CHAPTER XLIX: THE PHILTRE
Before he again came to himself, Malcolm had a dream, which, although very confused, was in parts more vivid than any he had ever had. His surroundings in it were those in which he actually lay, and he was ill, but he thought it the one illness he had before. His head ached, and he could rest in no position he tried. Suddenly he heard a step he knew better than any other approaching the door of his chamber: it opened, and his grandfather in great agitation entered, not following his hands, however, in the fashion usual to blindness, but carrying himself like any sight gifted man. He went straight to the wash stand, took up the water bottle, and with a look of mingled wrath and horror dashed it on the floor. The same instant a cold shiver ran through the dreamer, and his dream vanished. But instead of waking in his bed, he found himself standing in the middle of the floor, his feet wet, the bottle in shivers about them, and, strangest of all, the neck of the bottle in his hand. He lay down again, grew delirious, and tossed about in the remorseless persecution of centuries. But at length his tormentors left him, and when he came to himself, he knew he was in his right mind.
It was evening, and some one was sitting near his bed. By the light of the long snuffed tallow candle, he saw the glitter of two great black eyes watching him, and recognised the young woman who had admitted him to the house the night of his return, and whom he had since met once or twice as he came and went. The moment she perceived that he was aware of her presence, she threw herself on her knees at his bedside, hid her face, and began to weep. The sympathy of his nature rendered yet more sensitive by weakness and suffering, Malcolm laid his hand on her head, and sought to comfort her.
"Don't be alarmed about me," he said, "I shall soon be all right again."
"I can't bear it," she sobbed. "I can't bear to see you like that, and all my fault."
"Your fault! What can you mean?" said Malcolm.
"But I did go for the doctor, for all it may be the hanging of me," she sobbed. "Miss Caley said I wasn't to, but I would and I did. They can't say I meant it – can they?"
"I don't understand," said Malcolm, feebly.
"The doctor says somebody's been an' p'isoned you," said the girl, with a cry that sounded like a mingled sob and howl; "an' he's been a-pokin' of all sorts of things down your poor throat."
And again she cried aloud in her agony.
"Well, never mind; I'm not dead you see; and I'll take better care of myself after this. Thank you for being so good to me; you've saved my life."
"Ah! you won't be so kind to me when you know all, Mr MacPhail," sobbed the girl. "It was myself gave you the horrid stuff, but God knows I didn't mean to do you no harm no more than your own mother."
"What made you do it then?" asked Malcolm:
"The witch woman told me to. She said that – that – if I gave it you – you would – you would"
She buried her face in the bed, and so stifled a fresh howl of pain and shame.
"And it was all lies – lies!" she resumed, lifting her face again, which now flashed with rage, "for I know you'll hate me worse than ever now."
"My poor girl, I never hated you," said Malcolm.
"No, but you did as bad: you never looked at me. And now you'll hate me out and out. And the doctor says if you die, he'll have it all searched into, and Miss Caley she look at me as if she suspect me of a hand in it; and they won't let alone till they've got me hanged for it; and it's all along of love of you; and I tell you the truth, Mr MacPhail, and you can do anything with me you like – I don't care – only you won't let them hang me – will you? – Oh, please don't."
She said all this with clasped hands, and the tears streaming down her face.
Malcolm's impulse was of course to draw her to him and comfort her, but something warned him.
"Well, you see I'm not going to die just yet," he said as merrily as he could; "and if I find myself going, I shall take care the blame falls on the right person. What was the witch woman like? Sit down on the chair there, and tell me all about her."
She obeyed with a sigh, and gave him such a description as he could not mistake. He asked where she lived, but the girl had never met her anywhere but in the street, she said.
Questioning her very carefully as to Caley's behaviour to her, Malcolm was convinced that she had a hand in the affair. Indeed, she had happily, more to do with it than even Mrs Catanach knew, for she had traversed her treatment to the advantage of Malcolm. The midwife had meant the potion to work slowly, but the lady's maid had added to the pretended philtre a certain ingredient in whose efficacy she had reason to trust; and the combination, while it wrought more rapidly, had yet apparently set up a counteraction favourable to the efforts of the struggling vitality which it stung to an agonised resistance.
But Malcolm's strength was now exhausted. He turned faint, and the girl had the sense to run to the kitchen and get him some soup. As he took it, her demeanour and regards made him anxious, uncomfortable, embarrassed. It is to any true man a hateful thing to repel a woman – it is such a reflection upon her.
"I've told you everything, Mr MacPhail, and it's gospel truth I've told you," said the girl, after a long pause. – It was a relief when first she spoke, but the comfort vanished as she went on, and with slow, perhaps unconscious movements approached him. – "I would have died for you, and here that devil of a woman has been making me kill you! Oh, how I hate her! Now you will never love me a bit – -not one tiny little bit for ever and ever!"
There was a tone of despairful entreaty in her words that touched Malcolm deeply.
"I am more indebted to you than I can speak or you imagine," he said. "You have saved me from my worst enemy. Do not tell any other what you have told me, or let anyone know that we have talked together. The day will come when I shall be able to show you my gratitude."
Something in his tone struck her, even through the folds of her passion. She looked at him a little amazed, and for a moment the tide ebbed. Then came a rush that overmastered her. She flung her hands above her head, and cried,
"That means you will do anything but love me!"
"I cannot love you as you mean," said Malcolm. "I promise to be your friend, but more is out of my power."
A fierce light came into the girl's eyes. But that instant a terrible cry, such as Malcolm had never heard, but which he knew must be Kelpie's, rang through the air, followed by the shouts of men, the tones of fierce execration, and the clash and clang of hoofs.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, and forgetting everything else, sprang from the bed, and ran to the window outside his door.
The light of their lanterns dimly showed a confused crowd in the yard of the mews, and amidst the hellish uproar of their coarse voices he could hear Kelpie plunging and kicking. Again she uttered the same ringing scream. He threw the window open and cried to her that he was coming, but the noise was far too great for his enfeebled voice. Hurriedly he added a garment or two to his half dress, rushed to the stair, passing his new friend, who watched anxiously at the head of it, without seeing her, and shot from the house.
CHAPTER L: THE DEMONESS AT BAY
When he reached the yard of the mews, the uproar had nothing abated. But when he cried out to Kelpie, through it all came a whinny of appeal, instantly followed by a scream. When he got up to the lanterns, he found a group of wrathful men with stable forks surrounding the poor animal, from whom the blood was streaming before and behind. Fierce as she was, she dared not move, but stood trembling, with the sweat of terror pouring from her. Yet her eye showed that not even terror had cowed her. She was but biding her time. Her master's first impulse was to scatter the men right and left, but on second thoughts, of which he was even then capable, he saw that they might have been driven to apparent brutality in defence of their lives, and besides he could not tell what Kelpie might do if suddenly released. So he caught her by the broken halter, and told them to fall back. They did so carefully – it seemed unwillingly. But the mare had eyes and ears only for her master. What she had never done before, she nosed him over face and shoulders, trembling all the time. Suddenly one of her tormentors darted forward, and gave her a terrible prod in the off hind quarter. But he paid dearly for it. Ere he could draw back, she lashed out, and shot him half across the yard with his knee joint broken. The whole set of them rushed at her.
"Leave her alone," shouted Malcolm, "or I will take her part. Between us we'll do for a dozen of you."
"The devil's in her," said one of them.
"You'll find more of him in that rascal groaning yonder. You had better see to him. He'll never do such a thing again, I fancy. Where is Merton?"
They drew off and went to help their comrade, who lay senseless.
When Malcolm would have led Kelpie in, she stopped suddenly at the stable-door, and started back shuddering, as if the memory of what she had endured there overcame her. Every fibre of her trembled. He saw that she must have been pitifully used before she broke loose and got out. But she yielded to his coaxing, and he led her to her stall without difficulty. He wished Lady Clementina herself could have been his witness how she knew her friend and trusted him. Had she seen how the poor bleeding thing rejoiced over him, she could not have doubted that his treatment had been in part at least a success.
Kelpie had many enemies amongst the men of the mews. Merton had gone out for the evening, and they had taken the opportunity of getting into her stable and tormenting her. At length she broke her fastenings; they fled, and she rushed out after them.
They carried the maimed man to the hospital, where his leg was immediately amputated.
Malcolm washed and dried his poor animal, handling her as gently as possible, for she was in a sad plight. It was plain he must not have her here any longer: worse to her at least was sure to follow. He went up, trembling himself now, to Mrs Merton. She told him she was just running to fetch him when he arrived: she had no idea how ill he was. But he felt all the better for the excitement, and after he had taken a cup of strong tea, wrote to Mr Soutar to provide men on whom he could depend, if possible the same who had taken her there before, to await Kelpie's arrival at Aberdeen. There he must also find suitable housing and attention for her at any expense until further directions, or until, more probably, he should claim her himself. He added many instructions to be given as to her treatment.
Until Merton returned he kept watch, then went back to the chamber of his torture, which, like Kelpie, he shuddered to enter. The cook let him in, and gave him his candle, but hardly had he closed his door when a tap came to it, and there stood Rose, his preserver. He could not help feeling embarrassed when he saw her.
"I see you don't trust me," she said.
"I do trust you," he answered. "Will you bring me some water. I dare not drink anything that has been standing."
She looked at him with inquiring eyes, nodded her head, and went. When she returned, he drank the water.
"There! you see I trust you," he said with a laugh. "But there are people about who for certain reasons want to get rid of me: will you be on my side?"
"That I will," she answered eagerly.
"I have not got my plans laid yet; but will you meet me somewhere near this tomorrow night? I shall not be at home, perhaps, all day."
She stared at him with great eyes, but agreed at once, and they appointed time and place. He then bade her good night, and the moment she left him lay down on the bed to think. But he did not trouble himself yet to unravel the plot against him, or determine whether the violence he had suffered had the same origin with the poisoning. Nor was the question merely how to continue to serve his sister without danger to his life; for he had just learned what rendered it absolutely imperative that she should be removed from her present position. Mrs Merton had told him that Lady Lossie was about to accompany Lady Bellair and Lord Liftore to the continent. That must not be, whatever means might be necessary to prevent it. Before he went to sleep things had cleared themselves up considerably.
He woke much better, and rose at his usual hour. Kelpie rejoiced him by affording little other sign of the cruelty she had suffered than the angry twitching of her skin when hand or brush approached a wound. The worst fear was that some few white hairs might by and by in consequence fleck her spotless black. Having urgently committed her to Merton's care, he mounted Honour, and rode to the Aberdeen wharf. There to his relief, time growing precious, he learned that the same smack in which Kelpie had come was to sail the next morning for Aberdeen. He arranged at once for her passage, and, before he left, saw to every contrivance he could think of for her safety and comfort. He warned the crew concerning her temper, but at the same time prejudiced them in her favour by the argument of a few sovereigns. He then rode to the Chelsea Reach, where the Psyche had now grown to be a feature of the river in the eyes of the dwellers upon its banks.
At his whistle, Davy tumbled into the dinghy like a round ball over the gunwale, and was rowing for the shore ere his whistle had ceased ringing in Malcolm's own ears. He left him with his horse, went on board, and gave various directions to Travers; then took Davy with him, and bought many things at different shops, which he ordered to be delivered to Davy when he should call for them. Having next instructed him to get everything on board as soon as possible, and appointed to meet him at the same place and hour he had arranged with Rose, he went home.
A little anxious lest Florimel might have wanted him, for it was now past the hour at which he usually waited her orders, he learned to his relief that she was gone shopping with Lady Bellair, upon which he set out for the hospital, whither they had carried the man Kelpie had so terribly mauled. He went, not merely led by sympathy, but urged by a suspicion also which he desired to verify or remove. On the plea of identification, he was permitted to look at him for a moment, but not to speak to him. It was enough: he recognised him at once as the same whose second attack he had foiled in the Regent's Park. He remembered having seen him about the stable, but had never spoken to him. Giving the nurse a sovereign, and Mr Soutar's address, he requested her to let that gentleman know as soon as it was possible to conjecture the time of his leaving. Returning, he gave Merton a hint to keep his eye on the man, and some money to spend for him as he judged best. He then took Kelpie for an airing. To his surprise she fatigued him so much that when he had put her up again he was glad to go and lie down.
When it came near the time for meeting Rose and Davy, he got his things together in the old carpetbag, which held all he cared for, and carried it with him. As he drew near the spot, he saw Davy already there, keeping a sharp look out on all sides. Presently Rose appeared, but drew back when she saw Davy. Malcolm went to her.
"Rose," he said, "I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. But you cannot except you are able to trust me."
"I do trust you," she answered.
"All I can tell you now is that you must go with that boy tomorrow. Before night you shall know more. Will you do it?"
"I will," answered Rose. "I dearly love a secret."
"I promise to let you understand it, if you do just as I tell you."
"I will."
"Be at this very spot then tomorrow morning, at six o'clock. Come here, Davy. This boy will take you where I shall tell him."
She looked from the one to the other.
"I'll risk it," she said.
"Put on a clean frock, and take a change of linen with you and your dressing things. No harm shall come to you."
"I'm not afraid," she answered, but looked as if she would cry.
"Of course you will not tell anyone."
"I will not, Mr MacPhail."
"You are trusting me a great deal, Rose; but I am trusting you too – more than you think. – Be off with that bag, Davy, and be here at six tomorrow morning, to carry this young woman's for her."
Davy vanished.
"Now, Rose," continued Malcolm, "you had better go and make your preparations."
"Is that all, sir?" she said.
"Yes. I shall see you tomorrow. Be brave."
Something in Malcolm's tone and manner seemed to work strangely on the girl. She gazed up at him half frightened, but submissive, and went at once, looking, however, sadly disappointed.
Malcolm had intended to go and tell Mr Graham of his plans that same night, but he found himself too much exhausted to walk to Camden Town. And thinking over it, he saw that it might be as well if he took the bold measure he contemplated without revealing it to his friend, to whom the knowledge might be the cause of inconvenience. He therefore went home and to bed, that he might be strong for the next day.
CHAPTER LI: THE PSYCHE
He rose early the next morning, and having fed and dressed Kelpie, strapped her blanket behind her saddle, and, by all the macadamized ways he could find, rode her to the wharf – near where the Thames tunnel had just been commenced. He had no great difficulty with her on the way, though it was rather nervous work at times. But of late her submission to her master had been decidedly growing. When he reached the wharf he rode her straight along the gangway on to the deck of the smack, as the easiest if not perhaps the safest way of getting her on board. As soon as she was properly secured, and he had satisfied himself as to the provision they had made for her, impressed upon the captain the necessity of being bountiful to her, and brought a loaf of sugar on board for her use, he left her with a lighter heart than he had had ever since first he fetched her from the same deck.
It was a long way to walk home, but he felt much better, and thought nothing of it. And all the way, to his delight, the wind met him in the face. A steady westerly breeze was blowing. If God makes his angels winds, as the Psalmist says, here was one sent to wait upon him. He reached Portland Place in time to present himself for orders at the usual hour. On these occasions, his mistress not unfrequently saw him herself; but to make sure, he sent up the request that she would speak with him.
"I am sorry to hear that you have been ill, Malcolm," she said kindly, as he entered the room, where happily he found her alone.
"I am quite well now, thank you, my lady," he returned. "I thought your ladyship would like to hear something I happened to come to the knowledge of the other day."
"Yes? What was that?"
"I called at Mr Lenorme's to learn what news there might be of him. The housekeeper let me go up to his painting room; and what should I see there, my lady, but the portrait of my lord marquis more beautiful than ever, the brown smear all gone, and the likeness, to my mind, greater than before!"
"Then Mr Lenorme is come home!" cried Florimel, scarce attempting to conceal the pleasure his report gave her.
"That I cannot say," said Malcolm. "His housekeeper had a letter from him a few days ago from Newcastle. If he is come back, I do not think she knows it. It seems strange, for who would touch one of his pictures but himself? – except, indeed, he got some friend to set it to rights for your ladyship. Anyhow, I thought you would like to see it again."
"I will go at once," Florimel said, rising hastily. "Get the horses, Malcolm, as fast as you can."
"If my Lord Liftore should come before we start?" he suggested.
"Make haste," returned his mistress, impatiently.
Malcolm did make haste, and so did Florimel. What precisely was in her thoughts who shall say, when she could not have told herself? But doubtless the chance of seeing Lenorme urged her more than the desire to see her father's portrait. Within twenty minutes they were riding down Grosvenor Place, and happily heard no following hoofbeats. When they came near the river, Malcolm rode up to her and said,
"Would your ladyship allow me to put up the horses in Mr Lenorme's stable? I think I could show your ladyship a point or two that may have escaped you."
Florimel thought for a moment, and concluded it would be less awkward, would indeed tend rather to her advantage with Lenorme, should he really be there, to have Malcolm with her.
"Very well," she answered. "I see no objection. I will ride round with you to the stable, and we can go in the back way."
They did so. The gardener took the horses, and they went up to the study. Lenorme was not there, and everything was just as when Malcolm was last in the room. Florimel was much disappointed, but Malcolm talked to her about the portrait, and did all he could to bring back vivid the memory of her father. At length with a little sigh she made a movement to go.
"Has your ladyship ever seen the river from the next room?" said Malcolm, and, as he spoke, threw open the door of communication, near which they stood.
Florimel, who was always ready to see, walked straight into the drawing room, and went to a window.
"There is that yacht lying there still!" remarked Malcolm. "Does she not remind you of the Psyche, my lady?"
"Every boat does that," answered his mistress. "I dream about her. But I couldn't tell her from many another."
"People used to boats, my lady, learn to know them like the faces of their friends. – What a day for a sail!"
"Do you suppose that one is for hire?" said Florimel.
"We can ask," replied Malcolm; and with that went to another window, raised the sash, put his head out, and whistled. Over tumbled Davy into the dinghy at the Psyche's stern, unloosed the painter, and was rowing for the shore ere the minute was out.
"Why, they're answering your whistle already!" said Florimel.
"A whistle goes farther, and perhaps is more imperative than any other call," returned Malcolm evasively, "Will your ladyship come down and hear what they say?"
A wave from the slow silting lagoon of her girlhood came washing over the sands between, and Florimel flew merrily down the stair and across ball and garden and road to the riverbank, where was a little wooden stage or landing place, with a few steps, at which the dinghy was just arriving.
"Will you take us on board and show us your boat?" said Malcolm.
"Ay, ay, sir," answered Davy.
Without a moment's hesitation, Florimel took Malcolm's offered hand, and stepped into the boat. Malcolm took the oars, and shot the little tub across the river. When they got alongside the cutter, Travers reached down both his hands for hers, and Malcolm held one of his for her foot, and Florimel sprang on deck.
"Young woman on board, Davy?" whispered Malcolm.
"Ay, ay, sir – doon i' the fore," answered Davy, and Malcolm stood by his mistress.
"She is like the Psyche," said Florimel, turning to him, "only the mast is not so tall."
"Her topmast is struck, you see my lady – to make sure of her passing clear under the bridges."
"Ask them if we couldn't go down the river a little way," said Florimel. "I should so like to see the houses from it!"
Malcolm conferred a moment with Travers and returned.
"They are quite willing, my lady," he said.
"What fun!" cried Florimel, her girlish spirit all at the surface. "How I should like to run away from horrid London altogether, and never hear of it again! – Dear old Lossie House! and the boats! and the fishermen!" she added meditatively.
The anchor was already up, and the yacht drifting with the falling tide. A moment more and she spread a low treble reefed mainsail behind, a little jib before, and the western breeze filled and swelled and made them alive, and with wind and tide she went swiftly down the smooth stream. Florimel clapped her hands with delight. The shores and all their houses fled up the river. They slid past rowboats, and great heavy barges loaded to the lip, with huge red sails and yellow, glowing and gleaming in the hot sun. For one moment the shadow of Vauxhall Bridge gloomed like a death cloud, chill and cavernous, over their heads; then out again they shot into the lovely light and heat of the summer world.
"It's well we ain't got to shoot Putney or Battersea," said Travers with a grim smile, as he stood shaping her course by inches with his magic-like steering, in the midst of a little covey of pleasure boats: "with this wind we might ha' brought either on 'em about our ears like an old barn."
"This is life!" cried Florimel, as the river bore them nearer and nearer to the vortex – deeper and deeper into the tumult of London.
How solemn the silent yet never resting highway! – almost majestic in the stillness of its hurrying might as it rolled heedless past houses and wharfs that crowded its brinks. They darted through under Westminster Bridge, and boats and barges more and more numerous covered the stream. Waterloo Bridge, Blackfriars' Bridge they passed. Sunlight all, and flashing water, and gleaming oars, and gay boats, and endless motion! out of which rose calm, solemn, reposeful, the resting yet hovering dome of St Paul's, with its satellite spires, glittering in the tremulous hot air that swathed in multitudinous ripples the mighty city.
Southwark Bridge – and only London Bridge lay between them and the open river, still widening as it flowed to the aged ocean. Through the centre arch they shot, and lo! a world of masts, waiting to woo with white sails the winds that should bear them across deserts of water to lands of wealth and mystery. Through the labyrinth led the highway of the stream, and downward they still swept – past the Tower, and past the wharf where that morning Malcolm had said goodbye for a time to his four footed subject and friend. The smack's place was empty. With her hugest of sails, she was tearing and flashing away, out of their sight, far down the river before them.
Through dingy dreary Limehouse they sank, and coasted the melancholy, houseless Isle of Dogs; but on all sides were ships and ships, and when they thinned at last, Greenwich rose before them. London and the parks looked unendurable from this more varied life, more plentiful air, and above all more abundant space. The very spirit of freedom seemed to wave his wings about the yacht, fanning full her sails.
Florimel breathed as if she never could have enough of the sweet wind; each breath gave her all the boundless region whence it blew; she gazed as if she would fill her soul with the sparkling gray of the water, the sun melted blue of the sky, and the incredible green of the flat shores. For minutes she would be silent, her parted lips revealing her absorbed delight, then break out in a volley of questions, now addressing Malcolm, now Travers. She tried Davy too, but Davy knew nothing except his duty here. The Thames was like an unknown eternity to the creature of the Wan Water – about which, however, he could have told her a thousand things.
Down and down the river they flew, and