A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 9940, 11 December 1900, Page 6

A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

CHAPTER XL It is all very well for the stern moralist, or the visionary, or the man of disappointed ambition, to sneer at those who frankly acknowledge the influence of wealth. But certainly Alexander Craig Mitchell, J.P., looked a much more considerable personage when standing in the hall of his own castle than he had done when I saw him on the gravel path outside his factor's house.' True, it was a mean, scurvy little face, when you came to look at it. Nothing could make it appear grand or generous, or even pleasant. Yet the mere fact that he knew that this splendid mansion—for it is that if nothing else—belonged to him seemed to lend a dignity to the little man's bearing. He did not perk his chin so far forward—a thing he has a trick of doing —nor purse in his lips in quite so objectionable a way, nor (in a word) look quite so consequential and absurd. I even thought that he regarded me with a certain approval as I entered the great doorway, as if he thought I was likely to do credit to the establishment. But he did not offer me a word of welcome—only paused a moment to note my involuntary glance of admiration aa the fine proportions of the hall struck my eye, and then strutted on before me in the direction of the music-room. It really is a magnificent building, and the idea of its serving for a house to this self-complacent ' Glasgow body,' and his family is moie than a trifle incongruous. What strikes one first is the sense of space in every diiection. Looking up at the ceiling of the hall is like looking up at the roof of a church. The corridors are like streets for width and airiness. The great staircase —there are several subsidiary ones, which I shall no doubt I learn in time—ascends in spacious, leisurely fashion from the further end of the hall, branching out to right and left after rising to the height of an ordinary room. The great window which lights this superb apartment is filled with stained glass ; and that is the only bit of color to be seen. If anything, the hall is bare. There are great empty wall spaces.broke only by a deer's antlers or a pair of crossed halberds here and there. But to my mind the effect is good. I hate to see a hail that would hold two hundred armed men furnished with the luxurious prettiness of a lady's boudoir. Mr Mitchell stopped on his way to the music room to show me a view of the lake from a narrow window set deep in the wall. It was superb. I have no doubt the narrowness of the window added to the effect ; at any rate it was like a painting for effectiveness, like an Italian scene for beauty. Right below us lay the biue waters of the loch reflecting as in a looking-glass every cloud that drifted in the sky. At the further end of the loch the hills rose abruptly from tl;e water, and behind them a range of higher hills, purple now in their autumn splendour, filled in the view. I gazed as one enraptured for a few seconds ; and Mr Mitchell, who was evidently as proud of the view as if he had created the lochs and the hills himself, wfls evidently gratified by my unspoken admiration. * With a queer little wave of th 3 hand, as much as to say, ' Very nice, but we are quite used to it,' he went on, expecting me to follow him. A few yards further on the tinkle of a piano, and then some long-drawn reedy notes from a badly played violin fell on my ear. Another stop or two and we were in the music-rcom. As soon as I c.tught a glimpse of a man's brown velvet coat I guessed who the musician was—the man who had looked so curiously at the Professor and me as we left the inn together on the day of my arrival. His back was turned towards us, the violia at his shoulder, and his head twisted to one side, to that his cheek rested on the instrument, after the affected manner of some players. He was drawing the bow slowly across the strings, so as to produce what is called d ' wailing'note, but in this instance the wail was Fcmtehy, and re mioded me of a serenading cat. It was evident to me that however much music there might be in the performer's soul, there was not much in his fingers. The performers were too much engrossed by the music they were compounding together to notice us, and as we advanced slowly up the room I had time to take stock of the lady at tbe piano. She was in every way a complete contrast to her companion—a tall, rawboned Scotch woman, of perhaps forty summers, her sharp features tense with the effort of ' locating ' every note, her thin fingers sprawling over the key-board. Her scanty brown hair was worn in a tight coil at the back of her head ; and she was dressed in an ill-fitting dress of some black stuff, which did not make any attempt at improving the lines of her fiat' figure. Mr Mitchell fidgeted about till the movement they were rendering came to an end, for the musicians remained, or pretended to be, oblivious of our presence while the spell of their music held them. When the last 'wailing' note of the violin had died away the gentleman in the velvet coat let his instrument slide down his coat fleeve, raised his head to the perpendicular, and turned to us with a far-off look in his ejes, as if he were being unwillingly dragged back from the dream-world. ' This is a young lady—daughter of a man I onco knew in Australia. Miss Grant—my niece, Miss Dalrymple.' Having said this he left his niece and me to get on together as best we might, and stepped away out of the room —he had an odd way of walking, half mincing, half strutting—as >f he had wasted too much time over me already. Miss Dalrymple got up from her music stool, and with the thy look of an overgrown girl advanced and shook hands with me, her companion meantime icily turning over the leaves of his music, as if the proceedings were a troublesome interruption, but otherwise did not concern him in the least. 'Is this your first visit to Scotland, Miss Grant?' asked my hostess. She spoke the sentence as if it were a stock phrase, usetul in the case of visitors from the south. ' How did you know I came from England ?' I asked, wiih a smile. 'I am sure my name is Scotch enough.' «Oh, I know it by—by your accent, and a hundred other things. You are going to stay at the Castle, aren't you ?' ' For some little time, perhaps.' I saw the gentleman iv the velvet coat move slightly, just enough to make me feel certain that he was listening to our conversation, conventional as it was. Miss Dalrymple placed a chair for roe, and went back to her music etool. We exchanged a few more sentences, and then it seemed to occur to Miss Dalrymple that she was neglecting her duty. She turned red, nervously cleared her throat, »nd finally said, in a timid sort of way : ' Mr Durant, this is Miss Grant, who has come to stay with us for a time. Are you musical, Miss Grant ?' sheenquired, scarcely giving me time to acknowledge the introduction. I evaded the question for I did not wish it to be known that I could sing. ' He is devoted to it. He plays like a

master—indeed, far better than most masters,' she aJded in a loud ' aside.' Miss Dalryniple gave a little hysterical giggle as she said this. It was plain to my mind that there was but one ' he' in the world for her. She worshipped the artiste gentleman with the French name. And it seemed to me that although he affected to deprecate her. fkttery he was secretly pleased with it. I may as well take this opportunity of saying a woid or two about the appearance of Mr Durant. I wish I could make my readers tee the man as clearly, or half as-clearly, as I tee him now in my mind's eye. Short, rather muscular, but inclining to stoutness. Face clean shaven —or rather, snvoih as a girl's; 1 might doubt whether it has ever been shaven were it not that Mr Durrant wears a small, neat black moustache. His hair, as I have already mentioned, is loag, black, and curly. His complexion is of a flabby paleness such as one sees so frequently in London. His bands are particularly small, soft, and white. His eyes are brown, ami really rather handsome, but he has a trick of suddenly opening them a little wider as he looks at one, particularly when he asks a questiou, that is rather disconcerting. Mr Durant leaned over the piano, placing his elbow on it, and resting his chin in his hand coolly studied me. I was furiously angry, but took no notice of him, and went on making talk with Miss Dalrymple. * You are musical, Miss Grant/ said Mr Durant. 'It is useless to deny it. 1 see it in your face, your manner—l hear it in every tone or your voice.' I had already made up my mind to snub Mr Durant, for this reason—it was necessary that I should make a friend of Miss Dalrymple, who may be most useful to me ; and it was tolerably evident that I could not remain her friend and at the same time accept the civilities of Mr Durant. So I intended to ignore the remark altogether, and treat Mr Durant with the indifference which his impertinence deserved; but I saw from Miss Dalrymple'd face that there was danger in this course also ; the devotee does not like to see the object of her worship treated with contempt. I turned io the speaker, therefore, and said quietly—' I paint a lit'le, if that is any justification of your opinion, but only a very little.' ' I knew it,' said the artist, in a tone of quiet triumph. 'I am seldom wrong in my diagnosis of temperaments/ ' I must go and take off my hat,' I said, jumping up, ' so I won't keep jou from your music any longer.' Miss Dalrymple, with an apologetic glance a*'' Mr Durant, offered to show me my room, but I laughingly declined the offer. ' I won't be so selfish ac to take you from your music—and besides, it would be rude to leave Mr Durant alone,' I added in an undertone. Miss Dalrymple looked pleased, and had turned to the piano again before I closed the door behind me. With some little difficulty I secured tbe services of a housemaid, and got her to show me to my bedroom. The household at the Castle is on a very modest scale, a scale quite unsuited to the magnificence of the building. There is only one indoor man-servant, the butler; and, in a word, the family live in the quiet, comfortable style of a fairly prosperous Glasgow merchant, rather than in the style of a great landowner. I think that in this Mr Mitchell shows his good sense; but there is a queer sense of incongruity between the members of the family wirh their homely ways, their strong Scotch accent, and their unceremonious manners, and the great rooms in which they live. It is almost like a colony of mice inhabiting a temple. ivly own room is of very large size. I camp, as it were, in a corner of it. It has three large windows commanding a view of the loch, and a small side window looking up towards the hills. Certainly I never expected for one moment that my enterpiise would land me in quarters like these. And all the time I am tempted to forget that I am a cheat, an impostor, stealing the hospitality and the consideration which are really given to another woman. I ought perhaps to despise myself, but I do not. To my mind lam the wrouged one. At any-, rate, my conscience does not reproachj me. 1 think I would be justified in doing even more than this, for I am at war with the owner of this castle, who is depriving me of one of the dearest righta of every human being. Of course I lost no time in making my faithful ally, the Professor, acquainted with my success. When I had written my letter I slipped it into the post-bag which hangs in the hall, and is called for every afternoon by a tough old Highlander, who carries it to our nearest post t«wn, Dunolly. On my way upstairs, after putting my letter in tho bag, I paused for a moment on the stairs, tryirjg to make out the subjects in the greav painted window which light 3 the hal from that end, when a slight noise in the hall below made me turn and peep over the bannister. Mr Durant was going up to the post-bag. I did not see him put anything into it, but I distinctly saw him take out a letter, and after carefully reading the address, put it buck into the bag and. walk away. I withdrew my head as I saw he was about to turn round, so that he should not know that his action had been observed, and continued my way upstairs rather perturbed in mind. I could not, of course, be absolutely certain that it was my letter that Mr Durant had been inspecting so carefully. It might have been one of his own. To make sine, I went back to the bag, and put my haud inside. There was a newspaper in it, also a post-card or two about* household matters, evidently written by Miss Dalrymple, and one letter—mv own. So it was my letter that Mr Durant had been looking at. And from the time he had it in his hand I knew that he must have been learning the address of the Professor by heart. I went back to my room, and sitting down in an easy chair fronting one of i he windows, I began to ask myself what this meant. Did ii- mean that I had made an enemy before I had been six hours under the castle roof ? Why should Mr Durant show any interest in my correspondence if he was not hostile to me ? And why s-hould he regard me with suspicion ? I could not at first answer either of these questions, and soon a fresh thought of a disquieting nature occurred to me. How was it that Mr Durant had known the precise moment when my letter would be found in the letter bag. Had it been merely by chance that he had followed so closely upon my steps ? Hardly. If not, he must have been watching for me behind some half-open door. He must have guessed that I would write to someone to announce my arrival at the Castle, and would probably write that very day. Then suddenly I remembered the look of recognition which Mr Durant had thrown at SignorZucatti when we met him outside the inn on the day I arrived. I thought at the time that he must have had some knowledge of the Professor. No doubt he thought our acquaintance an odd one, and thinking for some reason of his own that the matter Avas worth lookinpr into, had determined to discover the Professor's address. All this might be without any thought of hostility to me—indeed, 1 could not imagine auy reason for either hostility or suspicion in his mind towards me. At luncheon he had even exerted himself to be polite to