THE DEIL’S WINNOCK.
Florimel was disappointed, for she longed to hear Malcolm’s tale. But
amid such surroundings it was not so very difficult to wait. They set
out to have a peep at the ruins, and choose a place for luncheon.
From the point where they stood, looking seawards, the ground sunk to
the narrow isthmus supposed by Malcolm to fill a cleft formerly crossed
by a drawbridge, and, beyond it, rose again to the grassy mounds in
which lay so many of the old bones of the ruined carcass.
Passing along the isthmus, where on one side was a steep descent to the
shore of the little bay, and on the other the live rock hewn away to
wall, shining and sparkling with crystals of a clear irony brown, they
next clambered up a rude ascent of solid rock, and so reached what had
been the centre of the seaward portion of the castle. Here they came
suddenly upon a small hole at their feet, going right down. Florimel
knelt, and peeping in, saw the remains of a small spiral stair. The
opening seemed large enough to let her through, and, gathering her
garments tight about her, she was half-way buried in the earth before
her father, whose attention had been drawn elsewhere, saw what she was
about. He thought she had fallen in, but her merry laugh reassured him,
and ere he could reach her, she had screwed herself out of sight. He
followed her in some anxiety, but, after a short descent, rejoined her
in a small vaulted chamber, where she stood looking from the little
square window Malcolm had pointed out to them as they neared the shore.
The bare walls around them were of brown stone, wet with the drip of
rains, and full of holes where the mortar had yielded and stones had
fallen out. Indeed the mortar had all but vanished; the walls stood
and the vaults hung chiefly by their own weight. By breaches in the
walls, where once might have been doors, Florimel passed from one
chamber to another and another, each dark, brown, vaulted, damp, and
weather-eaten, while her father stood at the little window she had
left, listlessly watching the two men on the beach far below landing
the lunch, and the rippled sea, and the cutter rising and falling with
every wave of the flowing tide.
At length Florimel found herself on the upper end of a steep-sloping
ridge of hard, smooth earth, lying along the side of one chamber, and
leading across to yet another beyond, which, unlike the rest, was full
of light. The passion of exploration being by this time thoroughly
roused in her, she descended the slope, half sliding, half creeping.
When she thus reached the hole into the bright chamber, she almost
sickened with horror, for the slope went off steeper, till it rushed,
as it were, out of a huge gap in the wall of the castle, laying bare
the void of space, and the gleam of the sea at a frightful depth below:
if she had gone one foot further, she could not have saved herself from
sliding out of the gap. It was the very breach Malcolm had pointed
out to them from below, and concerning which he had promised them the
terrible tale. She gave a shriek of terror, and laid hold of the broken
wall. To heighten her dismay to the limit of mortal endurance, she
found at the very first effort, partly, no doubt, from the paralysis
of fear, that it was impossible to reascend; and there she lay on the
verge of the steeper slope, her head and shoulders in the inner of the
two chambers, and the rest of her body in the outer, with the hideous
vacancy staring at her. In a few moments it had fascinated her so that
she dared not close her eyes lest it should leap upon her. The wonder
was that she did not lose her consciousness, and fall at once to the
bottom of the cliff.
Her cry brought her father in terror to the top of the slope.
“Are you hurt, child?” he cried, not seeing the danger she was in.
“It’s so steep, I can’t get up again,” she said faintly.
“I’ll soon get you up,” he returned cheerily, and began to descend.
“Oh, papa!” she cried, “don’t come a step nearer. If you should slip,
we should go to the bottom of the rock together. Indeed, indeed, there
is great danger! Do run for Malcolm.”
Thoroughly alarmed, yet mastering the signs of his fear, he enjoined
her to keep perfectly still while he was gone, and hurried to the
little window. Thence he shouted to the men below, but in vain, for the
wind prevented his voice from reaching them. He rushed from the vaults,
and began to descend at the first practicable spot he could find,
shouting as he went.
The sound of his voice cheered Florimel a little, as she lay forsaken
in her misery. Her whole effort now was to keep herself from fainting,
and for this end, to abstract her mind from the terrors of her
situation: in this she was aided by a new shock, which, had her
position been a less critical one, would itself have caused her a
deadly dismay. A curious little sound came to her, apparently from
somewhere in the dusky chamber in which her head lay. She fancied it
made by some little animal, and thought of the wild cats and otters
of which Malcolm had spoken as haunting the caves; but, while the new
fear mitigated the former, the greater fear subdued the less. It came
a little louder, then again a little louder, growing like a hurried
whisper, but without seeming to approach her. Louder still it grew,
and yet was but an inarticulate whispering. Then it began to divide
into some resemblance of articulate sounds. Presently, to her utter
astonishment, she heard herself called by name.
“Lady Florimel! Lady Florimel!” said the sound plainly enough.
“Who’s there?” she faltered, with her heart in her throat, hardly
knowing whether she spoke or not.
“There’s nobody here,” answered the voice. “I’m in my own bedroom at
home, where your dog killed mine.”
It was the voice of Mrs Catanach, but both words and tone were almost
English.
Anger, and the sense of a human presence, although an evil one,
restored Lady Florimel’s speech.
“How dare you talk such nonsense?” she said.
“Don’t anger me again,” returned the voice. “I tell you the truth. I’m
sorry I spoke to your ladyship as I did this morning. It was the sight
of my poor dog that drove me mad.”
“_I_ couldn’t help it. I tried to keep mine off him, as you know.”
“I do know it, my lady, and that’s why I beg your pardon.”
“Then there’s nothing more to be said.”
“Yes, there is, my lady: I want to make you some amends. I _know_ more
than most people, and I know a secret that some would give their ears
for. Will you trust me?”
“I will hear what you’ve got to say.”
“Well, I don’t care whether you believe me or not: I shall tell you
nothing but the truth. What do you think of Malcolm MacPhail, my lady?”
“What do you mean by asking me such a question?”
“Only to tell you that by birth he is a gentleman, and comes of an old
family.”
“But why do you tell _me_?” said Florimel. “What have _I_ to do with
it?”
“Nothing, my lady--or himself either. _I_ hold the handle of the
business. But you needn’t think it’s from any favour for _him_! I don’t
care what comes of him. There’s no love lost between him and me. You
heard yourself this very day, how he abused both me and my poor dog who
is now lying dead on the bed beside me!”
“You don’t expect me to believe such nonsense as that!” said Lady
Florimel.
There was no reply. The voice had departed; and the terrors of her
position returned with gathered force in the desolation of redoubled
silence that closes around an unanswered question. A trembling seized
her, and she could hardly persuade herself that she was not slipping by
slow inches down the incline.
Minutes that seemed hours passed. At length she heard feet and voices,
and presently her father called her name, but she was too agitated
to reply except with a moan. A voice she was yet more glad to hear
followed--the voice of Malcolm, ringing confident and clear.
“Haud awa’, my lord,” it said, “an’ lat _me_ come at her.”
“You’re not going down so!” said the marquis angrily. “You’ll slip to a
certainty, and send her to the bottom.”
“My lord,” returned Malcolm, “I ken what I’m aboot, an’ ye dinna. I
beg ’at ye’ll haud ootby, an’ no upset the lassie, for somethin’ maun
depen’ upon hersel’. Jist gang awa’ back into that ither vout, my lord.
I insist upo’ ’t.”
His lordship obeyed, and Malcolm, who had been pulling off his boots as
he spoke, now addressed Mair.
“Here, Peter!” he said, “haud on to the tail o’ that rope like grim
deith.--Na, I dinna want it roon’ me; it’s to gang roon’ her. But dinna
ye haul, for it micht hurt her, an’ she’ll lippen to me and come up
o’ hersel’. Dinna be feart, my bonny leddy: there’s nae danger--no ae
grain. I’m comin’.”
With the rope in his hand, he walked down the incline, and kneeling by
Florimel, close to the broken wall, proceeded to pass the rope under
and round her waist, talking to her, as he did so, in the tone of one
encouraging a child.
“Noo, my leddy! Noo, my bonny leddy! Ae meenute, an’ ye’re as safe ’s
gien ye lay i’ yer minnie’s lap!”
“I daren’t get up, Malcolm! I daren’t turn my back to it! I shall drop
right down into it if I do!” she faltered, beginning to sob.
“Nae fear o’ that! There! ye canna fa’ noo, for Blue Peter has the
ither en’, and Peter’s as strong ’s twa pownies. I’m gaein to tak aff
yer shune neist.”
So saying, he lowered himself a little through the breach, holding on
by the broken wall with one hand, while he gently removed her sandal
shoes with the other. Drawing himself up again, he rose to his feet,
and taking her hand, said,
“Noo, my leddy, tak a gude grip o’ my han’, an’ as I lift ye, gie a
scram’le wi’ yer twa bit feet, an’ as sune ’s ye fin’ them aneth ye,
jist gang up as gien ye war clim’in’ a gey stey brae (_rather steep
ascent_). Ye cudna fa’ gien ye tried yer warst.”
At the grasp of his strong hand the girl felt a great gush of
confidence rise in her heart; she did exactly as he told her, scrambled
to her feet, and walked up the slippery way without one slide, holding
fast by Malcolm’s hand, while Joseph kept just feeling her waist with
the loop of the rope as he drew it in. When she reached the top, she
fell, almost fainting, into her father’s arms; but was recalled to
herself by an exclamation from Blue Peter: just as Malcolm relinquished
her hand, his foot slipped. But he slid down the side of the mound only
some six or seven feet to the bottom of the chamber, whence his voice
came cheerily, saying he would be with them in a moment. When, however,
ascending by another way, he rejoined them, they were shocked to see
blood pouring from his foot: he had lighted amongst broken glass, and
had felt a sting, but only now was aware that the cut was a serious
one. He made little of it, however, bound it up, and, as the marquis
would not now hear of bringing the luncheon to the top, having, he
said, had more than enough of the place, limped painfully after them
down to the shore.
Knowing whither they were bound, and even better acquainted with the
place than Malcolm himself; Mrs Catanach, the moment she had drawn
down her blinds in mourning for her dog, had put her breakfast in her
pocket, and set out from her back door, contriving mischief on her way.
Arrived at the castle, she waited a long time before they made their
appearance, but was rewarded for her patience, as she said to herself;
by the luck which had so wonderfully seconded her cunning. From a
broken loophole in the foundation of a round tower, she now watched
them go down the hill. The moment they were out of sight, she crept
like a fox from his earth, and having actually crawled beyond danger of
discovery, hurried away inland, to reach Portlossie by foot-paths and
by-ways, and there show herself on her own door-step.
The woman’s consuming ambition was to possess power _over_ others
--power to hurt them if she chose--power to pull hidden strings
fastened to their hearts or consciences or history or foibles or
crimes, and so reduce them, in her knowledge, if not in theirs, to
the condition of being, more or less, her slaves. Hence she pounced
upon a secret as one would on a diamond in the dust, any fact even was
precious, for it might be allied to some secret--might, in combination
with other facts, become potent. How far this vice may have had its
origin in the fact that she had secrets of her own, might be an
interesting question.
As to the mysterious communication she had made to her, Lady Florimel
was not able to turn her mind to it--nor indeed for some time was she
able to think of anything.