“Well . . . I suppose I should have used a different tone,” she conceded, though reluctantly, appearing to do so only to please her grandfather. “That should be enough pink ones, don’t you think?” She dropped the shears on the table and skitted to the door. “Luncheon should be ready soon, Grandpa, so don’t be too long.”
She was out the door and gone before he could even reply.
Dorey sighed heavily. “Dear Lord,” he prayed softly, “don’t let her go that way—his way. Draw her to you early in her life, my Father, so that she may have that many more years to enjoy your love. She needs you so. Help her to realize her need . . .”
As he passed, he thought of a young man so many, many years ago, and what it had taken for him to acknowledge his need for God. The thought made him wince in pain for Allison. But the dread was even greater when he recalled James Duncan’s terrible glint in his dear Ali’s eyes.
“Do whatever you must, Father.” They were hard words to say. And perhaps would have been impossible if he did not know he was saying them to a loving and merciful God.
26
The Stable
Logan gripped the cane and took a few tentative steps. He looked up and smiled at Joanna who was watching encouragingly.
“I should think it’ll be taking my full weight in no time,” he said, holding out his left foot.
“Don’t rush it, Logan.”
“I’m anxious to start work,” he replied. And in his own context, the words were truthfully spoken.
“Believe me, we are anxious to have you, but the doctor did say that if the muscles have been damaged, another injury could recur more easily.”
“I’ll be careful.”
It was now the third day since the “accident,” and he at last had official permission to be up and about. The doctor had dropped by with the cane yesterday, just after his visitors had left, and fortunately discovered Logan lying in bed. After resisting the idea at first, Logan then decided that the cane would be a nice touch. It lent him rather a distinguished air, and even a bit of sympathy that might work to his advantage later. The old recurring injury ploy might play into his hands at some future time, who could tell? He recalled a crony in London who had his shoulder shattered during the Great War. He was as fit as anyone until he wanted to impress a lady or dodge a bill collector. Then, how he could favor that shoulder—it was masterful!
All Logan wanted right now, though, was to get some fresh air and exercise. Being waited on in this kingly room had been splendid for a while. But he couldn’t take another day of it.
“Would it be in order for me to have a look around my new work area?” he asked.
“By all means,” replied Joanna. “I’ll accompany you if you like.”
“You’re too kind. But I can manage, and I’m certain you have other responsibilities.”
“At least let me help you down the stairs. It might be a little tricky with that cane.”
Logan simply smiled, and set off with her slowly down the corridor.
In five minutes they had reached the rear exit nearest the stable. There Joanna left him, pointing the way, and Logan limped—careful to continue favoring his left foot, though he could see no one watching him—the rest of the way alone.
The front section of the huge stone structure had been walled off to serve as a garage and workshop of sorts. He swung open the wooden doors, large enough to admit a vehicle—motor cars and farm machinery now, but in days past coaches and wagons must have passed through them. In the foreground was a large, open room, very old, with a floor of compressed dirt and cobwebby open-beamed walls and ceiling. Scattered randomly about were the machines of farm labor—some old and rusted, others still in use. A broken-down wooden wagon against one wall must have been fifty or more years old. He recognized a primitive threshing machine from a picture he had seen; it looked as if it might still be in working order. Several plows were on the floor, and a couple of other attachments whose purpose he did not know. Neither the Austin nor the tractor was present, but the room was large enough to hold them both. In the near corner to his right, the modern era clearly predominated with the presence of tools and equipment obviously intended for working on motorized engines. An old tire leaned against the wall; a rusted-out fender and containers of oil and diesel stood nearby. This must have been Innes’s niche, thought Logan. He had a friend who ran a small automobile garage, and it looked just like that corner.
As Logan made his way into the depths of the room, the years seemed to slowly turn back the farther he went. A stone fire pit with an ancient bellows overhead spoke of times past when a blacksmith worked with the groom to shoe horses or mend a wagon wheel. Logan wandered toward it and reached out for the wooden lever which opened and closed the bellows. It was tight with age, but he managed to force some air through it, raising a small cloud of ash dust in the fire pit.
Suddenly it dawned on him that his uncle Digory must have worked in this place, walked in day after day just as he had done, even stood on this very spot, possibly maneuvering the bellows for a muscular blacksmith who stood over a roaring fire hammering useful shapes out of crude iron.
He looked around the enclosure. Now it was no more iron shoes and iron-rimmed wooden wheels, but rubber tires and inanimate machines. No more horses and oxen and hand-driven plows, but automobiles and tractors and the mechanisms of a modern age. An involuntary twinge of sadness pricked Logan’s heart with the thought. He had never considered it before, but there was something appealing about the ancient methods, something melancholy about witnessing their passing.
He took a deep breath, as if searching for the faint, lingering smells of a time now past. Then with one final glance about him and an involuntary sigh, he continued deeper into the building, arriving at length to a wall which ran from floor to ceiling. It appeared to be of relatively recent date, erected some two-thirds of the way from one end of the structure to the other, no doubt to section off the modern garage from the originally purposed stables, for which there was an ever-dwindling need.
He pushed open the door in the middle of the wall and stepped inside.
The snort of a horse startled him, but then all was quiet again except for the shuffling feet of several animals. He seemed to have taken still another step backward in time, for here were the more traditional surroundings of agrarian life. No doubt this was the place where his uncle had spent most of his time. Flies buzzed about, the fragrance of sweet-smelling hay mingled with the odor of horseflesh filled the air, and an occasional snort from the equine residents broke the stillness. How many worlds apart this was from the life Logan knew on the streets of London! Yet the spell that had come over him while standing at the bellows deepened. There was something vital and elemental in the air about him. Again he sucked in a deep draught of air, but this time it filled him with an intense pleasure rather than sadness. There was a quality of earthiness here, something wholesome, something basic, something invigorating—as if here, and nowhere else, one might discover the very foundation-stone of life. Here there was quiet. Here there was peace. Here one might actually shut out the world and settle into a calmness of spirit unknown on the busy streets and fast-paced thoroughfares of life.
He thought of the stately grandeur of the castle he had just left, which stood not a hundred yards away. Though the people occupying it might seem rather docile, the castle itself emanated a severe, even harsh sense of authority. There it stood, cold, immovable, unfeeling—a sentinel to times past, a reminder of turbulent and violent times in Scottish history. What had Lady Margaret quoted? “Child of loud-throated war . . . !” All the crystal and satins and velvets could not hide the grim undercurrent of stormy and self-motivated violence that had characterized so many eras of Scotland’s past, giving birth to the many castles such as this one.
Yet in the midst of that formidable tower of unbending might, surviving alongside it, stood this stable—a soothing, protective element against the grimness of the castle itself. With t
he thought, Logan was reminded of the words Lady Margaret had spoken at dinner that first evening.
“I spent many hours in Digory’s stable,” she had said. “I loved horses, but perhaps even more I loved the peace and respite it offered me.” Digory had been her only real friend, she had said, and she had longed for his world to be hers. But always she had been compelled to return to the sobering realities of life within the castle.
“But surely your family must have cheered the place somewhat?” Logan had asked.
At that moment a subtle change had momentarily come over her—that darkening of her eyes and faltering of the conversation. She had quickly shaken off whatever the spell had been, and curious though he had been, Logan had felt restrained from pursuing any further.
Now here he was in Digory’s world, that place which the young girl had shared with him and longed to be more a part of. Did the man himself somehow embody the very qualities of the place? The peacefulness and serenity and calm? Why had Lady Margaret as a child sought out his uncle?
Musing over these thoughts, Logan strolled past the stalls where the horses were kept. Many were empty now, a further reminder that the estate was not what it once had been; but there were five or six fine specimens: two grand bays, a black mare with three white socks, and a trim chestnut he knew must be a thoroughbred. He began to move on, then stopped at the chestnut’s stall and reached in to rub her silky nose. She whinnied and stamped her hoof.
“I’d bet you’d turn a pretty penny at Epsom,” Logan said aloud.
“We’ve only raced her locally,” came a voice behind him.
Startled, Logan turned sharply. “Lady Margaret . . . good afternoon.”
“I’m sorry to have startled you.”
“I must have been too absorbed to hear you coming.”
“You have an eye for good horseflesh.”
“I’ve spent some time at the racetrack.” He patted the mare again. “What’s her showing been?”
Before replying, she held out an open hand to the animal, revealing two lumps of sugar. The chestnut lapped them greedily and stamped her foot again. “She came off quite well,” Lady Margaret continued, “a national champion. But I’m afraid the racing circuit is rather strenuous on both beasts and owners. Last year we decided to breed her instead. Come here.”
Glowing with eagerness, she took Logan’s free arm and led him to the next stall. “There’s her foal. A beauty, isn’t he?”
Still only a mangy colt, the animal nevertheless showed in every powerful sinew the evidence of noble breeding. The young stallion was a deep amber color with a pale tan star on his nose.
“He’s magnificent!” said Logan, and the awe in his voice was genuine. “You really ought to race him!”
Margaret laughed with his enthusiasm.
“Why, you should hire someone to take him around. I’d beg for the job myself if I knew anything about horses.”
“He’s already been sold.” She spoke the words sadly, even regretfully. Logan sensed that the animals meant far more to her than a mere business enterprise.
“Did Digory teach you to love horses so?” asked Logan. Had he been able to analyze the change, he would have been surprised to find that the question sprang from a real desire to know the answer rather than as part of his scheme. Subtly, he was being lured into an affinity for this life he had unwittingly become part of.
“Digory emanated such a love for everything that I suppose it was bound to rub off,” replied Lady Margaret. “I had almost forgotten how much he meant to me. Somehow, your coming here brought it all suddenly back. He was the first one to call me Maggie when I was still a child, barely able to walk.”
She paused, the memory clearly an emotional one. Her eyes filled with tears, then she laughed. Logan joined in with her.
“Oh, Logan, I can’t think of him without wanting to weep! It makes me happy and sad at the same time. He was such a good man. He taught me about so much besides horses.”
“How was that?”
“Mostly by his life. He was not a man of many words or great intellect. But he lived what he believed, and I think it shaped me as a child more than anything else in my life. My mother used to scold me, saying it was unseemly for me to spend so much time with a common groom, much less receive instruction from him. Though deep down, she liked Digory too. Everyone did, possibly with the exception of my father, though I think even he bore Digory a kind of respect. Digory couldn’t help what he did. He was not trying to foist anything off on me. Just being around him was a learning experience. Sometimes he didn’t have to say a word. You could see in the way he treated the animals, or in that glowing peace which was always in his eyes, that there was a difference in him not found in the average man. So many in our station of life look down on what they call the common man. But often real commonness lies in those the world counts greater. True nobility is a matter of the heart, Logan. And I can tell you, your uncle Digory was no common man. He was a true aristocrat. When he spoke, every word possessed substance and came from a heart of love.”
“Then he was an educated man?”
“Oh no, by no means,” replied Margaret. “I doubt he ever read a book in his life, except for his Bible, of course. But then, that was the only book he ever needed. From it he gleaned the words of life, and those he imparted to others, especially to me, with more profound and simple wisdom than I’ve heard from many a clergyman.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that,” Logan replied with more than a touch of cynicism.
“Are you a religious man, Logan? . . . I may call you Logan, may I not?”
“Of course. Please do!” Logan said, nodding. “I haven’t been inside a church,” he went on, “since the last time a pompous vicar told me I’d better mend my ways or go to hell. I was fourteen at the time and figured my ways didn’t need mending.”
“And are you still of that mind?” she asked simply. Her tone was benign, almost innocent, but he knew what she was driving at.
“I’m not saying I’m perfect,” he countered defensively, “but I’m no less perfect than anyone else, especially that vicar. What would Digory have said to that?”
“Probably nothing,” replied Lady Margaret.
Logan was noticeably astonished by the answer.
“In all the time I knew him,” she went on, “I never heard him argue morals or theology with anyone. I suppose he understood that you couldn’t get someone to believe or to see the holes in their own values by badgering them to death. Only God, not man, can change a person’s heart.”
“Then what’s the use of sermons and preachers and churches and all that rigmarole?”
“Sometimes very little. But we never know the vehicle God may use in making His changes—it might occasionally even be something as outlandish as a sermon in church.”
As she finished speaking, a small smile crept onto her face and it gradually broadened into a mischievous grin. Logan grinned, too. He hated to admit it, but he liked the old lady’s style. Then she continued, “Tell me, Logan, do you believe in God?”
“Sure,” he answered quickly. Too quickly, for it was in the manner of one who had never really given the question about what belief in God might entail, and still didn’t care to think about it.
“I’m sure that would have pleased Digory,” replied Margaret, not allowing her voice to reveal that she knew perfectly well what was behind Logan’s answer.
They had begun to walk toward the farther end of the stable, and presently came to a steep stairway in the most distant corner. It was in a state of considerable disrepair, and from the dust and cobwebs covering it, Logan surmised that it had not been used in many years. He glanced toward the top, but saw only a closed door.
“That’s where Digory lived,” said Margaret, noting his interest.
“Really?” said Logan, his original scheme suddenly reemerging into prominence in his mind. He studied the stairway again, this time with heightened interest. The steps were narrow and steep, an
d there was no evidence they had ever had a railing. For an old man, he thought, it looks rather unsafe.
“Does that surprise you?”
“I suppose I would have thought that a servant held in such high regard would have warranted something . . . better.”
“It was only I who had any special regard for Digory. Nonetheless, this was where he chose to live. He loved his horses, and no doubt he also loved the sounds and smells of the stable itself, as I did myself. Only I wasn’t fortunate enough to live right here.”
“How long did he work at Stonewycke?”
“All his life,” replied Margaret. “His father was groom here before him. Digory sort of inherited the position.”
“That was all he inherited,” he said wryly, almost to himself, and when he realized what he had said, he immediately regretted it. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
She smiled. “You’re right, though. It doesn’t seem like much for a man who gave his entire life in service to a family—a tiny, drafty room above a stable. No possessions to pass on except an old black Bible. Not much of a fortune, wouldn’t you say?”
Logan’s heart perked up immediately at the word. He glanced up and returned the look in Lady Margaret’s eyes for a moment. Is she baiting me? What could she possibly know? he thought. “A Bible, you say . . . ?” he said at length.
“Yes. I won’t easily forget that,” she replied, glancing again up the stairs. Her voice contained no hint of hidden motive. Gradually Logan relaxed. It must have been nothing, he said to himself. “It was quite worn with use,” she went on, “I remembered once when he became ill, he asked me to read to him from it. I wonder what ever became of it?”
“I believe I may have it,” said Logan. He almost wondered at himself for being so free with the information. Yet what reason could he have to conceal it? And it would only go the worse for him if it was later discovered that he’d said nothing after the Bible had been mentioned.
“You . . . ?” said Margaret.
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