“It’s a sair thing to be misjeedged,” said Malcolm to himself as he put the demoness in her stall; “but it’s no more than the Macker o’ ’s pits up wi’ ilka hoor o’ the day, an’ says na a word. Eh, but God’s unco quaiet! Sae lang as he kens till himsel’ ’at he’s a’ richt, he lats fowk think ’at they like—till he has time to lat them ken better. Lord, mak clean my hert within me, an’ syne I’ll care little for ony jeedgement but thine.”
CHAPTER XXV.
THE PSYCHE.
It was a lovely day, but Florimel would not ride: Malcolm must go at once to Mr Lenorme; she would not go out again until she could have a choice of horses to follow her.
“Your Kelpie is all very well in Richmond Park, and I wish I were able to ride her myself, Malcolm, but she will never do in London.”
His name sounded sweet on her lips, but somehow to-day, for the first time since he saw her first, he felt a strange sense of superiority in his protection of her: could it be because he had that morning looked unto a higher orb of creation? It mattered little to Malcolm’s generous nature that the voice that issued therefrom had been one of unjust rebuke.
“Who knows, my lady,” he answered his mistress, “but you may ride her some day! Give her a bit of sugar every time you see her— on your hand, so that she may take it with her lips, and not catch your fingers.”
“You shall show me how,” said Florimel, and gave him a note for Mr Lenorme.
When he came in sight of the river, there, almost opposite the painter’s house, lay his own little yacht! He thought of Kelpie in the stable, saw Psyche floating like a swan in the reach, made two or three long strides, then sought to exhale the pride of life in thanksgiving.
The moment his arrival was announced to Lenorme, he came down and went with him, and in an hour or two they had found very much the sort of horse they wanted. Malcolm took him home for trial, and Florimel was pleased with him. The earl’s opinion was not to be had, for he had hurt his shoulder when he fell from the rearing Kelpie the day before, and was confined to his room in Curzon Street.
In the evening Malcolm put on his yachter’s uniform, and set out again for Chelsea. There he took a boat, and crossed the river to the yacht, which lay near the other side, in charge of an old salt whose acquaintance Blue Peter had made when lying below the bridges. On board he found all tidy and ship-shape. He dived into the cabin, lighted a candle, and made some measurements: all the little luxuries of the nest, carpets, cushions, curtains, and other things, were at Lossie House, having been removed when the Psyche was laid up for the winter: he was going to replace them. And he was anxious to see whether he could not fulfil a desire he had once heard Florimel express to her father—that she had a bed on board, and could sleep there. He found it possible, and had soon contrived a berth: even a tiny stateroom was within the limits of construction.