TORTURE.
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.
He found all on board the yacht in ship-shape, only Davy was absent.
Travers explained that he sent him on shore for a few hours every day.
He was a sharp boy, he said, and the more he saw, the more useful he
would be, and as he never gave him any money, there was no risk of his
mistaking his hours.
“When do you expect him?” asked Malcolm.
“At four o’clock,” answered Travers.
“It is four now,” said Malcolm.
A shrill whistle came from the Chelsea shore.
“And there’s Davy,” said Travers.
Malcolm got into the dinghy and rowed ashore.
“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.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Davy.
“Now attend to me.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Do you know Lady Lossie’s house?”
“No, sir; but I ken hersel’.”
“How is that?”
“I ha’e seen her mair nor twa or three times, ridin’ wi’ yersel’, to
yon hoose yon’er.”
“Would you know her again?”
“Ay wad I--fine that. What for no, sir?”
“It’s a good way to see a lady across the Thames and know her again.”
“Ow! but I tuik the spy-glaiss till her,” answered Davy, reddening.
“You are sure of her, then?”
“I _am_ that, sir.”
“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.”
“Na, na, sir. There’s fowk takin’ nottice.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There’s a wee laddie been efter mysel’ twise or thrice.”
“Did you do anything?”
“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.”
To see what the boy could do, Malcolm let Kelpie go at a good trot: but
Davy kept up without effort, now shooting ahead, now falling behind,
now stopping to look in at a window, and now to cast a glance at a
game of pitch and toss. No mere passer-by could have suspected that
the sailor-boy belonged to the horseman. He dropped him not far from
Portland Place, telling him to go and look at the number, but not stare
at the house.
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,
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.
“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!”
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.
From Mr Graham’s lodging to the north-eastern gate of the Regent’s
Park, the nearest way led through a certain passage, which, although a
thoroughfare to persons on foot, was little known. Malcolm had early
discovered it, and always used it. Part of this short cut was the
yard and back-premises of a small public-house. It was between eleven
and twelve as he entered it for the second time that night. Sunk in
thought and suspecting no evil, he was struck down from behind, and
lost his consciousness. When he came to himself he was lying in the
public house, with his head bound up, and a doctor standing over him,
who asked him if he had been robbed. He searched his pockets, and
found that his old watch was gone, but his money left. One of the
men standing about said he would see him home. He half thought he
had seen him before, and did not like the look of him, but accepted
the offer, hoping to get on the track of something thereby. As soon
as they entered the comparative solitude of the park he begged his
companion, who had scarcely spoken all the way, to give him his arm,
and leaned upon it as if still suffering, but watched him closely.
About the middle of the park, where not a creature was in sight, he
felt him begin to fumble in his coat-pocket, and draw something from
it. But when, unresisted, he snatched away his other arm, Malcolm’s
fist followed it, and the man fell, nor made any resistance while he
took from him a short stick, loaded with lead, and his own watch, which
he found in his waistcoat-pocket. Then the fellow rose with apparent
difficulty, but the moment he was on his legs, ran like a hare, and
Malcolm let him run, for he felt unable to follow him.
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.
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.
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.