The Portcullis Room

Chapter 4

4

FOR their meeting with the laird Mrs. Dean had put on the new and very smart check tailormade she had bought in Edinburgh on their way through and her two strings of pearls. 'You can't go far wrong with tweeds in Scotland, I always say,' she told her daughter, as she stood before the mirror in the cabin they shared, and tried the effect of the natty little scarf that went with the suit, 'although, I suppose, being in a castle, we'll have to put on all our fallals in the evening. I wonder if he'll wear a kilt—I looked up the McReay tartan in that book they gave us at the tweed shop and it's most becoming. And that reminds me, darling,' she went on, surveying her firm, pleasant face in the glass, 'I do hope you're going to try and be a little more enthusiastic about the Highlands while we're at the castle. Really, ever since we left Edinburgh, you've done nothing but grumble. I'm afraid Stephen will begin to notice it.'

'You weren't so madly enthusiastic about the Highlands yourself during the crossing this morning, as far as I remember, Mother,' Phyllis retorted, scanning her nails, manicure pad in hand.

'When you get to my age, darling,' Mrs. Dean replied placidly, 'you'll realize that nothing worth while in life is achieved without sacrifice. I loathe the sea and even the sight of a ferry makes me feel queer; but do you suppose I think of that when my daughter's happiness is at stake? In my young days, of course, girls were better disciplined. Why, when I was your age, if an attractive bachelor with all Stephen Garrison's money had invited Mamma and me to go on a cruise with him, do you imagine for a minute, however bored I might sometimes be feeling, that I'd have ever shown it!'

Phyllis sighed heavily. 'Are we going to have all that over again?'

'No, but, honey, I must just say a word to you—I've been meaning to for several days. For the moment Stephen's got this fool idea in his head that he'd like to have a Highland castle. Men get these crazy notions—I remember that at one time your poor father was always talking about going out to the South Seas and settling down—and they have to be indulged. I wish you'd remember that men hate to be snubbed!'

The girl put her manicure pad in her bag and snapped the lid briskly. 'You don't have to worry about Steve, Mother—I can handle him all right!'

Mrs. Dean's eyes narrowed anxiously as they sought her daughter's face in the mirror. 'He hasn't asked you to marry him yet, has he, Phyllis?'

A spot of colour crept into the lovely face. 'I do think this matchmaking business is abominably vulgar. There are other men in the world besides Steve Garrison, aren't there?'

'Of course, darling. But you do like Steve, don't you, honey? And he's simply crazy about you—I've noticed the way he watches you. And I do hope'—her tone was suddenly apprehensive—'that there's not going to be any hitch. I mean, after all, I gave up the most attractive invitation to the Wakefields' camp at Lake Placid to chaperon you on this trip, so I think I'm entitled to just a little consideration!'

'We'd better go,' Phyllis broke in. 'They sent down to say the launch was waiting ages ago!'

The Ariel's luxurious motor-boat halted at the little jetty to deposit Dwight and Marie, Mrs. Dean's French maid—both somewhat disapproving—with the visitors' luggage. As the tide was only an hour or so past full, landing the luggage at the seagate, as he called the entrance to the castle from the loch, might prove awkward, the factor said, with a glance at the array of suitcases. Mr. Jamieson was full of apologies for the unfriendly reception accorded to the two Americans that morning. The usual approach to the castle, he explained, was from the land side, in rear—the seagate was little used. Old Duncan, the laird's major-domo, was a privileged servitor, a 'verra independent' man, who waged a relentless warfare against the trippers who sometimes visited the island in the summer. Mr. Jamieson hoped that Mr. Garrison would realize that no discourtesy was intended. The islanders were 'verra peculiar' people—it was not the 'fairst' time he had had occasion to complain of old Duncan's crotchety ways.

A friendly, albeit desperately serious, little man, Jamieson, who, as a Lowlander—he was 'fra' Peebles,' he explained—appeared to regard all Highlanders with cold reserve: indeed, he wore the rather aloof air of one whose life is cast in heathen places but who is resolved to make the best of it. They would land at the seagate, he said, because he was anxious that the party should receive its first impression of Toray Castle from its most ancient part, the thirteenth-century keep, which he pointed out to them, as the launch nosed its way down the loch, as the massive pile that arose foursquare behind the protecting sea rampart.

This time the great iron-studded door stood wide, Stephen observed as he turned from helping Phyllis and her mother from the boat. A gaunt old man clad in rough brown tweeds stood in the entrance. He had a great spade-like grey beard and to protect his bald pate against the damp air of the passage where he waited wore a battered Glengarry c****d on one side of his hoary head. As the women came up the steps, he doffed his bonnet, flattening himself against the wall with features impassive and eyes coldly vigilant.

Spry as a sparrow, little Jamieson led the way under the hoary arch. The passage beyond was dank and forbidding, the rock from which it was hollowed streaming with moisture. He pointed out the timber hatch masking the mouth of the well which at one time supplied the garrison of the castle with water and showed them, beneath the vaulted doorway at the end of the passage, the wall deeply grooved on either hand for the portcullis. A door now replaced the portcullis, opening upon a square stone lobby dimly lit by arrow slits and decorated with trophies of arms and sundry cases of stuffed birds. Here the major-domo, with grave dignity, relieved them of their outdoor things, on which the factor, with a hasty glance round to make sure that the party was complete, opened a door in the wall and motioned to Mrs. Dean to precede him.

A long chamber, so high that its rafters and the dusty banners they displayed were almost lost in gloom, unfolded itself before them. To a height of about twelve feet it was panelled in oak blackened with age, the smooth stone walls that rose above the wainscot hung with panoplies of targets and claymores. Down the right-hand side of the room a series of windows, hollowed out of the enormous thickness of the walls, commanded views of the loch. In the opposite wall other casements framed glimpses of a neglected garden whose weed-choked flower-beds swayed sadly in the eternal sea-breeze.

This was the great hall of Castle Toray. Here, in days of yore, the chieftain had feasted his followers by the light of pine torches, whose sconces of rudely beaten iron, as Jamieson pointed out, still remained round the hoary stone walls. It was a sombre, darkling place even in the afternoon light with its massive oak furniture, as black as the wainscot, and its vast stone fireplace, carved with the McReay arms and coloured, like a meerschaum pipe, a rich creamy yellow by the smoke of centuries. Everything spoke of the unarrested process of decay, the worm- eaten oak, the curtains of faded red rep that trembled to the wind plucking at the casements, the threadbare rugs strewn at intervals upon the immense flags, polished with age and darkly shining, of the floor. That it was still the chief living-room of the castle was shown by the flowers and books that were ranged about, by the refectory table set for tea and by the gramophone cabinet—almost the only modern note—that stood between two windows. Despite an enormous peat fire leaping on the hearth in a great iron basket, the atmosphere was chill and the acrid scent of the burning turf could not banish a faint odour of mustiness.

A couple of red setters that had been snoozing before the fire sprang up as the party entered, rending the air with their furious barking. At the far end of the hall was a gallery from which a stone staircase with an elaborate, carved balustrade descended. A sharply commanding voice now rang out, 'Down, Laddie! Down, Rover!' as a figure was seen coming down the stairs.

It was a slightly built man in a kilt, whose face was of an ivory pallor, with light lashes and sparse reddish hair turning white. The features, especially the long, dipping nose, were lean and aristocratic and he wore the Highland dress with splendid dignity, a jacket of light tweed and kilt of the McReay tartan, in which dark green predominated crossed with lines of red and yellow.

With quite a regal air he waited while Jamieson, a little flustered, presented the visitors. 'I owe you an apology, Mr. Garrison,' said the laird, giving Stephen a limp hand, 'for being from home when you and your friend called this morning. But telegraph facilities on the islands are restricted and I've only just received your telegram. There's quite a sea running in the Minch today, they tell me, and in the circumstances I believed you'd repented of your intention to come to Toray. Now that you are here, however, will you let me bid you welcome and say how much I hope that you and your friends will enjoy such meagre hospitality as the castle is able to offer you for as long as you see fit?'

He made his little speech in a formal, precise English, with a faint Scottish burr, at the same time caressing the head of one of the setters which nuzzled at the hem of his kilt. 'I don't know,' he went on with a smile, 'whether tea is in your American habits, but it's quite a rite with us. I thought we might take a cup together and then I'll show you your rooms!'

Mrs. Dean laughed. 'We don't have to be converted to Scottish teas,' she said. 'We all think those scones and bannocks and things you serve are simply divine. I don't know about Phyllis, but I've put on at least ten pounds since I arrived in Scotland and Mr. Verity there is just as bad...' She paused. 'But before I sit down I must ask you a question how does one address a Scottish chief?'

The laird smiled. 'That's simple. In the Highlands we derive our title from our landed possessions. I am the McReay of Toray, and so I'm usually addressed simply as Toray!'

Mrs. Dean simpered. 'It sounds very familiar!'

The laird shrugged. 'Nevertheless, it's the custom!' He broke off. 'But here's my daughter!'

A young girl with rather a heightened colour emerged hastily from under the gallery. Her lustrous black hair was gathered in a small knot on the back of her white neck and she was wearing a little blue frock. 'You've taken us all unawares,' the laird explained to Mrs. Dean. 'You must forgive Flora for being late, but she was out on the mountain walking up the grouse...'

Stephen, who was scrutinizing one of the panoplies of arms, was oblivious of the new arrival until Jamieson plucked his arm and he found himself staring into a pair of very blue, rather puzzled eyes. He heard Toray's smooth, rather precise voice introducing him and took the small, brown hand the girl offered in silence. He could not resist the temptation, however, to give her a humorous glance. Seeing which, she coldly withdrew her hand and went to the table where the major-domo and an elderly maid in cap and apron were setting forth the tea.