Doom Castle

by Neil Munro

  CHAPTER XXIV -- A BROKEN TRYST

  The Chamberlain's quarters were in the eastern turret, and there he wentso soon as he could leave his Grace, who quickly forgot the Frenchmanand his story, practising upon Simon the speech he had prepared in hisevening walk, alternated with praise extravagant--youthfully rapturousalmost--of his duchess, who might, from all his chafing at her absence,have been that night at the other end of the world, instead of merely inthe next county on a few days' visit.

  "Ah! you are smiling, Sim!" said he. "Old whinstone! You fancy Argyllan imbecile of uxoriousness. Well, well, my friend, you are at liberty;Lord knows, it's not a common disease among dukes! Eh, Sim? Butthen women like my Jean are not common either or marriages were lessfashions. Upon my word, I could saddle Jock and ride this very nightto Luss, just to have the fun of throwing pebbles at her window in themorning, and see her wonder and pleasure at finding me there. Do youknow what, cousin? I am going to give a ball when she comes home. We'llhave just the neighbours, and I'll ask M. Soi-disant, who'll give usthe very latest step. I like the fellow's voice, it rings thesterling metal.... And now, my lords, this action on the part of theGovernment.... Oh, the devil fly away with politics! I must go to alonely bed!" And off set Mac-Cailen Mor, the noble, the august, the manof silk and steel, whom 'twas Simon MacTaggart's one steadfast ambitionin life to resemble even in a remote degree.

  And then we have the Chamberlain in his turret room, envious of thatblissful married man, and warmed to a sympathetic glow with Oliviafloating through the images that rose before him.

  He drew the curtains of his window and looked in that direction whereDoom, of course, was not for material eyes, finding a vague pleasure inbuilding up the picture of the recluse tower, dark upon its promontory.It was ten o'clock. It had been arranged at their last meeting thatwithout the usual signal he should go to her to-night before twelve.Already his heart beat quickly; his face was warm and tingling withpleasant excitation, he felt a good man.

  "By God!" he cried. "If it was not for the old glaur! What for doesheaven--or hell--send the worst of its temptations to the young andignorant? If I had met her twenty years ago! Twenty years ago! H'm!'Clack!' goes the weaver's shuttle! Twenty years ago it was her mother,and Sim MacTaggart without a hair on his face trying to kiss the goodlady of Doom, and her, perhaps na' half unwilling. I'm glad--I'm glad."

  He put on a pair of spurs, his fingers trembling as those of a laddressing for his first ball, and the girl a fairy in white, with herneck pink and soft and her eyes shy like little fawns in the wood.

  "And how near I was to missing it!" he thought. "But for the schemingof a fool I would never have seen her. It's not too late, thank the Lordfor that! No more of yon for Sim MacTaggart. I've cut with the last ofit, and now my face is to the stars."

  His hands were spotless white, but he poured some water in a basinand washed them carefully, shrugging his shoulders with a momentarycomprehension of how laughable must that sacrament be in the eyes ofthe worldly Sim MacTaggart. He splashed the water on his lips, drew on acloak, blew out the light, and went softly downstairs and out at a sidedoor for which he had a pass-key. The night was still, except for themelancholy sound of the river running over its cascades and echoingunder the two bridges; odours of decaying leaves surrounded him, and theair of the night touched him on his hot face like a benediction. A heavydew clogged the grass of Cairnbaan as he made for the stables, where aman stood out in the yard waiting with a black horse saddled. Without aword he mounted and rode, the hoofs thudding dull on the grass. He leftbehind him the castle, quite dark and looming in its nest below thesentinel hill; he turned the bay; the town revealed a light or two;a bird screamed on the ebb shore. Something of all he saw and heardtouched a fine man in his cloak, touched a decent love in him; his heartwas full with wholesome joyous ichor; and he sang softly to the creakingsaddle, sang an air of good and clean old Gaelic sentiment that hauntedhis lips until he came opposite the very walls of Doom.

  He fastened his horse to a young hazel and crossed the sandy intervalbetween the mainland and the rock, sea-wrack bladders bursting under hisfeet, and the smells of seaweed dominant over the odours of the winterwood. The tower was pitch dark. He went into the bower, sat on therotten seat among the damp bedraggled strands of climbing flowers, andtook his flageolet from his pocket.

  He played softly, breathing in the instrument the very pang of love.It might have been a psalm and this forsaken dew-drenched bower a greatcathedral, so rapt, so devoted, his spirit as he sought to utter thevery deepest ecstasy. Into the reed he poured remembrance and regret;the gathered nights of riot and folly lived and sorrowed for; the idealscherished and surrendered; the remorseful sinner, the awakened soul.

  No one paid any heed in Castle Doom.

  That struck him suddenly with wonder, as he ceased his playing for amoment and looked through the broken trellis to see the building blackbelow the starry sky. There ought, at least, to be a light in the windowof Olivia's room. She had made the tryst herself, and never before hadshe failed to keep it. Perhaps she had not heard him. And so to hisflageolet again, finding a consolation in the sweetness of his ownperformance.

  "Ah!" said he to himself, pausing to admire--"Ah! there's no doubt Ifinger it decently well--better than most--better than any I've heard,and what's the wonder at that? for it's all in what you feel, and themost of people are made of green wood. There's no green timber here; I'mcursed if I'm not the very ancient stuff of fiddles!"

  He had never felt happier in all his life. The past?--he wiped that offhis recollection as with a sponge; now he was a new man with his feetout of the mire and a clean road all the rest of the way, with a cleansweet soul for his companion. He loved her to his very heart of hearts;he had, honestly, for her but the rendered passion of passion--why! whatkept her?

  He rammed the flageolet impatiently into his waistcoat, threw back hiscloak, and stepped out into the garden. Doom Castle rose over him black,high and low, without a glimmer. A terrific apprehension took possessionof him. He raised his head and gave the signal call, so natural that itdrew an answer almost like an echo from an actual bird far off in somethicket at Achnatra. And oh! felicity; here she was at last!

  The bolts of the door slid back softly; the door opened; a little figurecame out. Forward swept the lover, all impatient fires--to find himselfbefore Mungo Boyd!

  He caught him by the collar of his coat as if he would shake him.

  "What game is this? what game is this?" he furiously demanded. "Where isshe?"

  "Canny, man, canny!" said the little servitor, releasing himself withdifficulty from the grasp of this impetuous lover. "Faith! it's anitherwarnin' this no' to parley at nicht wi' onything less than twa or threeinch o' oak dale atween ye and herm."

  "Cut clavers and tell me what ails your mistress!"

  "Oh, weel; she hisna come oot the nicht," said Mungo, waving his arms tobring the whole neighbourhood as witness of the obvious fact.

  The Chamberlain thrust at his chest and nearly threw him over.

  "Ye dull-witted Lowland brock!" said he; "have I no' the use of my owneyes? Give me another word but what I want and I'll slash ye smallerthan ye are already with my Ferrara."

  "Oh, I'm no' that wee!" said Mungo. "If ye wad jist bide cool--"

  "'Cool' quo' he! Man! I'm up to the neck in fire. Where is she?"

  "Whaur ony decent lass should be at this 'oor o' the nicht--in her nakedbed."

  "Say that again, you foul-mouthed dog o' Fife, and I'll gralloch youlike a deer!" cried the Chamberlain, his face tingling.

  "Losh! the body's cracked," said Mungo Boyd, astounded at this nicety.

  "I was to meet her to-night; does she know I'm here?"

  "I rapped at her door mysel' to mak' sure she did."

  "And what said she?"

  "She tauld me to gae awa'. I said it was you, and she said it didnamaitter."

  "Didna maitter!" repeated the Chamberlain, viciously, mimicking theeastland accent. "What a
ils her?"

  "Ye ought to ken that best yoursel'. It was the last thing I daur askher," said Mungo Boyd, preparing to retreat, but his precaution was notcalled for, he had stunned his man.

  The Chamberlain drew his cloak about him, cold with a contemptuousrebuff. His mouth parched; violent emotions wrought in him, but herecovered in a moment, and did his best to hide his sense of ignominy.

  "Oh, well!" said he, "it's a woman's way, Mungo."

  "You'll likely ken," said Mungo; "I've had sma' troke wi' them mysel'."

  "Lucky man! And now that I mind right, I think it was not to-night I wasto come, after all; I must have made a mistake. If you have a chancein the morn's morning you can tell her I wasted a tune or two o' theflageolet on a wheen stars. It is a pleasant thing in stars, Mungo, thatye aye ken where to find them when ye want them!"

  He left the rock, and took to horse again, and home. All throughthe dark ride he fervently cursed Count Victor, a prey of an idioticjealousy.