Part 28 (1/2)
(I didn't let my eyes twinkle, or my face do that weird thing, ”break into a smile”; but Jack Morrison told me that Miss MacDonald had ”set her cap at the great Somerled,” and torn it off and stamped on it in rage because--this is Jack's slang--Sir S. ”wasn't taking any.”)
--”Having failed to bring off a match or two, has settled down into old-maidhood. She's an enthusiastic suffragette, and hates living out of London. The Mac of D. considers his club his castle, or a good deal better; and as he's the last of the line--not a male heir, no matter how distant--he can do as he likes with his ancestral stronghold. You know, I suppose, your father was born at Dunelin Castle?'
”Yes,” I said. ”I wish I'd been born there, instead of at Hillard House.”
”So do I wish it. If you had been, I should have no hesitation in--er--in building the gallery round the library wall.”
”You think you really will decide to buy the castle?” I asked breathlessly.
”Sometimes I think so. At other times I think, _Qui bono?_ I say to myself that I shall never have a home, or an incentive for settling down. But come along and look at Sir Walter's treasures before any one else appears.”
”Where's Mrs. West?” I asked involuntarily.
”She's annexed your bodyguard for the moment--do you mind?--appealed to their innate love of horrors by showing them the picture of Queen Mary's head, painted an hour after her death by a brother of Margaret Cawood, her attendant. Suddenly I felt that, if Basil could spare you to me for ten minutes, I should like to be the one to show you a few things--the things I loved best when I came from Edinburgh to Abbotsford with a bit of the first money I ever earned by my brush.”
I turned on him, opening my eyes wide. ”Basil spare me!” I echoed scornfully. ”I'm not his princess, even if you don't want me for yours.”
”I do want you. But----”
”Oh, here he comes!” I whispered, shrill as a cricket. ”Take me to see _your_ things, quickly.”
So we ran away from Basil, and I had one of the happiest hours I have ever lived through; although the sight of Sir Walter's neat clothes in the gla.s.s case--the thick-soled boots, the broad-brimmed hat that covered his thoughts, the coat that covered his heart--brought tears to my eyes.
Next best, I liked the bit of Queen Mary's dress, the pocket-book worked by Flora MacDonald, Prince Charlie's ”Quaich”--the cup with the gla.s.s bottom to guard the drinker against surprises--the ivory miniatures Sir Walter and his French bride exchanged, and the Rob Roy relics. Perhaps it is odd, but they were the very things Sir S. had remembered most affectionately. Last of all he showed me a toadstone amulet set in silver, a charm to prevent and ward off the spells of fairies. ”If I could have had a thing like this to carry about with me in my motor-car,” he said, ”I should perhaps have been safe. But it's too late now.”
He smiled at me with that whimsical yet kind smile which is the only sort he ever gives me since Mrs. West and Basil and the boys came.
Before their day, there was a different look in his eyes. I can't tell what that difference was, but I liked the old look a thousand times better than the new, which makes me feel I may as well go into a convent. Not that I intend to do so!
Just then Basil came to say that his sister and the Vannecks were going, as Aline was tired; and would Sir S. tell her what time we were to see the Abbey. Basil and I were left together--quite as usual, lately. He made some rather nice poetical remarks about the house at Abbotsford: how marvellously it expressed the personality and tendency of Sir Walter's mind; and how it seemed to him that here was the true heart of Scotland embalmed in spices and laid in a shrine, just as Robert Bruce's heart lies at Melrose. I hardly listened, though, for I was wondering so much what Sir S. would have gone on to say about the amulet if Basil had let us alone a minute longer. But fairy fancies were in the air, in one form or other. As we walked up the narrow path which would bring us to the motor, Basil told me a dream he'd had the night before. ”I thought,”
he said, ”that I was a humble reincarnation of Thomas Ecildoune--Thomas the Rhymer--and that I was walking in the Rhymer's Glen--it isn't far out of this neighbourhood, you know--when a Vision in a magic motor-car came sprinting down the steep curve of a rainbow. In front of my feet, the Vision contrived to stop the car, or in another second it would have run over me. Out she stepped and announced that she was the Queen of the Fays, whom I would remember meeting before in my last incarnation, in the same place. Strange to say, she looked exactly like you--and I must add, she acted exactly as you do.”
”Why, what was it she did?” I couldn't help wanting to know.
”She heartlessly vanished, just as I began to hope she might remain and become my muse. You always vanish--and generally with another man.”
We both laughed, and were laughing still when we came up with Mrs. James and Mrs. Vanneck, Mrs. West and Sir S., who were ahead of us with the others.
It had to be sunset and moonlight together for Melrose Abbey, for the heather moon was still too young to be allowed by Mother Earth to sit up late, all alone in the sky. This was not the ”pale moonlight” Sir Walter wrote of, and looked to for inspiration in his ”Lay of the Last Minstrel,” but a light of silvered rose which seemed made for love and joy. I thought, if an alchemist or magician should pour melted gold and silver together in a rose-coloured gla.s.s, and hold it up to the sun, it would give out a light like this. It might have been an elixir of life, for it gave back the Abbey's youth, and more than its youthful beauty.
The bullet-shattered stone turned to blocks of pink and golden topaz, and each carving stood out clear, rimmed with sapphire shadow, as we wandered round the cruciform Gothic ruin, our feet noiseless on the faded velvet of the gra.s.s. Even in the darkest shadow there lay a ruby flush, like a glow of fire under a thick film of ash; but inside the Abbey was a soft, gray gloom, as if evening hid in the ruins waiting its time to come out. The Trinity window, the Calvary window, the window with the Crown of Thorns, and the east window in the chancel, which Sir Walter loved best, were all sketched against the sky in tracery of sepia and burnt amber, as I heard Sir S. saying to Mrs. West. And though I shouldn't have known what colours to use, because I'm not an artist, I could see that the tall stone shafts were like slender-trunked trees crowned with high cl.u.s.ters of branches, as in pictures of desert palms.
I wondered if the men who carved the stone had travelled in the East and had seen palm trees rising from pale sand, black against a paler sky.
And I wondered, too, if queer knots and fantastic holes in the gray trunks of oak had not put into men's minds the first idea of gargoyles.
Sir S. and Basil, who have been almost everywhere, agreed that they had seldom seen such marvellous detail of carving, so many whimsically planned and exquisitely carried out irregularities, or such lovely, well-preserved sandstone. That quarry which gave the material for Melrose and Dryburgh was a treasure-mine, and even the Romans knew and valued it. I was quite glad to find those two-agreeing about something, because ever since Basil joined us they have differed politely over nearly every subject that came up.
We had been deeply occupied with Michael Scott's supposed grave, and the story of the ”dark magic” by which he divided into three, Eildon Hill, in whose caverns Arthur and his warriors still sleep their enchanted sleep; and so, when some strangers approached us, we didn't even look up. A very intelligent custodian, who has written a book about the Abbey, was showing us round at that moment, and telling things about Sir Ralph Evers, whom the Douglases killed for revenge, on Ancrum Moor, and all about the pillar with the ”curly green capital.” He had saved the Douglas Heart for the last, as the crowning glory in the history of Melrose; but when we'd done some sort of justice to everything else, he marched us into the presbytery where the Heart is buried, and where, according to his theory, it is commemorated in the carved stone tracery of the window.