THE BAILLIES’ BARN.
Lady Florimel was delighted at the prospect of such an adventure.
The evening arrived. An hour before the time appointed for the meeting,
the three issued from the tunnel, and passed along the landward
side of the dune, towards the promontory. There sat the piper on
the swivel, ready to sound a pibroch the moment they should have
reached the shelter of the bored craig--his signal being Malcolm’s
whistle. The plan answered perfectly. In a few minutes, all the
children within hearing were gathered about Duncan--a rarer sight
to them than heretofore--and the way was clear to enter unseen.
It was already dusk, and the cave was quite dark, but Malcolm
lighted a candle, and, with a little difficulty, got them up into
the wider part of the cleft, where he had arranged comfortable
seats with plaids and cushions. As soon as they were placed, he
extinguished the light.
“I wish you would tell us another story, Malcolm,” said Lady
Florimel.
“Do,” said the marquis “the place is not consecrated yet.”
“Did ye ever hear the tale o’ the auld warlock, my leddy?” asked
Malcolm. “--Only, my lord kens ’t!” he added.
“_I_ don’t,” said Lady Florimel.
“It’s great nonsense,” said the marquis.
“Do let us have it, papa.”
“Very well. I don’t mind hearing it again.” He wanted to see how
Malcolm would embellish it.
“It seems to me,” said Malcolm, “that this ane aboot Lossie Hoose
an’ yon ane aboot Colonsay Castel, are verra likly but twa stalks
frae the same rute. Ony gate, this ane aboot the warlock maun be the
auldest o’ the twa. Ye s’ hae ’t sic ’s I hae ’t mysel’. Mistress
Coorthoup taul’ ’t to me.”
It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, that he
recounted the tale of Lord Gernon.
As the last words left his lips, Lady Florimel gave a startled cry,
seized him by the arm, and crept close to him. The marquis jumped
to his feet, knocked his head against the rock, uttered an oath,
and sat down again.
“What ails ye, my leddy!” said Malcolm. “There’s naething here to
hurt ye.”
“I saw a face,” she said, “--a white face!”
“Whaur?”
“Beyond you a little way--near the ground,” she answered, in a
tremulous whisper.
“It’s as dark ’s pick!” said Malcolm, as if thinking it to himself.
--He knew well enough that it must be the laird or Phemy, but he
was anxious the marquis should not learn the secret of the laird’s
refuge.
“I saw a face anyhow,” said Florimel. “It gleamed white for one
moment, and then vanished.”
“I wonner ye didna cry oot waur, my leddy,” said Malcolm, peering
into the darkness.
“I was too frightened. It looked so ghastly!--not more than a
foot from the ground.”
“Cud it hae been a flash, like, frae yer ain een?”
“No; I am sure it was a face.”
“How much is there of this cursed hole?” asked the marquis; rubbing
the top of his head.
“A heap,” answered Malcolm. “The grun’ gangs doon like a brae ahin’
’s, intill a----”
“You don’t mean right behind us?” cried the marquis.
“Nae--jist closs, my lord. We’re sittin’ i’ the mou’ o’ ’t, like, wi’
the thrapple (_throat_) o’ ’t ahin’ ’s, an’ a muckle stamach ayont
that.”
“I hope there’s no danger,” said the marquis.
“Nane ’at I ken o’.”
“No water at the bottom?”
“Nane, my lord--that is, naething but a bonny spring i’ the rock-side.”
“Come away, papa!” cried Florimel. “I don’t like it. I’ve had enough
of this kind of thing.”
“Nonsense!” said the marquis, still rubbing his head.
“Ye wad spile a’, my leddy! It’s ower late, forbye,” said Malcolm;
“I hear a fut.”
He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a whisper:
“It’s Mistress Catanach wi’ a lantren! Haud yer tongue, my bonny
leddy; ye ken weel she’s no mowse. Dinna try to leuk, my lord; she
micht get a glimp o’ ye--she’s terrible gleg. I hae been hearin’
mair yet aboot her. Yer lordship’s ill to convence, but depen’
upo’ ’t, whaurever that woman is, there there’s mischeef! Whaur
she taks a scunner at a body, she hates like the verra deevil. She
winna aye lat them ken ’t, but taks time to du her ill turns. An’
it’s no that only, but gien she gets a haud o’ onything agane
onybody, she’ll save ’t up upo’ the chance o’ their giein’ her
some offence afore they dee. She never lowses haud o’ the tail o’
a thing, an’ at her ain proaper time, she’s in her natur’ bun’ to
mak the warst use o’ ’t.”
Malcolm was anxious both to keep them still, and to turn aside any
further inquiry as to the face Florimel had seen. Again he peeped
out.
“What _is_ she efter noo? She’s comin’ this gait,” he went on, in
a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his shoulder
when he spoke. “Gien she thoucht there was a hole i’ the perris she
didna ken a’ the oots an’ ins o’, it wad haud her ohn sleepit.--
Weesht! weesht! here she comes!” he concluded, after a listening
pause, in the silence of which he could hear her step approaching.
He stretched out his neck over the ledge, and saw her coming
straight for the back of the cave, looking right before her with
slow moving, keen, wicked eyes. It was impossible to say what made
them look wicked: neither in form, colour, motion, nor light, were
they ugly--yet in everyone of these they looked wicked, as her
lantern, which, being of horn, she had opened for more light, now
and then, as it swung in her hand, shone upon her pale, pulpy, evil
countenance.
“Gien she tries to come up, I’ll hae to caw her doon,” he said to
himself, “an’ I dinna like it, for she’s a wuman efter a’, though
a deevilich kin’ o’ a ane; but there’s my leddy! I hae broucht her
intill ’t, an’ I maun see her safe oot o’ ’t!”
But if Mrs Catanach was bent on an exploration, she was for the
time prevented from prosecuting it by the approach of the first of
the worshippers, whose voices they now plainly heard. She retreated
towards the middle of the cave, and sat down in a dark corner,
closing her lantern and hiding it with the skirt of her long cloak.
Presently a good many entered at once, some carrying lanterns, and
most of them tallow candles, which they quickly lighted and disposed
about the walls. The rest of the congregation, with its leaders,
came trooping in so fast, that in ten minutes or so the service
began.
As soon as the singing commenced, Malcolm whispered to Lady Florimel,--
“Was ’t a man’s face or a lassie’s ye saw, my leddy?”
“A man’s face--the same we saw in the storm,” she answered, and
Malcolm felt her shudder as she spoke.
“It’s naething but the mad laird,” he said. “He’s better nor
hairmless. Dinna say a word to yer father my leddy. I dinna like
to say that, but I’ll tell ye a’ what for efterhin’.”
But Florimel, knowing that her father had a horror of lunatics,
was willing enough to be silent.
No sooner was her terror thus assuaged, than the oddities of the
singing laid hold upon her, stirring up a most tyrannous impulse
to laughter. The prayer that followed made it worse. In itself the
prayer was perfectly reverent, and yet, for dread of irreverence,
I must not attempt a representation of the forms of its embodiment,
or the manner of its utterance.
So uncontrollable did her inclination to merriment become, that she
found at last the only way to keep from bursting into loud laughter
was to slacken the curb, and go off at a canter--I mean, to laugh
freely but gently. This so infected her father, that he straightway
accompanied her, but with more noise. Malcolm sat in misery, from
the fear not so much of discovery, though that would be awkward
enough, as of the loss to the laird of his best refuge. But when
he reflected, he doubted much whether it was even now a safe one;
and, anyhow, knew it would be as vain to remonstrate as to try to
stop the noise of a brook by casting pebbles into it.
When it came to the sermon, however, things went better; for MacLeod
was the preacher,--an eloquent man after his kind, in virtue of
the genuine earnestness of which he was full. If his anxiety for
others appeared to be rather to save them from the consequences of
their sins, his main desire for himself certainly was to be delivered
from evil; the growth of his spiritual nature, while it rendered
him more and more dissatisfied with himself, had long left behind
all fear save of doing wrong. His sermon this evening was founded on
the text: “The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit
of God.” He spoke fervently and persuasively; nor, although his
tone and accent were odd, and his Celtic modes and phrases to those
Saxon ears outlandish, did these peculiarities in the least injure
the influence of the man. Even from Florimel was the demon of
laughter driven; and the marquis, although not a single notion of
what the man intended passed through the doors of his understanding,
sat quiet, and disapproved of nothing. Possibly, had he been alone
as he listened, he too, like one of old, might have heard, in the
dark cave, the still small voice of a presence urging him forth
to the light; but, as it was, the whole utterance passed without
a single word or phrase or sentence having roused a thought,
or suggested a doubt, or moved a question, or hinted an objection
or a need of explanation. That the people present should interest
themselves in such things, only set before him the folly of mankind.
The text and the preacher both kept telling him that such as he
could by no possibility have the slightest notion what _such things_
were; but not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, wonder
how the deluded fisher-folk could sit and listen. The more tired
he grew, the more angry he got with the parson who had sent him
there with his foolery: and the more convinced that the men who
prayed and preached were as honest as they were silly; and that
the thing to die of itself had only to be let alone. He heard the
Amen of the benediction with a sigh of relief, and rose at once--
cautiously this time.
“Ye maunna gang yet, my lord,” said Malcolm. “They maun be a’ oot
first.”
“I don’t care who sees me,” protested the weary man.
“But yer lordship wadna like to be descriet scram’lin’ doon efter
the back like the bear in Robinson Crusoe!”
The marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently.
At length Malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meeting had
thoroughly _skailed_, peeped cautiously out to make sure. But after
a moment, he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper,--
“I’m sorry ye canna gang yet, my lord. There’s some half a dizzen
o’ ill-luikin’ chields, cairds (_gipsies_), I’m thinkin’, or maybe
waur, congregat doon there, an’ it’s my opingon they’re efter nae
guid, my lord.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ony body wad ken that, ’at got a glimp o’ them.”
“Let me look.”
“Na, my lord; ye dinna understan’ the lie o’ the stanes eneuch to
haud oot o’ sicht.”
“How long do you mean to keep us here?” asked the marquis impatiently.
“Till it’s safe to gang, my lord. For onything I ken, they may be
efter comin’ up here. They may be used to the place--though I
dinna think it.”
“In that case we must go down at once. We must _not_ let them find
us here.”
“They wad tak ’s ane by ane as we gaed doon, my lord, an’ we wadna
hae a chance. Think o’ my leddy there!”
Florimel heard all, but with the courage of her race.
“This is a fine position you have brought us into, MacPhail!” said
his master, now thoroughly uneasy for his daughter’s sake.
“Nae waur nor I’ll tak ye oot o’, gien ye lippen to me, my lord,
an’ no speyk a word.”
“If you tell them who papa is,” said Florimel, “they won’t do us
any harm, surely!”
“I’m nane sae sure o’ that. They micht want to ripe ’s pooches
(_search his pockets_), an’ my lord wad ill stan’ that, I’m thinkin’!
Na, na. Jist stan’ ye back, my lord an’ my leddy, an’ dinna speyk
a word. I s’ sattle them. They’re sic villains, there’s nae terms to
be hauden wi’ them.”
His lordship was far from satisfied; but a light shining up into
the crevice at the moment, gave powerful support to Malcolm’s
authority: he took Florimel’s hand and drew her a little farther
from the mouth of the cave.
“Don’t you wish we had Demon with us?” whispered the girl.
“I was thinking how I never went without a dagger in Venice,” said
the marquis, “and never once had occasion to use it. Now I haven’t
even a penknife about me! It looks very awkward.”
“Please don’t talk like that,” said Florimel. “Can’t you trust
Malcolm, papa?”
“Oh, yes; perfectly!” he answered; but the tone was hardly up to
the words.
They could see the dim figure of Malcolm, outlined in fits of the
approaching light, all but filling the narrow entrance, as he bent
forward to listen. Presently he laid himself down, leaning on his
left elbow, with his right shoulder only a little above the level
of the passage. The light came nearer, and they heard the sound
of scrambling on the rock, but no voice; then for one moment the
light shone clear upon the roof of the cleft; the next, came the
sound of a dull blow, the light vanished, and the noise of a heavy
fall came from beneath.
“Ane o’ them, my lord,” said Malcolm, in a sharp whisper, over his
shoulder.
A confusion of voices arose.
“You booby!” said one. “You climb like a calf. I’ll go next.”
Evidently they thought he had slipped and fallen, and he was unable
to set them right. Malcolm heard them drag him out of the way.
The second ascended more rapidly, and met his fate the sooner.
As he delivered the blow, Malcolm recognized one of the laird’s
assailants, and was now perfectly at his ease.
“Twa o’ them, my lord,” he said. “Gien we had ane mair doon, we
cud manage the lave.”
The second, however, had not lost his speech, and amidst the
confused talk that followed, Malcolm heard the words: “Rin doon to
the coble for the gun,” and, immediately after, the sound of feet
hurrying from the cave. He rose quietly, leaped into the midst of
them, came down upon one, and struck out right and left. Two ran,
and three lay where they were.
“Gien ane o’ ye muv han’ or fit, I’ll brain him wi’ ’s ain stick,”
he cried, as he wrenched a cudgel from the grasp of one of them.
Then catching up a lantern, and hurrying behind the projecting rock
--“Haste ye, an’ come,” he shouted. “The w’y ’s clear, but only
for a meenute.”
Florimel appeared, and Malcolm got her down.
“Mind that fellow,” cried the marquis from above.
Malcolm turned quickly, and saw the gleam of a knife in the grasp
of his old enemy, who had risen, and crept behind him to the recess.
He flung the lantern in his face, following it with a blow in which
were concentrated all the weight and energy of his frame. The man
went down again heavily, and Malcolm instantly trampled all their
lanterns to pieces.
“Noo,” he said to himself, “they winna ken but it’s the laird an’
Phemy wi’ me!”
Then turning, and taking Florimel by the arm, he hurried her out
of the cave, followed by the marquis.
They emerged in the liquid darkness of a starry night. Lady Florimel
clung to both her father and Malcolm. It was a rough way for some
little distance, but at length they reached the hard wet sand,
and the marquis would have stopped to take breath; but Malcolm was
uneasy, and hurried them on.
“What are you frightened at now?” asked his lordship.
“Naething,” answered Malcolm, adding to himself however, “I’m
fleyt _at_ naethin’--I’m fleyt _for_ the laird.”
As they approached the tunnel, he fell behind.
“Why don’t you come on?” said his lordship.
“I’m gaein’ back, noo ’at ye’re safe,” said Malcolm.
“Going back! What for?” asked the marquis.
“I maun see what thae villains are up till,” answered Malcolm.
“Not alone, surely!” exclaimed the marquis. “At least get some of
your people to go with you.”
“There’s nae time, my lord. Dinna be fleyt for me: I s’ tak care
o’ mysel’.”
He was already yards away, running at full speed. The marquis
shouted after him, but Malcolm would not hear.
When he reached the Baillies’ Barn once more, all was still. He
groped his way in and found his own lantern where they had been
sitting, and having lighted it, descended and followed the windings
of the cavern a long way, but saw nothing of the laird or Phemy.
Coming at length to a spot where he heard the rushing of a stream,
he found he could go no farther: the roof of the cave had fallen,
and blocked up the way with huge masses of stone and earth. He had
come a good distance certainly, but by no means so far as Phemy’s
imagination had represented the reach of the cavern. He might
however have missed a turn, he thought.
The sound he heard was that of the Lossie Burn, flowing along in
the starlight through the grounds of the House. Of this he satisfied
himself afterwards; and then it seemed to him not unlikely that
in ancient times the river had found its way to the sea along the
cave, for throughout its length the action of water was plainly
visible. But perhaps the sea itself had used to go roaring along the
great duct: Malcolm was no geologist, and could not tell.