THE PSYCHE.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
“Yes? What was that?”
“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!”
“Then Mr Lenorme is come home!” cried Florimel, scarce attempting to
conceal the pleasure his report gave her.
“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.”
“I will go at once,” Florimel said, rising hastily. “Get the horses,
Malcolm, as fast as you can.”
“If my Lord Liftore should come before we start?” he suggested.
“Make haste,” returned his mistress, impatiently.
Malcolm did make haste, and so did Florimel. What precisely was in
her thoughts who shall say, when she could not have told herself? But
doubtless the chance of seeing Lenorme urged her more than the desire
to see her father’s portrait. Within twenty minutes they were riding
down Grosvenor Place, and happily heard no following hoof-beats. When
they came near the river, Malcolm rode up to her and said,
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.
Florimel, who was always ready to _see_, walked straight into the
drawing-room, and went to a window.
“There is that yacht lying there still!” remarked Malcolm. “Does she
not remind you of the Psyche, my lady?”
“Every boat does that,” answered his mistress. “I dream about her. But
I couldn’t tell her from many another.”
“People used to boats, my lady, learn to know them like the faces of
their friends.--What a day for a sail!”
“Do you suppose that one is for hire?” said Florimel.
“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.
“Why, they’re answering your whistle already!” said Florimel.
“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?”
A wave from the slow-silting lagoon of her girlhood came washing over
the sands between, and Florimel flew merrily down the stair and across
hall and garden and road to the river-bank, where was a little wooden
stage or landing place, with a few steps, at which the dinghy was just
arriving.
“Will you take us on board and show us your boat?” said Malcolm.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Davy.
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.
“Young woman on board, Davy?” whispered Malcolm.
“Ay, ay, sir--doon i’ the fore,” answered Davy, and Malcolm stood by
his mistress.
“She _is_ like the Psyche,” said Florimel, turning to him, “only the
mast is not so tall.”
“Her topmast is struck, you see my lady--to make sure of her passing
clear under the bridges.”
“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!”
Malcolm conferred a moment with Travers and returned.
“They are quite willing, my lady,” he said.
“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.
The anchor was already up, and the yacht drifting with the falling
tide. A moment more and she spread a low treble-reefed main-sail
behind, a little jib before, and the western breeze filled and swelled
and made them alive, and with wind and tide she went swiftly down the
smooth stream. Florimel clapped her hands with delight. The shores and
all their houses fled up the river. They slid past row-boats, and great
heavy barges loaded to the lip, with huge red sails and yellow, glowing
and gleaming in the hot sun. For one moment the shadow of Vauxhall
Bridge gloomed like a death-cloud, chill and cavernous, over their
heads; then out again they shot into the lovely light and heat of the
summer world.
“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.”
“This _is_ life!” cried Florimel, as the river bore them nearer and
nearer to the vortex--deeper and deeper into the tumult of London.
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.
Southwark Bridge--and only London Bridge lay between them and the open
river, still widening as it flowed to the aged ocean. Through the
centre arch they shot, and lo! a world of masts, waiting to woo with
white sails the winds that should bear them across deserts of water to
lands of wealth and mystery. Through the labyrinth led the highway of
the stream, and downward they still swept--past the Tower, and past the
wharf where that morning Malcolm had said good-bye for a time to his
four-footed subject and friend. The smack’s place was empty. With her
hugest of sails, she was tearing and flashing away, out of their sight,
far down the river before them.
Through dingy dreary Limehouse they sank, and coasted the melancholy,
houseless Isle of Dogs; but on all sides were ships and ships, and when
they thinned at last, Greenwich rose before them. London and the parks
looked unendurable from this more varied life, more plentiful air,
and above all more abundant space. The very spirit of freedom seemed
to wave his wings about the yacht, fanning full her sails. Florimel
breathed as if she never could have enough of the sweet wind; each
breath gave her all the boundless region whence it blew; she gazed
as if she would fill her soul with the sparkling gray of the water,
the sun-melted blue of the sky, and the incredible green of the flat
shores. For minutes she would be silent, her parted lips revealing
her absorbed delight, then break out in a volley of questions, now
addressing Malcolm, now Travers. She tried Davy too, but Davy knew
nothing except his duty here. The Thames was like an unknown eternity
to the creature of the Wan Water-- about which, however, he could have
told her a thousand things. Down and down the river they flew, and not
until miles and miles of meadows had come between her and London, not
indeed until Gravesend appeared, did it occur to Florimel that perhaps
it might be well to think by-and-by of returning. But she trusted
everything to Malcolm, who of course would see that everything was as
it ought to be.
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.
“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.”
It was nearly four o’clock, but she rarely looked at her watch, and
indeed wound it up only now and then.
“Will you go below and have some lunch, my lady?” said Malcolm.
“There can’t be anything on board!” she answered.
“Come and see, my lady,” rejoined Malcolm, and led the way to the
companion.
When she saw the little cabin, she gave a cry of delight.
“Why, it is just like our own cabin in the Psyche,” she said, “only
smaller! Is it not, Malcolm?”
“It is smaller, my lady,” returned Malcolm, “but then there is a little
state-room beyond.”
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.
“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?”
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.
Florimel finished her meal, and set about examining the cabin more
closely. The result was bewilderment. How could a yacht, fitted with
such completeness, such luxury, be lying for hire in the Thames? As for
the crest on the plate, that was a curious coincidence: many people had
the same crest. But both materials and colours were like those of the
Pysche! Then the pretty bindings on the book-shelves attracted her:
every book was either one she knew or one of which Malcolm had spoken
to her! He must have had a hand in the business! Next she opened the
door of the state-room; but when she saw the lovely little white berth,
and the indications of every comfort belonging to a lady’s chamber,
she could keep her pleasure to herself no longer. She hastened to the
companion-way, and called Malcolm.
“What does it all mean?” she said, her eyes and cheeks glowing with
delight.
“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.”
“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.
“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?”
She fancied she had given orders to return, and that the boat had been
put about.
“A good many hours, my lady,” answered Malcolm.
“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.”
“Not one of them, my lady,” said Malcolm.
She lifted her head sharply, but took no farther notice of his remark.
“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.”
“Why, indeed?” said Malcolm; and a pause followed, during which
Florimel stood apparently thinking, but in reality growing sleepy.
“I will lie down a little,” she said, “with one of those lovely books.”
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.
When she awoke, it was some time before she could think where she was.
A strange ghostly light was about her, in which she could see nothing
plain; but the motion helped her to understand. She rose, and crept
to the companion ladder, and up on deck. Wonder upon wonder! A clear
full moon reigned high in the heavens, and below there was nothing
but water, gleaming with her molten face, or rushing past the boat
lead-coloured, gray, and white. Here and there a vessel --a snow-cloud
of sails--would glide between them and the moon, and turn black from
truck to water-line. The mast of the Psyche had shot up to its full
height; the reef-points of the main-sail were loose, and the gaff was
crowned with its topsail; foresail and jib were full; and she was
flying as if her soul thirsted within her after infinite spaces. Yet
what more could she want? All around her was wave rushing upon wave,
and above her blue heaven and regnant moon. Florimel gave a great sigh
of delight.
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.
She looked around her. No one was to be seen but Davie, who was
steering. The main-sail hid the men, and Rose, having been on deck for
two or three hours, was again below. She turned to Davy. But the boy
had been schooled, and only answered,
“I maunna say naething sae lang ’s I’m steerin’, mem.”
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.
“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?”
Malcolm was glad of a question he was prepared to answer.
“They are in their own stalls by this time, my lady. I took care of
that.”
“Then it was all a trick to carry me off against my will!” she cried,
with growing indignation.
“Hardly against your will, my lady,” said Malcolm, embarrassed and
thoughtful, in a tone deprecating and apologetic.
“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.”
Between anger and annoyance she was on the point of crying.
“It’s not so bad as that, my lady.--Here, Rose!”
At his word, Rose appeared.
“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.”
Florimel gave her a look.
“I don’t remember you,” she said.
“No, my lady. I was in the kitchen.”
“Then you can’t be of much use to me.”
“A willing heart goes a long way, my lady,” said Rose, prettily.
“That is fine,” returned Florimel, rather pleased. “Can you get me some
tea?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Florimel turned, and, much to Malcolm’s content vouchsafing him not a
word more, went below.
Presently a little silver lamp appeared in the roof of the cabin, and
in a few minutes Davy came, carrying the tea-tray, and followed by Rose
with the teapot. As soon as they were alone, Florimel began to question
Rose; but the girl soon satisfied her that she knew little or nothing.
When Florimel pressed her how she could go she knew not where at the
desire of a fellow-servant, she gave such confused and apparently
contradictory answers, that Florimel began to think ill of both her and
Malcolm, and to feel more uncomfortable and indignant; and the more she
dwelt upon Malcolm’s presumption, and speculated as to his possible
design in it, she grew the angrier.
She went again on deck. By this time she was in a passion--little
mollified by the sense of her helplessness.
“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?”
“To Lossie House, my lady.”
“Indeed!” she returned with scornful and contemptuous surprise. “Then I
order you to change your course at once and return to London.”
“I cannot, my lady.”
“_Cannot!_ Whose orders but mine are you under, pray?”
“Your father’s, my lady.”
“I have heard more than enough of that unfortunate--statement, and the
measureless assumptions founded on it. I shall heed it no longer.”
“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.”
“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?”
Malcolm was silent.
“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.”
“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.”
“I ask you,” said Florimel, “why you have dared to bring me away like
this. Nothing but some danger threatening me could justify it.”
“There you say it, my lady.”
“And what is the danger, pray?”
“You were going on the continent with Lady Bellair and Lord Liftore
--and without me to do as I had promised.”
“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?”
“In your company, my lady.”
“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?”
“That Lady Bellair is not respected in any circle where her history is
known; and that her nephew is a scoundrel.”
“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.
“If your father knew Lord Liftore as I do, he would be the last man my
lord marquis would see in your company.”
“Because he gave you a beating, you have no right to slander him,” said
Florimel spitefully.
Malcolm laughed. He must either laugh or be angry.
“May I ask how your ladyship came to hear of that?”
“He told me himself,” she answered.
“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.”
“And, if there be a lie, which of the two is more likely to tell it?”
“That question is for you, my lady, to answer.”
“I never knew a servant who would not tell a lie,” said Florimel.
“I was brought up a fisherman,” said Malcolm.
“And,” Florimel went on, “I have heard my father say no gentleman ever
told a lie.”
“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----”
“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!”
“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?”
Florimel turned away, and gave her seeming attention to the moonlit
waters, sweeping past the swift-sailing cutter. Malcolm’s heart ached
for her: he thought she was deeply troubled. But she was not half so
shocked as he imagined. Infinitely worse would have been the shock
to him could he have seen how little the charge against Liftore had
touched her. Alas! evil communications had already in no small degree
corrupted her good manners. Lady Bellair had uttered no bad words in
her hearing: had softened to decency every story that required it;
had not unfrequently tacked a worldly-wise moral to the end of one;
and yet, and yet, such had been the tone of her telling, such the
allotment of laughter and lamentation, such the acceptance of things as
necessary, and such the repudiation of things as Quixotic, puritanical,
impossible, that the girl’s natural notions of the lovely and the clean
had got dismally shaken and confused. Happily it was as yet more her
judgment than her heart that was perverted. But had she spoken out
what was in her thoughts as she looked over the great wallowing water,
she would have merely said that for all that Liftore was no worse
than other men. They were all the same. It was very unpleasant; but
how could a lady help it? If men would behave so, were by nature like
that, women must not make themselves miserable about it. They need ask
no questions. They were not supposed to be acquainted with the least
fragment of the facts, and they must cleave to their ignorance, and
lay what blame there might be on the women concerned. The thing was
too indecent even to think about. Ostrich-like they must hide their
heads--close their eyes and take the vice in their arms--to love,
honour, and obey, as if it were virtue’s self, and men as pure as their
demands on their wives.
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.
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.
“Oh, my lady!” said Malcolm, “what it would be to have a soul as big
and as clean as all this!”
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.