Marrion Paul sat in the semi-darkness of the summer night waiting for
her grandfather to return from his duties at the Castle. She did not
generally do so, for he was apt to be late; but on this, the first day
of Captain Duke's return, sleep would have been out of the question
until she heard something of the evening. For she did not mince
matters with herself; those six years of independent life in Edinburgh
had opened her eyes to the world, and the first sight of Marmaduke
Muir had told her that the long ten years had not changed her at all;
that he was as much the sun in her heaven as he had been in the old
childish days. The sun in her heaven, and something more superadded to
those olden times.
Then the day had been disturbing. Everyone had come to her praising
the Captain's looks and ways and general charm; to all of which she
had replied coolly, feeling the while in a perfect quiver of gladness.
Miss Margaret had been the hardest to damp when she had appeared in
the afternoon with the sporting dogs and a stout crop in her hand on
her way to take them a scramble over the rocks and round by the lower
bay.
"Oh, Marrion!" she cried enthusiastically. "Saw you ever the like?
Elizabeth says he's like the Apollo Belvidere!"
"I am not knowing the gentleman," protested Marrion distantly. "But
Captain Duke has grown to a fine figure. But has Miss Muir seen Andrew
Fraser? He's twice the man he was when he went away."
It was a false move on Marrion's part, for it brought on her instantly
the hearty reply--
"I'm glad to hear it, Marmie; so I suppose we will be having you cried
in the kirk before long. Duke says he has been most faithful."
Whereupon the speaker called to her dogs in a stentorian voice worthy
her father's, cracked her whip scientifically, and strode away for an
hour or two's freedom. For the atmosphere of the dower house was
stifling, and there was always a chance of meeting the Rev. Patrick
Bryce on the sands below the rocks, where he went always to compose
his sermons, with which the reverend gentleman had no little
difficulty. Not because he was stupid, but because he found it
laborious to reconcile his own views with those of his flock; they,
however, being inclined to be lenient with one who had earned for
himself the nickname of "the bonny parson," and who was known to be
the best shot and fisherman in the district. For this reason he would
have been welcome at the Castle, but for his unswerving outspoken
protest against its general behaviour.
Marrion, meanwhile, finding more peace as the day died down, took
to wandering at the far side of the quadrangle listening to the
distant sounds of revelry; her hands, as she walked, busy with her
knitting-pins--after the fashion of Scotchwomen in those days--going
faster and faster as her thoughts grew hotter over what she knew was
happening at the other side of the blank wall. Guzzling and boozing!
First the masters, then the men-servants, while away in the back
premises the scullerymaids and kitchenmaids were working hard. It was
a shame, a burning shame; but if ever she had a son she would see to
it that he was different.
But she never would have a son; anyhow, not Andrew Fraser's, be he
ever so sober, so upright. That was the worst of it. With an impatient
sigh she hurried outside the keep door to stand and watch the last
faintly flushed clouds of sunset in the nor'-west fade over the
darkling stretches of moorland.
It must be nigh twelve of the clock, for eastwards, over the darkling
stretches of the sea, a faint lightening of the horizon, which held
such a hint of restlessness even in its shadow, told where the sun
would soon rise again. For in those high northern latitudes there is a
bare two hours' darkness in a summer night.
Twelve o' the clock, and after that would be their birthday.
Well, good luck to him wherever he went! Some day he must be the
laird--Baron Drummuir. Nothing to hinder that must come into his
life--nothing!
The faithfulness of inherited service was in her blood. She recognised
this and sometimes wondered if her own devotion to the honour and
welfare of the House of Drummuir was not stronger even than her
grandfather's; possibly because her father, by all repute, had been a
faithful servant, too; such things are not to be escaped.
She was aroused from her thoughts by a wavering step in the
quadrangle, and returned to meet her grandfather in the expansive
stage of intoxication.
"Aye, my lass," he went on, when he had wept a few easy tears over her
goodness in sitting up for him, "it was just a gran' nicht. The pipes
seemed fey and I blawed at them till we was baith like to burst. An'
my lord, he was for havin' oot the biggest bottle o' pickled foxes'
tongues, an' he devilled them himsel' in a chaffin' dish afore them
all, an' they a' drunk wi' mirth an' guid claret. Jock, the butler,
was tellin' me--there was twal o' them--that they were drinkin' thirty
bottles o' the best, forbye sixteen tum'lers of hot whisky-toddy, the
Sheriff and the Lord Provost had, honest gentlemen, to their lane--an'
there wud be no 'hoot-toots' where the Shirra was concerned! Then the
laird o' Balbuggo--he has a weak head, yon man, was for ridin' hame
and was no to be hindered frae it; sae Captain Duke an' anither young
spark jest perched his saddle to the loupin'-on-stane and pit the guid
man to it. An' there he sat tittuping away his lane for an hour or sae
quite blythe, till they tell't him he was at Balbuggo, and he just aff
an' awa tae his bed like a lammie."
"And Captain Duke?" asked the girl, with scorn in her voice, pity in
her heart, despite the irrepressible smile in her eyes. "Was he drunk,
too?"
Old Davie winked solemnly.
"Aye, that was he--he was fair fou--but," he added carefully; "he took
his cups real well! Not like Mr. Peter, that syne gets tae sickness
and----"
"Gran'father," cried the girl passionately, interrupting him, "it's
gettin' late! You must away to your bed, or you'll no be up the morn
to pipe 'Hey! Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin' yet?' I'll see to the
doors."
"No be up?" contended the old man. "I tell ye if the arkaungel
Gabbriel was tae soun' his trump any day at half-after seven, he'd
find Davie Sims--aye, and his forbears an' descendants--skirling awa'
at that same tune up an' dune a' the passages in Drummuir Castle tae
wake the gentlefolk! Aye, that wad he"--here he began stumbling up the
stair with his candle held at an angle of forty-five--"though it's
hard on a body that's had tae pipe to the deil ower nicht to think o'
his duty tae the sluggard."
Here his maunderings became unintelligible, and the girl he left
turned to the closing of the house, her heart hot as fire with
indignation, chill as ice with scorn.
What else was there to expect? Like father, like son! When she had
drawn the bolts she went up to her own room and flung its little
window wide. The full moon shone round like a shield, and by its light
she could see the whole wild coast stretching northwards from Drumkirk
Point to Rattray Head. And after that? The North Pole, of course! Dear
inaccessible region to all but the strong, the single of heart, the
men who could command others--and themselves.
She scarcely knew what it was that she raged against as slowly,
methodically, she began to undress. The little brilliant or paste
brooch, she knew not which, formed of two crossed p's which was the
only relic she possessed of her dead father, arrested her for a
second. What sort of a man had he been really, she wondered, and what
sort of a son would hers be when she had one?
She flung the tiny bauble from her impatiently, so stood for a second
drawn up to her full height, her bare arms crossed, her shapely hands
clasping their smooth roundness; then, with a sudden sob, she realised
what had come to her, and, throwing herself face downwards on her bed,
lay for a minute or two still as the dead. Then as suddenly she sat up
again with a world of puzzled wonder in her strained eyes.
"I canna think," she murmured, "what gars' me love him so, but I do,
and there's an end o' it."
Possibly; but such knowledge as that which had just burst over her
like a storm does not make for quiet sleep. She told herself a
thousand and one wise things, but the hours slipped by, bringing at
last a conviction of hopelessness. She would be better up than
pretending to rest, so she went to stand at the window once more.
The flush of coming day was clear now in the northeast, the flood-tide
of the full moon lay mysterious in the embrace of the rocks. Ere long
the rising sun would send battalions on battalions of shining golden
ripples to storm the estuary and climb the shadowy cliff on which the
castle stood--where he lay drunk!
Ah, well! That would not spoil the beauty of it all, which she had so
often seen, and the nip of the salt North Sea might check her silly
desire for him. The room felt stifling; she would be better outside.
So, slipping on her swimming-dress of coarse white flannel blanketing
(for ever since those childish days when she and Duke had done
everything in common she had been an expert swimmer), she threw a
plaid round her, and made her way through the keep gateway to the
rocks below. There was no breeze, the tide must be at its height
almost, and there was the spent moon, pale with its long night-watch,
hanging on the grey sky of dawn. Ah, these were the things worth
having--the others could be set aside with joy!
Ere five minutes were over, breathless from her fierce driving strokes
through the water, she had turned over on her back, and, face to the
skies, was trying to imagine she was floating thitherwards. The gulls,
wakened by the coming light, skimmed over her in their quest for food.
The little pointed wavelets that rose and fell, marking the course of
the river stream, made a fine, sobbing, tinkling noise in her ears.
Full flood-tide!
She laughed aloud in the joy of it; then, rolling over again, struck
out for the opposite shore. Higher up the estuary there was a little
sheltered bay whence she could watch the panorama of dawn. When she
drew herself out of the water on to a convenient rock the air struck
warm, and the stone beneath her had scarce lost yester-sun's heat. It
would be a perfect day--if anything over hot, for a faint opalescence
already lay on sea and sky.
As she sat waiting for the first rays of the sun to "skim the sea with
flying feet of gold," she unplaited her russet hair, which had become
loosened, and, combing out its long length with her fingers, prepared
to plait it up again.
Suddenly a voice startled her.
"A beauteous mermaid, by Jove! Fair lady----"
The theatrical intonation did not deceive her. She slipped like any
seal into the water, and so protected looked back to see Marmaduke
Muir. He was still in his over-night's dress-clothes, but their utter
disarray made them more consonant with his occupation, for he held a
salmon-rod in his hand, a creel had unfastened his ruffled shirt at
the neck, and he had evidently torn off his stiff stock for more ease,
and kicked away his pumps for firmer foothold on the rocks. His face
showed no sign of last night's carouse, and Marrion, looking at it,
could not but confess that some sins leave no mark on a man. Ere she
could utter a word, his surprise found speech.
"Why, Marmie!" Then in a half-awed tone he added: "What beautiful hair
you've got, my dear!"
"Aye," she replied imperturbably, feigning perfect calm, "it's fine!
Folk is aye tellin' me o' 't. The hairdresser in Edinbro' was offering
me a lot for it."
He sat down on the rocks above where she lay swaying with the long
roll of the distant waves outside the bar, her hands holding to the
seaweed.
"Goth and Vandal! But you didn't let him have it. Wise Marmie, but
then you always were wisdom itself! I remember----"
He was becoming vaguely sentimental, so she brought him back to earth
with a round turn.
"You'll no have been gettin' any fish the morn?" she queried.
"No fish!" he echoed loftily. "What do you call that?"
He pulled out of his creel a seven-inch burnie and laid it with pomp
on the rocks. Then their young laughter echoed out into the dawn.
"But I got a hold on another," he went on, keen as a boy. "A real good
one--as big as any I ever got in the castle pool--perhaps bigger. You
see they were talking of the fishing yesterday and they all said it
was no good. Not enough water. So I didn't intend to try; but--well,
you see, my dear, I got drunk last night--I did--and I woke up about
half an hour ago with a beastly headache. So then I thought I'd go out
and see if the fish weren't moving, and as they'd put me to bed in my
clothes--I must have been horrid drunk, and Andrew, you see, was away
with his people--I just took one of Peter's rods and ferried myself
over in the boat. It's up yonder. I'll take you back in it, if you
like."
The idea was preposterous. Marrion imagined herself arriving at the
castle, where the servants were ever early astir, in her bathing dress
with the Captain! So she hastily drew a red herring across the trail.
"And was the fish real big, Captain Duke?" she asked.
"Big! I tell you it was the biggest I, or, for the matter of that,
anyone else ever caught in the castle pool."
"Fish are aye big when they are in the water, I'm thinking," she cast
back at him, as, loosing her seaweed hold, she struck out.
He sprang up.
"You're not going to try and cross now!" he cried, pointing to where
in mid-stream a wide oily streak told that tide and river were flowing
out fast. "The ebb is at its strongest. Marmie, don't be a fool!"
She gave a quick glance forward, then looked back to smile farewell.
"Aye, it's strong, but I've done it before now. There's no fear for
me, Captain Duke."
So saying she turned her head upstream, seeing indeed that she would
have to be careful not to be swept past her bearings when she got to
mid-channel; so she did not see Marmaduke tear off his creel, his
coat, and waistcoat, and, in thin ruffled shirt and kersey breeches,
launch himself into the water. But his tremendous underwater strokes
soon brought him up almost beside her to shake his curly head like a
retriever. She looked at him startled and quickened her strokes,
whereupon he changed to overhand and ranged up beside her without
effort.
"Where did you learn yon?" she asked, more for something to break a
silence which made her heart beat than from curiosity. "You usen't to
swim that way."
"In the Indies," he replied, laughing. "I must teach it to you; but it
isn't much good in currents. By Jove, how jolly this is. Why the deuce
did I take the boat? I say--look out! I feel the trend of the stream."
Small doubt of that. They were through the backwater and in another
minute would be in the full of outgoing river and outgoing tide. The
opposite bank seemed slipping past them rapidly. Duke changed his
stroke instantly and ranged up beside Marrion.
"It will be easier together," he said, passing his hand over her
shoulder, and obediently she passed hers over his.
"Now then, together!" he cried. "And if you tire you know what to do;
and keep time, there's a good girl."
So they struck off, the forward lunge of his long legs aiding hers,
that were so far behind in strength. Thus they battled the stream
shoulder to shoulder, almost cheek to cheek, her long loose hair
sweeping across him, until the worst of it was over and the girl would
fain have loosed her grip and turned shorewards definitely.
"Not yet!" he laughed. "Let's swim out to sea a bit! Look--isn't it
worth it?"
Aye, worth everything else in the world. Far out in the east over that
restless horizon the first ray of the sun had tipped, sending a
widening, radiant path of pure gold to meet them. It shone on her
red-brown hair, turning it to bronze; it shone in their blue eyes,
turning them to sapphires; and it shone on their wholesome, happy
faces, transfiguring them out of all semblance to beings of dingy
earth and purifying them from all mortal taint. They were freed souls
swimming in the vasty ether, all around them the dawn of a new day.
So they went on and on, till suddenly Duke veered their course
shorewards with one guiding stroke.
"I shall tire you out," he said softly, and his freed hand, as he
disentangled her hair from his neck, lifted the shiny strands to his
lips for a second. "You have got such jolly hair, Marmie! I wonder you
don't wear it down your back. None of the fellows could resist you
then."
Their faces were away from the dawn now and hers already had a cloud
on it.
"I'm going to the big rock. I left my shawl there," she said,
directing her course towards it.
Duke followed suit in silence. Suddenly he said--
"I can't think how I was such a fool as to get drunk last night. It
shan't occur again; but, you know, I shouldn't have had this perfectly
stunning time if I hadn't, should I? We must repeat it every morning,
Marmie, mustn't we?"
"Weather permitting," she replied, almost bitterly. "But it's no often
sae comfortable to be in the water as it is this morning, Mr. Duke."
"Ah, you should have been with me in the Indies! You could stop in all
day. You're not feeling cold, I hope?"
Cold! With every pulse in her body clamouring for sheer joy in his
presence.
"I'll no be cold when I get my shawl," she said calmly; then, seeing
him turn, called quickly--
"You're no going across again, Mr. Duke, it isn't safe!"
"Didn't I tell you so from the beginning, eh? No; of course I'm not.
I'm going to swim up the side to the steps and send the ghillie for
the boat."
She watched the rhythmic spluttering of his overhand stroke past the
point. He would be home before her, she thought, as somewhat wearily
she climbed the rocks to the keep. It had been a real joy. In all her
life, long or short, she would never forget it.
That was the pity of it, for the memory might become a pain.