Marmaduke Muir had meanwhile found his familiar way through the low
arch which, piercing the extreme corner of the eastern side of the
quadrangle, formed the connecting link between the older part of
Drummuir Castle and the new. For the rest, this eastern wall showed
blank save for a loophole or two. It was, in effect, simply the back
wall of what in Scotland is called the square; that is, the
continuation of stables, cow-houses and woodsheds which appertain
to a country mansion in the north. It had evidently been built as a
wind-screen to the western wing, which, overlooking the river, had
been the residential portion of the house before the southern wing had
been added to close in the quadrangle. Altogether it was a fine old
place, magnificently situated in the slight hollow which dipped
between the high old red sandstone cliffs of the Aberdeenshire coast,
and the lower yet still high old red sandstone cliffs which for a mile
or two formed the eastward bank of the river Drum. Standing still on
the grass-plot in the centre of the courtyard a quick ear could detect
two water sounds--the rhythmic roll of the waves of the North Sea on
the one hand, and the incessant rush of the running river on the
other.
Marmaduke did not pause to listen. He only felt a thrill of pride in
the beauty of the stern old place before he passed through the arch
into totally different surroundings. Here were wide well-kept lawns,
beds of rhododendrons, then somewhat of a novelty, and in those
northern climes ablaze with blossom this middle June. Further afield
lay a typical East Aberdeenshire landscape of rolling arable land set
with square plantations of wood and dotted at sparse intervals with
solid grey granite farm-houses. Behind him, despite its wide portico
and Grecian balustrade, the new wing of the old castle looked stern
and stubborn as the rest.
He stood for a moment on the curving flight of massive steps and drew
in a long breath of satisfaction; for right in front of him stretched
something that once seen could never be forgotten. People came from
far for a sight of the great beech avenue of Drummuir. And what they
went out for to see was worth the seeing.
A cathedral aisle, not made by hand, solemn, serene. Soft sunlight
filtering through a vaulted roof of leaves, wide spandrils of brown
branches sweeping to wide arch from the pillars of the mighty tree
trunks--a tessellated pavement of shade and shine.
He had seen the sight a thousand times, yet it brought now, as it had
always brought, a vague wonder as to the long years since those giant
beeches had sent their first feeler into Mother Earth's bosom. But, as
ever, after the manner of such idle human wonders when confronted with
the permanence of what men class as lower life, it passed, contentedly
unsatisfied, to a flood of remembrance. How frightened he had been as
a little chap when his nurse had dragged him home to bed--dark, lonely
bed!--through those solemn shadows in the gloaming. He had changed,
but the avenue had not. It was just the same. No, hardly! There was
more shafted sunlight in the distance surely? And that rasping sound
in the air--what was it?
Surely a cross-cut saw at work! Then Marmie had as usual told the
truth. His father must be cutting down one of the historic beech
trees, and there was no need to ring and ask for Lord Drummuir--no
need at all! He was to be found as usual ungovernable, insensate,
intolerant. A whole youth of rebellion stormed through Marmaduke
Muir's mind as, at quick march, he fumed down to where the shameful
deed was being done.
From far he could see it was in full swing. The team of horses ready
to give the final pull, the stays to other trees, the whole
paraphernalia of destruction including the cluster of workmen busy
round the doomed tree. And see! Safe to windward--aye, you bet, safe,
jolly safe!--the knot of spectators gathered round a bath-chair. That
held his father, of course. And the others? They would not be the old
sycophants possibly, but they would be of the same kidney. A woman,
too! Not his half-sisters--they, poor souls, would be weeping in the
dower house over the injury to their brother the heir and to the
heirloom beech! And it would not be Penelope--she had been handed over
to Davie Sim. By Jupiter, it was too bad! He quickened his pace,
fretted by the rush of bitter resentment; then paused suddenly--
Hist! The melodious whistle of a blackbird overhead ceased, and a
little rustling sound asserted itself above the constant burring of
the saw. The squirrels were leaping from branch to branch.
"Look to yersels--look to yersels! She's yieldin'! Stan' clear for
your life. Stan' clear! She yieldin'!"
The cry rose none too soon. There was an instant's hurry, then an
instant's intense silence, on which came a sharp crack like a
pistol-shot, as the fine old tree, less tough than men had reckoned
it, tilted slowly as if uncertain which way to seek its grave. So
while men held their breath it stood arrested, defiant; then with a
roar and a rush, a swish of sweeping branches, a surging of green
leaves, it sank like the tumultuous onrush of some mighty wave, to
fall a confused tumbling heap of shade and shine upon the kindly earth
exactly where the wit of man had destined it to lie.
A noisy clapping of hands and a high-pitched feminine laugh rose from
about the bath-chair; but, ere the applause ceased, a young accusing
figure positively flaming with wrath had sprung forward, leaped upon
the sawn root of the fallen tree, and so framed as with a halo by the
new-cut bole--which measured over seven feet in diameter--bawled out
in a voice quivering with sheer passion:
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir! Go home to bed, you
miserable old gouty cripple; you've done enough mischief for one day!"
Marmaduke was given to being dramatic, but he had never been more
effective than at that moment. He stood his ground like a young
avenging angel, secretly elated at having done the business thoroughly
well and defied his father, despite Marrion Paul's advice. He almost
smiled at the thought of her dismay. Meanwhile, the face of the old
man in the bath-chair had grown positively purple with anger, and the
colour did not improve the heavy contours of chin, double chin, treble
chin, which melted over the high white stock. Yet, barring this
exuberant fleshiness, the face was not a bad face. It had indeed its
measure of good looks, being not unlike Marmaduke's own. The bald
head, if a trifle small, was well shaped, the blue eyes clear, if a
trifle cold, and the lips, cruel enough in their heavy curves, had
evidently done a deal of laughing in their day to judge by the lines
about them. Altogether a strong, sensible face; but arrogant,
intolerant to a degree, especially now when its owner was listening to
the defiance of his son--a son dependent on him for every farthing
beyond his miserable pay as a captain in His Majesty's forces--a son
who----
For a moment Baron Drummuir looked as if he must have a fit; then he
laughed--a great rude, rough guffaw.
"'Pon my soul," he chuckled, "it's as good as a play! So it's you, is
it, you young fool? How the deuce did you get here at this time of
day? We didn't expect you for another two hours, so I decided business
first"--he waved carelessly to the fallen tree--"and pleasure--that's
you, jackanapes--afterwards. Eh, what! Hey!"
This calm reception of his insults completely took the starch out of
them and poor Marmaduke, who, standing on his pedestal, could think of
nothing further to say save to mumble something about the short cut by
the old ferry road.
The baron, as he loved to be called, chuckled again.
"Good boy--anxious as all that to see his poor old dad. And came in
the nick of time to see me kill my fatted calf"--he waved to the
fallen tree again. "I've killed it nicely, haven't I? And"--here a
flicker of pure hatred passed across the fleshy face--"the devil take
the man who made me do it!"
His father's expression re-aroused Marmaduke's anger.
"You curse yourself by saying that, sir," he burst out; "for God knows
you always do what you want--nobody makes you."
Once again the old man took the starch out of the young one.
"Smart!" he said coolly. "Demned smart, my dear boy! I wonder you
don't get on better in life than you do, judging by your constant but
fruitless appeals to my cash-box. But get down off your high horse,
there's a good lad--you look like some damned play-acting fool up
there--and give your old dad a paw; the left one, young ass, the left!
Can't you see my right is all bandaged up with the most infernal fit
of my old enemy I've had since last Christmas? All that Perigord-pie
old Hare sent me. I'll baste his fat liver for him when he comes
to-morrow. Lordy lord! Puts me in mind, Marmaduke, of the old days
when your mother--she was the best of the three--used to say to you, a
little lad, 'The right hand, my dearie. The right hand, my lovie.' And
you never could remember. You were a bit of a dullard, but fine and
strong and handsome. Not like that cursed skunk, Master Pitt--but
there, don't let's mar the harmony of the occasion, eh, Jack?" He
turned to a small man with somewhat of a weasel face who stood beside
him listening devoutly, as were all the group. "You remember Jack
Jardine, don't you, Duke?"
"Slightly," smiled the young man, grasping the other's hand and
shaking it violently. "One of the few pleasant reminiscences, sir, I
have of Drummuir Castle." He echoed his father's reckless disregard of
other folks' feelings with superb indifference and gave back the old
man's critical look coolly.
The latter laughed.
"Just what I was at his age--eh, what? Lordy lord, Jack, how we
smashed all the lamp-posts in Dodston and told the provost to send the
policeman with the bill! Ha, ha! and old cat Carnegie sitting in the
hearse with her skirts up to her knees going to the Hunt ball when
we'd commandeered every other conveyance in the town. Ha, ha! how the
pretty little lassies showed their sandalled ankles, bless 'em, trying
to keep their dresses clear of coffins. But I am forgetting. Sandalled
ankles reminds me--eh, Fantine? Come here, my dear. I must present you
to my second son, Captain--he wants to be a major, I'm told--Marmaduke
Muir. Marmaduke, make your due respects to Mdlle. Fantine Le Grand,
your future stepmother!"
The dainty little figure, which till then had been standing with one
tiny, much-beringed hand resting on the back of the bath-chair, its
inquisitive, almost colourless grey eyes taking in the minutest detail
of the scene, took a step forward and prepared to make a full-flounced
curtsey. But Marmaduke was too quick, too prompt in his perceptions.
He grasped the situation and the little lady in a second. The general
pinkness of complexion and furbelows, the jimpness of the long trim
waist, the uncompromising bands of black velvet, the showers of fair
ringlets. His hat was off with a flourish, he also took a step forward
to meet the curtsey, but, bending with a "grand air" that did him
infinite credit, gave the powdered face a resounding kiss.
The recipient let loose a decorous shriek outwardly; within it was
easy to see amused acquiescence. Once again old Lord Drummuir looked
as though he would have a fit.
"You dashed young scoundrel," he spluttered.
Marmaduke held his head very high.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, "if I've done wrong; but you said she--I
beg pardon, Mdlle. Fantine Le Grand"--his eyes flashed into hers
boldly and met a smile--"was to be my stepmamma, so I thought----"
"Oh, the devil take your thoughts," growled his father, but his lips
twitched suspiciously. Then suddenly he burst out once again into
one of his rude, rough guffaws. "Regular chip of the old block, hey,
Jack? Well, Fan, I dare say you don't mind. Haven't too long, you
know, of such gay young sparks, for as soon as I'm about again he
shall dance at your wedding. Now, for heaven's sake, don't let's
stop chattering here! I've got to see my daughters and I want to talk
to my son. No, no, you jackanapes, keep away just now! My gout's
cursed, the road is cursed, and my temper will be cursed too; so I
should likely disinherit you before we got on to the lawn. Fan shall
stop by me. I won't have you gallivanting with my son, d'ye hear? He's
a good-looking chap, confound him, but you've got to pay for the
title, my lady! Have a care, blockhead! Didn't you see that stone?
Don't let it hurt your pretty little feet, Fan."
Marmaduke, dropping behind with Jack Jardine, gave a fierce sigh as he
watched the little cavalcade move off amid this running fire of curses
and kindliness.
"Is it all just as it used to be, Jack?" he asked helplessly.
The little man cleared his throat.
"A little worse perhaps. Your father is a very remarkable man,
Marmaduke--a very remarkable man!"