A RUIN AND A REUNION
THE next morning at breakfast Madeline announced that she had
found a ruined castle for Babbie.
“The one with the ivy on it is Dunollie,” she explained. “It belonged
to the giant Fingal once upon a time--he’s the giant that had the cave
out on one of those lovely purple islands, you know. He must have
either lived in this castle, or visited here often, because there is a
stone in the yard that he used to tie his dog to.”
“And who used to live in my castle?” inquired Babbie, making a wry face
as she tasted the queer English coffee. “I don’t wonder the English
drink tea for breakfast rather than this horrible stuff. I’m going to
have milk. Whose turn is it to ring the bell? Now, Madeline,” when
Betty had proudly pulled the bell-cord, and taken her seat again,
“tell us all about my castle.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Madeline, “except that it is
named Dunstaffnage, and it’s somewhere on the shore, a few miles north
of Oban. I presume our landlady can tell us just how to get to it.”
“You’re sure it’s not on any tram-line?” inquired Babbie anxiously. “I
don’t want the kind of ruin that’s on a tram-line, you know.”
“No, it’s not that kind,” Madeline assured her. “You have to drive or
walk to get there.”
“We’ll walk, of course,” said Babe, and everybody agreed, though their
landlady assured them it was a “right smart distance awa’.”
“But ye’ll be all the hungrier for your dinner,” she added comfortably.
“What will ye have for yer dinner?”
“Why, anything you like to give us,” said Betty, to whom she had
addressed her remark.
“Verra well. Lamb, perhaps, and strawberry tartlets?”
“Strawberry tartlets for mine,” cried Babe, throwing her
tam-o’-shanter in the air. “We’ll be back in time for strawberry
tartlets, no matter how good a time we’re having.”
So they started briskly off to find the castle,--a merry party in
tam-o’-shanters and sweaters,--for the wind fairly whistled across the
moors, and it seemed more like November than July, Betty said.
“That’s because Scotland is so far north,” said Babe wisely. “The long
twilights come from that too. It’s almost like the land of the midnight
sun.”
“Well, it’s certainly awfully cold,” said Babbie. “Let’s race.”
So they raced down the hard white road till they had reached the
graveyard that their landlady had named to them as a landmark.
“This must be the road she told us to take across the fields,” said
Babe, pointing to a grassy track that turned off the highroad toward
the sea.
“I should call that a path, not a road,” Madeline objected.
“I’ll go ahead and see if there’s any other turning,” suggested Betty.
There didn’t seem to be any, so they took the grassy path--or tried
to. A little way down it were some bars, and when they went through
them into the pasture an old black cow rushed out from a clump of
bushes and ran at them fiercely with her head down.
Betty and Babbie screamed in terror and scrambled back to the safe side
of the fence; Madeline followed them more deliberately, and even Babe,
the bold and fearless explorer of cow-pastures, finally climbed to the
top of the fence, where she sat astride the highest board to await
developments. The cow watched the retreat with interest and after a few
minutes wandered idly off to the grassy spot where the rest of the herd
were grazing.
“Come on,” said Babe encouragingly, when the cow’s back was safely
turned. “She won’t come at us again, I’m sure. If she does, I’ll
protect you. Hurry up, Madeline. We’ve got to find the castle and get
back in time for the strawberry tartlets.”
So first Babe climbed down into the pasture, then Madeline crawled
through the bars, with Babe after her and Betty bringing up the rear.
But no sooner had Betty pushed safely through than the old black cow
turned her head, discovered what had happened, and charged as fiercely
as before.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Babe, from her perch on the fence, “she wouldn’t
really hurt us, I’m sure of it. She’s just curious about us. Cows are
awfully curious animals.”
“She shows her curiosity in a very peculiar way,” declared Babbie. “She
doesn’t want us in her pasture--that’s very evident.”
“Being a loyal Scotch cow, she objects to an American invasion,”
laughed Madeline. “See her eating away as calmly as if we didn’t exist.
Let’s be awfully quiet getting through this time and perhaps we can cut
across a corner of the pasture before she discovers us.”
But they couldn’t. This time Betty was the first one to follow the
intrepid Babe into the enemy’s country, and as soon as her head
appeared between the bars the old cow stopped eating and came toward
her. Then Babe had an idea.
“It’s your red cap, Betty,” she cried. “Hide it and see what happens.”
In nervous haste Betty pulled out her hatpins and tucked the scarlet
tam-o’-shanter out of sight under her white sweater. Whereupon the
black cow lowed amiably and turned her head to nip a tempting tuft of
clover.
“Well, so that was what she wanted,” said Babbie indignantly. “I
supposed it was all a myth about cows chasing red, didn’t you, Babe?”
“I didn’t know,” said Babe carelessly, striding through the bushes.
“Anyhow, I’m mighty glad we’re off. We shall never find your castle at
this rate.”
“Do you know,” said Betty reflectively, “this is a real story-book
country that we’re in. Even the cows act as they do in story-books.”
“Well, the roads don’t,” objected Madeline. “This one has come to a
plain, unvarnished end, as roads and other things have a way of doing
in real life. Why, it’s brought us right down to the sea!”
Sure enough, they had come out on a strip of sandy beach, with a little
cluster of bath houses at one end. A girl was standing in the door of
one of them.
“Go ask her the way, Madeline,” commanded Babbie. “You’re the only one
that can remember the name of my castle.”
So Madeline went, and returned with the news that they had taken the
wrong turn at the cemetery and must go back through the pasture to the
road on the hill.
“Never,” declared Babe firmly. “That cow would have a chance to say, ‘I
told you so.’ She was evidently trying to tell us that we were on the
wrong track. Didn’t you say the castle was near the water? If so, why
can’t we go to it along the shore? It’s a lot prettier down here.”
So Madeline interviewed the bath-house girl again.
“She was very discouraging about it,” she announced. “She said it was
awfully rough, with nothing but sheep-trails to walk on, but we can try
it if you all want to.”
It was great fun walking on the sheep-trails close by the edge of the
sea, with the gorse and heather that they had always read about under
their very feet, and the expectation of seeing the castle as they
rounded each headland. But presently they came to a fence--a high,
close-meshed wire fence with a strand of barbed wire on top.
“Looks as if it was meant to keep people out, now doesn’t it?” said
Babe cheerfully.
“Come and help me over,” called Babbie, trying to dig her toes into the
wire meshes.
“Isn’t trespassing a dreadful crime over here?” asked Betty anxiously,
when they had all succeeded in getting over.
“Dreadful,” answered Madeline solemnly, “but the cliffs are too steep
to climb, and we can’t go all the way back to the beach. Besides, we
haven’t any guns. Trespassers are always supposed to be looking for
game, I think.”
Part of the way the sheep-trail led so near to the water’s edge that it
made Babbie dizzy, and once they had to cross a rickety little wooden
bridge over a deep ravine and Betty got over only by bravely shutting
her eyes and trying to believe Babe’s blithe assertion that a good fat
sheep, like those they saw on the hillsides, must weigh almost as much
as a smallish girl. But the worst of it was, they couldn’t find the
castle.
“Lost: one perfectly good ruin, well off tram-lines,” chanted Babbie
wearily. “The cliffs aren’t steep here. Let’s climb up to the highest
point and see if we can’t find a farmhouse where we can ask our way.”
But at the same moment that they discovered the farmhouse they saw the
castle--or rather a thickly wooded point where Babe was sure it was
hidden, so they pushed straight on without stopping to make inquiries.
A low stone wall separated the wood from the moorland, and Babe was
just stepping over it, when she stopped and gave a funny little
exclamation.
“Our Dutchmen,” she said to Madeline. “They must be the wardens of the
castle. Anyhow they’re camping in the wood.”
“Can’t we go on?” inquired Babbie anxiously.
“Of course,” said Madeline with decision. “Baedeker would have told us
if it hadn’t been open to tourists. Come on, Babbie.”
The four had climbed the wall and were walking demurely through the
wood, politely keeping as far as possible from the tent, when Babbie
happened to catch sight of Babe’s and Madeline’s Dutchmen, who had been
lying comfortably on the ground in front of their tent, and now were
sitting up, apparently quite absorbed in the books they were reading.
“Dutchmen indeed!” said Babbie coolly. “Why, it’s John Morton. Oh,
Jackie Morton!” she raised her voice. “What are you doing camping out
in the enchanted wood of my castle?”
At this one of the campers dropped his book, stared in the direction
from which Babbie’s voice had come, and jumping up came quickly toward
her.
“Well, this is funny,” he declared, wringing her hand, “because I was
just thinking about the jolly summer we had up at Sunset Lake and
wishing the same old crowd was here to tramp over the moors and picnic
and sail and have bully times together.”
Babbie laughed and introduced him to Babe, Betty, and Madeline, and he,
in his turn, called to his companion to come and meet everybody.
“It’s my tutor--Max Dwight,” he explained hastily in an aside to
Babbie. “He’s just out of college himself, and he’s a mighty good
sort, if he does try to keep me everlastingly plugging. I say, Babbie,
are you through school yet?”
“Through college,” Babbie corrected him with dignity. “We’re all
Harding 19--’s.”
“Gee!” John’s face expressed deep concern. “I’m scared. Girls frighten
me to death anyhow, and four B. A.’s! Let’s stroll off somewhere by
ourselves and talk.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Babbie. “College girls aren’t blue-stockings
nowadays. Why aren’t you a B. A. yourself, John? You were going to be a
junior the year after that summer in the mountains.”
John nodded. “I got flunked out of my class,” he explained carelessly.
“I suppose girls never get into that fix, but plenty of fellows
do,--bright ones at that.”
“Why, John Morton!” Babbie’s tone was very scornful. “I didn’t think
you were that kind. Oh, yes, some Harding girls get flunked out, but
none of our crowd would. We’ve got too much pride.”
“That’s all very well to say,” John returned sulkily. “You went to
college because you wanted to, I suppose. I went because my father
wanted to and couldn’t, so he made me. I got as much fun out of it as
I could, and did as little work, and I don’t care what you think about
it.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Babbie coolly. “You care a lot.” Then she
smiled and held out her hand. “Don’t let’s quarrel this morning. If
you look so glum the girls will think all I’ve said about your being
such a jolly lot is a fairy-tale. I caught a glimpse of you in Glasgow,
you know, and I wanted to climb down from the top of a two-story tram
to rush back and speak to you. But the tram started just then and I
couldn’t.”
John laughed. “Wanting to climb down from the top of a tram to see a
fellow is certainly a proof of true friendship. We’ll have our quarrel
out some other day.”
“All right,” Babbie agreed, leading the way back to the others. “But
you’d better settle your score with Babe and Madeline right away.”
“Settle with Babe and Madeline,” repeated John. “What do you mean?”
“You’re really even,” Babbie pursued, not wanting to embarrass John
immediately after their reconciliation, “because if you commented on
their stride, they came home and told Betty and me about meeting some
Dutchmen.”
“Oh, I say!” John’s face lighted and then he blushed, as he recognized
Babe and Madeline. “You were the ones we met on the parade. I’m very
sorry. So few people know Dutch, and you were sprinting, you know.”
The girls declared that he was quite excusable, but Babbie warned him
that he wouldn’t be safe in using even Bengali when Madeline was around.
“And I shall have to be careful of you,” said Madeline. “Where did you
learn so many languages, Mr. Morton?”
“Oh, dad’s in an importing business with branches all over the world,
and his agents sometimes come to New York. I like to go down to the
warehouses and talk to them, and I can manage to say a little in ten
different languages. It’s positively my only accomplishment,” added
John modestly.
“And now please show us over my castle,” Babbie demanded.
“May I ask by what right you claim the ownership of Dunstaffnage?”
asked Mr. Dwight laughingly.
“Oh, I wanted a ruin,” explained Babbie, “and Madeline--Miss
Ayres--picked this one out for me. But I shan’t accept it unless it’s a
perfectly lovely one.”
“It is, though,” John assured her. “As far as I know, it can’t be
beaten anywhere in Europe. How did you girls happen to come in by the
back way?”
“We were glad enough to get here by any way,” laughed Babe. “Is this
the back entrance, and are you the wardens of it?”
“No, but we’re the proud possessors of a permit from the owner to camp
on his premises,” said John. “We got tired of the Oban hotels, and
liked this beech-wood and the castle so much that we wanted to board
near by. The people at the farm down the road that you should have come
by were willing to feed us, but hadn’t any extra rooms, so I suggested
a tent--I camped all last summer up in Canada--and here we are. If
you’re going to be lady of the castle, Babbie, you’ll have to let us be
its lords.”
“All right,” agreed Babbie, leading the way along a mossy path between
the tall beeches. Presently she gave an exclamation of dismay. “Oh, but
it’s such a very small castle! I thought it would be big and have a
rampart and a moat.”
“That’s only the chapel, silly,” John explained. “The castle is farther
on.”
“A chapel! Oh, what a darling one!” cried Betty. “I want the chapel for
mine, Babbie. You can have the castle.”
“I approve your taste, Miss Wales,” said Mr. Dwight. “I think that
little ivy-covered ruin, hidden among the trees, is lovelier than any
castle. Come inside and see the stones.”
“Whose graves are they?” asked Betty, following Mr. Dwight across the
broken threshold.
“They’re not legibly marked, except this one. Some of the ancient
owners of the castle, I suppose.”
“Who did own it?” asked Betty eagerly.
“The old Scottish kings, first of all. They held their court here for
hundreds of years, and kept the famous coronation stone here--the one
that’s now in Westminster Abbey--until the Norwegians got to be too
much for them and they moved the stone to Scone. Then the Norwegians
took Dunstaffnage, and after them, their descendants, the Lords of
Argyll and Lorne. In Bruce’s time Alexander of Argyll and his son John
of Lorne were bitter enemies of the king and almost overthrew him. But
Bruce conquered John in the Pass of Brander, close by here, and shut
up old Alexander in his own castle. So the family lost their lands to
the crown, though they lived on here for over a century longer, and
James, Earl of Douglas, met the heads of the family here and tried to
induce them to join his cause. In more modern times Flora Macdonald was
imprisoned here for helping bonnie Prince Charlie to outwit his enemies
and escape to France.”
“How interesting!” said Betty eagerly. “It just gives you thrills to
think that you’re standing on such historic ground, doesn’t it? Now I
want to see the castle.”
While Betty and Mr. Dwight had been talking in the chapel, Babbie had
hurried the others through the wood and around to the front of the
castle where the entrance was.
“They couldn’t have doorways on the side toward the sea,” John
explained, “because the enemy would have come in small boats, crept up
through the wood in the dark, and surrounded them.”
“We can go inside, can’t we?” asked Babbie eagerly, and by the time
Betty appeared, Babbie and John were perched on the narrow ledge that
ran almost all the way around the top of the crumbling castle wall.
“It’s great!” Babbie cried to the rest, making a trumpet of her hands.
“You can see ever so far. Come up, all of you!”
So the rest, who had dropped down on the grass to rest after their long
walk, climbed the narrow, steep stone stairway and emerged on the ledge.
As Babbie had said, it was “great” up there. The castle stood on a
promontory at the mouth of a beautiful loch--which, as the girls had
already discovered on their way up to Oban, often means simply an arm
of the sea, of which, owing to the irregularity of the coastline, there
are a great many in Scotland. You could see far up the loch in one
direction and out to the open sea in the other, and in the background
loomed great, mist-shrouded peaks, wild and terrible, with stretches
of lonely moorland in the nearer distance.
[Illustration: “COME UP, ALL OF YOU”]
“What is this?” asked Babe, pointing to a rusty iron standard fastened
to the top of the castle’s sea-wall.
“That’s a beacon-holder,” Mr. Dwight told her. “In the good old days
of the Border Wars, this castle used to be a station in the chain of
signal fires. They fastened a bundle of fagots into that frame and set
them on fire, and the chief in the castle over there on one of those
purple islands, and the clan gathered on the slope of Ben Cruachan,
that highest peak up at the head of the loch, saw the fire, and knew
what it meant.”
“What did it mean?” demanded Babe.
“Different things at different times,” explained Mr. Dwight, “but
generally death and pillage for somebody.”
Babbie gave a little sigh of satisfaction. “How lovely! I accept
my castle, Madeline, with many thanks. I wish it had some rooms
down-stairs to explore, and a dungeon, but it’s very nice just as it
is. It’s so absolutely unspoiled.”
“It certainly doesn’t look much like that dreadful cottage at Ayr,”
laughed Betty. “Did you go to Ayr, Mr. Morton?”
John nodded. “Silly little place, isn’t it? I say, Babbie, there is one
thing that this castle lacks. Dwight and I were talking about it this
morning before you came. Don’t you know what it is?”
Babbie considered, frowning. “No, I don’t, and it isn’t nice of you to
pick flaws in my castle, John.”
“I’m not picking flaws,” retorted John. “I’m just calling your
attention to any little defects I’ve noticed, so that you won’t accept
your castle in ignorance and live to repent your rash act later. Can’t
any of you guess what I mean?”
“I can,” said Madeline promptly. “It ought to have a ghost. No castle
is complete without one. But are you perfectly sure this hasn’t any?”
“I’m afraid it hasn’t,” said John solemnly. “We’ve been here three
nights now, and no ghost has walked so far. Besides I consulted the
family who live in the farm attached to the castle, and they stoutly
deny the existence of a ghost.”
“Oh, but that doesn’t prove anything,” declared Madeline. “Don’t you
know that the lords of the castle and their retainers always deny the
existence of a ghost? They regard it as a blemish on the property.”
“How absurd of them,” sighed Babbie. “Oh, dear, now that you’ve
mentioned it, I do want my castle to have a ghost, and I believe it has
one, too. Who knows about the history of Dunstaffnage? Wasn’t anybody
ever murdered here, or didn’t some beautiful lady pine away for love?
Those are the most likely kinds of ghosts, aren’t they, Madeline?”
Madeline nodded. “When we get back to Oban, we’ll try to find a history
of the castle and perhaps we can unearth a ghost for you.”
“Oh, Mr. Dwight!” Betty and Mr. Dwight held a whispered conference,
then she turned to Babbie.
“We’ve thought of a ghost for you. Her name is Flora Macdonald. She
was imprisoned here once, because she had tried to help bonnie Prince
Charles to escape, after there was a price set on his head.”
“And now she walks in the beech-wood?” asked Babbie eagerly.
Betty looked questioningly at Mr. Dwight. “She ought to,” he said
laughingly, “since the fair lady of the castle wishes it. I’ll inquire
more particularly of the farm people and let you know next time you pay
a visit to your domain.”
“I suppose we ought to be going back now,” said Babbie regretfully,
leaving her comfortable perch on the castle-wall.
“I should think so. We’ve forgotten the strawberry tartlets,” cried
Babe in tragic tones. “It’s half-past twelve now, and our dinner is at
one.”
“You can’t possibly make it,” said John. “You’d better stay and have a
bite with us at the farm. It isn’t elegant, but everything tastes good,
and you must be famished.”
“We are,” sighed Madeline.
“But we’ve got to go back for our own dinner,” declared Babe sternly.
“Miss MacNish suggested the tartlets on purpose to please us, you know,
and it wouldn’t be nice of us not to go back. It’s only three miles by
road, Mr. Morton says, so we ought to be there by a quarter past one.”
“You won’t even stop for a drink of milk?” urged John.
Babbie shook her head. “It would take too long. Come and see us, John,
and you too, Mr. Dwight. We’re at Daisybank Villa. I don’t know the
street, but you can ask.”
“Oh, we’ll find it all right,” John assured her. “I say, can’t we take
some trips together, or some tramps?”
“Of course,” Babbie promised him, hurrying after the others. “We’ll
arrange it when you come.”
John looked after the party admiringly. “I like their spirit,” he said
to Mr. Dwight, “going back so as not to disappoint their landlady.
Babbie Hildreth is always like that--just as fair and square as any
fellow you can name. She’s jolly too--if she did graduate from college.
I say, Dwight, I’m much obliged to you for giving me the morning off,
and I’ll make up for it this afternoon, sure enough.”
Which was such an unprecedentedly docile attitude on the part of John
Morton that his bewildered tutor hoped Babbie Hildreth and her friends
would continue to stay in Oban and exercise their beneficent influence.