Our Home in the Silver West: A Story of Struggle and Adventure. Stables Gordon
Читать онлайн книгу.
had he been all by himself, for this Herculean young parson never yet set eye on a hill he meant to climb without going straight to the top of it.
'There is no tiring Townley.' I have often heard father make that remark; and, indeed, it gave in a few words a complete clue to Townley's character.
But to-day my aunt Cecilia was with him, and it was on her account he was resting. They had been sitting for some time in silence.
'It is almost too lovely a day for talking,' she said, at last.
'True; it is a day for thinking and dreaming.'
'I do not imagine, sir, that either thinking or dreaming is very much in your way.'
He turned to her almost sharply.
'Oh, indeed,' he said, 'you hardly gauge my character aright, Miss M'Crimman.'
'Do I not?'
'No, if you only knew how much I think at times; if you only knew how much I have even dared to dream – '
There was a strange meaning in his looks if not in his words. Did she interpret either aright, I wonder? I know not. Of one thing I am sure, and that is, my friend and tutor was far too noble to seem to take advantage of my aunt's altered circumstances in life to press his suit. He might be her equal some day, at present he was – her brother's guest and domestic.
'Tell me,' she said, interrupting him, 'some of your thoughts; dreams at best are silly.'
He heaved the faintest sigh, and for a few moments appeared bent only on forming an isosceles triangle of pebbles with his cane.
Then he put his fingers in his pocket.
'I wish to show you,' he said, 'a ring.'
'A ring, Mr. Townley! What a curious ring! Silver, set with a ruby heart. Why, this is the ring – the mysterious ring that belonged to the priest, and was found in his box in the vault.'
'No, that is not the ring. The ring is in a safe and under seal. That is but a facsimile. But, Miss M'Crimman, the ring in question did not, I have reason to believe, belong to the priest Stewart, nor was it ever worn by him.'
'How strangely you talk and look, Mr. Townley!'
'Whatever I say to you now, Miss M'Crimman, I wish you to consider sacred.'
The lady laughed, but not lightly.
'Do you think,' she said, 'I can keep a secret?'
'I do, Miss M'Crimman, and I want a friend and occasional adviser.'
'Go on, Mr. Townley. You may depend on me.'
'All we know, or at least all he will tell us of Murdoch's – your nephew's – illness, is that he was frightened at the ruin that night. He did not lead us to infer – for this boy is honest – that the terror partook of the supernatural, but he seemed pleased we did so infer.'
'Yes, Mr. Townley.'
'I watched by his bedside at night, when the fever was at its hottest. I alone listened to his ravings. Such ravings have always, so doctors tell us, a foundation in fact. He mentioned this ring over and over again. He mentioned a vault; he mentioned a name, and starting sometimes from uneasy slumber, prayed the owner of that name to spare him – to shoot him not.'
'And from this you deduce – '
'From this,' said Townley, 'I deduce that poor Murdoch had seen that ring on the left hand of a villain who had threatened to shoot him, for some potent reason or another, that Murdoch had seen that vault open, and that he has been bound down by sacred oath not to reveal what he did see.'
'But oh, Mr. Townley, such oath could not, cannot be binding on the boy. We must – '
'No, we must not, Miss M'Crimman. We must not put pressure on Murdoch at present. We must not treat lightly his honest scruples. You must leave me to work the matter out in my own way. Only, whenever I need your assistance or friendship to aid me, I may ask for it, may I not?'
'Indeed you may, Mr. Townley.'
Her hand lay for one brief moment in his; then they got up silently and resumed their walk.
Both were thinking now.
CHAPTER V.
A NEW HOME IN THE WEST
To-night, before I entered my tower-room study and sat down to continue our strange story, I was leaning over the battlements and gazing admiringly at the beautiful sunset effects among the hills and on the lake, when my aunt came gliding to my side. She always comes in this spirit-like way.
'May I say one word,' she said, 'without interrupting the train of your thoughts?'
'Yes, dear aunt,' I replied; 'speak as you please – say what you will.'
'I have been reading your manuscript, Murdoch, and I think it is high time you should mention that the M'Raes of Strathtoul were in no degree connected with or voluntarily mixed up in the villainy that banished your poor father from Castle Coila.'
'It shall be as you wish,' I said, and then Aunt Cecilia disappeared as silently as she had come.
Aunt is right. Nor can I forget that – despite the long-lasting and unfortunate blood-feud – the Strathtouls were and are our kinsmen. It is due to them to add that they ever acted honourably, truthfully; that there was but one villain, and whatever of villainy was transacted was his. Need I say his name was Duncan M'Rae? A M'Rae of Strathtoul? No; I am glad and proud to say he was not. I even doubt if he had any right or title to the name at all. It may have been but an alias. An alias is often of the greatest use to such a man as this Duncan; so is an alibi at times!
I have already mentioned the school in the glen which my father the chief had built. M'Rae was one of its first teachers. He was undoubtedly clever, and, though he had not come to Coila without a little cloud on his character, his plausibility and his capability prevailed upon my father to give him a chance. There used at that time to be services held in the school on Sunday evenings, to which the most humbly dressed peasant could come. Humble though they were, they invariably brought their mite for the collection. It was dishonesty – even sacrilegious dishonesty – in Duncan to appropriate such moneys to his use, and to falsify the books. It is needless to say he was dismissed, and ever after he bore little good-will to the M'Crimmans of Coila.
He had now to live on his wits. His wits led him to dishonesty of a different sort – he became a noted poacher. His quarrels with the glen-keepers often led to ugly fights and to bloodshed, but never to Duncan's reform. He lived and lodged with old Mawsie. It suited him to do so for several reasons, one of which was that she had, as I have already said, an ill-name, and the keepers were superstitious; besides, her house was but half a mile from a high road, along which a carrier passed once a week on his way to a distant town, and Duncan nearly always had a mysterious parcel for him.
The poacher wanted a safe or store for his ill-gotten game. What better place than the floor of the ruined church? While digging there, to his surprise he had discovered a secret vault or cell; the roof and sides had fallen in, but masons could repair them. Such a place would be invaluable in his craft if it could be kept secret, and he determined it should be. After this, strange lights were said to be seen sometimes by belated travellers flitting among the old graves; twice also a ghost had been met on the hill adjoining – some thing at least that disappeared immediately with eldritch scream.
It was shortly after this that Duncan had imported two men to do what they called 'a bit of honest work.' Duncan had lodged and fed them at Mawsie's; they worked at night, and when they had done the 'honest work,' he took them to Invergowen and shipped them back to Aberdeen.
But the poacher's discovery of the priest's Bible turned his thoughts to a plan of enriching himself far more effectually and speedily than he ever could expect to do by dealing in game without a licence.
At the same time Duncan had found the poor priest's modest store of wine. A less scientific villain would have made short work with this, but the poacher knew better at present than to 'put an enemy in his mouth to steal away his brains;' besides, the vault would look more natural, when