +light, to revive as the sunlight faded. He watched the banished life of +her day-swoon returning, until, gathering courage, she that had been +no one, shone out fair and clear, in conscious queendom of the night. +Then, in the friendly infolding of her dreamlight and the dreamland it +created, Malcolm’s soul revived as in the comfort of the lesser, the +mitigated glory, and, as the moon into radiance from the darkened air, +and the nightingale into music from the sleep-stilled world of birds, +blossomed from the speechlessness of thought and feeling into a strange +kind of brooding song. If the words were half nonsense, the feeling was +not the less real. Such as they were, they came almost of themselves, +and the tune came with them.</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rose o’ my hert,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Open yer leaves to the lampin’ mune;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into the curls lat her keek an’ dert;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">She’ll tak the colour but gi’e ye tune.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Buik o’ my brain,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Open yer neuks to the starry signs;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lat the een o’ the holy luik an’ strain</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ glimmer an’ score atween the lines.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cup o’ my sowl,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Gowd an’ diamond an’ ruby cup,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye’re noucht ava but a toom dry bowl,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Till the wine o’ the kingdom fill ye up,</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Conscience-glass,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mirror the infinite all in thee;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Melt the bounded and make it pass</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Into the tideless, shoreless sea.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">World of my life,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Swing thee round thy sunny track;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fire and wind and water and strife—</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Carry them all to the glory back.</span><br> +</p> +<p>Ever as he halted for a word, the moonlight, and the low sweet waves +on the sands, filled up the pauses to his ear; and there he lay, +looking up to the sky and the moon and the rose-diamond stars, his +thoughts half-dissolved in feeling, and his feeling half-crystallised +to thought.</p> + +<p>Out of the dim wood came two lovely forms into the moonlight, and +softly approached him—so softly that he knew nothing of their +nearness until Florimel spoke.</p> + +<p>“Is that MacPhail?” she said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady,” answered Malcolm, and bounded to his feet</p> + +<p>“What were you singing?”</p> + +<p>“You could hardly call it singing, my lady. We should call it +crooning in Scotland.”</p> + +<p>“Croon it again then.”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t, my lady. It’s gone.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean to pretend that you were extemporising?”</p> + +<p>“I was crooning what came—like the birds, my lady. I couldn’t +have done it if I had thought anyone was near.”</p> + +<p>Then, half ashamed, and anxious to turn the talk from the threshold +of his secret chamber, he said, “Did you ever see a lovelier night, +ladies?”</p> + +<p>“Not often, certainly,” answered Clementina.</p> + +<p>She was not quite pleased and not altogether offended at his +addressing them dually. A curious sense of impropriety in the state +of things bewildered her—she and her friend talking thus, in +the moonlight, on the sea-shore, doing nothing, with her friend’s +groom—and such a groom, his mistress asking him to sing again, +and he addressing them both with a remark on the beauty of the +night! She had braved the world a good deal, but she did not choose +to brave it where nothing was to be had, and she was too honest to +say to herself that the world would never know—that there was +nothing to brave: she was not one to do that in secret to which she +would not hold her face. Yet all the time she had a doubt whether +this young man, whom it would certainly be improper to encourage +by addressing from any level but one of lofty superiority, did +not belong to a higher sphere than theirs; while certainly no man +could be more unpresuming, or less forward even when opposing his +opinion to theirs. Still—if an angel were to come down and take +charge of their horses, would ladies be justified in treating him +as other than a servant?</p> + +<p>“This is just the sort of night,” Malcolm resumed, “when I could +almost persuade myself I was not quite sure I wasn’t dreaming. It +makes a kind of border land betwixt waking and sleeping, knowing +and dreaming, in our brain. In a night like this I fancy we feel +something like the colour of what God feels when he is making the +lovely chaos of a new world, a new kind of world, such as has never +been before.”</p> + +<p>“I think we had better go in,” said Clementina to Florimel, and +turned away.</p> + +<p>Florimel made no objection, and they walked towards the wood.</p> + +<p>“You really must get rid of him as soon as you can,” said Clementina, +when again the moonless night of the pines had received them: “he +is certainly more than half a lunatic. It is almost full moon now,” +she added, looking up. “I have never seen him so bad.”</p> + +<p>Florimel’s clear laugh rang through the wood.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be alarmed, Clementina,” she said. “He has talked like that +ever since I knew him; and if he is mad, at least he is no worse +than he has always been. It is nothing but poetry—yeast on the +brain, my father used to say. We should have a fish-poet of him— +a new thing in the world, he said. He would never be cured till he +broke out in a book of poetry. I should be afraid my father would +break the catechism and not rest in his grave till the resurrection, +if I were to send Malcolm away.”</p> + +<p>For Malcolm, he was at first not a little mazed at the utter blankness +of the wall against which his words had dashed themselves. Then he +smiled queerly to himself, and said:</p> + +<p>“I used to think ilka bonny lassie bude to be a poetess—for hoo +sud she be bonnie but by the informin’ hermony o’ her bein’?—an’ +what’s that but the poetry o’ <i>the</i> Poet, the Makar, as they ca’d a +poet i’ the auld Scots tongue?—but haith! I ken better an’ waur +noo! There’s gane the twa bonniest <i>I</i> ever saw, an’ I s’ lay my heid +there’s mair poetry in auld man-faced Miss Horn nor in a dizzin +like them. Ech! but it’s some sair to bide. It’s sair upon a man to +see a bonny wuman ’at has nae poetry, nae inward lichtsome hermony +in her. But it’s dooms sairer yet to come upo’ ane wantin’ cowmon +sense! Saw onybody ever sic a gran’ sicht as my Leddy Clementina! +—an’ wha can say but she’s weel named frae the hert oot?—as +guid at the hert, I’ll sweir, as at the een! but eh me! to hear +the blether o’ nonsense ’at comes oot atween thae twa bonny yetts +o’ music—an’ a’ cause she winna gi’e her hert rist an’ time +eneuch to grow bigger, but maun aye be settin’ a’ things richt afore +their time, an’ her ain fitness for the job! It’s sic a faithless +kin’ o’ a w’y that! I could jist fancy I saw her gaein’ a’ roon’ +the trees o’ a simmer nicht, pittin’ hiney upo’ the peers an’ the +peaches, ’cause she cudna lippen to natur’ to ripe them sweet eneuch +—only ’at she wad never tak the hiney frae the bees. She’s jist +the pictur o’ Natur’ hersel’ turnt some dementit. I cud jist fancy +I saw her gaein’ aboot amo’ the ripe corn, on sic a nicht as this +o’ the mune, happin’ ’t frae the frost. An’ I s’ warran’ no ae +mesh in oor nets wad she lea’ ohn clippit open gien the twine had +a herrin’ by the gills. She’s e’en sae pitifu’ owre the sinner ’at +she winna gi’e him a chance o’ growin’ better. I won’er gien she +believes ’at there’s ae great thoucht abune a’, an’ aneth a’, an’ +roon’ a’, an’ in a’thing. She cudna be in sic a mist o’ benevolence +and parritch-hertitness gien she cud lippen till a wiser. It’s nae +won’er she kens naething aboot poetry but the meeserable sids an’ +sawdist an’ leavin’s the gran’ leddies sing an’ ca’ sangs! Nae mair +is ’t ony won’er she sud tak me for dementit, gien she h’ard what +I was singin’! only I canna think she did that, for I was but croonin’ +till mysel’.”—Malcolm was wrong there, for he was singing out +loud and clear.—“That was but a kin’ o’ an unknown tongue atween +Him an’ me an’ no anither.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLI">CHAPTER XLI.<br><span class="small">THE SWIFT.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Florimel succeeded so far in reassuring her friend as to the safety +if not sanity of her groom, that she made no objection to yet another +reading from “St Ronan’s Well”—upon which occasion an incident +occurred that did far more to reassure her than all the attestations of +his mistress.</p> + +<p>Clementina, in consenting, had proposed, it being a warm sunny +afternoon, that they should that time go down to the lake, and sit +with their work on the bank, while Malcolm read. This lake, like the +whole place, and some of the people in it, was rather strange —not +resembling any piece of water that Malcolm at least had ever seen. More +than a mile in length, but quite narrow, it lay on the sea-shore—a +lake of deep fresh water, with nothing between it and the sea but a +bank of sand, up which the great waves came rolling in south-westerly +winds, one now and then toppling over—to the disconcerting no doubt of +the pikey multitude within.</p> + +<p>The head only of the mere came into Clementina’s property, and they sat +on the landward side of it, on a sandy bank, among the half-exposed +roots of a few ancient firs, where a little stream that fed the lake +had made a small gully, and was now trotting over a bed of pebbles +in the bottom of it. Clementina was describing to Florimel the +peculiarities of the place, how there was no outlet to the lake, how +the water went filtering through the sand into the sea, how in some +parts it was very deep, and what large pike there were in it. Malcolm +sat a little aside as usual, with his face towards the ladies, and the +book open in his hand, waiting a sign to begin, but looking at the +lake, which here was some fifty yards broad, reedy at the edge, dark +and deep in the centre. All at once he sprang to his feet, dropping the +book, ran down to the brink of the water, undoing his buckled belt and +pulling off his coat as he ran, threw himself over the bordering reeds +into the pool, and disappeared with a great plash.</p> + +<p>Clementina gave a scream, and started up with distraction in her face: +she made no doubt that in the sudden ripeness of his insanity he had +committed suicide. But Florimel, though startled by her friend’s cry, +laughed, and crowded out assurances that Malcolm knew well enough what +he was about. It was longer, however, than she found pleasant, before +a black head appeared—yards away, for he had risen at a great slope, +swimming towards the other side. What <i>could</i> he be after? Near the +middle he swam more softly, and almost stopped. Then first they spied a +small dark object on the surface. Almost the same moment it rose into +the air. They thought Malcolm had flung it up. Instantly they perceived +that it was a bird—a swift. Somehow it had dropped into the water, but +a lift from Malcolm’s hand had restored it to the air of its bliss.</p> + +<p>But instead of turning and swimming back, Malcolm held on, and getting +out on the farther side, ran down the beach and rushed into the sea, +rousing once more the apprehensions of Clementina. The shore sloped +rapidly, and in a moment he was in deep water. He swam a few yards out, +swam ashore again, ran round the end of the lake, found his coat, and +got from it his pocket-handkerchief. Having therewith dried his hands +and face, he wrang out the sleeves of his shirt a little, put on his +coat, returned to his place, and said, as he took up the book and sat +down,</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, my ladies; but just as I heard my Lady Clementina +say <i>pikes</i>, I saw the little swift in the water. There was no time to +lose. Swiftie had but a poor chance.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he proceeded to find the place in the book.</p> + +<p>“You don’t imagine we are going to have you read in such a plight as +that!” cried Clementina.</p> + +<p>“I will take good care, my lady. I have books of my own, and I handle +them like babies.”</p> + +<p>“You foolish man! It is of you in your wet clothes, not of the book I +am thinking,” said Clementina indignantly.</p> + +<p>“I’m much obliged to you, my lady, but there’s no fear of me. You saw +me wash the fresh water out. Salt water never hurts.”</p> + +<p>“You must go and change nevertheless,” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>Malcolm looked to his mistress. She gave him a sign to obey, and he +rose. He had taken three steps towards the house when Clementina +recalled him.</p> + +<p>“One word, if you please,” she said. “How is it that a man who risks +his life for that of a little bird, can be so heartless to a great +noble creature like that horse of yours? I cannot understand it!”</p> + +<p>“My lady,” returned Malcolm with a smile, “I was no more risking my +life than you would be in taking a fly out of the milk-jug. And for +your question, if your ladyship will only think, you cannot fail to +see the difference. Indeed I explained my treatment of Kelpie to your +ladyship that first morning in the park, when you so kindly rebuked me +for it, but I don’t think your ladyship listened to a word I said.”</p> + +<p>Clementina’s face flushed, and she turned to her friend with a “Well!” +in her eyes. But Florimel kept her head bent over her embroidery; and +Malcolm, no further notice being taken of him walked away.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII.<br><span class="small">ST RONAN’S WELL.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The next day the reading was resumed, and for several days was +regularly continued. Each day, as their interest grew, longer time was +devoted to it. They were all simple enough to accept what the author +gave them, nor, had a critic of the time been present to instruct them +that in this last he had fallen off, would they have heeded him much: +for Malcolm, it was the first story by the Great Unknown he had seen. A +question however occurring, not of art but of morals, he was at once on +the alert. It arose when they reached that portion of the tale in which +the true heir to an earldom and its wealth offers to leave all in the +possession of the usurper, on the one condition of his ceasing to annoy +a certain lady, whom, by villainy of the worst, he had gained the power +of rendering unspeakably miserable. Naturally enough, at this point +Malcolm’s personal interest was suddenly excited: here were elements +strangely correspondent with the circumstances of his present position. +Tyrrel’s offer of acquiescence in things as they were, and abandonment +of his rights, which, in the story, is so amazing to the man of the +world to whom it is first propounded, drew an exclamation of delight +from both ladies—from Clementina because of its unselfishness, from +Florimel because of its devotion: neither of them was at any time ready +to raise a moral question, and least of all where the heart approved. +But Malcolm was interested after a different fashion from theirs. Often +during the reading he had made remarks and given explanations—not so +much to the annoyance of Lady Clementina as she had feared, for since +his rescue of the swift, she had been more favourably disposed towards +him, and had judged him a little more justly—not that she understood +him, but that the gulf between them had contracted. He paused a moment, +then said:</p> + +<p>“Do you think it was right, my ladies? Ought Mr Tyrrel to have made +such an offer?”</p> + +<p>“It was most generous of him,” said Clementina, not without indignation +—and with the tone of one whose answer should decide the question.</p> + +<p>“Splendidly generous,” replied Malcolm; “—but—I so well remember when +Mr Graham first made me see that the question of duty does not always +lie between a good thing and a bad thing: there would be no room for +casuistry then, he said. A man has very often to decide between one +good thing and another. But indeed I can hardly tell without more time +to think, whether that comes in here. If a man wants to be generous, it +must at least be at his own expense.”</p> + +<p>“But surely,” said Florimel, not in the least aware that she was +changing sides, “a man ought to hold by the rights that birth and +inheritance give him.”</p> + +<p>“That is by no means so clear, my lady,” returned Malcolm, “as you +seem to think. A man <i>may</i> be bound to hold by things that are his +rights, but certainly not because they are rights. One of the grandest +things in having rights is that, being your rights, you may give them +up—except, of course, they involve duties with the performance of +which the abnegation would interfere.”</p> + +<p>“I have been trying to think,” said Lady Clementina, “what can be the +two good things here to choose between.”</p> + +<p>“That is the right question, and logically put, my lady,” rejoined +Malcolm, who, from his early training, could not help sometimes putting +on the schoolmaster. “The two good things are—let me see—yes—on +the one hand the protection of the lady to whom he owed all possible +devotion of man to woman, and on the other what he owed to his tenants, +and perhaps to society in general—yes —as the owner of wealth and +position. There is generosity on the one side and dry duty on the +other.”</p> + +<p>“But this was no case of mere love to the lady, I think,” said +Clementina. “Did Mr Tyrrel not owe Miss Mowbray what reparation lay in +his power? Was it not his tempting of her to a secret marriage, while +yet she was nothing more than a girl, that brought the mischief upon +her?”</p> + +<p>“That is the point,” said Malcolm, “that makes the one difficulty. +Still, I do not see how there can be much of a question. He could have +no right to do fresh wrong for the mitigation of the consequences of +preceding wrong—to sacrifice others to atone for injuries done by +himself.”</p> + +<p>“Where would be the wrong to others?” said Florimel, now back to her +former position. “Why could it matter to tenants or society which of +the brothers happened to be an earl?”</p> + +<p>“Only this, that, in the one case, the landlord of his tenants, the +earl in society, would be an honourable man, in the other, a villain—a +difference which might have consequences.”</p> + +<p>“But,” said Lady Clementina, “is not generosity something more than +duty—something higher, something beyond it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Malcolm, “so long as it does not go against duty, but +keeps in the same direction, is in harmony with it. I doubt much, +though, whether, as we grow in what is good, we shall not come soon to +see that generosity is but our duty, and nothing very grand and beyond +it. But the man who chooses to be generous at the expense of justice, +even if he give up at the same time everything of his own, is but a +poor creature beside him who, for the sake of the right, will not only +consent to appear selfish in the eyes of men, but will go against his +own heart and the comfort of those dearest to him. The man who accepts +a crown <i>may be</i> more noble than he who lays one down and retires to +the desert. Of the worthies who do things by faith, some are sawn +asunder, and some subdue kingdoms. The look of the thing is nothing.”</p> + +<p>Florimel made a neat little yawn over her work. Clementina’s hands +rested a moment in her lap, and she looked thoughtful. But she resumed +her work, and said no more. Malcolm began to read again. Presently +Clementina interrupted him. She had not been listening.</p> + +<p>“Why should a man want to be better than his neighbours, any more than +to be richer?” she said, as if uttering her thoughts aloud.</p> + +<p>“Why, indeed,” responded Malcolm, “except he wants to become a +hypocrite?”</p> + +<p>“Then, why do you talk for duty against generosity?”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said Malcolm, for a moment perplexed. He did not at once catch +the relation of her ideas. “Does a man ever do his duty,” he rejoined +at length, “in order to be better than his neighbours.” If he does, he +won’t do it long. A man does his duty because he must. He has no choice +but do it.”</p> + +<p>“If a man has no choice, how is it that so many men choose to do +wrong?” asked Clementina.</p> + +<p>“In virtue of being slaves and stealing the choice,” replied Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“You are playing with words,” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>“If I am, at least I am not playing with things,” returned Malcolm. “If +you like it better, my lady, I will say that, in declaring he has no +choice, the man with all his soul chooses the good, recognizing it as +the very necessity of his nature.”</p> + +<p>“If I know in myself that I have a choice, all you say goes for +nothing,” persisted Clementina. “I am not at all sure I would not do +wrong for the sake of another. The more one preferred what was right, +the greater would be the sacrifice.”</p> + +<p>“If it was for the grandeur of it, my lady, that would be for the man’s +own sake, not his friend’s.”</p> + +<p>“Leave that out then,” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>“The more a man loved another—say a woman, as here in the story—then +it seems to me, the more willing would he be that she should continue +to suffer rather than cease by wrong. Think, my lady: the essence of +wrong is injustice: to help another by wrong is to do injustice to +somebody you do not know well enough to love for the sake of one you do +know well enough to love. What honest man could think of that twice? +The woman capable of accepting such a sacrifice would be contemptible.”</p> + +<p>“She need not know of it.”</p> + +<p>“He would know that she needed but to know of it to despise him.”</p> + +<p>“Then might it not be noble in him to consent for her sake to be +contemptible in her eyes?”</p> + +<p>“If no others were concerned. And then there would be no injustice, +therefore nothing wrong, and nothing contemptible.”</p> + +<p>“Might not what he did be wrong in the abstract, without having +reference to any person?”</p> + +<p>“There is no wrong man can do but is a thwarting of the living Right. +Surely you believe, my lady, that there is a living Power of right, +whose justice is the soul of our justice, who <i>will</i> have right done, +and causes even our own souls to take up arms against us when we do +wrong.”</p> + +<p>“In plain language, I suppose you mean—Do I believe in a God?”</p> + +<p>“That is what I mean, if by a God you mean a being who cares about us, +and loves justice—that is, fair play—one whom therefore we wrong to +the very heart when we do a thing that is not just.”</p> + +<p>“I would gladly believe in such a being, if things were so that I +could. As they are, I confess it seems to me the best thing to doubt +it. I do doubt it very much. How can I help doubting it, when I see so +much suffering, oppression, and cruelty in the world? If there were +such a being as you say, would he permit the horrible things we hear of +on every hand?”</p> + +<p>“I used to find that a difficulty. Indeed it troubled me sorely until +I came to understand things better. I remember Mr Graham saying once +something like this—I did not understand it for months after: ‘Every +kind-hearted person who thinks a great deal of being comfortable, and +takes prosperity to consist in being well-off, must be tempted to doubt +the existence of a God.—And perhaps it is well they should be so +tempted,’ he added.”</p> + +<p>“Why did he add that?”</p> + +<p>“I think because such are in danger of believing in an evil God. And +if men believed in an evil God, and had not the courage to defy him, +they must sink to the very depths of savagery. At least that is what I +ventured to suppose he meant.”</p> + +<p>Clementina opened her eyes wide, but said nothing. Religious people, +she found, could think as boldly as she.</p> + +<p>“I remember all about it so well!” Malcolm added, thoughtfully. “We had +been talking about the Prometheus of Æschylus—how he would not give in +to Jupiter.”</p> + +<p>“I am trying to understand,” said Clementina, and ceased—and a silence +fell which for a few moments Malcolm could not break. For suddenly he +felt as if he had fallen under the power of a spell. Something seemed +to radiate from her silence which invaded his consciousness. It was as +if the wind which dwells in the tree of life had waked in the twilight +of heaven, and blew upon his spirit. It was not that now first he saw +that she was beautiful; the moment his eyes fell upon her that morning +in the park, he saw her beautiful as he had never seen woman before. +Neither was it that now first he saw her good; even in that first +interview her heart had revealed itself to him as very lovely. But +the foolishness which flowed from her lips, noble and unselfish as it +was, had barred the way betwixt his feelings and her individuality as +effectually as if she had been the loveliest of Venuses lying uncarved +in the lunar marble of Carrara. There <i>are</i> men to whom silliness is +an absolute freezing mixture; to whose hearts a plain, sensible woman +at once appeals as a woman, while no amount of beauty can serve as +sweet oblivious antidote to counteract the nausea produced by folly. +Malcolm had found Clementina irritating, and the more irritating +that she was so beautiful. But at the first sound from her lips that +indicated genuine and truthful thought, the atmosphere had begun to +change; and at the first troubled gleam in her eyes, revealing that she +pursued some dim-seen thing of the world of reality, a nameless potency +throbbed into the spiritual space betwixt her and him, and embraced +them in an aether of entrancing relation. All that had been needed to +awake love to her was, that her soul, her self, should look out of its +windows—and now he had caught a glimpse of it. Not all her beauty, +not all her heart, not all her courage, could draw him while she would +ride only a hobby-horse, however tight its skin might be stuffed with +emotions. But now who could tell how soon she might be charging in the +front line of the Amazons of the Lord—on as real a horse as any in the +heavenly army? For was she not thinking—the rarest human operation in +the world?</p> + +<p>“I will try to speak a little more clearly, my lady,” said Malcolm. “If +ease and comfort, and the pleasures of animal and intellectual being, +were the best things to be had, as they are the only things most people +desire, then that maker who did not care that his creatures should +possess or were deprived of such, could not be a good God. But if the +need with the lack of such things should be the means, the only means, +of their gaining something in its very nature so much better that——”</p> + +<p>“But,” interrupted Clementina, “if they don’t care about anything +better—if they are content as they are?”</p> + +<p>“Should he then who called them into existence be limited in his +further intents for the perfecting of their creation, by their notions +concerning themselves who cannot add to their life one cubit?—such +notions being often consciously dishonest? If he knows them worthless +without something that he can give, shall he withhold his hand because +they do not care that he should stretch it forth? Should a child not be +taught to ride because he is content to run on foot?”</p> + +<p>“But the means, according to your own theory, are so frightful!” said +Clementina.</p> + +<p>“But suppose he knows that the barest beginnings of the good he intends +them would not merely reconcile them to those means, but cause them +to choose his will at any expense of suffering! I tell you, Lady +Clementina,” continued Malcolm, rising, and approaching her a step or +two, “if I had not the hope of one day being good like God himself, +if I thought there was no escape out of the wrong and badness I feel +within me and know I am not able to rid myself of without supreme help, +not all the wealth and honours of the world could reconcile me to life.”</p> + +<p>“You do not know what you are talking of,” said Clementina, coldly and +softly, without lifting her head.</p> + +<p>“I do,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“You mean you would kill yourself but for your belief in God?”</p> + +<p>“By life, I meant <i>being</i>, my lady. If there were no God, I dared +not kill myself, lest worse should be waiting me in the awful voids +beyond. If there be a God, living or dying is all one—so it be what he +pleases.”</p> + +<p>“I have read of saints,” said Clementina, with cool dissatisfaction in +her tone, “uttering such sentiments,”——“<i>Sentiments!</i>” said Malcolm +to himself——“—and I do not doubt such were felt or at least imagined +by them; but I fail to understand how, even supposing these things +true, a young man like yourself should, in the midst of a busy world, +and with an occupation which, to say the least,——”</p> + + +<p>Here she paused. After a moment Malcolm ventured to help her.</p> + +<p>“Is so far from an ideal one—would you say, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“Something like that,” answered Clementina, and concluded,—“I wonder +how <i>you</i> can have arrived at such ideas.”</p> + +<p>“There is nothing wonderful in it, my lady,” returned Malcolm. “Why +should not a youth, a boy, a child—for as a child I thought about what +the kingdom of heaven could mean—desire with all his might that his +heart and mind should be clean, his will strong, his thoughts just, his +head clear, his soul dwelling in the place of life? Why should I not +desire that my life should be a complete thing, and an outgoing of life +to my neighbour? Some people are content not to do mean actions: I want +to become incapable of a mean thought or feeling; and so I shall be +before all is done.”</p> + +<p>“Still, how did you come to begin so much earlier than others?”</p> + +<p>“All I know as to that, my lady, is that I had the best man in the +world to teach me.”</p> + +<p>“And why did not I have such a man to teach me? I could have learned of +such a man too.”</p> + +<p>“If you are able now, my lady, it does not follow that it would have +been the best thing for you sooner. Some children learn far better for +not being begun early, and will get before others who have been at it +for years. As you grow ready for it, somewhere or other you will find +what is needful for you—in a book, or a friend, or, best of all in +your own thoughts—the eternal thought speaking in your thought.”</p> + +<p>It flashed through her mind, “Can it be that I have found it now —on +the lips of a groom?”</p> + +<p>Was it her own spirit or another that laughed strangely within her?</p> + +<p>“Well, as you seem to know so much better than other people,” she said, +“I want you to explain to me how the God in whom you profess to believe +can make use of such cruelties. It seems to me more like the revelling +of a demon.”</p> + +<p>“My lady!” remonstrated Malcolm, “I never pretended to explain. All +I say is, that, if I had reason for hoping there was a God, and if +I found, from my own experience and the testimony of others, that +suffering led to valued good, I should think, hope, expect to find that +he caused suffering for reasons of the highest, purest and kindest +import, such as when understood must be absolutely satisfactory to the +sufferers themselves. If a man cannot believe that, and if he thinks +the pain the worst evil of all, then of course he cannot believe there +is a good God. Still, even then, if he would lay claim to being a lover +of truth, he ought to give the idea—the mere <i>idea</i> of God fair play, +lest there should be a good God after all, and he all his life doing +him the injustice of refusing him his trust and obedience.”</p> + +<p>“And how are we to give the mere idea of him fair play?” asked +Clementina, rather contemptuously. But I think she was fighting +emotion, confused and troublesome.</p> + +<p>“By looking to the heart of whatever claims to be a revelation of him.”</p> + +<p>“It would take a lifetime to read the half of such.”</p> + +<p>“I will correct myself, and say—whatever of the sort has best claims +on <i>your</i> regard—whatever any person you look upon as good, believes +and would have you believe—at the same time doing diligently what you +<i>know</i> to be right; for, if there be a God, that must be his will, and, +if there be not, it remains our duty.”</p> + +<p>All this time, Florimel was working away at her embroidery, a little +smile of satisfaction flickering on her face. She was pleased to hear +her clever friend talking so with her strange vassal. As to what they +were saying, she had no doubt it was all right, but to her it was not +interesting. She was mildly debating with herself whether she should +tell her friend about Lenorme.</p> + +<p>Clementina’s work now lay on her lap and her hands on her work, while +her eyes at one time gazed on the grass at her feet, at another +searched Malcolm’s face with a troubled look. The light of Malcolm’s +candle was beginning to penetrate into her dusky room, the power of +his faith to tell upon the weakness of her unbelief. There is no +strength in unbelief. Even the unbelief of what is false is no source +of might. It is the truth shining from behind that gives the strength +to disbelieve. But into the house where the refusal of the bad is +followed by no embracing of the good— the house empty and swept and +garnished—the bad will return, bringing with it seven evils that are +worse.</p> + +<p>If something of that sacred mystery, holy in the heart of the Father, +which draws together the souls of man and woman, was at work between +them, let those scoff at the mingling of love and religion who know +nothing of either; but man or woman who, loving woman or man, has +never in that love lifted the heart to the Father, and everyone +whose divine love has not yet cast at least an arm round the human +love, must take heed what they think of themselves, for they are yet +but paddlers in the tide of the eternal ocean. Love is a lifting no +less than a swelling of the heart. What changes, what metamorphoses, +transformations, purifications, glorifications, this or that love must +undergo ere it take its eternal place in the kingdom of heaven, through +all its changes yet remaining, in its one essential root, the same, let +the coming redemption reveal. The hope of all honest lovers will lead +them to the vision. Only let them remember that love must dwell in the +will as well as in the heart.</p> + +<p>But whatever the nature of Malcolm’s influence upon Lady Clementina, +she resented it, thinking towards and speaking to him repellently. +Something in her did not like him. She knew he did not approve of her, +and she did not like being disapproved of. Neither did she approve of +him. He was pedantic—and far too good for an honest and brave youth: +not that she could say she had seen dishonesty or cowardice in him, +or that she could have told which vice she would prefer to season his +goodness withal, and bring him to the level of her ideal. And then, +for all her theories of equality, he was a groom—therefore to a lady +ought to be repulsive—at least when she found him intruding into the +chambers of her thoughts —personally intruding—yes, and met there +by some traitorous feelings whose behaviour she could not understand. +She resented it all, and felt towards Malcolm as if he were guilty of +forcing himself into the sacred presence of her bosom’s queen—whereas +it was his angel that did so, his Idea, over which he had no control. +Clementina would have turned that Idea out, and when she found she +could not, her soul started up wrathful, in maidenly disgust with her +heart, and cast resentment upon everything in him whereon it would +hang. She had not yet, however, come to ask herself any questions; she +had only begun to fear that a woman to whom a person from the stables +could be interesting, even in the form of an unexplained riddle, +must be herself a person of low tastes; and that, for all her pride +in coming of honest people, there must be a drop of bad blood in her +somewhere.</p> + +<p>For a time her eyes had been fixed on her work, and there had been +silence in the little group.</p> + +<p>“My lady!” said Malcolm, and drew a step nearer to Clementina.</p> + +<p>She looked up. How lovely she was with the trouble in her eyes! Thought +Malcolm, “If only she were what she might be! If the form were but +filled with the spirit! the body with life!”</p> + +<p>“My lady!” he repeated, just a little embarrassed, “I should like +to tell you one thing that came to me only lately—came to me when +thinking over the hard words you spoke to me that day in the park. But +it is something so awful that I dare not speak of it except you will +make your heart solemn to hear it.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, with his eyes questioning hers. Clementina’s first thought +once more was madness, but as she steadily returned his look, her face +grew pale, and she gently bowed her head in consent.</p> + +<p>“I will try then,” said Malcolm. “—Everybody knows what few think +about, that once there lived a man who, in the broad face of prejudiced +respectability, truth-hating hypocrisy, common-place religion, and +dull book-learning, affirmed that he knew the secret of life, and +understood the heart and history of men—who wept over their sorrows, +yet worshipped the God of the whole earth, saying that he had known him +from eternal days. The same said that he came to do what the Father +did, and that he did nothing but what he had learned of the Father. +They killed him, you know, my lady, in a terrible way that one is +afraid even to think of. But he insisted that he laid down his life; +that he allowed them to take it. Now I ask whether that grandest thing, +crowning his life, the yielding of it to the hand of violence, he had +not learned also from his Father. Was his death the only thing he had +not so learned? If I am right, and I do not say <i>if</i> in doubt, then the +suffering of those three terrible hours was a type of the suffering of +the Father himself in bringing sons and daughters through the cleansing +and glorifying fires, without which the created cannot be made the very +children of God, partakers of the divine nature and peace. Then from +the lowest, weakest tone of suffering, up to the loftiest pitch, the +divinest acme of pain, there is not one pang to which the sensorium of +the universe does not respond; never an untuneful vibration of nerve +or spirit but thrills beyond the brain or the heart of the sufferer to +the brain, the heart of the universe; and God, in the simplest, most +literal, fullest sense, and not by sympathy alone, suffers <i>with</i> his +creatures.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but he is able to bear it; they are not: I cannot bring myself +to see the right of it.”</p> + +<p>“Nor will you, my lady, so long as you cannot bring yourself to see +the good they get by it.—My lady, when I was trying my best with poor +Kelpie, you would not listen to me.”</p> + +<p>“You are ungenerous,” said Clementina, flushing.</p> + +<p>“My lady,” persisted Malcolm, “you would not understand me. You +denied me a heart because of what seemed in your eyes cruelty. I +knew that I was saving her from death at the least, probably from a +life of torture: God may be good, though to you his government may +seem to deny it. There is but one way God cares to govern—the way +of the Father-king—and that way is at hand.—But I have yet given +you only the one half of my theory: If God feels pain, then he puts +forth his will to bear and subject that pain; if the pain comes to +him from his creature, living in him, will the endurance of God be +confined to himself, and not, in its turn, pass beyond the bounds of +his individuality, and react upon the sufferer to his sustaining? I +do not mean that sustaining which a man feels from knowing his will +one with God’s and God <i>with</i> him, but such sustaining as those his +creatures also may have who do not or cannot know whence the sustaining +comes. I believe that the endurance of God goes forth to uphold, that +his patience is strength to his creatures, and that, while the whole +creation may well groan, its suffering is more bearable therefore than +it seems to the repugnance of our regard.”</p> + +<p>“That is a dangerous doctrine,” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Will it then make the cruel man more cruel to be told that God is +caring for the tortured creature from the citadel of whose life he +would force an answer to save his own from the sphinx that must at last +devour him, let him answer ever so wisely? Or will it make the tender +less pitiful to be consoled a little in the agony of beholding what +they cannot alleviate? Many hearts are from sympathy as sorely in need +of comfort as those with whom they suffer. And to such I have one word +more—to your heart, my lady, if it will consent to be consoled: The +animals, I believe, suffer less than we, because they scarcely think of +the past, and not at all of the future. It is the same with children, +Mr Graham says; they suffer less than grown people, and for the same +reason. To get back something of this privilege of theirs, we have to +be obedient and take no thought for the morrow.”</p> + +<p>Clementina took up her work. Malcolm walked away.</p> + +<p>“Malcolm,” cried his mistress, “are you not going on with the book?”</p> + +<p>“I hope your ladyship will excuse me,” said Malcolm. “I would rather +not read more just at present.”</p> + +<p>It may seem incredible that one so young as Malcolm should have been +able to talk thus, and indeed my report may have given words more +formal and systematic than his really were. For the <i>matter</i> of them, +it must be remembered that he was not young in the effort to do and +understand; and that the advantage to such a pupil of such a teacher as +Mr Graham is illimitable.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII.<br><span class="small">A PERPLEXITY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>After Malcolm’s departure, Clementina attempted to find what Florimel +thought of the things her strange groom had been saying: she found +only that she neither thought at all about them, nor had a single true +notion concerning the matter of their conversation. Seeking to interest +her in it and failing, she found however that she had greatly deepened +its impression upon herself.</p> + +<p>Florimel had not yet quite made up her mind whether or not she should +open her heart to Clementina, but she approached the door of it in +requesting her opinion upon the matter of marriage between persons of +social conditions widely parted—“frightfully sundered,” she said. Now +Clementina was a radical of her day, a reformer, a leveller—one who +complained bitterly that some should be so rich, and some so poor. In +this she was perfectly honest. Her own wealth, from a vague sense of +unrighteousness in the possession of it, was such a burden to her, +that she threw it away where often it made other people stumble if +not fall. She professed to regard all men as equal, and believed that +she did so. She was powerful in her contempt of the distinctions made +between certain of the classes, but had signally failed in some bold +endeavours to act as if they had no existence except in the whims +of society. As yet no man had sought her nearer regard for whom she +would deign to cherish even friendship. As to marriage, she professed, +right honestly, an entire disinclination, even aversion to it, saying +to herself that if ever she should marry it must be, for the sake of +protest and example, one notably beneath her in social condition. He +must be a gentleman, but his claims to that rare distinction should lie +only in himself, not his position—in what he was, not what he had. But +it is one thing to have opinions, and another to be called upon to show +them beliefs; it is one thing to declare all men equal, and another to +tell the girl who looks up to you for advice, that she ought to feel +herself at perfect liberty to marry—say a groom; and when Florimel +proposed the general question, Clementina might well have hesitated. +And indeed she did hesitate—but in vain she tried to persuade herself +that it was solely for the sake of her young and inexperienced friend +that she did so. As little could she honestly say that it was from +doubt of the principles she had so long advocated. Had Florimel been +open with her, and told her what sort of inferior was in her thoughts, +instead of representing the gulf between them as big enough to swallow +the city of Rome; had she told her that he was a gentleman, a man of +genius and gifts, noble and large-hearted, and indeed better-bred than +any other man she knew, the fact of his profession would only have +clenched Lady Clementina’s decision in his favour; and if Florimel had +been honest enough to confess the encouragement she had given him—nay, +the absolute love-passages there had been, Clementina would at once +have insisted that her friend should write an apology for her behaviour +to him, should dare the dastard world, and offer to marry him when +he would. But, Florimel putting the question as she did, how should +Clementina imagine anything other than that it referred to Malcolm? +and a strange confusion of feeling was the consequence. Her thoughts +heaved in her like the half-shaped monsters of a spiritual chaos, and +amongst them was one she could not at all identify. A direct answer +she found impossible. She found also that in presence of Florimel, so +much younger than herself, and looking up to her for advice, she dared +not even let the questions now pressing for entrance appear before her +consciousness. She therefore declined giving an answer of any sort—was +not prepared with one, she said; much was to be considered; no two +cases were just alike.</p> + +<p>They were summoned to tea, after which she retired to her room, shut +the door, and began to think—an operation which, seldom easy if worth +anything, was in the present case peculiarly difficult, both because +Clementina was not used to it, and the subject-object of it was +herself. I suspect that self-examination is seldom the most profitable, +certainly it is sometimes the most unpleasant, and always the most +difficult of moral actions—that is, to perform after a genuine +fashion. I know that very little of what passes for it has the remotest +claim to reality; and I will not say it has never to be done; but I am +certain that a good deal of the energy spent by some devout and upright +people on trying to understand themselves and their own motives, would +be expended to better purpose, and with far fuller attainment even in +regard to that object itself, in the endeavour to understand God, and +what he would have us to do.</p> + +<p>Lady Clementina’s attempt was as honest as she dared make it. It went +something after this fashion:</p> + +<p>“How is it possible I should counsel a young creature like that, with +all her gifts and privileges, to marry a groom—to bring the stable +into her chamber? If I did—if she did, has she the strength to hold +her face to it?—Yes, I know how different he is from any other groom +that ever rode behind a lady! but does she understand him? Is she +capable of such a regard for him as could outlast a week of closer +intimacy? At her age it is impossible she should know what she was +doing in daring such a thing. It would be absolute ruin to her. And how +could I advise her to do what I could not do myself?—But then if she’s +in love with him?”</p> + +<p>She rose and paced the room—not hurriedly—she never did anything +hurriedly—but yet with unleisurely steps, until, catching sight +of herself in the glass, she turned away as from an intruding and +unwelcome presence, and threw herself on her couch, burying her face +in the pillow. Presently, however, she rose again, her face glowing, +and again walked up and down the room—almost swiftly now. I can but +indicate the course of her thoughts.</p> + +<p>“If what he says be true!—It opens another and higher life. —What +a man he is! and so young!—Has he not convicted me of feebleness +and folly, and made me ashamed of myself?—What better thing could +man or woman do for another than lower her in her own haughty eyes, +and give her a chance of becoming such as she had but dreamed of the +shadow of?—He is a gentleman—every inch! Hear him talk!—Scotch, no +doubt,—and—well—a <i>little</i> long-winded—a bad fault at his age! +But see him ride!—see him swim!—and to save a bird!—But then he is +hard—severe at best! All religious people are so severe! They think +they are safe themselves, and so can afford to be hard on others! He +would serve his wife the same as his mare if he thought she required +it!—And I <i>have</i> known women for whom it might be the best thing. I am +a fool! a soft-hearted idiot! He told me I would give a baby a lighted +candle if it cried for it.—Or didn’t he? I believe he never uttered a +word of the sort; he only thought it.”—As she said this, there came +a strange light in her eyes, and the light seemed to shine from all +around them as well as from the orbs themselves.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she stood still as a statue in the middle of the room, and +her face grew white as the marble of one. For a minute she stood +thus—without a definite thought in her brain. The first that came +was something like this: “Then Florimel <i>does</i> love him!—and wants +help to decide whether she shall marry him or not! Poor weak little +wretch!—Then if I were in love with him, I would marry him—would +I?—It is well, perhaps, that I’m not!—But she! he is ten times too +good for her! He would be utterly thrown away on her! But I am <i>her</i> +counsel, not his; and what better could come to her than have such +a man for a husband; and instead of that contemptible Liftore, with +his grand earldom ways and proud nose! He has little to be proud of +that must take to his rank for it! Fancy a right man condescending to +be proud of his own rank! Pooh! But this groom is a man! all a man! +grand from the centre out, as the great God made him!—Yes, it must +be a great God that made such a man as that!—that is, if he <i>is</i> the +same he looks—the same all through!—Perhaps there are more Gods than +one, and one of them is the devil, and made Liftore! But am I bound to +give her advice? Surely not! I may refuse. And rightly too! A woman +that marries from advice, instead of from a mighty love, is wrong. I +need <i>not</i> speak. I shall just tell her to consult her own heart— and +conscience, and follow them.—But, gracious me! Am <i>I</i> then going to +fall in love with the fellow?—this stable-man who pretends to know his +maker! Certainly not. There is <i>nothing</i> of the kind in my thoughts. +Besides, how should <i>I</i> know what falling in love means? I never was in +love in my life, and don’t mean to be. If I were so foolish as imagine +myself in any danger, would I be such a fool as be caught in it? I +should think not indeed! What if I <i>do</i> think of this man in a way I +never thought of anyone before, is there anything odd in that? How +should I help it when he is unlike anyone I ever saw before? One must +think of people as one finds them. Does it follow that I have power +over myself no longer, and must go where any chance feeling may choose +to lead me?”</p> + +<p>Here came a pause. Then she started, and once more began walking up and +down the room, now hurriedly indeed.</p> + +<p>“I will <i>not</i> have it!” she cried aloud—and checked herself, dashed at +the sound of her own voice. But her soul went on loud enough for the +thought-universe to hear. “There <i>can’t</i> be a God, or he would never +subject his women to what they don’t choose. If a God had made them, +he would have them queens over themselves at least— and I <i>will</i> be +queen, and then perhaps a God did make me. A slave to things inside +myself!—thoughts and feelings I refuse, and which I <i>ought</i> to have +control over! I don’t want this in me, yet I can’t drive it out! I +<i>will</i> drive it out. It is not me. A slave on my own ground! worst +slavery of all!—It will not go.—That must be because I do not will +it strong enough. And if I don’t <i>will</i> it —my God!—what does that +mean?—That I am a slave already?”</p> + +<p>Again she threw herself on her couch, but only to rise and yet again +pace the room.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense! it is <i>not</i> love. It is merely that nobody could help +thinking about one who had been so much before her mind for so long +—one too who had made her think. Ah! there, I do believe, lies the +real secret of it all!—There’s the main cause of my trouble —and +nothing worse! I must not be foolhardy though, and remain in danger, +especially as, for anything I can tell, he may be in love with that +foolish child. People, they say, like people that are not at all like +themselves. Then I am sure he might like me!—She <i>seems</i> to be in love +with him! I know she cannot be half a quarter in real love with him: +it’s not in her.”</p> + +<p>She did not rejoin Florimel that evening: it was part of the +understanding between the ladies that each should be at absolute +liberty. She slept little during the night, starting awake as often +as she began to slumber, and before the morning came was a good deal +humbled. All sorts of means are kept at work to make the children +obedient and simple and noble. Joy and sorrow are servants in God’s +nursery; pain and delight, ecstasy and despair minister in it; but +amongst them there is none more marvellous in its potency than that +mingling of all pains and pleasures to which we specially give the name +of Love.</p> + +<p>When she appeared at breakfast, her countenance bore traces of her +suffering, but a headache, real enough, though little heeded in the +commotion upon whose surface it floated, gave answer to the not very +sympathetic solicitude of Florimel. Happily the day of their return +was near at hand. Some talk there had been of protracting their stay, +but to that Clementina avoided any farther allusion. She must put an +end to an intercourse which she was compelled to admit was, at least, +in danger of becoming dangerous. This much she had with certainty +discovered concerning her own feelings, that her heart grew hot and +cold at the thought of the young man belonging more to the mistress who +could not understand him than to herself who imagined she could; and it +wanted no experience in love to see that it was therefore time to be on +her guard against herself, for to herself she was growing perilous.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV.<br><span class="small">THE MIND OF THE AUTHOR.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The next was the last day of the reading. They must finish the tale +that morning, and on the following set out to return home, travelling +as they had come. Clementina had not the strength of mind to deny +herself that last indulgence—a long four days’ ride in the company of +this strangest of attendants. After that, if not the deluge, yet a few +miles of Sahara.</p> + +<p>“‘It is the opinion of many that he has entered into a Moravian +mission, for the use of which he had previously drawn considerable +sums,’” read Malcolm, and paused, with book half closed.</p> + +<p>“Is that all?” asked Florimel.</p> + +<p>“Not quite, my lady,” he answered. “There isn’t much more, but I was +just thinking whether we hadn’t come upon something worth a little +reflection—whether we haven’t here a window into the mind of the +author of Waverley, whoever he may be, Mr Scott, or another.”</p> + +<p>“You mean?” said Clementina, interrogatively, and looked up from her +work, but not at the speaker.</p> + +<p>“I mean, my lady, that perhaps we here get a glimpse of the author’s +own opinions, or feelings rather, perhaps.”</p> + +<p>“I do not see what of the sort you can find there,” returned Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Neither should I, my lady, if Mr Graham had not taught me how to find +Shakspere in his plays. A man’s own nature, he used to say, must lie +at the heart of what he does, even though not another man should be +sharp enough to find him there. Not a hypocrite, the most consummate, +he would say, but has his hypocrisy written in every line of his +countenance and motion of his fingers. The heavenly Lavaters can read +it, though the earthly may not be able.”</p> + +<p>“And you think you can find him out?” said Clementina, dryly.</p> + +<p>“Not the hypocrite, my lady, but Mr Scott here. He is only round a +single corner. And one thing is—he believes in a God.”</p> + +<p>“How do you make that out?”</p> + +<p>“He means this Mr Tyrrel for a fine fellow, and on the whole approves +of him—does he not, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly.”</p> + +<p>“Of course all that duelling is wrong. But then Mr Scott only half +disapproves of it.—And it is almost a pity it is wrong,” remarked +Malcolm with a laugh; “it is such an easy way of settling some +difficult things. Yet I hate it. It’s so cowardly. I may be a better +shot than the other, and know it all the time. He may know it too, +and have twice my courage. And I may think him in the wrong, when he +<i>knows</i> himself in the right.—There <i>is</i> one man I have felt as if I +should like to kill. When I was a boy I killed the cats that ate my +pigeons.”</p> + +<p>A look of horror almost distorted Lady Clementina’s countenance.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what to say next, my lady,” he went on, with a smile, +“because I have no way of telling whether you looked shocked for the +cats I killed, or the pigeons they killed, or the man I would rather +see killed than have him devour more of my—white doves,” he concluded +sadly, with a little shake of the head.—“But, please God,” he resumed, +“I shall manage to keep them from him, and let him live to be as old as +Methuselah if he can, even if he should grow in cunning and wickedness +all the time. I wonder how he will feel when he comes to see what a +sneaking cat he is. But this is not what we set out for.—Mr Tyrrel, +then, the author’s hero, joins the Moravians at last.”</p> + +<p>“What are they?” questioned Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Simple, good, practical Christians, I believe,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“But he only does it when disappointed in love.”</p> + +<p>“No, my lady; he is not disappointed. The lady is only dead.”</p> + +<p>Clementina stared a moment—then dropped her head as if she understood. +Presently she raised it again and said,</p> + +<p>“But, according to what you said the other day, in doing so he was +forsaking altogether the duties of the station in which God had called +him.”</p> + +<p>“That is true. It would have been a far grander thing to do his duty +where he was, than to find another place and another duty. An earldom +allotted is better than a mission preferred.”</p> + +<p>“And at least you must confess,” interrupted Clementina, “that he only +took to religion because he was unhappy.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, my lady, it is the nobler thing to seek God in the days of +gladness, to look up to him in trustful bliss when the sun is shining. +But if a man be miserable, if the storm is coming down on him, what is +he to do? There is nothing mean in seeking God then, though it would +have been nobler to seek him before.—But to return to the matter +in hand: the author of Waverley makes his noble-hearted hero, whom +assuredly he had no intention of disgracing, turn Moravian; and my +conclusion from it is that, in his judgment, nobleness leads in the +direction of religion; that he considers it natural for a noble mind to +seek comfort there for its deepest sorrows.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it may be so; but what is religion without consistency in +action?” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Then how can you, professing to believe as you do, cherish such +feelings towards any man as you have just been confessing?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t cherish them, my lady. But I succeed in avoiding hate better +than suppressing contempt, which perhaps is the worse of the two. There +may be some respect in hate.”</p> + +<p>Here he paused, for here was a chance that was not likely to recur. +He might say before two ladies what he could not say before one. If +he could but rouse Florimel’s indignation! Then at any suitable time +only a word more would be needful to direct it upon the villain. +Clementina’s eyes continued fixed upon him. At length he spoke.</p> + +<p>“I will try to make two pictures in your mind, my lady, if you will +help me to paint them. In <i>my</i> mind they are not <i>painted</i> pictures. +—A long sea-coast, my lady, and a stormy night;—the sea-horses +rushing in from the north-east, and the snow-flakes beginning to fall. +On the margin of the sea a long dune or sand-bank, and on the top of +it, her head bare, and her thin cotton dress nearly torn from her by +the wind, a young woman, worn and white, with an old faded tartan shawl +tight about her shoulders, and the shape of a baby inside it, upon her +arm.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! she doesn’t mind the cold,” said Florimel. “When I was there, I +didn’t mind it a bit.”</p> + +<p>“She does not mind the cold,” answered Malcolm; “she is far too +miserable for that.”</p> + +<p>“But she has no business to take the baby out on such a night,” +continued Florimel, carelessly critical. “You ought to have painted her +by the fireside. They have all of them firesides to sit at. I have seen +them through the windows many a time.”</p> + +<p>“Shame or cruelty had driven her from it,” said Malcolm, “and there she +was.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean you saw her yourself wandering about?” asked Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Twenty times, my lady.”</p> + +<p>Clementina was silent.</p> + +<p>“Well, what comes next?” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“Next comes a young gentleman;—but this is a picture in another frame, +although of the same night;—a young gentleman in evening dress, +sipping his madeira, warm and comfortable, in the bland temper that +should follow the best of dinners, his face beaming with satisfaction +after some boast concerning himself, or with silent success in the +concoction of one or two compliments to have at hand when he joins the +ladies in the drawing-room.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody can help such differences,” said Florimel. “If there were +nobody rich, who would there be to do anything for the poor? It’s not +the young gentleman’s fault that he is better born and has more money +than the poor girl.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Malcolm; “but what if the poor girl has the young +gentleman’s child to carry about from morning to night.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well! I suppose she’s paid for it,” said Florimel, whose innocence +must surely have been supplemented by some stupidity, born of her +flippancy.</p> + +<p>“Do be quiet, Florimel,” said Clementina. “You don’t know what you are +talking about.”</p> + +<p>Her face was in a glow, and one glance at it set Florimel’s in a flame. +She rose without a word, but with a look of mingled confusion and +offence, and walked away. Clementina gathered her work together. But +ere she followed her, she turned to Malcolm, looked him calmly in the +face, and said,</p> + +<p>“No one can blame you for hating such a man.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, my lady, but some one would—the only one for whose praise or +blame we ought to care more than a straw or two. He tells us we are +neither to judge nor to hate. But—”</p> + +<p>“I cannot stay and talk with you,” said Clementina. “You must pardon me +if I follow your mistress.”</p> + +<p>Another moment and he would have told her all, in the hope of her +warning Florimel. But she was gone.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV.<br><span class="small">THE RIDE HOME.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Florimel was offended with Malcolm: he had put her confidence in him +to shame, speaking of things to which he ought not once to have even +alluded. But Clementina was not only older than Florimel, but in her +loving endeavours for her kind, had heard many a pitiful story, and was +now saddened by the tale, not shocked at the teller. Indeed, Malcolm’s +mode of acquainting her with the grounds of the feeling she had +challenged pleased both her heart and her sense of what was becoming; +while, as a partisan of women, finding a man also of their part, she +was ready to offer him the gratitude of all womankind—in her one +typical self.</p> + +<p>“What a rough diamond is here!” she thought.</p> + +<p>“Rough!” echoed her heart: “how is he rough? What fault could the +most fastidious find with his manners? True, he speaks as a servant +—and where would be his manners if he did not? But neither in tone, +expression, nor way of thinking, is he in the smallest degree servile. +He is like a great pearl, clean out of the sea—bred, it is true, in +the midst of strange surroundings, but pure as the moonlight; and if +a man, so environed, yet has grown so grand, what might he not become +with such privileges as——!”</p> + +<p>Good Clementina—what did she mean? Did she imagine that such mere +gifts as she might give him, could do more for him than the great sea, +with the torment and conquest of its winds and tempests? more than his +own ministrations of love, and victories over passion and pride? What +the final touches of the shark-skin are to the marble that stands lord +of the flaming bow, that only can wealth and position be to the man +who has yielded neither to the judgments of the world nor the drawing +of his own inclinations, and so has submitted himself to the chisel +and mallet of his maker. Society is the barber who trims a man’s hair, +often very badly too—and pretends he made it grow. If her owner should +take her, body and soul, and make of her being a gift to his—ah, then, +indeed! But Clementina was not yet capable of perceiving that, while +what she had in her thought to offer <i>might</i> hurt him, it <i>could</i> do +him little good. Her feeling concerning him, however, was all the time +far indeed from folly. Not for a moment did she imagine him in love +with her. Possibly she admired him too much to attribute to him such +an intolerable and insolent presumption as that would have appeared to +her own inferior self. Still, she was far indeed from certain, were +she, as befits the woman so immeasurably beyond even the aspiration of +the man, to make him offer implicit of hand and havings, that he would +reach out his to take them. And certainly that she was not going to +do—in which determination, whether she knew it or not, there was as +much modesty and gracious doubt of her own worth as there was pride and +maidenly recoil. In one resolve she was confident, that her behaviour +towards him should be such as to keep him just where he was, affording +him no smallest excuse for taking one step nearer: and they would soon +be in London, where she would see nothing, or next to nothing more of +him. But should she ever cease to thank God, that was, if ever she came +to find him, that in this groom he had shown her what he could do in +the way of making a man! Heartily she wished she knew a nobleman or two +like him. In the meantime she meant to enjoy—with carefulness —the +ride to London, after which things should be as before.</p> + +<p>The morning arrived; they finished breakfast; the horses came round +and stood at the door—all but Kelpie. The ladies mounted. Ah, what a +morning to leave the country and go back to London! The sun shone clear +on the dark pine-woods; the birds were radiant in song; all under the +trees the ferns were unrolling each its mystery of ever generating +life; the soul of the summer was there whose mere idea sends the heart +into the eyes, while itself flits mocking from the cage of words. A +gracious mystery it was—in the air, in the sun, in the earth, in their +own hearts. The lights of heaven mingled and played with the shadows +of the earth, which looked like the souls of the trees that had been +out wandering all night, and had been overtaken by the sun ere they +could re-enter their dark cells. Every motion of the horses under them +was like a throb of the heart of the earth, every bound like a sigh +of her bliss. Florimel shouted almost like a boy with ecstasy, and +Clementina’s moonlight went very near changing into sunlight as she +gazed, and breathed, and knew that she was alive.</p> + +<p>They started without Malcolm, for he must always put his mistress up, +and then go back to the stable for Kelpie. In a moment they were in the +wood, crossing its shadows. It was like swimming their horses through +a sea of shadows. Then came a little stream and the horses splashed it +about like children from very gamesomeness. Half a mile more and there +was a saw-mill, with a mossy wheel, a pond behind, dappled with sun and +shade, a dark rush of water along a brown trough, and the air full of +the sweet smell of sawn wood. Clementina had not once looked behind, +and did not know whether Malcolm had yet joined them or not. All at +once the wild vitality of Kelpie filled the space beside her, and the +voice of Malcolm was in her ears. She turned her head. He was looking +very solemn.</p> + +<p>“Will you let me tell you, my lady, what this always makes me think +of?” he said.</p> + +<p>“What in particular do you mean?” returned Clementina coldly.</p> + +<p>“This smell of new-sawn wood that fills the air, my lady.”</p> + +<p>She bowed her head.</p> + +<p>“It makes me think of Jesus in his father’s workshop,” said Malcolm +“—how he must have smelled the same sweet scent of the trees of the +world broken for the uses of men, that is now so sweet to me. Oh, my +lady! it makes the earth very holy and very lovely to think that as +we are in the world, so was he in the world. Oh, my lady! think:—if +God should be so nearly one with us that it was nothing strange to him +thus to visit his people! that we are not the offspring of the soulless +tyranny of law that knows not even its own self, but the children of an +unfathomable wonder, of which science gathers only the foambells on the +shore—children in the house of a living Father, so entirely our Father +that he cares even to death that we should understand and love him!”</p> + +<p>He reined Kelpie back, and as she passed on, his eyes caught a glimmer +of emotion in Clementina’s. He fell behind, and all that day did not +come near her again.</p> + +<p>Florimel asked her what he had been saying, and she compelled herself +to repeat a part of it.</p> + +<p>“He is always saying such odd out-of-the-way things!” remarked +Florimel. “I used sometimes, like you, to fancy him a little astray, +but I soon found I was wrong. I wish you could have heard him tell a +story he once told my father and me. It was one of the wildest you ever +heard. I can’t tell to this day whether he believed it himself or not. +He told it quite as if he did.”</p> + +<p>“Could you not make him tell it again, as we ride along? It would +shorten the way.”</p> + +<p>“Do you want the way shortened?—I don’t. But indeed it would not do to +tell it so. It ought to be heard just where I heard it—at the foot of +the ruined castle where the dreadful things in it took place. You must +come and see me at Lossie House in the autumn, and then he shall tell +it you. Besides, it ought to be told in Scotch, and there you will soon +learn enough to follow it: half the charm depends on that.”</p> + +<p>Although Malcolm did not again approach Clementina that day, he +watched almost her every motion as she rode. Her lithe graceful back +and shoulders—for she was a rebel against the fashion of the day in +dress as well as in morals, and, believing in the natural stay of the +muscles, had found them responsive to her trust— the noble poise of +her head, and the motions of her arms, easy yet decided, were ever +present to him, though sometimes he could hardly have told whether his +sight or his mind—now in the radiance of the sun, now in the shadow of +the wood, now against the green of the meadow, now against the blue of +the sky, and now in the faint moonlight, through which he followed, as +a ghost in the realms of Hades might follow the ever flitting phantom +of his love. Day glided after day. Adventure came not near them. Soft +and lovely as a dream the morning dawned, the noon flowed past, the +evening came and the death that followed was yet sweeter than the life +that had gone before. Through it all, day-dream and nightly trance, +radiant air and moony mist, before him glode the shape of Clementina, +its every motion a charm. After that shape he could have been content, +oh, how content! to ride on and on through the ever unfolding vistas of +an eternal succession. Occasionally his mistress would call him to her, +and then he would have one glance of the day-side of the wondrous world +he had been following. Somewhere within it must be the word of the +living One. Little he thought that all the time she was thinking more +of him who had spoken that word in her hearing. That he was the object +of her thoughts not a suspicion crossed the mind of the simple youth. +How could he imagine a lady like her taking a fancy to what, for all +his marquisate, he was still in his own eyes, a raw young fisherman, +only just learning how to behave himself decently! No doubt, ever since +she began to listen to reason, the idea of her had been spreading like +a sweet odour in his heart, but not because she had listened to <i>him</i>. +The very fulness of his admiration had made him wrathful with the +intellectual dishonesty—for in her it could not be stupidity—that +quenched his worship, and the first dawning sign of a <i>reasonable</i> +soul drew him to her feet, where, like Pygmalion before his statue, he +could have poured out his heart in thanks, that she consented to be a +woman. But even the intellectual phantom, nay, even the very phrase +of being in love with her, had never risen upon the dimmest verge of +his consciousness—and that although her being had now become to him +of all but absorbing interest. I say <i>all but</i>, because Malcolm knew +something of One whose idea she was, who had uttered her from the +immortal depths of his imagination. The man to whom no window into the +treasures of the Godhead has yet been opened, may well scoff at the +notion of such a love, for he has this advantage, that, while one like +Malcolm can never cease to love, he, gifted being, can love to-day and +forget to-morrow—or next year—where is the difference? Malcolm’s +main thought was—what a grand thing it would be to rouse a woman like +Clementina to lift her head into the</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">regions mild of calm and serene air,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which men call Earth.</span><br> +</p> + +<p>If anyone think that love has no right to talk religion, I answer for +Malcolm at least, asking, Whereof shall a man speak, if not out of the +abundance of his heart? That man knows little either of love or of +religion who imagines they ought to be kept apart. Of what sort, I ask, +is either, if unfit to approach the other? Has God decreed, created a +love that must separate from himself? Is Love then divided? Or shall +not love to the heart created, lift up the heart to the Heart creating? +Alas for the love that is not treasured in heaven! for the moth and the +rust will devour it. Ah, these pitiful old moth-eaten loves!</p> + +<p>All the journey then Malcolm was thinking how to urge the beautiful +lady into finding for herself whether she had a father in heaven or +not. A pupil of Mr Graham, he placed little value in argument that ran +in any groove but that of persuasion, or any value in persuasion that +had any end but action.</p> + +<p>On the second day of the journey, he rode up to his mistress, and told +her, taking care that Lady Clementina should hear, that Mr Graham +was now preaching in London, adding that for his part he had never +before heard anything fit to call preaching. Florimel did not show +much interest, but asked where, and Malcolm fancied he could see Lady +Clementina make a mental note of the place.</p> + +<p>“If only,” he thought, “she would let the power of that man’s faith +have a chance of influencing her, all would be well.”</p> + +<p>The ladies talked a good deal, but Florimel was not in earnest about +anything, and for Clementina to have turned the conversation upon those +possibilities, dim-dawning through the chaos of her world, which had +begun to interest her, would have been absurd—especially since such +was her confusion and uncertainty, that she could not tell whether +they were clouds or mountains, shadows or continents. Besides, why +give a child sovereigns to play with when counters or dominoes would +do as well? Clementina’s thoughts could not have passed into Florimel, +and become her thoughts. Their hearts, their natures must come nearer +first. Advise Florimel to disregard rank, and marry the man she loved! +As well counsel the child to give away the cake he would cry for with +intensified selfishness the moment he had parted with it! Still, there +was that in her feeling for Malcolm which rendered her doubtful in +Florimel’s presence.</p> + +<p>Between the grooms little passed. Griffith’s contempt for Malcolm found +its least offensive expression in silence, its most offensive in the +shape of his countenance. He could not make him the simplest reply +without a sneer. Malcolm was driven to keep mostly behind. If by any +chance he got in front of his fellow-groom, Griffith would instantly +cross his direction and ride between him and the ladies. His look +seemed to say he had to protect them.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI.<br><span class="small">PORTLAND PLACE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The latter part of the journey was not so pleasant: it rained. It was +not cold, however, and the ladies did not mind it much. It accorded +with Clementina’s mood; and as to Florimel, but for the thought of +meeting Caley, her fine spirits would have laughed the weather to +scorn. Malcolm was merry. His spirits always rose at the appearance +of bad weather, as indeed with every show of misfortune a response +antagonistic invariably awoke in him. On the present occasion he had +even to repress the constantly recurring impulse to break out in +song. His bosom’s lord sat lightly in his throne. Griffith was the +only miserable one of the party. He was tired, and did not relish the +thought of the work to be done before getting home. They entered London +in a wet fog, streaked with rain, and dyed with smoke. Florimel went +with Clementina for the night, and Malcolm carried a note from her to +Lady Bellair, after which, having made Kelpie comfortable, he went to +his lodgings.</p> + +<p>When he entered the curiosity-shop, the woman received him with evident +surprise, and when he would have passed through to the stair, stopped +him with the unwelcome information that, finding he did not return, and +knowing nothing about himself or his occupation, she had, as soon as +the week for which he had paid in advance was out, let the room to an +old lady from the country.</p> + +<p>“It is no great matter to me,” said Malcolm, thoughtful over the +woman’s want of confidence in him, for he had rather liked her, “only I +am sorry you could not trust me a little.”</p> + +<p>“It’s all you know, young man,” she returned. “People as lives in +London must take care of theirselves—not wait for other people to do +it. They’d soon find theirselves nowheres in partic’lar. I’ve took care +on your things, an’ laid ’em all together, an’ the sooner you find +another place for ’em the better, for they do take up a deal o’ room.”</p> + +<p>His personal property was not so bulky, however, but that in ten +minutes he had it all in his carpet-bag and a paper parcel, carrying +which he re-entered the shop.</p> + +<p>“Would you oblige me by allowing these to lie here till I come for +them?” he said.</p> + +<p>The woman was silent for a moment.</p> + +<p>“I’d rather see the last on ’em,” she answered. “To tell the truth, +I don’t like the look on ’em. You acts a part, young man. I’m on the +square myself. But you’ll find plenty to take you in.—No, I can’t do +it. Take ’em with you.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm turned from her, and with his bag in one hand and the parcel +under the other arm, stepped from the shop into the dreary night. There +he stood in the drizzle. It was a by-street into which gas had not +yet penetrated, and the oil lamps shone red and dull through the fog. +He concluded to leave the things with Merton, while he went to find a +lodging.</p> + +<p>Merton was a decent sort of fellow—<i>not</i> in his master’s confidence, +and Malcolm found him quite as sympathetic as the small occasion +demanded.</p> + +<p>“It ain’t no sort o’ night,” he said, “to go lookin’ for a bed. Let’s +go an’ speak to my old woman: she’s a oner at contrivin’.”</p> + +<p>He lived over the stable, and they had but to go up the stair. Mrs +Merton sat by the fire. A cradle with a baby was in front of it. On the +other side sat Caley, in suppressed exultation, for here came what she +had been waiting for—the first fruits of certain arrangements between +her and Mrs Catanach. She greeted Malcolm distantly, but neither +disdainfully nor spitefully.</p> + +<p>“I trust you’ve brought me back my lady, MacPhail,” she said; then +added, thawing into something like jocularity, “I shouldn’t have looked +to you to go running away with her.”</p> + +<p>“I left my lady at Lady Clementina Thornicroft’s an hour ago,” answered +Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Oh, of course! Lady Clem’s everything now.”</p> + +<p>“I believe my lady’s not coming home till to-morrow,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“All the better for us,” returned Caley. “Her room ain’t ready for +her.—But I didn’t know you lodged with Mrs Merton, MacPhail,” she +said, with a look at the luggage he had placed on the floor.</p> + +<p>“Lawks, miss!” cried the good woman, “wherever should we put him up, as +has but the next room?”</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to find that out, mother,” said Merton. “Sure you’ve got +enough to shake down for him! With a truss of straw to help, you’ll +manage it somehow—eh, old lady?—I’ll be bound!” And with that he told +Malcolm’s condition.</p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose we must manage it somehow,” answered his wife, “but +I’m afraid we can’t make him over-comfortable.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see but we <i>could</i> take him in at the house,” said Caley, +reflectively. “There is a small room empty in the garret, I know. It +ain’t much more than a closet, to be sure, but if he could put up with +it for a night or two, just till he found a better, I would run across +and see what they say.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm wondered at the change in her, but could not hesitate. The +least chance of getting settled in the house was a thing not to be +thrown away. He thanked her heartily. She rose and went, and they sat +and talked till her return. She had been delayed, she said, by the +housekeeper; “the cross old patch” had objected to taking in anyone +from the stables.</p> + +<p>“I’m sure,” she went on, “there ain’t the ghost of a reason why you +shouldn’t have the room, except that it ain’t good enough. Nobody else +wants it, or is likely to. But it’s all right now, and if you’ll come +across in about an hour, you’ll find it ready for you. One of the +girls in the kitchen—I forget her name—offered to make it tidy for +you. Only take care—I give you warning: she’s a great admirer of Mr +MacPhail.”</p> + +<p>Therewith she took her departure, and at the appointed time Malcolm +followed her. The door was opened to him by one of the maids whom +he knew by sight, and in her guidance he soon found himself in that +part of a house he liked best—immediately under the roof. The room +was indeed little more than a closet in the slope of the roof with +only a sky-light. But just outside the door was a storm-window, from +which, over the top of a lower range of houses, he had a glimpse +of the mews-yard. The place smelt rather badly of mice, while, as +the sky-light was immediately above his bed, and he had no fancy +for drenching that with an infusion of soot, he could not open it. +These, however, were the sole faults he had to find with the place. +Everything looked nice and clean, and his education had not tended to +fastidiousness. He took a book from his bag, and read a good while; +then went to bed, and fell fast asleep.</p> + +<p>In the morning he woke early, as was his habit, sprang at once on +the floor, dressed, and went quietly down. The household was yet +motionless. He had begun to descend the last stair, when all at once +he turned deadly sick, and had to sit down, grasping the balusters. In +a few minutes he recovered, and made the best speed he could to the +stable, where Kelpie was now beginning to demand her breakfast.</p> + +<p>But Malcolm had never in his life before felt sick, and it seemed awful +to him. Something that had appeared his own, a portion —hardly a +portion, rather an essential element of himself—had suddenly deserted +him, left him a prey to the inroad of something that was not of +himself, bringing with it faintness of heart, fear and dismay. He found +himself for the first time in his life trembling; and it was to him a +thing as appalling as strange. While he sat on the stair he could not +think; but as he walked to the mews he said to himself:</p> + +<p>“Am I then the slave of something that is not myself—something to +which my fancied freedom and strength are a mockery? Was my courage, +my peace, all the time dependent on something not me, which could be +separated from me, and but a moment ago was separated from me, and +left me as helplessly dismayed as the veriest coward in creation? I +wonder what Alexander would have thought if, as he swung himself on +Bucephalus, he had been taken as I was on the stair.”</p> + +<p>Afterwards, talking the thing over with Mr Graham, he said:</p> + +<p>“I saw that I had no hand in my own courage. If I had any courage, it +was simply that I was born with it. If it left me, I could not help +it: I could neither prevent nor recall it; I could only wait until it +returned. Why, then, I asked myself, should I feel ashamed that, for +five minutes, as I sat on the stair, Kelpie was a terror to me, and I +felt as if I dared not go near her? I had almost reached the stable +before I saw into it a little. Then I did see that if I had had nothing +to do with my own courage, it was quite time I had something to do with +it. If a man had no hand in his own nature, character, being, what +could he be better than a divine puppet—a happy creature, possibly—a +heavenly animal, like the grand horses and lions of the book of the +Revelation—but not one of the gods that the sons of God, the partakers +of the divine nature, are? For this end came the breach in my natural +courage— that I might repair it from the will and power God had given +me, that I might have a hand in the making of my own courage, in the +creating of myself. Therefore I must see to it.”</p> + +<p>Nor had he to wait for his next lesson, namely, the opportunity of +doing what he had been taught in the first. For just as he reached +the stable, where he heard Kelpie clamouring with hoofs and teeth, +after her usual manner when she judged herself neglected, the sickness +returned, and with it such a fear of the animal he heard thundering and +clashing on the other side of the door, as amounted to nothing less +than horror. She was a man-eating horse!—a creature with bloody teeth, +brain-spattered hoofs, and eyes of hate! A flesh-loving devil had +possessed her and was now crying out for her groom that he might devour +him.</p> + +<p>He gathered, with agonized effort, every power within him to an awful +council, and thus he said to himself:</p> + +<p>“Better a thousand times my brain plastered the stable-wall than I +should hold them in the head of a dastard. How can God look at me with +any content if I quail in the face of his four-footed creature! Does +he not demand of me action according to what I <i>know</i>, not what I may +chance at any moment to <i>feel</i>? God is my strength, and I will lay hold +of that strength and use it, or I have none, and Kelpie may take me and +welcome.”</p> + +<p>Therewith the sickness abated so far that he was able to open the +stable-door; and, having brought them once into the presence of their +terror, his will arose and lorded it over his shrinking quivering +nerves, and like slaves they obeyed him. Surely the Father of his +spirit was most in that will when most that will was Malcolm’s own! +It is when a man is most a man, that the cause of the man, the God +of his life, the very Life himself, the original life-creating Life, +is closest to him, is most within him. The individual, that his +individuality may blossom, and not soon be “massed into the common +clay,” must have the vital indwelling of the primary Individuality +which is its origin. The fire that is the hidden life of the bush will +not consume it.</p> + +<p>Malcolm tottered to the corn-bin, staggered up to Kelpie, fell up +against her hind quarters as they dropped from a great kick, but got +into the stall beside her. She turned eagerly, darted at her food, +swallowed it greedily, and was quiet as a lamb while he dressed her.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVII">CHAPTER XLVII.<br><span class="small">PORTLOSSIE AND SCAURNOSE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Meantime things were going rather badly at Portlossie and Scaurnose; +and the factor was the devil of them. Those who had known him longest +said he must be <i>fey</i>, that is <i>doomed</i>, so strangely altered was +his behaviour. Others said he took more counsel with his bottle than +had been his wont, and got no good from it. Almost all the fishers +found him surly, and upon some he broke out in violent rage, while +to certain whom he regarded as Malcolm’s special friends, he carried +himself with cruel oppression. The notice to leave at midsummer clouded +the destiny of Joseph Mair and his family, and every householder in +the two villages believed that to take them in would be to call down +the like fate upon himself. But Meg Partan at least was not to be +intimidated. Her outbursts of temper were but the hurricanes of a +tropical heart—not much the less true and good and steadfast that +it was fierce. Let the factor rage as he would, Meg was absolute in +her determination that, if the cruel sentence was carried out, which +she hardly expected, her house should be the shelter of those who had +received her daughter when her severity had driven her from her home. +That would leave her own family and theirs three months to look out +for another abode. Certain of Blue Peter’s friends ventured a visit +of intercession to the factor, and were received with composure and +treated with consideration until their object appeared, when his wrath +burst forth so wildly that they were glad to escape without having +to defend their persons: only the day before had he learned with +certainty from Miss Horn that Malcolm was still in the service of the +marchioness, and in constant attendance upon her when she rode. It +almost maddened him. He had for some time taken to drinking more toddy +after his dinner, and it was fast ruining his temper: his wife, who had +from the first excited his indignation against Malcolm, was now reaping +her reward. To complete the troubles of the fisher-folk, the harbour at +Portlossie had, by a severe equinoctial storm, been so filled with sand +as to be now inaccessible at lower than half tide, nobody as yet having +made it his business to see it attended to.</p> + +<p>But, in the midst of his anxieties about Florimel and his interest in +Clementina, Malcolm had not been forgetting them. As soon as he was +a little settled in London, he had written to Mr Soutar, and he to +architects and contractors, on the subject of a harbour at Scaurnose. +But there were difficulties, and the matter had been making but slow +progress. Malcolm, however, had insisted, and in consequence of his +determination to have the possibilities of the thing thoroughly +understood, three men appeared one morning on the rocks at the bottom +of the cliff on the west side of the Nose. The children of the village +discovered them, and carried the news; whereupon, the men being all +out in the bay, the women left their work and went to see what the +strangers were about. The moment they were satisfied that they could +make nothing of their proceedings, they naturally became suspicious. +To whom the fancy first occurred, nobody ever knew, but such was the +unhealthiness of the moral atmosphere of the place, caused by the +injustice and severity of Mr Crathie, that, once suggested, it was +universally received that they were sent by the factor—and that for +a purpose only too consistent with the treatment Scaurnose, they +said, had invariably received ever since first it was the dwelling of +fishers! Had not their fathers told them how unwelcome they were to the +lords of the land? And what rents had they not to pay! and how poor was +the shelter for which they did so much—without a foot of land to grow +a potato in! To crown all, the factor was at length about to drive them +in a body from the place—Blue Peter first, one of the best as well as +the most considerable men among them! His notice to quit was but the +beginning of a clearance. It was easy to see what those villains were +about—on that precious rock, their only friend, the one that did its +best to give them the sole shadow of harbourage they had, cutting off +the wind from the north-east a little, and breaking the eddy round the +point of the Nose! What <i>could</i> they be about but marking the spots +where to bore the holes for the blasting-powder that should scatter it +to the winds, and let death and destruction, and the wild sea howling +in upon Scaurnose, that the cormorant and the bittern might possess +it, the owl and the raven dwell in it? But it would be seen what their +husbands and fathers would say to it when they came home! In the +meantime they must themselves do what they could. What were they men’s +wives for, if not to act for their husbands when they happened to be +away?</p> + +<p>The result was a shower of stones upon the unsuspecting surveyors, +who forthwith fled, and carried the report of their reception to Mr +Soutar at Duff Harbour. He wrote to Mr Crathie, who till then had heard +nothing of the business; and the news increased both his discontent +with his superiors, and his wrath with those whom he had come to regard +as his rebellious subjects. The stiff-necked people of the Bible was to +him always now, as often he heard the words, the people of Scaurnose +and the Seaton of Portlossie. And having at length committed this +overt outrage, would he not be justified by all in taking more active +measures against them?</p> + +<p>When the fishermen came home and heard how their women had conducted +themselves, they accepted their conjectures, and approved of their +defence of the settlement. It was well for the land-loupers, they said, +that they had only the women to deal with.</p> + +<p>Blue Peter did not so soon hear of the affair as the rest, for his +Annie had not been one of the assailants. But when the hurried retreat +of the surveyors was described to him in somewhat graphic language by +one of those concerned in causing it, he struck his clenched fist in +the palm of his other hand, and cried,</p> + +<p>“Weel saired! There! that’s what comes o’ yer new——”</p> + +<p>He had all but broken his promise, as he had already broken his faith +to Malcolm, when his wife laid her hand on his mouth and stopped the +issuing word. He started with sudden conviction and stood for a moment +in absolute terror at sight of the precipice down which he had been +on the point of falling, then straightway excusing himself to his +conscience on the ground of non intent, was instantly angrier with +Malcolm than before. He could not reflect that the disregarded cause +of the threatened sin was the greater sin of the two. The breach of +that charity which thinketh no evil may be a graver fault than a hasty +breach of promise.</p> + +<p>Peter had not been improving since his return from London. He found +less satisfaction in his <i>religious exercises</i>; was not unfrequently +clouded in temper, occasionally even to sullenness; referred things +oftener than formerly to the vileness of the human nature, but was far +less willing than before to allow that he might himself be wrong; while +somehow the Bible had no more the same plenitude of relation to the +wants of his being, and he rose from the reading of it unrefreshed. Men +asked each other what had come to Blue Peter, but no one could answer +the question. For himself, he attributed the change, which he could not +but recognise, although he did not understand it, to the withdrawing +of the spirit of God, in displeasure that he had not merely allowed +himself to be inveigled into a playhouse, but, far worse, had enjoyed +the wickedness he saw there. When his wife reasoned that God knew he +had gone in ignorance, trusting his friend, he cried,</p> + +<p>“What’s that to him wha judges richteous judgment? What’s a’ oor puir +meeserable excuzes i’ the een ’at can see throu’ the wa’s o’ the hert! +Ignorance is no innocence.”</p> + +<p>Thus he lied for God, pleading his cause on the principles of hell. But +the eye of his wife was single, and her body full of light; therefore +to her it was plain that neither the theatre nor his conscience +concerning it was the cause of the change: it had to do with his +feelings towards Malcolm. He wronged his friend in his heart, half knew +it, but would not own it. Fearing to search himself, he took refuge +in resentment, and to support his hard judgment, put false and cruel +interpretations on whatever befell. So that, with love and anger and +wrong acknowledged, his heart was full of bitterness.</p> + +<p>“It’s a’ the drumblet (<i>muddied, troubled</i>) luve o’ ’im!” said Annie +to herself. “Puir fallow! gien only Ma’colm wad come hame, an’ lat him +ken he’s no the villain he taks him for. I’ll no believe mysel’ ’at the +laad I kissed like my ain mither’s son afore he gaed awa’ wad turn like +that upo’ ’s ’maist the meenute he was oot o’ sicht, an’ a’ for a feow +words aboot a fulish play-actin’. Lord bliss us a’! markises is men!”</p> + +<p>“We’ll see, Peter, my man,” she said, when the neighbour took her +leave, “whether the wife, though she hasna been to the ill place, an’ +that’s surely Lon’on, canna tell the true frae the fause full better +nor her man, ’at kens sae muckle mair nor she wants to ken? Lat sit an’ +lat see.”</p> + +<p>Blue Peter made no reply; but perhaps the deepest depth in his fall +was that he <i>feared</i> his wife might be right, and he have one day to +stand ashamed before both her and his friend. But there are marvellous +differences in the <i>quality</i> of the sins of different men, and a +noble nature like Peter’s would have to sink far indeed to be beyond +redemption. Still there was one element mingling with his wrongness +whose very triviality increased the difficulty of long-delaying +repentance: he had been not a little proud at finding himself the +friend of a marquis. From the first they had been friends, when the one +was a youth and the other a child, and had been out together in many +a stormy and dangerous sea. More than once or twice, driven from the +churlish ocean to the scarce less inhospitable shore, they had lain all +night in each other’s arms to keep the life awake within their frozen +garments. And now this marquis spoke English to him! It rankled!</p> + +<p>All the time Blue Peter was careful to say nothing to injure Malcolm +in the eyes of his former comrades. His manner when his name was +mentioned, however, he could not honestly school to the conveyance of +the impression that things were as they had been betwixt them. Folk +marked the difference, and it went to swell the general feeling that +Malcolm had done ill to forsake a seafaring life for one upon which all +fishermen must look down with contempt. Some in the Seaton went so far +in their enmity as even to hint at an explanation of his conduct in the +truth of the discarded scandal which had laid Lizzy’s child at his door.</p> + +<p>But amongst them was one who, having wronged him thus, and been +convinced of her error, was now so fiercely his partisan as to be +ready to wrong the whole town in his defence: that was Meg Partan, +properly Mistress Findlay, Lizzy’s mother. Although the daughter had +never confessed, the mother had yet arrived at the right conclusion +concerning the father of her child—how, she could hardly herself have +told, for the conviction had grown by accretion; a sign here and a sign +there, impalpable save to maternal sense, had led her to the truth; and +now, if anyone had a word to say against Malcolm, he had better not say +it in the hearing of the Partaness.</p> + +<p>One day Blue Peter was walking home from the upper town of +Portlossie, not with the lazy gait of the fisherman off work, poised +backwards, with hands in trouser-pocket, but stooping care-laden +with listless-swinging arms. Thus Meg Partan met him—and of course +attributed his dejection to the factor.</p> + +<p>“Deil ha’e ’im for an upsettin’ rascal ’at hasna pride eneuch to haud +him ohn lickit the gentry’s shune! The man maun be fey! I houp he may, +an’ I wuss I saw the beerial o’ ’im makin’ for the kirkyaird. It’s nae +ill to wuss weel to a’ body ’at wad be left! His nose is turnt twise +the colour i’ the last twa month. He’ll be drinkin’ byous. Gien only +Ma’colm MacPhail had been at hame to haud him in order!”</p> + +<p>Peter said nothing, and his silence, to one who spake out whatever +came, seemed fuller of restraints and meanings than it was. She +challenged it at once.</p> + +<p>“Noo, what mean ye by sayin’ naething, Peter? Guid kens it’s the warst +thing man or woman can say o’ onybody to haud their tongue. It’s a +thing I never was blamed wi’ mysel’, an’ I wadna du ’t.”</p> + +<p>“That’s verra true,” said Peter.</p> + +<p>“The mair weicht’s intill ’t whan I lay ’t to the door o’ anither,” +persisted Meg. “Peter, gien ye ha’e onything again’ my freen’ Ma’colm +MacPhail, oot wi’ ’t like a man, an’ no playac’ the gunpoother-plot +ower again. Ill wull’s the warst poother ye can lay i’ the boddom o’ +ony man’s boat. But say ’at ye like, I s’ uphaud Ma’colm again’ the +haill poustie o’ ye. Gien he was but here! I say ’t again, honest laad!”</p> + +<p>But she could not rouse Peter to utterance, and losing what little +temper she had, she rated him soundly, and sent him home saying with +the prophet Jonah, “Do I not well to be angry?” for that also he placed +to Malcolm’s account. Nor was his home any more a harbour for his riven +boat, seeing his wife only longed for the return of him with whom his +spirit chode: she regarded him as an exiled king, one day to reappear, +and justify himself in the eyes of all, friends and enemies.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII">CHAPTER XLVIII.<br><span class="small">TORTURE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Though unable to eat any breakfast, Malcolm persuaded himself that he +felt nearly as well as usual when he went to receive his mistress’s +orders. Florimel had had enough of horseback—for several days to come +indeed—and would not ride. So he saddled Kelpie, and rode to Chelsea +to look after his boat. To get rid of the mare, he rang the stable-bell +at Mr Lenorme’s, and the gardener let him in. As he was putting her +up, the man told him that the housekeeper had heard from his master. +Malcolm went to the house to learn what he might, and found to his +surprise that, if he had gone on the continent, he was there no longer, +for the letter, which contained only directions concerning some of his +pictures, was dated from Newcastle, and bore the Durham postmark of a +week ago. Malcolm remembered that he had heard Lenorme speak of Durham +cathedral, and in the hope that he might be spending some time there, +begged the housekeeper to allow him to go to the study to write to her +master. When he entered, however, he saw something that made him change +his plan, and, having written, instead of sending the letter, as he +had intended, inclosed to the postmaster at Durham, he left it upon +an easel. It contained merely an earnest entreaty to be made and kept +acquainted with his movements, that he might at once let him know if +anything should occur that he ought to be informed concerning.</p> + +<p>He found all on board the yacht in ship-shape, only Davy was absent. +Travers explained that he sent him on shore for a few hours every day. +He was a sharp boy, he said, and the more he saw, the more useful he +would be, and as he never gave him any money, there was no risk of his +mistaking his hours.</p> + +<p>“When do you expect him?” asked Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“At four o’clock,” answered Travers.</p> + +<p>“It is four now,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>A shrill whistle came from the Chelsea shore.</p> + +<p>“And there’s Davy,” said Travers.</p> + +<p>Malcolm got into the dinghy and rowed ashore.</p> + +<p>“Davy,” he said, “I don’t want you to be all day on board, but I can’t +have you be longer away than an hour at a time.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, sir,” said Davy.</p> + +<p>“Now attend to me.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know Lady Lossie’s house?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir; but I ken hersel’.”</p> + +<p>“How is that?”</p> + +<p>“I ha’e seen her mair nor twa or three times, ridin’ wi’ yersel’, to +yon hoose yon’er.”</p> + +<p>“Would you know her again?”</p> + +<p>“Ay wad I—fine that. What for no, sir?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a good way to see a lady across the Thames and know her again.”</p> + +<p>“Ow! but I tuik the spy-glaiss till her,” answered Davy, reddening.</p> + +<p>“You are sure of her, then?”</p> + +<p>“I <i>am</i> that, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Then come with me, and I will show you where she lives. I will not +ride faster than you can run. But mind you don’t look as if you +belonged to me.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, sir. There’s fowk takin’ nottice.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by that?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a wee laddie been efter mysel’ twise or thrice.”</p> + +<p>“Did you do anything?”</p> + +<p>“He wasna big eneuch to lick, sae I jist got him the last time an’ pu’d +his niz, an’ I dinna think he’ll come efter me again.”</p> + +<p>To see what the boy could do, Malcolm let Kelpie go at a good trot: but +Davy kept up without effort, now shooting ahead, now falling behind, +now stopping to look in at a window, and now to cast a glance at a +game of pitch and toss. No mere passer-by could have suspected that +the sailor-boy belonged to the horseman. He dropped him not far from +Portland Place, telling him to go and look at the number, but not stare +at the house.</p> + +<p>All the time he had had no return of the sickness, but, although thus +actively occupied, had felt greatly depressed. One main cause of +this was, however, that he had not found his religion stand him in +such stead as he might have hoped. It was not yet what it must be to +prove its reality. And now his eyes were afresh opened to see that +in his nature and thoughts lay large spaces wherein God ruled not +supreme—desert places, where who could tell what might appear? For +in such regions wild beasts range, evil herbs flourish, and demons go +about. If in very deed he lived and moved and had his being in God, +then assuredly there ought not to be one cranny in his nature, one +realm of his consciousness, one well-spring of thought, where the will +of God was a stranger. If all were as it should be, then surely there +would be no moment, looking back on which he could not at least say,</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet like some sweet beguiling melody,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yea, with my life and life’s own secret joy.</span><br> +</p> + +<p>“In that agony o’ sickness, as I sat upo’ the stair,” he said to +himself, for still in his own thoughts he spoke his native tongue, +“whaur was my God in a’ my thouchts? I did cry till ’im, I min’ weel, +but it was my reelin’ brain an’ no my trustin’ hert ’at cried. Aih me! +I doobt gien the Lord war to come to me noo, he wadna fin’ muckle faith +i’ my pairt o’ the yerth. Aih! I wad like to lat him see something like +lippenin’! I wad fain trust him till his hert’s content. But I doobt +it’s only speeritual ambeetion, or better wad hae come o’ ’t by this +time. Gien that sickness come again, I maun see, noo ’at I’m forewarned +o’ my ain wakeness, what I can du. It maun be something better nor last +time, or I’ll tine hert a’thegither. Weel, maybe I need to be heumblet. +The Lord help me!”</p> + +<p>In the evening he went to the schoolmaster, and gave him a pretty full +account of where he had been and what had taken place since last he saw +him, dwelling chiefly on his endeavours with Lady Clementina.</p> + +<p>From Mr Graham’s lodging to the north-eastern gate of the Regent’s +Park, the nearest way led through a certain passage, which, although a +thoroughfare to persons on foot, was little known. Malcolm had early +discovered it, and always used it. Part of this short cut was the +yard and back-premises of a small public-house. It was between eleven +and twelve as he entered it for the second time that night. Sunk in +thought and suspecting no evil, he was struck down from behind, and +lost his consciousness. When he came to himself he was lying in the +public house, with his head bound up, and a doctor standing over him, +who asked him if he had been robbed. He searched his pockets, and +found that his old watch was gone, but his money left. One of the +men standing about said he would see him home. He half thought he +had seen him before, and did not like the look of him, but accepted +the offer, hoping to get on the track of something thereby. As soon +as they entered the comparative solitude of the park he begged his +companion, who had scarcely spoken all the way, to give him his arm, +and leaned upon it as if still suffering, but watched him closely. +About the middle of the park, where not a creature was in sight, he +felt him begin to fumble in his coat-pocket, and draw something from +it. But when, unresisted, he snatched away his other arm, Malcolm’s +fist followed it, and the man fell, nor made any resistance while he +took from him a short stick, loaded with lead, and his own watch, which +he found in his waistcoat-pocket. Then the fellow rose with apparent +difficulty, but the moment he was on his legs, ran like a hare, and +Malcolm let him run, for he felt unable to follow him.</p> + +<p>As soon as he reached home, he went to bed, for his head ached +severely; but he slept pretty well, and in the morning flattered +himself he felt much as usual. But it was as if all the night that +horrible sickness had been lying in wait on the stair to spring upon +him, for, the moment he reached the same spot on his way down, he +almost fainted. It was worse than before. His very soul seemed to turn +sick. But although his heart died within him, somehow, in the confusion +of thought and feeling occasioned by intense suffering, it seemed while +he clung to the balusters as if with both hands he were clinging to the +skirts of God’s garment; and through the black smoke of his fainting, +his soul seemed to be struggling up towards the light of his being. +Presently the horrible sense subsided as before, and again he sought +to descend the stair and go to Kelpie. But immediately the sickness +returned, and all he could do after a long and vain struggle, was to +crawl on hands and knees up the stairs and back to his room. There he +crept upon his bed, and was feebly committing Kelpie to the care of her +maker, when consciousness forsook him.</p> + +<p>It returned, heralded by frightful pains all over his body, which by +and by subsiding, he sank again to the bottom of the black Lethe.</p> + +<p>Meantime Kelpie had got so wildly uproarious that Merton tossed her +half a truss of hay, which she attacked like an enemy, and ran to the +house to get somebody to call Malcolm. After what seemed endless delay, +the door was opened by his admirer, the scullery-maid, who, as soon as +she heard what was the matter, hastened to his room.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIX">CHAPTER XLIX.<br><span class="small">THE PHILTRE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Before he again came to himself, Malcolm had a dream, which, although +very confused, was in parts more vivid than any he had ever had. His +surroundings in it were those in which he actually lay, and he was ill, +but he thought it the one illness he had before. His head ached, and he +could rest in no position he tried. Suddenly he heard a step he knew +better than any other approaching the door of his chamber: it opened, +and his grandfather in great agitation entered, not following his +hands, however, in the fashion usual to blindness, but carrying himself +like any sight-gifted man. He went straight to the wash-stand, took up +the water-bottle, and with a look of mingled wrath and horror dashed it +on the floor. The same instant a cold shiver ran through the dreamer, +and his dream vanished. But instead of waking in his bed, he found +himself standing in the middle of the floor, his feet wet, the bottle +in shivers about them, and, strangest of all, the neck of the bottle in +his hand. He lay down again, grew delirious, and tossed about in the +remorseless persecution of centuries. But at length his tormentors left +him, and when he came to himself, he knew he was in his right mind.</p> + +<p>It was evening, and some one was sitting near his bed. By the light of +the long-snuffed tallow candle, he saw the glitter of two great black +eyes watching him, and recognised the young woman who had admitted him +to the house the night of his return, and whom he had since met once or +twice as he came and went. The moment she perceived that he was aware +of her presence, she threw herself on her knees at his bedside, hid her +face, and began to weep. The sympathy of his nature rendered yet more +sensitive by weakness and suffering, Malcolm laid his hand on her head, +and sought to comfort her.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be alarmed about me,” he said, “I shall soon be all right again.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t bear it,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear to see you like that, and +all my fault.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Your</i> fault! What <i>can</i> you mean?” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“But I did go for the doctor, for all it may be the hanging of me,” she +sobbed. “Miss Caley said I wasn’t to, but I would and I did. They can’t +say I meant it—can they?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand,” said Malcolm, feebly.</p> + +<p>“The doctor says somebody’s been an’ p’isoned you,” said the girl, with +a cry that sounded like a mingled sob and howl; “an’ he’s been a-pokin’ +of all sorts of things down your poor throat.”</p> + +<p>And again she cried aloud in her agony.</p> + +<p>“Well, never mind; I’m not dead you see; and I’ll take better care of +myself after this. Thank you for being so good to me; you’ve saved my +life.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! you won’t be so kind to me when you know all, Mr MacPhail,” sobbed +the girl. “It was myself gave you the horrid stuff, but God knows I +didn’t mean to do you no harm no more than your own mother.”</p> + +<p>“What made you do it then?” asked Malcolm:</p> + +<p>“The witch-woman told me to. She said that—that—if I gave it you—you +would—you would——”</p> + +<p>She buried her face in the bed, and so stifled a fresh howl of pain and +shame.</p> + +<p>“And it was all lies—lies!” she resumed, lifting her face again, which +now flashed with rage, “for I know you’ll hate me worse than ever now.”</p> + +<p>“My poor girl, I never hated you,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“No, but you did as bad: you never looked at me. And now you’ll hate me +out and out. And the doctor says if you die, he’ll have it all searched +into, and Miss Caley she look at me as if she suspect me of a hand in +it; and they won’t let alone till they’ve got me hanged for it; and +it’s all along of love of you; and I tell you the truth, Mr MacPhail, +and you can do anything with me you like —I don’t care—only you won’t +let them hang me—will you?—Oh, please don’t.”</p> + +<p>She said all this with clasped hands, and the tears streaming down her +face.</p> + +<p>Malcolm’s impulse was of course to draw her to him and comfort her, but +something warned him.</p> + +<p>“Well, you see I’m not going to die just yet,” he said as merrily as he +could; “and if I find myself going, I shall take care the blame falls +on the right person. What was the witch-woman like? Sit down on the +chair there, and tell me all about her.”</p> + +<p>She obeyed with a sigh, and gave him such a description as he could +not mistake. He asked where she lived, but the girl had never met her +anywhere but in the street, she said.</p> + +<p>Questioning her very carefully as to Caley’s behaviour to her, Malcolm +was convinced that she had a hand in the affair. Indeed, she had +happily more to do with it than even Mrs Catanach knew, for she had +traversed her treatment to the advantage of Malcolm. The mid-wife had +meant the potion to work slowly, but the lady’s-maid had added to the +pretended philtre a certain ingredient in whose efficacy she had reason +to trust; and the combination, while it wrought more rapidly, had yet +apparently set up a counteraction favourable to the efforts of the +struggling vitality which it stung to an agonised resistance.</p> + +<p>But Malcolm’s strength was now exhausted. He turned faint, and the +girl had the sense to run to the kitchen and get him some soup. As he +took it, her demeanour and regards made him anxious, uncomfortable, +embarrassed. It is to any true man a hateful thing to repel a woman +—it is such a reflection upon her.</p> + +<p>“I’ve told you everything, Mr MacPhail, and it’s gospel truth I’ve told +you,” said the girl, after a long pause.—It was a relief when first +she spoke, but the comfort vanished as she went on, and with slow, +perhaps unconscious movements approached him.—“I would have died for +you, and here that devil of a woman has been making me kill you! Oh, +how I hate her! Now you will never love me a bit—-not one tiny little +bit for ever and ever!”</p> + +<p>There was a tone of despairful entreaty in her words that touched +Malcolm deeply.</p> + +<p>“I am more indebted to you than I can speak or you imagine,” he said. +“You have saved me from my worst enemy. Do not tell any other what you +have told me, or let anyone know that we have talked together. The day +will come when I shall be able to show you my gratitude.”</p> + +<p>Something in his tone struck her, even through the folds of her +passion. She looked at him a little amazed, and for a moment the tide +ebbed. Then came a rush that overmastered her. She flung her hands +above her head, and cried,</p> + +<p>“That means you will do anything but love me!”</p> + +<p>“I cannot love you as you mean,” said Malcolm. “I promise to be your +friend, but more is out of my power.”</p> + +<p>A fierce light came into the girl’s eyes. But that instant a terrible +cry, such as Malcolm had never heard, but which he knew must be +Kelpie’s, rang through the air, followed by the shouts of men, the +tones of fierce execration, and the clash and clang of hoofs.</p> + +<p>“Good God!” he exclaimed, and forgetting everything else, sprang from +the bed, and ran to the window outside his door.</p> + +<p>The light of their lanterns dimly showed a confused crowd in the yard +of the mews, and amidst the hellish uproar of their coarse voices he +could hear Kelpie plunging and kicking. Again she uttered the same +ringing scream. He threw the window open and cried to her that he +was coming, but the noise was far too great for his enfeebled voice. +Hurriedly he added a garment or two to his half-dress, rushed to the +stair, passing his new friend, who watched anxiously at the head of it, +without seeing her, and shot from the house.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_L">CHAPTER L.<br><span class="small">THE DEMONESS AT BAY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When he reached the yard of the mews, the uproar had nothing abated. +But when he cried out to Kelpie, through it all came a whinny of +appeal, instantly followed by a scream. When he got up to the lanterns, +he found a group of wrathful men with stable-forks surrounding the poor +animal, from whom the blood was streaming before and behind. Fierce as +she was, she dared not move, but stood trembling, with the sweat of +terror pouring from her. Yet her eye showed that not even terror had +cowed her. She was but biding her time. Her master’s first impulse was +to scatter the men right and left, but on second thoughts, of which +he was even then capable, he saw that they might have been driven to +apparent brutality in defence of their lives, and besides he could not +tell what Kelpie might do if suddenly released. So he caught her by the +broken halter, and told them to fall back. They did so carefully—it +seemed unwillingly. But the mare had eyes and ears only for her master. +What she had never done before, she nosed him over face and shoulders, +trembling all the time. Suddenly one of her tormentors darted forward, +and gave her a terrible prod in the off hind quarter. But he paid +dearly for it. Ere he could draw back, she lashed out, and shot him +half across the yard with his knee joint broken. The whole set of them +rushed at her.</p> + +<p>“Leave her alone,” shouted Malcolm, “or I will take her part. Between +us we’ll do for a dozen of you.”</p> + +<p>“The devil’s in her,” said one of them.</p> + +<p>“You’ll find more of him in that rascal groaning yonder. You had better +see to him. He’ll never do such a thing again, I fancy. Where is +Merton?”</p> + +<p>They drew off and went to help their comrade, who lay senseless.</p> + +<p>When Malcolm would have led Kelpie in, she stopped suddenly at the +stable-door, and started back shuddering, as if the memory of what +she had endured there overcame her. Every fibre of her trembled. He +saw that she must have been pitifully used before she broke loose and +got out. But she yielded to his coaxing, and he led her to her stall +without difficulty. He wished Lady Clementina herself could have been +his witness how she knew her friend and trusted him. Had she seen how +the poor bleeding thing rejoiced over him, she could not have doubted +that his treatment had been in part at least a success.</p> + +<p>Kelpie had many enemies amongst the men of the mews. Merton had gone +out for the evening, and they had taken the opportunity of getting into +her stable and tormenting her. At length she broke her fastenings; they +fled, and she rushed out after them.</p> + +<p>They carried the maimed man to the hospital, where his leg was +immediately amputated.</p> + +<p>Malcolm washed and dried his poor animal, handling her as gently as +possible, for she was in a sad plight. It was plain he must not have +her here any longer: worse to her at least was sure to follow. He went +up, trembling himself now, to Mrs Merton. She told him she was just +running to fetch him when he arrived: she had no idea how ill he was. +But he felt all the better for the excitement, and after he had taken +a cup of strong tea, wrote to Mr Soutar to provide men on whom he +could depend, if possible the same who had taken her there before, to +await Kelpie’s arrival at Aberdeen. There he must also find suitable +housing and attention for her at any expense until further directions, +or until, more probably, he should claim her himself. He added many +instructions to be given as to her treatment.</p> + +<p>Until Merton returned he kept watch, then went back to the chamber of +his torture, which, like Kelpie, he shuddered to enter. The cook let +him in, and gave him his candle, but hardly had he closed his door when +a tap came to it, and there stood Rose, his preserver. He could not +help feeling embarrassed when he saw her.</p> + +<p>“I see you don’t trust me,” she said.</p> + +<p>“I do trust you,” he answered. “Will you bring me some water. I dare +not drink anything that has been standing.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him with inquiring eyes, nodded her head, and went. When +she returned, he drank the water.</p> + +<p>“There! you see I trust you,” he said with a laugh. “But there are +people about who for certain reasons want to get rid of me: will you be +on my side?”</p> + +<p>“That I will,” she answered eagerly.</p> + +<p>“I have not got my plans laid yet; but will you meet me somewhere near +this to-morrow night? I shall not be at home, perhaps, all day.”</p> + +<p>She stared at him with great eyes, but agreed at once, and they +appointed time and place. He then bade her good night, and the moment +she left him lay down on the bed to think. But he did not trouble +himself yet to unravel the plot against him, or determine whether the +violence he had suffered had the same origin with the poisoning. Nor +was the question merely how to continue to serve his sister without +danger to his life; for he had just learned what rendered it absolutely +imperative that she should be removed from her present position. Mrs +Merton had told him that Lady Lossie was about to accompany Lady +Bellair and Lord Liftore to the continent. That must not be, whatever +means might be necessary to prevent it. Before he went to sleep things +had cleared themselves up considerably.</p> + +<p>He woke much better, and rose at his usual hour. Kelpie rejoiced him by +affording little other sign of the cruelty she had suffered than the +angry twitching of her skin when hand or brush approached a wound. The +worst fear was that some few white hairs might by and by in consequence +fleck her spotless black. Having urgently committed her to Merton’s +care, he mounted Honour, and rode to the Aberdeen wharf. There to +his relief, time growing precious, he learned that the same smack in +which Kelpie had come was to sail the next morning for Aberdeen. He +arranged at once for her passage, and, before he left, saw to every +contrivance he could think of for her safety and comfort. He warned the +crew concerning her temper, but at the same time prejudiced them in her +favour by the argument of a few sovereigns. He then rode to the Chelsea +Reach, where the Psyche had now grown to be a feature of the river in +the eyes of the dwellers upon its banks.</p> + +<p>At his whistle, Davy tumbled into the dinghy like a round ball over +the gunwale, and was rowing for the shore ere his whistle had ceased +ringing in Malcolm’s own ears. He left him with his horse, went on +board, and gave various directions to Travers; then took Davy with +him, and bought many things at different shops, which he ordered to be +delivered to Davy when he should call for them. Having next instructed +him to get everything on board as soon as possible, and appointed to +meet him at the same place and hour he had arranged with Rose, he went +home.</p> + +<p>A little anxious lest Florimel might have wanted him, for it was now +past the hour at which he usually waited her orders, he learned to his +relief that she was gone shopping with Lady Bellair, upon which he set +out for the hospital, whither they had carried the man Kelpie had so +terribly mauled. He went, not merely led by sympathy, but urged by a +suspicion also which he desired to verify or remove. On the plea of +identification, he was permitted to look at him for a moment, but not +to speak to him. It was enough: he recognised him at once as the same +whose second attack he had foiled in the Regent’s Park. He remembered +having seen him about the stable, but had never spoken to him. Giving +the nurse a sovereign, and Mr Soutar’s address, he requested her to let +that gentleman know as soon as it was possible to conjecture the time +of his leaving. Returning, he gave Merton a hint to keep his eye on the +man, and some money to spend for him as he judged best. He then took +Kelpie for an airing. To his surprise she fatigued him so much that +when he had put her up again he was glad to go and lie down.</p> + +<p>When it came near the time for meeting Rose and Davy, he got his +things together in the old carpet-bag, which held all he cared for, +and carried it with him. As he drew near the spot, he saw Davy already +there, keeping a sharp look out on all sides. Presently Rose appeared, +but drew back when she saw Davy. Malcolm went to her.</p> + +<p>“Rose,” he said, “I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. But +you cannot except you are able to trust me.”</p> + +<p>“I do trust you,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“All I can tell you now is that you must go with that boy to-morrow. +Before night you shall know more. Will you do it?”</p> + +<p>“I will,” answered Rose. “I dearly love a secret.”</p> + +<p>“I promise to let you understand it, if you do just as I tell you.”</p> + +<p>“I will.”</p> + +<p>“Be at this very spot then to-morrow morning, at six o’clock. Come +here, Davy. This boy will take you where I shall tell him.”</p> + +<p>She looked from the one to the other.</p> + +<p>“I’ll risk it,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Put on a clean frock, and take a change of linen with you and your +dressing things. No harm shall come to you.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not afraid,” she answered, but looked as if she would cry.</p> + +<p>“Of course you will not tell anyone.”</p> + +<p>“I will not, Mr MacPhail.”</p> + +<p>“You are trusting me a great deal, Rose; but I am trusting you too +—more than you think.—Be off with that bag, Davy, and be here at six +to-morrow morning, to carry this young woman’s for her.”</p> + +<p>Davy vanished.</p> + +<p>“Now, Rose,” continued Malcolm, “you had better go and make your +preparations.”</p> + +<p>“Is that all, sir?” she said.</p> + +<p>“Yes. I shall see you to-morrow. Be brave.”</p> + +<p>Something in Malcolm’s tone and manner seemed to work strangely on the +girl. She gazed up at him half frightened, but submissive, and went at +once, looking, however, sadly disappointed.</p> + +<p>Malcolm had intended to go and tell Mr Graham of his plans that same +night, but he found himself too much exhausted to walk to Camden Town. +And thinking over it, he saw that it might be as well if he took the +bold measure he contemplated without revealing it to his friend, to +whom the knowledge might be the cause of inconvenience. He therefore +went home and to bed, that he might be strong for the next day.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LI">CHAPTER LI.<br><span class="small">THE PSYCHE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>He rose early the next morning, and having fed and dressed Kelpie, +strapped her blanket behind her saddle, and, by all the macadamized +ways he could find, rode her to the wharf—near where the Thames-tunnel +had just been commenced. He had no great difficulty with her on the +way, though it was rather nervous work at times. But of late her +submission to her master had been decidedly growing. When he reached +the wharf he rode her straight along the gangway on to the deck of the +smack, as the easiest if not perhaps the safest way of getting her +on board. As soon as she was properly secured, and he had satisfied +himself as to the provision they had made for her, impressed upon the +captain the necessity of being bountiful to her, and brought a loaf of +sugar on board for her use, he left her with a lighter heart than he +had had ever since first he fetched her from the same deck.</p> + +<p>It was a long way to walk home, but he felt much better, and thought +nothing of it. And all the way, to his delight, the wind met him in the +face. A steady westerly breeze was blowing. If God makes his angels +winds, as the Psalmist says, here was one sent to wait upon him. He +reached Portland Place in time to present himself for orders at the +usual hour. On these occasions, his mistress not unfrequently saw him +herself; but to make sure, he sent up the request that she would speak +with him.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry to hear that you have been ill, Malcolm,” she said kindly, +as he entered the room, where happily he found her alone.</p> + +<p>“I am quite well now, thank you, my lady,” he returned. “I thought +your ladyship would like to hear something I happened to come to the +knowledge of the other day.”</p> + +<p>“Yes? What was that?”</p> + +<p>“I called at Mr Lenorme’s to learn what news there might be of him. The +housekeeper let me go up to his painting-room; and what should I see +there, my lady, but the portrait of my lord marquis more beautiful than +ever, the brown smear all gone, and the likeness, to my mind, greater +than before!”</p> + +<p>“Then Mr Lenorme is come home!” cried Florimel, scarce attempting to +conceal the pleasure his report gave her.</p> + +<p>“That I cannot say,” said Malcolm. “His housekeeper had a letter from +him a few days ago from Newcastle. If he is come back, I do not think +she knows it. It seems strange, for who would touch one of his pictures +but himself?—except, indeed, he got some friend to set it to rights +for your ladyship. Anyhow, I thought you would like to see it again.”</p> + +<p>“I will go at once,” Florimel said, rising hastily. “Get the horses, +Malcolm, as fast as you can.”</p> + +<p>“If my Lord Liftore should come before we start?” he suggested.</p> + +<p>“Make haste,” returned his mistress, impatiently.</p> + +<p>Malcolm did make haste, and so did Florimel. What precisely was in +her thoughts who shall say, when she could not have told herself? But +doubtless the chance of seeing Lenorme urged her more than the desire +to see her father’s portrait. Within twenty minutes they were riding +down Grosvenor Place, and happily heard no following hoof-beats. When +they came near the river, Malcolm rode up to her and said,</p> + +<p>“Would your ladyship allow me to put up the horses in Mr Lenorme’s +stable? I think I could show your ladyship a point or two that may have +escaped you.”</p> + +<p>Florimel thought for a moment, and concluded it would be less awkward, +would indeed tend rather to her advantage with Lenorme, should he +really be there, to have Malcolm with her.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” she answered. “I see no objection. I will ride round with +you to the stable, and we can go in the back way.”</p> + +<p>They did so. The gardener took the horses, and they went up to the +study. Lenorme was not there, and everything was just as when Malcolm +was last in the room. Florimel was much disappointed, but Malcolm +talked to her about the portrait, and did all he could to bring back +vivid the memory of her father. At length with a little sigh she made a +movement to go.</p> + +<p>“Has your ladyship ever seen the river from the next room?” said +Malcolm, and, as he spoke, threw open the door of communication, near +which they stood.</p> + +<p>Florimel, who was always ready to <i>see</i>, walked straight into the +drawing-room, and went to a window.</p> + +<p>“There is that yacht lying there still!” remarked Malcolm. “Does she +not remind you of the Psyche, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“Every boat does that,” answered his mistress. “I dream about her. But +I couldn’t tell her from many another.”</p> + +<p>“People used to boats, my lady, learn to know them like the faces of +their friends.—What a day for a sail!”</p> + +<p>“Do you suppose that one is for hire?” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“We can ask,” replied Malcolm; and with that went to another window, +raised the sash, put his head out, and whistled. Over tumbled Davy into +the dinghy at the Psyche’s stern, unloosed the painter, and was rowing +for the shore ere the minute was out.</p> + +<p>“Why, they’re answering your whistle already!” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“A whistle goes farther, and perhaps is more imperative than any other +call,” returned Malcolm evasively. “Will your ladyship come down and +hear what they say?”</p> + +<p>A wave from the slow-silting lagoon of her girlhood came washing over +the sands between, and Florimel flew merrily down the stair and across +hall and garden and road to the river-bank, where was a little wooden +stage or landing place, with a few steps, at which the dinghy was just +arriving.</p> + +<p>“Will you take us on board and show us your boat?” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Davy.</p> + +<p>Without a moment’s hesitation, Florimel took Malcolm’s offered hand, +and stepped into the boat. Malcolm took the oars, and shot the little +tub across the river. When they got alongside the cutter, Travers +reached down both his hands for hers, and Malcolm held one of his for +her foot, and Florimel sprang on deck.</p> + +<p>“Young woman on board, Davy?” whispered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, sir—doon i’ the fore,” answered Davy, and Malcolm stood by +his mistress.</p> + +<p>“She <i>is</i> like the Psyche,” said Florimel, turning to him, “only the +mast is not so tall.”</p> + +<p>“Her topmast is struck, you see my lady—to make sure of her passing +clear under the bridges.”</p> + +<p>“Ask them if we couldn’t go down the river a little way,” said +Florimel. “I should so like to see the houses from it!”</p> + +<p>Malcolm conferred a moment with Travers and returned.</p> + +<p>“They are quite willing, my lady,” he said.</p> + +<p>“What fun!” cried Florimel, her girlish spirit all at the surface. “How +I should like to run away from horrid London altogether, and never hear +of it again!—Dear old Lossie House! and the boats! and the fishermen!” +she added meditatively.</p> + +<p>The anchor was already up, and the yacht drifting with the falling +tide. A moment more and she spread a low treble-reefed main-sail +behind, a little jib before, and the western breeze filled and swelled +and made them alive, and with wind and tide she went swiftly down the +smooth stream. Florimel clapped her hands with delight. The shores and +all their houses fled up the river. They slid past row-boats, and great +heavy barges loaded to the lip, with huge red sails and yellow, glowing +and gleaming in the hot sun. For one moment the shadow of Vauxhall +Bridge gloomed like a death-cloud, chill and cavernous, over their +heads; then out again they shot into the lovely light and heat of the +summer world.</p> + +<p>“It’s well we ain’t got to shoot Putney or Battersea,” said Travers +with a grim smile, as he stood shaping her course by inches with his +magic-like steering, in the midst of a little covey of pleasure-boats: +“with this wind we might ha’ brought either on ’em about our ears like +an old barn.”</p> + +<p>“This <i>is</i> life!” cried Florimel, as the river bore them nearer and +nearer to the vortex—deeper and deeper into the tumult of London.</p> + +<p>How solemn the silent yet never resting highway!—almost majestic +in the stillness of its hurrying might as it rolled heedless past +houses and wharfs that crowded its brinks. They darted through under +Westminster Bridge, and boats and barges more and more numerous covered +the stream. Waterloo Bridge, Blackfriars’ Bridge they passed. Sunlight +all, and flashing water, and gleaming oars, and gay boats, and endless +motion! out of which rose calm, solemn, reposeful, the resting yet +hovering dome of St Paul’s, with its satellite spires, glittering in +the tremulous hot air that swathed in multitudinous ripples the mighty +city.</p> + +<p>Southwark Bridge—and only London Bridge lay between them and the open +river, still widening as it flowed to the aged ocean. Through the +centre arch they shot, and lo! a world of masts, waiting to woo with +white sails the winds that should bear them across deserts of water to +lands of wealth and mystery. Through the labyrinth led the highway of +the stream, and downward they still swept—past the Tower, and past the +wharf where that morning Malcolm had said good-bye for a time to his +four-footed subject and friend. The smack’s place was empty. With her +hugest of sails, she was tearing and flashing away, out of their sight, +far down the river before them.</p> + +<p>Through dingy dreary Limehouse they sank, and coasted the melancholy, +houseless Isle of Dogs; but on all sides were ships and ships, and when +they thinned at last, Greenwich rose before them. London and the parks +looked unendurable from this more varied life, more plentiful air, +and above all more abundant space. The very spirit of freedom seemed +to wave his wings about the yacht, fanning full her sails. Florimel +breathed as if she never could have enough of the sweet wind; each +breath gave her all the boundless region whence it blew; she gazed +as if she would fill her soul with the sparkling gray of the water, +the sun-melted blue of the sky, and the incredible green of the flat +shores. For minutes she would be silent, her parted lips revealing +her absorbed delight, then break out in a volley of questions, now +addressing Malcolm, now Travers. She tried Davy too, but Davy knew +nothing except his duty here. The Thames was like an unknown eternity +to the creature of the Wan Water— about which, however, he could have +told her a thousand things. Down and down the river they flew, and not +until miles and miles of meadows had come between her and London, not +indeed until Gravesend appeared, did it occur to Florimel that perhaps +it might be well to think by-and-by of returning. But she trusted +everything to Malcolm, who of course would see that everything was as +it ought to be.</p> + +<p>Her excitement began to flag a little. She was getting tired. The +bottle had been strained by the ferment of the wine. She turned to +Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Had we not better be putting about?” she said. “I should like to go +on for ever—but we must come another day, better provided. We shall +hardly be in time for lunch.”</p> + +<p>It was nearly four o’clock, but she rarely looked at her watch, and +indeed wound it up only now and then.</p> + +<p>“Will you go below and have some lunch, my lady?” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“There can’t be anything on board!” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Come and see, my lady,” rejoined Malcolm, and led the way to the +companion.</p> + +<p>When she saw the little cabin, she gave a cry of delight.</p> + +<p>“Why, it is just like our own cabin in the Psyche,” she said, “only +smaller! Is it not, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“It is smaller, my lady,” returned Malcolm, “but then there is a little +state-room beyond.”</p> + +<p>On the table was a nice meal—cold, but not the less agreeable in the +summer weather. Everything looked charming. There were flowers; the +linen was snowy; and the bread was the very sort Florimel liked best.</p> + +<p>“It is a perfect fairy-tale!” she cried. “And I declare here is our +crest on the forks and spoons!—What does it all mean, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>But Malcolm had slipped away, and gone on deck again, leaving her to +food and conjecture, while he brought Rose up from the fore-cabin for a +little air. Finding her fast asleep, however, he left her undisturbed.</p> + +<p>Florimel finished her meal, and set about examining the cabin more +closely. The result was bewilderment. How could a yacht, fitted with +such completeness, such luxury, be lying for hire in the Thames? As for +the crest on the plate, that was a curious coincidence: many people had +the same crest. But both materials and colours were like those of the +Pysche! Then the pretty bindings on the book-shelves attracted her: +every book was either one she knew or one of which Malcolm had spoken +to her! He must have had a hand in the business! Next she opened the +door of the state-room; but when she saw the lovely little white berth, +and the indications of every comfort belonging to a lady’s chamber, +she could keep her pleasure to herself no longer. She hastened to the +companion-way, and called Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“What does it all mean?” she said, her eyes and cheeks glowing with +delight.</p> + +<p>“It means, my lady, that you are on board your own yacht, the Pysche. +I brought her with me from Portlossie, and have had her fitted up +according to the wish you once expressed to my lord, your father, that +you could sleep on board. Now you might make a voyage of many days in +her.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Malcolm!” was all Florimel could answer. She was too pleased to +think as yet of any of the thousand questions that might naturally have +followed.</p> + +<p>“Why, you’ve got the Arabian Nights, and all my favourite books there!” +she said at length.—“How long shall we have before we get among the +ships again?”</p> + +<p>She fancied she had given orders to return, and that the boat had been +put about.</p> + +<p>“A good many hours, my lady,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ah, of course!” she returned; “it takes much longer against wind and +tide.—But my time is my own,” she added, rather in the manner of one +asserting a freedom she did not feel, “and I don’t see why I should +trouble myself. It will make some to-do, I daresay, if I don’t appear +at dinner; but it won’t do anybody any harm. They wouldn’t break their +hearts if they never saw me again.”</p> + +<p>“Not one of them, my lady,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>She lifted her head sharply, but took no farther notice of his remark.</p> + +<p>“I won’t be plagued any more,” she said, holding counsel with herself, +but intending Malcolm to hear. “I will break with them rather. Why +should I not be as free as Clementina? She comes and goes when and +where she likes, and does what she pleases.”</p> + +<p>“Why, indeed?” said Malcolm; and a pause followed, during which +Florimel stood apparently thinking, but in reality growing sleepy.</p> + +<p>“I will lie down a little,” she said, “with one of those lovely books.”</p> + +<p>The excitement, the air, and the pleasure generally had wearied her. +Nothing could have suited Malcolm better. He left her. She went to her +berth, and fell fast asleep.</p> + +<p>When she awoke, it was some time before she could think where she was. +A strange ghostly light was about her, in which she could see nothing +plain; but the motion helped her to understand. She rose, and crept +to the companion ladder, and up on deck. Wonder upon wonder! A clear +full moon reigned high in the heavens, and below there was nothing +but water, gleaming with her molten face, or rushing past the boat +lead-coloured, gray, and white. Here and there a vessel —a snow-cloud +of sails—would glide between them and the moon, and turn black from +truck to water-line. The mast of the Psyche had shot up to its full +height; the reef-points of the main-sail were loose, and the gaff was +crowned with its topsail; foresail and jib were full; and she was +flying as if her soul thirsted within her after infinite spaces. Yet +what more could she want? All around her was wave rushing upon wave, +and above her blue heaven and regnant moon. Florimel gave a great sigh +of delight.</p> + +<p>But what did it—what could it mean? What was Malcolm about? Where was +he taking her? What would London say to such an escapade extraordinary? +Lady Bellair would be the first to believe she had run away with her +groom—she knew so many instances of that sort of thing! and Lord +Liftore would be the next. It was too bad of Malcolm! But she did not +feel very angry with him, notwithstanding, for had he not done it to +give her pleasure? And assuredly he had not failed. He knew better than +anyone how to please her—better even than Lenorme.</p> + +<p>She looked around her. No one was to be seen but Davie, who was +steering. The main-sail hid the men, and Rose, having been on deck for +two or three hours, was again below. She turned to Davy. But the boy +had been schooled, and only answered,</p> + +<p>“I maunna say naething sae lang ’s I’m steerin’, mem.”</p> + +<p>She called Malcolm. He was beside her ere his name had left her lips. +The boy’s reply had irritated her, and, coming upon this sudden and +utter change in her circumstances, made her feel as one no longer lady +of herself and her people, but a prisoner.</p> + +<p>“Once more, what does this mean, Malcolm?” she said, in high +displeasure. “You have deceived me shamefully! You left me to believe +we were on our way back to London—and here we are out at sea! Am I no +longer your mistress? Am I a child, to be taken where you please?—And +what, pray, is to become of the horses you left at Mr Lenorme’s?”</p> + +<p>Malcolm was glad of a question he was prepared to answer.</p> + +<p>“They are in their own stalls by this time, my lady. I took care of +that.”</p> + +<p>“Then it was all a trick to carry me off against my will!” she cried, +with growing indignation.</p> + +<p>“Hardly against your will, my lady,” said Malcolm, embarrassed and +thoughtful, in a tone deprecating and apologetic.</p> + +<p>“Utterly against my will!” insisted Florimel. “Could I ever have +consented to go to sea with a boatful of men, and not a woman on board? +You have disgraced me, Malcolm.”</p> + +<p>Between anger and annoyance she was on the point of crying.</p> + +<p>“It’s not so bad as that, my lady.—Here, Rose!”</p> + +<p>At his word, Rose appeared.</p> + +<p>“I’ve brought one of Lady Bellair’s maids for your service, my lady,” +Malcolm went on. “She will do the best she can to wait on you.”</p> + +<p>Florimel gave her a look.</p> + +<p>“I don’t remember you,” she said.</p> + +<p>“No, my lady. I was in the kitchen.”</p> + +<p>“Then you can’t be of much use to me.”</p> + +<p>“A willing heart goes a long way, my lady,” said Rose, prettily.</p> + +<p>“That is fine,” returned Florimel, rather pleased. “Can you get me some +tea?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady.”</p> + +<p>Florimel turned, and, much to Malcolm’s content vouchsafing him not a +word more, went below.</p> + +<p>Presently a little silver lamp appeared in the roof of the cabin, and +in a few minutes Davy came, carrying the tea-tray, and followed by Rose +with the teapot. As soon as they were alone, Florimel began to question +Rose; but the girl soon satisfied her that she knew little or nothing. +When Florimel pressed her how she could go she knew not where at the +desire of a fellow-servant, she gave such confused and apparently +contradictory answers, that Florimel began to think ill of both her and +Malcolm, and to feel more uncomfortable and indignant; and the more she +dwelt upon Malcolm’s presumption, and speculated as to his possible +design in it, she grew the angrier.</p> + +<p>She went again on deck. By this time she was in a passion—little +mollified by the sense of her helplessness.</p> + +<p>“MacPhail,” she said, laying the restraint of dignified utterance +upon her words, “I desire you to give me a good reason for your most +unaccountable behaviour. Where are you taking me?”</p> + +<p>“To Lossie House, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” she returned with scornful and contemptuous surprise. “Then I +order you to change your course at once and return to London.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Cannot!</i> Whose orders but mine are you under, pray?”</p> + +<p>“Your father’s, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“I have heard more than enough of that unfortunate—statement, and the +measureless assumptions founded on it. I shall heed it no longer.”</p> + +<p>“I am only doing my best to take care of you, my lady, as I promised +<i>him</i>. You will know it one day if you will but trust me.”</p> + +<p>“I have trusted you ten times too much, and have gained nothing in +return but reasons for repenting it. Like all other servants made too +much of you have grown insolent. But I shall put a stop to it. I cannot +possibly keep you in my service after this. Am I to pay a master where +I want a servant?”</p> + +<p>Malcolm was silent.</p> + +<p>“You must have some reason for this strange conduct,” she went on. “How +can your supposed duty to my father justify you in treating me with +such disrespect. Let me know your reasons. I have a right to know them.”</p> + +<p>“I will answer you, my lady,” said Malcolm. “—Davy, go forward; I will +take the helm.—Now, my lady, if you will sit on that cushion.—Rose, +bring my lady a fur-cloak you will find in the cabin.—Now, my lady, if +you will speak low that neither Davy nor Rose shall hear us—Travers is +deaf—I will answer you.”</p> + +<p>“I ask you,” said Florimel, “why you have dared to bring me away like +this. Nothing but some danger threatening me could justify it.”</p> + +<p>“There you say it, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“And what is the danger, pray?”</p> + +<p>“You were going on the continent with Lady Bellair and Lord Liftore +—and without me to do as I had promised.”</p> + +<p>“You insult me!” cried Florimel. “Are my movements to be subject to +the approbation of my groom? Is it possible my father could give his +henchman such authority over his daughter? I ask you again, where was +the danger?”</p> + +<p>“In your company, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“So!” exclaimed Florimel, attempting to rise in sarcasm as she rose in +wrath, lest she should fall into undignified rage. “And what may be +your objection to my companions?”</p> + +<p>“That Lady Bellair is not respected in any circle where her history is +known; and that her nephew is a scoundrel.”</p> + +<p>“It but adds to the wrong you heap on me, that you compel me to hear +such wicked abuse of my father’s friends,” said Florimel, struggling +with tears of anger. But for regard to her dignity she would have +broken out in fierce and voluble rage.</p> + +<p>“If your father knew Lord Liftore as I do, he would be the last man my +lord marquis would see in your company.”</p> + +<p>“Because he gave you a beating, you have no right to slander him,” said +Florimel spitefully.</p> + +<p>Malcolm laughed. He must either laugh or be angry.</p> + +<p>“May I ask how your ladyship came to hear of that?”</p> + +<p>“He told me himself,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Then, my lady, he is a liar, as well as worse. It was I who gave <i>him</i> +the drubbing he deserved for his insolence to my—mistress. I am sorry +to mention the disagreeable fact, but it is absolutely necessary you +should know what sort of man he is.”</p> + +<p>“And, if there be a lie, which of the two is more likely to tell it?”</p> + +<p>“That question is for you, my lady, to answer.”</p> + +<p>“I never knew a servant who would not tell a lie,” said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“I was brought up a fisherman,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“And,” Florimel went on, “I have heard my father say no gentleman ever +told a lie.”</p> + +<p>“Then Lord Liftore is no gentleman,” said Malcolm. “But I am not going +to plead my own cause even to you, my lady. If you can doubt me, do. +I have only one thing more to say:—that when I told you and my Lady +Clementina about the fisher-girl and the gentleman——”</p> + +<p>“How dare you refer to that again? Even you ought to know there are +things a lady cannot hear. It is enough you affronted me with that +before Lady Clementina—and after foolish boasts on my part of your +good breeding! Now you bring it up again, when I cannot escape your low +talk!”</p> + +<p>“My lady, I am sorrier than you think; but which is worse—that you +should hear such a thing spoken of, or make a friend of the man who did +it—and that is Lord Liftore?”</p> + +<p>Florimel turned away, and gave her seeming attention to the moonlit +waters, sweeping past the swift-sailing cutter. Malcolm’s heart ached +for her: he thought she was deeply troubled. But she was not half so +shocked as he imagined. Infinitely worse would have been the shock +to him could he have seen how little the charge against Liftore had +touched her. Alas! evil communications had already in no small degree +corrupted her good manners. Lady Bellair had uttered no bad words in +her hearing: had softened to decency every story that required it; +had not unfrequently tacked a worldly-wise moral to the end of one; +and yet, and yet, such had been the tone of her telling, such the +allotment of laughter and lamentation, such the acceptance of things as +necessary, and such the repudiation of things as Quixotic, puritanical, +impossible, that the girl’s natural notions of the lovely and the clean +had got dismally shaken and confused. Happily it was as yet more her +judgment than her heart that was perverted. But had she spoken out +what was in her thoughts as she looked over the great wallowing water, +she would have merely said that for all that Liftore was no worse +than other men. They were all the same. It was very unpleasant; but +how could a lady help it? If men would behave so, were by nature like +that, women must not make themselves miserable about it. They need ask +no questions. They were not supposed to be acquainted with the least +fragment of the facts, and they must cleave to their ignorance, and +lay what blame there might be on the women concerned. The thing was +too indecent even to think about. Ostrich-like they must hide their +heads—close their eyes and take the vice in their arms—to love, +honour, and obey, as if it were virtue’s self, and men as pure as their +demands on their wives.</p> + +<p>There are thousands that virtually reason thus: Only ignore the thing +effectually, and for you it is not. Lie right thoroughly to yourself, +and the thing is gone. The lie destroys the fact. So reasoned Lady +Macbeth—until conscience at last awoke, and she could no longer keep +even the smell of the blood from her. What need Lady Lossie care about +the fisher-girl, or any other concerned with his past, so long as he +behaved like a gentleman to her! Malcolm was a foolish meddling fellow, +whose interference was the more troublesome that it was honest.</p> + +<p>She stood thus gazing on the waters that heaved and swept astern, but +without knowing that she saw them, her mind full of such nebulous +matter as, condensed, would have made such thoughts as I have set down. +And still and ever the water rolled and tossed away behind in the +moonlight.</p> + +<p>“Oh, my lady!” said Malcolm, “what it would be to have a soul as big +and as clean as all this!”</p> + +<p>She made no reply, did not turn her head, or acknowledge that she heard +him, a few minutes more she stood, then went below in silence, and +Malcolm saw no more of her that night.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LII">CHAPTER LII.<br><span class="small">HOPE CHAPEL.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>It was Sunday, during which Malcolm lay at the point of death some +three stories above his sister’s room. There, in the morning, while +he was at the worst, she was talking with Clementina, who had called +to see whether she would not go and hear the preacher of whom he had +spoken with such fervour. Florimel laughed.</p> + +<p>“You seem to take everything for gospel Malcolm says, Clementina!”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not,” returned Clementina, rather annoyed. “Gospel +now-a-days is what nobody disputes and nobody heeds; but I do heed what +Malcolm says, and intend to find out, if I <i>can</i>, whether there is any +reality in it. I thought you had a high opinion of your groom!”</p> + +<p>“I would take his word for anything a man’s word can be taken for,” +said Florimel.</p> + +<p>“But you don’t set much store by his judgment?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I daresay he’s right. But I don’t care for the things you like so +much to talk with him about. He’s a sort of poet, anyhow, and poets +must be absurd. They are always either dreaming or talking about their +dreams. They care nothing for the realities of life. No—if you want +advice, you must go to your lawyer or clergyman, or some man of common +sense, neither groom nor poet.”</p> + +<p>“Then, Florimel, it comes to this—that this groom of yours is one of +the truest of men, and one who possessed your father’s confidence, but +you are so much his superior that you are capable of judging him, and +justified in despising his judgment.”</p> + +<p>“Only in practical matters, Clementina.”</p> + +<p>“And duty towards God is with you such a practical matter that you +cannot listen to anything he has got to say about it.”</p> + +<p>Florimel shrugged her shoulders.</p> + +<p>“For my part, I would give all I have to know there was a God worth +believing in.”</p> + +<p>“Clementina!”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“Of course there is a God. It is very horrible to deny it.”</p> + +<p>“Which is worse—to deny <i>it</i>, or to deny <i>him</i>? Now, I confess to +doubting <i>it</i>—that is, the fact of a God; but you seem to me to deny +God himself, for you admit there is a God—think it very wicked to deny +that, and yet you don’t take interest enough in him to wish to learn +anything about him. You won’t <i>think</i>, Florimel. I don’t fancy you ever +really <i>think</i>.”</p> + +<p>Florimel again laughed.</p> + +<p>“I am glad,” she said, “that you don’t judge me <i>incapable</i> of that +high art. But it is not so very long since Malcolm used to hint +something much the same about yourself, my lady!”</p> + +<p>“Then he was quite right,” returned Clementina. “I am only just +beginning to think, and if I can find a teacher, here I am, his pupil.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose I can spare my groom quite enough to teach you all he +knows,” Florimel said, with what Clementina took for a marked absence +of expression. She reddened. But she was not one to defend herself +before her principles.</p> + +<p>“If he can, why should he not?” she said. “But it was of his friend Mr +Graham I was thinking—-not himself.”</p> + +<p>“You cannot tell whether he has got anything to teach you.”</p> + +<p>“Your groom’s testimony gives likelihood enough to make it my duty to +go and see. I intend to find the place this evening.”</p> + +<p>“It must be some little ranting methodist conventicle. He would not be +allowed to preach in a church, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Of course not! The church of England is like the apostle that forbade +the man casting out devils, and got forbid himself for it —with this +difference, that she won’t be forbid. Well, she chooses her portion +with Dives and not Lazarus. She is the most arrant respecter of persons +I know, and her Christianity is worse than a farce. It was that first +of all that drove me to doubt. If I could find a place where everything +was just the opposite, the poorer it was the better I should like +it. It makes me feel quite wicked to hear a smug parson reading the +gold ring and the goodly apparel, while the pew-openers beneath are +illustrating in dumb show the very thing the apostle is pouring out +the vial of his indignation upon over their heads;—doing it calmly +and without a suspicion, for the parson, while he reads, is rejoicing +in his heart over the increasing aristocracy of his congregation. The +farce is fit to make a devil in torment laugh.”</p> + +<p>Once more, Florimel laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>“Another revolution, Clementina, and we shall have you heading the +canaille to destroy Westminster Abbey.”</p> + +<p>“I would follow any leader to destroy falsehood,” said Clementina. “No +canaille will take that up until it meddles with their stomachs or +their pew-rents.”</p> + +<p>“Really, Clementina, you are the worst Jacobin I ever heard talk. My +groom is quite an aristocrat beside you.”</p> + +<p>“Not an atom more than I am. I do acknowledge an aristocracy— but it +is one neither of birth nor of intellect nor of wealth.”</p> + +<p>“What is there besides to make one?”</p> + +<p>“Something I hope to find before long. What if there be indeed a +kingdom and an aristocracy of life and truth!—Will you or will you not +go with me to hear this schoolmaster?”</p> + +<p>“I will go anywhere with you, if it were only to be seen with such a +beauty,” said Florimel, throwing her arms round her neck and kissing +her.</p> + +<p>Clementina gently returned the embrace, and the thing was settled.</p> + +<p>The sound of their wheels, pausing in swift revolution with the clangor +of iron hoofs on rough stones at the door of the chapel, refreshed the +diaconal heart like the sound of water in the desert. For the first +time in the memory of the oldest, the day-spring of success seemed on +the point of breaking over Hope Chapel. The ladies were ushered in by +Mr Marshal himself, to Clementina’s disgust and Florimel’s amusement, +with much the same attention as his own shop-walker would have shown +to carriage-customers.—How could a man who taught light and truth be +found in such a mean <i>entourage</i>? But the setting was not the jewel. +A real stone <i>might</i> be found in a copper ring. So said Clementina to +herself as she sat waiting her hoped for instructor.</p> + +<p>Mrs Catanach settled her broad back into its corner, chuckling over her +own wisdom and foresight. Her seat was at the pulpit end of the chapel, +at right angles to almost all the rest of the pews —chosen because +thence, if indeed she could not well see the preacher, she could get +a good glimpse of nearly everyone that entered. Keen-sighted both +physically and intellectually, she recognized Florimel the moment she +saw her.</p> + +<p>“Twa doos mair to the boody-craw!” she laughed to herself. “Ae man +thrashin’, an’ twa birdies pickin’!” she went on, quoting the old +nursery nonsense. Then she stooped, and let down her veil. Florimel +hated her, and therefore might know her.</p> + +<p>“It’s the day o’ the Lord wi’ auld Sanny Grame!” she resumed to +herself, as she lifted her head. “He’s stickit nae mair, but a chosen +trumpet at last! Foul fa’ ’im for a wearifu’ cratur for a’ that! He +has nowther balm o’ grace nor pith o’ damnation. Yon laad Flemin’, ’at +preached i’ the Baillies’ Barn aboot the dowgs gaein’ roon’ an’ roon’ +the wa’s o’ the New Jeroozlem, gien he had but hauden thegither an’ +no gane to the worms sae sune, wad hae dung a score o’ ’im. But Sanny +angers me to that degree ’at but for rizons—like yon twa—I wad gang +oot i’ the mids o’ ane o’ ’s palahvers, an’ never come back, though I +ha’e a haill quarter o’ my sittin’ to sit oot yet, an’ it cost me dear, +an’ fits the auld back o’ me no that ill.”</p> + +<p>When Mr Graham rose to read the psalm, great was Clementina’s +disappointment: he looked altogether, as she thought, of a sort with +the place—mean and dreary—of the chapel very chapelly, and she +did not believe it could be the man of whom Malcolm had spoken. By +a strange coincidence however, a kind of occurrence as frequent as +strange, he read for his text that same passage about the gold ring and +the vile raiment, in which we learn how exactly the behaviour of the +early Jewish churches corresponded to that of the later English ones, +and Clementina soon began to alter her involuntary judgment of him +when she found herself listening to an utterance beside which her most +voluble indignation would have been but as the babble of a child.</p> + +<p>Sweeping, incisive, withering, blasting denunciation, logic and poetry +combining in one torrent of genuine eloquence, poured confusion and +dismay upon head and heart of all who set themselves up for pillars of +the church without practising the first principles of the doctrine of +Christ—men who, professing to gather their fellows together in the +name of Christ, conducted the affairs of the church on the principles +of hell—men so blind and dull and slow of heart, that they would never +know what the outer darkness meant until it had closed around them—men +who paid court to the rich for their money, and to the poor for their +numbers—men who sought gain first, safety next, and the will of God +not at all —men whose presentation of Christianity was enough to drive +the world to a preferable infidelity.</p> + +<p>Clementina listened with her very soul. All doubt as to whether this +was Malcolm’s friend, vanished within two minutes of his commencement. +If she rejoiced a little more than was humble or healthful in +finding that such a man thought as she thought, she gained this +good notwithstanding—the presence and power of a man who believed +in righteousness the doctrine he taught. Also she perceived that +the principles of equality he held, were founded on the infinite +possibilities of the individual—and of the race only through the +individual; and that he held these principles with an absoluteness, an +earnestness, a simplicity, that dwarfed her loudest objurgation to the +uneasy murmuring of a sleeper. She could not but trust him, and her +hope grew great that perhaps for her he held the key of the kingdom of +heaven. She saw that if what this man said was true, then the gospel +was represented by men who knew nothing of its real nature, and by such +she had been led into a false judgment of it.</p> + +<p>“If such a man,” said the schoolmaster in conclusion, “would but once +represent to himself that the man whom he regards as beneath him, <i>may</i> +nevertheless be immeasurably above him—and <i>that</i> after no arbitrary +judgment, but according to the absolute facts of creation, the scale +of the kingdom of God, in which <i>being</i> is rank; if he could persuade +himself of the possibility that he may yet have to worship before the +feet of those on whom he looks down as on the creatures of another and +meaner order of creation, would it not sting him to rise, and, lest +this should be one of such, make offer of his chair to the poor man in +the vile raiment? Would he ever more, all his life long, dare to say, +‘Stand thou there, or sit here under my footstool?’”</p> + +<p>During the week that followed, Clementina reflected with growing +delight on what she had heard, and looked forward to hearing more of a +kind correspondent on the approaching Sunday. Nor did the shock of the +disappearance of Florimel with Malcolm abate her desire to be taught by +Malcolm’s friend.</p> + +<p>Lady Bellair was astounded, mortified, enraged. Liftore turned grey +with passion, then livid with mortification, at the news. Not one of +all their circle, as Florimel had herself foreseen, doubted for a +moment that she had run away with that groom of hers. Indeed, upon +examination, it became evident that the scheme had been for some time +in hand: the yacht they had gone on board had been lying there for +months; and although she was her own mistress, and might marry whom she +pleased, it was no wonder she had run away, for how could she have held +her face to it, or up after it?</p> + +<p>Lady Clementina accepted the general conclusion, but judged it +individually. She had more reason to be distressed at what seemed to +have taken place than anyone else; indeed it stung her to the heart, +wounding her worse than in its first stunning effects she was able to +know; yet she thought better rather than worse of Florimel because +of it. What she did not like in her with reference to the affair was +the depreciatory manner in which she had always spoken of Malcolm. If +genuine, it was quite inconsistent with due regard for the man for +whom she was yet prepared to sacrifice so much; if, on the other hand, +her slight opinion of his judgment was a pretence, then she had been +disloyal to the just prerogatives of friendship.</p> + +<p>The latter part of that week was the sorest time Clementina had ever +passed. But, like a true woman, she fought her own misery and sense +of loss, as well as her annoyance and anxiety,—constantly saying to +herself that, be the thing as it might, she could never cease to be +glad that she had known Malcolm MacPhail.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIII">CHAPTER LIII.<br><span class="small">A NEW PUPIL.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The sermon Lady Clementina heard with such delight had followed one +levelled at the common and right worldly idea of success harboured +by each, and unquestioned by one of the chief men of the community: +together they caused a strange uncertain sense of discomfort in the +mind diaconal. Slow to perceive that that idea, nauseous in his +presentment of it, was the very same cherished and justified by +themselves; unwilling also to believe that in his denunciation of +respecters of persons they themselves had a full share, they yet felt +a little uneasy from the vague whispers of their consciences on the +side of the neglected principles enounced, clashing with the less vague +conviction that if those whispers were encouraged and listened to, the +ruin of their hopes for their chapel, and their influence in connection +with it, must follow. They eyed each other doubtfully, and there +appeared a general tendency amongst them to close-pressed lips and +single shakes of the head. But there were other forces at work—tending +in the same direction.</p> + +<p>Whatever may have been the influence of the schoolmaster upon the +congregation gathered in Hope Chapel, there was one on whom his +converse, supplemented by his preaching, had taken genuine hold. +Frederick Marshal had begun to open his eyes to the fact that, regarded +as a profession, the ministry, as they called it in their communion, +was the meanest way of making a living in the whole creation, one +deserving the contempt of every man honest enough to give honourable +work, that is, work worth the money, for the money paid him. Also he +had a glimmering insight, on the other hand, into the truth of what the +dominie said—that it was the noblest of martyrdoms to the man who, +sent by God, loved the truth with his whole soul, and was never happier +than when bearing witness of it, except, indeed, in those blessed +moments when receiving it of the Father. In consequence of this opening +of his eyes the youth recoiled with dismay from the sacrilegious +mockery of which he had been guilty in meditating the presumption of +teaching holy things of which the sole sign that he knew anything was +now afforded by this same recoil. At last he was not far from the +kingdom of heaven, though whether he was to be sent to persuade men +that that kingdom was amongst them, and must be in them, remained a +question.</p> + +<p>On the morning after the latter of those two sermons, Frederick, as +they sat at breakfast, succeeded, with no small effort, for he feared +his mother, in blurting out to his father the request that he might be +taken into the counting house; and when indignantly requested, over +the top of the teapot, to explain himself, declared that he found it +impossible to give his mind to a course of education which could only +end in the disappointment of his parents, seeing he was at length +satisfied that he had no call to the ministry. His father was not +displeased at the thought of having him at the shop; but his mother +was for some moments speechless with angry tribulation. Recovering +herself, with scornful bitterness she requested to know to what tempter +he had been giving ear—for tempted he must have been ere son of hers +would have been guilty of backsliding from <i>the cause</i>, of taking his +hand from the plough and looking behind him. The youth returned such +answers as, while they satisfied his father he was right, served only +to convince his mother, where yet conviction was hardly needed, that +she had to thank the dominie for his defection, his apostasy from the +church to the world.</p> + +<p>Incapable of perceiving that now first there was hope of a genuine +disciple in the child of her affection, she was filled with the gall +of disappointment, and with spite against the man who had taught her +son how worse than foolish it is to aspire to teach before one has +learned; nor did she fail to cast scathing reflections on her husband, +in that he had brought home a viper in his bosom, a wolf into his +fold, the wretched minion of a worldly church to lead her son away +captive at his will; and partly no doubt from his last uncomfortable +sermons, but mainly from the play of Mrs Marshal’s tongue on her +husband’s tympanum, the deacons in full conclave agreed that no further +renewal of the invitation to preach “for them” should be made to the +schoolmaster—just the end of the business Mr Graham had expected, and +for which he had provided. On Tuesday morning he smiled to himself, and +wondered whether, if he were to preach in his own schoolroom the next +Sunday evening, anyone would come to hear him. On Saturday he received +a cool letter of thanks for his services, written by the ironmonger in +the name of the deacons, enclosing a cheque, tolerably liberal as ideas +went, in acknowledgment of them. The cheque Mr Graham returned, saying +that, as he was not a preacher by profession, he had no right to take +fees. It was a half-holiday: he walked up to Hampstead Heath, and was +paid for everything, in sky and cloud, fresh air, and a glorious sunset.</p> + +<p>When the end of her troubled week came, and the Sunday of her +expectation brought lovely weather, with a certain vague suspicion of +peace, into the regions of Mayfair and Spitalfields, Clementina walked +across the Regent’s Park to Hope Chapel, and its morning observances; +but thought herself poorly repaid for her exertions by having to listen +to a dreadful sermon and worse prayers from Mr Masquar—one of the +chief priests of Commonplace—a comfortable idol to serve, seeing he +accepts as homage to himself all that any man offers to his own person, +opinions, or history. But Clementina contrived to endure it, comforting +herself that she had made a mistake in supposing Mr Graham preached in +the morning.</p> + +<p>In the evening her carriage once again drew up with clang and clatter +at the door of the chapel. But her coachman was out of temper at having +to leave the bosom of his family circle—as he styled the table that +upheld his pot of beer and jar of tobacco—of a Sunday, and sought +relief to his feelings in giving his horses a lesson in crawling; the +result of which was fortunate for his mistress: when she entered, the +obnoxious Mr Masquar was already reading the hymn. She turned at once +and made for the door.</p> + +<p>But her carriage was already gone. A strange sense of loneliness and +desolation seized her. The place had grown hateful to her, and she +would have fled from it. Yet she lingered in the porch. The eyes +of the man in the pulpit, with his face of false solemnity and low +importance—she seemed to feel the look of them on her back, yet she +lingered. Now that Malcolm was gone, how was she to learn when Mr +Graham would be preaching?</p> + +<p>“If you please, ma’am,” said a humble and dejected voice.</p> + +<p>She turned and saw the seamed and smoky face of the pew-opener, who +had been watching her from the lobby, and had crept out after her. She +dropped a courtesy, and went on hurriedly, with an anxious look now and +then over her shoulder—</p> + +<p>“Oh, ma’am! we shan’t see <i>him</i> no more. Our people here—they’re very +good people, but they don’t like to be told the truth. It seems to me +as if they knowed it so well they thought as how there was no need for +them to mind it.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean that Mr Graham has given up preaching here?”</p> + +<p>“They’ve given up astin’ of ’im to preach, lady. But if ever there was +a good man in that pulpit, Mr Graham he do be that man!”</p> + +<p>“Do you know where he lives?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, ma’am; but it would be hard to direct you.” Here she looked in +at the door of the chapel with a curious half-frightened glance, as if +to satisfy herself that the inner door was closed. “But,” she went on, +“they won’t miss me now the service is begun, and I can be back before +it’s over. I’ll show you where, ma’am.”</p> + +<p>“I should be greatly obliged to you,” said Clementina, “only I am sorry +to give you the trouble.”</p> + +<p>“To tell the truth, I’m only too glad to get away,” she returned, “for +the place it do look like a cementery, now <i>he’s</i> out of it.”</p> + +<p>“Was he so kind to you?”</p> + +<p>“He never spoke word to me, as to myself like, no, nor never gave me +sixpence, like Mr Masquar do; but he give me strength in my heart to +bear up, and that’s better than meat or money.”</p> + +<p>It was a good half-hour’s walk, and during it Clementina held what +conversation she might with her companion. It was not much the woman +had to say of a general sort. She knew little beyond her own troubles +and the help that met them, but what else are the two main forces whose +composition results in upward motion? Her world was very limited—the +houses in which she went charing, the chapel she swept and dusted, the +neighbours with whom she gossipped, the little shops where she bought +the barest needs of her bare life; but it was at least large enough to +leave behind her; and if she was not one to take the kingdom of heaven +by force, she was yet one to creep quietly into it. The earthly life of +such as she— immeasurably less sordid than that of the poet who will +not work for his daily bread, or that of the speculator who, having +settled money on his wife, risks that of his neighbour—passing away +like a cloud, will hang in their west, stained indeed, but with gold, +blotted, but with roses. Dull as it all was now, Clementina yet gained +from her unfoldings a new out-look upon life, its needs, its sorrows, +its consolations, and its hopes; nor was there any vulgar pity in the +smile of the one, or of degrading acknowledgment in the tears of the +other, when a piece of gold passed from hand to hand, as they parted.</p> + +<p>The Sunday-sealed door of the stationer’s shop—for there was no +private entrance to the house—was opened by another sad-faced woman. +What a place to seek the secret of life in! Lovelily enfolds the husk +its kernel; but what the human eye turns from as squalid and unclean +may enfold the seed that clasps, couched in infinite withdrawment, the +vital germ of all that is lovely and graceful, harmonious and strong, +all without which no poet would sing, no martyr burn, no king rule in +righteousness, no geometrician pore over the marvellous <i>must</i>.</p> + +<p>The woman led her through the counter into a little dingy room behind +the shop, looking out on a yard a few feet square, with a water-butt, +half-a-dozen flower-pots, and a maimed plaster Cupid perched on the +window-sill. There sat the schoolmaster, in conversation with a lady, +whom the woman of the house, awed by her sternness and grandeur, had, +out of regard to her lodger’s feelings, shown into her parlour and not +into his bedroom.</p> + +<p>Cherishing the hope that the patent consequences of his line of action +might have already taught him moderation, Mrs Marshal, instead of +going to chapel to hear Mr Masquar, had paid Mr Graham a visit, with +the object of enlisting his sympathies if she could, at all events his +services, in the combating of the scruples he had himself aroused in +the bosom of her son. What had passed between them I do not care to +record, but when Lady Clementina—unannounced of the landlady—entered, +there was light enough, notwithstanding the non-reflective properties +of the water-butt, to reveal Mrs Marshal flushed and flashing, Mr +Graham grave and luminous, and to enable the chapel-business-eye of +Mrs Marshal, which saw every stranger that entered “Hope,” at once to +recognise her as having made one of the congregation the last Sunday +evening.</p> + +<p>Evidently one of Mr Graham’s party, she was not prejudiced in her +favour. But there was that in her manner which impressed her— that +something ethereal and indescribable which she herself was constantly +aping, and, almost involuntarily, she took upon herself such honours +as the place, despicable in her eyes, would admit of. She rose, made a +sweeping courtesy, and addressed Lady Clementina with such a manner as +people of Mrs Marshal’s ambitions put off and on like their clothes.</p> + +<p>“Pray, take a seat, ma’am, such as it is,” she said, with a wave of her +hand. “I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing you at our place.”</p> + +<p>Lady Clementina sat down: the room was too small to stand in, and Mrs +Marshal seemed to take the half of it.</p> + +<p>“I am not aware of the honour,” she returned, doubtful what the woman +meant—perhaps some shop or dress-maker’s. Clementina was not one who +delighted in freezing her humbler fellow-creatures, as we know; but +there was something altogether repulsive in the would-be-grand but +really arrogant behaviour of her fellow-visitor.</p> + +<p>“I mean,” said Mrs Marshal, a little abashed, for ambition is not +strength, “at our little Bethel in Kentish Town! Not that <i>we</i> live +there!” she explained with a superior smile.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I think I understand. You must mean the chapel where this +gentleman was preaching.”</p> + +<p>“That <i>is</i> my meaning,” assented Mrs Marshal.</p> + +<p>“I went there to-night,” said Clementina, turning with some timidity +to Mr Graham. “That I did not find you there, sir, will, I hope, +explain——” Here she paused, and turned again to Mrs Marshal. “I see +you think with me, ma’am, that a true teacher is worth following.”</p> + +<p>As she said this she turned once more to Mr Graham, who sat listening +with a queer, amused, but right courteous smile.</p> + +<p>“I hope you will pardon me,” she continued, “for venturing to call upon +you, and, as I have the misfortune to find you occupied, allow me to +call another day. If you would set me a time, I should be more obliged +than I can tell you,” she concluded, her voice trembling a little.</p> + +<p>“Stay now, if you will, madam,” returned the schoolmaster, with a bow +of oldest-fashioned courtesy. “This lady has done laying her commands +upon me, I believe.”</p> + +<p>“As you think proper to call them commands, Mr Graham, I conclude you +intend to obey them,” said Mrs Marshal, with a forced smile and an +attempt at pleasantry.</p> + +<p>“Not for the world, madam,” he answered. “Your son is acting the part +of a gentleman—yes, I make bold to say, of one who is very nigh the +kingdom of heaven, if not indeed within its gate, and before I would +check him I would be burnt at the stake—even were your displeasure the +fire, madam,” he added, with a kindly bow. “Your son is a line fellow.”</p> + +<p>“He would be, if he were left to himself. Good evening, Mr Graham. +Good-bye, rather, for I <i>think</i> we are not likely to meet again.”</p> + +<p>“In heaven, I hope, madam; for by that time we shall be able to +understand each other,” said the schoolmaster, still kindly.</p> + +<p>Mrs Marshal made no answer beyond a facial flash as she turned to +Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Good evening, ma’am,” she said. “To pay court to the earthen vessel +because of the treasure it may happen to hold, is to be a respecter of +persons as bad as any.”</p> + +<p>An answering flash broke from Clementina’s blue orbs, but her speech +was more than calm as she returned,</p> + +<p>“I learned something of that lesson last Sunday evening, I hope, +ma’am. But you have left me far behind, for you seem to have learned +disrespect even to the worthiest of persons. Good evening, ma’am.”</p> + +<p>She looked the angry matron full in the face, with an icy regard, from +which, as from the Gorgon eye, she fled.</p> + +<p>The victor turned to the schoolmaster.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “for presuming to take your part, +but a gentleman is helpless with a vulgar woman.”</p> + +<p>“I thank you, madam. I hope the sharpness of your rebuke——but indeed +the poor woman can hardly help her rudeness, for she is very worldly, +and believes herself very pious. It is the old story— hard for the +rich.”</p> + +<p>Clementina was struck.</p> + +<p>“I too am rich and worldly,” she said. “But I know that I am not pious, +and if you would but satisfy me that religion is common sense, I would +try to be religious with all my heart and soul.”</p> + +<p>“I willingly undertake the task. But let us know each other a little +first. And lest I should afterwards seem to have taken an advantage +of you, I hope you have no wish to be nameless to me, for my friend +Malcolm MacPhail had so described you that I recognized your ladyship +at once.”</p> + +<p>Clementina said that, on the contrary, she had given her name to the +woman who opened the door.</p> + +<p>“It is because of what Malcolm said of you that I ventured to come to +you,” she added.</p> + +<p>“Have you seen Malcolm lately?” he asked, his brow clouding a little. +“It is more than a week since he has been to me.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon, with embarrassment, such as she would never have felt except +in the presence of pure simplicity, she told of his disappearance with +his mistress.</p> + +<p>“And you think they have run away together?” said the schoolmaster, his +face beaming with what, to Clementina’s surprise, looked almost like +merriment.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I think so,” she answered. “Why not, if they choose?”</p> + +<p>“I will say this for my friend Malcolm,” returned Mr Graham composedly, +“that whatever he did I should expect to find not only all right in +intention, but prudent and well-devised also. The present may well seem +a rash, ill-considered affair for both of them, but——”</p> + +<p>“I see no necessity either for explanation or excuse,” said Clementina, +too eager to mark that she interrupted Mr Graham. “In making up her +mind to marry him, Lady Lossie has shown greater wisdom and courage +than, I confess, I had given her credit for.”</p> + +<p>“And Malcolm?” rejoined the schoolmaster softly. “Should you say of him +that he showed equal wisdom?”</p> + +<p>“I decline to give an opinion upon the gentleman’s part in the +business,” answered Clementina, laughing, but glad there was so little +light in the room, for she was painfully conscious of the burning of +her cheeks. “Besides, I have no measure to apply to Malcolm,” she went +on, a little hurriedly. “He is like no one else I have ever talked +with, and I confess there is something about him I cannot understand. +Indeed, he is beyond me altogether.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps, having known him from infancy, I might be able to explain +him,” returned Mr Graham, in a tone that invited questioning.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps, then,” said Clementina, “I may be permitted, in jealousy +for the teaching I have received of him, to confess my bewilderment +that one so young should be capable of dealing with such things as he +delights in. The youth of the prophet makes me doubt his prophecy.”</p> + +<p>“At least,” rejoined Mr Graham, “the phenomenon coincides with what the +master of these things said of them—that they were revealed to babes +and not to the wise and prudent. As to Malcolm’s wonderful facility +in giving them form and utterance, that depends so immediately on +the clear sight of them, that, granted a little of the gift poetic, +developed through reading and talk, we need not wonder much at it.”</p> + +<p>“You consider your friend a genius?” suggested Clementina.</p> + +<p>“I consider him possessed of a kind of heavenly common sense, equally +at home in the truths of divine relation, and the facts of the human +struggle with nature and her forces. I should never have discovered +my own ignorance in certain points of the mathematics but for the +questions that boy put to me before he was twelve years of age. A thing +not understood lay in his mind like a fretting foreign body. But there +is a far more important factor concerned than this exceptional degree +of insight. Understanding is the reward of obedience. Peter says, ‘the +Holy Ghost, whom God hath given them that <i>obey</i> him.’ Obedience is +the key to every door. I am perplexed at the stupidity of the ordinary +religious being. In the most practical of all matters, he will talk, +and speculate, and try to feel, but he will not set himself to <i>do</i>. +It is different with Malcolm. From the first he has been trying to +obey. Nor do I see why it should be strange that even a child should +understand these things, if they are the very elements of the region +for which we were created and to which our being holds essential +relations, as a bird to the air, or a fish to the sea. If a man may not +understand the things of God whence he came, what shall he understand?”</p> + +<p>“How, then, is it that so few do understand?”</p> + +<p>“Because where they know, so few obey. This boy, I say, did. If you +had seen, as I have, the almost superhuman struggles of his will to +master the fierce temper his ancestors gave him, you would marvel less +at what he has so early become. I have seen him, white with passion, +cast himself on his face on the shore, and cling with his hands to +the earth as if in a paroxysm of bodily suffering; then after a few +moments rise and do a service to the man who had wronged him. Were it +any wonder if the light should have soon gone up in a soul like that? +When I was a younger man I used to go out with the fishing-boats now +and then, drawn chiefly by my love for the boy, who earned his own +bread that way before he was in his teens. One night we were caught in +a terrible storm, and had to stand out to sea in the pitch dark. He was +then not fourteen. ‘Can you let a boy like that steer?’ I said to the +captain of the boat. ‘Yes; just a boy like that,’ he answered. ‘Ma’colm +’ill steer as straucht ’s a porpus.’ When he was relieved, he crept +over the thwarts to where I sat. ‘<i>Is</i> there any true definition of a +straight line, sir?’ he said. ‘I can’t take the one in my Euclid.’—‘So +you’re not afraid, Malcolm?’ I returned, heedless of his question, for +I wanted to see what he would answer. ‘Afraid, sir!’ he rejoined with +some surprise, ‘I wad ill like to hear the Lord say, _O thou o’ little +faith!_’—‘But,’ I persisted, ‘God may mean to drown you!’—‘An’ what +for no?’ he returned. ‘Gien ye war to tell me ’at I micht be droon’t +ohn him meant it, I wad be fleyt eneuch.’ I see your ladyship does not +understand: I will interpret the dark saying: ‘And why should he not +drown me? If you were to tell me I might be drowned without his meaning +it, I should be frightened enough.’ Believe me, my lady, the right way +is simple to find, though only they that seek it <i>first</i> can find it. +But I have allowed myself,” concluded the schoolmaster, “to be carried +adrift in my laudation of Malcolm. You did not come to hear praises of +him, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“I owe him much,” said Clementina. “—But tell me then, Mr Graham, how +is it that you know there is a God, and one—one—fit to be trusted as +you trust him?”</p> + +<p>“In no way that I can bring to bear on the reason of another so as to +produce conviction.”</p> + +<p>“Then what is to become of me?”</p> + +<p>“I can do for you what is far better. I can persuade you to look and +see whether before your own door stands not a gate—lies not a path +to walk in. Entering by that gate, walking in that path, you shall +yourself arrive at the conviction, which no man can give you, that +there is a living Love and Truth at the heart of your being, and +pervading all that surrounds you. The man who seeks the truth in any +other manner will never find it. Listen to me a moment, my lady. I +loved that boy’s mother. Naturally she did not love me—how could she? +I was very unhappy. I sought comfort from the unknown source of my +life. He gave me to understand his Son, and so I understood himself, +knew that I came of God, and was comforted.”</p> + +<p>“But how do you know that it was not all a delusion—the product of +your own fervid imagination? Do not mistake me; I want to find it true.”</p> + +<p>“It is a right and honest question, my lady. I will tell you. Not to +mention the conviction which a truth beheld must carry with itself and +concerning which there can be no argument either with him who does or +him who does not see it, this experience goes far with me, and would +with you if you had it, as you may—namely, that all my difficulties +and confusions have gone on clearing themselves up ever since I set +out to walk in that way. My consciousness of life is threefold what it +was; my perception of what is lovely around me, and my delight in it, +threefold; my power of understanding things and of ordering my way, +threefold also; the same with my hope and my courage, my love to my +kind, my power of forgiveness. In short, I cannot but believe that my +whole being and its whole world are in process of rectification for +me. Is not that something to set against the doubt born of the eye +and ear, and the questions of an intellect that can neither grasp nor +disprove? I say nothing of better things still. To the man who receives +such as I mean, they are the heart of life; to the man who does not, +they exist not. But I say—if I thus find my whole being enlightened +and redeemed, and know that therein I fare according to the word of +the man of whom the old story tells: if I find that his word, and the +result of action founded upon that word, correspond and agree, opening +a heaven within and beyond me, in which I see myself delivered from +all that now in myself is to myself despicable and unlovely; if I can +reasonably—reasonably to myself, not to another —cherish hopes of a +glory of conscious being, divinely better than all my imagination when +most daring could invent—a glory springing from absolute unity with my +creator, and therefore with my neighbour; if the Lord of the ancient +tale, I say, has thus held word with me, am I likely to doubt much or +long whether there be such a lord or no?”</p> + +<p>“What, then, is the way that lies before my own door? Help me to see +it.”</p> + +<p>“It is just the old way—as old as the conscience—that of obedience +to any and every law of personal duty. But if you have ever seen the +Lord, if only from afar—if you have any vaguest suspicion that the +Jew Jesus, who professed to have come from God, was a better man than +other men, one of your first duties must be to open your ears to his +words, and see whether they commend themselves to you as true; then, if +they do, to obey them with your whole strength and might, upheld by the +hope of the vision promised in them to the obedient. This is the way +of life, which will lead a man out of the miseries of the nineteenth +century, as it led Paul out of the miseries of the first.”</p> + +<p>There followed a little pause, and then a long talk about what the +schoolmaster had called the old story; in which he spoke with such +fervid delight of this and that point in the tale; removing this +and that stumbling-block by giving the true reading—or the right +interpretation; showing the what and why and how—the very intent of +our Lord in the thing he said or did, that, for the first time in +her life, Clementina began to feel as if such a man must really have +lived, that his blessed feet must really have walked over the acres +of Palestine, that his human heart must indeed have thought and felt, +worshipped and borne, right humanly. Even in the presence of her new +teacher, and with his words in her ears, she began to desire her own +chamber that she might sit down with the neglected story and read for +herself.</p> + +<p>The schoolmaster walked with her to the chapel door. There her carriage +was already waiting. He put her in, and, while the Reverend Jacob +Masquar was still holding forth upon the difference between adoption +and justification, Clementina drove away, never more to delight the +hearts of the deacons with the noise of the hoofs of her horses, +staying the wheels of her yellow chariot.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIV">CHAPTER LIV.<br><span class="small">THE FEY FACTOR.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When Mr Crathie heard of the outrage the people of Scaurnose had +committed upon the surveyors, he vowed he would empty every house in +the place at Michaelmas. His wife warned him that such a wholesale +proceeding must put him in the wrong with the country, seeing they +could not <i>all</i> have been guilty. He replied it would be impossible, +the rascals hung so together, to find out the ringleaders even. She +returned that they all deserved it, and that a correct discrimination +was of no consequence; it would be enough to the purpose if he made a +difference. People would then say he had done his best to distinguish. +The factor was persuaded and made out a list of those who were to +leave, in which he took care to include all the principal men, to whom +he gave warning forthwith to quit their houses at Michaelmas. I do not +know whether the notice was in law sufficient, but exception was not +taken on that score.</p> + +<p>Scaurnose, on the receipt of the papers, all at the same time, by the +hand of the bellman of Portlossie, was like a hive about to swarm. +Endless and complicated were the comings and goings between the houses, +the dialogues, confabulations, and consultations, in the one street +and its many closes. In the middle of it, in front of the little +public-house, stood, all that day and the next, a group of men and +women, for no five minutes in its component parts the same, but, like +a cloud, ever slow-dissolving, and as continuously re-forming, some +dropping away, others falling to. Such nid-nodding, such uplifting and +fanning of palms among the women, such semi-revolving side-shakes of +the head, such demonstration of fists, and such cursing among the men, +had never before been seen and heard in Scaurnose. The result was a +conclusion to make common cause with the first victim of the factor’s +tyranny, namely Blue Peter, whose expulsion would arrive three months +before theirs, and was unquestionably head and front of the same cruel +scheme for putting down the fisher-folk altogether.</p> + +<p>Three of them, therefore, repaired to Joseph’s house, commissioned with +the following proposal and condition of compact: that Joseph should +defy the notice given him to quit, they pledging themselves that he +should not be expelled. Whether he agreed or not, they were equally +determined, they said, when their turn came, to defend the village; but +if he would cast in his lot with them, they would, in defending him, +gain the advantage of having the question settled three months sooner +for themselves. Blue Peter sought to dissuade them, specially insisting +on the danger of bloodshed. They laughed. They had anticipated +objection, but being of the youngest and roughest in the place, +the idea of a scrimmage was, neither in itself nor in its probable +consequences, at all repulsive to them. They answered that a little +blood-letting would do nobody any harm, neither would there be much +of that, for they scorned to use any weapon sharper than their fists +or a good thick <i>rung</i>: the women and children would take stones of +course. Nobody would be killed, but every meddlesome authority taught +to let Scaurnose and fishers alone. Peter objected that their enemies +could easily starve them out. Dubs rejoined that, if they took care to +keep the sea-door open, their friends at Portlossie would not let them +starve. Grosert said he made no doubt the factor would have the Seaton +to fight as well as Scaurnose, for they must see plainly enough that +their turn would come next. Joseph said the factor would apply to the +magistrates, and they would call out the militia.</p> + +<p>“An’ we’ll call out Buckie,” answered Dubs.</p> + +<p>“Man,” said Fite Folp, the eldest of the three, “the haill shore, frae +the Brough to Fort George, ’ll be up in a jiffie, an’ a’ the cuintry, +frae John o’ Groat’s to Berwick, ’ill hear hoo the fisher-fowk’s +misguidit; an’ at last it’ll come to the king, an’ <i>syne</i> we’ll get oor +richts, for he’ll no stan’ to see ’t, an’ maitters ’ll sane be set upon +a better futtin’ for puir fowk ’at has no freen’ but God an’ the sea.”</p> + +<p>The greatness of the result represented laid hold of Peter’s +imagination, and the resistance to injustice necessary to reach it +stirred the old tar in him. When they took their leave, he walked +halfway up the street with them, and then returned to tell his wife +what they had been saying, all the way murmuring to himself as he went, +“The Lord is a man of war.” And ever as he said the words, he saw as +in a vision the great man-of-war in which he had served, sweeping +across the bows of a Frenchman, and raking him, gun after gun, from +stem to stern. Nor did the warlike mood abate until he reached home +and looked his wife in the eyes. He told her all, ending with the half +repudiatory, half-tentative words.</p> + +<p>“That’s what they say, ye see, Annie.”</p> + +<p>“And what say ye, Joseph?” returned his wife.</p> + +<p>“Ow! I’m no sayin’,” he answered.</p> + +<p>“What are ye thinkin’ than, Joseph?” she pursued. “Ye canna say ye’re +no thinkin’.”</p> + +<p>“Na; I’ll no say that, lass,” he replied, but said no more.</p> + +<p>“Weel, gien ye winna say,” resumed Annie, “I wull; an’ my say is, ’at +it luiks to me unco like takin’ things intill yer ain han’.”</p> + +<p>“An’ whase han’ sud we tak them intill but oor ain?” said Peter, with a +falseness which in another would have roused his righteous indignation.</p> + +<p>“That’s no the p’int. It’s whase han’ ye’re takin’ them oot o’,” +returned she, and spoke with solemnity and significance.</p> + +<p>Peter made no answer, but the words <i>Vengeance is mine</i> began to ring +in his mental ears instead of <i>The Lord is a man of war</i>.</p> + +<p>Before Mr Graham left them, and while Peter’s soul was flourishing, +he would have simply said that it was their part to endure, and leave +the rest to the God of the sparrows. But now the words of men whose +judgment had no weight with him, threw him back upon the instinct of +self-defence—driven from which by the words of his wife, he betook +himself, not alas! to the protection, but to the vengeance of the Lord!</p> + +<p>The next day he told the three commissioners that he was sorry to +disappoint them, but he could not make common cause with them, for +he could not see it his duty to resist, much as it would gratify the +natural man. They must therefore excuse him if he left Scaurnose at the +time appointed. He hoped he should leave friends behind him.</p> + +<p>They listened respectfully, showed no offence, and did not even attempt +to argue the matter with him. But certain looks passed between them.</p> + +<p>After this Blue Peter was a little happier in his mind, and went more +briskly about his affairs.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LV">CHAPTER LV.<br><span class="small">THE WANDERER.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>It was a lovely summer evening, and the sun, going down just beyond +the point of the Scaurnose, shone straight upon the Partan’s door. +That it was closed in such weather had a significance—general as +well as individual. Doors were oftener closed in the Seaton now. +The spiritual atmosphere of the place was less clear and open than +hitherto. The behaviour of the factor, the trouble of their neighbours, +the conviction that the man who depopulated Scaurnose would at least +raise the rents upon them, had brought a cloud over the feelings and +prospects of its inhabitants—which their special quarrel with the +oppressor for Malcolm’s sake, had drawn deeper around the Findlays; and +hence it was that the setting sun shone upon the closed door of their +cottage.</p> + +<p>But a shadow darkened it, cutting off the level stream of rosy red. An +aged man, in Highland garments, stood and knocked. His overworn dress +looked fresher and brighter in the friendly rays, but they shone very +yellow on the bare hollows of his old knees. It was Duncan MacPhail, +the supposed grandfather of Malcolm. He was older and feebler—I +had almost said blinder, but that could not be— certainly shabbier +than ever. The glitter of dirk and broadsword at his sides, and the +many-coloured ribbons adorning the old bagpipes under his arms, somehow +enhanced the look of more than autumnal, of wintry desolation in his +appearance.</p> + +<p>Before he left the Seaton, the staff he carried was for show rather +than use, but now he was bent over it, as if but for it he would fall +into his grave. His knock was feeble and doubtful, as if unsure of a +welcoming response. He was broken, sad, and uncomforted.</p> + +<p>A moment passed. The door was unlatched, and within stood the +Partaness, wiping her hands in her apron, and looking thunderous. But +when she saw who it was, her countenance and manner changed utterly.</p> + +<p>“Preserve ’s a’! Ye’re a sicht for sair e’en, Maister MacPhail!” she +cried, holding out her hand, which the blind man took as if he saw as +well as she. “Come awa’ but the hoose. Wow! but ye’re walcome.”</p> + +<p>“She thanks your own self, Mistress Partan,” said Duncan, as he +followed her in; “and her heart will pe thanking you for ta coot +welcome; and it will pe a long time since she’ll saw you howefer.”</p> + +<p>“Noo, noo!” exclaimed Meg, stopping in the middle of her little +kitchen, as she was getting a chair for the old man, and turning upon +him to revive on the first possible chance what had been a standing +quarrel between them, “what <i>can</i> be the rizon ’at gars ane like you, +’at never saw man or wuman i’ yer lang life, the verra meenute ye open +yer mou’, say it’s lang sin’ ye <i>saw</i> me. A mensefu’ body like you, +Maister MacPhail, sud speyk mair to the p’int.”</p> + +<p>“Ton’t you’ll pe preaking her heart with ta one hand while you’ll pe +clapping her head with ta other,” said the piper. “Ton’t be taking her +into your house to pe telling her she can’t see. Is it that old Tuncan +is not a man as much as any woman in ta world, tat you’ll pe telling +her she can’t see? I tell you she <i>can</i> see, and more tan you’ll pe +think. And I will tell it to you, tere iss a pape in this house, and +tere was pe none when Tuncan she’ll co away.”</p> + +<p>“We a’ ken ye ha’e the <i>second</i> sicht,” said Mrs Findlay, who had not +expected such a reply; “an’ it was only o’ the first I spak. Haith! it +wad be ill set o’ me to anger ye the moment ye come back to yer ain. +Sit ye doon there by the chimla-neuk, till I mak ye a dish o’ tay. Or +maybe ye wad prefar a drap o’ parritch an’ milk? It’s no muckle I ha’e +to offer ye, but ye cudna be mair walcome.”</p> + +<p>As easily appeased as irritated, the old man sat down with a grateful, +placid look, and while the tea was <i>drawing</i>, Mrs Findlay, by judicious +questions, gathered from him the history of his adventures.</p> + +<p>Unable to rise above the disappointment and chagrin of finding that +the boy he loved as his own soul, and had brought up as his own son +was actually the child of a Campbell woman, one of the race to which +belonged the murderer of his people in Glencoe, and which therefore +he hated with an absolute passion of hatred; unable also to endure +the terrible schism in his being occasioned by the conflict between +horror at the Campbell blood, and ineffaceable affection for the +youth in whose veins it ran, and who so fully deserved all the love +he had lavished upon him, he had concluded to rid himself of all the +associations of place and people and event now grown so painful, +to make his way back to his native Glencoe, and there endure his +humiliation as best he might, beheld of the mountains which had beheld +the ruin of his race. He would end the few and miserable days of his +pilgrimage amid the rushing of the old torrents, and the calling of +the old winds about the crags and precipices that had hung over his +darksome yet blessed childhood. These were still his friends. But he +had not gone many days’ journey before a farmer found him on the road +insensible, and took him home. As he recovered, his longing after +his boy Malcolm grew, until it rose to agony, but he fought with his +heart, and believed he had overcome it. The boy was a good boy, he +said to himself; the boy had been to him as the son of his own heart; +there was no fault to find with him or in him; he was as brave as he +was kind, as sincere as he was clever, as strong as he was gentle; he +could play on the bagpipes, and very nearly talk Gaelic, but his mother +was a Campbell, and for that there was no help. To be on loving terms +with one in whose veins ran a single drop of the black pollution was +a thing no MacDhonuill must dream of. He had lived a man of honour, +and he would die a man of honour, hating the Campbells to their last +generation. How should the bard of his clan ever talk to his own soul +if he knew himself false to the name of his fathers! Hard fate for him! +As if it were not enough that he had been doomed to save and rear a +child of the brood abominable, he was yet further doomed, worst fate of +all, to love the evil thing! he could not tear the lovely youth from +his heart. But he could go further and further from him.</p> + +<p>As soon as he was able, he resumed his journey westward, and at length +reached his native glen, the wildest spot in all the island. There +he found indeed the rush of the torrents and the call of the winds +unchanged, but when his soul cried out in its agonies, they went on +with the same song that had soothed his childhood; for the heart of the +suffering man they had no response. Days passed before he came upon +a creature who remembered him; for more than twenty years were gone, +and a new generation had come up since he forsook the glen. Worst of +all, the clan-spirit was dying out, the family type of government all +but extinct, the patriarchal vanishing in a low form of the feudal, +itself already in abject decay. The hour of the Celt was gone by, and +the long-wandering raven, returning at last, found the ark it had left +afloat on the waters dry and deserted and rotting to dust. There was +not even a cottage in which he could hide his head. The one he had +forsaken when cruelty and crime drove him out, had fallen to ruins, +and now there was nothing of it left but its foundations. The people +of the inn at the mouth of the valley did their best for him, but he +learned by accident that they had Campbell connections, and, rising +that instant, walked from it for ever. He wandered about for a time, +playing his pipes, and everywhere hospitably treated; but at length +his heart could endure its hunger no more: he <i>must</i> see his boy, or +die. He walked therefore straight to the cottage of his quarrelsome but +true friend, Mrs Partan—to learn that his benefactor, the marquis, +was dead, and Malcolm gone. But here alone could he hope ever to see +him again, and the same night he sought his cottage in the grounds of +Lossie House, never doubting his right to re-occupy it. But the door +was locked, and he could find no entrance. He went to the House, and +there was referred to the factor. But when he knocked at his door, and +requested the key of the cottage, Mr Crathie, who was in the middle +of his third tumbler, came raging out of his dining-room, cursed him +for an old Highland goat, and heaped insults on him and his grandson +indiscriminately. It was well he kept the door between him and the +old man, for otherwise he would never have finished the said third +tumbler. That door carried in it thenceforth the marks of every weapon +that Duncan bore, and indeed the half of his sgian dhu<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> was the next +morning found sticking in it, like the sting which the bee is doomed to +leave behind her. He returned to Mistress Partan white and trembling, +in a mountainous rage with “ta low-pred hount of a factor.” Her +sympathy was enthusiastic, for they shared a common wrath. And now came +the tale of the factor’s cruelty to the fishers, his hatred of Malcolm, +and his general wildness of behaviour. The piper vowed to shed the +last drop of his blood in defence of his Mistress Partan. But when, to +strengthen the force of his asseveration, he drew the dangerous-looking +dirk from its sheath, she threw herself upon him, wrenched it from +his hand, and testified that “fules sudna hae chappin’-sticks, nor +yet teylors guns.” It was days before Duncan discovered where she had +hidden it. But not the less heartily did she insist on his taking up +his abode with her; and the very next day he resumed his old profession +of lamp-cleaner to the community.</p> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> or <i>skene dhu</i></p> + +</div> + +<p>When Miss Horn heard that he had come and where he was, old feud with +Meg Partan rendering it imprudent to call upon him, she watched for him +in the street, and welcomed him home, assuring him that, if ever he +should wish to change his quarters, her house was at his service.</p> + +<p>“I’m nae Cam’ell, ye ken, Duncan,” she concluded, “an’ what an auld +wuman like mysel’ can du to mak ye coamfortable sall no fail, an’ that +I promise ye.”</p> + +<p>The old man thanked her with the perfect courtesy of the Celt, +confessed that he was not altogether at ease where he was, but said he +must not hurt the feelings of Mistress Partan, “for she’ll not pe a +paad womans,” he added, “but her house will pe aalways in ta flames, +howefer.”</p> + +<p>So he remained where he was, and the general heart of the Seaton was +not a little revived by the return of one whose presence reminded them +of a better time, when no such cloud as now threatened them heaved its +ragged sides above their horizon.</p> + +<p>The factor was foolish enough to attempt inducing Meg to send her guest +away.</p> + +<p>“We want no landloupin’ knaves, old or young, about Lossie,” he +said. “If the place is no keepit dacent, we’ll never get the young +marchioness to come near ’s again.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, factor,” returned Meg, enhancing the force of her utterance by +a composure marvellous from it’s rarity, “the first thing to mak the +place—I’ll no say dacent, sae lang ’s there’s sae mony claverin’ wives +in ’t, but mair dacent nor it has been for the last ten year, wad be to +sen’ factors back whaur they cam frae.”</p> + +<p>“And whaur may that be?” asked Mr Crathie.</p> + +<p>“That’s mair nor I richtly can say,” answered Meg Partan, “but +auld-farand fouk threepit it was somewhaur ’ithin the swing o’ Sawtan’s +tail.”</p> + +<p>The reply on the factor’s lips as he left the house, tended to justify +the rude sarcasm.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVI">CHAPTER LVI.<br><span class="small">MID-OCEAN.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>There came a breath of something in the east. It was neither wind nor +warmth. It was light before it is light to the eyes of men. Slowly +and slowly it grew, until, like the dawning soul in the face of one +who lies in a faint, the life of light came back to the world, and at +last the whole huge hollow hemisphere of rushing sea and cloud-flecked +sky lay like a great empty heart, waiting, in conscious glory of the +light, for the central glory, the coming lord of day. And in the whole +crystalline hollow, gleaming and flowing with delight, yet waiting for +more, the Psyche was the only lonely life-bearing thing—the one cloudy +germ-spot afloat in the bosom of the great roc-egg of sea and sky, +whose sheltering nest was the universe with its walls of flame.</p> + +<p>Florimel woke, rose, went on deck, and for a moment was fresh born. It +was a fore-scent—even this could not be called a foretaste, of the +kingdom of heaven; but Florimel never thought of the kingdom of heaven, +the ideal of her own existence. She could however half appreciate this +earthly outbreak of its glory, this incarnation of truth invisible. +Round her, like a thousand doves, clamoured with greeting wings the +joyous sea-wind. Up came a thousand dancing billows, to shout their +good morning. Like a petted animal, importunate for play, the breeze +tossed her hair and dragged at her fluttering garments, then rushed +in the Psyche’s sails, swelled them yet deeper, and sent her dancing +over the dancers. The sun peered up like a mother waking and looking +out on her frolicking children. Black shadows fell from sail to sail, +slipping and shifting, and one long shadow of the Psyche herself +shot over the world to the very gates of the west, but held her not, +for she danced and leaned and flew as if she had but just begun her +corantolavolta fresh with the morning, and had not been dancing all the +livelong night over the same floor. Lively as any new-born butterfly, +not like a butterfly’s, flitting and hovering, was her flight, for +still, like one that longed, she sped and strained and flew. The joy +of bare life swelled in Florimel’s bosom. She looked up, she looked +around, she breathed deep. The cloudy anger that had rushed upon her +like a watching tiger the moment she waked, fell back, and left her +soul a clear mirror to reflect God’s dream of a world. She turned, and +saw Malcolm at the tiller, and the cloudy wrath sprang upon her. He +stood composed and clear and cool as the morning, without sign of doubt +or conscience of wrong, now peeping into the binnacle, now glancing +at the sunny sails, where swayed across and back the dark shadows of +the rigging, as the cutter leaned and rose, like a child running and +staggering over the multitudinous and unstable hillocks. She turned +from him.</p> + +<p>“Good morning, my lady! What a good morning it is!” As in all his +address to his mistress, the freedom of the words did not infect the +tone; that was resonant of essential honour. “Strange to think,” he +went on, “that the sun himself there is only a great fire, and knows +nothing about it! There must be a sun to that sun, or the whole thing +is a vain show. There must be one to whom each is itself, yet the all +makes a whole—one who is at once both centre and circumference to all.”</p> + +<p>Florimel cast on him a scornful look. For not merely was he talking his +usual unintelligible rubbish of poetry, but he had the impertinence to +speak as if he had done nothing amiss, and she had no ground for being +offended with him. She made him no answer. A cloud came over Malcolm’s +face; and until she went again below, he gave his attention to his +steering.</p> + +<p>In the meantime Rose, who happily had turned out as good a sailor as +her new mistress, had tidied the little cabin; and Florimel found, if +not quite such a sumptuous breakfast laid as at Portland Place, yet a +far better appetite than usual to meet what there was; and when she had +finished, her temper was better, and she was inclined to think less +indignantly of Malcolm’s share in causing her so great a pleasure. She +was not yet quite spoiled. She was still such a lover of the visible +world and of personal freedom, that the thought of returning to London +and its leaden-footed hours, would now have been unendurable. At this +moment she could have imagined no better thing than thus to go tearing +through the water—home to her home. For although she had spent little +of her life at Lossie House, she could not but prefer it unspeakably to +the schools in which she had passed almost the whole of the preceding +portion of it. There was little or nothing in the affair she could have +wished otherwise except its origin. She was mischievous enough to enjoy +even the thought of the consternation it would cause at Portland Place. +She did not realize all its awkwardness. A letter to Lady Bellair when +she reached home would, she said to herself, set everything right; +and if Malcolm had now repented and put about, she would instantly +have ordered him to hold on for Lossie. But it was mortifying that she +should have come at the will of Malcolm, and not by her own—worse than +mortifying that perhaps she would have to say so. If she were going to +say so, she must turn him away as soon as she arrived. There was no +help for it. She dared not keep him after that in the face of society. +But she might take the bold, and perhaps a little dangerous measure of +adopting the flight as altogether her own madcap idea. Her thoughts +went floundering in the bog of expediency, until she was tired, and +declined from thought to reverie.</p> + +<p>Then dawning out of the dreamland of her past, appeared the image of +Lenorme. Pure pleasure, glorious delight, such as she now felt, could +not long possess her mind, without raising in its charmed circle the +vision of the only man except her father whom she had ever—something +like loved. Her behaviour to him had not yet roused in her shame or +sorrow or sense of wrong. She had driven him from her; she was ashamed +of her relation to him; she had caused him bitter suffering; she had +all but promised to marry another man; yet she had not the slightest +wish for that man’s company there and then: with no one of her +acquaintance but Lenorme could she have shared this conscious splendour +of life.</p> + +<p>“Would to God he had been born a gentleman instead of a painter!” she +said to herself when her imagination had brought him from the past, and +set him in the midst of the present.</p> + +<p>“Rank,” she said, “I am above caring about. In that he might be ever so +far my inferior, and welcome, if only he had been of a good family, a +gentleman born!”</p> + +<p>She was generosity, magnanimity itself in her own eyes! Yet he was of +far better family than she knew, for she had never taken the trouble to +inquire into his history. And now she was so much easier in her mind +since she had so cruelly broken with him, that she felt positively +virtuous because she had done it, and he was not at that moment by her +side. And yet if he had that moment stepped from behind the main-sail, +she would in all probability have thrown herself into his arms.</p> + +<p>The day passed on: Florimel grew tired and went to sleep; woke and had +her dinner; took a volume of the “Arabian Nights,” and read herself +again to sleep; woke again; went on deck; saw the sun growing weary +in the west. And still the unwearied wind blew, and still the Psyche +danced on, as unwearied as the wind.</p> + +<p>The sun-set was rather an assumption than a decease, a reception of him +out of their sight into an eternity of gold and crimson; and when he +was gone, and the gorgeous bliss had withered into a dove-hued grief, +then the cool, soft twilight, thoughtful of the past and its love, +crept out of the western caves over the breast of the water, and filled +the dome and made of itself a great lens royal, through which the stars +and their motions were visible; and the ghost of Aurora with both +hands lifted her shroud above her head and made a dawn for the moon on +the verge of the watery horizon— a dawn as of the past, the hour of +inverted hope.</p> + +<p>Not a word all day had been uttered between Malcolm and his mistress: +when the moon appeared, with the waves sweeping up against her face, he +approached Florimel where she sat in the stern. Davy was steering.</p> + +<p>“Will your ladyship come forward and see how the Psyche goes?” he said. +“At the stern, you can see only the passive part of her motion. It is +quite another thing to see the will of her at work in the bows.”</p> + +<p>At first she was going to refuse; but she changed her mind, or her mind +changed her: she was not much more of a living and acting creature yet +than the Psyche herself. She said nothing, but rose, and permitted +Malcolm to help her forward.</p> + +<p>It was the moon’s turn now to be level with the water, and as Florimel +stood on the larboard side, leaning over and gazing down, she saw her +shine through the little feather of spray the cutwater sent curling up +before it, and turn it into pearls and semiopals.</p> + +<p>“She’s got a bone in her mouth, you see, my lady,” said old Travers.</p> + +<p>“Go aft till I call you, Travers,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Rose was in Florimel’s cabin, and they were now quite alone.</p> + +<p>“My lady,” said Malcolm, “I can’t bear to have you angry with me.”</p> + +<p>“Then you ought not to deserve it,” returned Florimel.</p> + +<p>“My lady, if you knew all, you would not say I deserved it.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me all then, and let me judge.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot tell you all yet, but I will tell you something which may +perhaps incline you to feel merciful. Did your ladyship ever think what +could make me so much attached to your father?”</p> + +<p>“No indeed. I never saw anything peculiar in it. Even now-a-days there +are servants to be found who love their masters. It seems to me natural +enough. Besides he was very kind to you.”</p> + +<p>“It was natural indeed, my lady—more natural than you think. Kind to +me he was, and that was natural too.”</p> + +<p>“Natural to him, no doubt, for he was kind to everybody.”</p> + +<p>“My grandfather told you something of my early history—did he not, my +lady?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—at least I think I remember his doing so.”</p> + +<p>“Will you recall it, and see whether it suggests nothing?”</p> + +<p>But Florimel could remember nothing in particular, she said. She had in +truth, for as much as she was interested at the time, forgotten almost +everything of the story.</p> + +<p>“I really cannot think what you mean,” she added. “If you are going to +be mysterious, I shall resume my place by the tiller. Travers is deaf, +and Davy is dumb: I prefer either.”</p> + +<p>“My lady,” said Malcolm, “your father knew my mother, and persuaded her +that he loved her.”</p> + +<p>Florimel drew herself up, and would have looked him to ashes if wrath +could burn. Malcolm saw he must come to the point at once or the parley +would cease.</p> + +<p>“My lady,” he said, “your father was my father too. I am a son of the +Marquis of Lossie, and your brother—your ladyship’s half-brother, that +is.”</p> + +<p>She looked a little stunned. The gleam died out of her eyes, and the +glow out of her cheek. She turned and leaned over the bulwark. He said +no more, but stood watching her. She raised herself suddenly, looked at +him, and said,</p> + +<p>“Do I understand you?”</p> + +<p>“I am your brother,” Malcolm repeated.</p> + +<p>She made a step forward, and held out her hand. He took the little +thing in his great grasp tenderly. Her lip trembled. She gazed at him +for an instant, full in the face, with a womanly, believing expression.</p> + +<p>“My poor Malcolm!” she said, “I am sorry for you.”</p> + +<p>She withdrew her hand, and again leaned over the bulwark. Her heart was +softened towards her groom-brother, and for a moment it seemed to her +that some wrong had been done. Why should the one be a marchioness and +the other a groom? Then came the thought that now all was explained. +Every peculiarity of the young man, every gift extraordinary of body, +mind, or spirit, his strength, his beauty, his courage, and honesty, +his simplicity, nobleness, and affection, yes, even what in <i>him</i> was +mere doggedness and presumption, all, everything explained itself to +Florimel in the fact that the incomprehensible fisherman-groom, that +talked like a parson, was the son of her father. She never thought of +the woman that was his mother, and what share she might happen to have +in the phenomenon —thought only of her father, and a little pitifully +of the half-honour and more than half-disgrace infolding the very +existence of her attendant. As usual her thoughts were confused. The +one moment the poor fellow seemed to exist only on sufferance, having +no right to be there at all, for as fine a fellow as he was; the next +she thought how immeasurably he was indebted to the family of the +Colonsays. Then arose the remembrance of his arrogance and presumption +in assuming on such a ground something more than guardianship— +absolute tyranny over her, and with the thought pride and injury at +once got the upper hand. Was <i>she</i> to be dictated to by a low-born, +low-bred fellow like that—a fellow whose hands were harder than any +leather, not with doing things for his amusement but actually with +earning his daily bread—one that used to smell so of fish —on the +ground of right too—and such a right as ought to exclude him for ever +from her presence!—She turned to him again.</p> + +<p>“How long have you known this—this—painful—indeed I must confess to +finding it an awkward and embarrassing fact? I presume you <i>do</i> know +it?” she said, coldly and searchingly.</p> + +<p>“My father confessed it on his death-bed.”</p> + +<p>“Confessed!” echoed Florimel’s pride, but she restrained her tongue.</p> + +<p>“It explains much,” she said, with a sort of judicial relief. +“There has been a great change upon you since then. Mind I only say +<i>explains</i>. It could never justify such behaviour as yours— no, not if +you had been my true brother. There is some excuse, I daresay, to be +made for your ignorance and inexperience. No doubt the discovery turned +your head. Still I am at a loss to understand how you could imagine +that sort of—of—that sort of thing gave you any right over me!”</p> + +<p>“Love has its rights, my lady,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Again her eyes flashed and her cheek flushed. “I cannot permit you to +talk so to me. You must not fancy such things are looked upon in our +position with the same indifference as in yours. You must not flatter +yourself that you can be allowed to cherish the same feelings towards +me as if—as if—you were really my brother. I am sorry for you, +Malcolm, as I said already; but you have altogether missed your mark if +you think that can alter facts, or shelter you from the consequences of +presumption.”</p> + +<p>Again she turned away. Malcolm’s heart was sore for her. How grievously +she had sunk from the Lady Florimel of the old days! It was all from +being so constantly with that wretched woman and her vile nephew. Had +he been able to foresee such a rapid declension, he would have taken +her away long ago, and let come of her feelings what might. He had been +too careful over them.</p> + +<p>“Indeed,” Florimel resumed, but this time without turning towards +him, “I do not see how things can possibly, after what you have told +me, remain as they are. I should not feel at all comfortable in +having one about me who would be constantly supposing he had rights, +and reflecting on my father for fancied injustice, and whom I fear +nothing could prevent from taking liberties. It is very awkward +indeed, Malcolm—very awkward! But it is your own fault that you are +so changed, and I must say I should not have expected it of you. I +should have thought you had more good sense and regard for me. If I +were to tell the world why I wanted to keep you, people would but shrug +their shoulders and tell me to get rid of you; and if I said nothing, +there would always be something coming up that required explanation. +Besides, you would for ever be trying to convert me to one or other +of your foolish notions. I hardly know what to do. I will consult—my +friends on the subject. And yet I would rather they knew nothing of it. +My father you see——” She paused. “If you had been my real brother it +would have been different.”</p> + +<p>“I <i>am</i> your real brother, my lady, and I have tried to behave like one +ever since I knew it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; you have been troublesome. I have always understood that brothers +were troublesome. I am told they are given to taking upon them the +charge of their sisters’ conduct. But I would not have even you think +me heartless. If you had been a <i>real</i> brother, of course I should have +treated you differently.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t doubt it, my lady, for everything would have been different +then. I should have been the Marquis of Lossie, and you would have been +Lady Florimel Colonsay. But it would have made little difference in one +thing: I could not have loved you better than I do now— if only you +would believe it, my lady!”</p> + +<p>The emotion of Malcolm, evident in his voice as he said this, seemed to +touch her a little.</p> + +<p>“I believe it, my poor Malcolm,” she returned, “quite as much as I +want, or as it is pleasant to believe it. I think you would do a great +deal for me, Malcolm. But then you are so rude! take things into your +hands, and do things for me I don’t want done! You <i>will</i> judge, not +only for yourself, but for me! How <i>can</i> a man of your training and +position judge for a lady of mine! Don’t you see the absurdity of it? +At times it has been very awkward indeed. Perhaps when I am married +it might be arranged; but I don’t know.” Here Malcolm ground his +teeth, but was otherwise irresponsive as block of stone. “How would a +gamekeeper’s place suit you? That is a half-gentlemanly kind of post. I +will speak to the factor, and see what can be done.—But on the whole I +<i>think</i>, Malcolm, it will be better you should go. I am <i>very</i> sorry. +I wish you had not told me. It is very painful to me. You <i>should</i> not +have told me. These things are not intended to be talked of.—Suppose +you were to marry—say——”</p> + +<p>She stopped abruptly, and it was well both for herself and Malcolm that +she caught back the name that was on her lips.</p> + +<p>The poor girl must not be judged as if she had been more than a girl, +or other than one with every disadvantage of evil training. Had she +been four or five years older, she might have been a good deal worse, +and have seemed better, for she would have kept much of what she had +now said to herself, and would perhaps have treated her brother more +kindly while she cared even less for him.</p> + +<p>“What will you do with Kelpie, my lady?” asked Malcolm quietly.</p> + +<p>“There it is, you see!” she returned. “So awkward! If you had not told +me, things could have gone on as before, and for your sake I could have +pretended I came this voyage of my own will and pleasure. Now, I don’t +know what I can do—except indeed you—let me see —if you were to hold +your tongue, and tell nobody what you have just told me—I don’t know +but you might stay till you got her so far trained that another man +could manage her. I might even be able to ride her myself.—Will you +promise?”</p> + +<p>“I will promise not to let the fact come out so long as I am in your +service, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“After all that has passed, I think you might promise me a little more! +But I will not press it.”</p> + +<p>“May I ask what it is, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“I am not going to press it, for I do not choose to make a favour +of it. Still, I do not see that it would be such a mighty favour to +ask—of one who owes respect at least to the house of Lossie. But I +will not ask. I will only <i>suggest</i>, Malcolm, that you should leave +this part of the country—say this country altogether, and go to +America, or New South Wales, or the Cape of Good Hope. If you will take +the hint, and promise never to speak a word of this unfortunate—yes, +I must be honest, and allow there is a <i>sort</i> of relationship between +us; but if you will keep it secret, I will take care that something is +done for you—something, I mean, more than you could have any right to +expect. And mind, I am not asking you to conceal anything that could +reflect honour upon you or dishonour upon us.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“I scarcely thought you would. Only you hold such grand ideas about +self-denial, that I thought it might be agreeable to you to have an +opportunity of exercising the virtue at a small expense and a great +advantage.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm was miserable. Who could have dreamed to find in her such a +woman of the world! He must break off the hopeless interview.</p> + +<p>“Then, my lady,” he said, “I suppose I am to give my chief attention to +Kelpie, and things are to be as they have been.”</p> + +<p>“For the present. And as to this last piece of presumption, I will so +far forgive you as to take the proceeding on myself—mainly because +it would have been my very choice had you submitted it to me. There +is nothing I should have preferred to a sea-voyage and returning to +Lossie at this time of the year. But you also must be silent on your +insufferable share in the business. And for the other matter, the least +arrogance or assumption I shall consider to absolve me at once from +all obligation towards you of any sort. Such relationships are <i>never</i> +acknowledged.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you—sister,” said Malcolm—a last forlorn experiment; and as he +said the word he looked lovingly in her eyes.</p> + +<p>She drew herself up like the princess Lucifera, “with loftie eyes, +halfe loth to looke so lowe,” and said, cold as ice,</p> + +<p>“If once I hear that word on your lips again, as between you and me, +Malcolm, I shall that very moment discharge you from my service, as for +a misdemeanour. You have <i>no</i> claim upon me, and the world will not +blame me.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not, my lady. I beg your pardon. But there is one who +perhaps will blame you a little.”</p> + +<p>“I know what you mean; but I don’t pretend to any of your religious +motives. When I do, then you may bring them to bear upon me.”</p> + +<p>“I was not so foolish as you think me, my lady. I merely imagined you +might be as far on as a Chinaman,” said Malcolm, with a poor attempt at +a smile.</p> + +<p>“What insolence do you intend now?”</p> + +<p>“The Chinese, my lady, pay the highest respect to their departed +parents. When I said there was one who would blame you a little, I +meant your father.”</p> + +<p>He touched his cap, and withdrew.</p> + +<p>“Send Rose to me,” Florimel called after him, and presently with her +went down to the cabin.</p> + +<p>And still the Psyche soul-like flew. Her earthly birth held her to the +earth, but the ocean upbore her, and the breath of God drove her on. +Little thought Florimel to what she hurried her! A queen in her own +self-sufficiency and condescension, she could not suspect how little +of real queendom, noble and self-sustaining, there was in her being; +for not a soul of man or woman whose every atom leans not upon its +father-fact in God, can sustain itself when the outer wall of things +begins to tumble towards the centre, crushing it in on every side.</p> + +<p>During the voyage no further allusion was made by either to what had +passed. By the next morning Florimel had yet again recovered her +temper, and, nothing fresh occurring to irritate her, kept it and was +kind.</p> + +<p>Malcolm was only too glad to accept whatever parings of heart she might +offer. By the time their flight was over, Florimel almost felt as if it +had indeed been undertaken at her own desire and motion, and was quite +prepared to assert that such was the fact.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVII">CHAPTER LVII.<br><span class="small">THE SHORE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>It was two days after the longest day of the year, when there is no +night in those regions, only a long twilight, in which many dream and +do not know it. There had been a week of variable weather, with sudden +changes of wind to east and north, and round again by south to west, +and then there had been a calm for several days. But now the little +wind there was blew from the north-east; and the fervour of June was +rendered more delicious by the films of flavouring cold that floated +through the mass of heat. All Portlossie more and less, the Seaton +especially, was in a state of excitement, for its little neighbour, +Scaurnose, was more excited still. There the man most threatened, and +with greatest injustice, was the only one calm amongst the men, and +amongst the women his wife was the only one that was calmer than he. +Blue Peter was resolved to abide the stroke of wrong, and not resist +the powers that were, believing them in some true sense, which he found +it hard to understand when he thought of the factor as the individual +instance, ordained of God. He had a dim perception too that it was +better that one, that one he, should suffer, than that order should be +destroyed and law defied. Suffering, he might still in patience possess +his soul, and all be well with him; but what would become of the +country if everyone wronged were to take the law into his own hands? +Thousands more would be wronged by the lawless in a week than by unjust +powers in a year. But the young men were determined to pursue their +plan of resistance, and those of the older and soberer who saw the +uselessness of it, gave themselves little trouble to change the minds +of the rest.</p> + +<p>Peter, although he knew they were not for peace, neither inquired +what their purpose might be, nor allowed any conjecture or suspicion +concerning it to influence him in his preparations for departure. Not +that he had found a new home. Indeed he had not heartily set about +searching for one; in part because, unconsciously to himself he was +buoyed up by the hope he read so clear in the face of his more trusting +wife—that Malcolm would come to deliver them. His plan was to leave +her and his children with certain friends at Port Gordon; he would +not hear of going to the Partans to bring them into trouble. He would +himself set out immediately after for the Lewis fishing.</p> + +<p>Few had gone to the Hebrides that year from Scaurnose or Portlossie. +The magnitude of the events that were about to take place, yet more +the excitement and interest they occasioned, kept the most of the men +at home—to content themselves with fishing the waters of the Moray +Frith. And they had notable success. But what was success with such a +tyrant over them as the factor, threatening to harry their nests, and +turn the sea birds and their young out of their heritage of rock and +sand and shingle? They could not keep house on the waves, any more than +the gulls! Those who still held their religious assemblies in the cave +called the Baillies’ Barn, met often, read and sang the comminatory +psalms more than any others, and prayed much against the wiles and +force of their enemies both temporal and spiritual; while Mr Crathie +went every Sunday to Church, grew redder in the nose, and hotter in the +temper.</p> + +<p>Miss Horn was growing more and more uncomfortable concerning events, +and dissatisfied with Malcolm. She had not for some time heard from +him, and here was his most important duty unattended to— she would +not yet say neglected—the well being of his tenantry, namely, left +in the hands of an unsympathetic, self-important underling, who was +fast losing all the good sense he had once possessed! Was the life and +history of all these brave fishermen and their wives and children to be +postponed to the pampered feelings of one girl, and that because she +was what she had no right to be, his half-sister forsooth? said Miss +Horn to herself—that bosom friend to whom some people, and those not +the worst, say oftener what they do not mean than what they do. She had +written to him within the last month a very hot letter indeed, which +had afforded no end of amusement to Mrs Catanach, as she sat in his +old lodging over the curiosity shop, but, I need hardly say, had not +reached Malcolm: and now there was but one night, and the best of all +the fisher-families would have nowhere to lie down! Miss Horn, with +Joseph Mair, thought she did well to be angry with Malcolm.</p> + +<p>The blind piper had been very restless all day. Questioned again and +again by Meg Partan as to what was amiss with him, he had always +returned her odd and evasive answers. Every few minutes he got up +—even from cleaning her lamp—to go to the shore. He had but to cross +the threshold, and take a few steps through the <i>close</i>, to reach the +road that ran along the sea-front of the village: on the one side were +the cottages, scattered and huddled, on the other the shore and ocean +wide outstretched. He would walk straight across this road until he +felt the sand under his feet; there stand for a few moments facing +the sea, and, with nostrils distended, breathing deep breaths of the +air from the north-east; then turn and walk back to Meg Partan’s +kitchen, to resume his ministration of light. These his sallies were +so frequent, and his absences so short, that a more serene temper than +hers might have been fretted by them. But there was something about +his look and behaviour that, while it perplexed, restrained her; and +instead of breaking out upon him, she eyed him curiously.</p> + +<p>She had found that it would not do to stare at him. The instant she +began to do so, he began to fidget, and turned his back to her. It +had made her lose her temper for a moment, and declare aloud as her +conviction that he was after all an impostor, and saw as well as any of +them.</p> + +<p>“She has told you so, Mistress Partan, one hundred thousand times,” +replied Duncan with an odd smile: “and perhaps she will pe see a little +petter as any of you, no matter.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon she murmured to herself, “The cratur ’ill be seein’ +something!” and with mingled awe and curiosity sought to lay restraint +upon her unwelcome observation of him.</p> + +<p>Thus it went on the whole day, and as the evening approached, he grew +still more excited. The sun went down, and the twilight began; and, +as the twilight deepened, still his excitement grew. Straightway it +seemed as if the whole Seaton had come to share in it. Men and women +were all out of doors; and, late as it was when the sun set, to judge +by the number of red legs and feet that trotted in and out with a +little shadowy flash, with a dull patter-pat on earthen floor and hard +road, and a scratching and hustling among the pebbles, there could +not have been one older than a baby in bed; while of the babies even +not a few were awake in their mothers’ arms, and out with them on the +sea front. The men, with their hands in their trouser-pockets, were +lazily smoking pigtail, in short-clay pipes with tin covers fastened +to the stems by little chains, and some of the women, in short blue +petticoats and worsted stockings, doing the same. Some stood in their +doors, talking with neighbours standing in their doors; but these were +mostly the elder women: the younger ones— all but Lizzy Findlay—were +out in the road. One man half leaned, half sat on the window sill of +Duncan’s former abode, and round him were two or three more, and some +women, talking about Scaurnose, and the factor, and what the lads would +do to-morrow; while the hush of the sea on the pebbles mingled with +their talk, like an unknown tongue of the infinite—never articulating, +only suggesting— uttering in song and not in speech—dealing not with +thoughts, but with feelings and foretastes. No one listened: what to +them was the Infinite with Scaurnose in the near distance! It was now +almost as dark as it would be throughout the night if it kept as clear.</p> + +<p>Once more there was Duncan, standing as if looking out to sea, and +shading his brows with his hand as if to protect his eyes from the +glare of the sun, and enable his sight!</p> + +<p>“There’s the auld piper again!” said one of the group, a young woman. +“He’s unco fule like to be stan’in that gait (<i>way</i>), makin’ as gien he +cudna weel see for the sun in ’s e’en.”</p> + +<p>“Haud ye yer tongue, lass,” rejoined an elderly woman beside her. +“There’s mair things nor ye ken, as the Beuk says. There’s een ’at can +see an’ een ’at canna, an’ een ’at can see twise ower, an’ een ’at can +see steikit what nane can see open.”</p> + +<p>“Ta poat! ta poat of my chief!” cried the seer. “She is coming like a +tream of ta night, put one tat will not tepart with ta morning.”</p> + +<p>He spoke as one suppressing a wild joy.</p> + +<p>“Wha’ll that be, lucky-deddy (<i>grandfather</i>)?” inquired, in a +respectful voice, the woman who had last spoken, while those within +hearing hushed each other and stood in silence. And all the time the +ghost of the day was creeping round from west to east to put on its +resurrection body, and rise new born. It gleamed faint like a cold ashy +fire in the north.</p> + +<p>“And who will it pe than her own son, Mistress Reekie?” answered the +piper, calling her by her husband’s nickname, as was usual, but, as was +his sole wont, prefixing the title of respect, where custom would have +employed but her Christian name.</p> + +<p>“Who’ll should it pe put her own Malcolm?” he went on. “I see his poat +come round ta Tead Head. She flits over the water like a pale ghost +over Morven. But it’s ta young and ta strong she is pringing home to +Tuncan. O m’anam, beannuich!”</p> + +<p>Involuntarily all eyes turned towards the point called the Death’s +Head, which bounded the bay on the east.</p> + +<p>“It’s ower dark to see onything,” said the man on the window sill. +“There’s a bit haar (<i>fog</i>) come up.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Duncan, “it’ll pe too tark for you who haf cot no eyes +only to speak of. Put your’ll wait a few, and you’ll pe seeing as well +as herself. Och, her poy! her poy! O m’anam! Ta Lort pe praised! and +she’ll tie in peace, for he’ll pe only ta one half of him a Cam’ell, +and he’ll pe safed at last, as sure as there’s a heafen to co to and a +hell to co from. For ta half tat’s not a Cam’ell must pe ta strong half +and it will trag ta other half into heafen— where it will not pe ta +welcome, howefer.”</p> + +<p>As if to get rid of the unpleasant thought that his Malcolm could not +enter heaven without taking half a Campbell with him, he turned from +the sea and hurried into the house—but only to catch up his pipes and +hasten out again, filling the bag as he went. Arrived once more on the +verge of the sand, he stood again facing the north-east, and began to +blow a pibroch loud and clear.</p> + +<p>Meantime the Partan had joined the same group, and they were talking in +a low tone about the piper’s claim to the second sight, for, although +all were more or less inclined to put faith in Duncan, there was +here no such unquestioning belief in the marvel as would have been +found on the west coast in every glen from the Mull of Cantyre to +Loch Eribol—when suddenly Meg Partan, almost the only one hitherto +remaining in the house, appeared rushing from the close.</p> + +<p>“Hech, sirs!” she cried, addressing the Seaton in general, “gien the +auld man be i’ the richt,——”</p> + +<p>“She’ll pe aal in ta right, Mistress Partan, and tat you’ll pe seeing,” +said Duncan, who, hearing her first cry, had stopped his drone, and +played softly, listening.</p> + +<p>But Meg went on without heeding him any more than was implied in the +repetition of her exordium.</p> + +<p>“Gien the auld man be i’ the richt, it’ll be the marchioness hersel’ +’at’s h’ard o’ the ill duin’s o’ her factor, an’s comin’ to see efter +her fowk! An’ it’ll be Ma’colm’s duin’, an’ that’ll be seen. But the +bonny laad winna ken the state o’ the herbour, an’ he’ll be makin’ for +the moo’ o’ ’t, an’ he’ll jist rin ’s bonny boatie agrun’ ’atween the +twa piers, an’ that’ll no be a richt hame-comin’ for the leddy o’ the +lan’, an’ what’s mair, Ma’colm ’ill get the wyte (<i>blame</i>) o’ ’t, an’ +that’ll be seen. Sae ye maun some o’ ye to the pier-heid, an’ luik oot +to gie ’im warnin’.”</p> + +<p>Her own husband was the first to start, proud of the foresight of his +wife.</p> + +<p>“Haith, Meg!” he cried, “ye’re maist as guid at the lang sicht as the +piper himsel’!”</p> + +<p>Several followed him, and as they ran, Meg cried after them, giving her +orders as if she had been vice-admiral of the red, in a voice shrill +enough to pierce the worst gale that ever blew on northern shore.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll jist tell the bonnie laad to haud wast a bit an’ rin her ashore, +an’ we’ll a’ be there an’ hae her as dry ’s Noah’s ark in a jiffie. +Tell her leddyship we’ll cairry the boat, an’ her intill ’t, to the tap +o’ the Boar’s Tail, gien she’ll gie ’s her orders.— Winna we, laads?”</p> + +<p>“We can but try!” said one. “—But the Fisky ’ill be waur to get a grip +o’ nor Nancy here,” he added, turning suddenly upon the plumpest girl +in the place, who stood next to him. She foiled him however of the kiss +he had thought to snatch, and turned the laugh from herself upon him, +so cleverly avoiding his clutch that he staggered into the road, and +nearly fell upon his nose.</p> + +<p>By the time the Partan and his companions reached the pier-head, +something was dawning in the vague of sea and sky that might be a +sloop and standing for the harbour. Thereupon the Partan and Jamie +Ladle jumped into a small boat and pulled out. Dubs, who had come from +Scaurnose on the business of the conjuration, had stepped into the +stern, not to steer but to show a white ensign—somebody’s Sunday shirt +he had gathered, as they ran, from a furze-bush, where it hung to dry, +between the Seaton and the harbour.</p> + +<p>“Hoots! ye’ll affront the marchioness,” objected the Partan.</p> + +<p>“Man, i’ the gloamin’ she’ll no ken ’t frae buntin’,” said Dubs, and at +once displayed it, holding it by the two sleeves.</p> + +<p>The wind had now fallen to the softest breath, and the little vessel +came on slowly. The men rowed hard, shouting, and waving their flag, +and soon heard a hail which none of them could mistake for other +than Malcolm’s. In a few minutes they were on board, greeting their +old friend with jubilation, but talking in a subdued tone, for they +perceived by Malcolm’s that the cutter bore their lady.</p> + +<p>Briefly the Partan communicated the state of the harbour, and +recommended porting his helm, and running the Fisky ashore about +opposite the brass swivel.</p> + +<p>“A’ the men an’ women i’ the Seaton,” he said, “’ill be there to haul +her up.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm took the helm, gave his orders, and steered further westward. +By this time the people on shore had caught sight of the cutter. They +saw her come stealing out of the thin dark like a thought half thought, +and go gliding along the shore like a sea-ghost over the dusky water, +faint, uncertain, noiseless, glimmering. It could be no other than +the Fisky! Both their lady and their friend Malcolm must be on board, +they were certain, for how could the one of them come without the +other? and doubtless the marchioness, whom they all remembered as a +good-humoured handsome young lady, never shy of speaking to anybody, +had come to deliver them from the hateful red-nosed ogre, her factor! +Out at once they all set, along the shore to greet her arrival, each +running regardless of the rest, so that from the Seaton to the middle +of the Boar’s Tail there was a long, straggling broken string of +hurrying fisher-folk, men and women, old and young, followed by all the +current children, tapering to one or two toddlers, who felt themselves +neglected and wept their way along. The piper, too asthmatic to run, +but not too asthmatic to walk and play his bagpipes, delighting the +heart of Malcolm, who could not mistake the style, believed he brought +up the rear, but was wrong; for the very last came Mrs Findlay and +Lizzy, carrying between them their little deal kitchen-table, for her +ladyship to step out of the boat upon, and Lizzy’s child fast asleep on +the top of it.</p> + +<p>The foremost ran and ran until they saw that the Psyche had chosen +her couch, and was turning her head to the shore, when they stopped +and stood ready with greased planks and ropes to draw her up. In a +few moments the whole population was gathered, darkening, in the June +midnight, the yellow sands between the tide and dune. The Psyche was +well manned now with a crew of six. On she came under full sail till +within a few yards of the beach, when, in one and the same moment, +every sheet was let go, and she swept softly up like a summer wave, +and lay still on the shore. The butterfly was asleep. But ere she came +to rest, the instant indeed that her canvas went fluttering away, +thirty strong men had rushed into the water and laid hold of the now +broken-winged thing. In a few minutes she was high and dry.</p> + +<p>Malcolm leaped on the sand just as the Partaness came bustling up with +her kitchen-table between her two hands like a tray. She set it down, +and across it shook hands with him violently; then caught it up and +deposited it firm on its four legs beneath the cutter’s waist.</p> + +<p>“Noo, my leddy,” said Meg, looking up at the marchioness, “set ye yer +bit fut upo’ my table, an’ we’ll think the mair o’ ’t efter, whan we +tak oor denner aff o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>Florimel thanked her, stepped lightly upon it, and sprang to the sand, +where she was received with words of welcome from many, and shouts +which rendered them inaudible from the rest. The men, their bonnets in +their hands, and the women courtesying, made a lane for her to pass +through, while the young fellows would gladly have begged leave to +carry her, could they have extemporised any suitable sort of palanquin +or triumphal litter.</p> + +<p>Followed by Malcolm, she led the way over the Boar’s Tail—nor would +accept any help in climbing it—straight for the tunnel: Malcolm had +never laid aside the key to the private doors his father had given +him while he was yet a servant. They crossed by the embrasure of the +brass swivel. That implement had now long been silent, but they had +not gone many paces from the bottom of the dune when it went off with +a roar. The shouts of the people drowned the startled cry with which +Florimel, involuntarily mindful of old and for her better times, +turned to Malcolm. She had not looked for such a reception, and was +both flattered and touched by it. For a brief space the spirit of +her girlhood came back. Possibly, had she then understood that hope +rather than faith or love was at the heart of their enthusiasm, that +her tenants looked upon her as their saviour from the factor, and +sorely needed the exercise of her sovereignty, she might have better +understood her position, and her duty towards them.</p> + +<p>Malcolm unlocked the door of the tunnel, and she entered, followed by +Rose, who felt as if she were walking in a dream. As he stepped in +after them, he was seized from behind, and clasped close in an embrace +he knew at once.</p> + +<p>“Daddy, daddy!” he said, and turning threw his arms round the piper.</p> + +<p>“My poy! my poy! Her nain son Malcolm!” cried the old man in a whisper +of intense satisfaction and suppression. “You’ll must pe forgifing her +for coming pack to you. She cannot help lofing you, and you must forget +tat you are a Cam’ell.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm kissed his cheek, and said, also in a whisper:</p> + +<p>“My ain daddy! I ha’e a heap to tell ye, but I maun see my leddy hame +first.”</p> + +<p>“Co, co, this moment co,” cried the old man, pushing him away. “To your +tuties to my leddyship first, and then come to her old daddy.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll be wi’ ye in half an hoor or less.”</p> + +<p>“Coot poy! coot poy! Come to Mistress Partan’s.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, daddy!” said Malcolm, and hurried through the tunnel.</p> + +<p>As Florimel approached the ancient dwelling of her race, now her own to +do with as she would, her pleasure grew. Whether it was the twilight, +or the breach in dulling custom, everything looked strange, the +grounds wider, the trees larger, the house grander and more anciently +venerable. And all the way the burn sang in the hollow. The spirit of +her father seemed to hover about the place, and while the thought that +her father’s voice would not greet her when she entered the hall, cast +a solemn funereal state over her simple return, her heart yet swelled +with satisfaction and far-derived pride. All this was hers to work her +pleasure with, to confer as she pleased! No thought of her tenants, +fishers or farmers, who did their strong part in supporting the ancient +dignity of her house, had even an associated share in the bliss of the +moment. She had forgotten her reception already, or regarded it only as +the natural homage to such a position and power as hers. As to owing +anything in return, the idea had indeed been presented to her when with +Clementina and Malcolm she talked over “St Ronan’s Well,” but it had +never entered her mind.</p> + +<p>The drawing-room and the hall were lighted. Mrs Courthope was at +the door as if she expected her, and Florimel was careful to take +everything as a matter of course.</p> + +<p>“When will your ladyship please to want me?” asked Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“At the usual hour, Malcolm,” she answered.</p> + +<p>He turned, and ran to the Seaton.</p> + +<p>His first business was the accommodation of Travers and Davy, but he +found them already housed at the Salmon, with Jamie Ladle teaching +Travers to drink toddy. They had left the Psyche snug: she was high +above high-water mark, and there were no tramps about; they had furled +her sails, locked the companion-door, and left her.</p> + +<p>Mrs Findlay rejoiced over Malcolm as if he had been her own son from a +far country; but the poor piper between politeness and gratitude on the +one hand, and the urging of his heart on the other, was sorely tried +by her loquacity: he could hardly get in a word. Malcolm perceived his +suffering, and, as soon as seemed prudent, proposed that he should walk +with him to Miss Horn’s, where he was going to sleep, he said, that +night. Mrs Partan snuffed, but held her peace. For the third or fourth +time that day, wonderful to tell, she restrained herself!</p> + +<p>As soon as they were out of the house, Malcolm assured Duncan, to the +old man’s great satisfaction, that, had he not found him there, he +would, within another month, have set out to roam Scotland in search of +him.</p> + +<p>Miss Horn had heard of their arrival, and was wandering about the +house, unable even to sit down until she saw the marquis. To herself +she always called him the marquis; to his face he was always <i>Ma’colm</i>. +If he had not come, she declared she could not have gone to bed—yet +she received him with an edge to her welcome: he had to answer for +his behaviour. They sat down, and Duncan told a long sad story; which +finished, with the toddy that had sustained him during the telling, the +old man thought it better, for fear of annoying his Mistress Partan, to +go home. As it was past one o’clock, they both agreed.</p> + +<p>“And if she’ll tie to-night, my poy,” said Duncan, “she’ll pe lie awake +in her crave all ta long tarkness, to pe waiting to hear ta voice of +your worrts in ta morning. And nefer you mind, Malcolm, she’ll has +learned to forgife you for peing only ta one half of yourself a cursed +Cam’ell.”</p> + +<p>Miss Horn gave Malcolm a wink, as much as to say, “Let the old +man talk. It will hurt no Campbell,” and showed him out with much +attention. And then at last Malcolm poured forth his whole story, +and his heart with it, to Miss Horn, who heard and received it with +understanding, and a sympathy which grew ever as she listened. At +length she declared herself perfectly satisfied, for not only had he +done his best, but she did not see what else he could have done. She +hoped, however, that now he would contrive to get this part over as +quickly as possible, for which, in the morning, she would, she said, +show him cogent reasons.</p> + +<p>“I ha’e no feelin’s mysel’, as ye weel ken, laddie,” she remarked in +conclusion, “an’ I doobt, gien I had been i’ your place, I wadna hae +luikit to a’ sides o’ the thing at ance as ye hae dune.— An’ it was a +man like you ’at sae near lost yer life for the hizzy!” she exclaimed. +“I maunna think aboot it, or I winna sleep a wink. But we maun get that +deevil Catanach (an’ cat eneuch!) hangt. Weel, my man, ye may haud +up yer heid afore the father o’ ye, for ye’re the first o’ the race, +I’m thinkin’, ’at ever was near-han’ deein’ for anither. But mak ye a +speedy en’ till ’t noo, laad, an’ fa’ to the lave o’ yer wark. There’s +a terrible heap to be dune. But I maun haud my tongue the nicht, for +I wad fain ye had a guid sleep, an’ I’m needin’ ane sair mysel’, for +I’m no sae yoong as I ance was, an’ I ha’e been that anxious aboot +ye, Ma’colm, ’at though I never hed ony feelin’s, yet, noo ’at a’ ’s +gaein’ richt, an’ ye’re a’ richt, and like to be richt for ever mair, +my heid’s jist like to split. Gang yer wa’s to yer bed, and soon may +ye sleep. It’s the bed yer bonny mither got a soon’ sleep in at last, +and muckle was she i’ the need o’ ’t! An’ jist tak tent the morn what +ye say whan Jean’s i’ the room, or maybe o’ the ither side o’ the door, +for she’s no mowse. I dinna ken what gars me keep the jaud. I believe +’at gien the verra deevil himsel’ had been wi’ me sae lang, I wadna +ha’e the hert to turn him aboot his ill business. That’s what comes o’ +haein’ no feelin’s. Ither fowk wad ha’e gotten rid o’ her half a score +years sin’ syne.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVIII">CHAPTER LVIII.<br><span class="small">THE TRENCH.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Malcolm had not yet, after all the health-giving of the voyage, +entirely recovered from the effects of the ill-compounded potion. +Indeed, sometimes the fear crossed his mind that never would he be the +same man again, that the slow furnace of the grave alone would destroy +the vile deposit left in his house of life. Hence it came that he was +weary, and overslept himself the next day—but it was no great matter; +he had yet time enough. He swallowed his breakfast as a working man +alone can, and set out for Duff Harbour. At Leith, where they had put +in for provisions, he had posted a letter to Mr Soutar, directing him +to have Kelpie brought on to his own town, whence he would fetch her +himself. The distance was about ten miles, the hour eight, and he was a +good enough walker, although boats and horses had combined to prevent +him, he confessed, from getting over-fond of Shanks’ mare. To men +who delight in the motions of a horse under them, the legs of a man +are a tame, dull means of progression, although they too have their +superiorities; and one of the disciplines of this world is to have to +get out of the saddle and walk afoot. He who can do so with perfect +serenity, must very nearly have learned with St Paul in whatsoever +state he is therein to be content. It was the loveliest of mornings, +however, to be abroad in upon any terms, and Malcolm hardly needed +the resources of one who knew both how to be abased and how to abound +—enviable perfection—-for the enjoyment of even a long walk. Heaven +and earth were just settling to the work of the day after their morning +prayer, and the whole face of things yet wore something of that look +of expectation which one who mingled the vision of the poet with the +faith of the Christian might well imagine to be their upward look of +hope after a night of groaning and travailing —the earnest gaze of +the creature waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God; and +for himself, though the hardest thing was yet to come, there was a +satisfaction in finding himself almost up to his last fence, with the +heavy ploughed land through which he had been floundering nearly all +behind him—which figure means that he had almost made up his mind what +to do.</p> + +<p>When he reached the Duff Arms, he walked straight into the yard, where +the first thing he saw was a stable boy in the air, hanging on to a +twitch on the nose of the rearing Kelpie. In another instant he would +have been killed or maimed for life, and Kelpie loose, and scouring +the streets of Duff Harbour. When she heard Malcolm’s voice and the +sound of his running feet, she stopped as if to listen. He flung the +boy aside and caught her halter. Once or twice more she reared, in the +vain hope of so ridding herself of the pain that clung to her lip and +nose, nor did she, through the mist of her anger and suffering, quite +recognize her master in his yacht uniform. But the torture decreasing, +she grew able to scent his presence, welcomed him with her usual glad +whinny, and allowed him to do with her as he would.</p> + +<p>Having fed her, found Mr Soutar, and arranged several matters with him, +he set out for home.</p> + +<p>That was a ride! Kelpie was mad with life. Every available field he +jumped her into, and she tore its element of space at least to shreds +with her spurning hoofs. But the distance was not great enough to +quiet her before they got to hard turnpike and young plantations. He +would have entered at the grand gate, but found no one at the lodge, +for the factor, to save a little, had dismissed the old keeper. He had +therefore to go on, and through the town, where, to the awe-stricken +eyes of the population peeping from doors and windows, it seemed as +if the terrible horse would carry him right over the roofs of the +fisher-cottages below, and out to sea.</p> + +<p>“Eh, but he’s a terrible cratur that Ma’colm MacPhail!” said the old +wives to each other, for they felt there must be something wicked in +him to ride like that. But he turned her aside from the steep hill, and +passed along the street that led to the town-gate of the House.—Whom +should he see, as he turned into it, but Mrs Catanach!—standing on her +own doorstep, opposite the descent to the Seaton, shading her eyes with +her hand, and looking far out over the water through the green smoke of +the village below. As long as he could remember her, it had been her +wont to gaze thus; though what she could at such times be looking for, +except it were the devil in person, he found it hard to conjecture.</p> + +<p>At the sound of his approach she turned; and such an expression crossed +her face in a momentary flash ere she disappeared in the house, as +added considerably to his knowledge of fallen humanity. Before he +reached her door she was out again, tying on a clean white apron as she +came, and smiling like a dark pool in sunshine. She dropped him a low +courtesy, and looked as if she had been occupying her house for months +of his absence. But Malcolm would not meet even cunning with its own +weapons, and therefore turned away his head, and took no notice of her. +She ground her teeth with the fury of hate, and swore that she would +yet disappoint him of his purpose, whatever it were, in this masquerade +of service. Her heart being scarcely of the calibre to comprehend one +like Malcolm’s, her theories for the interpretation of the mystery were +somewhat wild, and altogether of a character unfit to see the light.</p> + +<p>The keeper of the town-gate greeted Malcolm, as he let him in, with a +pleased old face and words of welcome; but added instantly, as if it +was no time for the indulgence of friendship, that it was a terrible +business going on at the Nose.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Malcolm, in alarm.</p> + +<p>“Ye ha’e been ower lang awa’, I doobt,” answered the man, “to ken hoo +the factor——But, Lord save ye! haud yer tongue,” he interjected, +looking fearfully around him. “Gien he kenned ’at I said sic a thing, +he wad turn me oot o’ hoose an’ ha’.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve said nothing yet,” rejoined Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“I said <i>factor</i>, an’ that same’s ’maist eneuch, for he’s like a +roarin’ lion an’ a ragin’ bear amang the people, an’ that sin’ ever ye +gaed. Bow-o’-meal said i’ the meetin’ the ither nicht ’at he bude to +be the verra man, the wickit ruler propheseed o’ sae lang sin’ syne i’ +the beuk o’ the Proverbs. Eh! it’s an awfu’ thing to be foreordeent to +oonrichteousness!”</p> + +<p>“But you haven’t told me what is the matter at Scaurnose,” said Malcolm +impatiently.</p> + +<p>“Ow, it’s jist this—at this same ’s midsimmer-day, an’ Blew Peter, +honest fallow! he’s been for the last three month un’er nottice frae +the factor to quit. An’ sae, ye see,——”</p> + +<p>“To quit!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Sic a thing was never h’ard tell o’!”</p> + +<p>“Haith! it’s h’ard tell o’ noo,” returned the gatekeeper. “Quittin’ +’s as plenty as quicken (<i>couch-grass</i>). ’Deed there’s maist naething +ither h’ard tell o’ <i>bit</i> quittin’; for the full half o’ Scaurnose is +un’er like nottice for Michaelmas, an’ the Lord kens what it’ll a’ en’ +in!”</p> + +<p>“But what’s it for? Blue Peter’s no the man to misbehave himsel’.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, ye ken mair yersel’ nor ony ither as to the warst fau’t there is +to lay till ’s chairge; for they say—that is, <i>some</i> say, it’s a’ yer +ain wyte, Ma’colm.”</p> + +<p>“What mean ye, man? Speyk oot,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“They say it’s a’ anent the abduckin’ o’ the markis’s boat, ’at you an’ +him gaed aff wi’ thegither.”</p> + +<p>“That’ll hardly haud, seeing the marchioness hersel’ cam hame in her +the last nicht.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, but ye see the decree’s gane oot, an’ what the factor says is +like the laws o’ the Medes an’ the Prussians, ’at they say’s no to be +altert; I kenna mysel’.”</p> + +<p>“Ow weel! gien that be a’, I’ll see efter that wi’ the marchioness.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, but ye see there’s a lot o’ the laads there, as I’m tellt, ’at +has vooed ’at factor nor factor’s man sall ever set fut in Scaurnose +frae this day furth. Gang ye doon to the Seaton, an’ see hoo mony o’ +yer auld freen’s ye’ll fin’ there. Man, they’re a’ oot to Scaurnose to +see the plisky! The factor he’s there, I ken, an’ some constables wi’ +’im—to see ’at his order’s cairried oot. An’ the laads they ha’e been +fortifeein’ the place—as they ca’ ’t—for the last oor. They’ve howkit +a trenk, they tell me, ’at nane but a hunter on ’s horse cud win ower, +an’ they’re postit alang the toon side o’ ’t wi’ sticks an’ stanes, +an’ boat-heuks, an’ guns an’ pistils. An’ gien there bena a man or twa +killt a’ready,——”</p> + +<p>Before he finished his sentence, Kelpie was levelling herself for the +sea-gate.</p> + +<p>Johnny Bykes was locking it on the other side, in haste to secure his +eye-share of what was going on, when he caught sight of Malcolm tearing +up. Mindful of the old grudge, also that there was no marquis now +to favour his foe, he finished the arrested act of turning the key, +drew it from the lock, and to Malcolm’s orders, threats, and appeals, +returned for all answer that he had no time to attend to <i>him</i>, and +so left him looking through the bars. Malcolm dashed across the burn, +and round the base of the hill on which stood the little windgod +blowing his horn, dismounted, unlocked the door in the wall, got Kelpie +through, and was in the saddle again before Johnny was half-way from +the gate. When the churl saw him, he trembled, turned, and ran for its +shelter again in terror—nor perceived until he reached it, that the +insulted groom had gone off like the wind in the opposite direction.</p> + +<p>Malcolm soon left the high road and cut across the fields—over which +the wind bore cries and shouts, mingled with laughter and the animal +sounds of coarse jeering. When he came nigh the cart-road which led +into the village, he saw at the entrance of the street a crowd, and +rising from it the well-known shape of the factor on his horse. +Nearer the sea, where was another entrance through the back-yards of +some cottages, was a smaller crowd. Both were now pretty silent, for +the attention of all was fixed on Malcolm’s approach. As he drew up +Kelpie foaming and prancing, and the group made way for her, he saw +a deep wide ditch across the road, on whose opposite side was ranged +irregularly the flower of Scaurnose’s younger manhood, calmly, even +merrily prepared to defend their entrenchment. They had been chaffing +the factor, and loudly challenging the constables to come on, when they +recognised Malcolm in the distance, and expectancy stayed the rush of +their bruising wit. For they regarded him as beyond a doubt come from +the marchioness with messages of goodwill. When he rode up, therefore, +they raised a great shout, everyone welcoming him by name. But the +factor, who, to judge by appearances, had had his forenoon dram ere +he left home, burning with wrath, moved his horse in between Malcolm +and the assembled Scaurnoseans on the other side of the ditch. He had +self-command enough left, however, to make one attempt at the loftily +superior.</p> + +<p>“Pray what is your business?” he said, as if he had never seen Malcolm +in his life before, “I presume you come with a message.”</p> + +<p>“I come to beg you, sir, not to go further with this business. Surely +the punishment is already enough!” said Malcolm respectfully.</p> + +<p>“Who sends me the message?” asked the factor, his teeth clenched, and +his eyes flaming.</p> + +<p>“One,” answered Malcolm, “who has some influence for justice, and will +use it, upon whichever side the justice may lie.”</p> + +<p>“Go to hell,” cried the Factor, losing utterly his slender +self-command, and raising his whip.</p> + +<p>Malcolm took no heed of the gesture, for he was at the moment beyond +his reach.</p> + +<p>“Mr Crathie,” he said calmly, “you are banishing the best man in the +place.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt! no doubt! seeing he’s a crony of yours,” laughed the factor +in mighty scorn. “A canting, prayer-meeting rascal!” he added.</p> + +<p>“Is that ony waur nor a drucken elyer o’ the kirk?” cried Dubs from the +other side of the ditch, raising a roar of laughter.</p> + +<p>The very purple forsook the factor’s face, and left it a corpse-like +grey in the fire of his fury.</p> + +<p>“Come, come, my men! that’s going too far,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“An’ wha ir ye for a fudgie (<i>truant</i>) fisher, to gi’e coonsel ohn +speired?” shouted Dubs, altogether disappointed in the poor part +Malcolm seemed taking. “Haud to the factor there wi’ yer coonsel.”</p> + +<p>“Get out of my way,” said Mr Crathie, still speaking through his set +teeth, and came straight upon Malcolm. “Home with you! or—r—r——”</p> + +<p>Again he raised his whip, this time plainly with intent.</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, factor, min’ the mere,” cried Malcolm. “Ribs an’ legs +an’ a’ ’ill be to crack, gien ye anger her wi’ yer whuppin’.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, he drew a little aside that the factor might pass if he +pleased. A noise arose in the smaller crowd, and Malcolm turned to see +what it meant: off his guard, he received a stinging cut over the head +from the factor’s whip. Simultaneously, Kelpie stood up on end, and +Malcolm tore the weapon from the treacherous hand.</p> + +<p>“If I gave you what you deserve, Mr Crathie, I should knock you and +your horse together into that ditch. A touch of the spur would do +it. I am not quite sure that I ought not. A nature like yours takes +forbearance for fear.”</p> + +<p>While he spoke, his mare was ramping and kicking, making a clean sweep +all about her. Mr Crathie’s horse turned restive from sympathy, and it +was all his rider could do to keep his seat. As soon as he got Kelpie +a little quieter, Malcolm drew near and returned him his whip. He +snatched it from his outstretched hand, and essayed a second cut at +him, which Malcolm rendered powerless by pushing Kelpie close up to +him. Then suddenly wheeling, he left him.</p> + +<p>On the other side of the trench the fellows were shouting and roaring +with laughter.</p> + +<p>“Men,” cried Malcolm, “you have no right to stop up this road. I want +to go and see Blue Peter.”</p> + +<p>“Come on,” cried one of the young men, emulous of Dubs’s humour, and +spread out his arms as if to receive Kelpie to his bosom.</p> + +<p>“Stand out of the way then,” said Malcolm, “I <i>am</i> coming.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, he took Kelpie a little round, keeping out of the way of +the factor, who sat trembling with rage on his still excited animal, +and sent her at the trench.</p> + +<p>The Deevil’s Jock, as they called him, kept jumping, with his arms +outspread, from one place to another, as if to receive Kelpie’s charge, +but when he saw her actually coming, in short, quick bounds, straight +to the trench, he was seized with terror, and, half-paralysed, slipped +as he turned to flee, and rolled into the ditch, just in time to let +Kelpie fly over his head. His comrades scampered right and left, and +Malcolm, rather disgusted, took no notice of them.</p> + +<p>A cart, loaded with their little all, the horse in the shafts, was +standing at Peter’s door, but nobody was near it. Hardly was Malcolm +well into the close, however, when out rushed Annie, and, heedless of +Kelpie’s demonstrative repellence, reached up her hands like a child, +caught him by the arm, while yet he was busied with his troublesome +charge, drew him down towards her, and held him till, in spite of +Kelpie, she had kissed him again and again.</p> + +<p>“Eh, Ma’colm! eh, my lord!” she said, “ye ha’e saved my faith. I kenned +ye wad come!”</p> + +<p>“Haud yer tongue, Annie. I mauna be kenned,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“There’s nae danger. They’ll tak it for sweirin’,” answered Annie, +laughing and crying both at once.</p> + +<p>Out next came Blue Peter, his youngest child in his arms.</p> + +<p>“Eh, Peter man! I’m blythe to see ye,” cried Malcolm. “Gie ’s a grup o’ +yer honest han’.”</p> + +<p>More than even the sight of his face beaming with pleasure, more than +that grasp of the hand that would have squeezed the life out of a +pole-cat, was the sound of the mother-tongue from his lips. The cloud +of Peter’s long distrust broke and vanished, and the sky of his soul +was straightway a celestial blue. He snatched his hand from Malcolm’s, +walked back into the empty house, ran into the little closet off +the kitchen, bolted the door, fell on his knees in the void little +sanctuary that had of late been the scene of so many foiled attempts to +lift up his heart, and poured out speechless thanksgiving to the God of +all grace and consolation, who had given him back his friend, and that +in the time of his sore need. So true was his heart in its love, that, +giving thanks for his friend, he forgot that friend was the Marquis of +Lossie, before whom his enemy was but as a snail in the sun.</p> + +<p>When he rose from his knees, and went out again, his face shining and +his eyes misty, his wife was on the top of the cart, tying a rope +across the cradle.</p> + +<p>“Peter,” said Malcolm, “ye was quite richt to gang, but I’m glaid they +didna lat ye.”</p> + +<p>“I wad ha’e been half w’y to Port Gordon or noo,” said Peter.</p> + +<p>“But noo ye’ll no gang to Port Gordon,” said Malcolm. “Ye’ll jist gang +to the Salmon for a feow days, till we see hoo things gang.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll du onything ye like, Ma’colm,” said Peter, and went into the +house to fetch his bonnet.</p> + +<p>In the street arose the cry of a woman, and into the close rushed one +of the fisher-wives, followed by the factor. He had found a place on +the eastern side of the village, where, jumping a low earth wall, he +got into a little back yard, and was trampling over its few stocks of +kail, and its one dusty miller and double daisy, when the woman to +whose cottage it belonged caught sight of him through the window, and +running out fell to abusing him in no measured language. He rode at her +in his rage, and she fled shrieking into Peter’s close, where she took +refuge behind the cart, never ceasing her vituperation, but calling him +every choice name in her vocabulary. Beside himself with the rage of +murdered dignity, he rode up, and struck at her over the corner of the +cart, whereupon, from the top of it, Annie Mair ventured to expostulate.</p> + +<p>“Hoot, sir! It’s no mainners to lat at a wuman like that.”</p> + +<p>He turned upon her, and gave her a cut on the arm and hand, so stinging +that she cried out, and nearly fell from the cart. Out rushed Peter and +flew at the factor, who from his seat of vantage began to ply his whip +about his head. But Malcolm, who, when the factor appeared, had moved +aside to keep Kelpie out of mischief, and saw only the second of the +two assaults, came forward with a scramble and a bound.</p> + +<p>“Haud awa’, Peter,” he cried. “This belangs to me. I ga’e him back ’s +whup, an’ sae I’m accoontable.—Mr Crathie,”—and as he spoke he edged +his mare up to the panting factor, “the man who strikes a woman must be +taught that he is a scoundrel, and that office I take. I would do the +same if you were the lord of Lossie instead of his factor.”</p> + +<p>Mr Crathie, knowing himself now in the wrong, was a little frightened +at the set speech, and began to bluster and stammer, but the swift +descent of Malcolm’s heavy riding whip on his shoulders and back made +him voluble in curses. Then began a battle that could not last long +with such odds on the side of justice. It was gazed at from the mouth +of the close by many spectators, but none dared enter because of the +capering and plunging and kicking of the horses. In less than a minute +the factor turned to flee, and spurring out of the court, galloped up +the street at full stretch.</p> + +<p>“Haud oot o’ the gait,” cried Malcolm, and rode after him. But more +careful of the people, he did not get a good start, and the factor +was over the trench and into the fields before he caught him up. Then +again the stinging switch buckled about the shoulders of the oppressor, +driven with all the force of Malcolm’s brawny arm. The factor yelled +and cursed and swore, and still Malcolm plied the whip, and still the +horses flew—over fields and fences and ditches. At length in the last +field, from which they must turn into the high road, the factor groaned +out—</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, Ma’colm, ha’e mercy!”</p> + +<p>The youth’s uplifted arm fell by his side. He turned his mare’s head, +and when the factor turned his, he saw the avenger already halfway back +to Scaurnose, and the constables in full flight meeting him.</p> + +<p>While Malcolm was thus occupied, his sister was writing to Lady +Bellair. She told her that, having gone out for a sail in her yacht, +which she had sent for from Scotland, the desire to see her home had +overpowered her to such a degree that of the intended sail she had +made a voyage, and here she was, longing just as much now to see Lady +Bellair; and if she thought proper to bring a gentleman to take care +of her, he also should be welcomed for her sake. It was a long way for +her to come, she said, and Lady Bellair knew what sort of a place it +was; but there was nobody in London now, and if she had nothing more +enticing on her tablets, &c., &c. She ended with begging her, if she +was mercifully inclined to make her happy with her presence, to bring +to her Caley and her hound Demon. She had hardly finished when Malcolm +presented himself.</p> + +<p>She received him very coldly, and declined to listen to anything about +the fishers. She insisted that, being one of their party, he was +prejudiced in their favour; and that of course a man of Mr Crathie’s +experience must know better than he what ought to be done with such +people, in view of protecting her rights, and keeping them in order. +She declared that she was not going to disturb the old way of things +to please him; and said that he had now done her all the mischief he +could, except, indeed, he were to head the fishers and sack Lossie +House.</p> + +<p>Malcolm found that, by making himself known to her as her brother, +he had but given her confidence in speaking her mind to him, and set +her free from considerations of personal dignity when she desired +to humiliate him. But he was a good deal surprised at the ability +with which she set forth and defended her own view of her affairs, +for she did not tell him that the Rev. Mr Cairns had been with her +all the morning, flattering her vanity, worshipping her power, and +generally instructing her in her own greatness—also putting in a +word or two anent his friend Mr Crathie and his troubles with her +ladyship’s fisher-tenants. She was still, however, so far afraid of her +brother—which state of feeling was, perhaps, the main cause of her +insulting behaviour to him—that she sat in some dread lest he might +chance to see the address of the letter she had been writing.</p> + +<p>I may mention here that Lady Bellair accepted the invitation with +pleasure for herself and Liftore, promised to bring Caley, but utterly +declined to take charge of Demon, or allow him to be of the party. +Thereupon Florimel, who was fond of the animal, and feared much, as +he was no favourite, that something would <i>happen</i> to him, wrote to +Clementina, praying her to visit her in her lovely loneliness —good +as The Gloom in its way, though not quite so dark—and to add a hair +to the weight of her obligations if she complied, by allowing her +deerhound to accompany her. Clementina was the only one, she said, of +her friends for whom the animal had ever shown a preference.</p> + +<p>Malcolm retired from his sister’s presence much depressed, saw Mrs +Courthope, who was kind as ever, and betook himself to his own room, +next to that in which his strange history began. There he sat down +and wrote urgently to Lenorme, stating that he had an important +communication to make, and begging him to start for the north the +moment he received the letter. A messenger from Duff Harbour well +mounted, he said, would ensure his presence within a couple of hours.</p> + +<p>He found the behaviour of his old acquaintances and friends in the +Seaton much what he had expected: the few were as cordial as ever, +while the many still resented, with a mingling of the jealousy of +affection, his forsaking of the old life for a calling they regarded +as unworthy of one bred at least if not born a fisherman. A few there +were besides who always had been, for reasons perhaps best known to +themselves, less than friendly. The women were all cordial.</p> + +<p>“Sic a mad-like thing,” said old Futtocks, who was now the leader of +the assembly at the barn, “to gang scoorin’ the cuintry on that mad +brute o’ a mere! What guid, think ye, can come o’ sic like?”</p> + +<p>“H’ard ye him ever tell the story aboot Colonsay Castel yon’er?”</p> + +<p>“Ay hev I.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, isna his mere ’at they ca’ Kelpie jist the pictur o’ the deil’s +ain horse ’at lay at the door an’ watched, whan he flaw oot an’ tuik +the wa’ wi’ ’im ?”</p> + +<p>“I cudna say till I saw whether the deil himsel’ cud gar her lie still.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIX">CHAPTER LIX.<br><span class="small">THE PEACEMAKER.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The heroes of Scaurnose expected a renewal of the attack, and in +greater force, the next day, and made their preparations accordingly, +strengthening every weak point around the village. They were put in +great heart by Malcolm’s espousal of their cause, as they considered +his punishment of the factor; but most of them set it down in their +wisdom as resulting from the popular condemnation of his previous +supineness. It did not therefore add greatly to his influence with +them. When he would have prevailed upon them to allow Blue Peter to +depart, arguing that they had less right to prevent than the factor +had to compel him, they once more turned upon him: what right had he +to dictate to them? he did not belong to Scaurnose! He reasoned with +them that the factor, although he had not justice, had law on his side, +and could turn out whom he pleased. They said—“Let him try it!” He +told them that they had given great provocation, for he knew that the +men they had assaulted came surveying for a harbour, and that they +ought at least to make some apology for having maltreated them. It was +all useless: that was the women’s doing, they said; besides they did +not believe him; and if what he said was true, what was the thing to +them, seeing they were all under notice to leave? Malcolm said that +perhaps an apology would be accepted. They told him, if he did not take +himself off, they would serve him as he had served the factor. Finding +expostulation a failure, therefore, he begged Joseph and Annie to +settle themselves again as comfortably as they could, and left them.</p> + +<p>Contrary to the expectation of all, however, and considerably to the +disappointment of the party of Dubs, Fite Folp, and the rest, the next +day was as peaceful as if Scaurnose had been a halcyon nest floating +on the summer waves; and it was soon reported that, in consequence of +the punishment he had received from Malcolm, the factor was far too +ill to be troublesome to any but his wife. This was true, but, severe +as his chastisement was, it was not severe enough to have had any such +consequences but for his late growing habit of drinking whisky. As +it was, fever had followed upon the combination of bodily and mental +suffering. But already it had wrought this good in him, that he was far +more keenly aware of the brutality of the offence of which he had been +guilty than he would otherwise have been all his life through. To his +wife, who first learned the reason of Malcolm’s treatment of him from +his delirious talk in the night, it did not, circumstances considered, +appear an enormity, and her indignation with the avenger of it, whom +she had all but hated before, was furious. Malcolm, on his part, was +greatly concerned to hear the result of his severity. He refrained, +however, from calling to inquire, knowing it would be interpreted as +an insult, not accepted as a sign of sympathy. He went to the doctor +instead—who, to his consternation, looked very serious at first. But +when he learned all about the affair, he changed his view considerably, +and condescended to give good hopes of his coming through, even adding +that it would lengthen his life by twenty years if it broke him of his +habits of whisky-drinking and rage.</p> + +<p>And now Malcolm had a little time of leisure, which he put to the best +possible use in strengthening his relations with the fishers. For +he had nothing to do about the House, except look after Kelpie; and +Florimel, as if determined to make him feel that he was less to her +than before, much as she used to enjoy seeing him sit his mare, never +took him out with her—always Stoat. He resolved therefore, seeing he +must yet delay action a while in the hope of the appearance of Lenorme, +to go out as in the old days after the herring, both for the sake of +splicing, if possible, what strands had been broken between him and +the fishers, and of renewing for himself the delights of elemental +conflict. With these views, he hired himself to the Partan, whose +boat’s crew was short-handed. And now, night after night, he revelled +in the old pleasure, enhanced by so many months of deprivation. Joy +itself seemed embodied in the wind blowing on him out of the misty +infinite while his boat rocked and swung on the waters, hanging between +two worlds, that in which the wind blew, and that other dark-swaying +mystery whereinto the nets to which it was tied went away down and +down, gathering the harvest of the ocean. It was as if nature called +up all her motherhood to greet and embrace her long absent son. +When it came on to blow hard, as it did once and again during those +summer nights, instead of making him feel small and weak in the midst +of the storming forces, it gave him a glorious sense of power and +unconquerable life. And when his watch was out, and the boat lay quiet, +like a horse tethered and asleep in his clover-field, he too would fall +asleep with a sense of simultaneously deepening and vanishing delight +such as he had not at all in other conditions experienced. Ever since +the poison had got into his system, and crept where it yet lay lurking +in hidden corners and crannies, a noise at night would on shore startle +him awake, and set his heart beating hard; but no loudest sea-noise +ever woke him; the stronger the wind flapped its wings around him, the +deeper he slept. When a comrade called him by name, he was up at once +and wide awake.</p> + +<p>It answered also all his hopes in regard to his companions and the +fisher-folk generally. Those who had really known him found the same +old Malcolm, and those who had doubted him soon began to see that at +least he had lost nothing in courage or skill or goodwill: ere long +he was even a greater favourite than before. On his part, he learned +to understand far better the nature of his people, as well as the +individual characters of them, for his long (but not too long) absence +and return enabled him to regard them with unaccustomed, and therefore +in some respects more discriminating eyes.</p> + +<p>Duncan’s former dwelling happening to be then occupied by a lonely +woman, Malcolm made arrangements with her to take them both in; so +that in relation to his grandfather too something very much like the +old life returned for a time—with this difference, that Duncan soon +began to check himself as often as the name of his hate, with its +accompanying curse, rose to his lips.</p> + +<p>The factor continued very ill. He had sunk into a low state, in which +his former indulgence was greatly against him. Every night the fever +returned, and at length his wife was worn out with watching and waiting +upon him.</p> + +<p>And every morning Lizzy Findlay, without fail, called to inquire how Mr +Crathie had spent the night. To the last, while quarrelling with every +one of her neighbours with whom he had anything to do, he had continued +kind to her, and she was more grateful than one in other trouble than +hers could have understood. But she did not know that an element in the +origination of his kindness was the belief that it was by Malcolm she +had been wronged and forsaken.</p> + +<p>Again and again she had offered, in the humblest manner, to ease his +wife’s burden by sitting with him at night; and at last, finding she +could hold up no longer, Mrs Crathie consented. But even after a week +she found herself still unable to resume the watching, and so, night +after night, resting at home during a part of the day, Lizzy sat by the +sleeping factor, and when he woke, ministered to him like a daughter. +Nor did even her mother object, for sickness is a wondrous reconciler.</p> + +<p>Little did the factor suspect, however, that it was partly for +Malcolm’s sake she nursed him, anxious to shield the youth from any +possible consequences of his righteous vengeance.</p> + +<p>While their persecutor lay thus, gradually everything at Scaurnose, +and consequently at the Seaton, lapsed into its old way, and the +summer of such content as before they had possessed, returned to the +fishers. I fear it would have proved hard for some of them, had they +made effort in that direction, to join in the prayer, if prayer it +may be called, put up in church for him every Sunday. What a fearful +canopy the prayers that do not get beyond the atmosphere would make +if they turned brown with age! Having so lately seen the factor going +about like a maniac, raving at this piece of damage and that heap +of dirt, the few fishers present could never help smiling when Mr +Cairns prayed for him as “the servant of God and his church now lying +grievously afflicted—persecuted, but not forsaken, cast down, but not +destroyed;”—having found the fitting phrases he seldom varied them.</p> + +<p>Through her sorrow, Lizzy had grown tender, as through her shame +she had grown wise. That the factor had been much in the wrong only +rendered her anxious sympathy the more eager to serve him. Knowing so +well what it was to have done wrong, she was pitiful over him, and her +ministrations were none the less devoted that she knew exactly how +Malcolm thought and felt about him; for the affair, having taken place +in open village and wide field and in the light of mid-day, and having +been reported by eye-witnesses many, was everywhere perfectly known, +and Malcolm therefore talked of it freely to his friends, amongst them +both to Lizzy and her mother.</p> + +<p>Sickness sometimes works marvellous changes, and the most marvellous on +persons who to the ordinary observer seem the least liable to change. +Much apparent steadfastness of nature, however, is but sluggishness, +and comes from incapacity to generate change or contribute towards +personal growth; and it follows that those whose nature is such can +as little prevent or retard any change that has its initiative beyond +them. The men who impress the world as the mightiest are those often +who <i>can</i> the least—never those who can the most in their natural +kingdom; generally those whose frontiers lie openest to the inroads +of temptation, whose atmosphere is most subject to moody changes and +passionate convulsions, who, while perhaps they can whisper laws +to a hemisphere, can utter no decree of smallest potency as to how +things shall be within themselves. Place Alexander ille Magnus beside +Malcolm’s friend Epictetus, ille servorum servus; take his crutch +from the slave and set the hero upon his Bucephalus—but set them +alone and in a desert: which will prove the great man? which the +unchangeable? The question being what the man himself shall or shall +not be, shall or shall not feel, shall or shall not recognize as of +himself and troubling the motions of his being, Alexander will prove a +mere earth-bubble, Epictetus a cavern in which pulses the tide of the +eternal and infinite Sea.</p> + +<p>But then first, when the false strength of the self-imagined great man +is gone, when the want or the sickness has weakened the self-assertion +which is so often mistaken for strength of individuality, when the +occupations in which he formerly found a comfortable consciousness +of being have lost their interest, his ambitions their glow, and his +consolations their colour, when suffering has wasted away those upper +strata of his factitious consciousness, and laid bare the lower, +simpler, truer deeps, of which he has never known or has forgotten +the existence, then there is a hope of his commencing a new and real +life. Powers then, even powers within himself of which he knew nothing, +begin to assert themselves, and the man commonly reported to possess a +strong will, is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. +This factor, this man of business, this despiser of humbug, to whom +the scruples of a sensitive conscience were a contempt, would now lie +awake in the night and weep. “Ah!” I hear it answered, “but that was +the weakness caused by his illness.” True: but what then had become +of his strength? And was it all weakness? What if this weakness was +itself a sign of returning life, not of advancing death—of the dawn +of a new and genuine strength! For he wept because, in the visions of +his troubled brain, he saw once more the cottage of his father the +shepherd, with all its store of lovely nothings round which the nimbus +of sanctity had gathered while he thought not of them; wept over the +memory of that moment of delight when his mother kissed him for parting +with his willow whistle to the sister who cried for it: he cried now in +his turn, after five and fifty years, for not yet had the little fact +done with him, not yet had the kiss of his mother lost its power on the +man: wept over the sale of the pet-lamb, though he had himself sold +thousands of lambs, since; wept over even that bush of dusty miller +by the door, like the one he trampled under his horse’s feet in the +little yard at Scaurnose that horrible day. And oh, that nest of wild +bees with its combs of honey unspeakable! He used to laugh and sing +then: he laughed still sometimes—he could hear how he laughed, and +it sounded frightful—but he never sang! Were the tears that honoured +such childish memories all of weakness? Was it cause of regret that he +had not been wicked enough to have become impregnable to such foolish +trifles? Unable to mount a horse, unable to give an order, not caring +even for his toddy, he was left at the mercy of his fundamentals; his +childhood came up and claimed him, and he found the childish things +he had put away better than the manly things he had adopted. It is +one thing for St Paul and another for Mr Worldly Wiseman to put away +childish things. The ways they do it, and the things they substitute, +are both so different. And now first to me, whose weakness it is to +love life more than manners, and men more than their portraits, the man +begins to grow interesting. Picture the dawn of innocence on a dull, +whisky-drinking, common-place soul, stained by self-indulgence, and +distorted by injustice! Unspeakably more interesting and lovely is to +me such a dawn than the honeymoon of the most passionate of lovers, +except indeed I know them such lovers that their love will outlast all +the moons.</p> + +<p>“I’m a poor creature, Lizzy,” he said, turning his heavy face one +midnight towards the girl, as she sat half-dozing, ready to start awake.</p> + +<p>“God comfort ye, sir!” said the girl.</p> + +<p>“He’ll take good care of that!” returned the factor. “What did I ever +do to deserve it?—There’s that MacPhail, now—to think of <i>him</i>! +Didn’t I do what man could for him? Didn’t I keep him about the place +when all the rest were dismissed? Didn’t I give him the key of the +library, that he might read and improve his mind? And look what comes +of it!”</p> + +<p>“Ye mean, sir,” said Lizzy, quite innocently, “’at that’s the w’y ye +ha’e dune wi’ God, an’ sae he winna heed ye?”</p> + +<p>The factor had meant nothing in the least like it. He had merely been +talking as the imps of suggestion tossed up. His logic was as sick and +helpless as himself. So at that he held his peace— stung in his pride +at least—perhaps in his conscience too, only he was not prepared to be +rebuked by a girl like her, who had—— Well, he must let it pass: how +much better was he himself?</p> + +<p>But Lizzy was loyal: she could not hear him speak so of Malcolm and +hold her peace as if she agreed in his condemnation.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll ken Ma’colm better some day, sir,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Well, Lizzy,” returned the sick man, in a tone that but for feebleness +would have been indignant, “I have heard a good deal of the way women +<i>will</i> stand up for men that have treated them cruelly, but you to +stand up for <i>him</i> passes!”</p> + +<p>“He’s been the best friend I ever had,” said Lizzy.</p> + +<p>“Girl! how can you sit there, and tell me so to my face?” cried the +factor, his voice strengthened by the righteousness of the reproof it +bore. “If it were not the dead of the night——”</p> + +<p>“I tell ye naething but the trowth, sir,” said Lizzy, as the contingent +threat died away. “But ye maun lie still or I maun gang for the +mistress. Gien ye be the waur the morn, it’ll be a’ my wyte, ’cause I +cudna bide to hear sic things said o’ Ma’colm.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to tell me,” persisted her charge, heedless of her +expostulation, “that the fellow who brought you to disgrace, and left +you with a child you could ill provide for—and I well know never sent +you a penny all the time he was away, whatever he may have done now—is +the best friend you ever had?”</p> + +<p>“Noo God forgi’e ye, Maister Craithie, for threepin’ sic a thing!” +cried Lizzy, rising as if she would leave him; “Ma’colm MacPhail’s as +clear o’ ony sin like mine as my wee bairnie itsel’.”</p> + +<p>“Do ye daur tell me he’s no the father o’ that same, lass?”</p> + +<p>“<i>No</i>, nor never will be the father o’ ony bairn whase mither’s no his +wife!” said Lizzy, with burning cheeks and resolute voice.</p> + +<p>The factor, who had risen on his elbow to look her in the face, fell +back in silence; and neither of them spoke for what seemed to the +watcher a long time. When she ventured to look at him, he was asleep.</p> + +<p>He lay in one of those troubled slumbers into which weakness and +exhaustion will sometimes pass very suddenly; and in that slumber he +had a dream which he never forgot. He thought he had risen from his +grave with an awful sound in his ears, and knew he was wanted at the +judgment seat. But he did not want to go, therefore crept into the +porch of the church, and hoped to be forgotten. But suddenly an angel +appeared with a flaming sword and drove him out of the churchyard away +to Scaurnose where the judge was sitting. And as he fled in terror +before the angel, he fell, and the angel came and stood over him, and +his sword flashed torture into his bones, but he could not and dared +not rise. At last, summoning all his strength, he looked up at him, and +cried out, “Sir, ha’e mercy, for God’s sake.” Instantly all the flames +drew back into the sword, and the blade dropped, burning like a brand, +from the hilt, which the angel threw away.—And lo! it was Malcolm +MacPhail, and he was stooping to raise him. With that he awoke, and +there was Lizzy looking down on him anxiously.</p> + +<p>“What are you looking like that for?” he asked crossly.</p> + +<p>She did not like to tell him that she had been alarmed by his dropping +asleep: and in her confusion she fell back on the last subject.</p> + +<p>“There maun be some mistak, Mr Craithie,” she said. “I wuss ye wad tell +me what gars ye hate Ma’colm MacPhail as ye du.”</p> + +<p>The factor, although he seemed to himself to know well enough, was yet +a little puzzled how to commence his reply; and therewith a process +began that presently turned into something with which never in his life +before had his inward parts been acquainted—a sort of self-examination +to wit. He said to himself, partly in the desire to justify his present +dislike—he would not call it hate, as Lizzy did—that he used to +get on with the lad well enough, and had never taken offence at his +freedoms, making no doubt his manner came of his blood, and he could +not help it, being a chip of the old block; but when he ran away with +the marquis’s boat, and went to the marchioness and told her lies +against him—then what could he do but dislike him?</p> + +<p>Arrived at this point, he opened his mouth and gave the substance of +what preceded it for answer to Lizzy’s question. But she replied at +once.</p> + +<p>“Nobody ’ill gar me believe, sir, ’at Ma’colm MacPhail ever tellt a lee +again’ you or onybody. I dinna believe he ever tellt a lee in ’s life. +Jist ye exem’ him weel anent it, sir. An’ for the boat, nae doobt it +was makin’ free to tak it; but ye ken, sir, ’at hoo he was maister o’ +the same. It was in his chairge, an’ ye ken little aboot boats yersel’, +or the sailin’ o’ them, sir.”</p> + +<p>“But it was me that engaged him again, after all the servants at the +House had been dismissed: he was <i>my</i> servant.”</p> + +<p>“That maks the thing luik waur, nae doobt,” allowed Lizzy, with +something of cunning. “Hoo was ’t ’at he cam to du ’t ava’ (_of all; at +all_), sir? Can ye min’?” she pursued.</p> + +<p>“I discharged him.”</p> + +<p>“An’ what for, gien I may mak bold to speir, sir?” she went on.</p> + +<p>“For insolence.”</p> + +<p>“Wad ye tell me hoo he answert ye? Dinna think me meddlin’, sir. I’m +clear certain there’s been some mistak. Ye cudna be sae guid to me, an’ +be ill to him, ohn some mistak.”</p> + +<p>It was consoling to the conscience of the factor, in regard of his +behaviour to the two women, to hear his own praise for kindness +from a woman’s lips. He took no offence therefore at her persistent +questioning, but told her as well and as truly as he could remember, +with no more than the all but unavoidable exaggeration with which +feeling <i>will</i> colour fact, the whole passage between Malcolm and +himself concerning the sale of Kelpie, and closed with an appeal to +the judgment of his listener, in which he confidently anticipated her +verdict.</p> + +<p>“A most ridic’lous thing! ye can see yersel’ as weel ’s onybody, Lizzy! +An’ sic a thing to ca’ an honest man like mysel’ a hypocrete for! ha! +ha! ha! There’s no a bairn ’atween John o’ Groat’s an’ the Lan’s En’ +disna ken ’at the seller o’ a horse is b’un’ to reese (<i>extol</i>) him, +an’ the buyer to tak care o’ himsel’. I’ll no say it’s jist allooable +to tell a doonricht lee, but ye may come full nearer till ’t in +horse-dealin’, ohn sinned, nor in ony ither kin’ o’ merchandeze. It’s +like luve an’ war, in baith which, it’s weel kenned, a’ thing’s fair. +The saw sud rin—<i>Luve an’ war an’ horse dealin’</i>.—Divna ye see, +Lizzy?”</p> + +<p>But Lizzy did not answer, and the factor, hearing a stifled sob, +started to his elbow.</p> + +<p>“Lie still, sir,” said Lizzy. “It’s naething. I was only jist thinkin’ +’at that wad be the w’y ’at the father o’ my bairn rizoned wi’ himsel’ +whan he lee’d to me.”</p> + +<p>“Hey!” said the astonished factor, and in his turn held his peace, +trying to think.</p> + +<p>Now Lizzy, for the last few months, had been going to school, the same +school with Malcolm, open to all comers, the only school where one +is sure to be led in the direction of wisdom, and there she had been +learning to some purpose—as plainly appeared before she had done with +the factor.</p> + +<p>“Whase kirk are ye elder o’, Maister Craithie?” she asked presently.</p> + +<p>“Ow, the kirk o’ Scotlan’, of coorse!” answered the patient, in some +surprise at her ignorance.</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay,” returned Lizzy; “but whase aucht (<i>owning, property</i>) is ’t?”</p> + +<p>“Ow, whase but the Redeemer’s!”</p> + +<p>“An’ div ye think, Mr Craithie, ’at gien Jesus Christ had had a horse +to sell, he wad ha’e hidden frae him ’at wad buy, ae hair a fau’t ’at +the beast hed? Wad he no ha’e dune till ’s neiper as he wad ha’e his +neiper du to him?”</p> + +<p>“Lassie! lassie! tak care hoo ye even <i>him</i> to sic like as hiz (<i>us</i>). +What wad <i>he</i> hae to du wi’ horse-flesh?”</p> + +<p>Lizzy held her peace. Here was no room for argument. He had flung the +door of his conscience in the face of her who woke it. But it was too +late, for the word was in already. Oh! that false reverence which +men substitute for adoring obedience, and wherewith they reprove the +childlike spirit that does not know another kingdom than that of God +and that of Mammon! God never gave man thing to do concerning which it +were irreverent to ponder how the son of God would have done it.</p> + +<p>But, I say, the word was in, and, partly no doubt from its following so +close upon the dream the factor had had, was potent in its operation. +He fell a-thinking, and a-thinking more honestly than he had thought +for many a day. And presently it was revealed to him that, if he were +in the horse market wanting to buy, and a man there who had to sell +said to him—“He wadna du for you, sir; ye wad be tired o’ ’im in a +week,” he would never remark, “What a fool the fellow is!” but—“Weel +noo, I ca’ that neibourly!” He did not get quite so far just then as to +see that every man to whom he might want to sell a horse was as much +his neighbour as his own brother; nor, indeed, if he had got as far, +would it have indicated much progress in honesty, seeing he would at +any time, when needful and possible, have cheated that brother in the +matter of a horse, as certainly as he would a Patagonian or a Chinaman. +But the warped glass of a bad maxim had at least been cracked in his +window.</p> + +<p>The peacemaker sat in silence the rest of the night, but the factor’s +sleep was broken, and at times he wandered. He was not so well the next +day, and his wife, gathering that Lizzy had been talking, and herself +feeling better, would not allow her to sit up with him any more.</p> + +<p>Days and days passed, and still Malcolm had no word from Lenorme, and +was getting hopeless in respect of that quarter of possible aid. But +so long as Florimel could content herself with the quiet of Lossie +House, there was time to wait, he said to himself. She was not idle, +and that was promising. Every day she rode out with Stoat. Now and then +she would make a call in the neighbourhood, and, apparently to trouble +Malcolm, took care to let him know that on one of these occasions +her call had been upon Mrs Stewart. One thing he did feel was that +she made no renewal of her friendship with his grandfather: she had, +alas! outgrown the girlish fancy. Poor Duncan took it much to heart. +She saw more of the minister and his wife, who both flattered her, +than anybody else, and was expecting the arrival of Lady Bellair and +Lord Liftore with the utmost impatience. They, for their part, were +making the journey by the easiest possible stages, tacking and veering, +and visiting everyone of their friends that lay between London and +Lossie: they thought to give Florimel the little lesson, that, though +they accepted her invitation, they had plenty of friends in the world +besides her ladyship, and were not dying to see her.</p> + +<p>One evening, Malcolm, as he left the grounds of Mr Morrison, on whom he +had been calling, saw a travelling carriage pass towards Portlossie; +and something liker fear laid hold of his heart than he had ever felt +except when Florimel and he on the night of the storm took her father +for Lord Gernon the wizard. As soon as he reached certain available +fields, he sent Kelpie tearing across them, dodged through a fir-wood, +and came out on the road half a mile in front of the carriage: as again +it passed him he saw that his fears were facts, for in it sat the +bold-faced countess, and the mean-hearted lord. Something <i>must</i> be +done at last, and until it was done good watch must be kept.</p> + +<p>I must here note that, during this time of hoping and waiting, Malcolm +had attended to another matter of importance. Over every element +influencing his life, his family, his dependents, his property, he +desired to possess a lawful, honest command: where he had to render +account, he would be head. Therefore, through Mr Soutar’s London agent, +to whom he sent up Davy, and whom he brought acquainted with Merton, +and his former landlady at the curiosity shop, he had discovered a +good deal about Mrs Catanach from her London associates, among them +the herb-doctor, and his little boy who had watched Davy, and he had +now almost completed an outline of evidence, which, grounded on that +of Rose, might be used against Mrs Catanach at any moment. He had also +set inquiries on foot in the track of Caley’s antecedents, and had +discovered more than the acquaintance between her and Mrs Catanach. +Also he had arranged that Hodges, the man who had lost his leg through +his cruelty to Kelpie, should leave for Duff Harbour as soon as +possible after his discharge from the hospital. He was determined to +crush the evil powers which had been ravaging his little world.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LX">CHAPTER LX.<br><span class="small">AN OFFERING.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Clementina was always ready to accord any reasonable request Florimel +could make of her; but her letter lifted such a weight from her heart +and life that she would now have done whatever she desired, reasonable +or unreasonable, provided only it was honest. She had no difficulty in +accepting Florimel’s explanation that her sudden disappearance was but +a breaking of the social gaol, the flight of the weary bird from its +foreign cage back to the country of its nest; and that same morning she +called upon Demon. The hound, feared and neglected, was rejoiced to see +her, came when she called him, and received her caresses: there was +no ground for dreading his company. It was a long journey, but if it +had been across a desert instead of through her own country, the hope +that lay at the end of it would have made it more than pleasant. She, +as well as Lady Bellair, had friends upon the way, but no desire to +lengthen the journey or shorten its tedium by visiting them.</p> + +<p>The letter would have found her at Wastbeach instead of London, had not +the society and instructions of the schoolmaster detained her a willing +prisoner to its heat and glare and dust. Him only in all London must +she see to bid good-bye. To Camden Town therefore she went that same +evening, when his work would be over for the day. As usual now, she was +shown into his room—his only one. As usual also, she found him poring +over his Greek Testament. The gracious, graceful woman looked lovelily +strange in that mean chamber—like an opal in a brass ring. There was +no such contrast between the room and its occupant. His bodily presence +was too weak to “stick fiery off” from its surroundings, and to the +eye that saw through the bodily presence to the inherent grandeur, +that grandeur suggested no discrepancy, being of the kind that lifts +everything to its own level, casts the mantle of its own radiance +around its surroundings. Still to the eye of love and reverence it was +not pleasant to see him in such <i>entourage</i>, and now that Clementina +was going to leave him, the ministering spirit that dwelt in the woman +was troubled.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” he said, and rose as she entered; “this is then the angel of my +deliverance!” But with such a smile he did not look as if he had much +to be delivered from. “You see,” he went on, “old man as I am, and +peaceful, the summer will lay hold upon me. She stretches out a long +arm into this desert of houses and stones, and sets me longing after +the green fields and the living air—it seems dead here—and the face +of God—as much as one may behold of the Infinite through the revealing +veil of earth and sky and sea. Shall I confess my weakness, my poverty +of spirit, my covetousness after the visual? I was even getting a +little tired of that glorious God-and-man-lover, Saul of Tarsus—no, +not of him, never of <i>him</i>, only of his shadow in his words. Yet +perhaps—yes, I think so—it is God alone of whom a man can never get +tired. Well, no matter; tired I was; when lo! here comes my pupil, with +more of God in her face than all the worlds and their skies he ever +made!”</p> + +<p>“I would my heart were as full of him, too, then, sir!” answered +Clementina. “But if I am anything of a comfort to you, I am more than +glad,—therefore the more sorry to tell you that I am going to leave +you—though for a little while only, I trust.”</p> + +<p>“You do not take me by surprise, my lady. I have of course been looking +forward for some time to my loss and your gain. The world is full of +little deaths—deaths of all sorts and sizes, rather let me say. For +this one I was prepared. The good summer land calls you to its bosom, +and you must go.”</p> + +<p>“Come with me,” cried Clementina, her eyes eager with the light of the +sudden thought, while her heart reproached her grievously that only now +first had it come to her.</p> + +<p>“A man must not leave the most irksome work for the most peaceful +pleasure,” answered the schoolmaster. “I am able to live—yes, and do +my work, without you, my lady,” he added with a smile, “though I shall +miss you sorely.”</p> + +<p>“But you do not know where I want you to come,” she said.</p> + +<p>“What difference can that make, my lady, except indeed in the amount of +pleasure to be refused, seeing this is not a matter of choice? I must +be with the children whom I have engaged to teach, and whose parents +pay me for my labour—not with those who, besides, can do well without +me.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot, sir—not for long, at least.”</p> + +<p>“What! not with Malcolm to supply my place?”</p> + +<p>Clementina blushed, but only like a white rose. She did not turn her +head aside; she did not lower their lids to veil the light she felt +mount into her eyes; she looked him gently in the face as before, and +her aspect of entreaty did not change.</p> + +<p>“Ah! do not be unkind, master,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Unkind!” he repeated. “You know I am not. I have more kindness in my +heart than my lips can tell. You do not know, you could not yet imagine +the half of what I hope of and for and from you.”</p> + +<p>“I <i>am</i> going to see Malcolm,” she said, with a little sigh. “That is, +I am going to visit Lady Lossie at her place in Scotland— your own +old home, where so many must love you.—<i>Can’t</i> you come? I shall be +travelling alone, quite alone, except my servants.”</p> + +<p>A shadow came over the schoolmaster’s face.</p> + +<p>“You do not <i>think</i>, my lady, or you would not press me. It pains me +that you do not see at once it would be dishonest to go without timely +notice to my pupils, and to the public too. But, beyond that quite, +I never do anything of myself. I go, not where I wish, but where I +seem to be called or sent. I never even wish much—except when I pray +to him in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. +After what he wants to give me I am wishing all day long. I used to +build many castles, not without a beauty of their own—that was when +I had less understanding: now I leave them to God to build for me—he +does it better, and they last longer. See now, this very hour, when I +needed help—could I have contrived a more lovely annihilation of the +monotony that threatened to invade my weary spirit, than this inroad +of light in the person of my lady Clementina? Nor will he allow me to +get over-wearied with vain efforts. I do not think he will keep me here +long, for I find I cannot do much for these children. They are but +some of his many pagans—not yet quite ready to receive Christianity, +I think— not like children with some of the old seeds of the truth +buried in them, that want to be turned up nearer to the light. This +ministration I take to be more for my good than theirs—a little trial +of faith and patience for me—a stony corner of the lovely valley of +humiliation to cross. True, I <i>might</i> be happier where I could hear the +larks, but I do not know that anywhere have I been more peaceful than +in this little room, on which I see you so often cast round your eyes +curiously—perhaps pitifully, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“It is not at all a fit place for <i>you</i>,” said Clementina, with a touch +of indignation.</p> + +<p>“Softly, my lady—lest, without knowing it, your love should make +you sin! Who set thee, I pray, for a guardian angel over my welfare? +I could scarce have a lovelier—true! but where is thy brevet? No, +my lady! it is a greater than thou that sets me the bounds of my +habitation. Perhaps he may give me a palace one day. If I might choose, +it would be the things that belong to a cottage —the whiteness and +the greenness and the sweet odours of cleanliness. But the father has +decreed for his children that they shall know the thing that is neither +their ideal nor his. Who can imagine how in this respect things looked +to our Lord when he came and found so little faith on the earth! But, +perhaps, my lady, you would not pity my present condition so much, if +you had seen the cottage in which I was born, and where my father and +my mother loved each other, and died happier than on their wedding day. +There I was happy too until their loving ambition decreed that I should +be a scholar and a clergyman. Not before then did I ever know anything +worthy of the name of trouble. A little cold and a little hunger at +times, and not a little restlessness always was all. But then —ah +then, my troubles began! Yet God, who bringeth light out of darkness, +hath brought good even out of my weakness and presumption and half +unconscious falsehood!—When do you go?”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow morning—as I purpose.”</p> + +<p>“Then God be with thee. He <i>is</i> with thee, only my prayer is that thou +mayest know it. He is with me and I know it. He does not find this +chamber too mean or dingy or unclean to let me know him near me in it.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me one thing before I go,” said Clementina: “are we not commanded +to bear each other’s burdens and so fulfil the law of Christ? I read it +to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Then why ask me?”</p> + +<p>“For another question: does not that involve the command to those who +have burdens that they should allow others to bear them?”</p> + +<p>“Surely, my lady. But <i>I</i> have no burden to let you bear.”</p> + +<p>“Why should I have everything, and you nothing?—Answer me that?”</p> + +<p>“My lady, I have millions more than you, for I have been gathering the +crumbs under my master’s table for thirty years.”</p> + +<p>“You are a king,” answered Clementina. “But a king needs a handmaiden +somewhere in his house: that let <i>me</i> be in yours. No, I will be proud, +and assert my rights. I am your daughter. If I am not, why am I here? +Do you not remember telling me that the adoption of God meant a closer +relation than any other fatherhood, even his own first fatherhood could +signify? You cannot cast me off if you would. Why should you be poor +when I am rich?—You <i>are</i> poor. You cannot deny it,” she concluded +with a serious playfulness.</p> + +<p>“I will not deny my privileges,” said the schoolmaster, with a smile +such as might have acknowledged the possession of some exquisite and +envied rarity.</p> + +<p>“I believe,” insisted Clementina, “you are just as poor as the apostle +Paul when he sat down to make a tent—or as our Lord himself after he +gave up carpentering.”</p> + +<p>“You are wrong there, my lady. I am not so poor as they must often have +been.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t know how long I may be away, and you may fall ill, +or—or—see some—some book you want very much, or——”</p> + +<p>“I never do,” said the schoolmaster.</p> + +<p>“What! never see a book you want to have?”</p> + +<p>“No; not now. I have my Greek Testament, my Plato, and my Shakspere +—and one or two little books besides, whose wisdom I have not yet +quite exhausted.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t bear it!” cried Clementina, almost on the point of weeping. +“You will not let me near you. You put out an arm as long as the +summer’s and push me away from you. <i>Let</i> me be your servant.”</p> + +<p>As she spoke, she rose, and walking softly up to him where he sat +kneeled at his knees, held out suppliantly a little bag of white silk, +tied with crimson.</p> + +<p>“Take it—father,” she said, hesitating, and bringing the word out with +an effort; “take your daughter’s offering—a poor thing to show her +love, but something to ease her heart.”</p> + +<p>He took it, and weighed it up and down in his hand with an amused +smile, but his eyes full of tears. It was heavy. He opened it. A chair +was within his reach, he emptied it on the seat of it, and laughed with +merry delight as its contents came tumbling out.</p> + +<p>“I never saw so much gold in my life, if it were all taken together,” +he said. “What beautiful stuff it is! But I don’t want it, my dear. It +would but trouble me.” And as he spoke, he began to put it in the bag +again. “You will want it for your journey,” he said.</p> + +<p>“I have plenty in my reticule,” she answered. “That is a mere nothing +to what I could have to-morrow morning for writing a cheque. I am +afraid I am very rich. It is such a shame! But I can’t well help it. +You must teach me how to become poor.—Tell me true: how much money +have you?”</p> + +<p>She said this with such an earnest look of simple love that the +schoolmaster made haste to rise, that he might conceal his growing +emotion.</p> + +<p>“Rise, my dear lady,” he said, as he rose himself, “and I will show +you.”</p> + +<p>He gave her his hand, and she obeyed, but troubled and disappointed, +and so stood looking after him, while he went to a drawer. Thence, +searching in a corner of it, he brought a half sovereign, a few +shillings, and some coppers, and held them out to her on his hand, with +the smile of one who has proved his point.</p> + +<p>“There!” he said; “do you think Paul would have stopped preaching to +make a tent so long as he had as much as that in his pocket? I shall +have more on Saturday, and I always carry a month’s rent in my good old +watch, for which I never had much use, and now have less than ever.”</p> + +<p>Clementina had been struggling with herself; now she burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“Why, what a misspending of precious sorrow!” exclaimed the +schoolmaster. “Do you think because a man has not a gold mine he must +die of hunger? I once heard of a sparrow that never had a worm left for +the morrow, and died a happy death notwithstanding.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he took her handkerchief from her hand and dried her tears +with it. But he had enough ado to keep his own back.</p> + +<p>“Because I won’t take a bagful of gold from you when I don’t want it,” +he went on, “do you think I should let myself starve without coming +to you? I promise you I will let you know—come to you if I can, the +moment I get too hungry to do my work well, and have no money left. +Should I think it a disgrace to take money from <i>you</i>? That would show +a poverty of spirit such as I hope never to fall into. My <i>sole</i> reason +for refusing it now is that I do not need it.”</p> + +<p>But for all his loving words and assurances Clementina could not stay +her tears. She was not ready to weep, but now her eyes were as a +fountain.</p> + +<p>“See, then, for your tears are hard to bear, my daughter,” he said, “I +will take one of these golden ministers, and if it has flown from me +ere you come, seeing that, like the raven, it will not return if once I +let it go, I will ask you for another. It <i>may</i> be God’s will that you +should feed me for a time.”</p> + +<p>“Like one of Elijah’s ravens,” said Clementina, with an attempted laugh +that was really a sob.</p> + +<p>“Like a dove whose wings are covered with silver, and her feathers with +yellow gold,” said the schoolmaster.</p> + +<p>A moment of silence followed, broken only by Clementina’s failures in +quieting herself.</p> + +<p>“To me,” he resumed, “the sweetest fountain of money is the hand of +love, but a man has no right to take it from that fountain except he is +in want of it. I am not. True, I go somewhat bare, my lady; but what is +that when my Lord would have it so?”</p> + +<p>He opened again the bag, and slowly, reverentially indeed, drew from it +one of the new sovereigns with which it was filled. He put it into a +waistcoat pocket, and laid the bag on the table.</p> + +<p>“But your clothes are shabby, sir,” said Clementina, looking at him +with a sad little shake of the head.</p> + +<p>“Are they?” he returned, and looked down at his lower garments, +reddening and anxious. “—I did not think they were more than a little +rubbed, but they shine somewhat,” he said. “—They are indeed polished +by use,” he went on, with a troubled little laugh; “but they have no +holes yet—at least none that are visible,” he corrected. “If you tell +me, my lady, if you honestly tell me that my garments”—and he looked +at the sleeve of his coat, drawing back his head from it to see it +better—“are unsightly, I will take of your money and buy me a new +suit.”</p> + +<p>Over his coat-sleeve he regarded her, questioning.</p> + +<p>“Everything about you is beautiful!” she burst out. “You want nothing +but a body that lets the light through!”</p> + +<p>She took the hand still raised in his survey of his sleeve, pressed it +to her lips, and walked, with even more than her wonted state, slowly +from the room. He took the bag of gold from the table, and followed her +down the stair. Her chariot was waiting her at the door. He handed her +in, and laid the bag on the little seat in front.</p> + +<p>“Will you tell him to drive home,” she said, with a firm voice, and +a smile which if anyone care to understand, let him read Spenser’s +fortieth sonnet. And so they parted. The coachman took the queer shabby +un-London-like man for a fortune-teller his lady was in the habit of +consulting, and paid homage to his power with the handle of his whip as +he drove away. The schoolmaster returned to his room, not to his Plato, +not even to Saul of Tarsus, but to the Lord himself.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXI">CHAPTER LXI.<br><span class="small">THOUGHTS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When Malcolm took Kelpie to her stall the night of the arrival of +Lady Bellair and her nephew, he was rushed upon by Demon, and nearly +prostrated between his immoderate welcome and the startled rearing of +the mare. The hound had arrived a couple of hours before, while Malcolm +was out. He wondered he had not seen him with the carriage he had +passed, never suspecting he had had another conductress, or dreaming +what his presence there signified for him.</p> + +<p>I have not said much concerning Malcolm’s feelings with regard to Lady +Clementina, but all this time the sense of her existence had been like +an atmosphere surrounding and pervading his thought. He saw in her the +promise of all he could desire to see in woman. His love was not of +the blind-little-boy sort, but of a deeper, more exacting, keen-eyed +kind, that sees faults where even a true mother will not, so jealous +is it of the perfection of the beloved. But one thing was plain even +to this seraphic dragon that dwelt sleepless in him, and there was +eternal content in the thought, that such a woman, once started on +the right way, would soon leave fault and weakness behind her, and +become as one of the grand women of old, whose religion was simply what +religion is—life —neither more nor less than life. She would be a +saint without knowing it, the only grand kind of sainthood. Whoever can +think of religion as an addition to life, however glorious —a starry +crown, say, set upon the head of humanity—is not yet the least in the +kingdom of heaven. Whoever thinks of life as a something that could be +without religion, is in deathly ignorance of both. Life and religion +are one, or neither is anything: I will not say neither is growing to +be anything. Religion is no way of life, no show of life, no observance +of any sort. It is neither the food nor the medicine of being. It is +life essential. To think otherwise is as if a man should pride himself +on his honesty, or his parental kindness, or hold up his head amongst +men because he never killed one: were he less than honest or kind or +free from blood, he would yet think something of himself! The man to +whom virtue is but the ornament of character, something over and above, +not essential to it, is not yet a man.</p> + +<p>If I say then, that Malcolm was always thinking about Lady Clementina +when he was not thinking about something he <i>had</i> to think about, +have I not said nearly enough on the matter? Should I ever dream of +attempting to set forth what love is, in such a man for such a woman? +There are comparatively few that have more than the glimmer of a notion +of what love means. God only knows how grandly, how passionately yet +how calmly, how divinely the man and the woman he has made, might, may, +shall love each other. One thing only I will dare to say: that the love +that belonged to Malcolm’s nature was one through the very nerves of +which the love of God must rise and flow and return, as its essential +life. If any man think that such a love could no longer be the love of +the man for the woman, he knows his own nature, and that of the woman +he pretends or thinks he adores, but in the darkest of glasses.</p> + +<p>Malcolm’s lowly idea of himself did not at all interfere with his +loving Clementina, for at first his love was entirely dissociated from +any thought of hers. When the idea—the mere idea of her loving him +presented itself, from whatever quarter suggested, he turned from it +with shame and self-reproof: the thought was in its own nature too +unfit! That splendour regard him!</p> + +<p>From a social point of view there was of course little presumption +in it. The Marquis of Lossie bore a name that might pair itself with +any in the land; but Malcolm did not yet feel that the title made +much difference to the fisherman. He was what he was, and that was +something very lowly indeed. Yet the thought would at times dawn up +from somewhere in the infinite matrix of thought, that perhaps, if he +went to college, and graduated, and dressed like a gentleman, and did +everything as gentlemen do, in short, claimed his rank, and lived as +a marquis should, as well as a fisherman might,—then —then—was it +not—might it not be within the bounds of possibility—just within +them—that the great hearted, generous, liberty-loving Lady Clementina, +groom as he had been, <i>menial</i> as he had heard himself called, and +as, ere yet he knew his birth, he had laughed to hear, knowing that +his service was true,—that she, who despised nothing human, would be +neither disgusted nor contemptuous nor wrathful, if, from a great way +off, at an awful remove of humility and worship, he were to wake in her +a surmise that he dared feel towards her as he had never felt and never +could feel towards any other? For would it not be altogether counter +to the principles he had so often heard her announce and defend, +to despise him because he had earned his bread by doing honourable +work—work hearty, and up to the worth of his wages? Was she one to +say and not see—to opine and not believe? or was she one to hold and +not practise— to believe for the heart and not for the hand—to say +<i>I go</i>, and not go—<i>I love</i>, and not help? If such she were, then +there were for him no further searchings of the heart upon her account; +he could but hold up her name in the common prayer for all men, only +praying besides not to dream about her when he slept.</p> + +<p>At length, such thoughts rising again and again, and ever accompanied +by such reflections concerning the truth of her character, and by the +growing certainty that her convictions were the souls of actions to +be born them, his daring of belief in her strengthened until he began +to think that perhaps it would be neither his early history, nor his +defective education, nor his clumsiness, that would prevent her from +listening to such words wherewith he burned to throw open the gates of +his world, and pray her to enter and sit upon its loftiest throne—its +loftiest throne but one. And with the thought he felt as if he must +run to her, calling aloud that he was the Marquis of Lossie, and throw +himself at her feet.</p> + +<p>But the wheels of his thought-chariot, self-moved, were rushing, and +here was no goal at which to halt or turn!—for, feeling thus, where +was his faith in her principles? How now was he treating the truth +of her nature? where now were his convictions of the genuineness +of her professions? Where were those principles, that truth, those +professions, if after all she would listen to a marquis and would not +listen to a groom? To suppose such a thing was to wrong her grievously. +To herald his suit with his rank would be to insult her, declaring that +he regarded her theories of humanity as wordy froth. And what a chance +of proving her truth would he not deprive her of, if, as he approached +her, he called on the marquis to supplement the man!—But what then was +the man, fisherman or marquis, to dare <i>even himself</i> to such a glory +as the Lady Clementina? —This much of a man at least, answered his +waking dignity, that he could not condescend to be accepted as Malcolm, +Marquis of Lossie, knowing he would have been rejected as Malcolm +MacPhail, fisherman and groom. Accepted as marquis, he would for ever +be haunted with the <i>channering</i> question whether she would have +accepted him as groom? And if in his pain he were one day to utter it, +and she in her honesty were to confess she would not, must she not then +fall prone from her pedestal in his imagination? Could he then, in love +for the woman herself condescend as marquis to marry one who <i>might</i> +not have married him as any something else he could honestly have been, +under the all enlightening sun?—Ah, but again! was that fair to her +yet? Might she not see in the marquis the truth and worth which the +blinding falsehoods of society prevented her from seeing in the groom? +Might not a lady—he tried to think of a lady in the abstract— might +not a lady, in marrying a marquis, a lady to whom from her own position +a marquis was just a man on the level, marry in him the man he was, +and not the marquis he seemed? Most certainly, he answered: he must +not be unfair.—Not the less however did he shrink from the thought of +taking her prisoner under the shield of his marquisate, beclouding her +nobility, and depriving her of the rare chance of shining forth as the +sun in the splendour of womanly truth. No; he would choose the greater +risk of losing her, for the chance of winning her greater.</p> + +<p>So far Malcolm got with his theories; but the moment he began to think +in the least practically, he recoiled altogether from the presumption. +Under no circumstances could he ever have the courage to approach +Lady Clementina with a thought of himself in his mind. How could he +have dared even to raise her imagined eidolon for his thoughts to +deal withal! She had never shown him personal favour. He could not +tell whether she had listened to what he had tried to lay before her. +He did not know that she had gone to hear his master; Florimel had +never referred to their visit to Hope Chapel; his surprise would have +equalled his delight at the news that she had already become as a +daughter to the schoolmaster.</p> + +<p>And what had been Clementina’s thoughts since learning that Florimel +had not run away with her groom? It were hard to say with completeness. +Accuracy however may not be equally unattainable. Her first feeling was +an utterly inarticulate, undefined pleasure that Malcolm was free to be +thought about. She was clear next that it would be matter for honest +rejoicing if the truest man she had ever met except his master, was +not going to marry such an unreality as Florimel—one concerning whom, +as things had been going of late, it was impossible to say that she +was not more likely to turn to evil than to good. Clementina with all +her generosity could not help being doubtful of a woman who could make +a companion of such a man as Liftore, a man to whom every individual +particle of Clementina’s nature seemed for itself to object. But she +was not yet past befriending.</p> + +<p>Then she began to grow more <i>curious</i> about Malcolm. She had already +much real knowledge of him, gathered both from himself and from Mr +Graham;—as to what went to make the man, she knew him indeed, not +thoroughly, but well; and just therefore, she said to herself, there +were some points in his history and condition concerning which she +had <i>curiosity</i>. The principal of these was whether he might not be +engaged to some young woman in his own station of life. It was not +merely possible, but was it likely he could have escaped it? In the +lower ranks of society, men married younger—they had no false aims +to prevent them that implied earlier engagements. On the other hand, +was it likely that in a fishing village there would be any choice of +girls who could understand him when he talked about Plato and the New +Testament? If there was <i>one</i> however, that might be—<i>worse?</i>—Yes, +<i>worse</i>; she accepted the word. Neither was it absolutely necessary +in a wife that she should understand more of a husband than his +heart. Many learned men had had mere housekeepers for wives, and been +satisfied, at least never complained. And what did she know about the +fishers, men or women?—there were none at Wastbeach. For anything she +knew to the contrary, they might all be philosophers together, and a +fitting match for Malcolm might be far more easy to find amongst them +than in the society to which she herself belonged, where in truth the +philosophical element was rare enough. Then arose in her mind, she +could not have told how, the vision, half logical, half pictorial, +of a whole family of brave, believing, daring, saving fisher-folk, +father, mother, boys and girls, each sacrificing to the rest, each +sacrificed to by all, and all devoted to their neighbours. Grand it was +and blissful, and the borders of the great sea alone seemed fit place +for such beings amphibious of time and eternity! Their very toils and +dangers were but additional atmospheres to press their souls together! +It was glorious! Why had she been born an earl’s daughter,—never to +look a danger in the face—never to have a chance of a true life—that +is, a grand, simple, noble one?—Who then denied her the chance? Had +she <i>no</i> power to order her own steps, to determine her own being? +Was she nailed to her rank? Or who was there that could part her +from it? Was she a prisoner in the dungeons of the House of Pride? +When the gates of paradise closed behind Adam and Eve, they had this +consolation left, that “the world was all before them where to choose.” +Was she not a free woman—without even a guardian to trouble her with +advice? She had no excuse to act ignobly!—But had she any for being +unmaidenly?—Would it then be—would it be a <i>very</i> unmaidenly thing +if——? The rest of the sentence did not take even the shape of words. +But she answered it nevertheless in the words: “Not so unmaidenly as +presumptuous.” And alas there was little hope that <i>he</i> would ever +presume to——? He was such a modest youth, with all his directness +and fearlessness! If he had no respect for rank,—and that was—yes, +she would say the word, <i>hopeful</i> —he had, on the other hand, the +profoundest respect for the human, and she could not tell how that +might, in the individual matter, operate.</p> + +<p>Then she fell a-thinking of the difference between Malcolm and any +other servant she had ever known. She hated the <i>servile</i>. She knew +that it was false as well as low: she had not got so far as to see +that it was low through its being false. She knew that most servants, +while they spoke with the appearance of respect in presence, altered +their tone entirely when beyond the circle of the eye—theirs was +eye-service—they were men-pleasers—they were servile. She had +overheard her maid speak of her as Lady Clem, and that not without +a streak of contempt in the tone. But here was a man who touched no +imaginary hat while he stood in the presence of his mistress, neither +swore at her in the stable-yard. He looked her straight in the face, +and would upon occasion speak—not his <i>mind</i>—but the truth to her. +Even his slight mistress had the conviction that if one dared in his +presence but utter her name lightly, whoever he were he would have to +answer to him for it. What a lovely thing was true service!—Absolutely +divine! But, alas, such a youth would never, could never dare offer +other than such service! Were she even to encourage him as a maiden +might, he would but serve her the better—would but embody his +recognition of her favour, in fervour of ministering devotion.— Was +it not a recognized law, however, in the relation of superiors and +inferiors, that with regard to such matters as well as others of +no moment, the lady—?——Ah, but! for her to take the initiative, +would provoke the conclusion —as revolting to her as unavoidable to +him—that she judged herself his superior—so greatly his superior as +to be absolved from the necessity of behaving to him on the ordinary +footing of man and woman. What a ground to start from with a husband! +The idea was hateful to her. She tried the argument that such a +procedure arrogated merely a superiority in social standing; but it +made her recoil from it the more. He was so immeasurably her superior, +that the poor little advantage on her side vanished like a candle in +the sunlight, and she laughed herself to scorn. “Fancy,” she laughed, +“a midge, on the strength of having wings, condescending to offer +marriage to a horse!” It would argue the assumption of equality in +other and more important things than rank, or at least the confidence +that her social superiority not only counter-balanced the difference, +but left enough over to her credit to justify her initiative. And +what a miserable fiction, that money and position had a right to +the first move before greatness of living fact! that <i>having</i> had +the precedence of <i>being</i>! That Malcolm should imagine such <i>her</i> +judgment—No—let all go— let himself go rather! And then, he might +not choose to accept her munificent offer! Or worse—far worse!—what +if he should be tempted by rank and wealth, and, accepting her, be +shorn of his glory and proved of the ordinary human type after all! A +thousand times rather would she see the bright particular star blazing +unreachable above her! What! would she carry it about, a cinder in her +pocket?—And yet if he <i>could</i> be “turned to a coal,” why should she go +on worshipping him?—alas! the offer itself was the only test severe +enough to try him withal, and if he proved a cinder, she would by the +very use of the test be bound to love, honour, and obey her cinder. She +could not well reject him for accepting her—neither could she marry +him if he rose grandly superior to her temptations. No; he could be +nothing to her nearer than the bright particular star.</p> + +<p>Thus went the thoughts to and fro in the minds of each. Neither could +see the way. Both feared the risk of loss. Neither could hope greatly +for gain.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXII">CHAPTER LXII.<br><span class="small">THE DUNE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Having put Kelpie up, and fed and bedded her, Malcolm took his way to +the Seaton, full of busily anxious thought. Things had taken a bad +turn, and he was worse off for counsel than before. The enemy was in +the house with his sister, and he had no longer any chance of judging +how matters were going, as now he never rode out with her. But at least +he could haunt the house. He would run therefore to his grandfather, +and tell him that he was going to occupy his old quarters at the House +that night.</p> + +<p>Returning directly and passing, as had been his custom, through the +kitchen to ascend the small corkscrew stair the servants generally +used, he encountered Mrs Courthope, who told him that her ladyship had +given orders that her maid, who had come with Lady Bellair, should have +his room. He was at once convinced that Florimel had done so with the +intention of banishing him from the house, for there were dozens of +rooms vacant, and many of them more suitable. It was a hard blow! How +he wished for Mr Graham to consult! And yet Mr Graham was not of much +use where any sort of plotting was wanted. He asked Mrs Courthope to +let him have another room; but she looked so doubtful that he withdrew +his request, and went back to his grandfather.</p> + +<p>It was Saturday, and not many of the boats would go fishing. Findlay’s +would not leave the harbour till Sunday was over, and therefore Malcolm +was free. But he could not rest, and would go line-fishing.</p> + +<p>“Daddy,” he said, “I’m gaein oot to catch a haddick or sae to oor +denner the morn. Ye micht jist sit doon upo’ ane o’ the Boar’s Taes, +an’ tak a play o’ yer pipes. I’ll hear ye fine, an’ it’ll du me guid.”</p> + +<p>The Boar’s Toes were two or three small rocks that rose out of the sand +near the end of the dune. Duncan agreed right willingly, and Malcolm, +borrowing some lines, and taking the Psyche’s dinghy, rowed out into +the bay.</p> + +<p>The sun was down, the moon was up, and he had caught more fish than he +wanted. His grandfather had got tired, and gone home, and the fountain +of his anxious thoughts began to flow more rapidly. He must go ashore. +He must go up to the House: who could tell what might not be going on +there? He drew in his line, purposing to take the best of the fish to +Miss Horn, and some to Mrs Courthope, as in the old days.</p> + +<p>The Psyche still lay on the sands, and he was rowing the dinghy towards +her, when, looking round to direct his course, he thought he caught +a glimpse of some one seated on the slope of the dune. Yes, there +was some one there, sure enough. The old times rushed back on his +memory: could it be Florimel? Alas! it was not likely she would now be +wandering about alone! But if it were? Then for one endeavour more to +rouse her slumbering conscience! He would call up all the associations +of the last few months she had spent in the place, and, with the spirit +of her father, as it were, hovering over her, conjure her, in his name, +to break with Liftore.</p> + +<p>He rowed swiftly to the Psyche—beached and drew up the dinghy, and +climbed the dune. Plainly enough it was a lady who sat there. It might +be one from the upper town, enjoying the lovely night; it <i>might</i> be +Florimel, but how could she have got away, or wished to get away from +her newly arrived guests? The voices of several groups of walkers came +from the high road behind the dune, but there was no other figure to be +seen all along the sands. He drew nearer. The lady did not move. If it +were Florimel, would she not know him as he came, and would she wait +for him?</p> + +<p>He drew nearer still. His heart gave a throb. Could it be? Or was the +moon weaving some hallucination in his troubled brain? If it was a +phantom, it was that of Lady Clementina; if but modelled of the filmy +vapours of the moonlight, and the artist his own brain, the phantom was +welcome as joy! His spirit seemed to soar aloft in the yellow air, and +hang hovering over and around her, while his body stood rooted to the +spot, like one who fears by moving nigher to lose the lovely vision of +a mirage. She sat motionless, her gaze on the sea. Malcolm bethought +himself that she could not know him in his fisher-dress, and must take +him for some rude fisherman staring at her. He must go at once, or +approach and address her. He came forward at once.</p> + +<p>“My lady!” he said.</p> + +<p>She did not start. Neither did she speak. She did not even turn her +face. She rose first, then turned, and held out her hand. Three steps +more, and he had it in his, and his eyes looked straight into hers. +Neither spoke. The moon shone full on Clementina’s face. There was no +illumination fitter for that face than the moonlight, and to Malcolm it +was lovelier than ever. Nor was it any wonder it should seem so to him, +for certainly never had the eyes in it rested on his with such a lovely +and trusting light in them.</p> + +<p>A moment she stood, then slowly sank upon the sand, and drew her skirts +about her with a dumb show of invitation. The place where she sat was a +little terraced hollow in the slope, forming a convenient seat. Malcolm +saw but could not believe she actually made room for him to sit beside +her—alone with her in the universe. It was too much; he dared not +believe it. And now by one of those wondrous duplications which are not +always at least born of the fancy, the same scene in which he had found +Florimel thus seated on the slope of the dune, appeared to be passing +again through Malcolm’s consciousness, only instead of Florimel was +Clementina, and instead of the sun was the moon. And creature of the +sunlight as Florimel was, bright and gay and beautiful, she paled into +a creature of the cloud beside this maiden of the moonlight, tall and +stately, silent and soft and grand.</p> + +<p>Again she made a movement. This time he could not doubt her invitation. +It was as if her soul made room in her unseen world for him to enter +and sit beside her. But who could enter heaven in his work-day garments?</p> + +<p>“Won’t you sit by me, Malcolm?” seeing his more than hesitation, she +said at last, with a slight tremble in the voice that was music itself +in his ears.</p> + +<p>“I have been catching fish, my lady,” he answered, “and my clothes must +be unpleasant. I will sit here.”</p> + +<p>He went a little lower on the slope, and laid himself down, leaning on +his elbow.</p> + +<p>“Do fresh water fishes smell the same as the sea-fishes, Malcolm?” she +asked.</p> + +<p>“Indeed I am not certain, my lady. Why?”</p> + +<p>“Because if they do,——You remember what you said to me as we passed +the saw-mill in the wood?”</p> + +<p>It was by silence Malcolm showed he did remember.</p> + +<p>“Does not this night remind you of that one at Wastbeach when we came +upon you singing?” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>“It <i>is</i> like it, my lady—now. But a little ago, before I saw you, I +was thinking of that night, and thinking how different this was.”</p> + +<p>Again a moon-filled silence fell; and once more it was the lady who +broke it.</p> + +<p>“Do you know who are at the house?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I do, my lady,” he replied.</p> + +<p>“I had not been there more than an hour or two,” she went on, “when +they arrived. I suppose Florimel—Lady Lossie—thought I would not come +if she told me she expected them.”</p> + +<p>“And would you have come, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot endure the earl.”</p> + +<p>“Neither can I. But then I know more about him than your ladyship does, +and I am miserable for my mistress.”</p> + +<p>It stung Clementina as if her heart had taken a beat backward. But her +voice was steadier than it had yet been as she returned—</p> + +<p>“Why should you be miserable for Lady Lossie?”</p> + +<p>“I would die rather than see her marry that wretch,” he answered.</p> + +<p>Again her blood stung her in the left side.</p> + +<p>“You do not want her to marry, then?” she said.</p> + +<p>“I do,” answered Malcolm, emphatically, “but not <i>that</i> fellow.”</p> + +<p>“Whom then, if I may ask?” ventured Clementina, trembling.</p> + +<p>But Malcolm was silent. He did not feel it would be right to say. +Clementina turned sick at heart.</p> + +<p>“I have heard there is something dangerous about the moonlight,” she +said. “I think it does not suit me to-night. I will go—home.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm sprung to his feet and offered his hand. She did not take it, +but rose more lightly, though more slowly than he.</p> + +<p>“How did you come from the park, my lady?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“By a gate over there,” she answered, pointing. “I wandered out after +dinner, and the sea drew me.”</p> + +<p>“If your ladyship will allow me, I will take you a much nearer way +back,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Do then,” she returned.</p> + +<p>He thought she spoke a little sadly, and set it down to her hating +to go back to her fellow-guests. What if she should leave to-morrow +morning! he thought. He could never then be sure she had really been +with him that night. He must then sometimes think it a dream. But oh, +what a dream! He could thank God for it all his life, if he should +never dream so again.</p> + +<p>They walked across the grassy sand towards the tunnel in silence, he +pondering what he could say that might comfort her and keep her from +going so soon.</p> + +<p>“My lady never takes me out with her now,” he said at length.</p> + +<p>He was going to add that, if she pleased, he could wait upon her with +Kelpie, and show her the country. But then he saw that, if she were +not with Florimel, his sister would be riding everywhere alone with +Liftore. Therefore he stopped short.</p> + +<p>“And you feel forsaken—deserted?” returned Clementina, sadly still.</p> + +<p>“Rather, my lady.”</p> + +<p>They had reached the tunnel. It looked very black when he opened the +door, but there was just a glimmer through the trees at the other end.</p> + +<p>“This is the valley of the shadow of death,” she said. “Do I walk +straight through?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady. You will soon come out in the light again,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Are there no steps to fall down?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“None, my lady. But I will go first if you wish.”</p> + +<p>“No, that would but cut off the little light I have,” she said. “Come +beside me.”</p> + +<p>They passed through in silence, save for the rustle of her dress, and +the dull echo that haunted their steps. In a few moments they came +out among the trees, but both continued silent. The still, thoughtful +moon-night seemed to press them close together, but neither knew that +the other felt the same.</p> + +<p>They reached a point in the road where another step would bring them in +sight of the house.</p> + +<p>“You cannot go wrong now, my lady,” said Malcolm. “If you please I will +go no farther.”</p> + +<p>“Do you not live in the house?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I used to do as I liked, and could be there or with my grandfather. I +did mean to be at the House to-night, but my lady has given my room to +her maid.”</p> + +<p>“What! that woman Caley?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose so, my lady. I must sleep to-night in the village. If you +could, my lady,” he added, after a pause, and faltered, hesitating. +She did not help him, but waited. “If you could—if you would not be +displeased at my asking you,” he resumed, “—if you <i>could</i> keep my +lady from going farther with that—I shall call him names if I go on!”</p> + +<p>“It is a strange request,” Clementina replied, after a moment’s +reflection. “I hardly know, as the guest of Lady Lossie, what answer +I ought to make to it. One thing I will say, however, that, though +you may know more of the man than I, you can hardly dislike him more. +Whether I can interfere is another matter. Honestly, I do not think it +would be of any use. But I do not say I will not. Good night.”</p> + +<p>She hurried away, and did not again offer her hand.</p> + +<p>Malcolm walked back through the tunnel, his heart singing and making +melody. Oh how lovely, how more than lovely, how divinely beautiful +she was! And so kind and friendly! Yet she seemed just the least bit +fitful too. Something troubled her, he said to himself. But he little +thought that he, and no one else, had spoiled the moonlight for her. He +went home to glorious dreams—she to a troubled half wakeful night. Not +until she had made up her mind to do her utmost to rescue Florimel from +Liftore, even if it gave her to Malcolm, did she find a moment’s quiet. +It was morning then, but she fell fast asleep, slept late, and woke +refreshed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXIII">CHAPTER LXIII.<br><span class="small">CONFESSION OF SIN.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Mr Crathie was slowly recovering, but still very weak. He did not, +after having turned the corner, get well so fast as his medical +minister judged he ought, and the reason was plain to Lizzy, dimly +perceptible to his wife: he was ill at ease. A man may have more mind +and more conscience, and more discomfort in both or either, than his +neighbours give him credit for. They may be in the right about him +up to a certain point in his history, but then a crisis, by them +unperceived, perhaps to them inappreciable, arrived, after which the +man to all eternity could never be the same as they had known him. +Such a change must appear improbable, and save on the theory of a +higher operative power, is improbable because impossible. But a man who +has not created himself can never secure himself against the inroad +of the glorious terror of that Goodness which was able to utter him +into being, with all its possible wrongs and repentances. The fact +that a man has never, up to any point yet, been aware of aught beyond +himself, cannot shut him out who is beyond him, when at last he means +to enter. Not even the soul-benumbing visits of his clerical minister +could repress the swell of the slow-mounting dayspring in the soul +of the hard, commonplace, business-worshipping man, Hector Crathie. +The hireling would talk to him kindly enough—of his illness, or of +events of the day, especially those of the town and neighbourhood, and +encourage him with reiterated expression of the hope that ere many days +they would enjoy a tumbler together as of old, but as to wrong done, +apology to make, forgiveness to be sought, or consolation to be found, +the dumb dog had not uttered a bark.</p> + +<p>The sources of the factor’s restless discomfort were now two; the +first, that he had lifted his hand to women; the second, the old ground +of his quarrel with Malcolm, brought up by Lizzy.</p> + +<p>All his life, since ever he had had business, Mr Crathie had prided +himself on his honesty, and was therefore in one of the most dangerous +moral positions a man could occupy—ruinous even to the honesty itself. +Asleep in the mud, he dreamed himself awake on a pedestal. At best such +a man is but perched on a needle point when he thinketh he standeth. Of +him who prided himself on his honour I should expect that one day, in +the long run it might be, he would do some vile thing. Not, probably, +within the small circle of illumination around his wretched rushlight, +but in the great region beyond it, of what to him is a moral darkness, +or twilight vague, he may be or may become capable of doing a deed +that will stink in the nostrils of the universe—and in his own when +he knows it as it is. The honesty in which a man can pride himself +must be a small one, for more honesty will ever reveal more defect, +while perfect honesty will never think of itself at all. The limited +honesty of the factor clave to the interests of his employers, and let +the rights he encountered take care of themselves. Those he dealt with +were to him rather as enemies than friends, not enemies to be prayed +for, but to be spoiled. Malcolm’s doctrine of honesty in horse-dealing +was to him ludicrously new. His notion of honesty in that kind was to +cheat the buyer for his master if he could, proud to write in his book +a large sum against the name of the animal. He would have scorned in +his very soul the idea of making a farthing by it himself through any +business quirk whatever, but he would not have been the least ashamed +if, having sold Kelpie, he had heard—let me say, after a week of +possession—that she had dashed out her purchaser’s brains. He would +have been a little shocked, a little sorry perhaps, but nowise ashamed. +“By this time,” he would have said, “the man ought to have been up to +her, and either taken care of himself—or <i>sold her again</i>,”—to dash +out another man’s brains instead!</p> + +<p>That the bastard Malcolm, or the ignorant and indeed fallen fisher-girl +Lizzy, should judge differently, nowise troubled him: what could they +know about the rights and wrongs of business? The fact which Lizzy +sought to bring to bear upon him, that our Lord would not have done +such a thing, was to him no argument at all. He said to himself with +the superior smile of arrogated common-sense, that “no mere man since +the fall” could be expected to do like him; that he was divine, and had +not to fight for a living; that he set us an example that we might see +what sinners we were; that religion was one thing, and a very proper +thing, but business was another, and a very proper thing also—with +customs and indeed laws of its own far more determinate, at least +definite, than those of religion, and that to mingle the one with the +other was not merely absurd—it was irreverent and wrong, and certainly +never intended in the Bible, which must surely be common sense. It was +<i>the Bible</i> always with him,—never <i>the will of Christ</i>. But although +he could dispose of the question thus satisfactorily, yet, as he lay +ill, supine, without any distracting occupation, the thing haunted him.</p> + +<p>Now in his father’s cottage had lain, much dabbled in of the children, +a certain boardless copy of the Pilgrim’s Progress, round in the face +and hollow in the back, in which, amongst other pictures was one of +the Wicket-gate. This scripture of his childhood, given by inspiration +of God, threw out, in one of his troubled and feverish nights, a +dream-bud in the brain of the man. He saw the face of Jesus looking +on him over the top of the Wicket-gate, at which he had been for some +time knocking in vain, while the cruel dog barked loud from the enemy’s +yard. But that face, when at last it came, was full of sorrowful +displeasure. And in his heart he knew that it was because of a certain +transaction in horse-dealing, wherein he had hitherto lauded his own +cunning—adroitness, he considered it—and success. One word only he +heard from the lips of the Man —“Worker of iniquity,”—and woke with +a great start. From that moment truths <i>began</i> to be facts to him. The +beginning of the change was indeed very small, but every beginning is +small, and every beginning is a creation. Monad, molecule, protoplasm, +whatever word may be attached to it when it becomes appreciable by +men, being then, however many stages, I believe, upon its journey, +<i>beginning</i> is an irrepressible fact; and however far from good or +humble even after many days, the man here began to grow good and +humble. His dull unimaginative nature, a perfect lumber-room of the +world and its rusting affairs, had received a gift in a dream—a truth +from the lips of the Lord, remodelled in the brain and heart of the +tinker of Elstow, and sent forth in his wondrous parable to be pictured +and printed, and lie in old Hector Crathie’s cottage, that it might +enter and lie in young Hector Crathie’s brain until he grew old and had +done wrong enough to heed it, when it rose upon him in a dream, and +had its way. Henceforth the claims of his neighbour began to reveal +themselves, and his mind to breed conscientious doubts and scruples, +with which, struggle as he might against it, a certain respect for +Malcolm would keep coming and mingling—a feeling which grew with its +returns, until, by slow changes, he began at length to regard him as +the minister of God’s vengeance—for his punishment,—and perhaps +salvation— who could tell?</p> + +<p>Lizzy’s nightly ministrations had not been resumed, but she often +called, and was a good deal with him; for Mrs Crathie had learned to +like the humble, helpful girl still better when she found she had taken +no offence at being deprived of her post of honour by his bedside. +One day, when Malcolm was seated, mending a net, among the thin grass +and great red daisies of the links by the bank of the burn, where it +crossed the sands from the Lossie grounds to the sea, Lizzy came up to +him and said,</p> + +<p>“The factor wad like to see ye, Ma’colm, as sune ’s ye can gang till +’im.”</p> + +<p>She waited no reply. Malcolm rose and went.</p> + +<p>At the factor’s, the door was opened by Mrs Crathie herself, who, +looking mysterious, led him to the dining-room, where she plunged at +once into business, doing her best to keep down all manifestation of +the profound resentment she cherished against him. Her manner was +confidential, almost coaxing.</p> + +<p>“Ye see, Ma’colm,” she said, as if pursuing instead of commencing a +conversation, “he’s some sore about the little <i>fraicass</i> between him +’an you. Jist make your apoalogies till ’im and tell ’im you had a drop +too much, and you’re soary for misbehavin’ yersel’ to wann sae much +your shuperrior. Tell him that, Ma’colm, an’ there’s a half-croon to +ye.”</p> + +<p>She wished much to speak English, and I have tried to represent the +thing she did speak, which was neither honest Scotch nor anything +like English. Alas! the good, pithy, old Anglo-saxon dialect is fast +perishing, and a jargon of corrupt English taking its place.</p> + +<p>“But, mem,” said Malcolm, taking no notice either of the coin or the +words that accompanied the offer of it, “I canna lee. I wasna in drink, +an’ I’m no sorry.”</p> + +<p>“Hoot!” returned Mrs Crathie, blurting out her Scotch fast enough now, +“I s’ warran’ ye can lee weel eneuch whan ye ha’e occasion. Tak yer +siller, an’ du as I tell ye.”</p> + +<p>“Wad ye ha’e me damned, mem?”</p> + +<p>Mrs Crathie gave a cry and held up her hands. She was too well +accustomed to imprecations from the lips of her husband for any but +an affected horror, but, regarding the honest word as a bad one, she +assumed an air of injury.</p> + +<p>“Wad ye daur to sweir afore a leddy,” she exclaimed, shaking her +uplifted hands in pretence of ghasted astonishment.</p> + +<p>“If Mr Crathie wishes to see me, ma’am,” rejoined Malcolm, taking up +the shield of English, “I am ready. If not, please allow me to go.”</p> + +<p>The same moment the bell whose rope was at the head of the factor’s +bed, rang violently, and Mrs Crathie’s importance collapsed.</p> + +<p>“Come this w’y,” she said, and turning, led him up the stair to the +room where her husband lay.</p> + +<p>Entering, Malcolm stood astonished at the change he saw upon the strong +man of rubicund countenance, and his heart filled with compassion. +The factor was sitting up in bed, looking very white and worn and +troubled. Even his nose had grown thin and white. He held out his hand +to him, and said to his wife, “Tak the door to ye, Mistress Crathie,” +indicating which side he wished it closed from.</p> + +<p>“Ye was some sair upo’ me, Ma’colm,” he went on, grasping the youth’s +hand.</p> + +<p>“I doobt I was <i>ower</i> sair,” said Malcolm, who could hardly speak for a +lump in his throat.</p> + +<p>“Weel, I deserved it. But eh, Ma’colm! I canna believe it was me: it +bude to be the drink.”</p> + +<p>“It <i>was</i> the drink,” rejoined Malcolm; “an’ eh sir! afore ye rise frae +that bed, sweir to the great God ’at ye’ll never drink nae mair drams, +nor onything ’ayont ae tum’ler at a sittin’.”</p> + +<p>“I sweir ’t; I sweir ’t, Ma’colm!” cried the factor.</p> + +<p>“It’s easy to sweir ’t noo, sir, but whan ye’re up again it’ll be hard +to keep yer aith.—O Lord!” spoke the youth, breaking out into almost +involuntary prayer, “help this man to haud troth wi’ thee.—An’ noo, +Maister Crathie,” he resumed, “I’m yer servan’, ready to do onything I +can. Forgi’e me, sir, for layin’ on ower sair.”</p> + +<p>“I forgi’e ye wi’ a’ my hert,” returned the factor, inly delighted to +have something to forgive.</p> + +<p>“I thank ye frae mine,” answered Malcolm, and again they shook hands.</p> + +<p>“But eh, Ma’colm, my man!” said the factor, “hoo will I ever shaw my +face again?”</p> + +<p>“Fine that!” returned Malcolm, eagerly. “Fowk’s terrible guid-natur’d +whan ye alloo ’at ye’re i’ the wrang. I do believe ’at whan a man +confesses till ’s neebour, an’ says he’s sorry, he thinks mair o’ ’im +nor afore he did it. Ye see we a’ ken we ha’e dune wrang, but we ha’ena +a’ confessed. An’ it’s a queer thing, but a man’ll think it gran’ o’ ’s +neebour to confess, whan a’ the time there’s something he winna repent +o’ himsel’ for fear o’ the <i>shame</i> o’ ha’ein’ to confess ’t. To me, +the shame lies in <i>no</i> confessin’ efter ye ken ye’re wrang. Ye’ll see, +sir—the fisher-fowk’ll min’ what ye say to them a heap better noo.”</p> + +<p>“Div ye railly think it, Ma’colm?” sighed the factor with a flush.</p> + +<p>“I div that, sir. Only whan ye grow better, gien ye’ll alloo me to +say ’t, sir, ye maunna lat Sawtan temp’ ye to think ’at this same +repentin’ was but a wakeness o’ the flesh, an’ no an enlichtenment o’ +the speerit.”</p> + +<p>“I s’ tie mysel’ up till ’t,” cried the factor, eagerly. “Gang an’ tell +them i’ my name, ’at I tak back ilka scart o’ a nottice I ever ga’e +ane o’ them to quit, only we maun ha’e nae mair stane’in’ o’ honest +fowk ’at comes to bigg herbours till them.—Div ye think it wad be weel +ta’en gien ye tuik a poun’-nott the piece to the twa women?”</p> + +<p>“I wadna du that, sir, gien I was you,” answered Malcolm. “For yer ain +sake, I wadna to Mistress Mair, for naething wad gar her tak it—it +wad only affront her; an’ for Nancy Tacket’s sake, I wadna to her, for +as her name, so’s her natur’: she wad not only tak it, but she wad lat +ye play the same as aften ’s ye likit for less siller. Ye’ll ha’e mony +a chance o’ makin’ ’t up to them baith, ten times ower, afore you an’ +them pairt, sir.”</p> + +<p>“I maun lea’ the cuintry, Ma’colm.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, sir, ye’ll du naething o’ the kin’. The fishers themsels wad +rise, no to lat ye, as they did wi’ Blew Peter! As sune ’s ye’re able +to be aboot again, ye’ll see plain eneuch ’at there’s no occasion for +onything like that, sir. Portlossie wadna ken ’tsel’ wantin’ ye. Jist +gie me a commission to say to the twa honest women ’at ye’re sorry for +what ye did, an’ that’s a’ ’at need be said ’atween you an them, or +their men aither.”</p> + +<p>The result showed that Malcolm was right; for, the very next day, +instead of looking for gifts from him, the two injured women came to +the factor’s door, first Annie Mair, with the offering of a few fresh +eggs, scarce at the season, and after her Nancy Tacket, with a great +lobster.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXIV">CHAPTER LXIV.<br><span class="small">A VISITATION.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Malcolm’s custom was, first, immediately after breakfast, to give +Kelpie her airing—and a tremendous amount of air she wanted for the +huge animal furnace of her frame, and the fiery spirit that kept it +alight; then, returning to the Seaton, to change the dress of the +groom, in which he always appeared about the house, lest by any chance +his mistress should want him, for that of the fisherman, and help +with the nets, or the boats, or in whatever was going on. As often as +he might he did what seldom a man would—went to the long shed where +the women prepared the fish for salting, took a knife, and wrought as +deftly as any of them, throwing a marvellously rapid succession of +cleaned herrings into the preserving brine. It was no wonder he was a +favourite with the women. Although, however, the place was malodorous +and the work dirty, I cannot claim so much for Malcolm as may at first +appear to belong to him, for he had been accustomed to the sight and +smell from earliest childhood. Still, as I say, it was work the men +would not do. He had such a chivalrous humanity that it was misery to +him to see man or woman at anything scorned, except he bore a hand +himself. He did it half in love, half in terror of being unjust.</p> + +<p>He had gone to Mr Crathie in his fisher-clothes, thinking it better +the sick man should not be reminded of the cause of his illness more +forcibly than could not be helped. The nearest way led past a corner of +the house overlooked by one of the drawing-room windows, Clementina saw +him, and, judging by his garb that he would probably return presently, +went out in the hope of meeting him; and as he was going back to his +net by the sea-gate, he caught sight of her on the opposite side of the +burn, accompanied only by a book. He walked through the burn, climbed +the bank, and approached her.</p> + +<p>It was a hot summer afternoon. The burn ran dark and brown and cool +in deep shade, but the sea beyond was glowing in light, and the +laburnum-blossoms hung like cocoons of sunbeams. No breath of air +was stirring; no bird sang; the sun was burning high in the west. +Clementina stood waiting him, like a moon that could hold her own in +the face of the sun.</p> + +<p>“Malcolm,” she said, “I have been watching all day, but have not found +a single opportunity of speaking to your mistress as you wished. But to +tell the truth, I am not sorry, for the more I think about it, the less +I see what to say. That another does not like a person, can have little +weight with one who does, and I <i>know</i> nothing against him. I wish you +would release me from my promise. It is such an ugly thing to speak to +one’s hostess to the disadvantage of a fellow-guest!”</p> + +<p>“I understand,” said Malcolm. “It was not a right thing to ask of you. +I beg your pardon, my lady, and give you back your promise, if such you +count it. But indeed I do not think you promised.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, I would rather be free. Had it been before you left +London—. —Lady Lossie is very kind, but does not seem to put the same +confidence in me as formerly. She and Lady Bellair and that man make a +trio, and I am left outside. I almost think I ought to go. Even Caley +is more of a friend than I am. I cannot get rid of the suspicion that +something not right is going on. There seems a bad air about the place. +Those two are playing their game with the inexperience of that poor +child, your mistress.”</p> + +<p>“I know that very well, my lady, but I hope yet they will not win,” +said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>By this time they were near the tunnel.</p> + +<p>“Could you let me through to the shore?” asked Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Certainly, my lady.—I wish you could see the boats go out. From the +Boar’s Tail it is a pretty sight. They will all be starting together as +soon as the tide turns.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon Clementina began questioning him about the night-fishing, +and Malcolm described its pleasures and dangers, and the pleasures of +its dangers, in such fashion that Clementina listened with delight. He +dwelt especially on the feeling almost of disembodiment, and existence +as pure thought, arising from the all-pervading clarity and fluidity, +the suspension, and the unceasing motion.</p> + +<p>“I wish I could once feel like that,” exclaimed Clementina. “Could I +not go with you—for one night—just for once, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“My lady, it would hardly do, I am afraid. If you knew the discomforts +that must assail one unaccustomed—I cannot tell—but I doubt if you +would go. All the doors to bliss have their defences of swamps and +thorny thickets through which alone they can be gained. You would need +to be a fisherman’s sister—or wife, I fear, my lady, to get through to +this one.”</p> + +<p>Clementina smiled gravely, but did not reply, and Malcolm too was +silent, thinking.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said at last, “I see how we can manage it. You shall have a +boat for your own use, my lady, and——”</p> + +<p>“But I want to see just what you see, and to feel, as nearly as I may, +what you feel. I don’t want a downy, rose-leaf notion of the thing. I +want to understand what you fishermen encounter and experience.”</p> + +<p>“We <i>must</i> make a difference though, my lady. Look what clothes, what +boots we fishers must wear to be fit for our work! But you shall have +a true idea as far as it reaches, and one that will go a long way +towards enabling you to understand the rest. You shall go in a real +fishing-boat, with a full crew and all the nets, and you shall catch +real herrings; only you shall not be out longer than you please.—But +there is hardly time to arrange for it to-night, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow then?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I have no doubt I can manage it then.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, thank you!” said Clementina. “It will be a great delight.”</p> + +<p>“And now,” suggested Malcolm, “would you like to go through the +village, and see some of the cottages, and how the fishers live?”</p> + +<p>“If they would not think me inquisitive, or intrusive,” answered +Clementina.</p> + +<p>“There is no danger of that,” rejoined Malcolm. “If it were my Lady +Bellair, to patronize, and deal praise and blame, as if what she calls +poverty were fault and childishness, and she their spiritual as well +as social superior, they might very likely be what she would call +rude. She was here once before, and we have some notion of her about +the Seaton. I venture to say there is not a woman in it who is not her +moral superior, and many of them are her superiors in intellect and +true knowledge, if they are not so familiar with London scandal. Mr +Graham says that in the kingdom of heaven every superior is a ruler, +for there to rule is to raise, and a man’s rank is his power to uplift.”</p> + +<p>“I would I were in the kingdom of heaven, if it be such as you and Mr +Graham take it for,” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>“You must be in it, my lady, or you couldn’t wish it to be such as it +is.”</p> + +<p>“Can one then be in it, and yet seem to be out of it, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“So many are out of it that seem to be in it, my lady, that one might +well imagine it the other way with some.”</p> + +<p>“Are you not uncharitable, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“Our Lord speaks of many coming up to his door confident of admission, +whom yet he sends from him. Faith is obedience, not confidence.”</p> + +<p>“Then I do well to fear.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady, so long as your fear makes you knock the louder.”</p> + +<p>“But if I be in, as you say, how can I go on knocking?”</p> + +<p>“There are a thousand more doors to knock at after you are in, my lady. +No one content to stand just inside the gate will be inside it long. +But it is one thing to be in, and another to be satisfied that we are +in. Such a satisfying as comes from our own feelings may, you see from +what our Lord says, be a false one. It is one thing to gather the +conviction for ourselves, and another to have it from God. What wise +man would have it before he gives it? He who does what his Lord tells +him, is in the kingdom, if every feeling of heart or brain told him he +was out. And his Lord will see that he knows it one day. But I do not +think, my lady, one can ever be quite sure, until the king himself has +come in to sup with him, and has let him know that he is altogether one +with him.”</p> + +<p>During the talk of which this is the substance, they reached the +Seaton, and Malcolm took her to see his grandfather.</p> + +<p>“Taal and faer and chentle and coot!” murmured the old man as he held +her hand for a moment in his. With a start of suspicion he dropped it, +and cried out in alarm—“She’ll not pe a Cam’ell, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, daddy—far frae that,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Then my laty will pe right welcome to Tuncan’s heart,” he replied, and +taking her hand again led her to a chair.</p> + +<p>When they left, she expressed herself charmed with the piper, but when +she learned the cause of his peculiar behaviour at first, she looked +grave, and found his feeling difficult to understand.</p> + +<p>They next visited the Partaness, with whom she was far more amused +than puzzled. But her heart was drawn to the young woman who sat in +a corner, rocking her child in its wooden cradle, and never lifting +her eyes from her needle-work: she knew her for the fisher-girl of +Malcolm’s picture.</p> + +<p>From house to house he took her, and where they went, they were +welcomed. If the man was smoking, he put away his pipe, and the woman +left her work and sat down to talk with her. They did the honours of +their poor houses in a homely and dignified fashion. Clementina was +delighted. But Malcolm told her he had taken her only to the best +houses in the place to begin with. The village, though a fair sample of +fishing villages, was no ex-sample, he said: there were all kinds of +people in it as in every other. It was a class in the big life-school +of the world, whose special masters were the sea and the herrings.</p> + +<p>“What would you do now, if you were lord of the place?” asked +Clementina, as they were walking back by the sea-gate; “—I mean, what +would be the first thing you would do?”</p> + +<p>“As it would be my business to know my tenants that I might rule them,” +he answered, “I would first court the society and confidence of the +best men among them. I should be in no hurry to make changes, but +would talk openly with them, and try to be worthy of their confidence. +Of course I would see a little better to their houses, and improve +their harbour: and I would build a boat for myself that would show +them a better kind; but my main hope for them would be the same as for +myself—the knowledge of him whose is the sea and all its store, who +cares for every fish in its bosom, but for the fisher more than many +herrings. I would spend my best efforts to make them follow him whose +first servants were the fishermen of Galilee, for with all my heart I +believe that that Man holds the secret of life, and that only the man +who obeys him can ever come to know the God who is the root and crown +of our being, and whom to know is freedom and bliss.”</p> + +<p>A pause followed.</p> + +<p>“But do you not sometimes find it hard to remember God all through your +work?” asked Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Not very hard, my lady. Sometimes I wake up to find that I have been +in an evil mood and forgetting him, and then life is hard until I get +near him again. But it is not my work that makes me forget him. When +I go a-fishing, I go to catch God’s fish; when I take Kelpie out, I +am teaching one of God’s wild creatures; when I read the Bible or +Shakspere, I am listening to the word of God, uttered in each after +its kind. When the wind blows on my face, what matter that the chymist +pulls it to pieces! He cannot hurt it, for his knowledge of it cannot +make my feeling of it a folly, so long as he cannot pull that to pieces +with his retorts and crucibles: it is to me the wind of him who makes +it blow, the sign of something in him, the fit emblem of his spirit, +that breathes into my spirit the breath of life. When Mr Graham talks +to me, it is a prophet come from God that teaches me, as certainly as +if his fiery chariot were waiting to carry him back when he had spoken; +for the word he utters at once humbles and uplifts my soul, telling it +that God is all in all and my God—that the Lord Christ is the truth +and the life, and the way home to the Father.”</p> + +<p>After a little pause,</p> + +<p>“And when you are talking to a rich, ignorant, proud lady?” said +Clementina, “—what do you feel then?”</p> + +<p>“That I would it were my lady Clementina instead,” answered Malcolm +with a smile.</p> + +<p>She held her peace.</p> + +<p>When he left her, Malcolm hurried to Scaurnose and arranged with +Blue Peter for his boat and crew the next night. Returning to his +grandfather, he found a note waiting him from Mrs Courthope, to the +effect that, as Miss Caley, her ladyship’s maid, had preferred another +room, there was no reason why, if he pleased, he should not re-occupy +his own.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXV">CHAPTER LXV.<br><span class="small">THE EVE OF THE CRISIS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>It was late in the sweetest of summer mornings when the Partan’s boat +slipped slowly back with a light wind to the harbour of Portlossie. +Malcolm did not wait to land the fish, but having changed his clothes +and taken breakfast with Duncan, who was always up early, went to +look after Kelpie. When he had done with her, finding some of the +household already in motion, he went through the kitchen, and up the +old cork-screw stone stair to his room to have the sleep he generally +had before his breakfast. Presently came a knock at his door, and there +was Rose.</p> + +<p>The girl’s behaviour to Malcolm was much changed. The conviction had +been strengthened in her that he was not what he seemed, and she +regarded him now with a vague awe. She looked this way and that along +the passage, with fear in her eyes, then stepped timidly inside the +room to tell him, in a hurried whisper, that she had seen the woman who +gave her the poisonous philtre, talking to Caley the night before, at +the foot of the bridge, after everybody else was in bed. She had been +miserable till she could warn him. He thanked her heartily, and said he +would be on his guard; he would neither eat nor drink in the house. She +crept softly away. He secured the door, lay down, and trying to think +fell asleep.</p> + +<p>When he woke his brain was clear. The very next day, whether Lenorme +came or not, he would declare himself. That night he would go fishing +with Lady Clementina, but not one day longer would he allow those +people to be about his sister. Who could tell what might not be +brewing, or into what abyss, with the help of her <i>friends</i>, the woman +Catanach might not plunge Florimel?</p> + +<p>He rose, took Kelpie out, and had a good gallop. On his way back he +saw in the distance Florimel riding with Liftore. The earl was on his +father’s bay mare. He could not endure the sight, and dashed home at +full speed.</p> + +<p>Learning from Rose that Lady Clementina was in the flower-garden, he +found her at the swan-basin, feeding the gold and silver fishes. An +under-gardener who had been about the place for thirty years, was at +work not far off. The light splash of the falling column which the +marble swan spouted from its upturned beak, prevented her from hearing +his approach until he was close behind her. She turned, and her fair +face took the flush of a white rose.</p> + +<p>“My lady,” he said, “I have got everything arranged for to-night.”</p> + +<p>“And when shall we go?” she asked eagerly.</p> + +<p>“At the turn of the tide, about half-past seven. But seven is your +dinner hour.”</p> + +<p>“It is of no consequence.—But could you not make it half an hour +later, and then I should not seem rude?”</p> + +<p>“Make it any hour you please, my lady, so long as the tide is falling.”</p> + +<p>“Let it be eight then, and dinner will be almost over. They will not +miss me after that. Mr Cairns is going to dine with them. I think, +except Liftore, I never disliked a man so much. Shall I tell them where +I am going?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady. It will be better.—They will look amazed—for all their +breeding!”</p> + +<p>“Whose boat is it, that I may be able to tell them if they should ask +me?”</p> + +<p>“Joseph Mair’s. He and his wife will come and fetch you. Annie Mair +will go with us—if I may say <i>us</i>: will you allow me to go in your +boat, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t go without you, Malcolm.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, my lady. Indeed I don’t know how I could let you go without +me! Not that there is anything to fear, or that I could make it the +least safer; but somehow it seems my business to take care of you.”</p> + +<p>“Like Kelpie?” said Clementina, with a merrier smile than he had ever +seen on her face before.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady,” answered Malcolm; “—if to do for you all and the best +you will permit me to do, be to take care of you like Kelpie, then so +it is.”</p> + +<p>Clementina gave a little sigh.</p> + +<p>“Mind you don’t scruple, my lady, to give what orders you please. It +will be <i>your</i> fishing-boat for to-night.”</p> + +<p>Clementina bowed her head in acknowledgment.</p> + +<p>“And now, my lady,” Malcolm went on, “just look about you for a moment. +See this great vault of heaven, full of golden light raining on trees +and flowers—every atom of air shining. Take the whole into your heart, +that you may feel the difference at night, my lady —when the stars, +and neither sun nor moon, will be in the sky, and all the flowers they +shine on will be their own flitting, blinking, swinging, shutting and +opening reflections in the swaying floor of the ocean,—when the heat +will be gone, and the air clean and clear as the thoughts of a saint.”</p> + +<p>Clementina did as he said, and gazed above and around her on the glory +of the summer day overhanging the sweet garden, and on the flowers that +had just before been making her heart ache with their unattainable +secret. But she thought with herself that if Malcolm and she but shared +it with a common heart as well as neighboured eyes, gorgeous day and +ethereal night, or snow-clad wild and sky of stormy blackness, were +alike welcome to her spirit.</p> + +<p>As they talked they wandered up the garden, and had drawn near the +spot where, in the side of the glen, was hollowed the cave of the +hermit. They now turned towards the pretty arbour of moss that covered +its entrance, each thinking the other led, but Malcolm not without +reluctance. For how horribly and unaccountably had he not been shaken, +the only time he ever entered it, at the sight of the hermit! The thing +was a foolish wooden figure, no doubt, but the thought that it still +sat over its book in the darkest corner of the cave, ready to rise and +advance with outstretched hand to welcome its visitor, had, ever since +then, sufficed to make him shudder. He was on the point of warning +Clementina lest she too should be worse than startled, when he was +arrested by the voice of John Jack, the old gardener, who came stooping +after them, looking a sexton of flowers.</p> + +<p>“Ma’colm, Ma’colm!” he cried, and crept up wheezing. “—I beg yer +leddyship’s pardon, my leddy, but I wadna ha’e Ma’colm lat ye gang in +there ohn tellt ye what there is inside.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, John. I was just going to tell my lady,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Because, ye see,” pursued John, “I was ae day here i’ the gairden +—an’ I was jist graftin’ a bonny wull rose-buss wi’ a Hector o’ +France—an’ it grew to be the bonniest rose-buss in a’ the haill +gairden—whan the markis, no the auld markis, but my leddy’s father, +cam up the walk there, an’ a bonny yoong leddy wi’ his lordship, as it +micht be yersels twa—an’ I beg yer pardon, my leddy, but I’m an auld +man noo, an’ whiles forgets the differs ’atween fowk—an’ this yoong +leddy ’at they ca’d Miss Cam’ell— ye kenned her yersel’ efterhin’, +I daursay, Ma’colm—he was unco ta’en wi’ her, the markis, as ilka +body cud see ohn luikit that near, sae ’at some saich ’at hoo he hed +no richt to gang on wi’ her that gait, garrin’ her believe, gien he +wasna gaein’ to merry her. That’s naither here nor there, hooever, +seein’ it a’ cam to jist naething ava’. Sae up they gaed to the cave +yon’er, as I was tellin’ ye; an’ hoo it was, was a won’er, for I s’ +warran’ she had been aboot the place near a towmon (<i>twelvemonth</i>), +but never had she been intill that cave, and kenned no more nor the +bairn unborn what there was in ’t. An’ sae whan the airemite, as the +auld minister ca’d him, though what for he ca’d a muckle block like +yon an <i>airy-mite</i>, I’m sure I never cud fathom—whan he gat up, as I +was sayin’, an’ cam foret wi’ his han’ oot, she gae a scraich ’at jist +garred my lugs dirl, an’ doon she drappit, an’ there, whan I ran up, +was she lyin’ i’ the markis his airms, as white ’s a cauk eemege, an’ +it was lang or he broucht her till hersel’, for he wadna lat me rin for +the hoosekeeper, but sent me fleein’ to the f’untain for watter, an’ +gied me a gowd guinea to haud my tongue aboot it a’. Sae noo, my leddy, +ye’re fore-warnt, an’ no ill can come to ye, for there’s naething to be +fleyt at whan ye ken what’s gauin’ to meet ye.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm had turned his head aside, and now moved on without remark. +Struck by his silence, Clementina looked up, and saw his face very +pale, and the tears standing in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“You must tell me the sad story, Malcolm,” she murmured. “I could +scarcely understand a word the old man said.”</p> + +<p>He continued silent, and seemed struggling with some emotion. But when +they were within a few paces of the arbour, he stopped short, and said—</p> + +<p>“I would rather not go in there to-day. You would oblige me, my lady, +if you would not go.”</p> + +<p>She looked up at him again, with wonder but more concern in her lovely +face, put her hand on his arm, gently turned him away, and walked back +with him to the fountain. Not a word more did she say about the matter.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXVI">CHAPTER LXVI.<br><span class="small">SEA.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>The evening came; and the company at Lossie House was still seated at +table, Clementina heartily weary of the vapid talk that had been going +on all through the dinner, when she was informed that a fisherman of +the name of Mair was at the door, accompanied by his wife, saying they +had an appointment with her. She had already acquainted her hostess, +when first they sat down, with her arrangements for going a-fishing +that night, and much foolish talk and would-be wit had followed; now, +when she rose and excused herself, they all wished her a pleasant +evening, in a tone indicating the conviction that she little knew what +she was about, and would soon be longing heartily enough to be back +with them in the drawing-room, whose lighted windows she would see from +the boat. But Clementina hoped otherwise, hurriedly changed her dress, +hastened to join Malcolm’s messengers, and almost in a moment had made +the two child-like people at home with her, by the simplicity and truth +of her manner, and the directness of her utterance. They had not talked +with her five minutes before they said in their hearts that here was +the wife for the marquis if he could get her.</p> + +<p>“She’s jist like ane o’ oorsels,” whispered Annie to her husband on the +first opportunity, “only a hantle better an’ bonnier.”</p> + +<p>They took the nearest way to the harbour—through the town, and Lady +Clementina and Blue Peter kept up a constant talk as they went. All in +the streets and at the windows stared to see the grand lady from the +House walking between a Scaurnose fisherman and his wife, and chatting +away with them as if they were all fishers together.</p> + +<p>“What’s the wordle comin’ till!” cried Mrs Mellis, the draper’s wife, +as she saw them pass.</p> + +<p>“I’m glaid to see the yoong wuman—an’ a bonny lass she is!—in sic +guid company,” said Miss Horn, looking down from the opposite side of +the way. “I’m thinkin’ the han’ o’ the markis ’ill be i’ this, no’!”</p> + +<p>All was ready to receive her, but in the present bad state of the +harbour, and the tide having now ebbed a little way, the boat could +not get close either to quay or shore. Six of the crew were on board, +seated on the thwarts with their oars shipped, for Peter had insisted +on a certain approximation to man-of-war manners and discipline for the +evening, or at least until they got to the fishing ground. The shore +itself formed one side of the harbour, and sloped down into it, and on +the sand stood Malcolm with a young woman, whom Clementina recognised +at once as the girl she had seen at the Findlays’.</p> + +<p>“My lady,” he said, approaching, “would you do me the favour to let +Lizzy go with you. She would like to attend your ladyship, because, +being a fisherman’s daughter, she is used to the sea, and Mrs Mair is +not so much at home upon it, being a farmer’s daughter from inland.”</p> + +<p>Receiving Clementina’s thankful assent, he turned to Lizzy and said—</p> + +<p>“Min’ ye tell my leddy what rizon ye ken whaurfor my mistress at the +Hoose sudna be merried upo’ Lord Liftore—him ’at was Lord Meikleham. +Ye may speyk to my leddy there as ye wad to mysel’— an’ better, haein’ +the hert o’ a wuman.”</p> + +<p>Lizzy blushed a deep red, and dared but the glimmer of a glance at +Clementina, but there was only shame, no annoyance in her face.</p> + +<p>“Ye winna repent it, Lizzy,” concluded Malcolm, and turned away.</p> + +<p>He cherished a faint hope that, if she heard or guessed Lizzy’s story, +Clementina might yet find some way of bringing her influence to bear +on his sister even at the last hour of her chance—from which, for +her sake, he shrunk the more the nearer it drew. Clementina held out +her hand to Lizzy, and again accepted her offered service with kindly +thanks.</p> + +<p>Now Blue Peter, having been ship’s-carpenter in his day, had +constructed a little poop in the stern of his craft; thereon Malcolm +had laid cushions and pillows and furs and blankets from the Psyche,—a +grafting of Cleopatra’s galley upon the rude fishing-boat—and there +Clementina was to repose in state. Malcolm gave a sign: Peter took his +wife in his arms, and walking through the few yards of water between, +lifted her into the boat, which lay with its stern to the shore. +Malcolm and Clementina turned to each other: he was about to ask leave +to do her the same service, but she spoke before him.</p> + +<p>“Put Lizzy on board first,” she said.</p> + +<p>He obeyed, and when, returning, he again approached her—</p> + +<p>“Are you able, Malcolm?” she asked. “I am very heavy.”</p> + +<p>He smiled for all reply, took her in his arms like a child, and had +placed her on the cushions before she had time to realize the mode +of her transference. Then taking a stride deeper into the water, he +scrambled on board. The same instant the men gave way. They pulled +carefully through the narrow jaws of the little harbour, and away with +quivering oar and falling tide, went the boat, gliding out into the +measureless north, where the horizon was now dotted with the sails that +had preceded it.</p> + +<p>No sooner were they afloat than a kind of enchantment enwrapped and +possessed the soul of Clementina. Everything seemed all at once changed +utterly. The very ends of the harbour piers might have stood in the +Divina Commedia instead of the Moray Frith. Oh that wonderful look +everything wears when beheld from the other side! Wonderful surely will +this world appear—strangely <i>more</i>, when, become children again by +being gathered to our fathers—joyous day! we turn and gaze back upon +it from the other side! I imagine that, to him who has overcome it, the +world, in very virtue of his victory, will show itself the lovely and +pure thing it was created— for he will see through the cloudy envelope +of his battle to the living kernel below. The cliffs, the rocks, the +sands, the dune, the town, the very clouds that hung over the hill +above Lossie House, were in strange fashion transfigured. To think of +people sitting behind those windows while the splendour and freedom of +space with all its divine shows invited them—lay bare and empty to +them! Out and still out they rowed and drifted, till the coast began +to open up beyond the headlands on either side. There a light breeze +was waiting them. Up then went three short masts, and three dark brown +sails shone red in the sun, and Malcolm came aft, over the great heap +of brown nets, crept with apology across the poop, and got down into a +little well behind, there to sit and steer the boat; for now, obedient +to the wind in its sails, it went frolicking over the sea.</p> + +<p>The bonnie Annie bore a picked crew; for Peter’s boat was to him a sort +of church, in which he would not with his will carry any Jonah fleeing +from the will of the lord of the sea. And that boat’s crew did not look +the less merrily out of their blue eyes, or carry themselves the less +manfully in danger, that they believed a lord of the earth and the sea +and the fountains of water cared for his children and would have them +honest and fearless.</p> + +<p>And now came a scattering of rubies and topazes over the slow waves, +as the sun reached the edge of the horizon, and shone with a glory of +blinding red along the heaving level of green, dashed with the foam of +their flight. Could such a descent as this be intended for a type of +death? Clementina asked. Was it not rather as if, from a corner of the +tomb behind, she saw the back parts of a resurrection and ascension: +warmth, out-shining, splendour; departure from the door of the tomb; +exultant memory; tarnishing gold, red fading to russet; fainting +of spirit, loneliness; deepening blue and green; pallor, grayness, +coldness; out-creeping stars; further-reaching memory; the dawn of +infinite hope and foresight; the assurance that under passion itself +lay a better and holier mystery? Here was God’s naughty child, the +world, laid asleep and dreaming—if not merrily, yet contentedly; and +there was the sky with all the day gathered and hidden up in its blue, +ready to break forth again in laughter on the morrow, bending over its +skyey cradle like a mother! and there was the aurora, the secret of +life, creeping away round to the north to be ready! Then first, when +the slow twilight had fairly settled into night, did Clementina begin +to know the deepest marvel of this facet of the rose-diamond life! +God’s night and sky and sea were hers now, as they had been Malcolm’s +from childhood! And when the nets had been paid out, and sank straight +into the deep, stretched betwixt leads below and floats and buoys +above, extending a screen of meshes against the rush of the watery +herd; when the sails were down, and the whole vault of stars laid bare +to her eyes as she lay; when the boat was still, fast to the nets, +anchored as it were by hanging acres of curtain, and all was silent as +a church, waiting, and she might dream or sleep or pray as she would, +with nothing about her but peace and love and the deep sea, and over +her but still peace and love and the deeper sky, then the soul of +Clementina rose and worshipped the soul of the universe; her spirit +clave to the Life of her life, the Thought of her thought, the Heart of +her heart; her will bowed itself to the creator of will, worshipping +the supreme, original, only Freedom—the Father of her love, the Father +of Jesus Christ, the God of the hearts of the universe, the Thinker of +all thoughts, the Beginner of all beginnings, the All-in-all. It was +her first experience of speechless adoration.</p> + +<p>Most of the men were asleep in the bows of the boat; all were lying +down but one. That one was Malcolm. He had come aft, and seated himself +under the platform, leaning against it.</p> + +<p>The boat rose and sank a little, just enough to rock the sleeping +children a little deeper into their sleep; Malcolm thought all slept. +He did not see how Clementina’s eyes shone back to the heavens—no star +in them to be named beside those eyes. She knew that Malcolm was near +her, but she would not speak; she would not break the peace of the +presence. A minute or two passed. Then softly woke a murmur of sound, +that strengthened and grew, and swelled at last into a song. She feared +to stir lest she should interrupt its flow. And thus it flowed:</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The stars are steady abune;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I’ the water they flichter an’ flee;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But steady aye luikin’ doon,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They ken themsels i’ the sea.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A’ licht, an’ clear, an’ free,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">God, thou shinest abune;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet luik, an’ see thysel’ in me,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">God, whan thou luikest doon.</span><br> +</p> + +<p>A silence followed, but a silence that seemed about to be broken. +And again Malcolm sang:</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There was an auld fisher—he sat by the wa’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ luikit oot ower the sea;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The bairnies war playin’, he smilit on them a’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But the tear stude in his e’e.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">_An’ it’s oh to win awa’, awa’!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ it’s oh to win awa’</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Whaur the bairns come hame, an’ the wives they bide,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ God is the Father o’ a’!_</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jocky an’ Jeamy an’ Tammy oot there,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A’ i’ the boatie gaed doon;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ I’m ower auld to fish ony mair,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ I hinna the chance to droon.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>An’ it’s oh to win awa’, awa’! &c.</i></span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ Jeanie she grat to ease her hert,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ she easit hersel’ awa’;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I’m ower auld for the tears to stert,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ sae the sighs maun blaw.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>An’ it’s oh to win awa’, awa’! &c.</i></span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord, steer me hame whaur my Lord has steerit,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For I’m tired o’ life’s rockin’ sea;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ dinna be lang, for I’m nearhan’ fearit</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">’At I’m ’maist ower auld to dee.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>An’ it’s oh to win awa’, awa’! &c.</i></span><br> +</p> + +<p>Again the stars and the sky were all, and there was no sound but the +slight murmurous lipping of the low swell against the edges of the +planks. Then Clementina said:</p> + +<p>“Did you make that song, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“Whilk o’ them, my leddy?—But it’s a’ ane—they’re baith mine, sic as +they are.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” she returned.</p> + +<p>“What for, my leddy?”</p> + +<p>“For speaking Scotch to me.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, my lady. I forgot your ladyship was English.”</p> + +<p>“Please forget it,” she said. “But I thank you for your songs too. It +was the second I wanted to know about; the first I was certain was your +own. I did not know you could enter like that into the feelings of an +old man.”</p> + +<p>“Why not, my lady? I never can see living thing without asking it how +it feels. Often and often, out here at such a time as this, have I +tried to fancy myself a herring caught by the gills in the net down +below, instead of the fisherman in the boat above going to haul him +out.”</p> + +<p>“And did you succeed?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I fancy I came to understand as much of him as he does himself. +It’s a merry enough life down there. The flukes—plaice, you call them, +my lady,—bother me, I confess. I never contemplate one without feeling +as if I had been sat upon when I was a baby. But for an old man!—Why, +that’s what I shall be myself one day most likely, and it would be a +shame not to know pretty nearly how <i>he</i> felt—near enough at least to +make a song about him.”</p> + +<p>“And shan’t you mind being an old man, then, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“Not in the least, my lady. I shall mind nothing so long as I can trust +in the maker of me. If my faith should give way—why then there would +be nothing worth minding either! I don’t know but I should kill myself.”</p> + +<p>“Malcolm!”</p> + +<p>“Which is worse, my lady—to distrust God, or to think life worth +having without him?”</p> + +<p>“But one may hope in the midst of doubt—at least that is what Mr +Graham—and you—have taught me to do.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, surely, my lady. I won’t let anyone beat me at that, if I can +help it. And I think that so long as I kept my reason, I should be +able to cry out, as that grandest and most human of all the prophets +did—‘Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.’ But would you not +like to sleep, my lady?”</p> + +<p>“No, Malcolm. I would much rather hear you talk.—Could you not tell me +a story now? Lady Lossie mentioned one you once told her about an old +castle somewhere not far from here——”</p> + +<p>“Eh, my leddy!” broke in Annie Mair, who had waked up while they were +speaking, “I wuss ye wad gar him tell ye that story, for my man he’s +h’ard ’im tell ’t, an’ he says it’s unco gruesome: I wad fain hear +’t.—Wauk up, Lizzy,” she went on, in her eagerness waiting for no +answer; “Ma’colm’s gauin’ to tell ’s the tale o’ the auld castel o’ +Colonsay.—It’s oot by yon’er, my leddy— no that far frae the Deid +Heid.—Wauk up, Lizzy.”</p> + +<p>“I’m no sleepin’, Annie,” said Lizzy, “—though like Ma’colm’s auld +man,” she added with a sigh, “I wad whiles fain be.”</p> + +<p>Now there were reasons why Malcolm should not be unwilling to tell the +strange wild story requested of him, and he commenced it at once, but +modified the Scotch of it considerably for the sake of the unaccustomed +ears. When it was ended Clementina said nothing; Annie Mair said “Hech, +sirs!” and Lizzy with a great sigh, remarked,</p> + +<p>“The deil maun be in a’thing whaur God hasna a han’, I’m thinkin’.”</p> + +<p>“Ye may tak yer aith upo’ that,” rejoined Malcolm.</p> + +<p>It was a custom in Peter’s boat never to draw the nets without a +prayer, uttered now by one and now by another of the crew. Upon +this occasion, whether it was in deference to Malcolm, who, as he +well understood, did not like long prayers, or that the presence of +Clementina exercised some restraint upon his spirit, out of the bows of +the boat came now the solemn voice of its master, bearing only this one +sentence:</p> + +<p>“Oh Thoo, wha didst tell thy dissiples to cast the net upo’ the side +whaur swam the fish, gien it be thy wull ’at we catch the nicht, lat ’s +catch; gien it binna thy wull, lat ’s no catch.—Haul awa’, my laads.”</p> + +<p>Up sprang the men, and went each to his place, and straight a torrent +of gleaming fish was pouring in over the gunwale of the boat. Such a +take it was ere the last of the nets was drawn, as the oldest of them +had seldom seen. Thousands of fish there were that had never got into +the meshes at all.</p> + +<p>“I cannot understand it,” said Clementina. “There are multitudes more +fish than there are meshes in the nets to catch them: if they are not +caught, why do they not swim away?”</p> + +<p>“Because they are drowned, my lady,” answered Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by that? How can you drown a fish?”</p> + +<p>“You may call it <i>suffocated</i> if you like, my lady; it is all the same. +You have read of panic-stricken people, when a church or a theatre is +on fire, rushing to the door all in a heap, and crowding each other to +death? It is something like that with the fish. They are swimming along +in a great shoal, yards thick; and when the first can get no farther, +that does not at once stop the rest, any more than it would in a crowd +of people; those that are behind come pressing up into every corner, +where there is room, till they are one dense mass. Then they push and +push to get forward, and can’t get through, and the rest come still +crowding on behind and above and below, till a multitude of them are +jammed so tight against each other that they can’t open their gills; +and even if they could, there would not be air enough for them. You’ve +seen the goldfish in the swan-basin, my lady, how they open and shut +their gills constantly: that’s their way of getting air out of the +water by some wonderful contrivance nobody understands, for they need +breath just as much as we do: and to close their gills is to them the +same as closing a man’s mouth and nose. That’s how the most of those +herrings are taken.”</p> + +<p>All were now ready to seek the harbour. A light westerly wind was still +blowing, with the aid of which, heavy-laden, they crept slowly to the +land. As she lay snug and warm, with the cool breath of the sea on her +face, a half sleep came over Clementina, and she half dreamed that she +was voyaging in a ship of the air, through infinite regions of space, +with a destination too glorious to be known. The herring-boat was a +living splendour of strength and speed, its sails were as the wings of +a will, in place of the instruments of a force, and softly as mightily +it bore them through the charmed realms of dreamland towards the ideal +of the soul. And yet the herring-boat but crawled over the still waters +with its load of fish, as the harvest waggon creeps over the field with +its piled up sheaves; and she who imagined its wondrous speed was the +only one who did not desire it should move faster.</p> + +<p>No word passed between her and Malcolm all their homeward way. Each was +brooding over the night and its joy that enclosed them together, and +hoping for that which was yet to be shaken from the lap of the coming +time.</p> + +<p>Also Clementina had in her mind a scheme for attempting what Malcolm +had requested of her; the next day must see it carried into effect; +and ever and anon, like a cold blast of doubt invading the bliss of +confidence, into the heart of that sea-borne peace darted the thought, +that, if she failed, she must leave at once for England, for she would +not again meet Liftore.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXVII">CHAPTER LXVII.<br><span class="small">SHORE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>At last they glided once more through the stony jaws of the harbour, +as if returning again to the earth from a sojourn in the land of the +disembodied. When Clementina’s foot touched the shore she felt like one +waked out of a dream, from whom yet the dream has not departed—but +keeps floating about him, waved in thinner and yet thinner streams from +the wings of the vanishing sleep. It seemed almost as if her spirit, +instead of having come back to the world of its former abode, had +been borne across the parting waters and landed on the shore of the +immortals. There was the ghost-like harbour of the spirit land, the +water gleaming betwixt its dark walls, one solitary boat motionless +upon it, the men moving about like shadows in the star twilight! Here +stood three women and a man on the shore, and save the stars no light +shone, and from the land came no sound of life. Was it the dead of the +night, or a day that had no sun? It was not dark, but the light was +rayless. Or, rather, it was as if she had gained the power of seeing in +the dark. Suppressed sleep wove the stuff of a dream around her, and +the stir at her heart kept it alive with dream-forms. Even the voice of +Peter’s Annie, saying, “I s’ bide for my man. Gude nicht, my leddy,” +did not break the charm. Her heart shaped that also into the dream. +Turning away with Malcolm and Lizzy, she passed along the front of the +Seaton. How still, how dead, how empty like cenotaphs, all the cottages +looked! How the sea which lay like a watcher at their doors, murmured +in its sleep! Arrived at the entrance to her own close, Lizzy next bade +them good night, and Clementina and Malcolm were left.</p> + +<p>And now drew near the full power, the culmination of the mounting +enchantment of the night for Malcolm. When once the Scaurnose people +should have passed them, they would be alone—alone as in the spaces +between the stars. There would not be a living soul on the shore +for hours. From the harbour the nearest way to the House was by the +sea-gate, but where was the haste—with the lovely night around them, +private as a dream shared only by two? Besides, to get in by that, they +would have had to rouse the cantankerous Bykes, and what a jar would +not that bring into the music of the silence! Instead, therefore, of +turning up by the side of the stream where it crossed the shore, he +took Clementina once again in his arms unforbidden, and carried her +over. Then the long sands lay open to their feet. Presently they heard +the Scaurnose party behind them, coming audibly, merrily on. As by a +common resolve they turned to the left, and crossing the end of the +Boar’s Tail, resumed their former direction, with the dune now between +them and the sea. The voices passed on the other side, and they heard +them slowly merge into the inaudible. At length, after an interval of +silence, on the westerly air came one quiver of laughter—by which +Malcolm knew his friends were winding up the red path to the top of the +cliff. And now the shore was bare of presence, bare of sound save the +soft fitful rush of the rising tide. But behind the long sandhill, for +all they could see of the sea, they might have been in the heart of a +continent.</p> + +<p>“Who would imagine the ocean so near us, my lady!” said Malcolm, after +they had walked for some time without word spoken.</p> + +<p>“Who can tell what may be near us?” she returned.</p> + +<p>“True, my lady. Our future is near us, holding thousands of things +unknown. Hosts of thinking beings with endless-myriads of thoughts may +be around us. What a joy t’ know that, of all things and all thoughts, +God is nearest to us—<i>so</i> near that we cannot see him, but, far beyond +seeing him, can know of him infinitely!”</p> + +<p>As he spoke they came opposite the tunnel, but he turned from it and +they ascended the dune. As their heads rose over the top, and the +sky-night above and the sea-night beneath rolled themselves out and +rushed silently together, Malcolm said, as if thinking aloud:</p> + +<p>“Thus shall we meet death and the unknown, and the new that breaks from +the bosom of the invisible will be better than the old upon which the +gates close behind us. The Son of man is content with my future, and I +am content.”</p> + +<p>There was a peace in the words that troubled Clementina: he wanted +no more than he had—this cold, imperturbable, devout fisherman! She +did not see that it was the confidence of having all things that held +his peace rooted. From the platform of the swivel, they looked abroad +over the sea. Far north in the east lurked a suspicion of dawn, which +seemed, while they gazed upon it, to “languish into life,” and the sea +was a shade less dark than when they turned from it to go behind the +dune. They descended a few paces, and halted again.</p> + +<p>“Did your ladyship ever see the sun rise?” asked Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Never in open country,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Then stay and see it now, my lady. He’ll rise just over yonder, a +little nearer this way than that light from under his eyelids. A more +glorious chance you could not have. And when he rises, just observe, +one minute after he is up, how like a dream all you have been in +to-night will look. It is to me strange even to awfulness how many +different phases of things, and feelings about them, and moods of life +and consciousness, God can tie up in the bundle of one world with one +human soul to carry it.”</p> + +<p>Clementina slowly sank on the sand of the slope, and like lovely sphinx +of northern desert, gazed in immovable silence out on the yet more +northern sea. Malcolm took his place a little below, leaning on his +elbow, for the slope was steep, and looking up at her. Thus they waited +the sunrise.</p> + +<p>Was it minutes or only moments passed in that silence—whose speech was +the soft ripple of the sea on the sand? Neither could have answered the +question. At length said Malcolm,</p> + +<p>“I think of changing my service, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, Malcolm!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my lady. My—mistress does not like to turn me away, but she is +tired of me, and does not want me any longer.”</p> + +<p>“But you would never think of finally forsaking a fisherman’s life for +that of a servant, surely, Malcolm?”</p> + +<p>“What would become of Kelpie, my lady?” rejoined Malcolm, smiling to +himself.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said Clementina, bewildered; “I had not thought of her.— But you +cannot take her with you,” she added, coming a little to her senses.</p> + +<p>“There is nobody about the place who could, or rather, who would do +anything with her. They would sell her. I have enough to buy her, and +perhaps somebody might not object to the encumbrance, but hire me and +her together.—<i>Your</i> groom wants a coachman’s place, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“O Malcolm! do you mean you would be <i>my</i> groom?” cried Clementina, +pressing her palms together.</p> + +<p>“If you would have me, my lady; but I have heard you say you would have +none but a married man.”</p> + +<p>“But—Malcolm—don’t you know anybody that would—?—Could you not find +some one—some lady—that—?—I mean, why shouldn’t you be a married +man?”</p> + +<p>“For a very good and to me rather sad reason, my lady; the only woman I +could marry, or should ever be able to marry,—would not have me. She +is very kind and very noble, but—it is preposterous —the thing is too +preposterous. I dare not have the presumption to ask her.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm’s voice trembled as he spoke, and a few moments’ pause +followed, during which he could not lift his eyes. The whole heaven +seemed pressing down their lids. The breath which he modelled into +words seemed to come in little billows.</p> + +<p>But his words had raised a storm in Clementina’s bosom. A cry broke +from her, as if driven forth by pain. She called up all the energy +of her nature, and stilled herself to speak. The voice that came was +little more than a sob-scattered whisper, but to her it seemed as if +all the world must hear.</p> + +<p>“Oh Malcolm!” she panted, “I <i>will</i> try to be good and wise. Don’t +marry anybody else—<i>anybody</i>, I mean; but come with Kelpie and be my +groom, and wait and see if I don’t grow better.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm leaped to his feet and threw himself at hers. He had heard but +in part, and he <i>must</i> know all.</p> + +<p>“My lady,” he said, with intense quiet, “Kelpie and I will be your +slaves. Take me for fisherman—groom—what you will. I offer the whole +sum of service that is in me.” He kissed her feet.</p> + +<p>“My lady, I would put your feet on my head,” he went on, “only then +what should I do when I see my Lord, and cast myself before <i>him</i>?”</p> + +<p>But Clementina, again her own to give, rose quickly, and said with all +the dignity born of her inward grandeur,</p> + +<p>“Rise, Malcolm; you misunderstand me.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm rose abashed, but stood erect before her, save that his head +was bowed, for his heart was sunk in dismay. Then slowly, gently, +Clementina knelt before him. He was bewildered, and thought she was +going to pray. In sweet, clear, unshaken tones, for she feared nothing +now, she said,</p> + +<p>“Malcolm, I am not worthy of you. But take me—take my very soul if you +will, for it is yours.”</p> + +<p>Now Malcolm saw that he had no right to raise a kneeling lady; all he +could do was to kneel beside her. When people kneel, they lift up their +hearts; and the creating heart of their joy was forgotten of neither. +And well for them, for the love where God is not, be the lady lovely as +Cordelia, the man gentle as Philip Sidney, will fare as the overkept +manna.</p> + +<p>When the huge tidal wave from the ocean of infinite delight had broken +at last upon the shore of the finite, and withdrawn again into the +deeps, leaving every cistern brimming, every fountain overflowing, the +two entranced souls opened their bodily eyes, looked at each other, +rose, and stood hand in hand, speechless.</p> + +<p>“Ah, my lady!” said Malcolm at length, “what is to become of this +delicate smoothness in my great rough hand? Will it not be hurt?”</p> + +<p>“You don’t know how strong it is, Malcolm. There!”</p> + +<p>“I can scarcely feel it with my hand, my lady; it all goes through to +my heart. It shall lie in mine as the diamond in the rock.”</p> + +<p>“No, no, Malcolm! Now that I am going to be a fisherman’s wife, it must +be a strong hand—it must work. What homage shall you require of me, +Malcolm? What will you have me do to rise a little nearer your level? +Shall I give away lands and money? And shall I live with you in the +Seaton? or will you come and fish at Wastbeach?”</p> + +<p>“Forgive me, my lady; I can’t think about things now—even with you in +them. There is neither past nor future to me now—only this one eternal +morning. Sit here, and look up, Lady Clementina: —see all those +worlds:—something in me constantly says that I shall know every one of +them one day; that they are all but rooms in the house of my spirit, +that is, the house of our Father. Let us not now, when your love makes +me twice eternal, talk of time and places. Come, let us fancy ourselves +two blessed spirits, lying full in the sight and light of our God,—as +indeed what else are we?—warming our hearts in his presence and peace; +and that we have but to rise and spread our wings to soar aloft and +find—what shall it be, my lady? Worlds upon worlds? No, no. What are +worlds upon worlds in infinite show until we have seen the face of the +Son of Man?”</p> + +<p>A silence fell. But he resumed.</p> + +<p>“Let us imagine our earthly life behind us, our hearts clean, love all +in all.—But that sends me back to the now. My lady, I know I shall +never love you aright until you have helped me perfect. When the face +of the least lovely of my neighbours needs but appear to rouse in +my heart a divine tenderness, then it must be that I shall love you +better than now. Now, alas! I am so pervious to wrong! so fertile of +resentments and indignations! You must cure me, my divine Clemency.—Am +I a poor lover to talk, this first glorious hour, of anything but my +lady love? Ah! but let it excuse me that this love is no new thing +to me. It is a very old love. I have loved you a thousand years. I +love every atom of your being, every thought that can harbour in your +soul, and I am jealous of hurting your blossoms with the over-jubilant +winds of that very love. I would therefore behold you folded in the +atmosphere of the Love eternal. My lady, if I were to talk of your +beauty, I should but offend you, for you would think I raved, and spoke +not the words of truth and soberness. But how often have I not cried +to the God who breathed the beauty into you that it might shine out +of you, to save my soul from the tempest of its own delight therein. +And now I am like one that has caught an angel in his net, and fears +to come too nigh, lest fire should flash from the eyes of the startled +splendour, and consume the net and him who holds it. But I will not +rave, because I would possess in grand peace that which I lay at your +feet. I am yours, and would be worthy of your moonlight calm.”</p> + +<p>“Alas! I am beside you but a block of marble!” said Clementina. “You +are so eloquent, my——”</p> + +<p>“New groom,” suggested Malcolm gently.</p> + +<p>Clementina smiled.</p> + +<p>“But my heart is so full,” she went on, “that I cannot think the +filmiest thought. I hardly know that I feel. I only know that I want to +weep.”</p> + +<p>“Weep then, my word ineffable!” cried Malcolm, and laid himself again +at her feet, kissed them, and was silent.</p> + +<p>He was but a fisher-poet; no courtier, no darling of society, no dealer +in the fine speeches, no clerk of compliments. All the words he had +were the living blossoms of thought rooted in feeling. His pure clear +heart was as a crystal cup, through which shone the red wine of his +love. To himself Malcolm stammered as a dumb man, the string of whose +tongue has but just been loosed; to Clementina his speech was as the +song of the Lady to Comus, “divine enchanting ravishment.” The God of +truth is surely present at every such marriage feast of two radiant +spirits. Their joy was that neither had fooled the hope of the other.</p> + +<p>And so the herring boat had indeed carried Clementina over into +paradise, and this night of the world was to her a twilight of heaven. +God alone can tell what delights it is possible for him to give to the +pure in heart who shall one day behold him. Like two that had died and +found each other, they talked until speech rose into silence, they +smiled until the dews which the smiles had sublimed claimed their turn +and descended in tears.</p> + +<p>All at once they became aware that an eye was upon them. It was the +sun. He was ten degrees up the slope of the sky, and they had never +seen him rise.</p> + +<p>With the sun came a troublous thought, for with the sun came “a world +of men.” Neither they nor the simple fisher-folk, their friends, had +thought of the thing, but now at length it occurred to Clementina that +she would rather not walk up to the door of Lossie House with Malcolm +at this hour of the morning. Yet neither could she well appear alone. +Ere she had spoken Malcolm rose.</p> + +<p>“You won’t mind being left, my lady,” he said, “for a quarter of an +hour or so—will you? I want to bring Lizzy to walk home with you.”</p> + +<p>He went, and Clementina sat alone on the dune in a reposeful rapture, +to which the sleeplessness of the night gave a certain additional +intensity and richness and strangeness. She watched the great strides +of her fisherman as he walked along the sands, and she seemed not to be +left behind, but to go with him every step. The tide was again falling, +and the sea shone and sparkled and danced with life, and the wet sand +gleamed, and a soft air blew on her cheek, and the lordly sun was +mounting higher and higher, and a lark over her head was sacrificing +all nature in his song; and it seemed as if Malcolm were still speaking +strange, half intelligible, altogether lovely things in her ears. She +felt a little weary, and laid her head down upon her arm to listen more +at her ease.</p> + +<p>Now the lark had seen all and heard all, and was telling it again to +the universe, only in dark sayings which none but themselves could +understand; therefore it is no wonder that, as she listened, his song +melted into a dream, and she slept. And the dream was lovely as dream +needs be, but not lovelier than the wakeful night. She opened her eyes, +calm as any cradled child, and there stood her fisherman!</p> + +<p>“I have been explaining to Lizzy, my lady,” he said, “that your +ladyship would rather have her company up to the door than mine. Lizzy +is to be trusted, my lady.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, my leddy,” said Lizzy, “Ma’colm’s been ower guid to me, no to +gar me du onything he wad ha’e o’ me. I can haud my tongue whan I like, +my leddy. An’ dinna doobt my thouchts, my leddy, for I ken Ma’colm as +weel ’s ye du yersel’, my leddy.”</p> + +<p>While she was speaking, Clementina rose, and they went straight to the +door in the bank. Through the tunnel and the young wood and the dew +and the morning odours, along the lovely paths the three walked to the +house together. And oh, how the larks of the earth and the larks of the +soul sang for two of them! And how the burn rang with music, and the +air throbbed with sweetest life! while the breath of God made a little +sound as of a going now and then in the tops of the fir trees, and the +sun shone his brightest and best, and all nature knew that the heart of +God is the home of his creatures.</p> + +<p>When they drew near the house Malcolm left them. After they had rung a +good many times, the door was opened by the housekeeper, looking very +proper and just a little scandalized.</p> + +<p>“Please, Mrs Courthope,” said Lady Clementina, “will you give orders +that when this young woman comes to see me to-day she shall be shown up +to my room?”</p> + +<p>Then she turned to Lizzy and thanked her for her kindness, and they +parted—Lizzy to her baby, and Clementina to yet a dream or two. Long +before her dreams were sleeping ones, however, Malcolm was out in the +bay in the Psyche’s dinghy, catching mackerel: some should be for his +grandfather, some for Miss Horn, some for Mrs Courthope, and some for +Mrs Crathie.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXVIII">CHAPTER LXVIII.<br><span class="small">THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Having caught as many fish as he wanted, Malcolm rowed to the other +side of the Scaurnose. There he landed and left the dinghy in the +shelter of the rocks, the fish covered with long broad-leaved +<i>tangles</i>, climbed the steep cliff, and sought Blue Peter. The brown +village was quiet as a churchyard, although the sun was now growing +hot. Of the men some were not yet returned from the night’s fishing, +and some were asleep in their beds after it. Not a chimney smoked. But +Malcolm seemed to have in his own single being life and joy enough for +a world; such an intense consciousness of bliss burned within him, +that, in the sightless, motionless village, he seemed to himself to +stand like an altar blazing in the midst of desert Carnac. But he was +not the only one awake: on the threshold of Peter’s cottage sat his +little Phemy, trying to polish a bit of serpentine marble upon the +doorstep, with the help of water, which stood by her side in a broken +tea-cup.</p> + +<p>She lifted her sweet gray eyes, and smiled him a welcome.</p> + +<p>“Are ye up a’ready, Phemy?” he said.</p> + +<p>“I ha’ena been doon yet,” she answered. “My mither was oot last nicht +wi’ the boat, an’ Auntie Jinse was wi’ the bairn, an’ sae I cud du as I +likit.”</p> + +<p>“An’ what did ye like, Phemy?”</p> + +<p>“A’body kens what I like,” answered the child: “I was oot an’ aboot a’ +nicht. An’ eh, Ma’colm! I hed a veesion.”</p> + +<p>“What was that, Phemy?”</p> + +<p>“I was upo’ the tap o’ the Nose, jist as the sun rase, luikin’ aboot +me, an’ awa’ upo’ the Boar’s Tail. I saw twa angels sayin’ their +prayers. Nae doobt they war prayin’ for the haill warl’, i’ the quaiet +o’ the mornin’ afore the din begud. Maybe ane o’ them was that auld +priest wi’ the lang name i’ the buik o’ Genesis, ’at hed naither father +nor mither—puir man!—him ’at gaed aboot blissin’ fowk.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm thought he might take his own time to set the child right, and +asked her to go and tell her father that he wanted to see him. In a few +minutes Blue Peter appeared, rubbing his eyes—one of the dead called +too early from the tomb of sleep.</p> + +<p>“Freen’ Peter,” said Malcolm, “I’m gaein’ to speak oot the day.”</p> + +<p>Peter woke up. “Weel,” he said, “I <i>am</i> glaid o’ that, Ma’colm,—I beg +yer pardon—my lord, I sud say.—Annie!”</p> + +<p>“Haud a quaiet sough, man. I wadna hae ’t come oot at Scaurnose first. +I’m come noo ’cause I want ye to stan’ by me.”</p> + +<p>“I wull that, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, gang an’ gether yer boat’s crew, an’ fess them doon to the cove, +an’ I’ll tell them, an’ maybe they’ll stan’ by me as weel.”</p> + +<p>“There’s little fear o’ that, gien I ken my men,” answered Peter, and +went off, rather less than half-clothed, the sun burning hot upon his +back, through the sleeping village, to call them, while Malcolm went +and waited beside the dinghy.</p> + +<p>At length six men in a body, and one lagging behind, appeared coming +down the winding path—all but Peter no doubt wondering why they were +called so soon from their beds, on such a peaceful morning, after being +out the night before. Malcolm went to meet them.</p> + +<p>“Freen’s,” he said, “I’m in want o’ yer help.”</p> + +<p>“Onything ye like, Ma’colm, sae far ’s I’m concernt, ’cep’ it be to +ride yer mere. That I wull no tak in han’,” said Jeames Gentle.</p> + +<p>“It’s no that,” returned Malcolm. “It’s naething freely sae hard ’s +that, I’m thinkin’. The hard’ll be to believe what I’m gaein’ to tell +ye.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll no be gaein’ to set up for a proaphet?” said Girnel, with +something approaching a sneer.</p> + +<p>Girnel was the one who came down behind the rest.</p> + +<p>“Na, na; naething like it,” said Blue Peter.</p> + +<p>“But first ye’ll promise to haud yer tongues for half a day?” said +Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay; we’ll no clype.”—“We s’ haud ower tongues,” cried one and +another and another, and all seemed to assent.</p> + +<p>“Weel,” said Malcolm, “My name’s no Ma’colm MacPhail, but——”</p> + +<p>“We a’ ken that,” said Girnel.</p> + +<p>“An’ what mair du ye ken?” asked Blue Peter, with some anger at his +interruption.</p> + +<p>“Ow, naething.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, ye ken little,” said Peter, and the rest laughed.</p> + +<p>“I’m the Markis o’ Lossie,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Every man but Peter laughed again: all took it for a joke precursive +of some serious announcement. That which it would have least surprised +them to hear, would have been that he was a natural son of the late +marquis.</p> + +<p>“My name’s Ma’colm Colonsay,” resumed Malcolm, quietly; “an’ I’m the +saxt Markis o’ Lossie.”</p> + +<p>A dead silence followed, and in doubt, astonishment, bewilderment, +and vague awe, accompanied in the case of two or three by a strong +inclination to laugh, with which they struggled, belief began. Always a +curious observer of humanity, Malcolm calmly watched them. From discord +of expression, most of their faces had grown idiotic. But after a few +moments of stupefaction, first one and then another turned his eyes +upon Blue Peter, and perceiving that the matter was to him not only +serious but evidently no news, each began to come to his senses, the +chaos within him slowly arranged itself, and his face gradually settled +into an expression of sanity—the foolishness disappearing while the +wonder and pleasure remained.</p> + +<p>“Ye mauna tak it ill, my lord,” said Peter, “gien the laads be ta’en +aback wi’ the news. It’s a some suddent shift o’ the win, ye see, my +lord.”</p> + +<p>“I wuss yer lordship weel,” thereupon said one, and held out his hand.</p> + +<p>“Lang life to yer lordship,” said another.</p> + +<p>Each spoke a hearty word, and shook hands with him—all except Girnel, +who held back, looking on, with his right hand in his trouser-pocket.</p> + +<p>He was one who always took the opposite side— a tolerably honest and +trustworthy soul, with a good many knots and pieces of cross grain in +the timber of him. His old Adam was the most essential and thorough of +dissenters, always arguing and disputing, especially on theological +questions.</p> + +<p>“Na,” said Girnel; “ye maun saitisfee me first wha ye are, an’ what ye +want o’ me. I’m no to be drawn into onything ’at I dinna ken a’ aboot +aforehan’. I s’ no tie mysel’ up wi’ ony promises. Them ’at gangs whaur +they kenna, may lan’ at the widdie (<i>gallows</i>).”</p> + +<p>“Nae doobt,” said Malcolm, “yer ain jeedgement’s mair to ye nor my +word, Girnel; but saw ye ever onything in me ’at wad justifee ye in no +lippenin’ to that sae far ’s it gaed?”</p> + +<p>“Ow na! I’m no sayin’ that naither. But what ha’e ye to shaw anent the +privin’ o’ ’t?”</p> + +<p>“I have papers signed by my father, the late marquis, and sealed and +witnessed by well-known gentlemen of the neighbourhood.”</p> + +<p>“Whaur are they?” said Girnel, holding out his hand.</p> + +<p>“I don’t carry such valuable things about me,” answered Malcolm. “But +if you go with the rest, you shall see them afterwards.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll du naething i’ the dark,” persisted Girnel. “Whan I see the +peppers, I’ll ken what to du.”</p> + +<p>With a nod of the head as self-important as decisive, he turned his +back.</p> + +<p>“At all events,” said Malcolm, “you will say nothing about it before +you hear from one of us again?”</p> + +<p>“I mak nae promises,” answered Girnel, from behind his own back.</p> + +<p>A howl arose from the rest.</p> + +<p>“Ye promised a’ready,” said Blue Peter.</p> + +<p>“Na, I didna that. I said never a word.”</p> + +<p>“What right then had you to remain and listen to my disclosure?” said +Malcolm. “If you be guilty of such a mean trick as betray me and ruin +my plans, no honest man in Portlossie or Scaurnose but will scorn you.”</p> + +<p>“There! tak ye that!” said Peter. “An’ I s’ promise ye, ye s’ never lay +leg ower the gunnel o’ <i>my</i> boat again. I s’ hae nane but Christi-an +men i’ <i>my</i> pey.”</p> + +<p>“Ye hired me for the sizon, Blew Peter,” said Girnel, turning defiantly.</p> + +<p>“Oh! ye s’ ha’e yer wauges. I’m no ane to creep oot o’ a bargain, or +say ’at I didna promise. Ye s’ get yer reward, never fear. But into my +boat ye s’ no come. We’ll ha’e nae Auchans i’ oor camp. Eh, Girnel, +man, but ye ha’e lost yersel’ the day! He’ll never loup far ’at winna +lippen. The auld worthies tuik their life i’ their han’, but ye tak yer +fit (<i>foot</i>) i’ yours. I’m clean affrontit ’at ever I hed ye amo’ my +men.”</p> + +<p>But with that there rushed over Peter the recollection of how he had +himself mistrusted, not Malcolm’s word indeed, but his heart. He +turned, and clasping his hands in sudden self-reproach,</p> + +<p>“My lord, I saired ye ill mysel’ ance,” he cried; “for I misdoobted ’at +ye wasna the same to me efter ye cam to yer ain. I beg yer pardon, my +lord, here i’ the face o’ my freen’s. It was ill-temper an’ pride i’ +me, jist the same as it’s noo in Girnel there; an’ ye maun forgi’e him, +as ye forga’e me, my lord, as sune ’s ye can.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll du that, my Peter, the verra moment he wants to be forgi’en,” +said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>But Girnel turned with a grunt, and moved away towards the cliff.</p> + +<p>“This’ll never du,” said Peter. “A man ’at’s honest i’ the main may +play the verra dog afore he gets the deevil oot o’ ’im ance he’s in +like that. Gang efter ’im, laads, an’ kep (<i>intercept</i>) ’im an’ keep +’im. We’ll ha’e to cast a k-not or twa aboot ’im, an’ lay ’im i’ the +boddom o’ the boat.”</p> + +<p>The six had already started after him like one man. But Malcolm cried,</p> + +<p>“Let him go: he has done me no wrong yet, and I don’t believe will do +me any. But for no risk must we prevent wrong with wrong.”</p> + +<p>So Girnel was allowed to depart—scarcely in peace, for he was already +ashamed of himself. With the understanding that they were to be ready +to his call, and that they should hear from him in the course of the +day, Malcolm left them, and rowed back to the Psyche. There he took +his basket of fish on his arm, which he went and distributed according +to his purpose, ending with Mrs Courthope at the House. Then he fed +and dressed Kelpie, saddled her and galloped to Duff Harbour, where he +found Mr Soutar at breakfast, and arranged with him to be at Lossie +House at two o’clock. On his way back he called on Mr Morrison, and +requested his presence at the same hour. Skirting the back of the +House, and riding as straight as he could, he then made for Scaurnose, +and appointed his friends to be near the House at noon, so placed as +not to attract observation and yet be within hearing of his whistle +from door or window in the front. Returning to the House, he put up +Kelpie, rubbed her down and fed her; then, as there was yet some time +to spare, paid a visit to the factor. He found his lady, for all his +present of fish in the earlier morning, anything but friendly. She did +all she could to humble him; insisted on paying him for the fish; and +ordered him, because they smelt of the stable, to take off his boots +before he went upstairs—to his master’s room, as she phrased it. But +Mr Crathie was cordial, and, to Malcolm’s great satisfaction, much +recovered. He had better than pleasant talk with him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXIX">CHAPTER LXIX.<br><span class="small">LIZZY’S BABY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>While they were out in the fishing-boat together, Clementina had, with +less difficulty than she had anticipated, persuaded Lizzy to tell Lady +Lossie her secret. It was in the hope of an interview with her false +lover that the poor girl had consented so easily.</p> + +<p>A great longing had risen within her to have the father of her child +acknowledge him—only to her, taking him once in his arms. That was +all. She had no hope, thought indeed she had no desire for herself. +But a kind word to him would be welcome as light. The love that covers +sins had covered the multitude of his, and although hopelessness had +put desire to sleep, she would gladly have given her life for a loving +smile from him. But mingled with this longing to see him once with +his child in his arms, a certain loyalty to the house of Lossie also +influenced her to listen to the solicitation of Lady Clementina, and +tell the marchioness the truth. She cherished no resentment against +Liftore, but not therefore was she willing to allow a poor young thing +like Lady Lossie, whom they all liked, to be sacrificed to such a man, +who would doubtless at length behave badly enough to her also.</p> + +<p>With trembling hands, and heart now beating wildly, now failing for +fear, she dressed her baby and herself as well as she could, and, about +one o’clock, went to the House.</p> + +<p>Now nothing would have better pleased Lady Clementina than that +Liftore and Lizzy should meet in Florimel’s presence, but she recoiled +altogether from the small stratagems, not to mention the lies, +necessary to the effecting of such a confrontation. So she had to +content herself with bringing the two girls together, and, when Lizzy +was a little rested, and had had a glass of wine, went to look for +Florimel.</p> + +<p>She found her in a little room adjoining the library, which, on her +first coming to Lossie, she had chosen for her waking nest. Liftore +had, if not quite the freedom of the spot, yet privileges there; but +at that moment Florimel was alone in it. Clementina informed her that +a fisher-girl, with a sad story which she wanted to tell her, had come +to the house; and Florimel, who was not only kind-hearted, but relished +the position she imagined herself to occupy as lady of the place, at +once assented to her proposal to bring the young woman to her there.</p> + +<p>Now Florimel and the earl had had a small quarrel the night before, +after Clementina left the dinner-table, and for the pleasure of keeping +it up Florimel had not appeared at breakfast, and had declined to ride +with his lordship, who had therefore been all the morning on the watch +for an opportunity of reconciling himself. It so happened that from the +end of one of the long narrow passages in which the house abounded, he +caught a glimpse of Clementina’s dress vanishing through the library +door, and took the lady for Florimel on her way to her boudoir.</p> + +<p>When Clementina entered with Lizzy carrying her child, Florimel +instantly suspected the truth, both as to who she was and as to the +design of her appearance. Her face flushed, for her heart filled with +anger, chiefly indeed against Malcolm, but against the two women as +well, who, she did not doubt, had lent themselves to his designs, +whatever they might be. She rose, drew herself up, and stood prepared +to act for both Liftore and herself.</p> + +<p>Scarcely however had the poor girl, trembling at the evident +displeasure the sight of her caused in Florimel, opened her mouth to +answer her haughty inquiry as to her business, when Lord Liftore, +daring an entrance without warning, opened the door behind her, +and, almost as he opened it, began his apology. At the sound of +his voice Lizzy turned with a cry, and her small remaining modicum +of self-possession vanished at sight of him round whose phantom in +her bosom whirred the leaves of her withered life on the stinging +blasts of her shame and sorrow. As much from inability to stand as +in supplication for the coveted favour, she dropped on her knees +before him, incapable of uttering a word, but holding up her child +imploringly. Taken altogether by surprise, and not knowing what to say +or do, the earl stood and stared for a moment, then, moved by a dull +spirit of subterfuge, fell back on the pretence of knowing nothing +about her.</p> + +<p>“Well, young woman,” he said, affecting cheerfulness, “what do you want +with me? I didn’t advertise for a baby. Pretty child, though!”</p> + +<p>Lizzy turned white as death, and her whole body seemed to give a heave +of agony. Clementina had just taken the child from her arms when she +sunk motionless at his feet. Florimel went to the bell. But Clementina +prevented her from ringing.</p> + +<p>“I will take her away,” she said. “Do not expose her to your servants. +Lady Lossie, my Lord Liftore is the father of this child: and if you +can marry him after the way you have seen him use its mother, you are +not too good for him, and I will trouble myself no more about you.”</p> + +<p>“I know the author of this calumny!” cried Florimel, panting and +flushed. “You have been listening to the inventions of an ungrateful +dependent! You slander my guest.”</p> + +<p>“Is it a calumny, my lord? Do I slander you?” said Lady Clementina, +turning sharply upon the earl.</p> + +<p>His lordship made her a cool obeisance.</p> + +<p>Clementina ran into the library, laid the child in a big chair, and +returned for the mother. She was already coming a little to herself; +and feeling about blindly for her baby, while Florimel and Liftore were +looking out of the window, with their backs towards her. Clementina +raised and led her from the room. But in the doorway she turned and +said—</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, Lady Lossie. I thank you for your hospitality, but I can of +course be your guest no longer.”</p> + +<p>“Of course not. There is no occasion for prolonged leave taking,” +returned Florimel, with the air of a woman of forty.</p> + +<p>“Florimel, you will curse the day you marry that man!” cried +Clementina, and closed the door.</p> + +<p>She hurried Lizzy to the library, put the baby in her arms, and clasped +them both in her own. A gush of tears lightened the oppressed heart of +the mother.</p> + +<p>“Lat me oot o’ the hoose, for God’s sake!” she cried; and Clementina, +almost as anxious to leave it as she, helped her down to the hall. When +she saw the open door, she rushed out of it as if escaping from the pit.</p> + +<p>Now Malcolm, as he came from the factor’s, had seen her go in with +her baby in her arms, and suspected the hand of Clementina. Wondering +and anxious, but not very hopeful as to what might come of it, he +waited close by; and when now he saw Lizzy dart from the house in wild +perturbation, he ran from the cover of the surrounding trees into the +open drive to meet her.</p> + +<p>“Ma’colm!” groaned the poor girl, holding out her baby, “he winna own +till ’t. He winna alloo ’at he kens oucht aboot me or the bairn aither!”</p> + +<p>Malcolm had taken the child from her, and was clasping him to his bosom.</p> + +<p>“He’s the warst rascal, Lizzy,” he said, “’at ever God made an’ the +deevil blaudit.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na,” cried Lizzy; “the likes o’ him whiles kills the wuman, but he +wadna du that. Na, he’s nae the warst; there’s a heap waur nor him.”</p> + +<p>“Did ye see my mistress?” asked Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Ow ay; but she luikit sae angry at me, I cudna speyk. Him an’ her ’s +ower thrang for her to believe onything again’ him. An’ what ever the +bairn’s to du wantin’ a father!”</p> + +<p>“Lizzy,” said Malcolm, clasping the child again to his bosom. “I s’ be +a father to yer bairn—that is, as weel ’s ane ’at’s no yer man can be.”</p> + +<p>And he kissed the child tenderly.</p> + +<p>The same moment an undefined impulse—the drawing of eyes probably +—made him lift his towards the house: half leaning from the open +window of the boudoir above him, stood Florimel and Liftore; and just +as he looked up, Liftore was turning to Florimel with a smile that +seemed to say—“There! I told you so! He is the father himself.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm replaced the infant in his mother’s arm, and strode towards the +house. Imagining he went to avenge her wrongs, Lizzy ran after him.</p> + +<p>“Ma’colm! Ma’colm!” she cried; “—for my sake!—He’s the father o’ my +bairn!”</p> + +<p>Malcolm turned.</p> + +<p>“Lizzy,” he said solemnly, “I winna lay han’ upon ’im.”</p> + +<p>Lizzy pressed her child closer with a throb of relief.</p> + +<p>“Come in yersel’ an’ see,” he added.</p> + +<p>“I daurna! I daurna!” she said. But she lingered about the door.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXX">CHAPTER LXX.<br><span class="small">THE DISCLOSURE.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>When the earl saw Malcolm coming, although he was no coward, and had +reason to trust his skill, yet knowing himself both in the wrong and +vastly inferior in strength to his enemy, it may be pardoned him that +for the next few seconds his heart doubled its beats. But of all things +he must not show fear before Florimel!</p> + +<p>“What can the fellow be after now?” he said. “I must go down to him.”</p> + +<p>“No, no; don’t go near him—he may be violent,” objected Florimel, and +laid her hand on his arm with a beseeching look in her face. “He is a +dangerous man.”</p> + +<p>Liftore laughed.</p> + +<p>“Stop here till I return,” he said, and left the room.</p> + +<p>But Florimel followed, fearful of what might happen, and enraged with +her brother.</p> + +<p>Malcolm’s brief detention by Lizzy gave Liftore a little advantage, +for just as Malcolm approached the top of the great staircase, +Liftore gained it. Hastening to secure the command of the position, +and resolved to shun all parley, he stood ready to strike. Malcolm, +however, caught sight of him and his attitude in time, and, fearful of +breaking his word to Lizzy, pulled himself up abruptly a few steps from +the top—just as Florimel appeared.</p> + +<p>“MacPhail,” she said, sweeping to the stair like an indignant goddess, +“I discharge you from my service. Leave the house instantly.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm turned, flew down, and ran to the servants’ stair half the +length of the house away. As he crossed the servants’ hall he saw Rose. +She was the only one in the house except Clementina to whom he could +look for help.</p> + +<p>“Come after me, Rose,” he said without stopping.</p> + +<p>She followed instantly, as fast as she could run, and saw him enter the +drawing-room. Florimel and Liftore were there. The earl had Florimel’s +hand in his.</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, my lady!” cried Malcolm, “hear me one word before you +promise that man anything.”</p> + +<p>His lordship started back from Florimel, and turned upon Malcolm in a +fury. But he had not now the advantage of the stair, and hesitated. +Florimel’s eyes dilated with wrath.</p> + +<p>“I tell you for the last time, my lady,” said Malcolm, “if you marry +that man, you will marry a liar and a scoundrel.”</p> + +<p>Liftore laughed, and his imitation of scorn was wonderfully successful, +for he felt sure of Florimel, now that she had thus taken his part.</p> + +<p>“Shall I ring for the servants, Lady Lossie, to put the fellow out?” he +said. “The man is as mad as a March hare.”</p> + +<p>Meantime Lady Clementina, her maid having gone to send her man to get +horses for her at once, was alone in her room, which was close to the +drawing-room: hearing Malcolm’s voice, she ran to the door, and saw +Rose in a listening attitude at that of the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing there?” she said.</p> + +<p>“Mr MacPhail told me to follow him, my lady, and I am waiting here till +he wants me.”</p> + +<p>Clementina went into the drawing-room, and was present during all +that now follows. Lizzy also, hearing loud voices and still afraid of +mischief, had come peering up the stair, and now approached the other +door, behind Florimel and the earl.</p> + +<p>“So!” cried Florimel, “this is the way you keep your promise to my +father!”</p> + +<p>“It is, my lady. To associate the name of Liftore with his would be to +blot the scutcheon of Lossie. He is not fit to walk the street with +men: his touch is to you an utter degradation. My lady, in the name of +your father, I beg a word with you in private.”</p> + +<p>“You insult me.”</p> + +<p>“I beg of you, my lady—for your own dear sake.”</p> + +<p>“Once more I order you to leave my house, and never set foot in it +again.”</p> + +<p>“You hear her ladyship?” cried Liftore. “Get out.”</p> + +<p>He approached threateningly.</p> + +<p>“Stand back,” said Malcolm. “If it were not that I promised the poor +girl carrying your baby out there, I should soon——”</p> + +<p>It was unwisely said: the earl came on the bolder. For all Malcolm +could do to parry, evade, or stop his blows, he had soon taken several +pretty severe ones. Then came the voice of Lizzy in an agony from the +door—</p> + +<p>“Haud aff o’ yersel’, Ma’colm. I canna bide it. I gi’e ye back yer +word.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll manage yet Lizzy,” answered Malcolm, and kept warily retreating +towards a window. Suddenly he dashed his elbow through a pane, and gave +a loud shrill whistle, the same instant receiving a blow over the eye +which the blood followed. Lizzy made a rush forward, but the terror +that the father would strike the child he had disowned, seized her, and +she stood trembling. Already, however, Clementina and Rose had darted +between, and, full of rage as he was, Liftore was compelled to restrain +himself.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he said, “if ladies want a share in the row, I must yield my +place,” and drew back.</p> + +<p>The few men servants now came hurrying all together into the room.</p> + +<p>“Take that rascal there, and put him under the pump,” said Liftore. “He +is mad.”</p> + +<p>“My fellow-servants know better than touch me,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>The men looked to their mistress.</p> + +<p>“Do as my lord tells you,” she said, “—and instantly.”</p> + +<p>“Men,” said Malcolm, “I have spared that foolish lord there for the +sake of this fisher-girl and his child, but don’t one of <i>you</i> touch +me.”</p> + +<p>Stoat was a brave enough man, and not a little jealous of Malcolm, but +he dared not obey his mistress.</p> + +<p>And now came the tramp of many feet along the landing from the +stair-head, and the six fisherman entered, two and two. Florimel +started forward.</p> + +<p>“My brave fisherman!” she cried. “Take that bad man MacPhail, and put +him out of my grounds.”</p> + +<p>“I canna du ’t, my leddy,” answered their leader.</p> + +<p>“Take Lord Liftore,” said Malcolm, “and hold him, while I make him +acquainted with a fact or two which he may judge of consequence to him.”</p> + +<p>The men walked straight up to the earl. He struck right and left, but +was overpowered in a moment, and held fast.</p> + +<p>“Stan’ still,” said Peter, “or I ha’e a han’-fu’ o’ twine i’ my pooch +’at I’ll jist cast a k-not aboot yer airms wi’ in a jiffey.”</p> + +<p>His lordship stood still, muttering curses.</p> + +<p>Then Malcolm stepped into the middle of the room approaching his sister.</p> + +<p>“I tell you to leave the house,” Florimel shrieked, beside herself with +fury, yet pale as marble with a growing terror for which she could ill +have accounted.</p> + +<p>“Florimel!” said Malcolm solemnly, calling his sister by name for the +first time.</p> + +<p>“You insolent wretch!” she cried, panting. “What right have you, if you +<i>be</i>, as you say, my base-born brother, to call me by my name.”</p> + +<p>“Florimel!” repeated Malcolm, and the voice was like the voice of her +father, “I have done what I could to serve you.”</p> + +<p>“And I want no more such service!” she returned, beginning to tremble.</p> + +<p>“But you have driven me almost to extremities,” he went on, heedless of +her interruption. “Beware of doing so quite.”</p> + +<p>“Will nobody take pity on me?” said Florimel, and looked round +imploringly. Then, finding herself ready to burst into tears, she +gathered all her pride, and stepping up to Malcolm, looked him in the +face, and said,</p> + +<p>“Pray, sir! is this house yours or mine?”</p> + +<p>“Mine,” answered Malcolm. “I am the Marquis of Lossie, and while I am +your elder brother and the head of the family, you shall never with my +consent marry that base man—a man it would blast me to the soul to +call brother.”</p> + +<p>Liftore uttered a fierce imprecation.</p> + +<p>“If you dare give breath to another such word in my sister’s presence, +I will have you gagged,” said Malcolm. “If my sister marries him,” he +continued, turning again to Florimel, “not one shilling shall she take +with her beyond what she may happen to have in her purse at the moment. +She is in my power, and I will use it to the utmost to protect her from +that man.”</p> + +<p>“Proof!” cried Liftore sullenly. But Florimel gazed with pale dilated +eyes in the face of the speaker. She knew his words were true. Her soul +assured her of it.</p> + +<p>“To my sister,” answered Malcolm, “I will give all the proof she may +please to require; to Lord Liftore I will not even repeat my assertion. +To him I will give no shadow of proof. I will but cast him out of my +house. Stoat, order horses for Lady Bellair.”</p> + +<p>“Gien ye please, sir, my Lord,” replied Stoat, “the Lossie Airms horses +is ordered a’ready for Lady Clementina.”</p> + +<p>“Will my Lady Clementina oblige me by yielding her horses to Lady +Bellair?” said Malcolm, turning to her.</p> + +<p>“Certainly, my lord,” answered Clementina.</p> + +<p>“You, I trust, my lady,” said Malcolm, “will stay a little longer with +my sister.”</p> + +<p>Lady Bellair came up.</p> + +<p>“My lord,” she said, “is this the marquis or the fisherman’s way of +treating a lady?”</p> + +<p>“Neither. But do not drive me to give the rein to my tongue. Let it be +enough to say that my house shall never be what your presence would +make it.”</p> + +<p>He turned to the fishermen.</p> + +<p>“Three of you take that lord to the town-gate, and leave him on the +other side of it. His servant shall follow as soon as the horses come.”</p> + +<p>“I will go with you,” said Florimel, crossing to Lady Bellair.</p> + +<p>Malcolm took her by the arm. For one moment she struggled, but finding +no one dared interfere, submitted, and was led from the room like a +naughty child.</p> + +<p>“Keep my lord there till I return,” he said as he went.</p> + +<p>He led her into the room which had been her mother’s boudoir, and when +he had shut the door,</p> + +<p>“Florimel,” he said, “I have striven to serve you the best way I knew. +Your father, when he confessed me his heir, begged me to be good to +you, and I promised him. Would I have given all these months of my life +to the poor labour of a groom, allowed my people to be wronged and +oppressed, my grandfather to be a wanderer, and my best friend to sit +with his lips of wisdom sealed, but for your sake? I can hardly say it +was for my father’s sake, for I should have done the same had he never +said a word about you. Florimel, I loved my sister, and longed for her +goodness. But she has foiled all my endeavours. She has not loved or +followed the truth. She has been proud and disdainful, and careless of +right. Yourself young and pure, and naturally recoiling from evil, you +have yet cast from you the devotion of a noble, gifted, large-hearted, +and great-souled man, for the miserable preference of the smallest, +meanest, vilest of men. Nor that only! for with him you have sided +against the woman he most bitterly wrongs: and therein you wrong the +nature and the God of women. Once more, I pray you to give up this man; +to let your true self speak and send him away.”</p> + +<p>“Sir, I go with my Lady Bellair, driven from her father’s house by one +who calls himself my brother. My lawyer shall make inquiries.”</p> + +<p>She would have left the room, but he intercepted her.</p> + +<p>“Florimel,” he said, “you are casting the pearl of your womanhood +before a swine. He will trample it under his feet and turn again and +rend you. He will treat you worse still than poor Lizzy, whom he +troubles no more with his presence.”</p> + +<p>He had again taken her arm in his great grasp.</p> + +<p>“Let me go. You are brutal. I shall scream.”</p> + +<p>“You shall not go until you have heard all the truth.”</p> + +<p>“What! more truth still? Your truth is anything but pleasant.”</p> + +<p>“It is more unpleasant yet than you surmise. Florimel, you have driven +me to it. I would have prepared you a shield against the shock which +must come, but you compel me to wound you to the quick. I would have +had you receive the bitter truth from lips you loved, but you drove +those lips of honour from you, and now there are left to utter it only +the lips you hate; yet the truth you shall receive: it may help to save +you from weakness, arrogance, and falsehood.—Sister, your mother was +never Lady Lossie.”</p> + +<p>“You lie. I know you lie. Because you wrong me, you would brand me with +dishonour, to take from me as well the sympathy of the world. But I +defy you.”</p> + +<p>“Alas! there is no help, sister. Your mother indeed passed as Lady +Lossie, but my mother, the true Lady Lossie, was alive all the time, +and in truth, died only last year. For twenty years my mother suffered +for yours in the eye of the law. You are no better than the little +child his father denied in your presence. Give that man his dismissal, +or he will give you yours. Never doubt it. Refuse again, and I go from +this room to publish in the next the fact that you are neither Lady +Lossie nor Lady Florimel Colonsay. You have no right to any name but +your mother’s. You are Miss Gordon.”</p> + +<p>She gave a great gasp at the word, but bravely fought the horror that +was taking possession of her. She stood with one hand on the back of a +chair, her face white, her eyes starting, her mouth a little open and +rigid—her whole appearance, except for the breath that came short and +quick, that of one who had died in sore pain.</p> + +<p>“All that is now left you,” concluded Malcolm, “is the choice between +sending Liftore away, and being abandoned by him. That choice you must +now make.”</p> + +<p>The poor girl tried to speak, but could not. Her fire was burning out, +her forced strength fast failing her.</p> + +<p>“Florimel,” said Malcolm, and knelt on one knee and took her hand. It +gave a flutter as if it would fly like a bird; but the net of his love +held it, and it lay passive and cold. “Florimel, I will be your true +brother. I <i>am</i> your brother, your very own brother, to live for you, +love you, fight for you, watch and ward you, till a true man takes you +for his wife.” Her hand quivered like a leaf. “Sister, when you and I +appear before our father, I shall hold up my face before him: will you?”</p> + +<p>“Send him away,” she breathed rather than said, and sank on the floor. +He lifted her, laid her on a couch, and returned to the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>“My lady Clementina,” he said, “will you oblige me by going to my +sister in the room at the top of the stair?”</p> + +<p>“I will, my lord,” she answered, and went.</p> + +<p>Malcolm walked up to Liftore.</p> + +<p>“My lord,” he said, “my sister takes leave of you.”</p> + +<p>“I must have my dismissal from her own lips.”</p> + +<p>“You shall have it from the hands of my fishermen. Take him away.”</p> + +<p>“You shall hear from me, my lord marquis, if such you be,” said Liftore.</p> + +<p>“Let it be of your repentance, then, my lord,” said Malcolm. “That I +shall be glad to hear of.”</p> + +<p>As he turned from him, he saw Caley gliding through the little group of +servants towards the door. He walked after her, laid his hand on her +shoulder, and whispered a word in her ear, she grew gray rather than +white, and stood still.</p> + +<p>Turning again to go to Florimel, he saw the fishermen stopped with +their charge in the doorway by Mr Morrison and Mr Soutar, entering +together.</p> + +<p>“My lord! my lord!” said the lawyer, coming hastily up to him, “there +can be surely no occasion for such—such—measures!”</p> + +<p>Catching sight of Malcolm’s wounded forehead, however, he supplemented +the remark with a low exclamation of astonishment and dismay— the tone +saying almost as clearly as words, “How ill and foolishly everything is +managed without a lawyer!”</p> + +<p>Malcolm only smiled, and went up to the magistrate, whom he led into +the middle of the room, saying,</p> + +<p>“Mr Morrison, every one here knows you: tell them who I am.”</p> + +<p>“The Marquis of Lossie, my lord,” answered Mr Morrison; “and from my +heart I congratulate your people that at length you assume the rights +and honours of your position.”</p> + +<p>A murmur of pleasure arose in response. Ere it ceased, Malcolm started +and sprung to the door. There stood Lenorme! He seized him by the arm, +and, without a word of explanation, hurried him to the room where his +sister was. He called Clementina, drew her from the room, half pushed +Lenorme in, and closed the door.</p> + +<p>“Will you meet me on the sand-hill at sunset, my lady?” he said.</p> + +<p>She smiled assent. He gave her the key of the tunnel, hinted that she +might leave the two to themselves for awhile, and returned to his +friends in the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>Having begged them to excuse him for a little while, and desired Mrs +Courthope to serve luncheon for them, he ran to his grandfather, +dreading lest any other tongue than his own should yield him the opened +secret. He was but just in time, for already the town was in a tumult, +and the spreading ripples of the news were fast approaching Duncan’s +ears.</p> + +<p>Malcolm found him, expectant and restless. When he disclosed himself, +he manifested little astonishment, only took him in his arms and +pressed him to his bosom, saying, “Ta Lort pe praised, my son! and +she wouldn’t pe at aal surprised.” Then he broke out in a fervent +ejaculation of Gaelic, during which he turned instinctively to his +pipes, for through them lay the final and only sure escape for the +prisoned waters of the overcharged reservoir of his feelings. While he +played, Malcolm slipped out, and hurried to Miss Horn.</p> + +<p>One word to her was enough. The stern old woman burst into tears, +crying,</p> + +<p>“Oh, my Grisel! my Grisel! Luik doon frae yer bonny hoose amo’ the +stars, an’ see the braw laad left ahint ye, an’ praise the lord ’at ye +ha’e sic a son o’ yer boady to come hame to ye whan a’ ’s ower.”</p> + +<p>She sobbed and wept for a while without restraint. Then suddenly she +rose, dabbed her eyes indignantly, and cried,</p> + +<p>“Hoot! I’m an auld fule. A body wad think I hed feelin’s efter a’!”</p> + +<p>Malcolm laughed, and she could not help joining him.</p> + +<p>“Ye maun come the morn an’ chise yer ain room i’ the Hoose,” he said.</p> + +<p>“What mean ye by that, laddie?”</p> + +<p>“At ye’ll ha’e to come an’ bide wi’ me noo.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed an’ I s’ du naething o’ the kin’, Ma’colm! H’ard ever onybody +sic nonsense! What wad I du wi’ Jean? An’ I cudna thole men-fowk to +wait upo’ me. I wad be clean affrontit.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, weel! we’ll see,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>On his way back to the House, he knocked at Mrs Catanach’s door, and +said a few words to her which had a remarkable effect on the expression +of her plump countenance and deep-set black eyes.</p> + +<p>When he reached home, he ran up the main staircase, knocked at the +first door, opened it, and peeped in. There sat Lenorme on the couch, +with Florimel on his knees, nestling her head against his shoulder, +like a child that had been very naughty but was fully forgiven. Her +face was blotted with her tears, and her hair was everywhere; but there +was a light of dawning goodness all about her, such as had never shone +in her atmosphere before. By what stormy-sweet process the fountain of +this light had been unsealed, no one ever knew but themselves.</p> + +<p>She did not move when Malcolm entered—more than just to bring the +palms of her hands together, and look up in his face.</p> + +<p>“Have you told him <i>all</i>, Florimel?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Malcolm,” she answered. “Tell him again yourself.”</p> + +<p>“No, Florimel. Once is enough.”</p> + +<p>“I told him <i>all</i>,” she said with a gasp; then gave a wild little cry, +and, with subdued exultation, added, “and he <i>loves</i> me yet! He has +taken the girl without a name to his heart!”</p> + +<p>“No wonder,” said Malcolm, “when she brought it with her.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Lenorme, “I but took the diamond casket that held my bliss, +and now I could dare the angel Gabriel to match happinesses with me.”</p> + +<p>Poor Florimel, for all her worldly ways, was but a child. Bad +associates had filled her with worldly maxims and words and thoughts +and judgments. She had never loved Liftore, she had only taken +delight in his flatteries. And now had come the shock of a terrible +disclosure, whose significance she read in remembered looks and tones +and behaviours of the world. Her insolence to Malcolm when she supposed +his the nameless fate, had recoiled in lurid interpretation of her +own. She was a pariah—without root, without descent, without fathers +to whom to be gathered. She was nobody. From the courted and flattered +and high-seated and powerful, she was a nobody! Then suddenly to this +poor houseless, wind-beaten, rain-wet nobody, a house—no, a home +she had once looked into with longing, had opened, and received her +to its heart, that it might be fulfilled which was written of old, +“A man shall be as an hiding-place from the wind, and a covert from +the tempest.” Knowing herself a nobody, she now first began to be a +somebody. She had been dreaming pleasant but bad dreams: she woke, and +here was a lovely, unspeakably blessed and good reality, which had been +waiting for her all the time on the threshold of her sleep! She was +baptized into it with the tears of sorrow and shame. She had been a +fool, but now she knew it, and was going to be wise.</p> + +<p>“Will you come to your brother, Florimel?” said Malcolm tenderly, +holding out his arms.</p> + +<p>Lenorme raised her. She went softly to him, and laid herself on his +bosom.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me, brother,” she said, and held up her face.</p> + +<p>He kissed her forehead and lips, took her in his arms, and laid her +again on Lenorme’s knees.</p> + +<p>“I give her to <i>you</i>,” he said, “for you are good.”</p> + +<p>With that he left them, and sought Mr Morrison and Mr Soutar, who were +waiting him over a glass of wine after their lunch. An hour of business +followed, in which, amongst other matters, they talked about the +needful arrangements for a dinner to his people, fishers and farmers +and all.</p> + +<p>After the gentlemen took their leave, nobody saw him for hours. Till +sunset approached he remained alone, shut up in the Wizard’s Chamber, +the room in which he was born. Part of the time he occupied in writing +to Mr Graham.</p> + +<p>As the sun’s orbed furnace fell behind the tumbling waters, Malcolm +turned his face inland from the wet strip of shining shore on which he +had been pacing, and ascended the sandhill.</p> + +<p>From the other side Clementina, but a moment later, ascended also. On +the top they met, in the red light of the sunset. They clasped each the +other’s hand, and stood for a moment in silence.</p> + +<p>“Ah, my lord!” said the lady, “how shall I thank you that you kept your +secret from me! But my heart is sore to lose my fisherman.”</p> + +<p>“My lady,” returned Malcolm, “you have not lost your fisherman; you +have only found your groom.”</p> + +<p>And the sun went down, and the twilight came, and the night followed, +and the world of sea and land and wind and vapour was around them, and +the universe of stars and spaces over and under them, and eternity +within them, and the heart of each for a chamber to the other, and God +filling all—nay, nay—God’s heart containing, infolding, cherishing +all—saving all, from height to height of intensest being, by the bliss +of that love whose absolute devotion could utter itself only in death.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXXI">CHAPTER LXXI.<br><span class="small">THE ASSEMBLY.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>That same evening, Duncan, in full dress, claymore and dirk at his +sides, and carrying the great Lossie pipes, marched first through +the streets of the upper, then through the closes of the lower +town, followed by the bellman who had been appointed crier upon his +disappearance. At the proper stations, Duncan blew a rousing pibroch, +after which the bellman, who, for the dignity of his calling, insisted +on a prelude of three strokes of his clapper, proclaimed aloud that +Malcolm, Marquis of Lossie, desired the presence of each and every of +his tenants in the royal burgh of Portlossie, Newton and Seaton, in +the town-hall of the same, at seven of the clock upon the evening next +following. The proclamation ended, the piper sounded one note three +times, and they passed to the next station. When they had gone through +the Seaton, they entered a carriage waiting for them at the sea-gate, +and were driven to Scaurnose, and thence again to the several other +villages on the coast belonging to the marquis, making at each in like +manner the same announcement.</p> + +<p>Portlossie was in a ferment of wonder, satisfaction, and pleasure. +There were few in it who were not glad at the accession of Malcolm, +and with every one of those few the cause lay in himself. In the +shops, among the nets, in the curing-sheds, in the houses and +cottages, nothing else was talked about; and stories and reminiscences +innumerable were brought out, chiefly to prove that Malcolm had always +appeared likely to turn out somebody, the narrator not seldom modestly +hinting at a glimmering foresight on his own part of what had now +been at length revealed to the world. His friends were jubilant as +revellers. For Meg Partan, she ran from house to house like a maniac, +laughing and crying. It was as if the whole Seaton had suddenly been +translated. The men came crowding about Duncan, congratulating him and +asking him a hundred questions. But the old man maintained a reticence +whose dignity was strangely mingled of pomp and grace; sat calm and +stately as feeling the glow of reflected honour; would not, by word, +gesture, tone, or exclamation, confess to any surprise; behaved as if +he had known it all the time; made no pretence however of having known +it, merely treated the fact as not a whit more than might have been +looked for by one who had known Malcolm as he had known him.</p> + +<p>Davy, in his yacht uniform, was the next morning appointed the +marquis’s personal attendant, and a running time he had of it for a +fortnight.</p> + +<p>Almost the first thing that fell to him in his office was to show into +the room on the ground floor where his master sat—the same in which +for ages the lords of Lossie had been wont to transact what little +business any of them ever attended to—a pale, feeble man, bowed by the +weight of a huge brass-clasped volume under each arm. His lordship rose +and met him with out-stretched hand.</p> + +<p>“I am glad indeed to see you, Mr Crathie,” he said, “but I fear you are +out too soon.”</p> + +<p>“I am quite well since yesterday, my lord,” returned the factor, his +face shining with pleasure. “Your lordship’s accession has made a young +man of me again. Here I am to render account of my stewardship.”</p> + +<p>“I want none, Mr Crathie—nothing, that is, beyond a summary statement +of how things stand with me.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to satisfy your lordship that I have dealt honestly”— +here the factor paused for a moment, then with an effort added —“by +<i>you</i>, my lord.”</p> + +<p>“One word,” said Malcolm “—the last of the sort, I believe, that +will ever pass between us. Thank God! we had made it up before +yesterday.—If you have ever been hard upon any of my tenants, not to +say unfair, you have wronged me infinitely more than if you had taken +from me. God be with me as I prefer ruin to wrong. Remember, besides, +that my tenants are my charge and care. For you, my representative, +therefore, to do one of them an injury is to do me a double injury—to +wrong my tenant, and to wrong him in my name.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, my lord! you don’t know how they would take advantage of you, if +there were nobody to look after your interests.”</p> + +<p>“Then do look after them, sir. It would be bad for them to succeed, +as well as crippling to me. Only be sure, with the thought of the +righteous God to elevate your sense of justice, that you are in the +right. If doubtful, then give in.—And now, if any man thinks he has +cause of complaint, I leave it to you, with the help of the new light +that has been given you, to reconsider the matter, and, where needful, +to make reparation. You must be the friend of my tenant as much as of +his landlord. I have no interests inimical to those of my tenants. If +any man comes to me with complaint, I will send him to restate his case +to you, with the understanding that, if you will not listen to him, he +is to come to me again, when I shall hear both sides and judge between. +If after six months you should desire me to go over the books with you, +I will do so. As to your loyalty to my family and its affairs, of that +I never had a shadow of suspicion.”</p> + +<p>As he ended, Malcolm held out his hand. The factor’s trembled in his +strong grasp.</p> + +<p>“Mistress Crathie is sorely vexed, my lord,” he said, rising to take +his leave, “at things both said and done in the dark.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm laughed.</p> + +<p>“Give Mrs Crathie my compliments,” he said, “and tell her a man is more +than a marquis. If she will after this treat every honest fisherman +as if he might possibly turn out a lord, she and I shall be more than +quits.”</p> + +<p>The next morning he carried her again a few mackerel he had just +caught, and she never forgot the lesson given her. That morning, I may +mention, he did not go fishing alone, but had a lady with him in the +dinghy; and indeed they were together, in one place and another, the +most of the day—at one time flying along the fields, she on the bay +mare, and he on Kelpie.</p> + +<p>When the evening came, the town-hall was crammed—men standing on all +the window-sills; and so many could not get in that Malcolm proposed +they should occupy the square in front. A fisherman in garb and +gesture, not the less a gentleman and a marquis, he stood on the steps +of the town-hall and spoke to his people. They received him with wild +enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“The open air is better for everything,” he began. “Fishers, I have +called you first, because you are my own people. I am, and shall be +a fisherman, after such fashion, I trust, as will content my old +comrades. How things have come about, I shall not now tell you. Come +all of you and dine with me, and you shall hear enough to satisfy +at least lawful curiosity. At present my care is that you should +understand the terms upon which it is possible for us to live together +as friends. I make no allusion to personal friendships. A true friend +is for ever a friend. And I venture to say my old friends know best +both what I am and what I shall be. As to them I have no shadow +of anxiety. But I would gladly be a friend to all, and will do my +endeavour to that end.</p> + +<p>“You of Portlossie shall have your harbour cleared without delay.”</p> + +<p>In justice to the fishers I here interrupt my report to state that the +very next day they set about clearing the harbour themselves. It was +their business—in part at least, they said, and they were ashamed of +having left it so long. This did much towards starting well for a new +order of things.</p> + +<p>“You of Scaurnose shall hear the blasting necessary for your harbour +commence within a fortnight; and every house shall ere long have a +small piece of land at a reasonable rate allotted to it. But I feel +bound to mention that there are some among you upon whom, until I see +that they carry themselves differently, I must keep an eye. That they +have shown themselves unfriendly to myself in my attempts to persuade +them to what they knew to be right, I shall endeavour to forget, but +I give them warning that whoever shall hereafter disturb the peace or +interfere with the liberty of my people, shall assuredly be cast out of +my borders, and that as soon as the law will permit.</p> + +<p>“I shall take measures that all complaints shall be heard, and all save +foolish ones heeded; for, as much as in me lies, I will to execute +justice and judgment and righteousness in the land. Whoever oppresses +or wrongs his neighbour shall have to do with me. And to aid me in +doing justice, I pray the help of every honest man. I have not been so +long among you without having in some measure distinguished between +the men who have heart and brain, and the men who have merely a sense +of their own importance—which latter class, unhappily, always takes +itself for the former. I will deal with every man as I find him. I am +set to rule, and rule I will. He who loves righteousness, will help me +to rule; he who loves it not, shall be ruled, or depart.”</p> + +<p>The address had been every now and then interrupted by a hearty cheer; +at this point the cheering was greatly prolonged; after it there was no +more. For thus he went on:</p> + +<p>“And now I am about to give you proof that I mean what I say, and that +evil shall not come to the light without being noted and dealt with.</p> + +<p>“There are in this company two women—my eyes are at this moment upon +them where they stand together. One of them is already well-known to +you all by sight: now you shall know, not what she looks, but what she +is. Her name, or at least that by which she goes among you, is Barbara +Catanach. The other is an Englishwoman of whom you know nothing. Her +name is Caley.”</p> + +<p>All eyes were turned upon the two. Even Mrs Catanach was cowed by the +consciousness of the universal stare, and a kind of numb thrill went +through her from head to foot.</p> + +<p>“Well assured that, if I brought a criminal action against them, it +would hang them both, I trust you will not imagine it revenge that +moves me thus to expose them. In refraining from prosecuting them, +I bind myself of necessity to see that they work no more evil. In +giving them time for repentance, I take the consequences upon myself. +I am bound to take care that they do not employ the respite in doing +mischief to their neighbours. Without precaution I could not be +justified in sparing them. Therefore those women shall not go forth +to pass for harmless members of society, and see the life and honour +of others lie bare to their secret attack. They shall live <i>here</i>, in +this town, thoroughly known; and absolutely distrusted. And that they +may thus be known and distrusted, I publicly declare that I hold proof +against these women of having conspired to kill me. From the effects of +the poison they succeeded in giving me, I fear I shall never altogether +recover. I can prove also, to the extreme of circumstantial evidence, +that there is the blood of one child at least upon the hands of each; +and that there are mischiefs innumerable upon their lying tongues, it +were an easy task to convince you. If I wrong them, let them accuse +me; and whether they lose or gain their suit, I promise before you for +witnesses, I will pay all; only thereby they will compel me to bring my +actions for murder and conspiracy. Let them choose.</p> + +<p>“Hear what I have determined concerning them. The woman Catanach shall +take to her cottage the woman Caley. That cottage they shall have rent +free: who could receive money from such hands? I will appoint them also +a sufficiency for life and maintenance, bare indeed, for I would not +have them comfortable. But they shall be free to work if they can find +any to employ them. If, however, either shall go beyond the bounds I +set, she shall be followed the moment she is missed, and that with a +warrant for her apprehension. And I beg all honest people to keep an +eye upon them. According as they live shall their life be. If they come +to repentance, they will bless the day I resolved upon such severe +measures on their behalf. Let them go to their place.”</p> + +<p>I will not try to describe the devilish look, mingled of contempt and +hate, that possessed the countenance of the midwife, as, with head +erect, and eyes looking straight before her, she obeyed the command. +Caley, white as death, trembled and tottered, nor dared once look up +as she followed her companion to their appointed hell. Whether they +made it pleasant for each other my reader may debate with himself. +Before many months had gone by, stared at and shunned by all, even by +Miss Horn’s Jean, driven back upon her own memories, and the pictures +that rose out of them, and deprived of every chance of indulging her +dominant passion for mischievous influence, the midwife’s face told +such a different tale, that the schoolmaster began to cherish a feeble +hope that within a few years Mrs Catanach might get so far as to begin +to suspect she was a sinner—that she had actually done things she +ought not to have done. One of those things that same night Malcolm +heard from the lips of Duncan, a tale of horror and dismay. Not until +then did he know, after all he knew concerning her, what the woman was +capable of.</p> + +<p>At his own entreaty, Duncan was formally recognized as piper to the +Marquis of Lossie. His ambition reached no higher. Malcolm himself saw +to his perfect equipment, heedful specially that his kilt and plaid +should be of Duncan’s own tartan of red and blue and green. His dirk +and broadsword he had new sheathed, with silver mountings. A great +silver brooch with a big cairngorm in the centre, took the place of +the brass one, which henceforth was laid up among the precious things +in the little armoury, and the badge of his clan in gold, with rubies +and amethysts for the bells of the heather, glowed on his bonnet. And +Malcolm’s guests, as long as Duncan continued able to fill the bag, +had to endure as best they might, between each course of every dinner +without fail, two or three minutes of uproar and outcry from the treble +throat of the powerful Lossie pipes. By his own desire, the piper had a +chair and small table set for him behind and to the right of his chief, +as he called him; there he ate with the family and guests, waited upon +by Davy, part of whose business it was to hand him the pipes at the +proper moment, whereupon he rose to his feet, for even he with all +his experience and habitude was unable in a sitting posture to keep +that stand of pipes full of wind, and raised such a storm of sound as +made the windows tremble. A lady guest would now and then venture to +hint that the custom was rather a trying one for English ears; but +Clementina would never listen to a breath against Duncan’s music. Her +respect and affection for the old man were unbounded.</p> + +<p>Malcolm was one of the few who understand the shelter of light, the +protection to be gained against lying tongues by the discarding of +needless reticence, and the open presentation of the truth. Many men +who would not tell a lie, yet seem to have faith in concealment: +they would rather not reveal the truth; darkness seems to offer them +the cover of a friendly wing. But there is no veil like light —no +adamantine armour against hurt like the truth. To Malcolm it was one of +the promises of the kingdom that there is nothing covered that shall +not be revealed. He was anxious, therefore, to tell his people, at the +coming dinner, the main points of his story, and certain that such +openness would also help to lay the foundation of confidence between +him and his people. The one difficulty in the way was the position of +Florimel. But that could not fail to appear in any case, and he was +satisfied that even for her sake it was far better to speak openly; for +then the common heart would take her in and cover her. He consulted, +therefore, with Lenorme, who went to find her. She came, threw her arms +round his neck and begged him to say whatever he thought best.</p> + +<p>To add the final tinge to the rainbow of Malcolm’s joy, on the morning +of the dinner the schoolmaster arrived. It would be hard to say whether +Malcolm or Clementina was the more delighted to see him. He said little +with his tongue, but much with his eyes and face and presence.</p> + +<p>This time the tables were not set in different parts of the grounds, +but gathered upon the level of the drive and the adjacent lawny spaces +between the house and the trees. Malcolm, in full highland dress as +chief of his clan, took the head of the central table, with Florimel +in the place of honour at his right hand, and Clementina on his left. +Lenorme sat next to Florimel, and Annie Mair next to Lenorme. On +the other side, Mr Graham sat next to Clementina, Miss Horn next to +Mr Graham, and Blue Peter next to Miss Horn. Except Mr Morrison, he +had asked none who were not his tenants or servants or in some way +connected with the estates, except indeed a few whom he counted old +friends, amongst them some aged beggar-folk, waiting their summons to +Abraham’s bosom—in which there was no such exceptional virtue on the +marquis’s part, for, the poor law not having yet invaded Scotland, a +man was not without the respect of his neighbours merely because he was +a beggar. He set Mr Morrison to preside at the farmers’ tables, and had +all the fisher-folk about himself.</p> + +<p>When the main part of the dinner was over, he rose, and with as much +circumstance as he thought desirable, told his story, beginning with +the parts in it his uncle and Mrs Catanach had taken. It was, however, +he said, a principle in the history of the world, that evil should +bring forth good, and his poor little cock-boat had been set adrift +upon an ocean of blessing. For had he not been taken to the heart of +one of the noblest and simplest of men, who had brought him up in +honourable poverty and rectitude? When he had said this, he turned to +Duncan, who sat at his own table behind him, with his pipe on a stool +covered with a rich cloth by his side.</p> + +<p>“You all know my grandfather,” he went on, “and you all respect him.”</p> + +<p>At this rose a great shout.</p> + +<p>“I thank you, my friends,” he continued. “My desire is that every soul +upon land of mine should carry himself to Duncan MacPhail as if he were +in blood that which he is in deed and in truth, my grandfather.”</p> + +<p>A second great shout arose, which wavered and sank when they saw the +old man bow his head upon his hands.</p> + +<p>He went on to speak of the privileges he alone of all his race had ever +enjoyed—the privileges of toil and danger, with all their experiences +of human dependence and divine aid; the privilege of the confidence +and companionship of honourable labouring men, and the understanding +of their ways and thoughts and feelings; and, above all, the privilege +of the friendship and instruction of the schoolmaster, to whom he owed +more than eternity could reveal.</p> + +<p>Then he turned again to his narrative, and told how his father, falsely +informed that his wife and child were dead, married Florimel’s mother; +how his mother, out of compassion for both of them, held her peace; +how for twenty years she had lived with her cousin Miss Horn, and held +her peace even from her; how at last, when, having succeeded to the +property, she heard he was coming to the House, the thought of his +nearness yet unapproachableness—in this way at least he, the child +of both, interpreted the result—so worked upon a worn and enfeebled +frame, that she died.</p> + +<p>Then he told how Miss Horn, after his mother’s death, came upon letters +revealing the secret which she had all along known must exist, but +after which, from love and respect for her cousin, she had never +inquired.</p> + +<p>Last of all he told how, in a paroxysm of rage, Mrs Catanach had +let the secret of his birth escape her; how she had afterwards made +affidavit concerning it; and how his father had upon his death-bed, +with all necessary legal observances, acknowledged him his son and heir.</p> + +<p>“And now, to the mighty gladness of my soul,” he said, looking on +Florimel at his side, “my dearly loved and honoured sister, loved +and honoured long before I knew she was my own, has accepted me as +her brother, and I do not think she greatly regrets the loss of the +headship of the house which she has passed over to me. She will lose +little else. And of all women it may well be to her a small matter to +lose a mere title, seeing she is so soon to change her name for one who +will bring her honour of a more enduring reality. For he who is about +to become her husband is not only one of the noblest of men, but a man +of genius whose praises she will hear on all sides. One of his works, +the labour and gift of love, you shall see when we rise from the table. +It is a portrait of your late landlord, my father, painted partly +from a miniature, partly from my sister, partly from the portraits of +the family, and partly, I am happy to think, from myself. You must +yourselves judge of the truth of it. And you will remember that Mr +Lenorme never saw my father. I say this, not to excuse, but to enhance +his work.</p> + +<p>“My tenants, I will do my best to give you fair play. My friend and +factor, Mr Crathie, has confided to me his doubts whether he may not +have been a little hard: he is prepared to reconsider some of your +cases. Do not imagine that I am going to be a careless man of business. +I want money, for I have enough to do with it, if only to set right +much that is wrong. But let God judge between you and me.</p> + +<p>“My fishermen, every honest man of you is my friend, and you shall know +it. Between you and me that is enough. But for the sake of harmony, and +right, and order, and that I may keep near you, I shall appoint three +men of yourselves in each village, to whom any man or woman may go with +request or complaint. If two of those three men judge the matter fit to +refer to me, the probability is that I shall see it as they do. If any +man think them scant of justice towards him, let him come to me. Should +I find myself in doubt, I have here at my side my beloved and honoured +master to whom to apply for counsel, knowing that what oracle he may +utter I shall receive straight from the innermost parts of a temple of +the Holy Ghost. Friends, if we be honest with ourselves, we shall be +honest with each other.</p> + +<p>“And, in conclusion, why should you hear from any lips but my own, +that this lady beside me, the daughter of an English earl of ancient +house, has honoured the house of Lossie by consenting to become its +marchioness? Lady Clementina Thornicroft possesses large estates in +the south of England, but not for them did I seek her favour—as you +will be convinced when you reflect what the fact involves which she has +herself desired me to make known to you— namely, that it was while yet +she was unacquainted with my birth and position, and had never dreamed +that I was other than only a fisherman and a groom, that she accepted +me for her husband.— I thank my God.”</p> + +<p>With that he took his seat, and after hearty cheering, a glass or +two of wine, and several speeches, all rose, and went to look at the +portrait of the late marquis.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXXII">CHAPTER LXXII.<br><span class="small">KNOTTED STRANDS.</span></h2></div> + + +<p>Lady Clementina had to return to England to see her lawyers, and +arrange her affairs. Before she went, she would gladly have gone with +Malcolm over every spot where had passed any portion of his history, +and at each heard its own chapter or paragraph; but Malcolm obstinately +refused to begin such a narration before Clementina was mistress of the +region to which it mainly belonged. After that, he said, he would, even +more gladly, he believed, than she, occupy all the time that could be +spared from the duties of the present in piecing together the broken +reflections of the past in the pools of memory, until they had lived +both their lives over again together, from earliest recollection to the +time when the two streams flowed into one, thenceforth to mingle more +and more inwardly to endless ages.</p> + +<p>So the Psyche was launched. Lady Clementina, Florimel, and Lenorme were +the passengers, and Malcolm, Blue Peter, and Davy the crew. There was +no room for servants, yet was there no lack of service. They had rough +weather a part of the time, and neither Clementina nor Lenorme was +altogether comfortable, but they made a rapid voyage, and were all well +when they landed at Greenwich.</p> + +<p>Knowing nothing of Lady Bellair’s proceedings, they sent Davy to +reconnoitre in Portland Place. He brought back word that there was no +one in the house but an old woman. So Malcolm took Florimel there. +Everything belonging to their late visitors had vanished, and nobody +knew where they had gone.</p> + +<p>Searching the drawers and cabinets, Malcolm, to his unspeakable +delight, found a miniature of his mother, along with one of his +father—a younger likeness than he had yet seen. Also he found a few +letters of his mother—mostly mere notes in pencil; but neither these +nor those of his father which Miss Horn had given him, would he read:</p> + +<p>“What right has life over the secrets of death?” he said. “Or rather, +what right have we who sleep over the secrets of those who have waked +from their sleep and left the fragments of their dreams behind them?”</p> + +<p>Lovingly he laid them together, and burned them to dust flakes.</p> + +<p>“My mother shall tell me what she pleases, when I find her,” he said. +“She shall not reprove me for reading her letters to my father.”</p> + +<p>They were married, at Wastbeach, both couples in the same ceremony. +Immediately after the wedding, the painter and his bride set out for +Rome, and the marquis and marchioness went on board the Psyche. For +nothing would content Clementina, troubled at the experience of her +first voyage, but she must get herself accustomed to the sea, as became +the wife of a fisherman; therefore in no way would she journey but +on board the Psyche; and as it was the desire of each to begin their +married life at home, they sailed direct for Portlossie. After a good +voyage, however, they landed, in order to reach home quietly, at Duff +Harbour, took horses from there, and arrived at Lossie House late in +the evening.</p> + +<p>Malcolm had written to the housekeeper to prepare for them the Wizard’s +Chamber, but to alter nothing on walls or in furniture. That room, +he had resolved, should be the first he occupied with his bride. Mrs +Courthope was scandalized at the idea of taking an earl’s daughter to +sleep in the garret, not to mention that the room had for centuries had +an ill name; but she had no choice, and therefore contented herself +with doing all that lay in the power of woman, under such severe +restrictions, to make the dingy old room cheerful.</p> + +<p>Alone at length in their somewhat strange quarters, concerning which +Malcolm had merely told her that the room was that in which he was +born—what place fitter, thought Clementina, wherein to commence the +long and wonderful story she hungered to hear. Malcolm would still +have delayed it, but she asked question upon question till she had him +fairly afloat. He had not gone far, however, before he had to make +mention of the stair in the wall, which led from the place where they +sat, straight from the house.</p> + +<p>“Can there be such a stair in this room?” she asked in surprise.</p> + +<p>He rose, took a candle, opened a door, then another, and showed her +the first of the steps down which the midwife had carried him, and +descending which, twenty years after, his father had come by his death.</p> + +<p>“Let us go down,” said Clementina.</p> + +<p>“Are you not afraid? Look,” said Malcolm.</p> + +<p>“Afraid, and you with me!” she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“But it is dark, and the steps are broken.”</p> + +<p>“If it led to Hades, I would go with my fisherman. The only horror +would be to be left behind.”</p> + +<p>“Come then,” said Malcolm, “Only you must be very careful.” He laid +a shawl on her shoulders, and down they went, Malcolm a few steps in +front, holding the candle to every step for her, many being broken.</p> + +<p>They came at length where the stair ceased in ruin. He leaped down; she +stooped, put her hands on his shoulder, and dropped into his arms. Then +over the fallen rubbish, out by the groaning door, they went into the +moonlight.</p> + +<p>Clementina was merry as a child. All was so safe and peaceful with +her fisherman! She would not hear of returning. They must have a walk +in the moonlight first! So down the steps and the winding path into +the valley of the burn, and up to the flower garden they wandered, +Clementina telling him how sick the moonlight had made her feel that +night she met him first on the Boar’s Tail, when his words concerning +her revived the conviction that he loved Florimel. At the great stone +basin Malcolm set the swan spouting, but the sweet musical jargon of +the falling water seemed almost coarse in the soundless diapason of the +moonlight. So he stopped it again, and they strolled farther up the +garden.</p> + +<p>Clementina venturing to remind him of the sexton-like gardener’s story +of the lady and the hermit’s cave, which because of its Scotch, she was +unable to follow, Malcolm told her now what John Jack had narrated, +adding that the lady was his own mother, and that from the gardener’s +tale he learned that morning at length how to account for the horror +which had seized him on his first entering the cave, as also for his +father’s peculiar carriage on that occasion: doubtless he then caught +a likeness in him to his mother. He then recounted the occurrence +circumstantially.</p> + +<p>“I have ever since felt ashamed of the weakness,” he concluded: “but at +this moment I believe I could walk in with perfect coolness.”</p> + +<p>“We won’t try it to-night,” said Clementina, and once more turned him +from the place, reverencing the shadow he had brought with him from the +spirit of his mother.</p> + +<p>They walked and sat and talked in the moonlight, for how long neither +knew; and when the moon went behind the trees on the cliff, and the +valley was left in darkness, but a darkness that seemed alive with the +new day soon to be born, they sat yet, lost in a peaceful unveiling of +hearts, till a sudden gust of wind roused Malcolm, and looking up he +saw that the stars were clouded, and knew that the chill of the morning +was drawing near.</p> + +<p>He kept that chamber just as it was ever after, and often retired to it +for meditation. He never restored the ruinous parts of the stair, and +he kept the door at the top carefully closed. But he cleared out the +rubbish that choked the place where the stair had led lower down, came +upon it again in tolerable preservation a little beneath, and followed +it into a passage that ran under the burn, appearing to lead in the +direction of the cave behind the Baillies’ Barn. Doubtless there was +some foundation for the legend of Lord Gernon.</p> + +<p>There however, he abandoned the work, thinking of the possibility of a +time when employment would be scarce, and his people in want of all he +could give them. And when such a time arrived, as arrive it did before +they had been two years married, a far more important undertaking was +found needful to employ the many who must earn or starve. Then it was +that Clementina had the desire of her heart, and began to lay out the +money she had been saving for the purpose, in rebuilding the ancient +Castle of Colonsay. Its vaults were emptied of rubbish and ruin, the +rock faced afresh, walls and towers and battlements raised, until at +last, when the loftiest tower seemed to have reached its height, it +rose yet higher, and blossomed in radiance; for, topmost crown of all, +there, flaming far into the northern night, shone a splendid beacon +lamp, to guide the fisherman when his way was hid.</p> + +<p>Every summer for years, Florimel and her husband spent weeks in the +castle, and many a study the painter made there of the ever changing +face of the sea.</p> + +<p>Malcolm, as he well might, had such a strong feeling of the power for +good of every high-souled schoolmaster, that nothing would serve him +but Mr Graham must be reinstated. He told the presbytery that if it +were not done, he would himself build a school-house for him, and the +consequence, he said, needed no prediction. Finding, at the same time, +that the young man they had put in his place was willing to act as his +assistant, he proposed that he should keep the cottage, and all other +emoluments of the office, on the sole condition that, when he found he +could no longer conscientiously and heartily further the endeavours of +Mr Graham, he should say so; whereupon the marquis would endeavour to +procure him another appointment; and on these understandings the thing +was arranged.</p> + +<p>Mr Graham thenceforward lived in the House, a spiritual father to the +whole family, reverenced by all, ever greeted with gladness, ever +obeyed. The spiritual dignity and simplicity, the fine sense and +delicate feeling of the man, rendered him a saving presence in the +place; and Clementina felt as if one of the ancient prophets, blossomed +into a Christian, was the glory of their family and house. Like a +perfect daughter, she watched him, tried to discover preferences of +which he might not himself be aware, and often waited upon him with her +own hands.</p> + +<p>There was an ancient building connected with the house, divided now +for many years into barn and dairy, but evidently the chapel of +the monastery: this Malcolm soon set about reconverting. It made a +lovely chapel—too large for the household, but not too large for +its congregation upon Wednesday evenings, when many of the fishermen +and their families, and not a few of the inhabitants of the upper +town, with occasionally several farm servants from the neighbourhood, +assembled to listen devoutly to the fervent and loving expostulations +and rousings, or the tender consolings and wise instructions of the +<i>master</i>, as every one called him. The hold he had of their hearts was +firm, and his influence on their consciences far reaching.</p> + +<p>When there was need of conference, or ground for any wide +expostulation, the marquis would call a meeting in the chapel; but this +occurred very seldom. Now and then the master, sometimes the marquis +himself, would use it for a course of lectures or a succession of +readings from some specially interesting book; and in what had been the +sacristy they gathered a small library for the use of the neighbourhood.</p> + +<p>No meeting was held there of a Sunday, for although the clergyman was +the one person to whom all his life the marquis never came any nearer, +he was not the less careful to avoid everything that might rouse +contention or encourage division.</p> + +<p>“I find the doing of the will of God,” he would say, “leaves me no time +for disputing about his plans—I do not say for thinking about them.”</p> + +<p>Not therefore, however, would he waive the exercise of the inborn right +of teaching, and anybody might come to the house and see the master on +Sunday evenings. As to whether people went to church or stayed away, he +never troubled himself in the least; and no more did the schoolmaster.</p> + +<p>The chapel had not been long finished when he had an organ built in +it. Lady Lossie played upon it. Almost every evening, at a certain +hour, she played for a while; the door was always open, and any one who +pleased might sit down and listen.</p> + +<p>Gradually the feeling of the community, from the strengthening and +concentrating influence of the House, began to bear upon offenders; +and any whose conduct had become in the least flagrant soon felt that +the general eye was upon them, and that gradually the human tide was +falling from them, and leaving them prisoned in a rocky basin on a +barren shore. But at the same time, all three of the powers at the +House were watching to come in the moment there was a chance; and +what with the marquis’s warnings, his wife’s encouragements, and the +master’s expostulations, there was no little hope of the final recovery +of several who would otherwise most likely have sunk deeper and deeper.</p> + +<p>The marchioness took Lizzy for her personal attendant, and had her boy +much about her; so that by the time she had children of her own, she +had some genuine and worthy notion of what a child was, and what could +and ought to be done for the development of the divine germ that lay in +the human egg; and had found that the best she could do for any child, +or indeed anybody, was to be good herself.</p> + +<p>Rose married a young fisherman, and made a brave wife and mother. To +the end of her days she regarded the marquis almost as a being higher +than human, an angel that had found and saved her.</p> + +<p>Kelpie had a foal, and, apparently in consequence, grew so much more +gentle that at length Malcolm consented that Clementina, who was +an excellent horsewoman, should mount her. After a few attempts to +unseat her, not of the most determined kind however, Kelpie, on her +part, consented to carry her, and ever after seemed proud of having +a mistress that could ride. Her foal turned out a magnificent horse. +Malcolm did not allow him to do anything that could be called work +before he was eight years old, and had the return at the other end, for +when Goblin was thirty he rode him still, and to judge by appearances, +might but for an accident have ridden him ten years more.</p> + +<p>It was not long ere people began to remark that no one now ever heard +the piper utter the name <i>Campbell</i>. An ill-bred youth once —it was +well for him that Malcolm was not near—dared the evil word in his +presence: a cloud swept across the old man’s face, but he held his +peace; and to the day of his death, which arrived in his ninety-first +year, it never crossed his lips. He died with the Lossie pipes on his +bed, Malcolm on one side of him, and Clementina on the other.</p> + +<p>Some of my readers may care to know that Phemy and Davy were married, +and made the quaintest, oldest-fashioned little couple, with hearts +which king or beggar might equally have trusted.</p> + +<p>Malcolm’s relations with the fisher-folk, founded as they were in +truth and open uprightness, were not in the least injured by his +change of position. He made it a point to be always at home during the +herring-fishing. Whatever might be going on in London, the marquis +and marchioness, their family and household, were sure to leave in +time for the commencement of that. Those who admired Malcolm, of whom +there were not a few even in Vanity Fair, called him the fisher-king: +the wags called him the king-fisher, and laughed at the oddity of his +taste in preferring what he called his duty to the pleasures of the +season. But the marquis found even the hen-pecked Partan a nobler and +more elevating presence than any strutting platitude of Bond-street. +And when he was at home, he was always about amongst the people. Almost +every day he would look in at some door in the Seaton, and call out +a salutation to the busy housewife—perhaps go in and sit down for +a minute. Now he would be walking with this one, now talking with +that—oftenest with Blue Peter; and sometimes both their wives would be +with them, upon the shore, or in the grounds. Nor was there a family +meal to which any one or all together of the six men whom he had set +over the Seaton and Scaurnose would not have been welcomed by the +marquis and his Clemency. The House was head and heart of the whole +district.</p> + +<p>A conventional visitor was certain to feel very shruggish at first +sight of the terms on which the marquis was with “persons of that +sort;” but often such a one came to allow that it was no great matter: +the persons did not seem to presume unpleasantly, and, notwithstanding +his atrocious training, the marquis was after all a very good sort of +fellow—considering.</p> + +<p>In the third year he launched a strange vessel. Her tonnage was two +hundred, but she was built like a fishing-boat. She had great stowage +forward and below: if there was a large take, boat after boat could +empty its load into her, and go back and draw its nets again. But this +was not the original design in her.</p> + +<p>The after half of her deck was parted off with a light rope-rail, +was kept as white as holystone could make it, and had a brass-railed +bulwark. She was steered with a wheel, for more room; the top of the +binnacle was made sloping, to serve as a lectern; there were seats all +round the bulwarks; and she was called the Clemency.</p> + +<p>For more than two years he had provided training for the fittest youths +he could find amongst the fishers, and now he had a pretty good band +playing on wind instruments, able to give back to God a shadow of +his own music. The same formed the Clemency’s crew. And every Sunday +evening the great fishing-boat with the marquis, and almost always the +marchioness on board, and the latter never without a child or children, +led out from the harbour such of the boats as were going to spend the +night on the water.</p> + +<p>When they reached the ground, all the other boats gathered about the +great boat, and the chief men came on board, and Malcolm stood up +betwixt the wheel and the binnacle, and read—always from the gospel, +and generally words of Jesus, and talked to them, striving earnestly to +get the truth alive into their hearts. Then he would pray aloud to the +living God, as one so living that they could not see him, so one with +them that they could not behold him. When they rose from their knees; +man after man dropped into his boat, and the fleet scattered wide over +the waters to search them for their treasure.</p> + +<p>Then the little ones were put to bed; and Malcolm and Clementina would +sit on the deck, reading and talking, till the night fell, when they +too went below, and slept in peace. But if ever a boat wanted help, or +the slightest danger arose, the first thing was to call the marquis, +and he was on deck in a moment.</p> + +<p>In the morning, when a few of the boats had gathered, they would make +for the harbour again, but now with full blast of praising trumpets and +horns, the waves seeming to dance to the well-ordered noise divine. +Or if the wind was contrary, or no wind blew, the lightest-laden of +the boats would take the Clemency in tow, and, with frequent change of +rowers, draw her softly back to the harbour.</p> + +<p>For such Monday mornings, the marquis wrote a little song, and his +Clemency made an air to it, and harmonized it for the band. Here is the +last stanza of it:—</p> + +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like the fish that brought the coin,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We in ministry will join—</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bring what pleases thee the best;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Help from each to all the rest.</span><br> +</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 7174 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/7174-h/images/cover.jpg b/7174-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d9d308d --- /dev/null +++ b/7174-h/images/cover.jpg |
