THE JOURNEY.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.