Part 79 (1/2)
It was now getting towards morning, and at last he was tired. He went to bed and fell asleep. When he woke, it was late, and as he dressed, he heard the noise of hoofs and wheels in the stable yard.
He was sitting at breakfast in Mrs Courthope's room, when she came in full of surprise at the sudden departure of her lord and lady.
The marquis had rung for his man, and Lady Florimel for her maid, as soon as it was light; orders were sent at once to the stable; four horses were put to the travelling carriage; and they were gone, Mrs Courthope could not tell whither.
Dreary as was the house without Florimel, things had turned out a shade or two better than Malcolm had expected, and he braced himself to endure his loss.
CHAPTER LVII: THE LAIRD'S QUEST
Things were going pretty well with the laird: Phemy and he drew.
yet closer to each other, and as he became yet more peaceful in her company, his thoughts flowed more freely, and his utterance grew less embarra.s.sed; until at length, in talking with her, his speech was rarely broken with even a slight impediment, and a stranger might have overheard a long conversation between them without coming to any more disparaging conclusion in regard to him than that the hunchback was peculiar in mind as well as in body. But his nocturnal excursions continuing to cause her apprehension, and his representations of the delights to be gathered from Nature while she slept, at the same time alluring her greatly, Phemy had become, both for her own pleasure and his protection, anxious in these also to be his companion.
With a vital recognition of law, and great loyalty to any utterance of either parent, she had yet been brought up in an atmosphere of such liberty, that except a thing were expressly so conditioned, or in itself appeared questionable, she never dreamed of asking permission to do it; and, accustomed as she had been to go with the laird everywhere, and to be out with him early and late, her conscience never suggested the possibility of any objection to her getting up at twelve, instead of four or five, to accompany him.
It was some time, however, before the laird himself would consent; and then he would not unfrequently interpose with limitations, especially, if the night were not mild and dry, sending her always home again to bed. The mutual rule and obedience between them was something at once strange and lovely.
At midnight Phemy would enter the shop, and grope her way until she stood under the trapdoor. This was the nearest she could come to the laird's chamber, for he had not only declined having the ladder stand there for his use, but had drawn a solemn promise from the carpenter that at night it should always be left slung up to the joists. For himself he had made a rope ladder, which he could lower from beneath when he required it, invariably drew up after him, and never used for coming down.
One night Phemy made her customary signal by knocking against the trapdoor with a long slip of wood: it opened, and, as usual, the body of the laird appeared, hung for a moment in the square gap, like a huge spider, by its two hands, one on each side, then dropped straight to the floor, when, without a word, he hastened forth, and Phemy followed.
The night was very still--and rather dark, for it was cloudy about the horizon, and there was no moon. Hand in hand the two made for the sh.o.r.e--here very rocky--a succession of promontories with little coves between. Down into one of these they went by a winding path, and stood at the lip of the sea. A violet dimness, or, rather, a semi-transparent darkness, hung over it, through which came now and then a gleam, where the slow heave of some Triton shoulder caught a s.h.i.+ne of the sky; a hush also, as of sleep, hung over it, which not to break, the wavelets of the rising tide carefully stilled their noises; and the dimness and the hush seemed one. They sat down on a rock that rose but a foot or two from the sand and for some moments listened in silence to the inarticulate story of the night. At length the laird turned to Phemy, and taking one of her hands in both of his, very solemnly said, as if breaking to her his life's trouble, ”Phemy, I dinna ken whaur I cam frae.”
”Hoot, laird! ye ken weel eneuch ye cam frae Go-od,” answered Phemy, lengthening out the word with solemn utterance.
The laird did not reply, and again the night closed around them, and the sea hushed at their hearts. But a soft light air began to breathe from the south, and it waked the laird to more active thought.
”Gien he wad but come oot an' shaw himsel'!” he said. ”What for disna he come oot?”
”Wha wad ye hae come oot?” asked Phemy.
”Ye ken wha, weel eneuch. They say he 's a' gait at ance: jist hearken. What for will he aye bide in, an' never come oot an' lat a puir body see him?”
The speech was broken into pauses, filled by the hush rather than noise of the tide, and the odour-like wandering of the soft air in the convolutions of their ears.
”The lown win' maun be his breath--sae quaiet!--He 's no hurryin' himsel' the nicht.--There 's never naebody rins efter him.--Eh, Phemy! I jist thoucht he was gauin' to speyk!”
This last exclamation he uttered in a whisper, as the louder gush of a larger tide pulse died away on the sh.o.r.e.
”Luik, Phemy, luik!” he resumed. ”Luik oot yonner! Dinna ye see something 'at micht grow to something?”
His eyes were fixed on a faint spot of steely blue, out on the sea, not far from the horizon. It was hard to account for, with such a sky overheard, wherein was no lighter part to be seen that might be reflected in the water below; but neither of the beholders was troubled about its cause: there it glimmered on in the dimness of the wide night--a cold, faint splash of blue grey.
”I dinna think muckle o' that, sir,” said Phemy.
”It micht be the mark o' the sole o' his fut, though,” returned the laird. ”He micht hae fist setten 't doon, an' the watter hae lowed (flamed) up aboot it, an' the low no be willin' to gang oot!
Luik sharp, Phemy; there may come anither at the neist stride-- anither fut mark. Luik ye that gait an' I'll luik this.--What for willna he come oot? The lift maun be fu' o' 'im, an' I 'm hungert for a sicht o' 'im. Gien ye see ony thing, Phemy, cry oot.”
”What will I cry?” asked Phemy.
”Cry 'Father o' lichts!'” answered the laird.
”Will he hear to that--div ye think, sir?”