One day, a little after noon, Malcolm stepped from the house. The
morning had broken gray and squally, with frequent sharp showers,
and had grown into a gurly gusty day. Now and then the sun sent
a dim yellow glint through the troubled atmosphere, but it was
straightway swallowed up in the volumes of vapour seething and
tumbling in the upper regions. As he crossed the threshold, there
came a moaning wind from the west, and the water laden branches
of the trees all went bending before it, shaking their burden of
heavy drops on the ground. It was dreary, dreary, outside and in.
He turned and looked at the house. If he might have but one peep
of the goddess far withdrawn! What did he want of her? Nothing
but her favour--something acknowledged between them--some
understanding of accepted worship! Alas it was all weakness, and
the end thereof dismay! It was but the longing of the opium eater
or the drinker for the poison which in delight lays the foundations
of torture. No; he knew where to find food--something that was
neither opium nor strong drink--something that in torture sustained,
and, when its fruition came, would, even in the splendours of
delight, far surpass their short lived boon! He turned towards the
schoolmaster's cottage.
Under the trees, which sighed aloud in the wind, and, like earth
clouds, rained upon him as he passed, across the churchyard, bare
to the gray, hopeless looking sky, through the iron gate he went,
and opened the master's outer door.
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