by John Buchan
CHAPTER III
HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO THE DARK TOWER
Dickson woke with a vague sense of irritation. As his recollections tookform they produced a very unpleasant picture of Mr. John Heritage. Thepoet had loosened all his placid idols, so that they shook and rattledin the niches where they had been erstwhile so secure. Mr. McCunn had amind of a singular candour, and was prepared most honestly at all timesto revise his views. But by this iconoclast he had been only irritatedand in no way convinced. "_Sich_ poetry!" he muttered to himself as heshivered in his bath (a daily cold tub instead of his customary hot oneon Saturday night being part of the discipline of his holiday). "And yonblethers about the working-man!" he ingeminated as he shaved. Hebreakfasted alone, having outstripped even the fishermen, and as he atehe arrived at conclusions. He had a great respect for youth, but a linemust be drawn somewhere. "The man's a child," he decided, "and not liketo grow up. The way he's besotted on everything daftlike, if it's only_new_. And he's no rightly young either--speaks like an auld dominie,whiles. And he's rather impident," he concluded, with memories of"Dogson."... He was very clear that he never wanted to see him again;that was the reason of his early breakfast. Having clarified his mind bydefinitions, Dickson felt comforted. He paid his bill, took anaffectionate farewell of the landlord, and at 7.30 precisely stepped outinto the gleaming morning.
It was such a day as only a Scots April can show. The cobbled streets ofKirkmichael still shone with the night's rain, but the storm clouds hadfled before a mild south wind, and the whole circumference of the skywas a delicate translucent blue. Homely breakfast smells came from thehouses and delighted Mr. McCunn's nostrils; a squalling child was apleasant reminder of an awakening world, the urban counterpart to themorning song of birds; even the sanitary cart seemed a picturesquevehicle. He bought his ration of buns and ginger biscuits at a baker'sshop whence various ragamuffin boys were preparing to distribute thehouseholders' bread, and took his way up the Gallows Hill to the BurghMuir almost with regret at leaving so pleasant a habitation.
A chronicle of ripe vintages must pass lightly over small beer. I willnot dwell on his leisurely progress in the bright weather, or on hisluncheon in a coppice of young firs, or on his thoughts which hadreturned to the idyllic. I take up the narrative at about three o'clockin the afternoon, when he is revealed seated on a milestone examininghis map. For he had come, all unwitting, to a turning of the ways, andhis choice is the cause of this veracious history.
The place was high up on a bare moor, which showed a white lodge amongpines, a white cottage in a green nook by a burnside, and no other marksof human dwelling. To his left, which was the east, the heather rose toa low ridge of hill, much scarred with peat-bogs, behind which appearedthe blue shoulder of a considerable mountain. Before him the road waslost momentarily in the woods of a shooting-box, but reappeared at agreat distance climbing a swell of upland which seemed to be the glacisof a jumble of bold summits. There was a pass there, the map told him,which led into Galloway. It was the road he had meant to follow, but ashe sat on the milestone his purpose wavered. For there seemed greaterattractions in the country which lay to the westward. Mr. McCunn, be itremembered, was not in search of brown heath and shaggy wood; he wantedgreenery and the Spring.
Westward there ran out a peninsula in the shape of an isoscelestriangle, of which his present highroad was the base. At a distance of amile or so a railway ran parallel to the road, and he could see thesmoke of a goods train waiting at a tiny station islanded in acres ofbog. Thence the moor swept down to meadows and scattered copses, abovewhich hung a thin haze of smoke which betokened a village. Beyond itwere further woodlands, not firs but old shady trees, and as theynarrowed to a point the gleam of two tiny estuaries appeared on eitherside. He could not see the final cape, but he saw the sea beyond it,flawed with catspaws, gold in the afternoon sun, and on it a smallherring smack flapping listless sails.
Something in the view caught and held his fancy. He conned his map, andmade out the names. The peninsula was called the Cruives--an old nameapparently, for it was in antique lettering. He vaguely remembered that"cruives" had something to do with fishing, doubtless in the two streamswhich flanked it. One he had already crossed, the Laver, a cleartumbling water springing from green hills; the other, the Garple,descended from the rougher mountains to the south. The hidden villagebore the name of Dalquharter, and the uncouth syllables awoke some vaguerecollection in his mind. The great house in the trees beyond--it mustbe a great house, for the map showed large policies--was Huntingtower.
The last name fascinated and almost decided him. He pictured an ancientkeep by the sea, defended by converging rivers, which some old Comynlord of Galloway had built to command the shore road and from which hehad sallied to hunt in his wild hills.... He liked the way the moordropped down to green meadows, and the mystery of the dark woods beyond.He wanted to explore the twin waters, and see how they entered thatstrange shimmering sea. The odd names, the odd cul-de-sac of apeninsula, powerfully attracted him. Why should he not spend a nightthere, for the map showed clearly that Dalquharter had an inn? He mustdecide promptly, for before him a side-road left the highway, and thesignpost bore the legend, "Dalquharter and Huntingtower."
Mr. McCunn, being a cautious and pious man, took the omens. He tossed apenny--heads go on, tails turn aside. It fell tails.
He knew as soon as he had taken three steps down the side-road that hewas doing something momentous, and the exhilaration of enterprise stoleinto his soul. It occurred to him that this was the kind of landscapethat he had always especially hankered after, and had made pictures ofwhen he had a longing for the country on him--a wooded cape betweenstreams, with meadows inland and then a long lift of heather. He had thesame feeling of expectancy, of something most interesting and curious onthe eve of happening, that he had had long ago when he waited on thecurtain rising at his first play. His spirits soared like the lark, andhe took to singing. If only the inn at Dalquharter were snug and empty,this was going to be a day in ten thousand. Thus mirthfully he swungdown the rough grass-grown road, past the railway, till he came to apoint where heath began to merge in pasture, and dry-stone walls splitthe moor into fields. Suddenly his pace slackened and song died on hislips. For, approaching from the right by a tributary path, was the Poet.
Mr. Heritage saw him afar off and waved a friendly hand. In spite of hischagrin Dickson could not but confess that he had misjudged his critic.Striding with long steps over the heather, his jacket open to the wind,his face a-glow and his capless head like a whin-bush for disorder, hecut a more wholesome and picturesque figure than in the smoking-roomthe night before. He seemed to be in a companionable mood, for hebrandished his stick and shouted greetings.
"Well met!" he cried; "I was hoping to fall in with you again. You musthave thought me a pretty fair cub last night."
"I did that," was the dry answer.
"Well, I want to apologise. God knows what made me treat you to auniversity-extension lecture. I may not agree with you, but every man'sentitled to his own views, and it was dashed poor form for me to startjawing you."
Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and was very susceptible toapologies.
"That's all right," he murmured. "Don't mention it. I'm wondering whatbrought you down here, for it's off the road."
"Caprice. Pure caprice. I liked the look of this butt-end of nowhere."
"Same here. I've aye thought there was something terrible nice about awee cape with a village at the neck of it and a burn each side."
"Now that's interesting," said Mr. Heritage. "You're obsessed by aparticular type of landscape. Ever read Freud?"
Dickson shook his head.
"Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere. I wonder where the key lies.Cape--woods--two rivers--moor behind. Ever been in love, Dogson?"
Mr. McCunn was startled. "Love" was a word rarely mentioned in hiscircle except on death-beds. "I've been a married man for thirty years,"he said hurriedl
y.
"That won't do. It should have been a hopeless affair--the last sight ofthe lady on a spur of coast with water on three sides--that kind ofthing, you know. Or it might have happened to an ancestor.... But youdon't look the kind of breed for hopeless attachments. More likely somescoundrelly old Dogson long ago found sanctuary in this sort of place.Do you dream about it?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got the same prepossession asyou. As soon as I spotted this Cruives place on the map this morning, Isaw it was what I was after. When I came in sight of it I almostshouted. I don't very often dream, but when I do that's the place Ifrequent. Odd, isn't it?"
Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected revelation ofromance. "Maybe it's being in love," he daringly observed.
The Poet demurred. "No. I'm not a connoisseur of obvious sentiment. Thatexplanation might fit your case, but not mine. I'm pretty certainthere's something hideous at the back of _my_ complex--some grim oldbusiness tucked away back in the ages. For though I'm attracted by theplace, I'm frightened too!"
There seemed no room for fear in the delicate landscape now openingbefore them. In front in groves of birch and rowans smoked the firsthouses of a tiny village. The road had become a green "loaning" on theample margin of which cattle grazed. The moorland still showed itself inspits of heather, and some distance off, where a rivulet ran in ahollow, there were signs of a fire and figures near it. These last Mr.Heritage regarded with disapproval.
"Some infernal trippers!" he murmured. "Or Boy Scouts. They desecrateeverything. Why can't the _tunicatus popellus_ keep away from a paradiselike this!" Dickson, a democrat who felt nothing incongruous in thepresence of other holiday-makers, was meditating a sharp rejoinder, whenMr. Heritage's tone changed.
"Ye gods! What a village!" he cried, as they turned a corner. There werenot more than a dozen whitewashed houses, all set in little gardens ofwallflower and daffodil and early fruit blossom. A triangle of greenfilled the intervening space, and in it stood an ancient wooden pump.There was no schoolhouse or kirk; not even a post-office--only a red boxin a cottage side. Beyond rose the high wall and the dark trees of thedemesne, and to the right up a by-road which clung to the park edgestood a two-storeyed building which bore the legend "The Cruives Inn."
The Poet became lyrical. "At last!" he cried. "The village of my dreams!Not a sign of commerce! No church or school or beastly recreation hall!Nothing but these divine little cottages and an ancient pub! Dogson, Iwarn you, I'm going to have the devil of a tea." And he declaimed:
"Thou shalt hear a song After a while which Gods may listen to; But place the flask upon the board and wait Until the stranger hath allayed his thirst, For poets, grasshoppers and nightingales Sing cheerily but when the throat is moist."
Dickson, too, longed with sensual gusto for tea. But, as they drewnearer, the inn lost its hospitable look. The cobbles of the yard wereweedy, as if rarely visited by traffic, a pane in a window was broken,and the blinds hung tattered. The garden was a wilderness, and thedoorstep had not been scoured for weeks. But the place had a landlord,for he had seen them approach and was waiting at the door to meet them.
He was a big man in his shirt sleeves, wearing old riding breechesunbuttoned at the knees, and thick ploughman's boots. He had noleggings, and his fleshy calves were imperfectly covered with woollensocks. His face was large and pale, his neck bulged, and he had a grossunshaven jowl. He was a type familiar to students of society; not theinnkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good breeding and all therefinements; a type not unknown in the House of Lords, especially amongrecent creations, common enough in the House of Commons and the City ofLondon, and by no means infrequent in the governing circles of Labour;the type known to the discerning as the Licensed Victualler.
His face was wrinkled in official smiles, and he gave the travellers ahearty good afternoon.
"Can we stop here for the night?" Dickson asked.
The landlord looked sharply at him, and then replied to Mr. Heritage.His expression passed from official bonhomie to official contrition.
"Impossible, gentlemen. Quite impossible.... Ye couldn't have come at aworse time. I've only been here a fortnight myself, and we haven't gotright shaken down yet. Even then I might have made shift to do with ye,but the fact is we've illness in the house, and I'm fair at my wits'end. It breaks my heart to turn gentlemen away and me that keen to getthe business started. But there it is!" He spat vigorously as if toemphasise the desperation of his quandary.
The man was clearly Scots, but his native speech was overlaid withsomething alien, something which might have been acquired in America orin going down to the sea in ships. He hitched his breeches, too, with anautical air.
"Is there nowhere else we can put up?" Dickson asked.
"Not in this one-horse place. Just a wheen auld wives that packedthegether they haven't room for an extra hen. But it's grand weather,and it's not above seven miles to Auchenlochan. Say the word and I'llyoke the horse and drive ye there."
"Thank you. We prefer to walk," said Mr. Heritage. Dickson would havetarried to inquire after the illness in the house, but his companionhurried him off. Once he looked back, and saw the landlord still on thedoorstep gazing after them.
"That fellow's a swine," said Mr. Heritage sourly. "I wouldn't trust myneck in his pothouse. Now, Dogson, I'm hanged if I'm going to leave thisplace. We'll find a corner in the village somehow. Besides, I'mdetermined on tea."
The little street slept in the clear pure light of an early Aprilevening. Blue shadows lay on the white road, and a delicate aroma ofcooking tantalised hungry nostrils. The near meadows shone like palegold against the dark lift of the moor. A light wind had begun to blowfrom the west and carried the faintest tang of salt. The village at thathour was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the Poet's opinion. At allcosts they must spend the night there.
They selected a cottage whiter and neater than the others, which stoodat a corner, where a narrow lane turned southward. Its thatched roof hadbeen lately repaired, and starched curtains of a dazzling whitenessdecorated the small, closely-shut windows. Likewise it had a green doorand a polished brass knocker.
Tacitly the duty of envoy was entrusted to Mr. McCunn. Leaving the otherat the gate, he advanced up the little path lined with quartz stones,and politely but firmly dropped the brass knocker. He must have beenobserved, for ere the noise had ceased the door opened, and an elderlywoman stood before him. She had a sharply-cut face, the rudiments of abeard, big spectacles on her nose, and an old-fashioned lace cap on hersmooth white hair. A little grim she looked at first sight, because ofher thin lips and Roman nose, but her mild curious eyes corrected theimpression and gave the envoy confidence.
"Good afternoon, mistress," he said, broadening his voice to somethingmore rustical than his normal Glasgow speech. "Me and my friend arepaying our first visit here, and we're terrible taken up with the place.We would like to bide the night, but the inn is no' taking folk. Isthere any chance, think you, of a bed here?"
"I'll no tell ye a lee," said the woman. "There's twae guid beds in theloft. But I dinna tak' lodgers and I dinna want to be bothered wi' ye.I'm an auld wumman and no' as stoot as I was. Ye'd better try doun thestreet. Eppie Home micht tak' ye."
Dickson wore his most ingratiating smile. "But, mistress, Eppie Home'shouse is no' yours. We've taken a tremendous fancy to this bit. Can youno' manage to put with us for the one night? We're quiet auld-fashionedfolk and we'll no' trouble you much. Just our tea and maybe an egg toit, and a bowl of porridge in the morning."
The woman seemed to relent. "Whaur's your freend?" she asked, peeringover her spectacles towards the garden gate. The waiting Mr. Heritage,seeing her eyes moving in his direction, took off his cap with a bravegesture and advanced. "Glorious weather, Madam," he declared.
"English," whispered Dickson to the woman, in explanation.
She examined the Poet's neat clothes and Mr. McCunn's ho
mely garments,and apparently found them reassuring. "Come in," she said shortly. "Isee ye're wilfu' folk and I'll hae to dae my best for ye."
A quarter of an hour later the two travellers, having been introduced totwo spotless beds in the loft, and having washed luxuriously at the pumpin the back yard, were seated in Mrs. Morran's kitchen before a mealwhich fulfilled their wildest dreams. She had been baking that morning,so there were white scones and barley scones, and oaten farles, andrusset pancakes. There were three boiled eggs for each of them; therewas a segment of an immense currant cake ("a present from my guidbrither last Hogmanay"); there was skim-milk cheese; there were severalkinds of jam, and there was a pot of dark-gold heather honey. "Try hinnyand aitcake," said their hostess. "My man used to say he never fundonything as guid in a' his days."
Presently they heard her story. Her name was Morran, and she had been awidow these ten years. Of her family her son was in South Africa, onedaughter a lady's maid in London, and the other married to aschoolmaster in Kyle. The son had been in France fighting, and had comesafely through. He had spent a month or two with her before his return,and, she feared, had found it dull. "There's no' a man body in theplace. Naething but auld wives."
That was what the innkeeper had told them. Mr. McCunn inquiredconcerning the inn.
"There's new folk just come. What's this they ca'them?--Robson--Dobson--aye, Dobson. What for wad they no' tak' ye in?Does the man think he's a laird to refuse folk that gait?"
"He said he had illness in the house."
Mrs. Morran meditated. "Whae in the world can be lyin' there? The manbides his lane. He got a lassie frae Auchenlochan to cook, but she andher box gaed off in the post-cairt yestreen. I doot he tell't ye a lee,though it's no for me to juidge him. I've never spoken a word to ane o'thae new folk."
Dickson inquired about the "new folk."
"They're a' new come in the last three weeks, and there's no' a man o'the auld stock left. John Blackstocks at the Wast Lodge dee'd o'pneumony last back-end, and auld Simon Tappie at the Gairdens flitted toMaybole a year come Mairtinmas. There's naebody at the Gairdens noo, butthere's a man come to the Wast Lodge, a blackavised body wi' a face likebend-leather. Tam Robison used to bide at the South Lodge, but Tam gotkilled about Mesopotamy, and his wife took the bairns to her guidsire upat the Garpleheid. I seen the man that's in the South Lodge gaun up thestreet when I was finishin' my denner--a shilpit body and a lameter, buthe hirples as fast as ither folk run. He's no' bonny to look at. I cannathink what the factor's ettlin' at to let sic' ill-faured chiels comeabout the toun."
Their hostess was rapidly rising in Dickson's esteem. She sat verystraight in her chair, eating with the careful gentility of a bird, andprimming her thin lips after every mouthful of tea.
"Who bides in the Big House?" he asked. "Huntingtower is the name, isn'tit?"
"When I was a lassie they ca'ed it Dalquharter Hoose, and Huntingtowerwas the auld rickle o' stanes at the sea-end. But naething wad serve thelast laird's faither but he maun change the name, for he was clean daftabout what they ca' antickities. Ye speir whae bides in the Hoose?Naebody, since the young laird dee'd. It's standin' cauld and lanely andsteikit, and it aince the cheeriest dwallin' in a' Carrick."
Mrs. Morran's tone grew tragic. "It's a queer warld wi'out the auldgentry. My faither and my guidsire and his faither afore him served theKennedys, and my man Dauvit Morran was gemkeeper to them, and afore Imairried I was ane o' the table-maids. They were kind folk, theKennedys, and, like a' the rale gentry, maist mindfu' o' them thatserved them. Sic' merry nichts I've seen in the auld Hoose, atHallowe'en and Hogmanay, and at the servants' balls and the waddin's o'the young leddies! But the laird bode to waste his siller in stane andlime, and hadna that much to leave to his bairns. And now they've a'scattered or deid."
Her grave face wore the tenderness which comes from affectionatereminiscence.
"There was never sic a laddie as young Maister Quentin. No' a week gaedby but he was in here, cryin', 'Phemie Morran, I've come till my tea!'Fine he likit my treacle scones, puir man. There wasna ane in thecountryside sae bauld a rider at the hunt, or sic a skeely fisher. Andhe was clever at his books tae, a graund scholar, they said, and ettlin'at bein' what they ca' a dipplemat. But that's a' bye wi'."
"Quentin Kennedy--the fellow in the Tins?" Heritage asked. "I saw him inRome when he was with the Mission."
"I dinna ken. He was a brave sodger, but he wasna long fechtin' inFrance till he got a bullet in his breist. Syne we heard tell o' him infar awa' bits like Russia; and syne cam' the end o' the war and welookit to see him back, fishin' the waters and ridin' like Jehu as inthe auld days. But wae's me! It wasna permitted. The next news we got,the puir laddie was deid o' influenzy and buried somewhere about France.The wanchancy bullet maun have weakened his chest, nae doot. So that'sthe end o' the guid stock o' Kennedy o' Huntingtower, whae hae beengreat folk sin' the time o' Robert Bruce. And noo the Hoose is shut uptill the lawyers can get somebody sae far left to himsel' as to tak' iton lease, and in thae dear days it's no' just onybody that wants amuckle castle."
"Who are the lawyers?" Dickson asked.
"Glendonan and Speirs in Embro. But they never look near the place, andMaister Loudoun in Auchenlochan does the factorin'. He's let the publican' filled the twae lodges, and he'll be thinkin' nae doot that he'sdone eneuch."
Mrs. Morran had poured some hot water into the big slop-bowl, and hadbegun the operation known as "synding out" the cups. It was a hint thatthe meal was over and Dickson and Heritage rose from the table. Followedby an injunction to be back for supper "on the chap o' nine," theystrolled out into the evening. Two hours of some sort of daylightremained, and the travellers had that impulse to activity which comes toall men who, after a day of exercise and emptiness, are stayed with asatisfying tea.
"You should be happy, Dogson," said the Poet. "Here we have all thematerials for your blessed romance--old mansion, extinct family, villagedeserted of men and an innkeeper whom I suspect of being a villain. Ifeel almost a convert to your nonsense myself. We'll have a look at theHouse."
They turned down the road which ran north by the park wall, past the innwhich looked more abandoned than ever, till they came to an entrancewhich was clearly the West Lodge. It had once been a pretty, modishcottage, with a thatched roof and dormer windows, but now it was badlyin need of repair. A window-pane was broken and stuffed with a sack, theposts of the porch were giving inwards, and the thatch was crumblingunder the attentions of a colony of starlings. The great iron gates wererusty, and on the coat of arms above them the gilding was patchy andtarnished.
Apparently the gates were locked, and even the side wicket failed toopen to Heritage's vigorous shaking. Inside a weedy drive disappearedamong ragged rhododendrons.
The noise brought a man to the lodge door. He was a sturdy fellow in asuit of black clothes which had not been made for him. He might havebeen a butler _en deshabille_, but for the presence of a pair of fieldboots into which he had tucked the ends of his trousers. The curiousthing about him was his face, which was decorated with features so tinyas to give the impression of a monstrous child. Each in itself was wellenough formed, but eyes, nose, mouth, chin were of a smallness curiouslyout of proportion to the head and body. Such an anomaly might have beenredeemed by the expression; good-humour would have invested it with anair of agreeable farce. But there was no friendliness in the man's face.It was set like a judge's in a stony impassiveness.
"May we walk up to the House?" Heritage asked. "We are here for a nightand should like to have a look at it."
The man advanced a step. He had either a bad cold, or a voice comparablein size to his features.
"There's no entrance here," he said huskily. "I have strict orders."
"Oh, come now," said Heritage. "It can do nobody any harm if you let usin for half an hour."
The man advanced another step.
"You shall not come in. Go away from here. Go away, I tell you. It isprivate." The words spoken by th
e small mouth in the small voice had akind of childish ferocity.
The travellers turned their back on him and continued their way.
"Sich a curmudgeon!" Dickson commented. His face had flushed, for he wassusceptible to rudeness. "Did you notice? That man's a foreigner."
"He's a brute," said Heritage. "But I'm not going to be done in by thatclass of lad. There can be no gates on the sea side, so we'll work roundthat way, for I won't sleep till I've seen the place."
Presently the trees grew thinner, and the road plunged through thicketsof hazel till it came to a sudden stop in a field. There the coverceased wholly, and below them lay the glen of the Laver. Steep greenbanks descended to a stream which swept in coils of gold into the eye ofthe sunset. A little further down the channel broadened, the slopes fellback a little, and a tongue of glittering sea ran up to meet the hillwaters. The Laver is a gentle stream after it leaves its cradle heights,a stream of clear pools and long bright shallows, winding by moorlandsteadings and upland meadows; but in its last half-mile it goes mad, andimitates its childhood when it tumbled over granite shelves. Down inthat green place the crystal water gushed and frolicked as if determinedon one hour of rapturous life before joining the sedater sea.
Heritage flung himself on the turf.
"This is a good place! Ye gods, what a good place! Dogson, aren't youglad you came? I think everything's bewitched to-night. That village isbewitched, and that old woman's tea. Good white magic! And that foulinnkeeper and that brigand at the gate. Black magic! And now here is thehome of all enchantment--'island valley of Avilion'--'waters thatlisten for lovers'--all the rest of it!"
Dickson observed and marvelled.
"I can't make you out, Mr. Heritage. You were saying last night you werea great democrat, and yet you were objecting to yon laddies camping onthe moor. And you very near bit the neb off me when I said I likedTennyson. And now...." Mr. McCunn's command of language was inadequateto describe the transformation.
"You're a precise, pragmatical Scot," was the answer. "Hang it, man,don't remind me that I'm inconsistent. I've a poet's licence to play thefool, and if you don't understand me, I don't in the least understandmyself. All I know is that I'm feeling young and jolly and that it's theSpring."
Mr. Heritage was assuredly in a strange mood. He began to whistle with afar-away look in his eye.
"Do you know what that is?" he asked suddenly.
Dickson, who could not detect any tune, said No.
"It's an _aria_ from a Russian opera that came out just before the war.I've forgotten the name of the fellow who wrote it. Jolly thing, isn'tit? I always remind myself of it when I'm in this mood, for it is linkedwith the greatest experience of my life. You said, I think, that you hadnever been in love?"
Dickson replied in the native fashion. "Have you?" he asked.
"I have, and I am--been for two years. I was down with my battalion onthe Italian front early in 1918, and because I could speak the languagethey hoicked me out and sent me to Rome on a liaison job. It was Eastertime and fine weather and, being glad to get out of the trenches, I waspretty well pleased with myself and enjoying life.... In the place whereI stayed there was a girl. She was a Russian, a princess of a greatfamily, but a refugee and of course as poor as sin.... I remember howbadly dressed she was among all the well-to-do Romans. But, my God, whata beauty! There was never anything in the world like her.... She waslittle more than a child, and she used to sing that air in the morningas she went down the stairs.... They sent me back to the front before Ihad a chance of getting to know her, but she used to give me littletimid good mornings, and her voice and eyes were like an angel's.... I'mover my head in love, but it's hopeless, quite hopeless. I shall neversee her again."
"I'm sure I'm honoured by your confidence," said Dickson reverently.
The Poet, who seemed to draw exhilaration from the memory of hissorrows, arose and fetched him a clout on the back. "Don't talk ofconfidence as if you were a reporter," he said. "What about that House?If we're to see it before the dark comes we'd better hustle."
The green slopes on their left, as they ran seaward, were clothedtowards their summit with a tangle of broom and light scrub. The twoforced their way through this, and found to their surprise that on thisside there were no defences of the Huntingtower demesne. Along the crestran a path which had once been gravelled and trimmed. Beyond through athicket of laurels and rhododendrons they came on a long unkempt aisleof grass, which seemed to be one of those side avenues often found inconnection with old Scots dwellings. Keeping along this they reached agrove of beech and holly through which showed a dim shape of masonry. Bya common impulse they moved stealthily, crouching in cover, till at thefar side of the wood they found a sunk fence and looked over an acre ortwo of what had once been lawn and flower-beds to the front of themansion.
The outline of the building was clearly silhouetted against the glowingwest, but since they were looking at the east face the detail was all inshadow. But, dim as it was, the sight was enough to give Dickson thesurprise of his life. He had expected something old and baronial. Butthis was new, raw and new, not twenty years built. Some madness hadprompted its creator to set up a replica of a Tudor house in acountryside where the thing was unheard of. All the tricks werethere--oriel windows, lozenged panes, high twisted chimney stacks; thevery stone was red, as if to imitate the mellow brick of some ancientKentish manor. It was new, but it was also decaying. The creepers hadfallen from the walls, the pilasters on the terrace were tumbling down,lichen and moss were on the doorsteps. Shuttered, silent, abandoned, itstood like a harsh _memento mori_ of human hopes.
Dickson had never before been affected by an inanimate thing with sostrong a sense of disquiet. He had pictured an old stone tower on abright headland; he found instead this raw thing among trees. Thedecadence of the brand-new repels as something against nature, and thisnew thing was decadent. But there was a mysterious life in it, forthough not a chimney smoked, it seemed to enshrine a personality and towear a sinister _aura_. He felt a lively distaste, which was almostfear. He wanted to get far away from it as fast as possible. The sun,now sinking very low, sent up rays which kindled the crests of a groupof firs to the left of the front door. He had the absurd fancy that theywere torches flaming before a bier.
It was well that the two had moved quietly and kept in shadow. Footstepsfell on their ears, on the path which threaded the lawn just beyond thesunk-fence. It was the keeper of the West Lodge and he carried somethingon his back, but both that and his face were indistinct in thehalf-light.
Other footsteps were heard, coming from the other side of the lawn. Aman's shod feet rang on the stone of a flagged path, and from theirirregular fall it was plain that he was lame. The two men met near thedoor, and spoke together. Then they separated, and moved one down eachside of the house. To the two watchers they had the air of a patrol, orof warders pacing the corridors of a prison.
"Let's get out of this," said Dickson, and turned to go.
The air had the curious stillness which precedes the moment of sunset,when the birds of day have stopped their noises and the sounds of nighthave not begun. But suddenly in the silence fell notes of music. Theyseemed to come from the house, a voice singing softly but with greatbeauty and clearness.
Dickson halted in his steps. The tune, whatever it was, was like a freshwind to blow aside his depression. The house no longer lookedsepulchral. He saw that the two men had hurried back from their patrol,had met and exchanged some message, and made off again as if alarmed bythe music. Then he noticed his companion....
Heritage was on one knee with his face rapt and listening. He got to hisfeet and appeared to be about to make for the House. Dickson caught himby the arm and dragged him into the bushes, and he followedunresistingly, like a man in a dream. They ploughed through the thicket,recrossed the grass avenue, and scrambled down the hillside to the banksof the stream.
Then for the first time Dickson observed that his companion's face wasvery white, and
that sweat stood on his temples. Heritage lay down andlapped up water like a dog. Then he turned a wild eye on the other.
"I am going back," he said. "That is the voice of the girl I saw inRome, and it is singing her song!"