Donal Grant

Instinctively clutching his skene dhu, he darted to the great stair. It must have been the voice of Arctura he had heard! She was walled up in the chapel!

Down the stair, with swift noiseless foot he sped, and stopped at the door of the half-way room. It was locked!

There was but one way left! To the foot of the stair he shot. Good heavens! if that way also should have been known to the earl! He crept through the little door underneath the stair, feeling with his hands ere his body was through: the arch was open! In an instant he was in the crypt.

But now to get up through the opening into the passage above—stopped with a heavy slab! He sprang at the steep slope of the window-sill, but there was no hold, and as often as he sprang he slipped down again. He tried and tried until he was worn out and almost in despair. She might be dying! he was close to her! he could not reach her! He stood still for a moment to think. To his mind came the word, "He that believeth shall not make haste." He thought with himself, "God cannot help men with wisdom when their minds are in too great a tumult to hear what he says!" He tried to lift up his heart and make a silence in his soul.

As he stood he seemed to see, through the dark, the gloomy place as it first appeared when he threw in the lighted letter. All at once he started from his quiescence, dropped on his hands and knees, and crawled until he found the flat stone like a gravestone. Out came his knife, and he dug away the earth at one end, until he could get both hands under it. Then he heaved it from the floor, and shifting it along, got it under the opening in the wall.

CHAPTER LXXIV.

A MORAL FUNGUS

Spiritual insanity, cupidity, cruelty, and possibly immediate demoniacal temptation had long been working in and on a mind that had now ceased almost to distinguish between the real and the unreal. Every man who bends the energies of an immortal spirit to further the ends and objects of his lower being, fails so to distinguish; but with the earl the blindness had wrought outward as well as inwardly, so that he was even unable, during considerable portions of his life, to tell whether things took place outside or inside him. Nor did this trouble him—he was past caring. He would argue that what equally affected him had an equal right to be by him regarded as existent. He paid no heed to the different natures of the two kinds of existence, their different laws, and the different demands they made upon the two consciousnesses; he had in fact, by a long course of disobedience growing to utter disuse of conscience, arrived nearly at non-individuality. In regard to what was outside him he was but a mirror, in regard to what was inside him a mere vessel of imperfectly interacting forces. And now his capacities and incapacities together had culminated in a hideous plot, in which it would be hard to say whether the folly, the crime, or the cunning predominated: he had made up his mind that, if the daughter of his brother refused to wed her cousin, and so carry out what he asserted to have been the declared wish of her father, she should go after her father, and leave her property to the next heir, so that if not in one way then in another the law of nature might be fulfilled, and title and property united without the intervention of a marriage. As to any evil that therein might be imagined to befall his niece, he quoted the words of Hamlet—"Since no man has ought of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?"—she would be no worse than she must have been when the few years of her natural pilgrimage were of necessity over: the difference to her was not worth thinking of beside the difference to the family! At the same time perhaps a scare might serve, and she would consent to marry Forgue to escape a frightful end!

The moment Donal was gone, he sent Forgue to London, and set himself to overcome the distrust of him which he could not but see had for some time been growing in her. With the sweet prejudices of a loving nature to assist him, he soon prevailed so far that, without much entreaty, she consented to accompany him to London—for a month or so, he said, while Davie was gone. The proposal had charms for her: she had been there with her father when a mere child, and never since. She wrote to Donal to let him know: how it was that her letter never reached him, it is hardly needful to inquire.

The earl, in order, he said, to show his recognition of her sweet compliance, made arrangements for posting it all the way. He would take her by the road he used to travel himself when he was a young man: she should judge whether more had not been lost than gained by rapidity! Whatever shortened any natural process, he said, simply shortened life itself. Simmons should go before, and find a suitable place for them!

They were hardly gone when Mrs. Brookes received a letter pretendedly from the clergyman of the parish, in a remote part of the south, where her mother, now a very old woman, lived, saying she was at the point of death, and could not die in peace without seeing her daughter. She went at once.

The scheme was a madman's, excellently contrived for the instant object, but with no outlook for immediately resulting perils.

After the first night on the road, he turned across country, and a little towards home; after the next night, he drove straight back, but as it was by a different road, Arctura suspected nothing. When they came within a few hours of the castle, they stopped at a little inn for tea; there he contrived to give her a certain dose. At the next place where they stopped, he represented her as his daughter taken suddenly ill: he must go straight home with her, however late they might be. Giving an imaginary name to their destination, and keeping on the last post-boy who knew nothing of the country, he directed him so as completely to bewilder him, with the result that he set them down at the castle supposing it a different place, and in a different part of the country. The thing was after the earl's own heart; he delighted in making a fool of a fellow-mortal. He sent him away so as not to enter the town: it was of importance his return should not be known.

It is a marvel he could effect what followed; but he had the remnants of great strength, and when under influences he knew too well how to manage, was for the time almost as powerful as ever: he got his victim to his room on the stair, and thence through the oak door.

CHAPTER LXXV.

THE PORCH OF HADES

When Arctura woke from her unnatural sleep, she lay a while without thought, then began to localize herself. The last place she recalled was the inn where they had tea: she must have been there taken ill, she thought, and was now in a room of the same. It was quite dark: they might have left a light by her! She lay comfortably enough, but had a suspicion that the place was not over clean, and was glad to find herself not undrest. She turned on her side: something pulled her by the wrist. She must have a bracelet on, and it was entangled in the coverlet! She tried to unclasp it, but could not: which of her bracelets could it be? There was something attached to it!—a chain—a thick chain! How odd! What could it mean? She lay quiet, slowly waking to fuller consciousness.—Was there not a strange air, a dull odour in the room? Undefined as it was, she had smelt it before, and not long since!—It was the smell of the lost chapel!—But that was at home in the castle! she had left it two days before! Was she going out of her mind?

The dew of agony burst from her forehead. She would have started up, but was pulled hard by the wrist! She cried on God.—Yes, she was lying on the very spot where that heap of woman-dust had lain! she was manacled with the same ring from which that woman's arm had wasted—the decay of centuries her slow redeemer! Her being recoiled so wildly from the horror, that for a moment she seemed on the edge of madness. But madness is not the sole refuge from terror! Where the door of the spirit has once been opened wide to God, there is he, the present help in time of trouble! With him in the house, it is not only that we need fear nothing, but that is there which in its own being and nature casts out fear. God and fear cannot be together. It is a God far off that causes fear. "In thy presence is fulness of joy." Such a sense of absolute helplessness overwhelmed Arctura that she felt awake in her an endless claim upon the protection of her original, the source of her being. And what sooner would any father have of his children than action on such claim! God is always calling us as his children, and when we call him as our father, then, and not till then, does he begin to be satisfied. And with that there fell upon Arctura a kind of sleep, which yet was not sleep; it was a repose such as perhaps is the sleep of a spirit.

Again the external began to intrude. She pictured to herself what the darkness was hiding. Her feelings when first she came down into the place returned on her memory. The tide of terror began again to rise. It rose and rose, and threatened to become monstrous. She reasoned with herself: had she not been brought in safety through its first and most dangerous inroad?—but reason could not outface terror. It was fear, the most terrible of all terrors, that she feared. Then again woke her faith: if the night hideth not from him, neither does the darkness of fear!

It began to thunder, first with a low distant muttering roll, then with a loud and near bellowing. Was it God coming to her? Some are strangely terrified at thunder; Arctura had the child's feeling that it was God that thundered: it comforted her as with the assurance that God was near. As she lay and heard the great organ of the heavens, its voice seemed to grow articulate; God was calling to her, and saying, "Here I am, my child! be not afraid!"

Then she began to reason with herself that the worst that could happen to her was to lie there till she died of hunger, and that could not be so very bad! And therewith across the muttering thunder came a wail of the ghost-music. She started: had she not heard it a hundred times before, as she lay there in the dark alone? Was she only now for the first time waking up to it—she, the lady they had shut up there to die—where she had lain for ages, with every now and then that sound of the angels singing, far above her in the blue sky?

She was beginning to wander. She reasoned with herself, and dismissed the fancy; but it came and came again, mingled with real memories, mostly of the roof, and Donal.

By and by she fell asleep, and woke in a terror which seemed to have been growing in her sleep. She sat up, and stared into the dark. >From where stood the altar, seemed to rise and approach her a form of deeper darkness. She heard nothing, saw nothing, but something was there. It came nearer. It was but a fancy; she knew it; but the fancy assumed to be: the moment she gave way, and acknowledged it, that moment it would have the reality it had been waiting for, and clasp her in its skeleton-arms! She cried aloud, but it only came nearer; it was about to seize her!

A sudden, divine change!—her fear was gone, and in its place a sense of absolute safety: there was nothing in all the universe to be afraid of! It was a night of June, with roses, roses everywhere! Glory be to the Father! But how was it? Had he sent her mother to think her full of roses? Why her mother? God himself is the heart of every rose that ever bloomed! She would have sung aloud for joy, but no voice came; she could not utter a sound. What a thing this would be to tell Donal Grant! This poor woman cried, and God heard her, and saved her out of all her distresses! The father had come to his child! The cry had gone from her heart into his!

If she died there, would Donal come one day and find her? No! No! She would speak to him in a dream, and beg him not to go near the place! She would not have him see her lie like that he and she standing together had there looked upon!

With that came Donal's voice, floated and rolled in music and thunder. It came from far away; she did not know whether she fancied or really heard it. She would have responded with a great cry, but her voice vanished in her throat. Her joy was such that she remembered nothing more.

CHAPTER LXXVI.

THE ANGEL OF THE LORD

Standing upon the edge of the stone leaned against the wall, Donal seized the edge of the slab which crossed the opening near the top, and drew himself up into the sloping window-sill. Pressing with all his might against the sides of the window, he succeeded at last in pushing up the slab so far as to get a hold with one hand on the next to it. Then slowly turning himself on his side, while the whole weight of the stone rested on his fingers, he got the other hand also through the crack. This effected, he hauled and pushed himself up with his whole force, careless of what might happen to his head. The top of it came bang against the stone, and lifted it so far that he got head and neck through. The thing was done! With one more Herculean lift of his body and the stone together, like a man rising from the dead, he rose from the crypt into the passage.

But the door of the chapel would not yield to a gentle push.

"My lady," he cried, "don't be afraid. I must make a noise. It's only Donal Grant! I'm going to drive the door open."

She heard the words! They woke her from her swoon of joy. "Only Donal Grant!" What less of an only could there be in the world for her! Was he not the messenger who raised the dead!

She tried to speak, but not a word would come. Donal drew back a pace, and sent such a shoulder against the door that it flew to the wall, then fell with a great crash on the floor.

"Where are you, my lady?" he cried.

But still she could not speak.

He began feeling about.

"Not on that terrible bed!" she heard him murmur.

Fear lest in the darkness he should not find her, gave her back her voice.

"I don't mind it now!" she said feebly.

"Thank God!" cried Donal; "I've found you at last!"

Worn out, he sank on his knees, with his head on the bed, and fell a sobbing like a child.

She would have put out her hand through the darkness to find him, but the chain checked it. He heard the rattle of it, and understood.

"Chained too, my dove!" he said, but in Gaelic.

His weakness was over. He thanked God, and took courage. New life rushed through every vein. He rose to his feet in conscious strength.

"Can you strike a light, and let me see you, Donal?" said Arctura.

Then first she called him by his Christian name: it had been so often in her heart if not on her lips that night!

The dim light wasted the darkness of the long buried place, and for a moment they looked at each other. She was not so changed as Donal had feared to find her—hardly so change to him as he was to her. Terrible as had been her trial, it had not lasted long, and had been succeeded by a heavenly joy. She was paler than usual, yet there was a rosy flush over her beautiful face. Her hand was stretched towards him, its wrist clasped by the rusty ring, and tightening the chain that held it to the post.

"How pale and tired you look!" she said.

"I am a little tired," he answered. "I came almost without stopping. My mother sent me. She said I must come, but she did not tell me why."

"It was God sent you," said Arctura.

Then she briefly told him what she knew of her own story.

"How did he get the ring on to your wrist?" said Donal.

He looked closer and saw that her hand was swollen, and the skin abraded.

"He forced it on!" he said. "How it must hurt you!"

"It does hurt now you speak of it," she replied. "I did not notice it before.—Do you suppose he left me here to die?"

"Who can tell!" returned Donal. "I suspect he is more of a madman than we knew. I wonder if a soul can be mad.—Yes; the devil must be mad with self-worship! Hell is the great madhouse of creation!"

"Take me away," she said.

"I must first get you free," answered Donal.

She heard him rise.

"You are not going to leave me?" she said.

"Only to get a tool or two."

"And after that?" she said.

"Not until you wish me," he answered. "I am your servant now—his no more."

CHAPTER LXXVII.

THE ANGEL OF THE DEVIL

There came a great burst of thunder. It was the last of the storm. It bellowed and shuddered, went, and came rolling up again. It died away at last in the great distance, with a low continuous rumbling as if it would never cease. The silence that followed was like the Egyptian darkness; it might be felt.

Out of the tense heart of the silence came a faint sound. It came again and again, at regular intervals.

"That is my uncle's step!" said Arctura in a scared whisper through the dark.

It was plainly a slow step—far off, but approaching.

"I wonder if he has a light!" she added hurriedly. "He often goes in the dark without one. If he has you must get behind the altar."

"Do not speak a word," said Donal; "let him think you are asleep. If he has no light, I will stand so that he cannot come near the bed without coming against me. Do not be afraid; he shall not touch you."

The steps were coming nearer all the time. A door opened and shut. Then they were loud—they were coming along the gallery! They ceased. He was standing up there in the thick darkness!

"Arctura," said a deep, awful voice.

It was that of the earl. Arctura made no answer.

"Dead of fright!" muttered the voice. "All goes well. I will go down and see. She might have proved as obstinate as the boys' mother!"

Again the steps began. They were coming down the stair. The door at the foot of it opened. The earl entered a step or two, then stopped. Through the darkness Donal seemed to know exactly where he stood. He knew also that he was fumbling for a match, and watched intently for the first spark. There came a sputter and a gleam, and the match failed. Ere he could try another, Donal made a swift blow at his arm. It knocked the box from his hand.

"Ha!" he cried, and there was terror in the cry, "she strikes at me through the dark!"

Donal kept very still. Arctura kept as still as he. The earl turned and went away.

"I will bring a candle!" he muttered.

"Now, my lady, we must make haste," said Donal. "Do you mind being left while I fetch my tools?"

"No—but make haste," she answered.

"I shall be back before him," he returned.

"Be careful you do not meet him," said Arctura.

There was no difficulty now, either in going or returning. He sped, and in a space that even to Arctura seemed short, was back. There was no time to use the file: he attacked the staple, and drew it from the bed-post, then wound the chain about her arm, and tied it there.

He had already made up his mind what to do with her. He had been inclined to carry her away from the house: Doory would take care of her! But he saw that to leave the enemy in possession would be to yield him an advantage. Awkward things might result from it! the tongues of inventive ignorance and stupidity would wag wildly! He would take her to her room, and there watch her as he would the pearl of price!

"There! you are free, my lady," he said. "Now come."

He took her hands, and she raised herself wearily.

"The air is so stifling!" she said.

"We shall soon have better!" answered Donal.

"Shall we go on the roof?" she said, like one talking in her sleep.

"I will take you to your own room," replied Donal. "—But I will not leave you," he added quickly, seeing a look of anxiety cloud her face, "—so long as your uncle is in the house."

"Take me where you will," rejoined Arctura.

There was no way but through the crypt: she followed him without hesitation. They crept through the little closet under the stair, and were in the hall of the castle.

As they went softly up the stair, Donal had an idea.

"He is not back yet!" he said: "we will take the key from the oak door; he will think he has mislaid it, and will not find out that you are gone. I wonder what he will do!"

Cautiously listening to be sure the earl was not there, he ran to the oak door, locked it, and brought away the key. Then they went to the room Arctura had last occupied.

The door was ajar; there was a light in the room. They went softly, and peeped in. The earl was there, turning over the contents of her writing-desk.

"He will find nothing," she whispered with a smile.

Donal led her away.

"We will go to your old room," he said. "The whole recess is built up with stone and lime: he cannot come near you that way!"

She made no objection. Donal secured the doors, lighted a fire, and went to look for food. They had agreed upon a certain knock, without which she was to open to none.

While she was yet changing the garments in which she had lain on the terrible bed, she heard the earl go by, and the door of his room close. Apparently he had concluded to let her pass the night without another visit: he had himself had a bad fright, and had probably not got over it. A little longer and she heard Donal's gentle signal at the door of the sitting-room. He had brought some biscuits and a little wine in the bottom of a decanter from the housekeeper's room: there was literally nothing in the larder, he said.

They sat down and ate the biscuits. Donal told his adventures. They agreed that she must write to the factor to come home at once, and bring his sister. Then Donal set to with his file upon the ring: her hand was much too swollen to admit of its being removed as it had been put on. It was not easy to cut it, partly from the constant danger of hurting her swollen hand, partly that the rust filled and blunted the file.

"There!" he said at last, "you are free! And now, my lady, you must take some rest. The door to the passage is secure. Lock this one inside, and I will draw the sofa across it outside: if he come wandering in the night, and get into this room, he will not reach your door."

Weary as he was, Donal could not sleep much. In the middle of the night he heard the earl's door open, and watched and followed him. He went to the oak door, and tried in vain to open it.

"She has taken it!" he muttered, in what seemed to Donal an awe-struck voice.

All night long he roamed the house a spirit grievously tormented. In the gray of the morning, having perhaps persuaded himself that the whole affair was a trick of his imagination, he went back to his room.

In the morning Donal left the house, having first called to Arctura and warned her to lock the door of the sitting-room the moment he was gone. He ran all the way down to the inn, paid his bill, bought some things in the town for their breakfast, and taking the mare, rode up to the castle, and rang the bell. No notice was taken. He went and put up his animal, then let himself into the house by Baliol's tower, and began to sing. So singing he went up the great stair, and into and along the corridor where the earl lay.

The singing roused him, and brought him to his door in a rage. But the moment he saw Donal his countenance fell.

"What the devil are you doing here?" he said.

"They told me in the town you were in England, my lord!"

"I wrote to you," said the earl, "that we were gone to London, and that you need be in no haste to return. I trust you have not brought Davie with you?"

"I have not, my lord."

"Then make what haste back to him you can. He must not be alone with bumpkins! You may stay there with him till I send for you—only mind you go on with your studies. Now be off. I am at home but for a few hours on business, and leave again by the afternoon coach!"

"I do not go, my lord, until I have seen my mistress."

"Your mistress! Who, pray, is your mistress!"

"I am no longer in your service, my lord."

"Then what, in the name of God, have you done with my son?"

"In good time, my lord, when you have told me where my mistress is! I am in this house as lady Arctura's servant; and I desire to know where I shall find her."

"In London."

"What address, please your lordship? I will wait her orders here."

"You will leave this house at once," said the earl. "I will not have you here in both her ladyship's absence and my own."

"My lord, I am not ignorant how things stand: I am in lady Arctura's house; and here I remain till I receive her commands."