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Malcolm, a novel by George MacDonald |
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Chapter 46. The Baillies' Barn |
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_ CHAPTER XLVI. THE BAILLIES' BARN Lady Florimel was delighted at the prospect of such an adventure. The evening arrived. An hour before the time appointed for the meeting, the three issued from the tunnel, and passed along the landward side of the dune, towards the promontory. There sat the piper on the swivel, ready to sound a pibroch the moment they should have reached the shelter of the bored craig--his signal being Malcolm's whistle. The plan answered perfectly. In a few minutes, all the children within hearing were gathered about Duncan--a rarer sight to them than heretofore--and the way was clear to enter unseen. It was already dusk, and the cave was quite dark, but Malcolm lighted a candle, and, with a little difficulty, got them up into the wider part of the cleft, where he had arranged comfortable seats with plaids and cushions. As soon as they were placed, he extinguished the light. "I wish you would tell us another story, Malcolm," said Lady Florimel. "Do," said the marquis "the place is not consecrated yet." "Did ye ever hear the tale o' the auld warlock, my leddy?" asked Malcolm. "Only my lord kens 't!" he added. "I don't," said Lady Florimel. "It's great nonsense," said the marquis. "Do let us have it, papa." "Very well. I don't mind hearing it again." He wanted to see how Malcolm would embellish it. "It seems to me," said Malcolm, "that this ane aboot Lossie Hoose' an' yon ane aboot Colonsay Castel, are verra likly but twa stalks frae the same rute. Ony gate, this ane aboot the warlock maun be the auldest o' the twa. Ye s' hae 't sic 's I hae 't mysel'. Mistress Coorthoup taul' 't to me." It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, that he recounted the tale of Lord Gernon. As the last words left his lips, Lady Florimel gave a startled cry, seized him by the arm, and crept close to him. The marquis jumped to his feet, knocked his head against the rock, uttered an oath, and sat down again. "What ails ye, my leddy!" said Malcolm. "There's naething here to hurt ye." "I saw a face," she said, "a white face!" "Whaur?" "Beyond you a little way--near the ground," she answered, in a tremulous whisper. "It's as dark's pick!" said Malcolm, as if thinking it to himself. --He knew well enough that it must be the laird or Phemy, but he was anxious the marquis should not learn the secret of the laird's refuge. "I saw a face anyhow," said Florimel. "It gleamed white for one moment, and then vanished." "I wonner ye didna cry oot waur, my leddy," said Malcolm, peering into the darkness. "I was too frightened. It looked so ghastly!--not more than a foot from the ground." "Cud it hae been a flash, like, frae yer ain een ?" "No I am sure it was a face." "How much is there of this cursed hole?" asked the marquis; rubbing the top of his head. "A heap," answered Malcolm. "The grun' gangs down like a brae ahin' 's, intil a--" "You don't mean right behind us?" cried the marquis. "Nae jist doss, my lord. We're sittin' i' the mou' o' 't, like, wi' the thrapple (throat) o' 't ahin' 's, an' a muckle stamach ayont that." "I hope there's no danger," said the marquis. "Nane 'at I ken o'." "No water at the bottom ?" "Nane, my lord--that is, naething but a bonny spring i' the rock side." "Come away, papa!" cried Florimel. "I don't like it. I've had enough of this kind of thing." "Nonsense!" said the marquis, still rubbing his head. "Ye wad spile a', my leddy! It's ower late, forbye," said Malcolm; "I hear a fut." He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a whisper: "It's Mistress Catanach wi' a lantren! Haud yer tongue, my bonny leddy; ye ken weel she's no mowse. Dinna try to leuk, my lord; she micht get a glimp o' ye--she's terrible gleg. I hae been hearin' mair yet aboot her. Yer lordship 's ill to convence, but depen' upo' 't, whaurever that woman is, there there's mischeef! Whaur she taks a scunner at a body, she hates like the verra deevil. She winna aye lat them ken 't, but taks time to du her ill turns. An' it 's no that only, but gien she gets a haud o' onything agane anybody, she 'll save 't up upo' the chance o' their giein' her some offence afore they dee. She never lowses haud o' the tail o' a thing, an' at her ain proaper time, she 's in her natur' bun' to mak the warst use o' 't." Malcolm was anxious both to keep them still, and to turn aside any further inquiry as to the face Florimel had seen. Again he peeped out. "What is she efter noo? She 's comin' this gait," he went on, in a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his shoulder when he spoke. "Gien she thoucht ther was a hole i' the perris she didna ken a' the oots an' ins o', it wad baud her ohn sleepit.-- Weesht! weesht! here she comes!" he concluded, after a listening pause, in the silence of which he could hear her step approaching. He stretched out his neck over the ledge, and saw her coming straight for the back of the cave, looking right before her with slow moving, keen, wicked eyes. It was impossible to say what made them look wicked: neither in form, colour, motion, nor light, were they ugly--yet in everyone of these they looked wicked, as her lantern, which, being of horn, she had opened for more light, now and then, as it swung in her hand, shone upon her pale, pulpy, evil countenance. "Gien she tries to come up, I'll hae to caw her doon," he said to himself, "an' I dinna like it, for she 's a wuman efter a', though a deevilich kin' o' a ane; but there's my leddy! I hae broucht her intill 't, an' I maun see her safe oot o' 't!" But if Mrs. Catanach was bent on an exploration, she was for the time prevented from prosecuting it by the approach of the first of the worshippers, whose voices they now plainly heard. She retreated towards the middle of the cave, and sat down in a dark corner, closing her lantern and hiding it with the skirt of her long cloak. Presently a good many entered at once, some carrying lanterns, and most of them tallow candles, which they quickly lighted and disposed about the walls. The rest of the congregation, with its leaders, came trooping in so fast, that in ten minutes or so the service began. As soon as the singing commenced, Malcolm whispered to Lady Florimel, "Was 't a man's face or a lassie's ye saw, my leddy?" "A man's face--the same we saw in the storm," she answered, and Malcolm felt her shudder as she spoke. "It 's naething but the mad laird," he said. "He 's better nor hairmless. Dinna say a word to yer father my leddy. I dinna like to say that, but I 'll tell ye a' what for efterhin'." But Florimel, knowing that her father had a horror of lunatics, was willing enough to be silent. No sooner was her terror thus assuaged, than the oddities of the singing laid hold upon her, stirring up a most tyrannous impulse to laughter. The prayer that followed made it worse. In itself the prayer was perfectly reverent, and yet, for dread of irreverence, I must not attempt a representation of the forms of its embodiment, or the manner of its utterance. So uncontrollable did her inclination to merriment become, that she found at last the only way to keep from bursting into loud laughter was to slacken the curb, and go off at a canter--I mean, to laugh freely but gently. This so infected her father, that he straightway accompanied her, but with more noise. Malcolm sat in misery, from the fear not so much of discovery, though that would be awkward enough, as of the loss to the laird of his best refuge. But when he reflected, he doubted much whether it was even now a safe one; and, anyhow, knew it would be as vain to remonstrate as to try to stop the noise of a brook by casting pebbles into it. When it came to the sermon, however, things went better; for MacLeod was the preacher,--an eloquent man after his kind, in virtue of the genuine earnestness of which he was full. If his anxiety for others appeared to be rather to save them from the consequences of their sins, his main desire for himself certainly was to be delivered from evil; the growth of his spiritual nature, while it rendered him more and more dissatisfied with himself, had long left behind all fear save of doing wrong. His sermon this evening was founded on the text: "The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God." He spoke fervently and persuasively; nor, although his tone and accent were odd, and his Celtic modes and phrases to those Saxon ears outlandish, did these peculiarities in the least injure the influence of the man. Even from Florimel was the demon of laughter driven; and the marquis, although not a single notion of what the man intended passed through the doors of his understanding, sat quiet, and disapproved of nothing. Possibly, had he been alone as he listened, he too, like one of old, might have heard, in the dark cave, the still small voice of a presence urging him forth to the light; but, as it was, the whole utterance passed without a single word or phrase or sentence having roused a thought, or suggested a doubt, or moved a question, or hinted an objection or a need of explanation. That the people present should interest themselves in such things, only set before him the folly of mankind. The text and the preacher both kept telling him that such as he could by no possibility have the slightest notion what such things were; but not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, wonder how the deluded fisher folk could sit and listen. The more tired he grew, the more angry he got with the parson who had sent him there with his foolery: and the more convinced that the men who prayed and preached were as honest as they were silly; and that the thing to die of itself had only to be let alone. He heard the Amen of the benediction with a sigh of relief, and rose at once-- cautiously this time. "Ye maunna gang yet, my lord," said Malcolm. "They maun be a' oot first." "I don't care who sees me," protested the weary man. "But yer lordship wadna like to be descriet scram'lin' doon efter the back like the bear in Robinson Crusoe!" The marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently. At length Malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meeting had thoroughly skailed, peeped cautiously out to make sure. But after a moment, he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper, "I 'm sorry ye canna gang yet, my lord. There's some half a dizzen o' ill luikin' chields, cairds (gipsies), I 'm thinkin', or maybe waur, congregat doon there, an' it 's my opinion they're efter nae guid, my lord." "How do you know that?" "Ony body wad ken that, 'at got a glimp o' them." "Let me look." "Na, my lord; ye dinna understan' the lie o' the stanes eneuch to haud oot o' sicht." "How long do you mean to keep us here?" asked the marquis impatiently. "Till it's safe to gang, my lord. For onything I ken, they may be efter comin' up here. They may be used to the place--though I dinna think it." "In that case we must go down at once. We must not let them find us here." "They wad tak 's ane by ane as we gaed doon, my lord, an' we wadna hae a chance. Think o' my leddy there!" Florimel heard all, but with the courage of her race. "This is a fine position you have brought us into, MacPhail!" said his master, now thoroughly uneasy for his daughter's sake. "Nae waur nor I 'll tak ye oot o', gien ye lippen to me, my lord, an' no speyk a word." "If you tell them who papa is," said Florimel, "they won't do us any harm, surely!" "I 'm nane sae sure o' that. They micht want to ripe 's pooches (search his pockets), an' my lord wad ill stan' that, I 'm thinkin'! Na, na. Jist stan' ye back, my lord an' my leddy, an' dinna speyk a word. I s' sattle them. They're sic villains, there nae terms to be hauden wi' them." His lordship was far from satisfied; but a light shining up into the crevice at the moment, gave powerful support to Malcolm's authority: he took Florimel's hand and drew her a little farther from the mouth of the cave. "Don't you wish we had Demon with us?" whispered the girl. "I was thinking how I never went without a dagger in Venice," said the marquis, "and never once had occasion to use it. Now I haven't even a penknife about me! It looks very awkward." "Please don't talk like that," said Florimel. "Can't you trust Malcolm, papa?" "Oh, yes; perfectly!" he answered; but the tone was hardly up to the words. They could see the dim figure of Malcolm, outlined in fits of the approaching light, all but filling the narrow entrance, as he bent forward to listen. Presently he laid himself down, leaning on his left elbow, with his right shoulder only a little above the level of the passage. The light came nearer, and they heard the sound of scrambling on the rock, but no voice; then for one moment the light shone clear upon the roof of the cleft; the next, came the sound of a dull blow, the light vanished, and the noise of a heavy fall came from beneath. "Ane o' them, my lord," said Malcolm, in a sharp whisper, over his shoulder. A confusion of voices arose. "You booby!" said one. "You climb like a calf. I'll go next." Evidently they thought he had slipped and fallen, and he was unable to set them right. Malcolm heard them drag him out of the way. The second ascended more rapidly, and met his fate the sooner. As he delivered the blow, Malcolm recognized one of the laird's assailants, and was now perfectly at his ease. "Twa o' them, my lord," he said. "Gien we had ane mair doon, we cud manage the lave." The second, however, had not lost his speech, and amidst the confused talk that followed, Malcolm heard the words: "Rin doon to the coble for the gun," and, immediately after, the sound of feet hurrying from the cave. He rose quietly, leaped into the midst of them, came down upon one, and struck out right and left. Two ran, and three lay where they were. "Gien ane o' ye muv han' or fit, I'll brain him wi' 's ain stick," he cried, as he wrenched a cudgel from the grasp of one of them. Then catching up a lantern, and hurrying behind the projecting rock --"Haste ye, an' come," he shouted. "The w'y 's clear, but only for a meenute." Florimel appeared, and Malcolm got her down. "Mind that fellow," cried the marquis from above. Malcolm turned quickly, and saw the gleam of a knife in the grasp of his old enemy, who had risen, and crept behind him to the recess. He flung the lantern in his face, following it with a blow in which were concentrated all the weight and energy of his frame. The man went down again heavily, and Malcolm instantly trampled all their lanterns to pieces. "Noo," he said to himself, "they winna ken but it 's the laird an' Phemy wi' me!" Then turning, and taking Florimel by the arm, he hurried her out of the cave, followed by the marquis. They emerged in the liquid darkness of a starry night. Lady Florimel clung to both her father and Malcolm. It was a rough way for some little distance, but at length they reached the hard wet sand, and the marquis would have stopped to take breath; but Malcolm was uneasy, and hurried them on. "What are you frightened at now?" asked his lordship. "Naething," answered Malcolm, adding to himself however, "I 'm fleyt at naethin'--I 'm fleyt for the laird." As they approached the tunnel, he fell behind. "Why don't you come on?" said his lordship. "I 'm gaein' back noo 'at ye 're safe," said Malcolm. "Going back! What for?" asked the marquis. "I maun see what thae villains are up till," answered Malcolm. "Not alone, surely!" exclaimed the marquis. "At least get some of your people to go with you." "There 's nae time, my lord. Dinna be fleyt for me: I s' tak care o' mysel'." He was already yards away, running at full speed. The marquis shouted after him, but Malcolm would not hear. When he reached the Baillies' Barn once more, all was still. He groped his way in and found his own lantern where they had been sitting, and having lighted it, descended and followed the windings of the cavern a long way, but saw nothing of the laird or Phemy. Coming at length to a spot where he heard the rushing of a stream, he found he could go no farther: the roof of the cave had fallen, and blocked up the way with huge masses of stone and earth. He had come a good distance certainly, but by no means so far as Phemy's imagination had represented the reach of the cavern. He might however have missed a turn, he thought. The sound he heard was that of the Lossie Burn, flowing along in the starlight through the grounds of the House. Of this he satisfied himself afterwards; and then it seemed to him not unlikely that in ancient times the river had found its way to the sea along the cave, for throughout its length the action of water was plainly visible. But perhaps the sea itself had used to go roaring along the great duct: Malcolm was no geologist, and could not tell. _ |
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