For the remainder of the night Count Victor's sleep was delicious or
disturbed by dreams in which the gloomy habitation of that strange
Highland country was lit with lamps--the brightest a woman's eyes.
Sometimes she was Cecile, dancing--all abandoned, a child of dalliance,
a nymph irresolute--to the music of a flageolet; sometimes another whose
radiance fascinated, whose presence yet had terror, for (in the manner
of dreams that at their maddest have some far-compassing and tremendous
philosophy such as in the waking world is found in poems) she was more
than herself, she was the other also, at least sharing the secrets of
that great sisterhood of immaculate and despoiled, and, looking in his
face, compelled to see his utter unworthiness.
He rose early and walked in the narrow garden, still sodden with rain,
though a bold, warm sun shone high to the east. For ordinary he was not
changeable, but an Olivia in Doom made a difference: those mouldering
walls contained her; she looked out on the sea from those high peering
windows; that bower would sometimes shelter her; those alien breezes
flowing continually round Doom were privileged to kiss her hair.
Positively there seems no great reason, after all, why he should be so
precipitate in his removal to the town! Indeed (he told himself with the
smile of his subconscious self at the subterfuge) there was a risk of
miscarriage for his mission among tattling _aubergistes_, lawyers, and
merchants. He was positively vexed when he encountered Mungo, and that
functionary informed him that, though he was early afoot, the Baron was
earlier still, and off to the burgh to arrange for his new lodgings.
This precipitancy seemed unpleasantly like haste to be rid of him.
“Ah,” said he to the little servant, “your master is so good, so kind,
so attentive. Yet I do not wonder, for your Highland hospitality is
renowned. I have heard much of it from the dear exiles--Glengarry _par
exemple_, when he desired to borrow the cost of a litre or the price
of the diligence to Dun-querque in the season when new-come Scots were
reaching there in a humour to be fleeced by a compatriot with three
languages at command and the boast of connections with Versailles.”
Mungo quite comprehended.
“Sir,” said he, with some feeling, “there was never bed nor board
grudged at Doom. It's like father like son a' through them. The Baron's
great-gutcher, auld Alan, ance thought the place no' braw enough for the
eye o' a grand pairty o' Irish nobeelity that had bidden themsel's to
see him, and the day they were to come he burned the place hauf doon. It
was grand summer weather, and he camped them i' the park behin' there,
sparing time nor money nor device in their entertainment. Ye see what
might hae been a kin' o' penury in a castle was the very extravagance o'
luxury in a camp. A hole in the hose is an accident nae gentleman
need be ashamed o', but the same darned is a disgrace, bein' poverty
confessed, as Annapla says.”
It was a touchy servant this, Montaiglon told himself--somewhat sharper,
too, than he had thought: he must hazard no unkind ironies upon the
master.
“Charming, charming! good Mungo,” said he. “The expedient might have
been devised by my own great-grandfather--a gentleman of--of--of
commercial pursuits in Lyons city. I am less fastidious, perhaps, than
the Irish, being very glad to take Doom Castle as I have the honour to
find it.”
“But ye're thinkin' the Baron is in a hurry to billet ye elsewhere,”
said the servant bluntly.
In an ordinary lackey this boldness would have been too much for
Count Victor; in this grotesque, so much in love, it seemed, with his
employer, and so much his familiar and friend in a ridiculous Scots
fashion, the impertinence appeared pardonable. Besides, he blamed
himself for the ill-breeding of his own irony.
“That, if I may be permitted to point it out, is not for us to consider,
Monsieur Mungo,” said he. “I have placed myself unreservedly in the
Baron's hands, and if he considers it good for my indifferent health
that I should change the air and take up my residence a little farther
along your delightful coast while my business as a wine merchant from
Bordeaux is marching, I have no doubt he has reason.”
A smile he made no effort to conceal stole over Mungo's visage.
“Wine merchant frae Bordeaux!” he cried. “I've seen a hantle o' them
hereaboots at the fish-curin' season, but they cam' in gabbarts to
French Foreland, and it wasnae usual for them to hae Coont to their
names nor whingers to their hips. It was mair ordinar the ink-horn at
their belts and the sporran at their groins.”
“A malediction on the creature's shrewdness!” said Count Victor
inwardly, while outwardly he simply smiled back.
“The red wine is my specialty,” said he, patting his side where the hilt
of his sword should be. “My whinger, as you call it, is an auger: who
the devil ever broached a pipe of Scots spirits with a penknife? But I
see you are too much in the confidence of the Baron for there to be any
necessity of concealment between us.”
“H'm!” exclaimed Mungo dryly, as one who has a sense of being flattered
too obviously. “The Baron's a bairn, like a' true gentlemen I've seen,
and he kens me lang enough and likes me weel enough to mak' nae secret
o' what it were to a'body's advantage should be nae secret to Mungo
Byde. In this place I'm sentinel, spy, and garrison; it wad ill become
the officer in command to let me be doin' my wark withoot some clew
to the maist important pairt o't. Ye're here on a search for ane
Drimdarroch.”
“You are a wizard, Monsieur Mungo!” cried Montaiglon, not without
chagrin at Doom's handing over so vast and vital a secret to a menial.
“Ay, and ye might think it droll that I should ken that; But I be't to
ken it, for there's mony a plot against my maister, and nae foreigneer
comes inside thae wa's whase pedigree I canna' hae an inklin' o'. Ye're
here aifter Drimdarroch, and ye're no' very sure aboot your host, and
that's the last thing I wad haggle wi' ye aboot, for your error'll come
to ye by-and-by.”
Count Victor waved a deprecating hand.
“Oh, I ken a' aboot what mak's ye sae suspicious,” went on Mungo,
undisturbed, “and it's a thing I could mak' clear to ye in a
quarter-hour's crack if I had his leave. Tak' my word for't, there's no'
a better man wi' his feet in brogues this day than the Baron o' Doom.
He should be searchin' the warld wi' the sword o' his faithers (and the
same he can use), but the damned thing is the warld for him doesna gang
by the snout o' Cowal and the pass o' Glencroe. He had a wife ance;
she's dead and buried in Kilmorich; noo he's doited on his hame and his
dochter--”
“The charming Olivia!” cried Count Victor, thinking in one detail at all
events to surprise this little custodian of all the secrets.
“Ye met her last night,” said Mungo, calmly, seeming to enjoy the
rapidity with which his proofs of omniscience could be put forth.
“That's half the secret. Ye were daunderin' aboot the lobby wi' thae
fine French manners I hae heard o'--frae the French theirsels--and wha'
wad blame ye in a hoose like this? And ye're early up the day, but the
lass was up earlier to tell me o' your meeting. She had to come to me
before Annapla was aboot, for Annapla's no' in this part o' the ploy at
all.”
“I protest I have no head for charades,” said Count Victor, with a
gesture of bewilderment. “I do not know what you mean.”
Mungo chuckled with huge satisfaction.
“Man, it's as plain's parridge! There's a gentleman in the toon down by
that's a hot wooer, and daddy's for nane o' his kind roon' Doom; d'ye
tak' me?”
“But still--but still--”
“But still the trystin' gaes on, ye were aboot to say. That's very true,
Coont, but it's only the like o' you and me that has nae dochters to
plague oorsel's wi' that can guess the like o' that. Ay, it gaes on as
ye say, and that's where me and Miss Olivia maun put oor trust in you.
In this affair I'll admit I'm a traitor in the camp--at least, to the
camp commander, but I think it's in a guid cause. The lassie's fair aff
her heid, and nae wonder, for he's a fine mak' o' a man.”
“And a good one, I hope?” interjected Count Victor.
“Humph!” said Mungo. “I thocht that wasna laid muckle stress on in
France. He's a takin' deevil, and the kind's but middlin' morally,
sae far as I had ony experience o' them. Guid or bad, Miss Olivia, nae
further gane nor last Friday, refused to promise she wad gie up meetin'
him--though she's the gem o' dochters, God bless her bonny een! His
lordship got up in a tirravee and ordered her to her room, wi' Annapla
for warder, till he should mak' arrangements for sending her to his
guid-sister's in the low country. Your comin' found us in a kin' o'
confusion, but ye might hac spared yersel' my trepannin' in the tolbooth
upstairs, and met her in a mair becomin' way at her faither's table if
it hadna been for Annapla.”
“For Annapla?” repeated Montaiglon.
“Oh, ah! Annapla has the Gift, ye ken. Dae ye think I wad hae been sae
ceevil the ither nicht to her when she was yelping on the stair-heid
if it hadna been her repute for the Evil E'e? Ye may lauch, but I could
tell tales o' Annapla's capacity. The night afore ye cam' she yoked
himsel' on his jyling the lassie, though she's the last that wad thraw
him. 'Oh.' said he, 'ye're a' tarred wi' the ae stick: if ye connive
at his comin' here without my kennin', I'll gie him death wi' his boots
on!' It was in the Gaelic this, ye maun ken; Annapla gied me't efter.
'Boots here, boots there,' quo' she, 'love's the fine adventurer, and I
see by the _griosach_' (that's the fire-embers, ye ken; between the ash
o' a peat and the creesh o' a candle thae kin' o' witches can tell ye
things frae noo to Hogmanay)--' I see by the _griosach_,' says she,
'that this ane'll come wi' his bare feet.' It staggered him; oh, ay! it
staggered him a bit. 'Barefit or brogues,' said he, 'she'll see no man
from this till the day she gaes!' And he's the man to keep his word; but
it looks as though we might shuffle the pack noo and start a new game,
for the plans o' flittin' her to Dunbarton hae fallen through, I hear,
and he'll hae to produce her before ye leave.”
“I'm in no hurry,” said Count Victor, coolly twisting his moustache.
“What! To hae her produced?” said the little man, slyly.
“_Farceur!_ No, to leave.”
“Indeed is that sae?” asked Mungo, in a quite new tone, and reddening.
“H'm! Ye may hae come barefit, but the ither ane has the preference.”
“He has my sincere felicitations, I assure you,” said Count Victor, “and
I can only hope he is worthy of the honour of Master Mungo's connivance
and the lady's devotion.”
“Oh! _he's_ a' richt! It's only a whim o' Doom's that mak's him
discoontenance the fellow. I'll allow the gentleman has a name for
gallantry and debt, and a wheen mair genteel vices that's neither here
nor there, but he's a pretty lad. He's the man for my fancy--six feet
tall, a back like a board, and an e'e like lightning. And he's nane the
waur o' ha'in' a great interest in Mungo Byde's storie.”
“Decidedly a diplomatist!” said Count Victor, laughing. “I always loved
an enthusiast; go on--go on, good Mungo. And so he is my nocturnal owl,
my flautist of the bower, my Orpheus of the mountains. Does the gifted
Annapla also connive, and are hers the window signals?”
“Annapla kens naething o' that--”
“The--what do you call it?--the Second Sight appears to have its
limitations.”
“At least if it does she's nane the less willin' to be an unconscious
aid, and put a flag at the window at the biddin' o' Olivia to keep the
witches awa'. The same flag that keeps aff a witch may easily fetch a
bogle. There's but ae time noo and then when it's safe for the lad to
venture frae the mainland, and for that there maun be a signal o' some
kind, otherwise, if I ken his spirit, he wad never be aff this rock. I'm
tellin' ye a' that by Mistress Olivia's command, and noo ye're in the
plot like the lave of us.”
Mungo heaved a deep breath as if relieved of a burden.
“Still--still,” said Count Victor, “one hesitates to mention it to so
excellent a custodian of the family reputation--still there are other
things to me somewhat--somewhat crepuscular.”
His deprecatory smile and the gesture of his hands and shoulders
conveyed his meaning.
“Ye're thinkin' o' the Baron in tartan,” said Mungo, bluntly. He smiled
oddly. “That's the funniest bit of all. If ye're here a while langer
that'll be plain to ye too. Between the darkest secrets and oor
understanding o' them there's whiles but a rag, and that minds me that
Mistress Olivia was behin' the arras tapestry chitterin' wi' fright when
ye broke in by her window. Sirs! sirs! what times we're ha'in; there's
ploy in the warld yet, and me unable--tuts! I'm no' that auld either.
And faith here's himsel'.”
Mungo punctiliously saluted his master as that gentleman emerged beneath
the frowning doorway and joined Count Victor in the dejected garden,
lifted the faggot of firewood he had laid at his feet during his talk
with the visitor, and sought his kitchen.
In Doom's aspect there was restraint: Count Victor shared the feeling,
for now he realised that, in some respects, at all events, he had been
doing an injustice to his host.
“I find, M. le Count,” said Doom, after some trivial introductories,
“that you cannot be accommodated in the inn down by for some days
yet--possibly another week. The Circuit Court has left a pack of the
legal gentlemen and jurymen there, who will not be persuaded to return
to Edinburgh so long as the cellar at the inn holds out, and my doer,
Mr. Petullo, expresses a difficulty in getting any other lodging.”
“I regret exceedingly--”
“No regret at all, M. le Count,” said Doom, “no regret at all, unless it
be that you must put up with a while longer of a house that must be very
dull to you. It is my privilege and pleasure to have you here--without
prejudice to your mission--and the only difficulty there might be about
it has been removed through--through--through your meeting with my
daughter Olivia. I learn you met her on the stair last night. Well--it
would look droll, I dare say, to have encountered that way, and no
word of her existence from me, but--but--but there has been a little
disagreement between us. I hope I am a decently indulgent father, M. le
Count, but--”
“You see before you one with great shame of his awkwardness, Baron,”
said Montaiglon. “Ordinarily, I should respect a host's privacy to the
extent that I should walk a hundred miles round rather than stumble upon
it, but this time I do not know whether to blame myself for my gaucherie
or feel pleased that for once it brought me into good company. Mungo has
just hinted with his customary discretion at the cause of the mystery.
I sympathise with the father; I am, with the daughter, _très charmé_
and--”
This hint of the gallant slightly ruffled Doom.
“Chut!” he cried. “The man with an only daughter had need be a man of
patience. I have done my best with this Olivia of mine. She lost her
mother when a child”--an accent of infinite tenderness here came to his
voice. “These woods and this shore and this lonely barn of ours, all
robbed of what once made it a palace to me and mine, were, I fancied,
uncongenial to her spirit, and I sent her to the Lowlands. She came
back, educated, as they call it--I think she brought back as good a
heart as she took away, but singularly little tolerance sometimes for
the life in the castle of Doom. It has been always the town for her
these six months, always the town, for there she fell in with a fellow
who is no fancy of mine.”
Count Victor listened sympathetically, somewhat envying the lover,
reviving in his mental vision the figure he had seen first twelve hours
ago or less. He was brought to a more vivid interest in the story by
the altered tone of Doom, who seemed to sour at the very mention of the
unwelcome cavalier.
“Count,” said he, “it's the failing of the sex--the very best of them,
because the simplest and the sweetest--that they will prefer a fool to a
wise man and a rogue to a gentleman. They're blind, because the rogue
is for ever showing off his sham good qualities till they shine
better than an ordinary decent man's may. To my eyes, if not quite to
my knowledge, this man is as great a scoundrel as was ever left unhung.
It's in his look--well, scarcely so, to tell the truth, but something
of it is in his mouth as well as in his history, and sooner than see my
daughter take up for life with a creature of his stamp I would have
her in her grave beside her mother. Unluckily, as I say, the man's a
plausible rogue: that's the most dangerous rogue of all, and the girl's
blind to all but the virtues and graces he makes a display of. I'll
forgive Petullo his cheatry in the common way of his craft sooner than
his introduction of such a man to my girl.”
To all this Count Victor could no more than murmur his sympathy, but he
had enough of the young gallant in him to make some mental reservations
in favour of the persistent wooer. It was an alluring type, this haunter
of the midnight bower, and melancholy sweet breather in the classic
reed. All the wooers of only daughters, he reminded himself, as well as
all the sweethearts of only sons, were unworthy in the eyes of parents,
and probably Mungo's unprejudiced attitude towards the conspiring lovers
was quite justified by the wooer's real character in spite of the ill
repute of his history. He reflected that this confidence of Doom's left
unexplained his own masquerade of the previous night, but he gave no
whisper to the thought, and had, indeed, forgotten it by evening, when
for the first time Olivia joined them at her father's table.