THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER.
Brooding--if a man of his temperament may ever be said to brood--over
the sad history of his young wife and the prospects of his daughter,
the marquis rode over fields and through gates--he never had been one
to jump a fence in cold blood--till the darkness began to fall; and
the bearings of his perplexed position came plainly before him.
First of all, Malcolm acknowledged and the date of his mother's death
known, what would Florimel be in the eyes of the world? Supposing the
world deceived by the statement that his mother died when he was born,
where yet was the future he had marked out for her? He had no money to
leave her, and she must be helplessly dependent on her brother.
Malcolm, on the other hand, might make a good match, or, with the
advantages he could secure him in the army, still better in the navy,
well enough push his way in the world.
Miss Horn could produce no testimony, and Mrs. Catanach had asserted
him to be the son of Mrs. Stewart. He had seen enough, however, to
make him dread certain possible results if Malcolm were acknowledged
as the laird of Kirkbyres. No: there was but one hopeful measure, one
which he had even already approached in a tentative way--an appeal,
namely, to Malcolm himself, in which, while acknowledging his probable
rights, but representing in the strongest manner the difficulty of
proving them, he would set forth in their full dismay the consequences
to Florimel of their public recognition, and offer, upon the pledge
of his word to a certain line of conduct, to start him in any path he
chose to follow.
Having thought the thing out pretty thoroughly, as he fancied, and
resolved at the same time to feel his way toward negotiations with
Mistress Catanach, he turned and rode home.
After a tolerable dinner he was sitting over a bottle of the port
which he prized beyond anything else his succession had brought
him, when the door of the dining-room opened suddenly and the butler
appeared, pale with terror. "My lord! my lord!" he stammered as he
closed the door behind him.
"Well? What the devil's the matter now? Whose cow's dead?"
"Your lordship didn't hear it, then?" faltered the butler.
"You've been drinking, Bings," said the marquis, lifting his seventh
glass of port.
"_I_ didn't say I heard it, my lord."
"Heard what, in the name of Beelzebub?"
"The ghost, my lord."
"The what?" shouted the marquis.
"That's what they call it, my lord. It's all along of having that
wizard's chamber in the house, my lord."
"You're a set of fools," said the marquis--"the whole kit of you!"
"That's what I say, my lord. I don't know what to do with them,
stericking and screaming. Mrs. Courthope is trying her best with them,
but it's my belief she's about as bad herself."
The marquis finished his glass of wine, poured out and drank another,
then walked to the door. When the butler opened it a strange sight
met his eyes. All the servants in the house, men and women, Duncan and
Malcolm alone excepted, had crowded after the butler, every one afraid
of being left behind; and there gleamed the crowd of ghastly faces
in the light of the great hall-fire. Demon stood in front, his mane
bristling and his eyes flaming. Such was the silence that the marquis
heard the low howl of the waking wind, and the snow like the patting
of soft hands against the windows. He stood for a moment, more than
half enjoying their terror, when from somewhere in the building a
far-off shriek, shrill and piercing, rang in every ear. Some of the
men drew in their breath with a gasping sob, but most of the women
screamed outright; and that set the marquis cursing.
Duncan and Malcolm had but just entered the bed-room of the latter
when the shriek rent the air close beside, and for a moment deafened
them. So agonized, so shrill, so full of dismal terror was it, that
Malcolm stood aghast, and Duncan started to his feet with responsive
outcry. But Malcolm at once recovered himself. "Bide here till I come
back," he whispered, and hurried noiselessly out.
In a few minutes he returned, during which all had been still. "Noo,
daddy," he said, "I'm gaein' to drive in the door o' the neist room.
There's some deevilry at wark there. Stan' ye i' the door, an' ghaist
or deevil 'at wad win by ye, grip it, an' haud on like Demon the dog."
"She will so, she will so," muttered Duncan in a strange tone.
"Ochone! that she'll not pe hafing her turk with her! Ochone! ochone!"
Malcolm took the key of the wizard's chamber from his chest and his
candle from the table, which he set down in the passage. In a moment
he had unlocked the door, put his shoulder to it and burst it open.
A light was extinguished, and a shapeless figure went gliding away
through the gloom. It was no shadow, however, for, dashing itself
against a door at the other side of the chamber, it staggered back
with an imprecation of fury and fear, pressed two hands to its head,
and, turning at bay, revealed the face of Mrs. Catanach.
In the door stood the blind piper with outstretched arms and hands
ready to clutch, the fingers curved like claws, his knees and haunches
bent, leaning forward like a rampant beast prepared to spring. In his
face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust--an enmity of all mingled
kinds.
Malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she turned Mrs,
Catanach saw only Duncan's white face of hatred gleaming through the
darkness. "Ye auld donnert deevil!" she cried, with an addition too
coarse to be set down, and threw herself upon him.
The old man said never a word, but with indrawn breath hissing through
his clenched teeth clutched her, and down they went together in the
passage, the piper undermost. He had her by the throat, it is true,
but she had her fingers in his eyes, and, kneeling on his chest, kept
him down with a vigor of hostile effort that drew the very picture of
murder. It lasted but a moment, however, for the old man, spurred
by torture as well as hate, gathered what survived of a most sinewy
strength into one huge heave, threw her back into the room, and rose
with the blood streaming from his eyes, just as the marquis came round
the near end of the passage, followed by Mrs. Courthope, the butler,
Stoat and two of the footmen. Heartily enjoying a row, he stopped
instantly, and, signing a halt to his followers, stood listening to
the mud-geyser that now burst from Mrs. Catanach's throat.
"Ye blin' abortion o' Sawtan's soo!" she cried, "didna I tak ye to
du wi' ye as I likit? An' that deil's tripe ye ca' yer oye
(_grandson_)--He! he! _him_ yer gran'son! He's naething but ane o' yer
hatit Cawm'ells!"
"A teanga a' diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag dènamh breug (O tongue of the
great devil! thou art making a lie)," screamed Duncan, speaking for
the first time.
"God lay me deid i' my sins gien he be onything but a bastard
Cawm'ell!" she asseverated with a laugh of demoniacal scorn. "Yer
dautit (_petted_) Ma'colm's naething but the dyke-side brat o' the
late Grizel Cawm'ell, 'at the fowk tuik for a sant 'cause she grat
an' said naething. I laid the Cawm'ell pup i' yer boody (_scarecrow_)
airms wi' my ain han's, upo' the tap o' yer curst scraighin' bagpipes
'at sae aften drave the sleep frae my een. Na, ye wad nane o' me! But
I ga'e ye a Cawm'ell bairn to yer hert for a' that, ye auld, hungert,
weyver (_spider_)-leggit, worm-aten idiot!"
A torrent of Gaelic broke from Duncan, into the midst of which rushed
another from Mrs. Catanach, similar, but coarse in vowel and harsh
in consonant sounds. The marquis stepped into the room. "What is the
meaning of all this?" he said with dignity.
The tumult of Celtic altercation ceased. The old piper drew himself up
to his full height and stood silent. Mrs. Catanach, red as fire
with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale. The marquis cast on her a
searching and significant look.
"See here, my lord," said Malcolm.
Candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed. At the same moment
Mrs. Catanach glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of
mutual intelligence to the group at the door, and vanished.
On Malcolm's arm lay the head of a young girl. Her thin, worn
countenance was stained with tears and livid with suffocation. She was
recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless.
"It's Phemy, my lord--Blue Peter's lassie, 'at was tint," said
Malcolm.
"It begins to look serious," said the marquis.--"Mrs. Catanach! Mrs.
Courthope!"
He turned toward the door. Mrs. Courthope entered, and a head or two
peeped in after her. Duncan stood as before, drawn up and stately, his
visage working, but his body motionless as the statue of a sentinel.
"Where is the Catanach woman gone?" cried the marquis.
"Cone!" shouted the piper. "Cone! and her huspant will be waiting to
pe killing her! Och nan ochan!"
"Her husband!" echoed the marquis.
"Ach! she'll not can pe helping it, my lort--no more till one will
pe tead; and tat should pe ta woman, for she'll pe a paad woman--ta
worstest woman efer was married, my lort."
"That's saying a good deal," returned the marquis.
"Not one wort more as enough, my lort," said Duncan. "She was only pe
her next wife, put, ochone! ochone! why did she'll pe marry her? You
would haf stapt her long aco, my lort, if she'll was your wife and
you was knowing ta tamned fox and padger she was pe. Ochone! and she
tidn't pe have her turk at her hench nor her sgian in her hose."
He shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and wept in
the agony of frustrated rage.
Mrs. Courthope took Phemy in her arms and carried her to her own room,
where she opened the window and let the snowy wind blow full upon her.
As soon as she came quite to herself, Malcolm set out to bear the good
tidings to her father and mother.
Only a few nights before had Phemy been taken to the room where they
found her. She had been carried from place to place, and had been some
time, she believed, in Mrs. Catanach's own house. They had always kept
her in the dark, and removed her at night blindfolded. When asked if
she had never cried out before, she said she had been too frightened;
and when questioned as to what had made her do so then, she knew
nothing of it: she remembered only that a horrible creature appeared
by the bedside, after which all was blank. On the floor they found
a hideous death-mask, doubtless the cause of the screams which Mrs.
Catanach had sought to stifle with the pillows and bed-clothes.
When Malcolm returned he went at once to the piper's cottage, where
he found him in bed, utterly exhausted and as utterly restless. "Weel,
daddy," he said, "I doobt I daurna come near ye noo."
"Come to her arms, my poor poy," faltered Duncan. "She'll pe sorry in
her sore heart for her poy. Nefer you pe minding, my son: you couldn't
help ta Cam'ell mother, and you'll pe her own poy however. Ochone! it
will pe a plot upon you aal your tays, my son, and she'll not can help
you, and it'll pe preaking her old heart."
"Gien God thoucht the Cam'ells worth makin', daddy, I dinna see 'at I
hae ony richt to compleen 'at I cam' o' them."
"She hopes you'll pe forgifing ta plind old man, however. She couldn't
see, or she would haf known at once petter."
"I dinna ken what ye're efter noo, daddy," said Malcolm.
"That she'll do you a creat wrong, and she'll be ferry sorry for it,
my son."
"What wrang did ye ever du me, daddy?"
"That she was let you crow up a Cam'ell, my poy. If she tid put know
ta paad blood was pe in you, she wouldn't pe tone you ta wrong as
pring you up."
"That's a wrang no ill to forgi'e, daddy. But it's a pity ye didna
lat me lie, for maybe syne Mistress Catanach wad hae broucht me up
hersel', an' I micht hae come to something."
"Ta duvil mhor (_great_) would pe in your heart and prain and poosom,
my son."
"Weel, ye see what ye hae saved me frae."
"Yes; put ta duvil will be to pay, for she couldn't safe you from ta
Cam'ell plood, my son. Malcolm, my poy," he added after a pause, and
with the solemnity of a mighty hate, "ta efil woman herself will pe a
Cam'ell--ta woman Catanach will pe a Cam'ell, and her nainsel' she'll
not know it pefore she'll be in ta ped with ta worstest Cam'ell tat
ever God made; and she pecks his pardon, for she'll not pelieve He
wass making ta Cam'ells."
"Divna ye think God made me, daddy?" asked Malcolm.
The old man thought for a little. "Tat will tepend on who was pe your
father, my son," he replied. "If he too will be a Cam'ell--ochone!
ochone! Put tere may pe some coot plood co into you--more as enough to
say God will pe make you, my son. Put don't pe asking, Malcolm--ton't
you'll pe asking."
"What am I no to ask, daddy?"
"Ton't pe asking who made you, who was ta father to you, my poy. She
would rather not pe knowing, for ta man might pe a Cam'ell poth. And
if she couldn't pe lofing you no more, my son, she would pe tie before
her time, and her tays would pe long in ta land under ta crass, my
son."
But the remembrance of the sweet face whose cold loveliness he had
once kissed was enough to outweigh with Malcolm all the prejudices of
Duncan's instillation, and he was proud to take up even her shame.
To pass from Mrs. Stewart to her was to escape from the clutches of a
vampire demon to the arms of a sweet mother-angel.
Deeply concerned for the newly-discovered misfortunes of the old man
to whom he was indebted for this world's life at least, he anxiously
sought to soothe him; but he had far more and far worse to torment him
than Malcolm even yet knew, and with burning cheeks and bloodshot
eyes he lay tossing from side to side, now uttering terrible curses
in Gaelic and now weeping bitterly. Malcolm took his loved pipes, and
with the gentlest notes he could draw from them tried to charm to rest
the ruffled waters of his spirit; but his efforts were all in vain,
and believing at length that he would be quieter without him, he went
to the House and to his own room.
The door of the adjoining chamber stood open, and the long-forbidden
room lay exposed to any eye. Little did Malcolm think as he gazed
around it that it was the room in which he had first breathed the air
of the world; in which his mother had wept over her own false position
and his reported death; and from which he had been carried, by
Duncan's wicked wife, down the ruinous stair and away to the lip of
the sea, to find a home in the arms of the man whom he had just
left on his lonely couch torn between the conflicting emotions of a
gracious love for him and the frightful hate of her.