Miss Horn gave Malcolm a wink, as much as to say, “Let the old man talk. It will hurt no Campbell,” and showed him out with much attention. And then at last Malcolm poured forth his whole story, and his heart with it, to Miss Horn, who heard and received it with understanding, and a sympathy which grew ever as she listened. At length she declared herself perfectly satisfied, for not only had he done his best, but she did not see what else he could have done. She hoped, however, that now he would contrive to get this part over as quickly as possible, for which, in the morning, she would, she said, show him cogent reasons.
“I ha’e no feelin’s mysel’, as ye weel ken, laddie,” she remarked in conclusion, “an’ I doobt, gien I had been i’ your place, I wadna hae luikit to a’ sides o’ the thing at ance as ye hae dune.— An’ it was a man like you ’at sae near lost yer life for the hizzy!” she exclaimed. “I maunna think aboot it, or I winna sleep a wink. But we maun get that deevil Catanach (an’ cat eneuch!) hangt. Weel, my man, ye may haud up yer heid afore the father o’ ye, for ye’re the first o’ the race, I’m thinkin’, ’at ever was near-han’ deein’ for anither. But mak ye a speedy en’ till ’t noo, laad, an’ fa’ to the lave o’ yer wark. There’s a terrible heap to be dune. But I maun haud my tongue the nicht, for I wad fain ye had a guid sleep, an’ I’m needin’ ane sair mysel’, for I’m no sae yoong as I ance was, an’ I ha’e been that anxious aboot ye, Ma’colm, ’at though I never hed ony feelin’s, yet, noo ’at a’ ’s gaein’ richt, an’ ye’re a’ richt, and like to be richt for ever mair, my heid’s jist like to split. Gang yer wa’s to yer bed, and soon may ye sleep. It’s the bed yer bonny mither got a soon’ sleep in at last, and muckle was she i’ the need o’ ’t! An’ jist tak tent the morn what ye say whan Jean’s i’ the room, or maybe o’ the ither side o’ the door, for she’s no mowse. I dinna ken what gars me keep the jaud. I believe ’at gien the verra deevil himsel’ had been wi’ me sae lang, I wadna ha’e the hert to turn him aboot his ill business. That’s what comes o’ haein’ no feelin’s. Ither fowk wad ha’e gotten rid o’ her half a score years sin’ syne.”
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE TRENCH.
Malcolm had not yet, after all the health-giving of the voyage, entirely recovered from the effects of the ill-compounded potion. Indeed, sometimes the fear crossed his mind that never would he be the same man again, that the slow furnace of the grave alone would destroy the vile deposit left in his house of life. Hence it came that he was weary, and overslept himself the next day—but it was no great matter; he had yet time enough. He swallowed his breakfast as a working man alone can, and set out for Duff Harbour. At Leith, where they had put in for provisions, he had posted a letter to Mr Soutar, directing him to have Kelpie brought on to his own town, whence he would fetch her himself. The distance was about ten miles, the hour eight, and he was a good enough walker, although boats and horses had combined to prevent him, he confessed, from getting over-fond of Shanks’ mare. To men who delight in the motions of a horse under them, the legs of a man are a tame, dull means of progression, although they too have their superiorities; and one of the disciplines of this world is to have to get out of the saddle and walk afoot. He who can do so with perfect serenity, must very nearly have learned with St Paul in whatsoever state he is therein to be content. It was the loveliest of mornings, however, to be abroad in upon any terms, and Malcolm hardly needed the resources of one who knew both how to be abased and how to abound —enviable perfection—-for the enjoyment of even a long walk. Heaven and earth were just settling to the work of the day after their morning prayer, and the whole face of things yet wore something of that look of expectation which one who mingled the vision of the poet with the faith of the Christian might well imagine to be their upward look of hope after a night of groaning and travailing —the earnest gaze of the creature waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God; and for himself, though the hardest thing was yet to come, there was a satisfaction in finding himself almost up to his last fence, with the heavy ploughed land through which he had been floundering nearly all behind him—which figure means that he had almost made up his mind what to do.
When he reached the Duff Arms, he walked straight into the yard, where the first thing he saw was a stable boy in the air, hanging on to a twitch on the nose of the rearing Kelpie. In another instant he would have been killed or maimed for life, and Kelpie loose, and scouring the streets of Duff Harbour. When she heard Malcolm’s voice and the sound of his running feet, she stopped as if to listen. He flung the boy aside and caught her halter. Once or twice more she reared, in the vain hope of so ridding herself of the pain that clung to her lip and nose, nor did she, through the mist of her anger and suffering, quite recognize her master in his yacht uniform. But the torture decreasing, she grew able to scent his presence, welcomed him with her usual glad whinny, and allowed him to do with her as he would.
Having fed her, found Mr Soutar, and arranged several matters with him, he set out for home.
That was a ride! Kelpie was mad with life. Every available field he jumped her into, and she tore its element of space at least to shreds with her spurning hoofs. But the distance was not great enough to quiet her before they got to hard turnpike and young plantations. He would have entered at the grand gate, but found no one at the lodge, for the factor, to save a little, had dismissed the old keeper. He had therefore to go on, and through the town, where, to the awe-stricken eyes of the population peeping from doors and windows, it seemed as if the terrible horse would carry him right over the roofs of the fisher-cottages below, and out to sea.
“Eh, but he’s a terrible cratur that Ma’colm MacPhail!” said the old wives to each other, for they felt there must be something wicked in him to ride like that. But he turned her aside from the steep hill, and passed along the street that led to the town-gate of the House.—Whom should he see, as he turned into it, but Mrs Catanach!—standing on her own doorstep, opposite the descent to the Seaton, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking far out over the water through the green smoke of the village below. As long as he could remember her, it had been her wont to gaze thus; though what she could at such times be looking for, except it were the devil in person, he found it hard to conjecture.
At the sound of his approach she turned; and such an expression crossed her face in a momentary flash ere she disappeared in the house, as added considerably to his knowledge of fallen humanity. Before he reached her door she was out again, tying on a clean white apron as she came, and smiling like a dark pool in sunshine. She dropped him a low courtesy, and looked as if she had been occupying her house for months of his absence. But Malcolm would not meet even cunning with its own weapons, and therefore turned away his head, and took no notice of her. She ground her teeth with the fury of hate, and swore that she would yet disappoint him of his purpose, whatever it were, in this masquerade of service. Her heart being scarcely of the calibre to comprehend one like Malcolm’s, her theories for the interpretation of the mystery were somewhat wild, and altogether of a character unfit to see the light.
The keeper of the town-gate greeted Malcolm, as he let him in, with a pleased old face and words of welcome; but added instantly, as if it was no time for the indulgence of friendship, that it was a terrible business going on at the Nose.