CHAPTER V
A RUIN AND A REUNION
THE next morning at breakfast Madeline announced that she had found a ruined castle for Babbie.
“The one with the ivy on it is Dunollie,” she explained. “It belonged to the giant Fingal once upon a time—he’s the giant that had the cave out on one of those lovely purple islands, you know. He must have either lived in this castle, or visited here often, because there is a stone in the yard that he used to tie his dog to.”
“And who used to live in my castle?” inquired Babbie, making a wry face as she tasted the queer English coffee. “I don’t wonder the English drink tea for breakfast rather than this horrible stuff. I’m going to have milk. Whose turn is it to ring the bell? Now, Madeline,” when Betty had proudly pulled the bell-cord, and taken her seat again, “tell us all about my castle.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Madeline, “except that it is named Dunstaffnage, and it’s somewhere on the shore, a few miles north of Oban. I presume our landlady can tell us just how to get to it.”
“You’re sure it’s not on any tram-line?” inquired Babbie anxiously. “I don’t want the kind of ruin that’s on a tram-line, you know.”
“No, it’s not that kind,” Madeline assured her. “You have to drive or walk to get there.”
“We’ll walk, of course,” said Babe, and everybody agreed, though their landlady assured them it was a “right smart distance awa’.”
“But ye’ll be all the hungrier for your dinner,” she added comfortably. “What will ye have for yer dinner?”
“Why, anything you like to give us,” said Betty, to whom she had addressed her remark.
“Verra well. Lamb, perhaps, and strawberry tartlets?”
“Strawberry tartlets for mine,” cried Babe, throwing her tam-o’-shanter in the air. “We’ll be back in time for strawberry tartlets, no matter how good a time we’re having.”
So they started briskly off to find the castle,—a merry party in tam-o’-shanters and sweaters,—for the wind fairly whistled across the moors, and it seemed more like November than July, Betty said.
“That’s because Scotland is so far north,” said Babe wisely. “The long twilights come from that too. It’s almost like the land of the midnight sun.”
“Well, it’s certainly awfully cold,” said Babbie. “Let’s race.”
So they raced down the hard white road till they had reached the graveyard that their landlady had named to them as a landmark.
“This must be the road she told us to take across the fields,” said Babe, pointing to a grassy track that turned off the highroad toward the sea.
“I should call that a path, not a road,” Madeline objected.
“I’ll go ahead and see if there’s any other turning,” suggested Betty.
There didn’t seem to be any, so they took the grassy path—or tried to. A little way down it were some bars, and when they went through them into the pasture an old black cow rushed out from a clump of bushes and ran at them fiercely with her head down.
Betty and Babbie screamed in terror and scrambled back to the safe side of the fence; Madeline followed them more deliberately, and even Babe, the bold and fearless explorer of cow-pastures, finally climbed to the top of the fence, where she sat astride the highest board to await developments. The cow watched the retreat with interest and after a few minutes wandered idly off to the grassy spot where the rest of the herd were grazing.
“Come on,” said Babe encouragingly, when the cow’s back was safely turned. “She won’t come at us again, I’m sure. If she does, I’ll protect you. Hurry up, Madeline. We’ve got to find the castle and get back in time for the strawberry tartlets.”
So first Babe climbed down into the pasture, then Madeline crawled through the bars, with Babe after her and Betty bringing up the rear. But no sooner had Betty pushed safely through than the old black cow turned her head, discovered what had happened, and charged as fiercely as before.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Babe, from her perch on the fence, “she wouldn’t really hurt us, I’m sure of it. She’s just curious about us. Cows are awfully curious animals.”
“She shows her curiosity in a very peculiar way,” declared Babbie. “She doesn’t want us in her pasture—that’s very evident.”
“Being a loyal Scotch cow, she objects to an American invasion,” laughed Madeline. “See her eating away as calmly as if we didn’t exist. Let’s be awfully quiet getting through this time and perhaps we can cut across a corner of the pasture before she discovers us.”
But they couldn’t. This time Betty was the first one to follow the intrepid Babe into the enemy’s country, and as soon as her head appeared between the bars the old cow stopped eating and came toward her. Then Babe had an idea.
“It’s your red cap, Betty,” she cried. “Hide it and see what happens.”
In nervous haste Betty pulled out her hatpins and tucked the scarlet tam-o’-shanter out of sight under her white sweater. Whereupon the black cow lowed amiably and turned her head to nip a tempting tuft of clover.
“Well, so that was what she wanted,” said Babbie indignantly. “I supposed it was all a myth about cows chasing red, didn’t you, Babe?”
“I didn’t know,” said Babe carelessly, striding through the bushes. “Anyhow, I’m mighty glad we’re off. We shall never find your castle at this rate.”
“Do you know,” said Betty reflectively, “this is a real story-book country that we’re in. Even the cows act as they do in story-books.”
“Well, the roads don’t,” objected Madeline. “This one has come to a plain, unvarnished end, as roads and other things have a way of doing in real life. Why, it’s brought us right down to the sea!”
Sure enough, they had come out on a strip of sandy beach, with a little cluster of bath houses at one end. A girl was standing in the door of one of them.
“Go ask her the way, Madeline,” commanded Babbie. “You’re the only one that can remember the name of my castle.”
So Madeline went, and returned with the news that they had taken the wrong turn at the cemetery and must go back through the pasture to the road on the hill.
“Never,” declared Babe firmly. “That cow would have a chance to say, ‘I told you so.’ She was evidently trying to tell us that we were on the wrong track. Didn’t you say the castle was near the water? If so, why can’t we go to it along the shore? It’s a lot prettier down here.”
So Madeline interviewed the bath-house girl again.
“She was very discouraging about it,” she announced. “She said it was awfully rough, with nothing but sheep-trails to walk on, but we can try it if you all want to.”
It was great fun walking on the sheep-trails close by the edge of the sea, with the gorse and heather that they had always read about under their very feet, and the expectation of seeing the castle as they rounded each headland. But presently they came to a fence—a high, close-meshed wire fence with a strand of barbed wire on top.
“Looks as if it was meant to keep people out, now doesn’t it?” said Babe cheerfully.
“Come and help me over,” called Babbie, trying to dig her toes into the wire meshes.
“Isn’t trespassing a dreadful crime over here?” asked Betty anxiously, when they had all succeeded in getting over.
“Dreadful,” answered Madeline solemnly, “but the cliffs are too steep to climb, and we can’t go all the way back to the beach. Besides, we haven’t any guns. Trespassers are always supposed to be looking for game, I think.”
Part of the way the sheep-trail led so near to the water’s edge that it made Babbie dizzy, and once they had to cross a rickety little wooden bridge over a deep ravine and Betty got over only by bravely shutting her eyes and trying to believe Babe’s blithe assertion that a good fat sheep, like those they saw on the hillsides, must weigh almost as much as a smallish girl. But the worst of it was, they couldn’t find the castle.
“Lost: one perfectly good ruin, well off tram-lines,” chanted Babbie wearily. “The cliffs aren’t steep here. Let’s climb up to the highest point and see if we can’t find a farmhouse where we can ask our way.”
But at the same moment that they discovered the farmhouse they saw the castle—or rather a thickly wooded point where Babe was sure it was hidden, so they pushed straight on without stopping to make inquiries. A low stone wall separated the wood from the moorland, and Babe was just stepping over it, when she stopped and gave a funny little exclamation.
“Our Dutchmen,” she said to Madeline. “They must be the wardens of the castle. Anyhow they’re camping in the wood.”
“Can’t we go on?” inquired Babbie anxiously.
“Of course,” said Madeline with decision. “Baedeker would have told us if it hadn’t been open to tourists. Come on, Babbie.”
The four had climbed the wall and were walking demurely through the wood, politely keeping as far as possible from the tent, when Babbie happened to catch sight of Babe’s and Madeline’s Dutchmen, who had been lying comfortably on the ground in front of their tent, and now were sitting up, apparently quite absorbed in the books they were reading.
“Dutchmen indeed!” said Babbie coolly. “Why, it’s John Morton. Oh, Jackie Morton!” she raised her voice. “What are you doing camping out in the enchanted wood of my castle?”
At this one of the campers dropped his book, stared in the direction from which Babbie’s voice had come, and jumping up came quickly toward her.
“Well, this is funny,” he declared, wringing her hand, “because I was just thinking about the jolly summer we had up at Sunset Lake and wishing the same old crowd was here to tramp over the moors and picnic and sail and have bully times together.”
Babbie laughed and introduced him to Babe, Betty, and Madeline, and he, in his turn, called to his companion to come and meet everybody.
“It’s my tutor—Max Dwight,” he explained hastily in an aside to Babbie. “He’s just out of college himself, and he’s a mighty good sort, if he does try to keep me everlastingly plugging. I say, Babbie, are you through school yet?”
“Through college,” Babbie corrected him with dignity. “We’re all Harding 19—’s.”
“Gee!” John’s face expressed deep concern. “I’m scared. Girls frighten me to death anyhow, and four B. A.’s! Let’s stroll off somewhere by ourselves and talk.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Babbie. “College girls aren’t blue-stockings nowadays. Why aren’t you a B. A. yourself, John? You were going to be a junior the year after that summer in the mountains.”
John nodded. “I got flunked out of my class,” he explained carelessly. “I suppose girls never get into that fix, but plenty of fellows do,—bright ones at that.”
“Why, John Morton!” Babbie’s tone was very scornful. “I didn’t think you were that kind. Oh, yes, some Harding girls get flunked out, but none of our crowd would. We’ve got too much pride.”
“That’s all very well to say,” John returned sulkily. “You went to college because you wanted to, I suppose. I went because my father wanted to and couldn’t, so he made me. I got as much fun out of it as I could, and did as little work, and I don’t care what you think about it.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Babbie coolly. “You care a lot.” Then she smiled and held out her hand. “Don’t let’s quarrel this morning. If you look so glum the girls will think all I’ve said about your being such a jolly lot is a fairy-tale. I caught a glimpse of you in Glasgow, you know, and I wanted to climb down from the top of a two-story tram to rush back and speak to you. But the tram started just then and I couldn’t.”
John laughed. “Wanting to climb down from the top of a tram to see a fellow is certainly a proof of true friendship. We’ll have our quarrel out some other day.”
“All right,” Babbie agreed, leading the way back to the others. “But you’d better settle your score with Babe and Madeline right away.”
“Settle with Babe and Madeline,” repeated John. “What do you mean?”
“You’re really even,” Babbie pursued, not wanting to embarrass John immediately after their reconciliation, “because if you commented on their stride, they came home and told Betty and me about meeting some Dutchmen.”
“Oh, I say!” John’s face lighted and then he blushed, as he recognized Babe and Madeline. “You were the ones we met on the parade. I’m very sorry. So few people know Dutch, and you were sprinting, you know.”
The girls declared that he was quite excusable, but Babbie warned him that he wouldn’t be safe in using even Bengali when Madeline was around.
“And I shall have to be careful of you,” said Madeline. “Where did you learn so many languages, Mr. Morton?”
“Oh, dad’s in an importing business with branches all over the world, and his agents sometimes come to New York. I like to go down to the warehouses and talk to them, and I can manage to say a little in ten different languages. It’s positively my only accomplishment,” added John modestly.
“And now please show us over my castle,” Babbie demanded.
“May I ask by what right you claim the ownership of Dunstaffnage?” asked Mr. Dwight laughingly.
“Oh, I wanted a ruin,” explained Babbie, “and Madeline—Miss Ayres—picked this one out for me. But I shan’t accept it unless it’s a perfectly lovely one.”
“It is, though,” John assured her. “As far as I know, it can’t be beaten anywhere in Europe. How did you girls happen to come in by the back way?”
“We were glad enough to get here by any way,” laughed Babe. “Is this the back entrance, and are you the wardens of it?”
“No, but we’re the proud possessors of a permit from the owner to camp on his premises,” said John. “We got tired of the Oban hotels, and liked this beech-wood and the castle so much that we wanted to board near by. The people at the farm down the road that you should have come by were willing to feed us, but hadn’t any extra rooms, so I suggested a tent—I camped all last summer up in Canada—and here we are. If you’re going to be lady of the castle, Babbie, you’ll have to let us be its lords.”
“All right,” agreed Babbie, leading the way along a mossy path between the tall beeches. Presently she gave an exclamation of dismay. “Oh, but it’s such a very small castle! I thought it would be big and have a rampart and a moat.”
“That’s only the chapel, silly,” John explained. “The castle is farther on.”
“A chapel! Oh, what a darling one!” cried Betty. “I want the chapel for mine, Babbie. You can have the castle.”
“I approve your taste, Miss Wales,” said Mr. Dwight. “I think that little ivy-covered ruin, hidden among the trees, is lovelier than any castle. Come inside and see the stones.”
“Whose graves are they?” asked Betty, following Mr. Dwight across the broken threshold.
“They’re not legibly marked, except this one. Some of the ancient owners of the castle, I suppose.”
“Who did own it?” asked Betty eagerly.
“The old Scottish kings, first of all. They held their court here for hundreds of years, and kept the famous coronation stone here—the one that’s now in Westminster Abbey—until the Norwegians got to be too much for them and they moved the stone to Scone. Then the Norwegians took Dunstaffnage, and after them, their descendants, the Lords of Argyll and Lorne. In Bruce’s time Alexander of Argyll and his son John of Lorne were bitter enemies of the king and almost overthrew him. But Bruce conquered John in the Pass of Brander, close by here, and shut up old Alexander in his own castle. So the family lost their lands to the crown, though they lived on here for over a century longer, and James, Earl of Douglas, met the heads of the family here and tried to induce them to join his cause. In more modern times Flora Macdonald was imprisoned here for helping bonnie Prince Charlie to outwit his enemies and escape to France.”
“How interesting!” said Betty eagerly. “It just gives you thrills to think that you’re standing on such historic ground, doesn’t it? Now I want to see the castle.”
While Betty and Mr. Dwight had been talking in the chapel, Babbie had hurried the others through the wood and around to the front of the castle where the entrance was.
“They couldn’t have doorways on the side toward the sea,” John explained, “because the enemy would have come in small boats, crept up through the wood in the dark, and surrounded them.”
“We can go inside, can’t we?” asked Babbie eagerly, and by the time Betty appeared, Babbie and John were perched on the narrow ledge that ran almost all the way around the top of the crumbling castle wall.
“It’s great!” Babbie cried to the rest, making a trumpet of her hands. “You can see ever so far. Come up, all of you!”
So the rest, who had dropped down on the grass to rest after their long walk, climbed the narrow, steep stone stairway and emerged on the ledge.
As Babbie had said, it was “great” up there. The castle stood on a promontory at the mouth of a beautiful loch—which, as the girls had already discovered on their way up to Oban, often means simply an arm of the sea, of which, owing to the irregularity of the coastline, there are a great many in Scotland. You could see far up the loch in one direction and out to the open sea in the other, and in the background loomed great, mist-shrouded peaks, wild and terrible, with stretches of lonely moorland in the nearer distance.
“COME UP, ALL OF YOU”
“What is this?” asked Babe, pointing to a rusty iron standard fastened to the top of the castle’s sea-wall.
“That’s a beacon-holder,” Mr. Dwight told her. “In the good old days of the Border Wars, this castle used to be a station in the chain of signal fires. They fastened a bundle of fagots into that frame and set them on fire, and the chief in the castle over there on one of those purple islands, and the clan gathered on the slope of Ben Cruachan, that highest peak up at the head of the loch, saw the fire, and knew what it meant.”
“What did it mean?” demanded Babe.
“Different things at different times,” explained Mr. Dwight, “but generally death and pillage for somebody.”
Babbie gave a little sigh of satisfaction. “How lovely! I accept my castle, Madeline, with many thanks. I wish it had some rooms down-stairs to explore, and a dungeon, but it’s very nice just as it is. It’s so absolutely unspoiled.”
“It certainly doesn’t look much like that dreadful cottage at Ayr,” laughed Betty. “Did you go to Ayr, Mr. Morton?”
John nodded. “Silly little place, isn’t it? I say, Babbie, there is one thing that this castle lacks. Dwight and I were talking about it this morning before you came. Don’t you know what it is?”
Babbie considered, frowning. “No, I don’t, and it isn’t nice of you to pick flaws in my castle, John.”
“I’m not picking flaws,” retorted John. “I’m just calling your attention to any little defects I’ve noticed, so that you won’t accept your castle in ignorance and live to repent your rash act later. Can’t any of you guess what I mean?”
“I can,” said Madeline promptly. “It ought to have a ghost. No castle is complete without one. But are you perfectly sure this hasn’t any?”
“I’m afraid it hasn’t,” said John solemnly. “We’ve been here three nights now, and no ghost has walked so far. Besides I consulted the family who live in the farm attached to the castle, and they stoutly deny the existence of a ghost.”
“Oh, but that doesn’t prove anything,” declared Madeline. “Don’t you know that the lords of the castle and their retainers always deny the existence of a ghost? They regard it as a blemish on the property.”
“How absurd of them,” sighed Babbie. “Oh, dear, now that you’ve mentioned it, I do want my castle to have a ghost, and I believe it has one, too. Who knows about the history of Dunstaffnage? Wasn’t anybody ever murdered here, or didn’t some beautiful lady pine away for love? Those are the most likely kinds of ghosts, aren’t they, Madeline?”
Madeline nodded. “When we get back to Oban, we’ll try to find a history of the castle and perhaps we can unearth a ghost for you.”
“Oh, Mr. Dwight!” Betty and Mr. Dwight held a whispered conference, then she turned to Babbie.
“We’ve thought of a ghost for you. Her name is Flora Macdonald. She was imprisoned here once, because she had tried to help bonnie Prince Charles to escape, after there was a price set on his head.”
“And now she walks in the beech-wood?” asked Babbie eagerly.
Betty looked questioningly at Mr. Dwight. “She ought to,” he said laughingly, “since the fair lady of the castle wishes it. I’ll inquire more particularly of the farm people and let you know next time you pay a visit to your domain.”
“I suppose we ought to be going back now,” said Babbie regretfully, leaving her comfortable perch on the castle-wall.
“I should think so. We’ve forgotten the strawberry tartlets,” cried Babe in tragic tones. “It’s half-past twelve now, and our dinner is at one.”
“You can’t possibly make it,” said John. “You’d better stay and have a bite with us at the farm. It isn’t elegant, but everything tastes good, and you must be famished.”
“We are,” sighed Madeline.
“But we’ve got to go back for our own dinner,” declared Babe sternly. “Miss MacNish suggested the tartlets on purpose to please us, you know, and it wouldn’t be nice of us not to go back. It’s only three miles by road, Mr. Morton says, so we ought to be there by a quarter past one.”
“You won’t even stop for a drink of milk?” urged John.
Babbie shook her head. “It would take too long. Come and see us, John, and you too, Mr. Dwight. We’re at Daisybank Villa. I don’t know the street, but you can ask.”
“Oh, we’ll find it all right,” John assured her. “I say, can’t we take some trips together, or some tramps?”
“Of course,” Babbie promised him, hurrying after the others. “We’ll arrange it when you come.”
John looked after the party admiringly. “I like their spirit,” he said to Mr. Dwight, “going back so as not to disappoint their landlady. Babbie Hildreth is always like that—just as fair and square as any fellow you can name. She’s jolly too—if she did graduate from college. I say, Dwight, I’m much obliged to you for giving me the morning off, and I’ll make up for it this afternoon, sure enough.”
Which was such an unprecedentedly docile attitude on the part of John Morton that his bewildered tutor hoped Babbie Hildreth and her friends would continue to stay in Oban and exercise their beneficent influence.
