THE RING AND THE BOOK.
My return to health was a slow though not a painful one. My mind, however,
was clear, and even before I could partake of food I enjoyed hearing
sister play to me on her harp. Sometimes aunt, too, would play. My mother
seldom left the room by day, and one of my chief delights was her stories
from Bible life and tales of Bible lands.
At last I was permitted to get up and recline in fauteuil or on sofa.
'Mother,' I said one day, 'I feel getting stronger, but somehow I do not
regain spirits. Is there some sorrow in your heart, mother, or do I only
imagine it?'
She smiled, but there were tears in her eyes.
'I'm sure we are all very, _very_ happy, Murdoch, to have you getting well
again.'
'And, mother,' I persisted, 'father does not seem easy in mind either. He
comes in and talks to me, but often I think his mind is wandering to other
subjects.'
'Foolish child! nothing could make your father unhappy. He does his duty
by us all, and his faith is fixed.'
One day they came and told me that the doctor had ordered me away to the
seaside. Mother and Flora were to come, and one servant; the rest of our
family were to follow.
It was far away south to Rothesay we went, and here, my cheeks fanned by
the delicious sea-breezes, I soon began to grow well and strong again. But
the sorrow in my mother's face was more marked than ever, though I had
ceased to refer to it.
The rooms we had hired were very pleasant, but looked very small in
comparison with the great halls I had been used to.
Well, on a beautiful afternoon father and my brothers arrived, and we all
had tea out on the shady lawn, up to the very edge of which the waves were
lapping and lisping.
I was reclining in a hammock chair, listening to the sea's soft, soothing
murmur, when father brought his camp-stool and sat near me.
'Murdoch, boy,' he said, taking my hand gently, almost tenderly, in his,
'are you strong enough to bear bad news?'
My heart throbbed uneasily, but I replied, bravely enough, 'Yes, dear
father; yes.'
'Then,' he said, speaking very slowly, as if to mark the effect of every
word, 'we are--never--to return--to Castle Coila!'
I was calm now, for, strange to say, the news appeared to be no news at
all.
'Well, father,' I answered, cheerfully, 'I can bear that--I could bear
anything but separation.'
I went over and kissed my mother and sister.
'So this is the cloud that was in your faces, eh? Well, the worst is over.
I have nothing to do now but get well. Father, I feel quite a man.'
'So do we both feel men,' said Donald and Dugald; 'and we are all going to
work. Won't that be jolly?'
In a few brief words father then explained our position. There had arrived
one day, some weeks after the worst and most dangerous part of my illness
was over, an advocate from Aberdeen, in a hired carriage. He had, he
said, a friend with him, who seemed, so he worded it, 'like one risen
from the dead.'
His friend was helped down, and into father's private room off the hall.
His friend was the old beldame Mawsie, and a short but wonderful story she
had to tell, and did tell, the Aberdeen advocate sitting quietly by the
while with a bland smile on his face. She remembered, she said with many a
sigh and groan, and many a doleful shake of head and hand, the marriage of
Le Roi the dragoon with the Miss M'Crimman of Coila, although but a girl
at the time; and she remembered, among many other things, that the
priest's books were hidden for safety in a vault, where he also kept all
the money he possessed. No one knew of the existence of this vault except
her, and so on and so forth. So voluble did the old lady become that the
advocate had to apply the _cloture_ at last.
'It is strange--if true,' my father had muttered. 'Why,' he added, 'had
the old lady not spoken of this before?'
'Ah, yes, to be sure,' said the Aberdonian. 'Well, that also is strange,
but easily explained. The shock received on the night of the fire at the
chapel had deprived the poor soul of memory. For years and years this
deprivation continued, but one day, not long ago, the son of the present
claimant, and probably rightful heir, to Coila walked into her room at the
old manse, gun in hand. He had been down shooting at Strathtoul, and
naturally came across to view the ruin so intimately connected with his
father's fate and fortune. No sooner had he appeared than the good old
dame rushed towards him, calling him by his grandfather's name. Her memory
had returned as suddenly as it had gone. She had even told him of the
vault. 'Perhaps,' continued he, with a meaning smile,
'"'Tis the sunset of life gives her mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadow before."'
A fortnight after this visit a meeting of those concerned took place at
the beldame's house. She herself pointed to the place where she thought
the vault lay, and with all due legal formality digging was commenced, and
the place was found not far off. At first glance the vault seemed empty.
In one corner, however, was found, covered lightly over with withered
ferns, many bottles of wine and--a box. The two men of law, Le Roi's
solicitor and M'Crimman's, had a little laugh all to themselves over the
wine. Legal men will laugh at anything.
'The priest must have kept a good cellar on the sly,' one said.
'That is evident,' replied the other.
The box was opened with some little difficulty. In it was a book--an old
Latin Bible. But something else was in it too. Townley was the first to
note it. Only a silver ring such as sailors wear--a ring with a little
heart-shaped ruby stone in it. Book and ring were now sealed up in the
box, and next day despatched to Edinburgh with all due formality. The best
legal authorities the Scotch metropolis could boast of were consulted on
both sides, but fate for once was against the M'Crimmans of Coila. The
book told its tale. Half-carelessly written on fly-leaves, but each duly
dated and signed by Stewart, the priest, were notes concerning many
marriages, Le Roi's among the rest.
Even M'Crimman himself confessed that he was satisfied--as was every one
else save Townley.
'The book has told one tale--or rather its binding has,' said Townley;
'but the ring may yet tell another.'
All this my father related to me that evening as we sat together on the
lawn by the beach of Rothesay.
When he had finished I sat silently gazing seawards, but spoke not. My
brothers told me afterwards that I looked as if turned to stone. And,
indeed, indeed, my heart felt so. When father first told me we should go
back no more to Coila I felt almost happy that the bad news was no worse;
but now that explanations had followed, my perplexity was extreme.
One thing was sure and certain--there was a conspiracy, and the events of
that terrible night at the ruin had to do with it. The evil man Duncan
M'Rae was in it. Townley suspected it from words I must have let fall in
my delirium; but, worst of all, my mouth was sealed. Oh, why, why did I
not rather die than be thus bound!
It must be remembered that I was very young, and knew not then that an
oath so forced upon me could not be binding.
Come weal, come woe, however, I determined to keep my word.
* * * * *
The scene of our story changes now to Edinburgh itself. Here we had all
gone to live in a house owned by aunt, not far from the Calton Hill. We
were comparatively poor now, for father, with the honour and Christian
feeling that ever characterized him, had even paid up back rent to the new
owner of Coila Castle and Glen.
That parting from Coila had been a sad one. I was not there--luckily for
me, perhaps; but Townley has told me of it often and often.
'Yes, Murdoch M'Crimman,' he said, 'I have been present at the funeral of
many a Highland chief, but none of these impressed me half so much as the
scene in Glen Coila, when the carriage containing your dear father and
mother and Flora left the old castle and wound slowly down the glen. Men,
women, and little ones joined in procession, and marched behind it, and so
followed on and on till they reached the glen-foot, with the bagpipes
playing "Farewell to Lochaber." This affected your father as much, I
think, as anything else. As for your mother, she sat silently weeping, and
Flora dared hardly trust herself to look up at all. Then the parting! The
chief, your father, stood up and addressed his people--for "his people" he
still would call them. There was not a tremor in his voice, nor was
there, on the other hand, even a spice of bravado. He spoke to them
calmly, logically. In the old days, he said, might had been right, and
many a gallant corps of heroes had his forefathers led from the glen, but
times had changed. They were governed by good laws, and good laws meant
fair play, for they protected all alike, gentle and simple, poor as well
as rich. He bade them love and honour the new chief of Coila, to whom, as
his proven right, he not only heartily transferred his lands and castle,
but even, as far as possible, the allegiance of his people. They must be
of good cheer, he said; he would never forget the happy time he had spent
in Coila, and if they should meet no more on this earth, there was a
Happier Land beyond death and the grave. He ended his brief oration with
that little word which means so much, "Good-bye." But scarcely would they
let him go. Old, bare-headed, white-haired men crowded round the carriage
to bless their chief and press his hand; tearful women held children up
that he might but touch their hair, while some had thrown themselves on
the heather in paroxysms of a grief which was uncontrollable. Then the
pipes played once more as the carriage drove on, while the voices of the
young men joined in chorus--
"Youth of the daring heart, bright be thy doom
As the bodings that light up thy bold spirit now.
But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the grey wraith hath passed o'er his brow."
'When,' added Townley, 'a bend of the road and the drooping birch-trees
shut out the mournful sight, I am sure we all felt relieved. Your father,
smiling, extended his hand to your mother, and she fondled it and wept no
more.'
* * * * *
For a time our life, to all outward seeming, was now a very quiet one.
Although Donald and Dugald were sent to that splendid seminary which has
given so many great men and heroes to the world, the 'High School of
Edinburgh,' Townley still lived on with us as my tutor and Flora's.
What my father seemed to suffer most from was the want of something at
which to employ his time, and what Townley called his 'talent for
activity.' 'Doing nothing' was not father's form after leading so
energetic a life for so many years at Coila. Like the city of Boston in
America, Edinburgh prides itself on the selectness of its society. To
this, albeit we had come down in the world, pecuniarily speaking, our
family had free _entree_. This would have satisfied some men; it did not
satisfy father. He missed the bracing mountain air, he missed the freedom
of the hills and the glorious exercise to which he had been accustomed.
He missed it, but he mourned it not. His was the most unselfish nature one
could imagine. Whatever he may have felt in the privacy of his own
apartment, however much he may have sorrowed in silence, among us he was
ever cheerful and even gay. Perhaps, on the whole, it may seem to some
that I write or speak in terms too eulogistic. But it should not be
forgotten that the M'Crimman was my father, and that he is--gone. _De
mortuis nil nisi bonum._
The ex-chief of Coila was a gentleman. And what a deal there is in that
one wee word! No one can ape the gentleman. True gentlemanliness must
come from the heart; the heart is the well from which it must
spring--constantly, always, in every position of life, and wherever the
owner may be. No amount of exterior polish can make a true gentleman.
The actor can play the part on the stage, but here he is but acting, after
all. Off the stage he may or may not be the gentleman, for then he must
not be judged by his dress, by his demeanour in company, his calmness, or
his ducal bow, but by his actions, his words, or his spoken thoughts.
'Chesterfields and modes and rules
For polished age and stilted youth.
And high breeding's choicest school
Need to learn this deeper truth:
That to act, whate'er betide,
Nobly on the Christian plan,
This is still the surest guide
How to be a gentleman.'
About a year after our arrival in Edinburgh, Townley was seated one day
midway up the beautiful mountain called Arthur's Seat. It was early
summer; the sky was blue and almost cloudless; far beneath, the city of
palaces and monuments seemed to sleep in the sunshine; away to the east
lay the sea, blue even as the sky itself, except where here and there a
cloud shadow passed slowly over its surface. Studded, too, was the sea
with many a white sail, and steamers with trailing wreaths of smoke.
The noise of city life, faint and far, fell on the ear with a hum hardly
louder than the murmur of the insects and bees that sported among the wild
flowers.
Townley would not have been sitting here had he been all by himself, for
this Herculean young parson never yet set eye on a hill he meant to climb
without going straight to the top of it.
'There is no tiring Townley.' I have often heard father make that remark;
and, indeed, it gave in a few words a complete clue to Townley's
character.
But to-day my aunt Cecilia was with him, and it was on her account he was
resting. They had been sitting for some time in silence.
'It is almost too lovely a day for talking,' she said, at last.
'True; it is a day for thinking and dreaming.'
'I do not imagine, sir, that either thinking or dreaming is very much in
your way.'
He turned to her almost sharply.
'Oh, indeed,' he said, 'you hardly gauge my character aright, Miss
M'Crimman.'
'Do I not?'
'No, if you only knew how much I think at times; if you only knew how much
I have even dared to dream--'
There was a strange meaning in his looks if not in his words. Did she
interpret either aright, I wonder? I know not. Of one thing I am sure, and
that is, my friend and tutor was far too noble to seem to take advantage
of my aunt's altered circumstances in life to press his suit. He might be
her equal some day, at present he was--her brother's guest and domestic.
'Tell me,' she said, interrupting him, 'some of your thoughts; dreams at
best are silly.'
He heaved the faintest sigh, and for a few moments appeared bent only on
forming an isosceles triangle of pebbles with his cane.
Then he put his fingers in his pocket.
'I wish to show you,' he said, 'a ring.'
'A ring, Mr. Townley! What a curious ring! Silver, set with a ruby heart.
Why, this is the ring--the mysterious ring that belonged to the priest,
and was found in his box in the vault.'
'No, that is not _the_ ring. _The_ ring is in a safe and under seal. That
is but a facsimile. But, Miss M'Crimman, the ring in question did not, I
have reason to believe, belong to the priest Stewart, nor was it ever worn
by him.'
'How strangely you talk and look, Mr. Townley!'
'Whatever I say to you now, Miss M'Crimman, I wish you to consider
sacred.'
The lady laughed, but not lightly.
'Do you think,' she said, 'I can keep a secret?'
'I do, Miss M'Crimman, and I want a friend and occasional adviser.'
'Go on, Mr. Townley. You may depend on me.'
'All we know, or at least all he will tell us of Murdoch's--your
nephew's--illness, is that he was frightened at the ruin that night. He
did not lead us to infer--for this boy is honest--that the terror partook
of the supernatural, but he seemed pleased we did so infer.'
'Yes, Mr. Townley.'
'I watched by his bedside at night, when the fever was at its hottest. I
alone listened to his ravings. Such ravings have always, so doctors tell
us, a foundation in fact. He mentioned this ring over and over again. He
mentioned a vault; he mentioned a name, and starting sometimes from uneasy
slumber, prayed the owner of that name to spare him--to shoot him not.'
'And from this you deduce----'
'From this,' said Townley, 'I deduce that poor Murdoch had seen that ring
on the left hand of a villain who had threatened to shoot him, for some
potent reason or another, that Murdoch had seen that vault open, and that
he has been bound down by sacred oath not to reveal what he did see.'
'But oh, Mr. Townley, such oath could not, cannot be binding on the boy.
We must----'
'No, we must _not_, Miss M'Crimman. We must not put pressure on Murdoch at
present. We must not treat lightly his honest scruples. _You_ must leave
_me_ to work the matter out in my own way. Only, whenever I need your
assistance or friendship to aid me, I may ask for it, may I not?'
'Indeed you may, Mr. Townley.'
Her hand lay for one brief moment in his; then they got up silently and
resumed their walk.
Both were thinking now.