A devilish satisfaction betrayed itself in Macaulay’s face. “I have tasted life,” he said, stretching out his arms, and gloating, as it seemed, upon himself. “I have tasted life, and I would not change with kings! All the clan cries in me, and I am proud, proud! But there is one thing wanting: I will make sure of him this time,” and saying that, he flourished the dirk and made for the door that led to his writing chamber.
His wife gave a cry, and put herself before him. “Oh, Alick!” she said, as calm as she could be, “you are very wet; at least you will first of all put on dry hose and take a dish of tea,” pushing him gently at the same time towards his accustomed chair. He fondled his weapon, and sat in the humour of one who is willing to put off a pleasure that it may be greater by delay. She plucked the cuarains from his feet and put on him hose and slippers, all in a nervous haste, and the slippers were no sooner on his feet than he shook himself, looked with disgust on his drenched tartan, and threw the dirk away.
“My God!” said he; “what cantrip is this?”
“You will have a dish of tea,” said the wife, hurriedly preparing it; and he wriggled his toes in the slippers and sat closer to the fire, cherishing its warmth with that accustomed manner he forgot the day he went astray. Again and again he looked at himself, and, sipping the tea, “What a folly! What a folly!” he would utter. “What put such mischief in my brain? And we were over head and ears with business at the office! I must work night and day if I am to be ready for the rents. Young Macdonald, too! Tut, tut! the thing was fair ridiculous! I’m black affronted. Flora, woman, haste ye and get my breeks!”
The discarded broadcloth was put out; he sheared and shaved himself before the glass till the wild man of the mountain was gone, and emerged the lawyer, then walked into his writing chamber.
“Good evening, Captain,” he said briskly to his client, just as if he had been out for an airing. “This has been a stupid business—a remarkably stupid business. I must crave your pardon. At such an inconvenient time, too! But I hope to make it up some way.”
The Captain could scarcely trust his senses. He had risen to defend himself against the savage, and here was his sober man of business back!
“Well, it has been what might be called a fairly busy summer with us, Mr Macaulay,” said the Captain, at his wits’ end how to meet so curious a penitent. “And I have still got a twinge of your penknife in my breast now and then.”
The factor’s face reddened. “I declare, I’m affronted,” said he. “With a penknife! Tut, tut!—a villainously silly weapon, Captain; and still it might have been a serious enough thing for you. I’m beat to understand it; some lesion of the brain, as the medical jurisprudists say; I would never harm a cat, except durante furore—if—if I deliberated on it. I have little doubt I’m the talk of the country—most annoying, most annoying! I should not wonder if the profession made it the occasion of a complaint against me; and if it come to that, sir, I hope I may look for your support?”
He took up his penknife again—it still lay on his desk—and the Captain stood back from him abruptly, but he need not have done so, for the lawyer was only going to sharp his pen, as benign and proper a man as ever charged a fee. His client did not know whether to laugh or storm. He felt like to laugh at the ludicrousness of the way Macaulay had returned to his senses; he felt anger with the unaccountable spirit which made the offender more perturbed about the figure he must henceforth cut in public than that he should for a summer have played the part of robber, and wellnigh been a murderer too. But the good humour of Kilree prevailed, and he laughed—a demonstration that but visibly increased Macaulay’s chagrin.