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CHAPTER XXXVIII: 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.
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