MID-OCEAN.
There came a breath of something in the east. It was neither wind nor
warmth. It was light before it is light to the eyes of men. Slowly
and slowly it grew, until, like the dawning soul in the face of one
who lies in a faint, the life of light came back to the world, and at
last the whole huge hollow hemisphere of rushing sea and cloud-flecked
sky lay like a great empty heart, waiting, in conscious glory of the
light, for the central glory, the coming lord of day. And in the whole
crystalline hollow, gleaming and flowing with delight, yet waiting for
more, the Psyche was the only lonely life-bearing thing--the one cloudy
germ-spot afloat in the bosom of the great roc-egg of sea and sky,
whose sheltering nest was the universe with its walls of flame.
Florimel woke, rose, went on deck, and for a moment was fresh born. It
was a fore-scent--even this could not be called a foretaste, of the
kingdom of heaven; but Florimel never thought of the kingdom of heaven,
the ideal of her own existence. She could however half appreciate this
earthly outbreak of its glory, this incarnation of truth invisible.
Round her, like a thousand doves, clamoured with greeting wings the
joyous sea-wind. Up came a thousand dancing billows, to shout their
good morning. Like a petted animal, importunate for play, the breeze
tossed her hair and dragged at her fluttering garments, then rushed
in the Psyche’s sails, swelled them yet deeper, and sent her dancing
over the dancers. The sun peered up like a mother waking and looking
out on her frolicking children. Black shadows fell from sail to sail,
slipping and shifting, and one long shadow of the Psyche herself
shot over the world to the very gates of the west, but held her not,
for she danced and leaned and flew as if she had but just begun her
corantolavolta fresh with the morning, and had not been dancing all the
livelong night over the same floor. Lively as any new-born butterfly,
not like a butterfly’s, flitting and hovering, was her flight, for
still, like one that longed, she sped and strained and flew. The joy
of bare life swelled in Florimel’s bosom. She looked up, she looked
around, she breathed deep. The cloudy anger that had rushed upon her
like a watching tiger the moment she waked, fell back, and left her
soul a clear mirror to reflect God’s dream of a world. She turned, and
saw Malcolm at the tiller, and the cloudy wrath sprang upon her. He
stood composed and clear and cool as the morning, without sign of doubt
or conscience of wrong, now peeping into the binnacle, now glancing
at the sunny sails, where swayed across and back the dark shadows of
the rigging, as the cutter leaned and rose, like a child running and
staggering over the multitudinous and unstable hillocks. She turned
from him.
“Good morning, my lady! What a good morning it is!” As in all his
address to his mistress, the freedom of the words did not infect the
tone; that was resonant of essential honour. “Strange to think,” he
went on, “that the sun himself there is only a great fire, and knows
nothing about it! There must be a sun to that sun, or the whole thing
is a vain show. There must be one to whom each is itself, yet the all
makes a whole--one who is at once both centre and circumference to all.”
Florimel cast on him a scornful look. For not merely was he talking his
usual unintelligible rubbish of poetry, but he had the impertinence to
speak as if he had done nothing amiss, and she had no ground for being
offended with him. She made him no answer. A cloud came over Malcolm’s
face; and until she went again below, he gave his attention to his
steering.
In the meantime Rose, who happily had turned out as good a sailor as
her new mistress, had tidied the little cabin; and Florimel found, if
not quite such a sumptuous breakfast laid as at Portland Place, yet a
far better appetite than usual to meet what there was; and when she had
finished, her temper was better, and she was inclined to think less
indignantly of Malcolm’s share in causing her so great a pleasure. She
was not yet quite spoiled. She was still such a lover of the visible
world and of personal freedom, that the thought of returning to London
and its leaden-footed hours, would now have been unendurable. At this
moment she could have imagined no better thing than thus to go tearing
through the water--home to her home. For although she had spent little
of her life at Lossie House, she could not but prefer it unspeakably to
the schools in which she had passed almost the whole of the preceding
portion of it. There was little or nothing in the affair she could have
wished otherwise except its origin. She was mischievous enough to enjoy
even the thought of the consternation it would cause at Portland Place.
She did not realize all its awkwardness. A letter to Lady Bellair when
she reached home would, she said to herself, set everything right;
and if Malcolm had now repented and put about, she would instantly
have ordered him to hold on for Lossie. But it was mortifying that she
should have come at the will of Malcolm, and not by her own--worse than
mortifying that perhaps she would have to say so. If she were going to
say so, she must turn him away as soon as she arrived. There was no
help for it. She dared not keep him after that in the face of society.
But she might take the bold, and perhaps a little dangerous measure of
adopting the flight as altogether her own madcap idea. Her thoughts
went floundering in the bog of expediency, until she was tired, and
declined from thought to reverie.
Then dawning out of the dreamland of her past, appeared the image of
Lenorme. Pure pleasure, glorious delight, such as she now felt, could
not long possess her mind, without raising in its charmed circle the
vision of the only man except her father whom she had ever--something
like loved. Her behaviour to him had not yet roused in her shame or
sorrow or sense of wrong. She had driven him from her; she was ashamed
of her relation to him; she had caused him bitter suffering; she had
all but promised to marry another man; yet she had not the slightest
wish for that man’s company there and then: with no one of her
acquaintance but Lenorme could she have shared this conscious splendour
of life.
“Would to God he had been born a gentleman instead of a painter!” she
said to herself when her imagination had brought him from the past, and
set him in the midst of the present.
“Rank,” she said, “I am above caring about. In that he might be ever so
far my inferior, and welcome, if only he had been of a good family, a
gentleman born!”
She was generosity, magnanimity itself in her own eyes! Yet he was of
far better family than she knew, for she had never taken the trouble to
inquire into his history. And now she was so much easier in her mind
since she had so cruelly broken with him, that she felt positively
virtuous because she had done it, and he was not at that moment by her
side. And yet if he had that moment stepped from behind the main-sail,
she would in all probability have thrown herself into his arms.
The day passed on: Florimel grew tired and went to sleep; woke and had
her dinner; took a volume of the “Arabian Nights,” and read herself
again to sleep; woke again; went on deck; saw the sun growing weary
in the west. And still the unwearied wind blew, and still the Psyche
danced on, as unwearied as the wind.
The sun-set was rather an assumption than a decease, a reception of him
out of their sight into an eternity of gold and crimson; and when he
was gone, and the gorgeous bliss had withered into a dove-hued grief,
then the cool, soft twilight, thoughtful of the past and its love,
crept out of the western caves over the breast of the water, and filled
the dome and made of itself a great lens royal, through which the stars
and their motions were visible; and the ghost of Aurora with both
hands lifted her shroud above her head and made a dawn for the moon on
the verge of the watery horizon-- a dawn as of the past, the hour of
inverted hope.
Not a word all day had been uttered between Malcolm and his mistress:
when the moon appeared, with the waves sweeping up against her face, he
approached Florimel where she sat in the stern. Davy was steering.
“Will your ladyship come forward and see how the Psyche goes?” he said.
“At the stern, you can see only the passive part of her motion. It is
quite another thing to see the will of her at work in the bows.”
At first she was going to refuse; but she changed her mind, or her mind
changed her: she was not much more of a living and acting creature yet
than the Psyche herself. She said nothing, but rose, and permitted
Malcolm to help her forward.
It was the moon’s turn now to be level with the water, and as Florimel
stood on the larboard side, leaning over and gazing down, she saw her
shine through the little feather of spray the cutwater sent curling up
before it, and turn it into pearls and semiopals.
“She’s got a bone in her mouth, you see, my lady,” said old Travers.
“Go aft till I call you, Travers,” said Malcolm.
Rose was in Florimel’s cabin, and they were now quite alone.
“My lady,” said Malcolm, “I can’t bear to have you angry with me.”
“Then you ought not to deserve it,” returned Florimel.
“My lady, if you knew all, you would not say I deserved it.”
“Tell me all then, and let me judge.”
“I cannot tell you all yet, but I will tell you something which may
perhaps incline you to feel merciful. Did your ladyship ever think what
could make me so much attached to your father?”
“No indeed. I never saw anything peculiar in it. Even now-a-days there
are servants to be found who love their masters. It seems to me natural
enough. Besides he was very kind to you.”
“It was natural indeed, my lady--more natural than you think. Kind to
me he was, and that was natural too.”
“Natural to him, no doubt, for he was kind to everybody.”
“My grandfather told you something of my early history--did he not, my
lady?”
“Yes--at least I think I remember his doing so.”
“Will you recall it, and see whether it suggests nothing?”
But Florimel could remember nothing in particular, she said. She had in
truth, for as much as she was interested at the time, forgotten almost
everything of the story.
“I really cannot think what you mean,” she added. “If you are going to
be mysterious, I shall resume my place by the tiller. Travers is deaf,
and Davy is dumb: I prefer either.”
“My lady,” said Malcolm, “your father knew my mother, and persuaded her
that he loved her.”
Florimel drew herself up, and would have looked him to ashes if wrath
could burn. Malcolm saw he must come to the point at once or the parley
would cease.
“My lady,” he said, “your father was my father too. I am a son of the
Marquis of Lossie, and your brother--your ladyship’s half-brother, that
is.”
She looked a little stunned. The gleam died out of her eyes, and the
glow out of her cheek. She turned and leaned over the bulwark. He said
no more, but stood watching her. She raised herself suddenly, looked at
him, and said,
“Do I understand you?”
“I am your brother,” Malcolm repeated.
She made a step forward, and held out her hand. He took the little
thing in his great grasp tenderly. Her lip trembled. She gazed at him
for an instant, full in the face, with a womanly, believing expression.
“My poor Malcolm!” she said, “I am sorry for you.”
She withdrew her hand, and again leaned over the bulwark. Her heart was
softened towards her groom-brother, and for a moment it seemed to her
that some wrong had been done. Why should the one be a marchioness and
the other a groom? Then came the thought that now all was explained.
Every peculiarity of the young man, every gift extraordinary of body,
mind, or spirit, his strength, his beauty, his courage, and honesty,
his simplicity, nobleness, and affection, yes, even what in _him_ was
mere doggedness and presumption, all, everything explained itself to
Florimel in the fact that the incomprehensible fisherman-groom, that
talked like a parson, was the son of her father. She never thought of
the woman that was his mother, and what share she might happen to have
in the phenomenon --thought only of her father, and a little pitifully
of the half-honour and more than half-disgrace infolding the very
existence of her attendant. As usual her thoughts were confused. The
one moment the poor fellow seemed to exist only on sufferance, having
no right to be there at all, for as fine a fellow as he was; the next
she thought how immeasurably he was indebted to the family of the
Colonsays. Then arose the remembrance of his arrogance and presumption
in assuming on such a ground something more than guardianship--
absolute tyranny over her, and with the thought pride and injury at
once got the upper hand. Was _she_ to be dictated to by a low-born,
low-bred fellow like that--a fellow whose hands were harder than any
leather, not with doing things for his amusement but actually with
earning his daily bread--one that used to smell so of fish --on the
ground of right too--and such a right as ought to exclude him for ever
from her presence!--She turned to him again.
“How long have you known this--this--painful--indeed I must confess to
finding it an awkward and embarrassing fact? I presume you _do_ know
it?” she said, coldly and searchingly.
“My father confessed it on his death-bed.”
“Confessed!” echoed Florimel’s pride, but she restrained her tongue.
“It explains much,” she said, with a sort of judicial relief.
“There has been a great change upon you since then. Mind I only say
_explains_. It could never justify such behaviour as yours-- no, not if
you had been my true brother. There is some excuse, I daresay, to be
made for your ignorance and inexperience. No doubt the discovery turned
your head. Still I am at a loss to understand how you could imagine
that sort of--of--that sort of thing gave you any right over me!”
“Love has its rights, my lady,” said Malcolm.
Again her eyes flashed and her cheek flushed. “I cannot permit you to
talk so to me. You must not fancy such things are looked upon in our
position with the same indifference as in yours. You must not flatter
yourself that you can be allowed to cherish the same feelings towards
me as if--as if--you were really my brother. I am sorry for you,
Malcolm, as I said already; but you have altogether missed your mark if
you think that can alter facts, or shelter you from the consequences of
presumption.”
Again she turned away. Malcolm’s heart was sore for her. How grievously
she had sunk from the Lady Florimel of the old days! It was all from
being so constantly with that wretched woman and her vile nephew. Had
he been able to foresee such a rapid declension, he would have taken
her away long ago, and let come of her feelings what might. He had been
too careful over them.
“Indeed,” Florimel resumed, but this time without turning towards
him, “I do not see how things can possibly, after what you have told
me, remain as they are. I should not feel at all comfortable in
having one about me who would be constantly supposing he had rights,
and reflecting on my father for fancied injustice, and whom I fear
nothing could prevent from taking liberties. It is very awkward
indeed, Malcolm--very awkward! But it is your own fault that you are
so changed, and I must say I should not have expected it of you. I
should have thought you had more good sense and regard for me. If I
were to tell the world why I wanted to keep you, people would but shrug
their shoulders and tell me to get rid of you; and if I said nothing,
there would always be something coming up that required explanation.
Besides, you would for ever be trying to convert me to one or other
of your foolish notions. I hardly know what to do. I will consult--my
friends on the subject. And yet I would rather they knew nothing of it.
My father you see----” She paused. “If you had been my real brother it
would have been different.”
“I _am_ your real brother, my lady, and I have tried to behave like one
ever since I knew it.”
“Yes; you have been troublesome. I have always understood that brothers
were troublesome. I am told they are given to taking upon them the
charge of their sisters’ conduct. But I would not have even you think
me heartless. If you had been a _real_ brother, of course I should have
treated you differently.”
“I don’t doubt it, my lady, for everything would have been different
then. I should have been the Marquis of Lossie, and you would have been
Lady Florimel Colonsay. But it would have made little difference in one
thing: I could not have loved you better than I do now-- if only you
would believe it, my lady!”
The emotion of Malcolm, evident in his voice as he said this, seemed to
touch her a little.
“I believe it, my poor Malcolm,” she returned, “quite as much as I
want, or as it is pleasant to believe it. I think you would do a great
deal for me, Malcolm. But then you are so rude! take things into your
hands, and do things for me I don’t want done! You _will_ judge, not
only for yourself, but for me! How _can_ a man of your training and
position judge for a lady of mine! Don’t you see the absurdity of it?
At times it has been very awkward indeed. Perhaps when I am married
it might be arranged; but I don’t know.” Here Malcolm ground his
teeth, but was otherwise irresponsive as block of stone. “How would a
gamekeeper’s place suit you? That is a half-gentlemanly kind of post. I
will speak to the factor, and see what can be done.--But on the whole I
_think_, Malcolm, it will be better you should go. I am _very_ sorry.
I wish you had not told me. It is very painful to me. You _should_ not
have told me. These things are not intended to be talked of.--Suppose
you were to marry--say----”
She stopped abruptly, and it was well both for herself and Malcolm that
she caught back the name that was on her lips.
The poor girl must not be judged as if she had been more than a girl,
or other than one with every disadvantage of evil training. Had she
been four or five years older, she might have been a good deal worse,
and have seemed better, for she would have kept much of what she had
now said to herself, and would perhaps have treated her brother more
kindly while she cared even less for him.
“What will you do with Kelpie, my lady?” asked Malcolm quietly.
“There it is, you see!” she returned. “So awkward! If you had not told
me, things could have gone on as before, and for your sake I could have
pretended I came this voyage of my own will and pleasure. Now, I don’t
know what I can do--except indeed you--let me see --if you were to hold
your tongue, and tell nobody what you have just told me--I don’t know
but you might stay till you got her so far trained that another man
could manage her. I might even be able to ride her myself.--Will you
promise?”
“I will promise not to let the fact come out so long as I am in your
service, my lady.”
“After all that has passed, I think you might promise me a little more!
But I will not press it.”
“May I ask what it is, my lady?”
“I am not going to press it, for I do not choose to make a favour
of it. Still, I do not see that it would be such a mighty favour to
ask--of one who owes respect at least to the house of Lossie. But I
will not ask. I will only _suggest_, Malcolm, that you should leave
this part of the country--say this country altogether, and go to
America, or New South Wales, or the Cape of Good Hope. If you will take
the hint, and promise never to speak a word of this unfortunate--yes,
I must be honest, and allow there is a _sort_ of relationship between
us; but if you will keep it secret, I will take care that something is
done for you--something, I mean, more than you could have any right to
expect. And mind, I am not asking you to conceal anything that could
reflect honour upon you or dishonour upon us.”
“I cannot, my lady.”
“I scarcely thought you would. Only you hold such grand ideas about
self-denial, that I thought it might be agreeable to you to have an
opportunity of exercising the virtue at a small expense and a great
advantage.”
Malcolm was miserable. Who could have dreamed to find in her such a
woman of the world! He must break off the hopeless interview.
“Then, my lady,” he said, “I suppose I am to give my chief attention to
Kelpie, and things are to be as they have been.”
“For the present. And as to this last piece of presumption, I will so
far forgive you as to take the proceeding on myself--mainly because
it would have been my very choice had you submitted it to me. There
is nothing I should have preferred to a sea-voyage and returning to
Lossie at this time of the year. But you also must be silent on your
insufferable share in the business. And for the other matter, the least
arrogance or assumption I shall consider to absolve me at once from
all obligation towards you of any sort. Such relationships are _never_
acknowledged.”
“Thank you--sister,” said Malcolm--a last forlorn experiment; and as he
said the word he looked lovingly in her eyes.
She drew herself up like the princess Lucifera, “with loftie eyes,
halfe loth to looke so lowe,” and said, cold as ice,
“If once I hear that word on your lips again, as between you and me,
Malcolm, I shall that very moment discharge you from my service, as for
a misdemeanour. You have _no_ claim upon me, and the world will not
blame me.”
“Certainly not, my lady. I beg your pardon. But there is one who
perhaps will blame you a little.”
“I know what you mean; but I don’t pretend to any of your religious
motives. When I do, then you may bring them to bear upon me.”
“I was not so foolish as you think me, my lady. I merely imagined you
might be as far on as a Chinaman,” said Malcolm, with a poor attempt at
a smile.
“What insolence do you intend now?”
“The Chinese, my lady, pay the highest respect to their departed
parents. When I said there was one who would blame you a little, I
meant your father.”
He touched his cap, and withdrew.
“Send Rose to me,” Florimel called after him, and presently with her
went down to the cabin.
And still the Psyche soul-like flew. Her earthly birth held her to the
earth, but the ocean upbore her, and the breath of God drove her on.
Little thought Florimel to what she hurried her! A queen in her own
self-sufficiency and condescension, she could not suspect how little
of real queendom, noble and self-sustaining, there was in her being;
for not a soul of man or woman whose every atom leans not upon its
father-fact in God, can sustain itself when the outer wall of things
begins to tumble towards the centre, crushing it in on every side.
During the voyage no further allusion was made by either to what had
passed. By the next morning Florimel had yet again recovered her
temper, and, nothing fresh occurring to irritate her, kept it and was
kind.
Malcolm was only too glad to accept whatever parings of heart she might
offer. By the time their flight was over, Florimel almost felt as if it
had indeed been undertaken at her own desire and motion, and was quite
prepared to assert that such was the fact.