Emma Lazarus.
BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF "MALCOLM."
THOUGHTS.
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 carnage he had passed, never suspecting he had had another conductress, or dreaming what his presence there signified for him.
I have not said much concerning Malcolm's feelings with regard to Lady Clementina, but all this time the sense of her existence had been like an atmosphere surrounding and pervading his thought. He saw in her the promise of all he could desire to see in woman. His love was not of the blind-little-boy sort, but of a deeper, more exacting, keen-eyed kind, that sees faults where even a true mother will not, so jealous is it of the perfection of the beloved. But one thing was plain, even to this seraphic dragon that dwelt sleepless in him—and there was eternal content in the thought—that such a woman, once started on the right way, would soon leave fault and weakness behind her, and become as one of the grand women of old, whose religion was simply what religion is—life, neither more nor less than life. She would be a saint without knowing it, the only grand kind of sainthood. Whoever can think of religion as an addition to life, however glorious—a starry crown, say, set upon the head of humanity—is not yet the least in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever thinks of life as a something that could be without religion is in deathly ignorance of both. Life and religion are one, or neither is anything: I will not say neither is growing to be anything. Religion is no way of life, no show of life, no observance of any sort. It is neither the food nor 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.
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.
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 splendor regard him! 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 toward her as he had never felt and never could feel toward any other? For would it not be altogether counter to the principles he had so often heard her announce and defend to despise him because he had earned his bread by doing honorable 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 practice—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.
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 of 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.
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. 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? Ah, but again, was that fair to her yet? Might she not see in the marquis the truth and worth which the blinding falsehoods of society prevented her from seeing in the groom? Might not a lady—he tried to think of a lady in the abstract—might not a lady in marrying a marquis—a lady to whom from her own position a marquis was just a man on the level—marry in him the man he was, and not the marquis he seemed? Most certainly, he answered: he must not be unfair. Not the less, however, did he shrink from the thought of taking her prisoner under the shield of his marquisate, beclouding her nobility, and depriving her of the rare chance of shining forth as the sun in the splendor of womanly truth. No: he would choose the greater risk of losing her for the chance of winning her greater.
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 raise her imagined eidolon for his thoughts to deal withal? She had never shown him personal favor. 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 equaled his delight at the news that she had already become as a daughter to the schoolmaster.
And what had been Clementina's thoughts since learning that Florimel had not run away with her groom? It were hard to say with completeness. Accuracy, however, may not be equally unattainable. Her first feeling was an utterly inarticulate, undefined pleasure that Malcolm was free to be thought about. She was clear next that it would be matter for honest rejoicing if the truest man she had ever met except his master was not going to marry such an unreality as Florimel—one concerning whom, as things had been going of late, it was impossible to say that she was not more likely to turn to evil than to good. Clementina with all her generosity could not help being doubtful of a woman who could make a companion of such a man as Liftore—a man to whom every individual particle of Clementina's nature seemed for itself to object. But she was not yet past befriending.
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 were 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 her husband than his heart. Many learned men had had mere housekeepers for wives, and been satisfied—at least never complained. And what did she know about the fishers, men or women? There were none at Wastbeach. For anything she knew to the contrary, they might all be philosophers together, and a fitting match for Malcolm might be far more easy to find amongst them than in the society to which she herself belonged, where in truth the philosophical element was rare enough. Then arose in her mind, she could not have told how, the vision, half logical, half pictorial, of a whole family of brave, believing, daring, saving fisherfolk, father, mother, boys and girls, each sacrificing to the rest, each sacrificed to by all, and all devoted to their neighbors. 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? 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 even take 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.
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. 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! 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 favor in fervor of ministering devotion. Was it not a recognized law, however, in the relation of superiors and inferiors, that with regard to such matters, as well as others of no moment, the lady—Ah, but for her to take the initiative would provoke the conclusion—as revolting to her as unavoidable to him—that she judged herself his superior—so greatly his superior as to be absolved from the necessity of behaving to him on the ordinary footing of man and woman. What a ground to start from with a husband! The idea was hateful to her. She tried the argument that such a procedure arrogated merely a superiority in social standing, but it made her recoil from it the more. He was so immeasurably her superior that the poor little advantage on her side vanished like a candle in the sunlight, and she laughed herself to scorn. "Fancy," she laughed, "a midge, on the strength of having wings, condescending to offer marriage to a horse!" It would argue the assumption of equality in other and more important things than rank, or at least the confidence that her social superiority not only 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 worshiping 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, honor and obey her cinder. She could not well reject him for accepting her, neither could she marry him if he rose grandly superior to her temptations. No! he could be nothing to her nearer than the bright particular star.
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.
THE DUNE.
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.
Returning directly, and passing, as had been his custom, through the kitchen to ascend the small corkscrew stair the servants generally used, he encountered Mrs. Courthope, who told him that her ladyship had given orders that her maid, who had come with Lady Bellair, should have his room. He was at once convinced that Florimel had done so with the intention of banishing him from the house, for there were dozens of rooms vacant, and many of them more suitable. It was a hard blow. How he wished for Mr. Graham to consult! And yet Mr. Graham was not of much use where any sort of plotting was wanted. He asked Mrs. Courthope to let him have another room, but she looked so doubtful that he withdrew his request and went back to his grandfather.
It was Saturday, and not many of the boats would go fishing. Among the rest, Findlay's would not leave the harbor till Sunday was over, and therefore Malcolm was free. But he could not rest, and would go line-fishing. "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."
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.
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.
The Psyche still lay on the sands, and he was rowing the dinghy toward 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 endeavor 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.
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?
He drew nearer still. His heart gave a great 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 modeled of the filmy vapors 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. "My lady!" he said.
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. A moment she stood, then slowly sank again 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.
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?
"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.
"I have been catching fish, my lady," he answered, "and my clothes must be unpleasant. I will sit here."
He went a little lower on the slope and laid himself down, leaning on his elbow.
"Do fresh-water fishes smell the same as the sea-fishes, Malcolm?" she asked.
"Indeed I am not certain, my lady. Why?"
"Because if they do—You remember what you said to me as we passed the saw-mill in the wood?"
It was by silence Malcolm showed he did remember.
"Does not this night remind you of that one at Wastbeach when we came upon you singing?" said Clementina.
"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."
Again a moon-filled silence fell, and once more it was the lady who broke it. "Do you know who are at the house?" she asked.
"I do, my lady," he replied.
"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."
"And would you have come, my lady?"
"I cannot endure the earl."
"Neither can I. But then I know more about him than your ladyship does, and I am miserable for my mistress."
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?"
"I would die rather than see her marry that wretch," he answered.
Again her blood stung her in the left side. "You do not want her to marry, then?" she said.
"I do," answered Malcolm, emphatically, "but not that fellow."
"Whom, then, if I may ask?" ventured Clementina trembling.
But Malcolm was silent. He did not feel it would be right to say.
Clementina turned sick at heart. "I have heard there is something dangerous about the moonlight," she said. "I think it does not suit me to-night. I will go—home."
Malcolm sprang to his feet and offered his hand. She did not take it, but rose more lightly, though more slowly, than he. "How did you come from the park, my lady?" he asked.
"By a gate over there," she answered, pointing. "I wandered out after dinner, and the sea drew me."
"If your ladyship will allow me, I will take you a much nearer way back," he said.
"Do, then," she returned.
He thought she spoke a little sadly, and set it down to her having to go back to her fellow-guests. What if she should leave to-morrow morning? he thought. He could never then be sure she had really been with him that night. He must sometimes think it then a dream. But oh what a dream! He could thank God for it all his life if he should never dream so again.
They walked across the grassy sand toward the tunnel in silence, he pondering what he could say that might comfort her and keep her from going so soon.
"My lady never takes me out with her now," he said at length. 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.
"And you feel forsaken—deserted?" returned Clementina, sadly still.
"Rather, my lady."
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.
"This is the valley of the shadow of death," she said. "Do I walk straight through?"
"Yes, my lady. You will soon come out in the light again," he said.
"Are there no steps to fall down?" she asked.
"None, my lady. But I will go first, if you wish."
"No, that would but cut off the little light I have," she said. "Come beside me."
They passed through in silence, save for the rustle of her dress and the dull echo that haunted their steps. In a few moments they came out among the trees, but both continued silent. The still, thoughtful moon-night seemed to press them close together, but neither knew that the other felt the same.
They reached a point in the road where another step would bring them in sight of the house.
"You cannot go wrong now, my lady," said Malcolm. "If you please I will go no farther."
"Do you not live in the house?" she asked.
"I used to do as I liked, and could be there or with my grandfather. I did mean to be at the House to-night, but my lady has given my room to her maid."
"What! that woman Caley?"
"I suppose so, my lady. I must sleep to-night in the village. If you could, my lady—" he added, after a pause, and faltered, hesitating. She did not help him, but waited. "If you could—if you would not be displeased at my asking you," he resumed—"if you could keep my lady from going farther with that—I shall call him names if I go on."
"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."
She hurried away, and did not again offer her hand.
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.
CONFESSION OF SIN.
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 neighbors 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-worshiping man, Hector Crathie. The hireling would talk to him kindly enough—of his illness or of events of the day, especially those of the town and neighborhood, 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.
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.
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 needlepoint when he thinketh he standeth. Of him who prided himself on his honor 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 mere 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!
That the bastard Malcolm, or the ignorant and indeed fallen fisher-girl Lizzy, should judge differently, nowise troubled him: what could they know about the rights and wrongs of business? The fact which Lizzy sought to bring to bear upon him, that our Lord would not have done such a thing, was to him no argument at all. He said to himself, with the superior smile of arrogated common sense, that "no mere man since the fall" could be expected to do like Him; that He was divine, and had not to fight for a living; that He set us an example that we might see what sinners we were; that religion was one thing, and a very proper thing, but business was another, and a very proper thing also—with customs, and indeed laws, of its own far more determinate, at least definite, than those of religion; and that to mingle the one with the other was not merely absurd—it was irreverent and wrong, and certainly never intended in the Bible, which must surely be common sense. It was 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. 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, remodeled 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 neighbor 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?
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 honor by his bed-side. 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, "The factor wad like to see ye, Ma'colm, as sune 's ye can gang till 'im."
She waited no reply. Malcolm rose and went.
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. "Ye see, Ma'colm," she said, as if pursuing instead of commencing a conversation, "he's some sore about the fraicass between him an' you. Jest make your apoalogies till 'im, an' tell 'im you had a drop too much, and you're soary for misbehavin' yerself to wann sae much your shuperrior. Tell 'im that, Ma'colm, an' there's a half-croon to ye."
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!
"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."
"Hoot!" returned Mrs. Crathie, blurting out her Scotch fast enough now, "I s' warran' ye can lee weel eneuch whan ye hae occasion. Tak yer siller an' du as I tell ye."
"Wad ye hae me damned, mem?"
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. "Wad ye daur to sweir afore a leddy?" she exclaimed, shaking her uplifted hands in pretence of ghasted astonishment.
"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."
The same moment the bell whose rope was at the head of the factor's bed rang violently, and Mrs. Crathie's importance collapsed. "Come this w'y," she said, and turning led him up the stair to the room where her husband lay.
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.
"Ye was some sair upo' me, Ma'colm," he went on, grasping the youth's hand.
"I doobt I was ower sair," said Malcolm, who could hardly speak for a lump in his throat.
"Weel, I deserved it. But eh, Ma'colm! I canna believe it was me: it bude to be the drink."
"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'."
"I sweir 't, I sweir 't, Ma'colm!" cried the factor.
"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 du onything I can. Forgi'e me, sir, for layin' on ower sair."
"I forgi'e ye wi' a' my hert," returned the factor, inly delighted to have something to forgive.
"I thank ye frae mine," answered Malcolm, and again they shook hands.
"But eh, Ma'colm, my man!" he added, "hoo will I ever shaw my face again?"
"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 neebor an' says he's sorry, he thinks mair o' 'im nor afore he did it. Ye see we a' ken we hae dune wrang, but we haena' a' confessed. An' it's a queer thing, but a man 'll think it gran' o' 's neebor to confess, when a' the time there's something he winna repent o' himsel', for fear o' the shame o' haein 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."
"Div ye railly think it, Ma'colm?" sighed the factor with a flush.
"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."
"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 gae ane o' them to quit, only we maun hae nae mair stan'in' o' honest fowk 'at comes to bigg herbors till them. Div ye think it wad be weel ta'en gien ye tuik a poun'-nott the piece to the twa women?"
"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 hae mony a chance o' makin' 't up to them baith, ten times ower, afore you an' them pairt, sir."
"I maun lea' the cuintry, Ma'colm."
"'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."
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.
A VISITATION.
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 favorite 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.
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 him past a corner of the house overlooked by one of the drawing-room windows. Clementina saw him pass, 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 it, climbed the bank and approached her.
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. "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!"
"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."
"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."
"I know that very well, my lady, but I hope yet they will not succeed," said Malcolm.
By this time they were near the tunnel.
"Could you let me through to the shore?" asked Clementina.
"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."
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.
"I wish I could once feel like that," exclaimed Clementina. "Could I not go with you—for one night—just for once, Malcolm?"
"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."
Clementina smiled gravely, but did not reply, and Malcolm too was silent, thinking. "Yes," he said at last: "I see how we can manage it. You shall have a boat for your own use, my lady, and—"
"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."
"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 it reaches, and one that will go a long way toward enabling you to understand the rest. You shall go in a real fishing-boat, with a full crew and all the nets, and you shall catch real herrings; only you shall not be out longer than you please. But there is hardly time to arrange for it to-night, my lady."
"To-morrow, then?"
"Yes. I have no doubt I can manage it then."
"Oh, thank you!" said Clementina. "It will be a great delight."
"And now," suggested Malcolm, "would you like to go through the village and see some of the cottages, and how the fishers live?"
"If they would not think me inquisitive or intrusive," answered Clementina.
"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."
"I would I were in the kingdom of heaven if it be such as you and Mr. Graham take it for!" said Clementina.
"You must be in it, my lady, or you couldn't wish it to be such as it is."
"Can one then be in it, and yet seem to be out of it, Malcolm?"
"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."
"Are you not uncharitable, Malcolm?"
"Our Lord speaks of many coming up to His door confident of admission, whom yet He sends from Him. Faith is obedience, not confidence."
"Then I do well to fear."
"Yes, my lady, so long as your fear makes you knock the louder."
"But if I be in, as you say, how can I go on knocking?"
"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 and 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."
During the talk of which this is the substance they reached the Seaton, and Malcolm took her to see his grandfather.
"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?"
"Na, na, daddy—far frae that," answered Malcolm.
"Then my laty will pe right welcome to Tuncan's heart," he replied, and taking her hand again led her to a chair.
When they left she expressed herself charmed with the piper, but when she learned the cause of his peculiar behavior at first she looked grave, and found his feeling difficult to understand.
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.
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 honors 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.
"What would you do now if you were lord of the place?" asked Clementina as they were walking by the sea-gate: "I mean, what would be the first thing you would do?"
"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 harbor; 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."
A pause followed.
"But do you not sometimes find it hard to remember God all through your work?" asked Clementina.
"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 Shakespeare, 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—and the Lord Christ is the truth and the life, and the way home to the Father."
After a little pause, "And when you are talking to a rich, ignorant, proud lady?" said Clementina, "what do you feel then?"
"That I would it were my Lady Clementina instead," answered Malcolm with a smile.
She held her peace.
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 reoccupy his own.
THE EVE OF THE CRISIS.
It was late in the sweetest of summer mornings when the Partan's boat slipped slowly back with a light wind to the harbor 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.
The girl's behavior to Malcolm was much changed. The conviction had been strengthening in her that he was not what he seemed, and she regarded him now with a vague awe. But there was fear in her eyes now, as she looked this way and that along the passage, and then crept timidly inside his door 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 his door, lay down, and, trying to think, fell asleep.
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?
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.
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.
"My lady," he said, "I have got everything arranged for to-night."
"And when shall we go?" she asked eagerly.
"At the turn of the tide, about half-past seven. But seven is your dinner-hour."
"It is of no consequence. But could you not make it half an hour later, and then I should not seem rude?"
"Make it any hour you please, my lady, so long as the tide is falling."
"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?"
"Yes, my lady. It will be better. They will look amazed, for all their breeding."
"Whose boat is it, that I may be able to tell them if they should ask me?"
"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?"
"I couldn't go without you, Malcolm."
"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."
"Like Kelpie?" said Clementina, with a merrier smile than he had ever seen on her face before.
"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."
Clementina gave a little sigh.
"Mind you don't scruple, my lady, to give what orders you please. It will be your fishing-boat for to-night."
Clementina bowed her head in acknowledgment.
"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."
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 neighbored eyes, gorgeous day and ethereal night, or snow-clad wild and sky of stormy blackness, were alike welcome to her spirit.
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 toward the pretty arbor 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 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.
"Ma'colm, Ma'colm!" he cried, and crept up wheezing.—"I beg yer leddyship's pardon, my leddy, but I wadna hae Ma'colm lat ye gang in there ohn tellt ye what there is inside."
"Thank you, John. I was just going to tell my lady," said Malcolm.
"Because, ye see," pursued John, "I was ae day here i' the gairden—an' I was jist graftin' a bonny wull rose-buss wi' a Hector o' France—an' it grew to be the bonniest rose-buss in a' the haill gairden—whan the markis—no the auld markis, but my leddy's father—cam' up the walk there, an' a bonny yoong leddy wi' his lordship, as it micht be yersel's twa—an' I beg your 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 daur say, Ma'colm—he was unco ta'en wi' her, the markis, as ilka body cud see ohn luikit that near, sae 'at some said '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 tow-mon (twelvemonth), but never had she been intil that cave, an' 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 eemage; an' it was lang or he broucht her till hersel', for he wadna lat me rin for the hoosekeeper, but sent me fleein' to the f'untain for watter, an' gied me a gowd guinea to haud my tongue aboot it a'. Sae noo, my leddy, ye're 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."
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. "You must tell me the sad story, Malcolm," she murmured. "I could scarcely understand a word the old man said."
He continued silent, and seemed struggling with some emotion. But when they were within a few paces of the arbor he stopped short and said, "I would rather not go in there to-day. You would oblige me, my lady, if you would not go."