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Title: The Marquis of Lossie

Author: George MacDonald

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</pre>

<pre>
THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE.
by George MacDonald
</pre>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I: THE STABLE YARD</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II: THE LIBRARY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III: MISS HORN</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV: KELPIE'S AIRING</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V: LIZZY FINDLAY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI: MR CRATHIE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII: BLUE PETER</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII: VOYAGE TO
LONDON</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX: LONDON STREETS</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X: THE TEMPEST</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI: DEMON AND THE
PIPES</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII: A NEW LIVERY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII: TWO
CONVERSATIONS</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV: FLORIMEL</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV: PORTLOSSIE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI: ST JAMES THE
APOSTLE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII: A DIFFERENCE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII: LORD LIFTORE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX: KELPIE IN LONDON</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX: BLUE PETER</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI: MR GRAHAM</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII: RICHMOND PARK</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII: PAINTER AND
GROOM</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV: A LADY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV: THE PSYCHE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI: THE
SCHOOLMASTER</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII: THE PREACHER</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII: THE
PORTRAIT</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX: AN EVIL OMEN</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX: A QUARREL</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI: THE TWO
DAIMONS</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII: A
CHASTISEMENT</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII: LIES</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV: AN OLD ENEMY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV: THE EVIL
GENIUS</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI: CONJUNCTIONS</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII: AN INNOCENT
PLOT</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII: THE
JOURNEY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX: DISCIPLINE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL: MOONLIGHT</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI_">CHAPTER XLI: THE SWIFT</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII: ST RONAN'S
WELL</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII: A PERPLEXITY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV: THE MIND OF THE
AUTHOR</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV: THE RIDE HOME</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI: PORTLAND PLACE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">CHAPTER XLVII: PORTLOSSIE AND
SCAURNOSE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">CHAPTER XLVIII: TORTURE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX">CHAPTER XLIX: THE PHILTRE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_L">CHAPTER L: THE DEMONESS AT BAY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LI">CHAPTER LI: THE PSYCHE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LII">CHAPTER LII: HOPE CHAPEL</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LIII">CHAPTER LIII: A NEW PUPIL</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LIV">CHAPTER LIV: THE FEY FACTOR</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LV">CHAPTER LV: THE WANDERER</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LVI">CHAPTER LVI: MID OCEAN</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LVII">CHAPTER LVII: THE SHORE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LVIII">CHAPTER LVIII: THE TRENCH</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LIX">CHAPTER LIX: THE PEACEMAKER</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LX">CHAPTER LX: AN OFFERING</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXI">CHAPTER LXI: THOUGHTS</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXII">CHAPTER LXII: THE DUNE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXIII">CHAPTER LXIII: CONFESSION OF
SIN</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXIV">CHAPTER LXIV: A VISITATION</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXV">CHAPTER LXV: THE EVE OF THE
CRISIS</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXVI">CHAPTER LXVI: SEA</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXVII">CHAPTER LXVII: SHORE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXVIII">CHAPTER LXVIII: THE CREW OF THE
BONNIE ANNIE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXIX">CHAPTER LXIX: LIZZY'S BABY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXX">CHAPTER LXX: THE DISCLOSURE</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXXI">CHAPTER LXXI: THE ASSEMBLY</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#CHAPTER_LXXII">CHAPTER LXXII: KNOTTED
STRANDS</a></h3>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I: THE STABLE
YARD</h1>

<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 sail have baith, time aboot (in turn); 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' 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 (beware)," 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 tilt
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', and 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 hypocrisy, 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. 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 halfway across the yard, as if going
home, before he recovered himself. Then he turned again, and with
what dignity he could scrape together said -- "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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II: THE
LIBRARY</h1>

<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
rath 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 deathbed, 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III: MISS
HORN</h1>

<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 -- "Duv ye ca' yersel' an
honest man, noo, Ma'colm?"</p>

<p>"I ca' myself 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 about 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' (wrestling) 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 (obstinate) 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
concemt 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 telling' 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 ye 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 in 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>

<pre>

Who is the happy warrior? Who is he
That every Man in arms should wish to be? --
It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought.
</pre>

<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 lordship 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 my leddie Psyche?"</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 what neist?"</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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV: KELPIE'S
AIRING</h1>

<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 sail. To ca' a
man like mine a heepocreet 'cause he wadna procleem till a haul
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 -- "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 he?</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 kens what he says?" he pursued.</p>

<p>"Weel, I dinna jist richtly ken gien she kens, 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 -- Tell 'im; tell
'im; 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 compliment 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 intil the park -- throu' aneth the toll
ro'd, ye ken. There ye'll get into the lythe (lee) 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 when 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V: LIZZY
FINDLAY</h1>

<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
ignis fatuus 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 intil '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
knows!"</p>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI: MR
CRATHIE</h1>

<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 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 wages," 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'm 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 wages."</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 shuits 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII: BLUE
PETER</h1>

<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 her."</p>

<p>"Ye sall jeedge for yersel', man, an' tell her or no just 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 northwest 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 halfway 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 can 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 -- "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 my lord 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 until 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 my lord 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 rattling 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 not 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' 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 intil '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?" 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII:
VOYAGE TO LONDON</h1>

<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 childlike 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 the romantic 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 (low) 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 goodbye, 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 northwest, 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX: LONDON
STREETS</h1>

<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 maybe 'cause i' their verra natur' they're
ower semple for cr'aturs 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 halfway 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. The man gave him a look of
contemptuous surprise, and turning to another who lounged behind
him with his hands in his pockets, said -- "Tom, here's a
gentleman as wants to know where he is: can you tell him?" 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X: THE
TEMPEST</h1>

<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>

<pre>
If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
</pre>

<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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI: DEMON AND
THE PIPES</h1>

<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 sightseeing, 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 come and tomorrow. 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 camerae obscurae, 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 size should flaunt in such splendour,
"when our Sally 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 high 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 watchdogs, 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 staghound, 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII: A NEW
LIVERY</h1>

<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 Malcolm!
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
lady."</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 lady."</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 he says, what are 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII: TWO
CONVERSATIONS</h1>

<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 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 you, 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 always give him second best sherry, 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 homesickness. 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 out 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 Christians."</p>

<p>"Ow, I grant we canna weel du that i' the full sense, but I
doobt, gien they bena a' Christians 'at ca's themsel's that,
there's a heap mair Christianity nor get's 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' Christianity."</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 tak's '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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV:
FLORIMEL</h1>

<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 overarched 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 archangel. 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 l'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
battlefield 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 maehrchen 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 Rosenbluethchen, 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 you 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 duty 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV:
PORTLOSSIE</h1>

<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 boathouse 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
haphazard, 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 was 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 goodbye 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 threip upo' me 'at I was ane o' thae lang tongued limmers
'at maks themsel's 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' your 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 must 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 havena 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI: ST
JAMES THE APOSTLE</h1>

<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 him, 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 epistle o' yours but Blue Peter here?
He 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
themsel's? 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 my lord 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 my lord 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 Pete; 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII: A
DIFFERENCE</h1>

<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 The Tempest 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 incomers 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 -- "I'm jaloosin' -- it canna be -- it's no a
playhoose, this?"</p>

<p>Malcolm merely nodded, but from the nod Peter understood that
he 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 hae 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
a' '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 playhoose 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 div," 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 lifelong relation between them; his
feelings therefore held him silent. Peter concluded that the
marquis 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII:
LORD LIFTORE</h1>

<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
informed 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 horse
woman, 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 his 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX: KELPIE
IN LONDON</h1>

<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 forefinger 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 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 did 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 tomorrow," 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 not 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 it he would strike him. But he
thought better of it apparently, and rode after Florimel.</p>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX: BLUE
PETER</h1>

<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 was 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' wages 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 judge 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI: MR
GRAHAM</h1>

<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 washstand, and
two chairs seated with haircloth. 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 tailcoat 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 (skylarks), 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 hypostasis. 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, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII:
RICHMOND PARK</h1>

<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. "I little expected such 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 you 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 the
other gentleman?"</p>

<p>"Why, of course! You know Liftore imagined 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 tomorrow -- nor the next
day. Freuet euch des Lebens!"</p>

<p>"0 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 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. "Then what can you
gain, child," he said --</p>

<p>"Will you dare to call me 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 are 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, 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 must 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 must sell her."</p>

<p>"I would, my lord, if you 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 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII:
PAINTER AND GROOM</h1>

<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 her 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 you
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 anybody: 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 Home 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 kings barbaric, but
there's barbaric gold 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 nowadays
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,
tonight, 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 tomorrow," 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV: A
LADY</h1>

<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 can 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 woman 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,
just 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV: THE
PSYCHE</h1>

<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 today, 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 shipshape. 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
be 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 you 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 aft 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 shipshape, and as clean,
Travers, as if she were a seventy-four. If there's the head of a
pail 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 -- "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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI: THE
SCHOOLMASTER</h1>

<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 no 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 cherished, 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 commonplace. 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII: THE
PREACHER</h1>

<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 you 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 for 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 tonight 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 clergyman."</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 jellyfish 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 glowworms.</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
doormat, 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, The Commonplace. 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
headquarters, 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 childbirth, 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 Te Deums 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 smallpox, 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 would 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, Oh,
if that be true! how that one, whom also he described, must have
said, Now he means me! 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 keyhole; 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII:
THE PORTRAIT</h1>

<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 swish 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.</p>

<p>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 you 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 the 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 clean."</p>

<p>"And what is your impression of him?" half murmured Lenorme,
without lifting his head.</p>

<p>"The one that's painted there," 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! -- he knew that. I remember Mr
Graham telling me once, before I had read the play, that the
critics condemn Measure for Measure 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 not 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 -- the goddess of nature?"</p>

<p>"Certainly; -- but what are 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 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 have 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 is 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX: AN
EVIL OMEN</h1>

<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 hard; but
sometimes he meant impossible. 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 such 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
much 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX: A
QUARREL</h1>

<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 can 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 pff she seized her thin nose between
her thumb and forefinger, 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 that 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 he 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI: THE
TWO DAIMONS</h1>

<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 would 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. "he 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 tomorrow 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 nowadays 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? She 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII: A
CHASTISEMENT</h1>

<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 would 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 "Cruel!" 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 must 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 riverbank,
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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII:
LIES</h1>

<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 -- "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 nowadays, 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 him 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 get up, 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 --"</p>

<p>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 him
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 genus irritabile. 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 can't 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 proper 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 his 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 designs. 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 like is not
the same.</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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV: AN
OLD ENEMY</h1>

<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 canna be the stickit minister!" said the woman to herself.
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
is 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 (beetles) aboot the boody craw (scarecrow),
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
secrets.</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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV: THE
EVIL GENIUS</h1>

<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 could 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 us. 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI:
CONJUNCTIONS</h1>

<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 gaslight 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 best 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 superabundant
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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII:
AN INNOCENT PLOT</h1>

<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
should 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
tomorrow."</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 ride 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. Tomorrow 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 necessaries 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII:
THE JOURNEY</h1>

<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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX:
DISCIPLINE</h1>

<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 r 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 breathless -- 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 your being the higher nature that you
keep my way from me?"</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 her 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 today."</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 he was the slave, and that his master
broke his leg," said Florimel.</p>

<p>"Ah, yes! I daresay. -- That was 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 tomorrow, 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 such a character! You will be so 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 will 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 can 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL:
MOONLIGHT</h1>

<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 horsewomen, 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 *
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>

<p>* [<i>According to the grammars, I ought to have written
which, but it will not do. I could, I think, tell why, but prefer
leaving the question to the reader</i>.]</p>

<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 Task, 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>

<pre>
The well depicted flower,
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn
Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow
With most success when all besides decay. *
</pre>

<p>* [<i>"The Winter Evening."</i>]</p>

<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 in 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 warhorse 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>

<pre>
Rose o' my hert,
Open yer leaves to the lampin' mune;
Into the curls lat her keek an' dert;
She'll tak' the colour but gi'e ye tune.

Buik o' my brain,
Open yer neuks to the starry signs;
Lat the een o' the holy luik an' strain
An' glimmer an' score atween the lines.

Cup o' my sowl,
Gowd an' diamond an' ruby cup,
Ye're noucht ava but a toom dry bowl,
Till the wine o' the kingdom fill ye up,

Conscience glass,
Mirror the infinite all in thee;
Melt the bounded and make it pass
Into the tideless, shoreless sea.

World of my life,
Swing thee round thy sunny track;
Fire and wind and water and strife --
Carry them all to the glory back.
</pre>

<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 seashore, 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' the 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 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'
at 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 na'e 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLI_"></a>CHAPTER XLI: THE
SWIFT</h1>

<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 seashore -- 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 southwesterly 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 could 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 pikes, 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII: ST
RONAN'S WELL</h1>

<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 may 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 may
be 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, then -- say a woman, as here in
the story -- 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 will 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
AEschylus -- 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
are 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 being, 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 --"</p>

<p>"Sentiments!" said Malcolm to himself.</p>

<p>"-- 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 you 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 idea 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 your regard -- whatever any person you look upon
as good, believes and would have you believe -- at the same time
doing diligently what you know 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, commonplace
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 if
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 with 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 with 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
matter 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII: A
PERPLEXITY</h1>

<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 little 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 have 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 does 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 her 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 is
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 not speak. I
shall just tell her to consult her own heart -- and conscience,
and follow them. -- But, gracious me! Am I then going to fall in
love with the fellow? -- this stable man who pretends to know his
maker!</p>

<p>Certainly not. There is nothing of the kind in my thoughts.</p>

<p>Besides, how should 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 do 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 not 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 can't 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 will be queen, and then perhaps a God did make me.
A slave to things inside myself! -- thoughts and feelings I
refuse, and which I ought to have control over! I don't want this
in me, yet I can't drive it out! I will 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 will 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 not 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 seems 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV: THE
MIND OF THE AUTHOR</h1>

<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 knows himself in the right. -- There is
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 my mind they are not painted
pictures -- A long seacoast, my lady, and a stormy night; -- the
sea horses rushing in from the northeast, and the snowflakes
beginning to fall. On the margin of the sea a long dune or
sandbank, 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV: THE
RIDE HOME</h1>

<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 might hurt him, it could 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 sawmill, 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 I 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, daydream 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 him. 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
reasonable 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 all but, 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 today and forget tomorrow -- 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 regions mild of</p>

<pre>
'calm and serene air,
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot
Which men call Earth.'
</pre>

<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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI:
PORTLAND PLACE</h1>

<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 bystreet 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 -- not 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 tomorrow," 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 could 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 skylight. 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 skylight 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 know, not what I may chance at any moment to feel? 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII:
PORTLOSSIE AND SCAURNOSE</h1>

<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 fey, that is doomed, 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 northeast a
little, and breaking the eddy round the point of the Nose! What
could 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 maybe 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 religious exercises; 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 (muddied, troubled) 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
Cause 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 feared 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 quality 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII:
TORTURE</h1>

<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 shipshape, 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 am 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 passerby 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>

<pre>
Yet like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy.
</pre>

<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 northeastern 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_XLIX"></a>CHAPTER XLIX: THE
PHILTRE</h1>

<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>"Your fault! What can 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 midwife 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_L"></a>CHAPTER L: THE
DEMONESS AT BAY</h1>

<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 tomorrow 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 carpetbag, 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
tomorrow. 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow. 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LI"></a>CHAPTER LI: THE
PSYCHE</h1>

<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 hoofbeats. 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 see, 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 ball and garden and road to the riverbank,
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 is 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
mainsail 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 rowboats, 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 is 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 goodbye 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
stateroom; 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 companionway, 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
waterline.</p>

<p>The mast of the Psyche had shot up to its full height; the
reef points of the mainsail 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 mainsail 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 sae 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.</p>

<p>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>"Cannot! 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 him. 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 him 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LII"></a>CHAPTER LII: HOPE
CHAPEL</h1>

<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
nowadays is what nobody disputes and nobody heeds; but I do heed
what Malcolm says, and intend to find out, if I can, 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 it, or to deny him? Now, I confess
to doubting it -- 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 think,
Florimel. I don't fancy you ever really think."</p>

<p>Florimel again laughed.</p>

<p>"I am glad," she said, "that you don't judge me incapable 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
dayspring 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 entourage? But the setting was not the jewel. A
real stone might 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.</p>

<p>"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 gean 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 bad 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, may nevertheless be immeasurably above him -- and
that after no arbitrary judgment, but according to the absolute
facts of creation, the scale of the kingdom of God, in which
being 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LIII"></a>CHAPTER LIII: A NEW
PUPIL</h1>

<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 the cause; 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 -- "Oh,
ma'am! we shan't see 'im 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 askin' 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 he's
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 outlook 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 must.</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 windowsill. 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 dressmaker'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 we
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 is my meaning," assented Mrs Marshal.</p>

<p>"I went there tonight," 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 fine fellow."</p>

<p>"He would be, if he were left to himself. Good evening, Mr
Graham. Goodbye, rather, for I think 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 obey 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 do. 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. 'Is 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, 0 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 first 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.</p>

<p>"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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LIV"></a>CHAPTER LIV: THE FEY
FACTOR</h1>

<p>When Mr Crathie heard of the outrage the people of Scaurnose
had committed upon the surveyors, he vowed be 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 all 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 reforming, 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 rung: 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' syne 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 intil yer ain
han'."</p>

<p>"An' whase han' sud we tak them intil 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 Vengeance is mine began to
ring in his mental ears instead of The Lord is a man of war.</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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LV"></a>CHAPTER LV: THE
WANDERER</h1>

<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 can 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 saw 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
can 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 second 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 mask 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 drawing 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 must 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 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>

<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 sail 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 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LVI"></a>CHAPTER LVI: MID
OCEAN</h1>

<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 forescent -- 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 newborn 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
minor 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 mainsail, 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 sunset 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 nowadays
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 him 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.</p>

<p>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 she 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 do know it?" she said, coldly and searchingly.</p>

<p>"My father confessed it on his deathbed."</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 explains. 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 am 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 real 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 will judge, not only for yourself, but for me! How can 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."</p>

<p>Here Malcolm ground his teeth, but was otherwise irresponsive
as block of stone.</p>

<p>"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 think, Malcolm, it will
be better you should go. I am very sorry. I wish you had not told
me. It is very painful to me. You should 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 suggest, 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 sort 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.</p>

<p>"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 never
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 no 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LVII"></a>CHAPTER LVII: THE
SHORE</h1>

<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.</p>

<p>But now the little wind there was blew from the northeast; 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 close, 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
northeast; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 tomorrow; 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 (way), 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 (grandfather)?" 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. 0 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 (fog) 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! 0 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 northeast, 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 (blame) 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
intil'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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 Malcolm. 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 tonight, 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 wad na 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 just 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."<br>
</p>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LVIII"></a>CHAPTER LVIII: THE
TRENCH</h1>

<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 factor, 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 (couch grass). 'Deed there's
maist naething ither h'ard tell o' bit 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, some
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 s'all ever set
fut in Scaurnose fine 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 him, 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 halfway 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 (truant) 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 am 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 polecat, 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 fisherwives, followed by the factor. He had
found a place on the eastern side of the village, where, jumping
a low earth wail, 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
-- "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, &amp;c., &amp;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 happen
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 sic
like?"</p>

<p>"H'ard ye him ever tell the story aboot Colonsay Castel
yon'er?"</p>

<p>"Ay hey!"</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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LIX"></a>CHAPTER LIX: THE
PEACEMAKER</h1>

<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!</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 be had not at all in other conditions experienced.</p>

<p>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 midday, and having been reported by
eyewitnesses 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 can 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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, commonplace 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 him! 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 will stand up for men that have treated them
cruelly, but you to stand up for him 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 Crathie, for threipin' 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>"No, nor never will be the father a' 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 Crathie," 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 my 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' hold 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 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 will 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 a horse is
b'un' to reese (extol) 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 keened, a' thing's fair. The saw sud rin -- Luve
an' war an' horse dealin'. -- 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 Crathie?" 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 (owning, property)
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 him to sic like as hiz
(us). What wad he 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.</p>

<p>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 must 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LX"></a>CHAPTER LX: AN
OFFERING</h1>

<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 goodbye. 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.</p>

<p>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 entourage, 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 him, 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 am 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. --
Can't 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 think, 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 might 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 you," 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>"Tomorrow morning -- as I purpose."</p>

<p>"Then God be with thee. He is 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 today."</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 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 me 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 are 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. Let me be your
servant."</p>

<p>As she spoke, she rose, and walking softly up to him where he
sat kneeled at his knees, and 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 tomorrow 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 you? That would show a poverty of spirit such as I
hope never to fall into. My sole 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
may 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXI"></a>CHAPTER LXI:
THOUGHTS</h1>

<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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 had 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, menial 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?</p>

<p>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 go, and not go -- I love, 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
even himself 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.</p>

<p>Accepted as marquis, he would for ever be haunted with the
channering 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
might not have married him as any something else he could
honestly have been, under the all enlightening sun: 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.</p>

<p>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 curious 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 curiosity. 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 one however, that might be -- worse
-- Yes, worse; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 no 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?</p>

<p>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 very 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 he 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, hopeful -- 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 servile. 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.</p>

<p>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 mind -- 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!</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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 counterbalanced 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 having had the
precedence of being! That Malcolm should imagine such her
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 could 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.</p>

<p>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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXII"></a>CHAPTER LXII: THE
DUNE</h1>

<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.</p>

<p>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 might 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 sawmill 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 is 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
-- "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 that
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 tonight. 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
tomorrow 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 moonlight 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 tonight, 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 tonight 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 could 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXIII"></a>CHAPTER LXIII:
CONFESSION OF SIN</h1>

<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.</p>

<p>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 sold her again," -- 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.</p>

<p>It was the Bible always with him, -- never the will of Christ.
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 began 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,
beginning 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
fraicass between him 'an you. Jest make your apoalogies till 'im
and tell 'im you had a drop too much, and your soary for
misbehavin' yerself 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 well 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 ower 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 was 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
shame o' ha'ein' to confess 't. To me, the shame lies in no
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
stan'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
themsel's 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXIV"></a>CHAPTER LXIV: A
VISITATION</h1>

<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
know 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 must 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
tonight, my lady."</p>

<p>"Tomorrow 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 needlework: 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXV"></a>CHAPTER LXV: THE EVE
OF THE CRISIS</h1>

<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 corkscrew 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 friends, 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
tonight."</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 us: 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 your fishing boat for tonight."</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 haul gairden -- whan the markis, no the auld markis, but
my leddy's father, cam' up the walk there, an' a bonny young
leddy wi' his lordship, as it micht be yersel's 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 with 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 (twelvemonth), but never had she been intil 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 airy mite, 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 brought 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 forewarnt, 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 -- "I would rather not go in there today. 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXVI"></a>CHAPTER LXVI:
SEA</h1>

<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 childlike 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' oorsel's," 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 lady 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 lady 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 --
"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 more, 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.</p>

<p>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 her's 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>

<pre>
The stars are steady abune;
I' the water they flichter an' flee;
But steady aye luikin' doon,
They ken themsel's i' the sea.

A' licht, an' clear, an' free,
God, thou shinest abune;
Yet luik, an' see thysel' in me,
God, whan thou luikest doon.
</pre>

<p>A silence followed, but a silence that seemed about to be
broken. And again Malcolm sang:</p>

<pre>
There was an auld fisher -- he sat by the wa',
An' luikit oot ower the sea;
The bairnies war playin', he smilit on them a',
But the tear stude in his e'e.

An' it's oh to win awa', awa'!
An' it's oh to win awa'
Whaur the bairns come home, an' the wives they bide,
An' God is the Father o' a'!

Jocky an' Jeamy an' Tammy oot there,
A' i' the boatie gaed doon;
An' I'm ower auld to fish ony mair,
An' I hinna the chance to droon.
An' it's oh to win awa', awa'! &amp;c.

An' Jeanie she grat to ease her hert,
An' she easit hersel' awa'
But I'm ower auld for the tears to stert,
An' sae the sighs maun blaw.
An' it's oh to win awa', awa'! &amp;c.

Lord, steer me hame whaur my Lord has steerit,
For I'm tired o' life's rockin' sea
An' dinna be lang, for I'm nearhan' fearit
'At I'm 'maist ower auld to dee.
An' it's oh to win awa', awe'! &amp;c.
</pre>

<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 he 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 suffocated 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXVII"></a>CHAPTER LXVII:
SHORE</h1>

<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.</p>

<p>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 ghostlike 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 to know that, of all things
and all thoughts, God is nearest to us -- so 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 tonight 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. -- Your groom wants a
coachman's place, my lady."</p>

<p>"0 Malcolm! do you mean you would be my 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 will try to be good and wise.
Don't marry anybody else -- anybody, 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 must 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
Him?"</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 sear 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 today 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXVIII"></a>CHAPTER LXVIII:
THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE</h1>

<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 tangles, 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 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.</p>

<p>"Weel," he said, "I am 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. 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
(gallows)."</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' my boat again. I s' hae nane but
Christian men i' my 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 (foot) 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
(intercept) '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.</p>

<p>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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXIX"></a>CHAPTER LXIX:
LIZZY'S BABY</h1>

<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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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. 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 -- "Goodbye, 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXX"></a>CHAPTER LXX: THE
DISCLOSURE</h1>

<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." 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
you 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 her sister by name
for the first time.</p>

<p>"You insolent wretch!" she cried, panting. "What right have
you, if you be, 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 am 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 all, 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 all," she said with a gasp; then gave a wild
little cry, and, with subdued exultation, added, "and he loves 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 you," 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXXI"></a>CHAPTER LXXI: THE
ASSEMBLY</h1>

<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.</p>

<p>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
outstretched 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 you, 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 here, 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>

<h1 align="CENTER"><a name="CHAPTER_LXXII"></a>CHAPTER LXXII:
KNOTTED STRANDS</h1>

<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 tonight," 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 master, 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 Campbell. 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
kingfisher, 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>

<pre>
Like the fish that brought the coin,
We in ministry will join --
Bring what pleases thee the best;
Help from each to all the rest.
</pre>

<p>THE END</p>







<pre>

End of Project Gutenberg's The Marquis of Lossie, by George MacDonald

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