by John Buchan
Lord Mannour held his glass so that the firelight made it a glowing ruby. He cocked his eye at it, sipped the wine for a moment in silence, and then swung round to his companion.
“He’s riding a rough ford, and if you and I cannot help him across, then by God he is down the burn and away with it. . . . Fill your glass, Professor, for it’s with you that the heavy end of this job must rest. My Lord Snowdoun was here last week and we took counsel together, and the gist of our discussion was that the key to the perplexity was just yourself. It seems that the lad cherishes a liking for you, and a respect which unhappily he does not feel for his natural parent. We concluded that you were the only man alive that might correct his waywardness.”
“It’s more than three years since I saw him, and his letters lately have been few.”
“Nevertheless, you are much in his mind. He quotes you — quotes you to the confusion of his mentors. Your tongue must whiles have wagged unwisely when you had the lad in charge.”
Mr Lammas blushed. “I was younger then, and I may have spoken sometimes with the thoughtlessness of youth. . . . But I beg you, my lord, to put me out of suspense. What ill has befallen my dear Harry?”
“Your dear Harry has been playing the muckle gowk. That’s the plain Scots of it. I will read you the counts in the indictment. In fairness, let me say that from some foibles of youth he seems to be notably free. He does not gamble, which is so much the better for a family that has scarcely the means to support its rank and its deserts. He is temperate, and at no time is either ebrius, ebriolus or ebriosus, as old Gardenstone used to put it. Maybe it would have been better for all concerned if he had birled the bottle and rattled the dice like the rest. No, but he has taken up with more dangerous pastimes. His father was ill advised enough to let him travel abroad after Oxford, without a douce companion such as yourself. There’s just the one capacity in which a man should cross the Channel in these days, and that’s as an officer of Lord Wellington’s. Well, it seems that in foreign parts he picked up some Jacobin nonsense, and now that he is back he has been airing his daft-like politics to the scandal of honest folk.”
“I am amazed,” Mr Lammas cried. “Harry had a most sober and judicious mind.”
“Well, he has lost it, and I think I can put my finger on the reason why. I care not a bodle if a young gentleman flings his heels and is a wee bit wild in his conversation. He is only blowing off the vapours of youth, and will soon settle down to be a ‘sponsible citizen. But in this case there is more behind it. Lord Belses has found an aider and abetter. He is tied to the petticoat tails of a daft wife.”
“A wife! He is married then? . . .”
“No, no. There’s no marriage. I used our vernacular term for the other sex when we would speak of it without respect. Wife, but not his. She may be a widow, for I cannot just recollect if her husband is still alive. His name is Cranmer, and he is — or was — an ill-conditioned Northumberland squire. Hungrygrain is his estate, in Yonderdale, on the backside of Cheviot. She is young, and by all accounts she is not ill-favoured, and she has bound the poor boy to her with hoops of iron.”
“Is she his mistress?”
“God knows! I jalouse not, for it seems that she is an enthusiast in religion as she is a Jacobin in politics. There’s no more dangerous creature on earth than a childless woman who takes up with matters too high for her. There’s some modicum of sense left in the daftest man, but there’s none in a daft hussy. It seems that poor Harry is fair besotted — will hear no word of ill about her — follows her like a shadow — sits at her feet to imbibe the worst heresies anent Church and State — an anxiety to his family and a disgrace to his rank. What do you think of your umquhile pupil, Professor?”
“I think — I do not know what to think — I am deeply distressed.”
“And that is not the worst of it, and here I come to the gravamen of the business. The woman not unnaturally bears an ill name among decent folk. Things are said of her, gossip flies, evil is spoken which is maybe not always well-founded. The young bloods make free with her repute, for her drunken husband, if he is still in life, is no kind of a protector. So what does our brave Harry do? Out he comes as her champion. Whoever says one word against Mrs Cranmer, or even cocks a critical eyebrow, will have to settle with him. That is his proclamation to the world. There is one young fellow — not so young, for they tell me he is a man of thirty — who is especially free with his tongue. It comes to my lord Harry’s ear, who in a public place asks him to repeat it, and, when he is obliged, gives him the lie direct and gets a cartel for his pain. The man — I have his name — one Sir Turnour Wyse — is furious, and promises, as my father used to say, to knock the powder out of his lordship’s wig. With that the fat is fairly in the fire. It seems that this Wyse is a truculent fellow, so there is no chance of a settlement. Further, he is a noted pistol-shot, and has already accounted for three men in the cool of the morning.”
“They have not fought?” Mr Lammas quavered.
“Not yet, for steps have been taken to prevent their meeting. Lord Belses has been impounded by his family and is under lock and key. Sir Turnour Wyse has posted him as a coward and is ranging the earth in quest of him. The belief is that Harry has come to Scotland, and the mad baronet is after him like a whippet after a hare. But, let me tell it in your ear, the lad is cannily in London under duress, and there he must remain till he is brought to a better mind. If he meets this Wyse he has not one chance in a thousand, and a young life must not be sacrificed to folly. So to London you must go, and this very night, for any hour may bring a tragedy.”
“But what am I to do?”
“Reason with him. Free him from the toils of that accursed baggage. No doubt the trouble with Wyse can be settled without disgrace if the lad will only show a little sense. You are the last hope of his worthy father — and of me that has Kirsty’s interests in charge. The credit of a great house is at stake, and, what is more important for you, the future of one you love.”
“But if he will not be guided by me?”
“Then you must try other ways. You must conspire with Lord Snowdoun to achieve by force what cannot be won by argument. You must be the bait to entice the lad somewhere where he will be out of mischief. Have no fear, Professor. This is your supreme duty, and Lord Snowdoun and I will set it right with your Senatus, even though St Andrews should not see you for many a day. Whatever money you need will be at your disposal. I have written down here the address in London to which you will go, and where Lord Snowdoun will give you full instructions. I place much on your wise tongue and the old kindness between the two of you. If these fail, there is the other way I have hinted at. There’s plenty of wild country for hidyholes between the Channel and the Pentland Firth. St Kilda has not had a tenant since Lord Grange spirited away his thrawn auld wife.”
Lord Mannour had talked himself into confidence and good temper.
“You’ll be thinking it strange that I, a Senator of the College of Justice, should counsel violent doing to a minister of the Kirk. If that’s in your mind, let me tell you that both in law and in religion there is a debatable land not subject to the common rules. I ask you to do nothing which can conceivably be against your conscience. For myself, as a student of the law of Rome, I am strong for the patria potestas, and that Jock knows to his cost.”
“What is in my mind,” said Mr Lammas, whose countenance was troubled, “is that I am not the man for such a task. How can I, a humble scholar and provincial, hope to influence a dweller in the great world? I am not even familiar with its language.”
“Maybe, no. But when you get down to the bit, those discrepancies will count for little. Supposing it’s a cadger’s beast against a racehorse. As my father used to say, though one goes farther on the road in five minutes than the other does in an hour, they will commonly stable together at night. It’s the end of the journey that matters.”
Mr Lammas passed a hand over his eyes.
“I am deeply distre
ssed — and sore perplexed. My affection for Harry obliges me to do all that is in my power for his succour, but I am lamentably conscious that that all is but little.”
“Tut, man! Why make such a poor mouth about it? You are over-modest. I tell you that I have for some time had my eye upon you, and Lord Snowdoun has had his eye upon you, and we are both convinced of your competence. Maybe you lack something, but you are the best available. You have years enough and learning enough to ballast you, and you are young enough to talk to youth in its own tongue. My ne’er-do-well Jock, if he were here, would no doubt bear me out on this latter point, for you are the one man he speaks of with decent respect. . . . Here’s Grierson with the toddy-bowl. We’ll drink a rummer to your success, and then you must take the road.”
The butler set on the mahogany a mighty tray with the materials for punch — a china bowl, a pot-bellied flagon of whisky with a silver stopper, two tall glasses, a kettle of hot water, a bag of lemons and a dish of broken sugar-loaf. There was also a letter, which Lord Mannour, thinking it some ordinary missive on legal business, at first disregarded. He brewed the toddy to his taste, filled the two glasses, and handed one to his guest.
“Here’s to you,” he said. “The toast is success to honesty and confusion to folly.”
But he set down his rummer untasted, for his eye had caught the superscription on the letter. With an exclamation he tore it open, and as he read it his black brows came together.
“God ha’ mercy!” he cried. “This is from Lord Snowdoun — by special messenger — the man must have flown, for it’s dated only two days back. Harry has broken bounds and disappeared, and they have no notion of his whereabouts. . . . Here’s a bonny tangle to redd up!”
“Do my instructions still hold?” Mr Lammas asked timidly, for his lordship’s formidable face was very dark.
“More than ever,” was the fierce answer. “But there’s this differ, that you must find the lad first before you can reason with him. There’s just the one duty before you, to get on to his scent like a hound with a tod. . . . Finish your glass, and be off with you. My man’s waiting to lead you to the coach. Whatever wit and wisdom there is in your head you must bend to this grievous task. The day after the morn you’ll be with Lord Snowdoun, and after that may God prosper you!”
Mr Lammas rose, but not heavily or dispiritedly. This last piece of news had mysteriously altered his outlook. Youth had risen in him as it had risen the night before under the April sky. He felt himself called, not to a duty, but to an adventure.
CHAPTER III. Tells of a Night Journey
The mood carried him with long strides to the hostelry of the Tappit Hen, Lord Mannour’s man John being forced to trot at his side. The moon had scarcely risen, but the narrow street was bright with stable lanterns and the great head-lights and tail-lights of a coach. The Fly-by-Night, carrying his Majesty’s mails, seemed to Mr Lammas’s country eye but a frail vessel in which to embark on a long journey. Its crimson undercarriage and the panels which bore the royal arms glowed like jewels in the lantern light, for the polish was like that of a Dutch cabinet. The horses were being put to it, with a great clatter of hooves on the cobbles, but with none of the babble of stable-boys which attended the setting out of the St Andrews diligence. This was a high ceremonial, performed with speed and silence.
Not more than three outside passengers were permitted on a royal mail, and Mr Lammas, having seen his baggage stowed in the boot, climbed to the box seat. Thence he looked down upon a scene which filled him with romantic expectation. The coachman, who was in royal livery — so he must have had long service behind him — and had the best brushed boots and the best tied cravat that Mr Lammas had ever seen, was a little rosy man with a hat nicely cocked on one side of a great head. He drank a glass of some cordial which a maid from the inn presented to him on a silver salver, chucked the girl under the chin, and then walked to the horses’ heads, inspecting critically the curb chains and the coupling reins, and taking particular note that the tongues of the billet-buckles were secure in their holes. A second passenger arrived for the outside, also a little man, in a top-coat which enveloped his ears, and sat himself on one of the two roof seats. Then appeared the inside party, two ladies so shawled and scarfed that nothing could be seen of their faces, and with them what seemed to be their servant, who joined Mr Lammas on the outside.
The coachman claimed to his box with the reins looped over one arm, settled himself comfortably, caught the thong of his whip three times round the stick, and cried a word to the ostlers. These stood back from the leaders, and the beautiful creatures, young beasts nearly thoroughbred, flung up their heads as they were given the office and plunged forward up to their bits, till the weight of the heavier wheelers steadied them and brought them back to their harness. The little crowd cheered, the guard played “Oh, dear, what can the matter be?” on a key bugle, and, almost before Mr Lammas was aware, the cobbles of Edinburgh and its last faubourgs were behind him, and he was being carried briskly along the new south road.
The coachman attended strictly to his business till they were some miles from the city and moving between fresh-ploughed fields and a firth now silvered by moonlight. He then screwed his head and had a look at the two others behind. The prospect did not seem to please him. “Japanned! The whole dam lot of ‘em!” he murmured. “And me that looked for the Baronet! Devilish poor lot to kick.” After that he sunk his head into his cravat, and his further conversation was addressed to his leaders.
“He means,” said a voice from behind, “that we’re all ministers of the Kirk, and are not likely to fee him well.”
Mr Lammas turned and observed his two companions. The one who had spoken was so small that his travelling coat made him look like a mole emerging from its burrow. The moon showed his face clearly — one of those faces in which an unnaturally square chin and unnaturally tight lips lose their effect from prominent goggle eyes. The other was a taller fellow with a lugubrious countenance and a thick white comforter round his throat. Since all three of them wore dark travelling coats the coachman’s assumption was not unreasonable.
“Are you a minister, sir, if I may make bold to speir?” asked the man who had first spoken. He had a rich consequential voice, which put a spice of dignity into his inquisitiveness.
“I am a minister, but I have no charge.” Mr Lammas was in too friendly a mood to the world to resent questions.
“Stickit?”
“No, placed, but not in any parish. I am a professor.”
“Keep us! On the divinity side?”
“No. My chair is philosophy. My name is Lammas.”
The other repeated it with respect. “Lammas! And a philosopher! Had you been a theologian I would have kenned the name. Well, sir, since we’re to be company for the livelong night we may as well be friends. My name is Dott, Duncan Dott, and I’m the town-clerk of the ancient and royal burgh of Waucht.”
“A most honourable office,” said Mr Lammas cordially.
“You may say so. Honourable but laborious. If I were to tell you the battles I’ve had to fight on behalf of the common good — the burgh lands and the pontage over the Waucht water — the wrestling with oppressive lairds — the constant strife over cess and fess and market dues and the minister’s treinds — gudesakes, Professor, you’d be content with your own canny lot. But it’s not on burgh business that I’m now on the road, for I’m likewise a writer and have the factoring of two or three kittle estates.”
He checked himself, as if he felt that discretion demanded no further revelations. But his curiosity was still active.
“I wonder who the two inside passengers may be — the two women rowed up like bolsters. . . . And can we have the favour of your name, friend?” he asked, turning to the third man.
The answer came in a melancholy voice out of the folds of the woollen muffler.
“Ye’re welcome. My name is Pitten — Ebenezer Pitten — at least that is what I gang by. Properly it should be Pi
ttendreich, like my father afore me and a’ my kin Dunfermline way. But Miss Georgie will not hae it. ‘Ye’re a dreich enough body,’ she says, ‘without stickin’ dreich at the end of your name. Forbye,’ she says, ‘it’s ower long to cry about the house.’ So Pitten I’ve been thae ten years, and I’ve near forgotten ony other. . . . Ye speir wha the two leddies are? Weel, I can tell ye, for I’m nae less than their butler. The younger — but ye’d not ken the difference, for, as ye justly observe, they are both rowed up like bolsters — the younger is my mistress, Miss Christian Evandale, of Balbarnit, well kenned for the bonniest and best-tochered young leddy in the kingdom of Fife. And the other is just her auntie that bides with her, Miss Georgina Kinethmont, her that insists on calling me out o’ my baptism name.”
“I’ve heard tell of Miss Evandale,” said Mr Dott respectfully. “The clash is that all the lads in Fife and Angus and the feck of the Lothians are after her. She’s bonny, you say?”
“Abundantly weel-favoured.”
“And rich?”
“Fourteen thousand acres of guid farming land, and feus in a dozen burgh-towns, forbye a wecht o’ siller in the bank.”
“And an ancient family, no doubt?”
“No her. That is to say, no on her father’s side, though her mother’s folk the Kinethmonts are weel enough come. Her father was the son of auld Nicholas Ebbendaal, the Hollander that owned a’ the Dundee whalers. He left his son awesome riches, and naething would serve that son but that he maun tak the siller out of ships and put it intil land, and set up as a laird. Ebbendaal wasna considered gentrice enough, so he changed it to Evandale, when he bought Balbarnit from the drucken lad that was the last o’ the auld Metlands. ‘Deed ye can see the Hollander in Miss Kirsty for a’ her denty ways. I wadna put it by her to be a wee thing broad in the beam when she grows aulder, like a Rotterdam brig.”