Doom Castle

by Neil Munro

  CHAPTER XIII -- A LAWYER'S GOOD LADY

  The remainder of the night passed without further alarm, but CountVictor lay only on the frontiers of forgetfulness till morning, hissenses all on sentry, and the salt, wind-blown dawn found him abroadbefore the rest of Doom was well awake. He met the calesh of the Lordsgoing back the way it had come with an outrider in a red jacket fromthe stable of Argyll: it passed him on the highway so close that he sawElchies and Kilkerran half sleeping within as they drove away from thescene of their dreadful duties. In a cloak of rough watchet blue he hadborrowed from his host and a hat less conspicuous than that he had comein from Stirling, he passed, to such strangers in the locality, for sometacksman of the countryside, or a traveller like themselves. To haveventured into the town, however, where every one would see he was astranger and speedily inquire into his business there, was, as he hadbeen carefully apprised by Doom the night before, a risk too great tobe run without good reason. Stewart's trial had created in the countrya state of mind that made a stranger's presence there somewhat hazardousfor himself, and all the more so in the case of a foreigner, for,rightly or wrongly, there was associated with the name of the condemnedman as art and part in the murder that of a Highland officer in theservice of the French. There had been rumours, too, of an attemptedrescue on the part of the Stewarts of Ardshiel, Achnacoin, andFasnacloich--all that lusty breed of the ancient train: the very numbersof them said to be on the drove-roads with weapons from the thatch weregiven in the town, and so fervently believed in that the appearance ofa stranger without any plausible account to give of himself would havestirred up tumult.

  Count Victor eluded the more obvious danger of the town, but in hisforenoon ramble stumbled into one almost as great as that he had beeninstructed to avoid. He had gone through the wood of Strongara and comesuddenly upon the cavalcade that bore the doomed man to the scene of hisexecution thirty or forty miles away.

  The wretch had been bound upon a horse--a tall, middle-aged man incoarse home-spun clothing, his eye defiant, but his countenance whitewith the anxieties of his situation. He was surrounded by a troop ofsabres; the horses' hoofs made a great clatter upon the hard road, andCount Victor, walking abstractedly along the river-bank, came on thembefore he was aware of their proximity. As he stood to let them pass hewas touched inexpressibly by the glance the convict gave him, so chargedwas it with question, hope, dread, and the appetite for some humansympathy. He had seen that look before in men condemned--once in frontof his own rapier,--and with the utmost feeling for the unhappy wretchhe stood, when the cavalcade had gone, looking after it and conjuringin his fancy the last terrible scene whereof that creature would be thecentral figure. Thus was he standing when another horseman came uponhim suddenly, following wide in the rear of the troops--a civilian whoshared the surprise of the unexpected meeting. He had no sooner gazedupon Count Victor than he drew up his horse confusedly and seemed tohesitate between proceeding or retreat. Count Victor passed with acourteous salute no less formally returned. He was struck singularly bysome sense of familiarity. He did not know the horseman who so strangelyscrutinised him as he passed, but yet the face was one not altogethernew to him. It was a face scarce friendly, too, and for his life theFrenchman could not think of any reason for aversion.

  He could no more readily have accounted for the action of the horsemanhad he known that he had ridden behind the soldiers but a few hundredyards after meeting with Count Victor when he turned off at one ofthe hunting-roads with which the ducal grounds abounded, and gallopedfuriously back towards the castle of Argyll. Nothing checked him till hereached the entrance, where he flung the reins to a servant and dashedinto the turret-room where the Duke sat writing.

  "Ah, Sim!" said his Grace, airily, yet with an accent of apprehension,"you have come back sooner than I looked for: nothing wrong with thelittle excursion, I hope?"

  MacTaggart leaned with both hands upon the table where his master wrote."They're all right, so far as I went with them," said he; "but if yourGrace in my position came upon a foreigner in the wood of Strongara--agentleman by the looks of him and a Frenchman by his moustachio, allalone and looking after Sergeant Donald's company, what would yourGrace's inference be?"

  Argyll, obviously, did not share much of his Chamberlain's excitement."There was no more than one there?" he asked, sprinkling sand upon hisfinished letter. "No! Then there seems no great excuse for your extremeperturbation, my good Sim. I'm lord of Argyll, but I'm not lord of theking's highway, and if an honest stranger cares to take a freeman'sprivilege and stand between the wind and Simon MacTaggart'sdignity--Simon MacTaggart's very touchy dignity, it would appear--whoam I that I should blame the liberty? You did not ride _ventre a terre_from Strongara (I see a foam-fleck on your breeches) to tell me we hada traveller come to admire our scenery? Come, come, Sim! I'll begin tothink these late eccentricities of yours, these glooms, abstractions,errors, and anxieties and indispositions, and above all that pallidface of yours, are due to some affair of the heart." As he spoke Argyllpinched his kinsman playfully on the ear, quite the good companion,with none of the condescension that a duke might naturally display in sodoing.

  MacTaggart reddened and Argyll laughed, "Ah!" he cried. "Can I have hitit?" he went on, quizzing the Chamberlain. "See that you give me fairwarning, and I'll practise the accustomed and essential reel. Upon mysoul, I haven't danced since Lady Mary left, unless you call it sothat foolish minuet. You should have seen her Grace at St. James's lastmonth. Gad! she footed it like an angel; there's not a better dancer inLondon town. See that your wife's a dancer, whoever she may be, Sim; lether dance and sing and play the harpsichord or the clarsach--they arecharms that will last longer than her good looks, and will not weary youso soon as that intellect that's so much in fashion nowadays, when everywoman listens to every clever thing you say, that she may say somethingcleverer, or perhaps retail it later as her own."

  MacTaggart turned about impatiently, poked with his riding crop at thefire, and plainly indicated that he was not in the mood for badinage.

  "All that has nothing to do with my Frenchman, your Grace," said hebluntly.

  "Oh, confound your Frenchman!" retorted the Duke, coming over, turningup the skirts of his coat, and warming himself at the fire. "Don'tsay Frenchman to me, and don't suggest any more abominable crime andintrigue till the memory of that miserable Appin affair is off my mind.I know what they'll say about that: I have a good notion what they'resaying already--as if I personally had a scrap of animosity to this poorcreature sent to the gibbet on Leven-side."

  "I think you should have this Frenchman arrested for inquiry: I do notlike the look of him."

  Argyll laughed. "Heavens!" he cried, "is the man gane wud? Have youany charge against this unfortunate foreigner who has dared to shelterhimself in my woods? And if you have, do you fancy it is the old feudaltimes with us still, and that I can clap him in my dungeon--if I hadsuch a thing--without any consultation with the common law-officersof the land? Wake up, Sim! wake up! this is '55, and there are sundrywritten laws of the State that unfortunately prevent even the Mac-CailenMor snatching a man from the footpath and hanging him because he hasnot the Gaelic accent and wears his hair in a different fashion from therest of us. Don't be a fool, cousin, don't be a fool!"

  "It's as your Grace likes," said MacTaggart. "But if this man's not inany way concerned in the Appin affair, he may very well be one of theFrench agents who are bargaining for men for the French service, and theone thing's as unlawful as the other by the act of 'thirty-six."

  "H'm!" said Argyll, turning more grave, and shrewdly eyeing hisChamberlain--"H'm! have you any particularly good reason to think that?"He waited for no answer, but went on. "I give it up, MacTaggart," saidhe, with a gesture of impatience. "Gad! I cannot pretend to know halfthe plots you are either in yourself or listening on the outside of,though I get credit, I know, for planning them. All I want to know is,have you any reason to think this part of Scotland--and incidentallythe government of this and
every well-governed realm, as the libelssay--would be bettered by the examination of this man? Eh?"

  MacTaggart protested the need was clamant. "On the look of the man Iwould give him the jougs," said he. "It's spy--"

  "H'm!" said Argyll, then coughed discreetly over a pinch of snuff.

  "Spy or agent," said the Chamberlain, little abashed at theinterjection.

  "And yet a gentleman by the look of him, said Sim MacTaggart, fiveminutes syne."

  "And what's to prevent that?" asked the Chamberlain almost sharply."Your Grace will admit it's nothing to the point," said he, boldly, andsmilingly, standing up, a fine figure of a man, with his head high andhis chest out. "It was the toss of a bawbee whether or not I shouldapprehend him myself when I saw him, and if I had him here your Gracewould be the first to admit my discretion."

  "My Grace is a little more judicious than to treat the casual pedestrianlike a notour thief," said Argyll; "and yet, after all, I dare say thematter may be left to your good judgment--that is, after you have hada word or two on the matter with Petullo, who will better be able toadvise upon the rights to the persons of suspicious characters in ourneighbourhood."

  With never a word more said MacTaggart clapped on his hat, withdrew inan elation studiously concealed from his master, and fared at a canterto Petullo's office in the town. He fastened the reins to the ring atthe door and entered.

  The lawyer sat in a den that smelt most wickedly of mildewed vellum,sealing-wax, tape, and all that trash that smothers the soul of man--theappurtenances of his craft. He sat like a sallow mummy among them,like a half-man made of tailor's patches, flanked by piles of docketedletters and Records closed, bastioned by deed-boxes blazoned withthe indication of their offices--MacGibbon's Mortification, DunderaveEstate, Coil's Trust, and so on; he sat with a shrieking quill amongthese things, and MacTaggart entering to him felt like thanking God thathe had never been compelled to a life like this in a stinking mortuary,with the sun outside on the windows and the clean sea and the singingwood calling in vain. Perhaps some sense of contrast seized the writer,too, as he looked up to see the Chamberlain entering with a pleasant,lively air of wind behind him, and health and vigour in his step,despite the unwonted wanness of his face. At least, in the glancePetullo gave below his shaggy eyebrows, there was a little envy as wellas much cunning. He made a ludicrous attempt at smiling.

  "Ha!" he cried, "Mr. MacTaggart! Glad to see you, Mr. MacTaggart. Sit yedown, Mr. MacTaggart. I was just thinking about you."

  "No ill, I hope," said the Chamberlain, refusing a seat proffered;for anything of the law to him seemed gritty in the touch, and athree-legged stool would, he always felt, be as unpleasant to sit uponas a red-hot griddle.

  "Te-he!" squeaked Petullo with an irritating falsetto. "You must haveyour bit joke, Mr. MacTaggart. Did his Grace--did his Grace--I wasjust wondering if his Grace said anything to-day about my unfortunateaccident with the compote yestreen." He looked more cunningly than everat the Chamberlain.

  "In his Grace's class, Mr. Petullo, and incidentally in my own,nothing's said of a guest's gawkiness, though you might hardly believeit for a reason that I never could make plain to you, though I know itby instinct."

  "Oh! as to gawkiness, an accident of the like might happen to any one,"said Petullo, irritably.

  "And that's true," confessed the Chamberlain. "But, tut! tut! Mr.Petullo, a compote's neither here nor there to the Duke. If you hadspilt two of them it would have made no difference; there was plentyleft. Never mind the dinner, Mr. Petullo, just now, I'm in a haste.There's a Frenchman--"

  "There's a wheen of Frenchmen, seemingly," said the writer, oracularly,taking to the trimming of his nails with a piece of pumice-stone he keptfor the purpose, and used so constantly that they looked like talons.

  "Now, what the devil do you mean?" cried Mac-Taggart.

  "Go on, go on with your business," squeaked Petullo, with an eye upon aninner door that led to his household.

  "I have his Grace's instructions to ask you about the advisabilityof arresting a stranger, seemingly a Frenchman, who is at this momentsuspiciously prowling about the policies."

  "On whatna charge, Mr. MacTaggart, on whatna charge?" asked the writer,taking a confident, even an insolent, tone, now that he was on his ownfamiliar ground. "Rape, arson, forgery, robbery, thigging, sorning,pickery, murder, or high treason?"

  "Clap them all together, Mr. Petullo, and just call it localinconduciveness," cried MacTaggart. "Simply the Duke may not care forhis society. That should be enough for the Fiscal and Long Davie thedempster, shouldn't it?"

  "H'm!" said Petullo. "It's a bit vague, Mr. MacTaggart, and I don'tthink it's mentioned in Forbes's 'Institutes.' Fifteen Campbellassessors and the baron bailie might have sent a man to the Plantationson that dittay ten years ago, but we live in different times, Mr.MacTaggart--different times, Mr. MacTaggart," repeated the writer,tee-heeing till his bent shoulders heaved under his seedy, ink-stainedsurtout coat.

  "Do we?" cried the Chamberlain, with a laugh. "I'm thinking ye forgeta small case we had no further gone than yesterday, when a man withthe unlucky name of Stewart--" He stopped, meaningly smiled, and made agesture with his fingers across his neck, at the same time giving an oddsound with his throat.

  "Oh! You're an awfu' man," cried Petullo, with the accent of a lout. "Iwonder if you're on the same track as myself, for I'm like the Hielan'soldier--I have a Frenchman of my own. There's one, I mean, up by therein Doom, and coming down here to-morrow or the day after, or as soon asI can order a lodging for him in the town."

  "Oh, hell!" cried the secretary, amazingly dumfoundered.

  "There's nothing underhand about him, so far as I know, to give even hisGrace an excuse for confining him, for it seems he's a wine merchant outof Bordeaux, one Montaiglon, come here on business, and stopped atDoom through an attack on his horse by the same Macfarlanes who are ofinterest to us for another reason, as was spoken of at his Grace's tablelast night."

  "And he's coming here?" asked MacTaggart, incredulous.

  "I had a call from the Baron himself to-day to tell me that."

  "Ah, well, there's no more to be said of our suspicions," saidMacTaggart. "Not in this form, at least." And he was preparing to go.

  A skirt rustled within the inner door, and Mrs. Petullo, flushed alittle to her great becoming in spite of a curl-paper or two, and cladin a lilac-coloured negligee of the charmingest, came into the officewith a well-acted start of surprise to find a client there.

  "Oh, good morning! Mr. MacTaggart," she exclaimed, radiantly, while herhusband scowled to himself, as he relapsed into the chair at hisdesk and fumbled with his papers. "Good morning; I hope I have notinterrupted business?"

  "Mr. MacTaggart was just going, my dear," said Mr. Petullo.

  A cracked bell rang within, and the Chamberlain perceived an odour ofcooking celery. Inwardly he cursed his forgetfulness, because it wasplain that the hour for his call upon the writer was ill-chosen.

  "My twelve-hours is unusual sharp to-day," said Petullo, consulting adumpy horologe out of his fob. "Would ye--would ye do me the honourof joining me?" with a tone that left, but not too rudely, immediatedeparture as the Chamberlain's only alternative.

  "Thank you, thank you," said MacTaggart. "I rose late to-day, and mybreakfast's little more than done with." He made for the door, Mrs.Petullo close in his cry and holding his eye, defying so hurried adeparture, while she kept up a chattering about the last night's party.Her husband hesitated, but his hunger (he had the voracious appetiteof such shrivelled atomies) and a wholesome fear of being accused ofjealousy made him withdraw, leaving the office to the pair.

  All MacTaggart's anger rose against madame for her machination. "You sawme from the window," said he; "it's a half-cooked dinner for the goodmanto-day, I'll warrant!"

  She laughed a most intoxicating laugh, all charged with some sweetvelvety charm, put out her hands, and caught his. "Oh, Lord! I wish itwould choke him, Sim," said she, fervently, then
lifted up her mouth anddropped a swooning eyelash over her passionate orbs.

  "Adorable creature," he thought: "she'll have rat-bane in his broth someday." He kissed her with no more fervour than if she had been a woodenfigurehead, but she was not thus to be accepted: she put an arm quicklyround his neck and pressed her passionate lips to his. Back he drewwincing. "Oh, damnation!" he cried.

  "What's the matter?" she exclaimed in wonder, and turned to assureherself that it was not that some one spied from the inner door, forMac-Taggart's face had become exceeding pale.

  "Nothing, nothing," he replied; "you are--you are so ferocious."

  "Am I, Sim?" said she. "Who taught me? Oh, Sim," she went on,pleadingly, "be good to me. I'm sick, I'm _sick_ of life, and you don'tshow you care for me a little bit. Do you love me, Sim?"

  "Heavens!" he cried, "you would ask the question fifty times a-day ifyou had the opportunity."

  "It would need a hundred times a-day to keep up with your changingmoods. Do you love me, Sim?" She was smiling, with the most patheticappeal in her face.

  "You look beautiful in that gown, Kate," said he, irrelevantly, notlooking at it at all, but out at the window, where showed the gabbartstossing in the bay, and the sides of the hill of Dunchuach all splashedwith gold and crimson leafage.

  "Never mind my gown, Sim," said she, stamping her foot, and pulling atthe buttons of his coat. "Once--oh, Sim, do you love me? Tell me,tell me, tell me! Whether you do or not, say it, you used to be such asplendid liar."

  "It was no lie," said he curtly; then to himself: "Oh, Lord, give mepatience with this! and I have brought it on myself."

  "It _was_ no lie. Oh, Sim!" (And still she was turning wary eyes uponthe door that led to her husband's retirement.) "It _was_ no lie; you'releft neither love nor courtesy. Oh, never mind! say you love me, Sim,whether it's true or not: that's what it's come to with me."

  "Of course I do," said he.

  "Of course what?"

  "Of course I love you." He smiled, but at heart he grimaced.

  "I don't believe you," said she, from custom waiting his protestation.But the Duke's Chamberlain was in no mood for protestations. He lookedat her high temples, made bald by the twisted papilottes, and wonderedhow he could have thought that bold shoulder beautiful.

  "I'm in a great hurry, Kate," said he. "Sorry to go, but there's myhorse at the ring to prove the hurry I'm in!"

  "I know, I know; you're always in a hurry now with me: it wasn't alwaysso. Do you hear the brute?" Her husband's squeaky voice querulouslyshouting on a servant came to them from behind.

  The servant immediately after came to the door with an intimation thatMr. Petullo desired to know where the spirit-bottle was.

  "He knows very well," said Mrs. Petullo. "Here is the key--no, I'll takeit to him myself."

  "It's not the drink he wants, but me, the pig," said she as the servantwithdrew. "Kiss me good afternoon, Sim."

  "I wish to God it was good-bye!" thought he, as he smacked her vulgarly,like a clown at a country fair.

  She drew her hand across her mouth, and her eyes flashed indignation.

  "There's something between us, Simon," said she, in an altered tone; "itused not to be like that."

  "Indeed it did not," he thought bitterly, and not for the first timehe missed something in her--some spirit of simplicity, freshness,flower-bloom, and purity that he had sought for, seen in many women, andfound elusive, as the frost finds the bloom of flowers he would begem.

  Her husband shrieked again, and with mute gestures they parted.

  The Chamberlain threw himself upon his horse as 'twere a mortal enemy,dug rowel-deep in the shuddering flesh, and the hoof-beats thundered onthe causey-stones. The beast whinnied in its pain, reared, and backed tothe breast wall of the bay. He lashed it wildly over the eyes with hiswhip, and they galloped up the roadway. A storm of fury possessed him;he saw nothing, heard nothing.