‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s the secret, and perhaps sad things don’t happen to everybody.’
‘If we don’t have troubles sent us we can generally make them for ourselves,’ I reply. ‘It’s easy to make yourself miserable over trifles; I’ve done that sometimes, and then, quite suddenly, you get sent something to be sorry about, and you think looking back how happy I was yesterday, and I never knew it.’
‘Well, well!’ she says. ‘It’s all true, but these are sad croakings for a June day. I’ll tell you what you’re mad about now, just to show there’s no ill-feeling. You’re mad about that good-for-nothing husband of yours. You needn’t waste your breath denying it, for I could see it in your face when there was all that talk of his going off to India without you. Oh yes! You’re doing without him fine at the moment, but I’m not sure that your heart’s really here. Part of you is away south, at Biddington, and you’re wishing every now and then that Tim were here.’
I am somewhat surprised that Mrs. Loudon should have guessed the state of my feelings so shrewdly, for I have not owned even to myself that I am missing Tim. ‘Perhaps I am missing him,’ I reply thoughtfully. ‘But it is really only because it is so lovely here.’
‘ “Never the time, and the place, and the loved one all together,” ’ says Mrs. Loudon. ‘But what about suggesting to the man when you write him if you ever do find time to write him, of course that he might come up for a few days at the end of your visit, and take you away south with him?’
This sounds a delightful plan, and I say so with suitable expressions of gratitude at the same time pointing out that Tim may not be able to get leave, and that the journey is expensive.
‘Hoots!’ she says, twinkling at me in her comical manner. ‘The man will get leave if he asks for it. I never knew a soldier that couldn’t. And as for the journey, he has only to cook up a railway pass – or whatever they call it – and he’ll get here and back for nothing.’
Mrs. Loudon’s ideas of the army seem slightly out of date. I point out to her that the Golden Age has passed away, but she pays no heed to my expostulations.
‘Tell him to come, and he’ll come,’ she says.
By this time we have reached the house. Betty’s face appears at the bathroom window. ‘Come and see me in my bath, Mrs. Loudon,’ she calls out. ‘Come now. I’m all bare and ready.’
Mrs. Loudon waves her hand. ‘I’ll come and skelp you, then,’ she cries, and away she goes, running like a girl.
Sixth June
Castle Quill is approached by a drawbridge over a narrow ravine, at the bottom of which a swift river runs amidst rocks and ferns. The castle is of grey stone, with small dark windows which frown threateningly at the approaching guest.
We drive up to a nail-studded door, and are presently ushered through a large hall, paved with stone and hung with antlers, into an old-fashioned drawing room, full of furniture of the uncomfortable Early Victorian time. The castle is a strange blend of periods; it is lighted with electric light, and warmed by central heating, yet these concessions to modern comfort seem to fit into the ancient place, and the whole conglomeration of the ages is blended into an harmonious whole. Perhaps this is due to the atmosphere of the MacQuills, which fills the place. They have lived here ever since the castle was built, and the very stones are impregnated with their spirit.
The windows of the Victorian drawing room open on to fine lawns, flanked by herbaceous borders. Here the garden party is in full swing. We are greeted by the laird and his lady with hospitable warmth.
‘Hector is somewhere about,’ says Lady MacQuill vaguely. ‘He is managing the tennis, I think.’
Mrs. Loudon says we will find him, and we walk slowly towards the courts, stopping on the way to speak to various friends of Mrs. Loudon’s, to all of whom I am introduced with pleasant old-world formality. Guthrie has now disappeared probably to look for Miss Baker so we find two chairs, and sit down to watch the people, and enjoy their peculiarities.
Mrs. Loudon points out ‘the Duchess’, a small fat woman who – at first glance – might easily be mistaken for somebody’s cook, but on closer examination is seen to be endued with a strange mantle of dignity befitting her rank.
‘Who’s that man?’ says Mrs. Loudon suddenly. ‘He seems to know you, Hester, or is he trying to give you the glad eye?’
I look up and am amazed to see Major Morley – of all people – making his way towards us over the grass.
‘It’s Major Morley!’ I gasp.
‘What?’ says Mrs. Loudon. ‘Not the man who came to see you at Kiltwinkle? Fancy him following you here!’
I reply hastily that he can’t have ‘followed me here’, for the simple reason that he did not know I was coming, and that he only came to see me at Kiltwinkle to relieve my mind about Tim being posted to India.
Mrs. Loudon says, ‘The man’s evidently an altruist.’
By this time he has reached our retreat. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ he says warmly.
‘But how did you know I was here?’ I enquire.
‘Hector MacQuill told me. I’m staying at the hotel, you know. It’s quite a comfortable place, and the fishing’s fairly good.’
It is very nice to find a friend amongst all these strangers, and Major Morley is usually amusing. He and Mrs. Loudon take an instant liking for each other – an occurrence which pleases and surprises me in equal proportions. They are both outspoken and definite in their ideas, and they both possess a dry sense of humour. I feel they might just as easily have hated each other at first sight – and this would not have been nearly so pleasant.
We sit and talk about our fellow guests – Major Morley seems to be acquainted with many of their foibles. The conversation is not easy to follow for one who does not know the district.
‘Have you seen the MacDollachur girl?’ asks Major Morley.
‘Yon limmer!’ exclaims Mrs. Loudon scornfully. ‘How can she show her face in any civilised place?’
‘There’s not much of her face to be seen. I doubt whether her best friend would know her if she washed the paint off.’
‘There’s the bride!’ exclaims Mrs. Loudon.
‘But no groom in sight,’ replies Major Morley. ‘Now that she’s got him safely married there’s no need for any further effort, I suppose.’
I find this kind of duet somewhat boring, and am not sorry when Major Morley and I are discovered by a tennis enthusiast, and invited to make up a four. We find ourselves partnered against Guthrie and Elsie Baker, and proceed to beat them without much difficulty, thanks to Major Morley’s slashing service and brilliant returns. Guthrie is a sound player, and puts up a good fight, but his partner is too busy showing off her stylish strokes (most of which go out) to be of much help to him.
It is all very pleasant. The sun shines brightly, and the dresses, though slightly out-of-date according to London standards, look very pretty and gay on the green lawns amongst the flowers.
After the set we are joined by the son of the house, Hector MacQuill. He is very tall, with aquiline features and beautiful hands. Major Morley seems to know him well, and enquires with his usual lack of ceremony how on earth that awful Baker girl got here.
‘She is rather awful,’ says young MacQuill. ‘I’ve never seen her before. Guthrie Loudon wanted her asked.’
‘Good God!’ says Major Morley. ‘I spend my whole time avoiding her – she’s staying at the hotel, and she makes eyes at everything in trousers.’
‘You should wear a kilt,’ suggests Hector, smiling.
It is now decreed that Mrs. Christie must really see the chapel and, Mrs. Christie professing herself enchanted to see anything she is shown, arrangements are instantly made for the expedition. Major Morley says Mrs. Loudon should see it too, and, this being agreed upon unanimously, he proposes to fetch the lady in question, and follow us with all speed.
Hector MacQuill and I start off down a mossy path by the side of the river and, after a few minute
s’ walk, we come upon a ruined chapel overgrown with ivy and surrounded by the gravestones of the MacQuills. I find my guide very interesting, and well-informed regarding the history and habits of his ancestors. He makes them real to me. Their strange barbaric form of life, and the mixture of simplicity and ferocity in their natures are easily understood in the wild setting of frowning crags and dashing river where the tale is told.
‘I was named after the wildest of the lot,’ he says, with a friendly smile which lights up his austere contenance in a remarkable way. ‘Hector MacQuill was famous for his audacity in an age when audacity was the natural order of things. He was the hero of a hundred fights, and his raids were the most daring in the whole countryside. One day when Hector was out hunting he happened to see MacArbin’s daughter, and fell in love with her at first sight. The MacArbins are our hereditary enemies, Mrs. Christie. We are still at daggers drawn with them for no reason but the old feud. You will hardly believe such a thing can be in the twentieth century, but my father holds fast to the old traditions. He would as soon pull down the old chapel as give up his ancient enmity with the clan MacArbin. I’m hoping to alter all that, but it won’t be easy.
‘Well, to return to Hector – it was a sort of Montague and Capulet affair, but Hector was less civilised than Romeo and – shall we say? – more virile. One dark night he called the clan together, and made a raid on Castle Darroch (the stronghold of the MacArbins), carrying off his ladylove from under her father’s nose. He kept her a prisoner at Castle Quill until she consented to marry him, and then he married her with splendour and feasting such as had never been seen in the memory of man. It was a strange wooing, but the strangest thing was that they were very happy together, and Seónaid MacArbin became a staunch MacQuill. Here are their graves, close together beside this holly bush.’
We look at the two little mounds in silence. For my part I am enthralled with the story, caught back to those strange wild days where love and war went hand in hand.
‘Hector was a wild devil,’ continues his namesake. ‘He was the terror of the countryside – always up to some mischief or other. Perhaps you think it strange that we should be proud of him?’
‘He was a man,’ I reply.
‘The MacArbins got him at last. They laid many traps for him, but Hector seemed to lead a charmed life. Perhaps he got careless in the end.’
‘What happened?’
He laughs. ‘I don’t want to bore you, Mrs. Christie.’
‘It’s thrilling,’ I tell him.
‘Well, Hector was out hunting with some of the clan. Suddenly they heard a woman screaming for help. Hector called a halt. You can imagine the little band in the depths of the forest, looking at each other and wondering what was afoot. The screams came again, and, without more ado, Hector led the way in the direction from whence they came. They were getting near to the MacArbin stronghold, and some of them must have felt a qualm of fear, for the feud was very fierce, and they could expect no mercy were their enemies to find them on MacArbin territory. But Hector did not know what fear was, he pressed on, and soon they came to a small clearing in the forest, and saw a girl bound to a tree with ropes. She called out that she had been robbed and ill-treated and besought them to loose her. The band were filled with fury at the outrage; they dismounted, and Hector cut her bonds. Scarcely had he done so when the MacArbin battle cry rang out, and a hundred of the MacArbin clan burst through the undergrowth, and fell upon the MacQuills tooth and nail. It was an ambush; Hector had walked into it blindfold.
‘The MacQuills, totally unprepared for the onslaught, were soon defeated. Hector was taken, and only two of the band escaped to bring the news to Castle Quill. Next morning Hector’s body, full of wounds, and mutilated almost beyond recognition, was found on the road near the Castle gate. They had a grisly sense of humour in those days.
‘Seónaid MacQuill was not the woman to take such an insult lying down. She determined to revenge his death. Calling the clan together, she delivered an impassioned address, reminding them of the prowess of their late chief in battle, and his kindness to them in troublous times, and asking for volunteers for certain death. The clan volunteered as one man. Seónaid chose a dozen of the stoutest, and laid before them her plan. That very night, when the MacArbins were celebrating the death of their enemy with wine and feasting, Seónaid led her chosen band into Castle Darroch by a secret passage from the loch. She was a MacArbin, of course – that was how she knew of its existence. When the feast was at its height, Seónaid, with a dozen fierce warriors armed to the teeth, sprang into the banqueting hall and laid about them with their claymores. They were overpowered in the end, and every man of them slain, but not before they had done a good deal of damage amongst their unarmed and unsuspecting hosts. Seónaid herself was killed in the mêlée. I think she intended that this should happen, for she was devoted to Hector, and life without him must have seemed impossible.
‘The MacArbins had a custom of throwing the bodies of their dead into the loch upon which their Castle stands. It saved burial, and, truth to tell, there is very little ground round the place where you could dig for three feet without coming upon solid rock. For some unknown reason Loch-an-Darroch never gives up its dead. Nothing thrown into the loch is ever seen again. I suppose it is something to do with the currents or else because it is very deep.
‘Seónaid’s marriage with a hated MacQuill had rankled for years in the hearts of the MacArbins. They considered her a traitor to her clan, but she still belonged to them, so they decided to give her a MacArbin funeral. The night was dark; they pushed their boats out from the shore; torches made of pine resin threw a red glow upon the waters. The priest read the burial service and Seónaid’s body was committed to the loch. Thus the MacArbins vindicated their honour, and reclaimed their own.
‘Next morning some women, going down to the loch to wash clothes, found the body of Seónaid washed up in a little bay where the sand was white and the willows drooped over the water. They rushed up to the castle, screaming out the news, and in a few moments the whole clan was roused and had trooped down to the water’s edge to see for itself whether the impossible and unheard-of had really happened. Yes, there was Seónaid lying on the sand, half in and half out of the water, and the little waves were lapping round her and moving the long strands of her hair Loch-an-Darroch had given up its prey. A terrified silence fell upon the clan; they looked at each other in horror what terrible thing did this portend?
‘ “Throw her back again!” cried some of the hotheads, but the wiseacres would not hear of such a thing. This was a sign and a portent; to throw her back would be to invite disaster.
‘It was obvious that the loch would have none of her – or else she would have none of the loch. To throw her back was madness, for her spirit would not rest; it would haunt the castle and cause endless trouble to the clan. It was therefore decided to carry her back to the MacQuills, so that her spirit, if it felt restless in its narrow bed, might haunt clan MacQuill rather than clan MacArbin.
‘So it was that Seónaid had another funeral – slightly more orthodox than her first – and was buried beside Hector in MacQuill ground.’
‘And does she haunt them?’ I ask, for the story has seized upon my imagination, and a ghost would be a fitting and pleasantly creepy sequel.
The modern Hector laughs. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Christie, but some people are under the impression that they have seen the spirit of Seónaid walking upon Loch-an-Darroch or haunting the ruined castle of the MacArbins.’
‘What, have we a Highlander here who doesn’t believe in ghosts?’ says Mrs. Loudon. She and Major Morley have approached us while we were talking, and have overheard the last words of the story.
‘Have you told Mrs. Christie about the bard?’ enquires Major Morley.
‘I think I’ve told her enough for one day,’ replies Hector MacQuill with a laugh; but I am determined to hear all I can, and after a little persuasion he continue
s. ‘In those days there was no written record of events, but every clan had a bard (or poet) who composed verses, commemorating the brave doings of his chief, and set them to music. These songs were handed down from father to son, and, in this way, some record was kept. The bard belonging to clan MacQuill composed an ode to Seónaid, and it is through this ode that the story I have told you has travelled down the centuries to the present day. Of course the poem was in Gaelic, but the last part might be translated something like this:
‘In dark Loch-an-Darroch, beneath the stark crags, Our Seónaid found no rest.
How should MacQuill sleep in MacArbin water?
How should a lioness find peace in the lair of a badger?
Would the proud eagle who nests on Ben Seoch Seek shelter in the pigeon house?
Seónaid was ours from the day when we took her, Our courage and cunning won her from our foes.
Brave Hector bore her home upon his black steed, And the skies flashed and thundered.
Lovely as the night was Seónaid – Her hair floated upon the waters of Darroch, Like a black cloud it floated round her, And like a water lily was her face.
She came back from the grave, And brought fear to the black hearts of MacArbin.
They looked upon her and trembled.
Take her up and bring her safely home,
To her true home by the dashing river Quill, Which comes down from Ben Seoch like a lion seeking its prey, And all who drink of it are filled with courage.
Bring her home to her own people who loved her well.
Lay her down gently in the kindly warm earth.
Hector the brave, and Seónaid the beautiful –
Together they sleep in the shade of the holly.’
None of us speaks for a moment or two, and perhaps this is the right tribute to pay.
‘Do you think she really was very beautiful?’ Major Morley asks at last.
‘I think she was,’ replies Hector. ‘The MacArbin women have all been noted for their beauty, and Seónaid was the same type pale as a lily, with dark hair oh yes, she was certainly beautiful.’
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment Page 22
