Doom Castle

  CHAPTER XXX -- A DUCAL DISPUTATION

  If Count Victor, buried among cobwebs in the fosse, stung by cold tillhe shivered as in a quartan ague, suffering alternately the chagrin ofthe bungler self-discovered and the apprehension of a looming fatewhose nature could only be guessed at, was in a state unenviable,Argyll himself was scarcely less unhappy. It was not only that hisChamberlain's condition grieved him, but that the whole affair put himin a quandary where the good citizen quarrelled in him with another oldHighland gentleman whose code of morals was not in strict accord withwritten statutes. He had studied the Pandects at Utrecht, but also hehad been young there, and there was a place (if all tales be true) onthe banks of the Yssel River where among silent polders a young Scot hadtwice at least fought with the sword upon some trivial matter of debatewith Netherlanders of his college. And then he knew his Chamberlain.About Simon MacTaggart Argyll had few illusions, though they perhapsmade all the difference in his conduct to the gentleman in question.That MacTaggart should have brought upon himself a tardy retributionfor acts more bold than scrupulous was not to be wondered at; that themeeting with Count Victor was honourably conducted, although defectivein its form, was almost certain; but here the assailant was in hiscustody, and whether he liked it or not he must hand him over to thelaw.

  His first impulse had been to wash his hands of all complicity in theFrenchman's fate by sending him straightway to the common town tolbooth,pending his trial in the ordinary course; but he hesitated from anintuition that the step would find no favour in the eyes of his Duchess,who had her own odd prejudices regarding Sim MacTaggart, and an interestin Count Victor none the less ardent because it was but a day or twoold.

  "A man! Archie, every bit of him!" she had said at the conclusionof last evening's entertainment; and though without depreciating hisvisitor he had attempted to convince her that her estimate ran therisk of being prejudiced by her knowledge of the quixotic mission theforeigner was embarked on, she had refused to see in Count Victor'saccent, face, and carriage anything but the most adorable character.She ever claimed a child's attribute of attraction or repulsion on mereinstinct to and from men's mere exteriors, and her husband knew it wasuseless to expect any approval from her for any action that might savourof the slightest harshness to the foreigner.

  But above all he feared--he dreaded--something else. Simon MacTaggartwas to him more than a servant; he knew many of his failings, but seemedto tolerate them because he also, like Count Victor, had learned notto expect too much from human nature. But it was ever his fear thathis lenience for the sins and follies of his Chamberlain would some daysuffer too hard a strain, and lead to that severance that in the case ofold friends and familiars was his Grace's singular terror in life.

  The day passed heavily for Argyll. Many a time he looked out of hiswindow into the fosse slow drifting full of snow; and though he couldnot from that point see the cell-door of his prisoner, his fancy didenough to feed his unhappiness. Vainly he paced his library, vainlysought the old anodyne--the blessed anodyne of books; he was consumedwith impatience to consult with his wife, and she, fragile always, andfatigued by last evening's gaieties, was still asleep.

  He went for the twentieth time into the room where the Chamberlain waslying. The doctor, a lank, pock-pitted embodiment of mad chirurgy frombooks and antique herbal delusions inherited from generations of simplehealers, mixed noxious stuff in a gallipot and plumed himself uponsome ounces of gore drawn from his victim. Clysters he prated on;electuaries; troches; the weed that the Gael of him called _slanlus_ or"heal-all;" of unguents loathsomely compounded, but at greatest lengthand with fullest rapture of his vile phlebotomy.

  "Six ounces, your Grace!" he cried gleefully, in a laughable highfalsetto, holding up the bowl with trembling fingers as if he profferedfor the ducal cheer the very flagon of Hebe.

  Argyll shuddered.

  "I wish to God, Dr. Madver," said he, "your practice in this matter ofblood-letting may not be so much infernal folly. Why! the man lost allhe could spare before he reached you."

  And there, unconscious, Simon MacTaggart slept, pale as parchment,fallen in at the jaw, twitching a little now and then at the corners ofthe mouth, otherwise inert and dead. Never before had his master seenhim off his guard--never, that is to say, without the knowledge that hewas being looked at--and if his Grace had expected that he should findany grosser man than he knew revealed, he was mistaken. 'Twas a childthat slept--a child not unhappy, at most only indifferent toeverything with that tremendous naivete of the dead and of the soundlysleeping--that great carelessness that comes upon the carcass whenthe soul's from home. If he had sinned a million times,--let thephysiognomists say what they will!--not a line upon his face betrayedhim, for there the ideals only leave their mark, and his were foreverimpeccable.

  His coat hung upon the back of a chair, and his darling flageolet hadfallen out of the pocket and lay upon the floor. Argyll picked it up andheld it in his hand a while, looking upon it with a little Contempt, andyet with some kindness.

  "Fancy that!" he said more to himself than to the apothecary; "the poorfellow must have his flageloet with him even upon an affair ofthis kind. It beats all! My dear man of moods! my good vagabond!my windlestraw of circumstance! constant only to one ideal--theunattainable perfection in a kind of roguish art. To play a perfecttune in the right spirit he would sacrifice everything, and yet driftcarelessly into innumerable disgraces for mere lack of will to lift ahand. I daresay sometimes Jean is in the rights of it after all--hisgifts have been his curse; wanting his skill of this simple instrumentthat was for ever to himself and others an intoxication, and wanting hisoutward pleasing form, he had been a good man to the very marrow. A goodman! H'm! Ay! and doubtless an uninteresting one. Doctor! doctor! haveyou any herb for the eyesight?"

  "Does your Grace have a dimness? I know a lotion--"

  "Dimness! faith! it is the common disease, and I suffer it with therest. Sometimes I cannot see the length of my nose."

  "The stomach, your Grace; just the stomach," cried the poor leech. "Myown secret preparation--"

  "Your own secret preparation, doctor, will not, I am sure, touch theroot of this complaint or the devil himself is in it. I can stillsee--even at my age--the deer on Tom-a-chrochair, and read the scurviestletters my enemies send me, but my trouble is that I cannot understandthe flageolet."

  "The flageolet, your Grace," said MacIver bewildered. "I thought youspoke of your eyesight."

  "And so I did. I cannot see through the mysteries of things; I cannotunderstand why man should come into the world with fingers so apt tofankle that he cannot play the finest tunes all the time and in the bestof manners. These, however, are but idle speculations, beyond the noblejurisdiction of the chymist. And so you think our patient will make agood recovery?"

  "With care, your Grace; and the constant use of my styptic, a mostelegant nostrum, your Grace, that has done wonders in the case of awidow up the glen."

  "This folly of a thing they call one's honour," said the Duke, "has madea great deal of profitable trade for your profession?"

  "I have no cause of complaint, your Grace," said the doctorcomplacently, "except that nowadays honour nor nothing else rarely sendsso nice a case of hemorrhage my way. An inch or two to the left and Mr.MacTaggart would have lifted his last rents."

  Argyll grimaced with distaste at the idea.

  "Poor Sim!" said he. "And my tenants would have lost a tolerable agent,though I might easily find one to get more money out of them. Condemnthat Frenchman! I wish the whole race of them were at the devil."

  "It could never have been a fair fight this," said the doctor, spreadinga plaster.

  "There never _was_ a fair fight," said Argyll, "or but rarely, andthen neither of the men was left to tell the tale. The man with mostadvantages must ever win."

  "The other had them all here," said the doctor, "for the Chamberlain wasfighting with an unhealed wound in his right arm."

  "A wounded arm!" cried Argyll. "I
never heard of that."

  It was a wound so recent, the doctor pointed out, that it made the duelmadness. He turned over the neck of his patient's shirt and showed thecicatrice, angry and ugly. "A stab, too!" said he.

  "A stab?" said the Duke.

  "A stab with a knife or a thrust with a sword," said the doctor. "It hasgone clean through the arm and come out at the back."

  "Gad! this is news indeed! What does it mean? It's the reason for thepallour and the abstraction of some days back, for which I put the blameupon some love-affair of his. He never breathed a word of it to me, norI suppose to you?"

  "It has had no attention from me or any one else," said the doctor; "butthe wound seems to have healed of itself so far without anything beingdone for it."

  "So that a styptic--even the famous styptic--can do no more wonders thana good constitution after all. Poor Sim, I wonder what folly this cameof. And yet--to look at him there--his face so gentle, his brow so calm,his mouth--ah, poor Sim!"

  From a distant part of the house a woman's voice arose, crying, "Archie,Archi-e-e!" in a lingering crescendo: it was the Duchess, and as yet shehad not heard of the day's untoward happenings. He went out and told hergently. "And now," he went on when her agitation had abated, "what ofour Chevalier?"

  "Well!" said she, "what of him? I hope he is not to suffer for this,seeing MacTaggart is going to get better, for I should dearly like tohave him get some return for his quest."

  "Would you, indeed?" said the Duke. "H'm," and stared at her. "The Countis at this moment cooling his heels in the fosse cell."

  "That is hard!" said she, reddening.

  "But what would you, my dear? I am still as much the representativeof the law as ever, and am I to connive at such outrages under my ownwindows because the chief offender is something of a handsome younggentleman who has the tact to apologise for a disturbance in my domesticaffairs that must, as he puts it, be disconcerting to a man at my age? Aman of my age--there's France!--_toujours la politesse_, if you please!At my age! Confound his impudence!"

  The Duchess could not suppress a smile.

  "At his age, my dear," said she, "you had the tact to put so obvious athing differently or leave it alone."

  "Not that I heed his impudence," said the Duke hastily; "that a man isno longer young at sixty is the most transparent of facts."

  "Only he does not care to have it mentioned too unexpectedly. Oh,you goose!" And she laughed outright, then checked herself at therecollection of the ailing Chamberlain.

  "If I would believe myself as young as ever I was, my dear lass,"said he, "credit me it is that it is more to seem so in the eyes ofyourself," and he put his arm around her waist.

  "But still," said she after a little--"still the unlucky Frenchman is inthe fosse more for his want of tact, I fear, than for his crime againstthe law of the land. Who pinked--if that's the nasty word--who pinkedthe Dutchman in Utrecht?--that's what I should like to know, my dearJustice Shallow."

  "This is different, though; he came here for the express purpose--"

  "Of quarrelling with the Chamberlain!"

  "Well, of quarrelling with somebody, as you know," said the noblemanhesitatingly.

  "I am sorry for MacTaggart," said the Duchess, "really sorry, but Icannot pretend to believe he has been very ill done by--I mean unjustlydone by. I am sure my Frenchman must have had some provocation, and isreally the victim."

  "You--that is we--know nothing about that, my dear," said Argyll.

  "I cannot be mistaken; you would be the first at any other time toadmit that I could tell whether a man was good or evil on a very briefacquaintance. With every regard for your favour to the Chamberlain, Icannot stand the man. If my instinct did not tell me he was vicious, myears would, for I hear many stories little to his credit."

  "And yet a brave man, goodwife, a faithful servant and an interestingfellow. Come now! Jean, is it not so?"

  She merely smiled, patting his ruffles with delicate fondling fingers.It was never her habit to argue with her Duke.

  "What!" he cried smilingly, "none of that, but contradict me if youdare."

  "I never contradict his Grace the Duke of Argyll," said she, steppingback and sweeping the floor with her gown in a stately courtesy; "it isnot right, and it is not good for him--at his age."

  "Ah, you rogue!" he cried, laughing. "But soberly now, you are too hardon poor Sim. It is the worst--the only vice of good women that they haveno charity left for the imperfect either of their own sex or of mine.Let us think what an atom of wind-blown dust is every human being at thebest, bad or good in his blood as his ancestry may have been, kind orcruel, straight or crooked, pious or pagan, admirable or evil, as theaccidents of his training or experience shall determine. As I grow olderI grow more tolerant, for I have learned that my own scanty virtues andgraces are no more my own creation than the dukedom I came into from myfather--or my red hair."

  "Not red, Archie," said the Duchess, "not red, but reddish fair; infact, a golden;" and she gently pulled a curl upon his temple. "Whatabout our Frenchman? Is he to lie in the fosse till the Sheriff sendsfor him or till the great MacCailen Mor has forgiven him for telling himhe was a little over the age of thirty?"

  "For once, my dear, you cannot have your way," said the Duke firmly. "Bereasonable! We could not tolerate so scandalous an affair without someshow of law and--"

  "Tolerate!" said the Duchess. "You are very hard on poor Montaiglon,Archie, and all because he fought a duel with a doubtful gentleman whowill be little the worse for it in a week or two. Let us think," shewent on banteringly--"let us think what an atom of wind-blown dust isevery human being at the best, admirable or evil as his training--"

  Her husband stopped her with a kiss.

  "No more of that, Jean; the man must thole his trial, for I have gonetoo far to draw back even if I had the will to humour you."

  There was one tone of her husband's his wife knew too decisive for hercontending with, and now she heard it. Like a wise woman, she made upher mind to say no more, and she was saved an awkward pause by an uproarin the fosse. Up to the window where those two elderly lovers had theirkindly disputation came the sound of cries. Out into the dusk of theevening Argyll thrust his head and asked an explanation.

  "The Frenchman's gone!" cried somebody.

  He drew in his head, with a smile struggling on his countenance.

  "You witch!" said he, "you must have your own way with me, even if ittakes a spell!"