Supper followed, at which his lordship sat next to
Lizzy, and partook of dried skate and mustard, bread
and cheese, and beer. Every man helped himself.
Lord Meikleham and a few others were accommodated
with knives and forks, but the most were independent
of such artificial aids. Whisky came next, and
Lord Meikleham being already, like many of the young
men of his time, somewhat fond of strong drink, was
not content with such sipping as Lizzy honoured his
glass withal.
At length it was time, according to age long custom,
to undress the bride and bridegroom and put them to
bed—the bride’s stocking, last ceremony
of all, being thrown amongst the company, as by its
first contact prophetic of the person to be next married.
Neither Lizzy nor Lord Meikleham, however, had any
chance of being thus distinguished, for they were
absent and unmissed.
As soon as all was over, Malcolm set out to return
home. As he passed Joseph Mair’s cottage,
he found Phemy waiting for him at the door, still
in the mild splendour of her pearl-like necklace.
“I tellt the laird what ye tellt me to tell
him, Malcolm,” she said.
“An’ what did he say, Phemy?” asked
Malcolm.
“He said he kent ye was a freen’.”
“Was that a’?”
“Ay; that was a’.”
“Weel, ye’re a guid lassie.”
“Ow! middlin’,” answered the little
maiden.
Malcolm took his way along the top of the cliffs,
pausing now and then to look around him. The
crescent moon had gone down, leaving a starlit night,
in which the sea lay softly moaning at the foot of
the broken crags. The sense of infinitude which
comes to the soul when it is in harmony with the peace
of nature, arose and spread itself abroad in Malcolm’s
being, and he felt with the Galilaeans of old, when
they forsook their nets and followed him who called
them, that catching fish was not the end of his being,
although it was the work his hands had found to do.
The stillness was all the sweeter for its contrast
with the merriment he had left behind him, and a single
breath of wind, like the waft from a passing wind,
kissed his forehead tenderly, as if to seal the truth
of his meditations.
In the course of a fortnight, Lord Meikleham and his
aunt, the bold faced countess, had gone, and the marquis,
probably finding it a little duller in consequence,
began to pay visits in the neighbourhood. Now
and then he would be absent for a week or two—at
Bog o’ Gight, or Huntly Lodge, or Frendraught,
or Balvenie, and although Lady Florimel had not much
of his society, she missed him at meals, and felt
the place grown dreary from his being nowhere within
its bounds.
On his return from one of his longer absences, he
began to talk to her about a governess; but, though
in a playful way, she rebelled utterly at the first
mention of such an incubus. She had plenty of
material for study, she said, in the library, and plenty
of amusement in wandering about with the sullen Demon,
who was her constant companion during his absences;
and if he did force a governess upon her, she would
certainly murder the woman, if only for the sake of
bringing him into trouble. Her easygoing father
was amused, laughed, and said nothing more on the
subject at the time.
