Surprisingly, Miss Isabella too clapped her hands like a child. ‘Captain Maxwell already! But – to be sure – I noticed this morning that it is the second Thursday of the month.’
The hereditary Captain of Moila, Meredith thought, seemed a good deal more reliable on the current calendar than on the centuries. And certainly a steamer was approaching the island, since it was now possible to hear the throb of engines. But was not the Oronsay a sizeable Orient liner? It seemed altogether improbable that such a giant – Meredith’s speculations were interrupted by much bustle around him. Mrs Cameron had come in with a tablecloth and a tray of silver; at the same time Miss Dorcas, now oblivious of Mr Properjohn, his Foxes, and whatever further problems, military or economic, he posed, was wrapping herself in shawls and bonnet for some excursion in the open air. ‘Come along,’ said Miss Dorcas – and her tone was animated and even gay. ‘How fortunate that you should have come on a second Thursday! Tibbie, you had best not venture out of doors. But do you think that Shamus will have remembered to collect the flock? And will the cow be ready, I wonder?’ She made sweeping gestures towards the staircase which wound directly into the room. ‘But come along, or we shall be too late for the tying up.’
And Miss Dorcas and her guests hurried down to ground level and across a series of courtyards. It was noon and the Flying Foxes were stationary; those farther away, suspended on their almost invisible cables, were like great bats unnaturally hovering in air. A light breeze blew through innumerable cracks and crannies in the castle’s outer walls, producing a sort of low whistling upon a score of notes which blended with the farmyard noises from the base-court and the beat of surf far below. Clover and seaspray and dry grass scented the air. From somewhere startlingly close at hand the incoming steamer hooted again and a thousand gulls rose at the sound, their wings catching or eluding the sun as they wheeled and wheeled again. Meredith found himself quite breathless as the old lady hurried him towards the seaward and deserted side of their domain. ‘Is it’, he asked, as a third hoot rose seemingly through the very rock beneath his feet, ‘one of the paddle steamers?’
Miss Dorcas looked at him in dismay. ‘But, dear me, no! My sister would be most upset at such a suggestion. There have been none of them for years, I am glad to say. This is the screw steamer – Captain Maxwell’s, a most charming man. He is often kind enough to join us at luncheon and bring us a breath of the wider world. He is always full of news, and often he executes any small commission we may have… Pray be careful!’
Miss Dorcas had been hurrying forward with such precipitation, and had come so abruptly to a halt, that Meredith had scarcely time to notice that another step on his own part would assuredly have been his last. For the party now stood upon a narrow platform of turf, scarcely three feet wide, between a crumbled but still gigantic bastion of the ruined castle and a precipice dropping from beneath their feet to blue–black water far below – a precipice so sheer as scarcely to afford more than an occasional nesting-place for Moila’s omnipresent gulls.
And now the full natural strength of the castle on this seaward aspect was revealed. For from round the deep, natural basin below – save only at one point where a small landing stage appeared to have been hewn from the rock – this unscalable face of stone everywhere rose up to merge with scarcely a break into the western walls of the fortification. The actual height was not, perhaps, so very great, but assuredly it was sufficient to bar assault from the sea. Nor did there appear – immediately, at least – any practicable route by which communication with the incoming steamer would be possible – unless indeed one should make use of Properjohn’s Flying Foxes, the span for which swept steeply down from the level at which Meredith now stood, and halfway across the anchorage turned to the horizontal at a height of some fifteen feet above the water, thence running on and out to Inchfarr on the support of two stunted pylons of latticed steel.
The Oronsay, viewed from above, was a tub of a craft not much less broad than it was long, of an actual size approximating to that of a wherry, and in its present situation diminished to the proportions of a clockwork toy. A boy lounged in its blunt bows preparing to cast a rope; on a little bridge near the stern stood Captain Maxwell, a bearded man of very much the same proportions as his craft; and, in between, the deck was exclusively occupied by several hundred black-faced sheep. The baaing of these, reverberating round the great cauldron of the anchorage, was redoubled as the Oronsay jerkily manoeuvred for position; the noise of this sent a cloud of gulls screaming into the air; at the same moment the lad Shamus mysteriously appeared on the landing stage below and started a voluble shouting to which the boy in the bows responded; Captain Maxwell took off his nautical cap, waved it above his head, and hallooed in a deep bass to Miss Dorcas; Miss Dorcas waved in return and uttered shrill, gull-like cries; the gulls, more disturbed than ever, swooped and screamed anew. It was evident that on Moila second Thursdays were special days indeed.
Dogs were barking. From below-decks appeared a shepherd in bright blue trousers and a faded tartan plaid. The screw gave a final thresh; the Oronsay emitted a fourth and triumphant hoot; part of a bulwark designed as a gangway fell with a rattle of chain upon the landing stage; the sheep, amid much bark and shout, poured across and were instantly and miraculously swallowed by the living rock. The baaing and barking faded on the air. Captain Maxwell, after gravely consulting with some assistant in the bowels of the vessel, disembarked and disappeared in his turn, with Shamus following and carrying a large carpet-bag. There was now no sound but the beat of surf from beyond the harbour – that and a muted bleating underground, as if from the flocks of Pan banished to a cimmerian gloom. Slowly the bleating gained in resonance and was presently a tumultuous baaing once more – but this time it proceeded from within the courts of the castle, from the towering walls of which it took to itself echo upon echo until the effect was of some vast antipodean sheep run contracted to one narrow room.
Meredith, turning round to investigate, found the massive figure of Captain Maxwell at his elbow. So massive, indeed, was the master of the Oronsay that, standing on this narrow ledge, he appeared to overhang the void below like a structure hazardously built out on corbels. And this was only a reminder that the position of the whole party was precarious. But even as the thought entered Meredith’s head Miss Dorcas brushed past him with no more concern than if she were a guillemot and shook Captain Maxwell warmly by the hand. ‘It is not often’, she said, ‘that we have other visitors when the Oronsay comes in. Let me introduce you to Miss Halliwell and Mr Meredith. And only an hour ago we had a third visitor – Mr Properjohn from Carron Lodge.’
‘And are ye telling me that, now?’ Captain Maxwell cast a disapproving glance at the line of cables running out to Inchfarr. ‘And it’s no’ so mony hours since I heard tell of him myself. Awfu’ queer goings-on. Did ye ever hear tell of an English body o’ the name o’ Higbed, or suchlike?’
‘Higbed!’ exclaimed Meredith.
‘Aye – just that.’ Captain Maxwell looked with some suspicion at the stranger. ‘A daftie, it seems, and this Properjohn has the charge of him. But why should a man whose business is wi’ birds’ muck’ – and Captain Maxwell jerked a mighty thumb in the direction of the pylons – ‘take up wi’ keeping dafties?’
The party was now moving back towards the inhabited part of the castle. Meredith and Jean exchanged glances. ‘But this’, Meredith began incautiously, ‘is most extraordinarily interesting–’
‘And is that so?’ Captain Maxwell became instantly un-communicative. ‘I’m thinking it’s grand weather for getting in the peat.’
‘It so happens’, said Miss Dorcas, momentarily remembering the untoward disclosure of earlier in the morning, ‘that Mr Meredith is endeavouring to get on Mr Properjohn’s tracks–’
‘I’m thinking he’d better be careful this Properjohn doesn’t get on his. Like on that daftie’s.’ For a second Captain Maxwel
l seemed tempted to expand on this theme. But caution again overcame him. ‘Miss Dorcas,’ he said, ‘when folks comes speiring round after other folks it’s as well to haud your tongue until you ken just where ye are. Especially in awfu’ times like these. But here’s Miss Macleod – an’ looking more like Lady Flora than ever.’
The hereditary Captain had appeared on the threshold of the solar, and received what was evidently a customary piece of gallantry with suitable graciousness. ‘Come away, Captain Maxwell,’ she said, ‘come away to where your place is waiting you. Boiled mutton – and I believe caper sauce, which we owe to your own good offices.’ Miss Isabella had returned for the time to a strictly contemporary world.
‘And fancy you remembering that, Miss Macleod.’ Captain Maxwell tucked a table-napkin beneath his beard. ‘Maybe Mrs Cameron will find another wee bottle in the carpet-bag. It’s wonderful what can be picked up frae time to time by those wi’ business in the great waters. Miss Dorcas, you’ll find two tablets o’ bath soap each near the size of a futba’. And that’s something there’s no easy coming by the noo’.’ Captain Maxwell exhibited considerable complacency over this. ‘For them’s right awfu’ days. Well, Miss Dorcas, if you mon do it’ – for Miss Dorcas had produced the decanter – ‘it had best be no more than a dram. There’s an auld minefield to navigate this afternoon. And the Oronsay has to berth at Glasgow the morning’s morn.’
‘But we hope’, said Miss Dorcas, ‘that the seas are now considerably safer than before?’
‘Aye, they are that. The Sunderlands got on top o’ the prowling vermin at last, and in the end in they a’ came like a fishing fleet. But it was Sunderland for sub for mony a long day.’
‘Sunderland for sub?’ asked Meredith.
‘Aye, so.’ Captain Maxwell was sober. ‘Awa’ doon by Lorient and in the Bay o’ Biscay. Each yin would get the other, sure as sure. For it’s no’ easy to get onything for nothing in war. But it was like a winning game at chess, for a sub costs more and hauds more crew than a flying-boat. There’s no subs now, praise be. No but what the laddies look as if they were after yin this very morn in these waters – which is an unco queer thing.’ Captain Maxwell shook his head and absently drained his glass. ‘Awfu’ times,’ he said. ‘D’y ken, Miss Macleod, that over on Larra there’s to be a daunce in the ha’ o’ the Continuing?’
‘The Continuing?’ Jean rashly asked.
‘I see ye canna’ be familiar, miss, wi’ Kirk affairs in Scotland. Some weeks syne they had a daunce in the ha’ o’ the Church of Scotland on Larra, and now they’re to haud yin in the ha’ of the United Free Church of Scotland Continuing. And what would the Auld Lichts, or them o’ the Original Secession, think o’ that?’
Miss Dorcas poured out another dram, which her guest promptly drained. ‘But, Captain Maxwell,’ she said, ‘surely there isn’t any harm in dancing. I remember that George MacDonald himself says “Dance, ye Highland lads and lassies, hurricanes of Highland reels”. And George MacDonald was a very godly man.’
‘Aye – maybe so. But it’s no reels they’ll be dauncing on Larra; it’s them twa-backed daunces frae England. No more than a dram, if ye please, Miss Dorcas.’
Meredith took heart from this third potation. ‘You were mentioning Properjohn,’ he said, ‘and something about a man called Higbed–’
But this was to reckon without the charms of theological conversation. ‘It appears to me’, Miss Isabella interrupted, ‘that there is warrant for the practice of dancing in the Bible itself. Do you not recall, Captain Maxwell, that King David is described as dancing before the Ark of the Lord?’
‘Aye, Miss Macleod, I’ll grant ye that. But no’ wi’ a pairtner. And I’m thinking ye’d be fair stammagasted to hear o’ the Ark o’ the Lord appearing on Larra. All they’ll be dancing afore there is a bit o’ a quean strumming on a piano and a daft loon bloring into a saxaphone.’
‘I think you said that Higbed was daft?’ Jean seized boldly upon this tenuous transition. ‘I’m surprised to hear that. For, as a matter of fact, I could tell you quite a lot about him.’ She paused hopefully on this bait.
‘And is that so, Miss Halliwell?’ Captain Maxwell, from above his raised glass, gave Jean a shrewdly appraising glance. ‘I’m thinking Miss Dorcas said that you and Mr Meredith had come to these pairts for more than change o’ air?’
‘Decidedly more.’
‘Ye’ll easier get change o’ air in the Islands than change o’ a threepenny bit.’ Captain Maxwell produced this venerable witticism with innocent pleasure. ‘It was bad enough when the lairds were real lairds o’ a sort and ever grabbing another bit o’ land and turning folk awa’ to Canada and such coarse places. But it’s unco the war’ noo when they’re no more than London bodies after a salmon or a bit o’ a bird. Would you be saying this Properjohn was a London body?’
‘I should say he comes about equally from London, Chicago, Hamburg, Salonica, and Marseille.’
‘And are ye telling me that?’ Captain Maxwell was impressed – so much so that he absently pushed his glass towards Miss Dorcas and the decanter. ‘And would ye say – begging Miss Macleod’s pardon – that in a’ this affair o’ the birds’ muck he was up to what might be expected frae such a heathen-like creature?’
‘Yes, Captain Maxwell. Quite definitely so.’
‘Then listen.’ And Captain Maxwell drew his glass towards him and pushed away his plate. ‘I’ll be telling you about the daftie Higbed.’
VI
Evidently by prescriptive right, Captain Maxwell filled and lit his pipe. Meredith took courage to beg the same privilege. And once he had the tobacco of Mr Bubear’s inept assistant well alight he felt a larger confidence in face of the problems which surrounded him. ‘Captain Maxwell,’ he said at a venture, ‘would this matter of the daftie Higbed have anything to do with a furniture van?’
‘It would that.’ Captain Maxwell took his pipe from amid his whiskers and looked at Meredith with respect. ‘In fact, twa.’
‘Two furniture vans!’
‘Twa – and a muck lorry forbye. And a gentleman’s library lying about the peat. And a travelling altar.’
‘A travelling altar?’ said Miss Dorcas. ‘I don’t think I ever heard of such a thing.’
Captain Maxwell puffed at his pipe and with marked leisure watched the smoke drift up to the dimness of the vaulted roof. It was evident that he was not without the arts of the raconteur. ‘No more ye need have,’ he said. ‘For who would want to know a’ the unco notions o’ the piscies?’
‘The piscies?’ said Jean.
‘The Episcopalians, Miss Halliwell. Scots wha haud in with the Church of England are Episcopalians – and that’s piscies for short. Respectable folk enough, the most of them are – but awfu’ superstitious and formal. Aye reading a bittock out o’ a book, like a bairn with a primer, instead o’ following the godly and inventive practice o’ conceived prayer. But about the travelling altar I never heard tell mysel’ until I fell in with the Reverend Mr Wooley two days syne.
‘The piscies are none too many in these pairts, and their kirks are few and far between. So they have this Mr Wooley, a douce and learned minister enough, louping ower the country in a wee bit car, holding a service here and a service there – or maybe just a bit recitation-like out o’ his prayer-book – whenever he comes up wi’ ony members o’ his scattered flock. Now, him and me’s been long acquaint, for whiles he takes the Oronsay frae island to island. And many’s the crack we’ve had on Biblical matters – and I maun say, for all his high-popery, that he hauds sound views enough on the Book of Judges.’
‘Ah!’ said Miss Dorcas. ‘But have you tried him on the Apocalypse?’
‘So a couple o’ days syne’ – Captain Maxwell ignored this invitation to digress – ‘when I’d been up Minervie way over a freight and was looking to get quickly back aboard, I was r
ight glad when up he drove and offered me a lift. The seat beside him was piled high with parcels – for it’s natural that with transport so bad as it is in these awfu’ times he should carry more than spiritual sustenance to the scattered piscies, and the Word o’ the Lord won’t be less acceptable if it arrives along o’ the hens’ corn or a bag o’ flour. Well, I was climbing in at the back when Mr Wooley stops me, polite but a wee bit shocked. “Captain,” he says, “not there; that’s the altar.” And, sure enough, there on the back seat was what might have been a tombstone, wrapped up for delivery in brown paper. And he explains to me that it’s consecrated by his bishop, and that when he gets to some gentry house he has a couple o’ billies fetch it into the drawing room, maybe, so that anything he could do in a kirk he can do there. A profane man would think it clean skite, I dinna’ doubt. But though I question sorely whether the Lord would be vexed ony should Mr Wooley drop his travelling altar accidently-like into Loch Carron, I haud wi’ respecting the beliefs o’ a’ such lower forms o’ Christianity if sincerely held. And I was to respect Mr Wooley the more before the journey was out.
‘You’ll be wondering what a’ this has to do wi’ Properjohn and his daftie, the poor chiel Higbed. It was this wise. There was a haar in from the sea – as ye may mind well if ye were here by then – and the mist was heavy between the mountain and the loch. And I was speiring a bit about the Codex Sinaiticus, seeing that I had been reading Kenyon’s Handbook to the Textual Criticism of the New Testament–’
‘An admirable manual,’ said Meredith. ‘Particularly in points where Tischendorf–’
‘–and seeing that he appeared to be well-versed in such grave matters. Well, Mr Wooley drove slow, and whiles I listened and whiles we argued, and then the mist grew thicker and Mr Wooley drove slower still. And when he came to the Epistle of Barnabas he clean stopped, and there we sat on the brow of a wee brae, with the haar eddying about us and this o’ the Codex Sinaiticus to chew on. And then the haar lifted for the time and there were the twa great furniture vans straight below us, and Properjohn’s muck lorry that I knew fine forbye. And there, lying by the roadside as I was telling ye, was enough books to grace the sanctum of Mr Wooley’s bishop himself. There was something unco about it a’ – there in that dreich and lonesome place – and for a while we sat gowking at it, as still as if we were a couple of bogies set up to scare the crows in a turnip field. And what was going forward was straight to see. A couple o’ billies were getting the books out o’ one o’ the furniture vans, and a third was stowing them in the muck lorry.’
From London Far Page 14
