Читать книгу Morag the Seal - J W Brodie Innes - Страница 5

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AFTER a rather restless night of troubled dreams and queer forebodings, I fell into a sound sleep towards morning, from which I was wakened by a footman bringing me a cup of tea and my bath, with the information that breakfast would be ready in an hour. I sprang out of bed, and after a vigorous souse in cold water, felt refreshed and myself again, all the uncanny visions of the night already relegated to limbo. I dressed rapidly and strolled downstairs, finding that I had over half an hour still before breakfast. The hall-door stood wide open; it was a lovely summer morning, and the delicious West Highland air, keen with the sting of the salt sea and fragrant with the wafts of heather honey, came in like a benediction.

I took my hat from the point of a magnificent pair of antlers that served for a hat-rack, and walked out into the sweet morning air. The ground in front of the house sloped away rapidly in the direction of the road by which we had driven the previous night. On my right was the arm of the sea, across it the deep valley with its thick woods which I had noticed. In front and over the nearer trees I could catch glimpses of the white road. I saw the little burn that ran foaming into the loch, and the bridge where I had seen the gipsies; beyond this the head of the promontory, and farther again the open sea, dotted with tiny blue islands, and here and there one of larger size lying like a curled blue-grey leaf near the horizon.

For some moments I feasted my eyes on the lovely prospect, then I turned round to the right, and walked along the front past the old farmhouse, as Sir John had called it last night. A broad gravel path led round close under the walls, dividing the house from the well-kept lawn and flower-beds, and shrubs that, without any apparent division, seemed to melt away into grass fields, and these again into moors and heather.

The back of the house was just what I should have expected, game larders, coal cellars, a keeper's room with guns, weighing machines, and the like.

Beyond these a projecting angle jutted out, with a window on the first floor, which was obviously that of my room, the window below had been long bricked up, but the trace of it was still clearly visible in the harling. Beyond this corner again the old castle rose stately in its green mantle of ivy, and from its side jutted out the wall that formed the outer side of the little court on which my window looked. Remembering the strange shadows I had seen on the night before, I now studied this wall with some curiosity. At the back of it, away from the house, was an old flight of stone steps that rose to the height of the wall and then turned on to a landing, whence a few more steps led to a little door boarded up, and seemingly leading to a circular stair in the corner turret of the castle; outside of this was a small field, and then a waste of heather and peat.

Not much to be learned from this, so I went into the little court. The low archway at the end led simply to a vaulted room in the castle, maybe a dungeon, or perhaps a more prosaic cellar, anyhow it was now a store of gardener's odds and ends, barrows, ladders, trestles, and such-like; it was closed by an iron grating that looked as if it might have been an old portcullis, now turned into a gate and fastened with a very modern padlock. The third side of the court, underneath my room, had a window boarded up and seemingly not disturbed for ages. The ends of the boards were rotten and only just hanging to the nails; any attempt to remove the boarding would have brought the whole thing down.

I examined all this with somewhat minute care, to try and find some material explanation for the light and shadows that I had seen the previous night, but seemed almost driven to the conclusion that I must have been dreaming.

After all, this was not unlikely: the new surroundings and unfamiliar atmosphere, Donald's weird stories about the burial of Morag the Seal, the sturdy common sense of the doctor that seemed reluctantly compelled to admit that there was something in it—of such material are dreams made.

And yet there were footmarks on the damp stained flagstones—several marks of naked feet, and one or two evidently of nailed boots, one I noticed particularly with the nails arranged to form the letter M; but after all, I reflected, there was nothing in this, the gardener's shed was at the end of this little court, it would have been strange if there had not been traces of nailed shoes, and many, both men and women, seemingly went usually with bare feet, I had seen them along the roads.

Involuntarily I caught myself saying half aloud: 'Burying Morag the Seal.'

The sound of the breakfast-gong broke my reverie, and I hurried round to the front door, to find Sir John standing on the step and inhaling the sunny freshness of the morning, with not a trace of last night's indisposition about him.

'I have to apologize to you, Mr. Kingsburgh,' he said, 'for disappearing so suddenly last night. Unfortunately, I am subject to occasional slight heart attacks. Thanks to our good Dr. MacCullcoh, they are seldom more than an affair of a few hours; but I have to go and lie down at once. However, it's all right again now. But come in and have some breakfast, and then, with your permission, we will look at some of the papers and documents you are so good as to be willing to help me with. I hope the doctor may be able to look in; you know, he has found that draft entail. But, dear me! I'm keeping you standing here all this time! Come in! come in! there's breakfast ready.'

We went in and discussed a capital and very substantial breakfast, after which we adjourned to the smoking-room. Sir John offered me every kind of smoke, himself only taking rather a small cigarette from his own silver case. I loaded a pipe, and sat down to consider whatever he should lay before me.

'First of all,' he said, 'you should know something of the property you have to deal with. Here is a map of the whole of the old Cameron estates. Here, you see, is the road you came by; here's the castle, and if you follow the same line further on you come here to the deer-forest. I hope you may be my guest long enough to have some sport there. That hill at the end of the loch here under my finger is Ben na Chat—that is, the Hill of the Cat; it is full of wild-cats. Then, if you follow round the loch—you see, it is not very far by the edge of the deer-forest—you come where I have marked it with a blue line; that is my brother William's land.'

I noticed that he spoke with some repugnance, as if he were touching on a painful subject.

'I did not understand anything about the divison of the land,' I said. 'How was it possible under the entail?'

'It was not possible,' he replied, 'and never should have been done; but, you see, my father broke the entail, and we—that is, my brother and myself—(that was before I knew his real character) consented. And then my father made the most extraordinary will, leaving all this land with the red line round it to me, and this with the blue line to my brother. You will see how ingeniously it is arranged, with really a diabolical cunning, to spoil my property without benefiting him. Here, for instance, you see how this wooded bit—a glen it is—just opposite here, cuts right across the forest and spoils the best stalks, beside ruining my sanctuary. Now, William has no deer; his land is all under sheep and grouse. There was no reason on earth for such a disposition. That bit of ground is worth thousands to me, and is worth nothing to him.'

'Surely,' I said, 'that is easily remedied. From what you say, it would be simple to give him something of far more value to him; and I gather it would be well worth your while to do so. A simple deed of excambion, and the thing is done.'

'Yes,' he said, 'simple enough to your legal eyes, and easy enough for any sane man. But you don't know William; he is not sane. What you suggest has been proposed to him over and over again by various people on my behalf, but he won't listen. Nothing will satisfy him but just his own pound of flesh. You see, he's married; and though he has no children, he is always hoping, silly ass! and because I am a bachelor, he thinks I shall always remain so. Tell me, Mr. Kingsburgh, what do you think would be the legal effect if I were to marry one of the Camerons?'

This was an astounding proposition to me. I had heard practically nothing of the present Camerons, and had merely formed the idea that Sir John regarded them with marked aversion so far as he thought of them at all. However, a moment's reflection recalled to my mind the doctor's account of his state of mind; and I saw in his suggestion his great desire to fortify his position by the aid, however acquired, of the old family; and so to mollify or escape the vengeance of Morag the Seal on an interloper, for such, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he still clearly thought himself.

'It is a new idea to me,' I said. 'I must take a little time to think it out. But, Sir John, do you know these Camerons? I never heard anything of the family. Who are there of them?'

'Really, I know very little myself,' he said. 'My father acquired the property when I was quite a boy. At that time there was an old Mr. Cameron, about my father's age, and a son who, I suppose, would be about my own contemporary. I never saw him, but I heard that he married afterwards a Macdonald of Skye, I think, and died some fifteen years ago, leaving three daughters. It is all hearsay, but I believe that is about correct.'

At this moment the doctor walked in with a bundle of papers in his hand.

'Good morning, Mr. Kingsburgh,' he said. 'Well, Sir John, no need to ask if you are quite all right again—your colour tells me. Here you are; I've brought you the draft deed of entail I told you of last night, and a few letters which seem to identify it sufficiently. I am in hopes that the clearing out of the old rubbish of that office may yield something more. It's an awful nuisance, those records having all gone amissing. They must have been in that old kirk, you know; but there's no trace of what became of them, nor even of where the last minister lived. However, these letters may be worth something. They are curious, any way. Now I must be off; I'm ten minutes late on my rounds as it is.'

'Stop just a minute, doctor,' said Sir John. 'Tell me, do you know anything of the present Camerons?'

'Yes, of course I do. Didn't I bring them into the world, bless 'em? Eh! no harm in blessing 'em. You've got back your own property, Sir John, and they were right bonny lasses.'

'Oh yes, doctor,' he replied, 'that's all right; but I want to know what family there are.'

'Oh, I see. Well, there's a widow lady, young Mrs. Cameron—dear me! dear me! old Mrs. Cameron, I suppose people would say now—and there's two or three daughters. Years since I've seen 'em, though. Held two of them at the font, and can't for the life of me remember their names. No matter, I'll find it all out if you really want to know. I remember the eldest; fifteen or sixteen when I saw her last; such a lovely girl, but delicate—oh, very delicate. Now I must be off. Good-bye, good-bye!'

I followed him to the door.

'Doctor!' I said, 'I didn't like to mention it before Sir John—I don't want to tread on his corns—but is there any chance of any of those records having been taken to the Dower House, where the old Camerons lived. It happened once, in another case I was in, that the very papers we had hunted high and low for turned up in an attic cupboard in the old family house that had been sold twice over in the meantime.'

'Well, I don't know,' he said. 'The Dower House, you see, is off my beat now—the Alt na Crois doctor takes that side of the loch—and none of Sir John's people ever go there, because of the silly feud between the brothers. They may have been taken there, and I suppose they would have been saved. Yes! about the first thing that would have been. There may be something in what you say. I expect, wherever they are, whoever has them would give me leave to rummage. You see, I'm a sort of licensed antiquary, and folk are really most generous to me with their Charter chests and muniment rooms. I'll see, I'll see.'

So saying, he bustled off and jumped into his trap, and I heard the long steady trot of his horse as I rejoined my host.

I will not weary the reader with an account of all the documents we examined, and our discussion.

The draft settlement left by the doctor exactly bore out his account of it, given the night before, and the letters established several minor points. Tucked under the string of the bundle was a note addressed to myself, and marked 'Strictly private.' I took an opportunity, while my host's attention was fixed on a plan, to open and read it. It was thus:

p class="letter">'DEAR MR. KINGSBURGH,

'I think you may get a lot of information if you can get hold of old Allan Kerr. They call him "the little loonie," but he isn't so much of a loonie as he looks. He was a clerk in the office I told you of, where I got the draft entail. I believe he's got many of the papers in his possession now. Anyhow, he knows a lot about the old family. But don't mention this to the laird, for he can't abide the name of Kerr, perhaps because the old man has a very firm faith in Morag the Seal; declares she comes and tells him things, etc. Keep this to yourself.

'Yours very sincerely,

'Dougal MacCullcoh.

'P.S.—I haven't seen old Kerr myself for some time, but you will easily find him, I think.'

I slipped the note into my pocket, and said nothing about it, and we went on looking at maps and papers till the gong sounded for lunch, which we had tête-à-tête.

When we rose from table, Sir John said:

'I must leave you to your own devices this afternoon, Mr. Kingsburgh. I have to drive out beyond Alt na Crois, and unfortunately, as I must take the pair of horses, I can't even offer you a drive. There are rabbits, if you care to shoot them; or they tell me there's good fishing in a loch at the back of Ben na Chat.'

I hastened to assure him that I was not a very keen sportsman. I would take my bicycle and explore the country, which would be a greater delight to me than killing things.

'All right,' he said; 'do just exactly as you please. I am greatly in your debt, anyhow, for your goodness in coming here; only don't go off the road on the forest. I notice that Southerners, as a rule, haven't an idea of the harm they may do on a forest by wandering about over the heather.'

I promised I would stick strictly to roads and paths; indeed, as I explained, my bicycle would not permit me to do otherwise; and I certainly should not leave it by the roadside for the sake of trespassing.

So we parted for the afternoon, Sir John stepping into his carriage, and five minutes later I swung on to my bicycle, and thus, though I knew it not at the time, I took the second and irrevocable step into the new world of dream or romance that, all unconsciously, I had entered about twenty-four hours ago. I spun swiftly down the avenue to the rather sordid and ill-kept lodge, but, being on an exploring expedition, and in search of novelty, I did not retrace the road we had driven by yesterday, but, turning sharp round to the right, and skirting the policies, I found myself again on the margin of the loch, and heading away for Ben na Chat.

It was a warm afternoon of the sweetest West Highland type. Soft delicate scented airs breathed languorously over long tracts of heather clothing the hills, the blue distances quivered in the moist misty heat. I was fain to ride slowly from the warmth of the afternoon, apart from the very beauty of the scene, which would have made me linger by its own novelty of charm.

The road, I found, went right round the head of the loch, and skirted the water on the other side. I was delighted with the view of the castle from over the water. Its old ivy-mantled towers rose grandly above the surrounding woods, and as I have explained, the modern vulgarity of the centre, facing the other way, was quite invisible from here, as also was the farmhouse wing; one saw only the old feudal stronghold of the Camerons of Ard na Righ, looking proudly over their ancient lands, as in scorn of the modern mercantile capitalists who had entered into and possessed the estate that once was theirs. To the right was the little brawling burn, and the bridge where I had seen the gipsies, and I could see from here how it had cut itself a narrow channel through the hill, which rose to a great height on either side, so as to appear a mere cleft, clothed with trees and bushes stretching up towards the summit of a lofty and very steep hill. Such a cleft, with a brawling torrent rushing over rocks at the bottom of it, might well be described as inaccessible; but into the clear blue air above it there curled a thin blue wreath of smoke.

I saw the road by which I had come lying at the base of the grand hills that formed the deer-forest bending round where Ben na Chat lay bathed in the full sunshine, the limestone and quartz on his rugged crown glittering like ivory and gold.

The air was utterly still, the sun was intensely hot, and swarms of midges rose from the water's edge. About half a mile ahead appeared the edge of a wood on the right hand, offering a welcome shelter. I resolved to push on to this, and if there were no road through it, at all events to turn in and sit down for a while, and get cool under the trees.

When I came up to the beginning of the wood, I saw that it lay in a wide and deep valley, clothed on both sides with magnificent old trees, and prolific undergrowth. A winding road led into the heart of this sylvan paradise, whose cool green shadows invited the weary traveller to enter and rest.

I rode slowly up the lovely woodland lane, where fresh beauties opened before me every moment. Now it was a great red rock that jutted out from the deep shadows of the trees and caught a gleam of sun on its side; again, a tiny beck dashed down the hillside among rocks and boulders thick with the vividest green moss and carpeted with ferns. A roe-deer looked at me with its great trustful brown eyes from behind the stem of an immemorial beech-tree, and multitudes of wild-flowers sprang from the mossy carpet on either side of the road; while flecks of sunshine played over the ground, making strange patterns on the long grass and the moss and the gravel; and on either side thronging stems were half hidden and half revealed by the downward-sweeping boughs.

I could hardly believe that I was in the West Highlands. The whole scene and surroundings were so utterly inconsistent with what I had left only an hour or so ago, it might well have been a valley in Northern Italy or on the Rhine. A shady spot beneath a huge tree where was a large flat stone, completely covered with a deep cushioning of soft moss, invited to rest and the enjoyment of one of the loveliest bits of woodland scenery I remember ever to have beheld.

I sat down and propped my bicycle against the tree, and lay down after lighting a pipe to drive off any midges there might be about. Then suddenly the thought sprang into my head: Of course this must be the wood I had seen from the further side, wherein Donald had said was the Dower House, and wherein no one seemed to have been, which lay on the mysterious Mr. William's land. Well, at all events, the old Camerons had a most lovely home even in the days of their decadence, when they lived at the Dower House. Where was the Dower House? I wondered. It must lie somewhere this way, for Donald had told me it was among these woods, and seemingly there was no way in except the road by which I had come. On the other hand, these woods were of enormous extent—that could be seen from the other side—and it was not unlikely that there might be several good houses in such a perfectly charming situation. To try and find it without a map or guide of some sort would be like hunting for the traditional needle, and, besides, to run a grave risk of losing myself. I had had some previous experience of wandering in unknown woods without a map. I regretted that I had not taken more special note of Sir John's big map of the property, and resolved to repair the omission on the first opportunity.

Meanwhile, my mind insensibly fell to picturing the old family in their quiet secluded life in this delightful spot, before the Bradleys had ousted them from their immemorial possessions, and I asked myself: 'Why those enormous loans?' The Cameron who was Sir John's contemporary, living here quiet and retired from the world, could have had no occasion for such large sums. I had not thought of this before, but now there seemed to be some mystery about it which would be another point to be solved before the matter was finally straightened out; for, curiously enough, as I sat thinking and dreaming here, I got to looking on myself much more as the counsel and adviser of the old family than of my own client. Somehow, they seemed so very real to me, and Sir John and Airton House seemed to be fading away into long-past memories.

The life and stir of the woods was all round me; birds twittered strangely tame in the branches, a rabbit hopped close by my foot. Was that a gleam of a woman's dress among the trees? No, only a shadow swaying over an old trunk that had a fantastic resemblance to the figure of a lady in old-world dress. All the same, I should hardly have been surprised to see nymph or dryad or whatever might be the West Highland equivalents of these woodland denizens peeping at me from behind the leafy screens. The influence of the place and the still heat of the afternoon were making me somnolent. I got up and shook myself, and decided I would just take a short stroll in the wood, finish my pipe, and come back to my bicycle and ride back in time to get some tea and dress for dinner.

Just behind the tree under which I had been resting a most engaging little path led winding into the deeper depths of the woods. I would follow this for a short distance and see where it led, and then for home.

Often I have noticed it is on just such impulsive resolves that the most vital issues of life hang, far more than on our gravely and carefully considered determinations.

Slowly, and with intense enjoyment, I wandered along the tiny path seldom enough trodden, as it seemed. Many bare twigs of last winter's shedding lay across the track which any passing foot would have broken, and here and there a bough had fallen right in the way, which a passer-by must have removed in order to get by. These things but added to the charm of this exploring walk.

Presently the path grew wider, and its sides more trim and cared for; laurels and other shrubs bordered it, especially the wild myrtle, which grew in profusion. A rustic bridge led over a little stream. The short sharp call and whirr of a pheasant startled me close on my right hand, and I found immediately before me a hedge of laurel and sweetbriar, with a little wicket-gate. Was this a house thus buried in the woods, and, if so, where could be the approach to it? Over the hedge the trees were cleared, some great conifers stood stately throwing their shadows on a sunny lawn, and beyond just a glimpse of red-brick gables and a tiled roof, roses climbing up the walls with a profusion of flowers.

I was on the point of turning back—I must unwittingly have trespassed—when I heard a voice of the most melodious sweetness saying:

'Oh, do come in! You must have lost your way.'

I looked up startled, and there across the laurel-hedge, coming towards me over the sunlit lawn, was the original of the pastel portrait—a tall, slender, graceful woman with some sort of a light blue dress cut in old-fashioned style. The proudly posed little head was bare; the great masses of chestnut hair coiled loosely, catching stray gleams of sunshine that turned the copper into gold; the dark brown eyes looked at me with a long appealing gaze, so different from the usual quick glance, withdrawn instantly; the face was pale and slightly drawn, as if by sorrow or suffering, and the rosy lips were slightly parted. Graciousness itself was in her manner as she advanced and held the gate open, repeating her invitation:

'Do come in. We see so few strangers here, and you must be so tired and hot.'

I raised my hat and passed in.

'Pray forgive me,' I said. 'I had no idea I was trespassing so near inhabited places.'

'Oh, it's not trespassing. You are most welcome. In this retired spot every stranger is a friend. Not that you are a stranger. I knew you would come to-day.'

'I fear I am sailing under false colours,' I said. 'You could hardly have expected me, for I only arrived in this country yesterday, and knew no living soul here. I am loath to break an illusion so pleasant and flattering to myself, but I fear you take me for some one more fortunate than I am in having a title to your welcome and your friendship.'

My words sounded stiff and formal and artificial to myself beside her frank and kindly greeting. Every word, every gesture, every movement of hers was so eminently instinct with the breeding and manners of ancient race, of a culture so assured of itself, that it could afford to be perfectly natural, of the frank friendliness and fearless innocence of a child to whom no wrong or harsh thing has ever been done or said.

'Oh, I know,' she said. 'But I have dreamed three nights of a stranger coming who was to do something—I don't know what—but something so good for us, and I was sure he would come. And now here you are, and I am keeping you standing at the gate while I am chattering, and you must be so hot and tired, and I haven't even offered you a cup of tea. Do come in; it's just ready!'

'Do you live all alone in this fairy palace?' I said, as we walked side by side across the smooth lawn to the house.

'With my mother and two sisters,' she replied. 'But, you know, they do all the work; I am the lazy drone. Alas! I am not very strong, and so I read and paint and dream a lot, and they are so good to me!'

'And you are?'

'Morag!'