Malcolm walked back through the tunnel, his heart
singing and making melody. Oh how lovely, how
more than lovely, how divinely beautiful she was!
And so kind and friendly! Yet she seemed just
the least bit fitful too. Something troubled
her, he said to himself. But he little thought
that he, and no one else, had spoiled the moonlight
for her. He went home to glorious dreams—she
to a troubled half wakeful night. Not until she
had made up her mind to do her utmost to rescue Florimel
from Liftore, even if it gave her to Malcolm, did
she find a moment’s quiet. It was morning
then, but she fell fast asleep, slept late, and woke
refreshed.
CHAPTER LXIII: CONFESSION OF SIN
Mr Crathie was slowly recovering, but still very weak.
He did not, after having turned the corner, get well
so fast as his medical minister judged he ought, and
the reason was plain to Lizzy, dimly perceptible to
his wife: he was ill at ease. A man may have
more mind and more conscience, and more discomfort
in both or either, than his neighbours give him credit
for. They may be in the right about him up to
a certain point in his history, but then a crisis,
by them unperceived, perhaps to them inappreciable,
arrived, after which the man to all eternity could
never be the same as they had known him. Such
a change must appear improbable, and save on the theory
of a higher operative power, is improbable because
impossible. But a man who has not created himself
can never secure himself against the inroad of the
glorious terror of that Goodness which was able to
utter him into being, with all its possible wrongs
and repentances. The fact that a man has never,
up to any point yet, been aware of aught beyond himself,
cannot shut him out who is beyond him, when at last
he means to enter. Not even the soul benumbing
visits of his clerical minister could repress the swell
of the slow mounting dayspring in the soul of the
hard, commonplace, business worshipping man, Hector
Crathie.
The hireling would talk to him kindly enough—of
his illness, or of events of the day, especially those
of the town and neighbourhood, and encourage him with
reiterated expression of the hope that ere many days
they would enjoy a tumbler together as of old, but
as to wrong done, apology to make, forgiveness to
be sought, or consolation to be found, the dumb dog
had not uttered a bark.
The sources of the factor’s restless discomfort
were now two; the first, that he had lifted his hand
to women; the second, the old ground of his quarrel
with Malcolm, brought up by Lizzy.
Copyrights
The Marquis of Lossie from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
