“I understand,” said Malcolm. “It was not a right thing to ask of you. I beg your pardon, my lady, and give you back your promise, if such you count it. But indeed I do not think you promised.”
“Thank you, I would rather be free. Had it been before you left London—. —Lady Lossie is very kind, but does not seem to put the same confidence in me as formerly. She and Lady Bellair and that man make a trio, and I am left outside. I almost think I ought to go. Even Caley is more of a friend than I am. I cannot get rid of the suspicion that something not right is going on. There seems a bad air about the place. Those two are playing their game with the inexperience of that poor child, your mistress.”
“I know that very well, my lady, but I hope yet they will not win,” said Malcolm.
By this time they were near the tunnel.
“Could you let me through to the shore?” asked Clementina.
“Certainly, my lady.—I wish you could see the boats go out. From the Boar’s Tail it is a pretty sight. They will all be starting together as soon as the tide turns.”
Thereupon Clementina began questioning him about the night-fishing, and Malcolm described its pleasures and dangers, and the pleasures of its dangers, in such fashion that Clementina listened with delight. He dwelt especially on the feeling almost of disembodiment, and existence as pure thought, arising from the all-pervading clarity and fluidity, the suspension, and the unceasing motion.
“I wish I could once feel like that,” exclaimed Clementina. “Could I not go with you—for one night—just for once, Malcolm?”
“My lady, it would hardly do, I am afraid. If you knew the discomforts that must assail one unaccustomed—I cannot tell—but I doubt if you would go. All the doors to bliss have their defences of swamps and thorny thickets through which alone they can be gained. You would need to be a fisherman’s sister—or wife, I fear, my lady, to get through to this one.”
Clementina smiled gravely, but did not reply, and Malcolm too was silent, thinking.