Petullo was from home. It was in such circumstances she found the
bondage least intolerable. Now she was to find his absence more than a
pleasant respite; it gave her an opportunity of warning Doom. She had
scarce made up her mind how he should be informed of the jeopardies that
menaced his guest, whose skaithless departure with Olivia was even, from
her point of view, a thing wholly desirable, when the Baron appeared
himself. It was not on the happiest of errands he came down on the first
day of favouring weather; it was to surrender the last remnant of his
right to the home of his ancestors. With the flourish of a quill he
brought three centuries of notable history to a close.
“Here's a lesson in humility, Mr. Campbell,” said he to Petullo's clerk.
“We builded with the sword, and fell upon the sheep-skin. Who would
think that so foolish a bird as the grey goose would have Doom and its
generations in its wing?”
He had about his shoulders a plaid that had once been of his tartan,
but had undergone the degradation of the dye-pot for a foolish and
tyrannical law; he threw it round him with a dignity that was half
defiance, and cast his last glance round the scene of his sorriest
experiences--the dusty writing-desks, the confusion of old letters; the
taped and dog-eared, fouled, and forgotten records of pithy causes;
and, finally, at the rampart of deed-chests, one of which had the name
“Drimdarroch” blazoned on it for remembrance if he had been in danger of
forgetting.
“And is it yourself, Baron?” cried a woman's voice as he turned to go.
“I am so sorry my husband is from home.”
He turned again with his hat off for the lady who had an influence on
his fate that he could never guess of.
“It is what is left of me, ma'am,” said he. “And it is more than is like
to be seen of me in these parts for many a day to come,” but with no
complaint in his expression.
“Ah,” said she, “I know; I know! and I am so sorry. You cannot leave
to-day of any day without a glass of wine for _deoch-an-doruis_.”
“I thank you, ma'am,” said Doom, “but my boat is at the quay, and Mungo
waits for me.”
“But, indeed, you must come in, Baron,” she insisted. “There is
something of the greatest importance I have to say to you, and it need
not detain you ten minutes.”
He followed her upstairs to her parlour. It was still early in the day
and there was something of the slattern in her dragging gown. As he
walked behind her, the remembrance would intrude of that betraying
letter, and he had the notion that perhaps she somehow knew he shared
her shameful secret. Nor was the idea dispelled when she stopped
and faced him in the privacy of her room with her eyes swollen and a
trembling under-lip.
“And it has come to this of it, Baron?” said she.
“It has come to this,” said Doom simply.
“I cannot tell you how vexed I am. But you know my husband--”
“I have the honour, ma'am,” said he, bowing with an old-fashioned
inclination.
“--You know my husband, a hard man, Baron, though I perhaps should be
the last to say it, and I have no say in his business affairs.”
“Which is doubtless proper enough,” said Doom, and thought of an irony
breeding forbade him to give utterance to.
“But I must tell you I think it is a scandal you should have to go from
the place of your inheritance; and your sweet girl too! I hope and trust
she is in good health and spirits?”
“My good girl is very well,” said he, “and with some reason for
cheerfulness in spite of our misfortunes. As for them, ma'am, I am old
enough to have seen and known a sufficiency of ups and downs, of flux
and change, to wonder at none of them. I am not going to say that what
has come to me is the most joco of happenings for a person like myself
that has more than ordinary of the sentimentalist in me, and is bound to
be wrapped up in the country-side hereabouts. But the tail may go with
the hide, as the saying runs. Doom, that's no more than a heart-break
of memories and an' empty shell, may very well join Duntorvil and
Drimdarroch and the Islands of Lochow, that have dribbled through the
courts of what they call the law and left me scarcely enough to bury
myself in another country than my own.”
Mrs. Petullo was not, in truth, wholly unmoved, but it was the actress
in her wrung her hands.
“I hear you are going abroad,” she cried. “That must be the hardest
thing of all.”
“I am not complaining, ma'am,” said Doom.
“No, no; but oh! it is so sad, Baron--and your dear girl too, so sweet
and nice--”
The Baron grew impatient; the “something of importance” was rather long
of finding an expression, and he took the liberty of interrupting.
“Quite so, ma'am,” said he, “but there was something in particular you
had to tell me. Mungo, as I mentioned, is waiting me at the quay, and
time presses, for we have much to do before we leave next week.”
A look of relief came to Mrs. Petullo's face.
“Next week!” she cried. “Oh, then, that goes far to set my mind at
ease.” Some colour came to her cheeks; she trifled with a handkerchief.
“What I wished to say, Baron, was that your daughter and--and--and the
French gentleman, with whom we are glad to hear she is like to make a
match of it, could not be away from this part of the country a day
too soon. I overheard a curious thing the other day, it is only fair I
should tell you, for it concerns your friend the French gentleman, and
it was that Simon MacTaggart knew the Frenchman was back in your house
and threatened trouble. There may be nothing in it, but I would not put
it past the same person, who is capable of any wickedness.”
“It is not the general belief, ma'am,” said the Baron, “but I'll take
your word for it, and, indeed, I have long had my own suspicions. Still,
I think the same gentleman has had his wings so recently clipped that we
need not be much put about at his threats.”
“I have it on the best authority that he broods mischief,” said she.
“The best authority,” repeated Doom, with never a doubt as to what that
was. “Well, it may be, but I have no fear of him. Once, I'll confess, he
troubled me, but the man is now no more than a rotten kail-stock so far
as my household is concerned. I thank God Olivia is happy!”
“And so do I, I'm sure, with all my heart,” chimed in the lady.
“And that is all the more reason why the Count--you see we know his
station--should be speedily out of the way of molestation, either from
the law or Simon MacTaggart.”
Doom made to bring the interview to a conclusion. “As to the Count,”
said he, “you can take my word for it, he is very well able to look
after himself, as Drimdarroch, or MacTaggart, or whatever is the
Chamberlain's whim to call himself, knows very well by now. Drimdarroch,
indeed! I could be kicking him myself for his fouling of an honest old
name.”
“Kicking!” said she; “I wonder at your leniency. I cannot but think you
are far from knowing the worst of Simon MacTaggart.”
“The worst!” said Doom. “That's between himself and Hell, but I know as
much as most, and it's enough to make me sure the man's as boss as an
empty barrel. He was once a sort of friend of mine, till twenty years
ago my wife grew to hate the very mention of his name. Since then I've
seen enough of him at a distance to read the plausible rogue in his
very step. The man wears every bawbee virtue he has like a brooch in
his bonnet; and now when I think of it, I would not dirty my boots with
him.”
Mrs. Petullo's lips parted. She hovered a second or two on a disclosure
that explained the wife's antipathy of twenty years ago, but it
involved confession of too intimate a footing on her own part with the
Chamberlain, and she said no more.