by John Buchan
CHAPTER XI
GRAVITY OUT OF BED
It is probable that Sir Archibald Roylance did not altogether believeDickson's tale; it may be that he considered him an agreeable romancer,or a little mad, or no more than a relief to the tedium of a wet Sundaymorning. But his incredulity did not survive one glance at Saskia as shestood in that bleak drawing-room among Victorian water-colours and fadedchintzes. The young man's boyishness deserted him. He stopped short inhis tracks, and made a profound and awkward bow. "I am at your service,Mademoiselle," he said, amazed at himself. The words seemed to have comeout of a confused memory of plays and novels.
She inclined her head--a little on one side, and looked towards Dickson.
"Sir Archibald's going to do his best for us," said that squire ofdames. "I was telling him that we had had our breakfast."
"Let's get out of this sepulchre," said their host, who was recoveringhimself. "There's a roasting fire in my den. Of course you'll havesomething to eat--hot coffee, anyhow--I've trained my cook to makecoffee like a Frenchwoman. The housekeeper will take charge of you, ifyou want to tidy up, and you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please. Idon't believe there's ever been a lady in this house before, you know."
He led her to the smoking-room and ensconced her in the great chair bythe fire. Smilingly she refused a series of offers which ranged from asheepskin mantle which he had got in the Pamirs and which he thoughtmight fit her, to hot whisky and water as a specific against a chill.But she accepted a pair of slippers and deftly kicked off the broguesprovided by Mrs. Morran. Also, while Dickson started rapaciously on asecond breakfast, she allowed him to pour her out a cup of coffee.
"You are a soldier?" she asked.
"Two years infantry--5th Battalion Lennox Highlanders, and then FlyingCorps. Top-hole time I had too, till the day before the Armistice whenmy luck gave out and I took a nasty toss. Consequently I'm not as faston my legs now as I'd like to be."
"You were a friend of Captain Kennedy?"
"His oldest. We were at the same private school, and he was at m'tutor's, and we were never much separated till he went abroad to cramfor the Diplomatic and I started east to shoot things."
"Then I will tell you what I told Captain Kennedy." Saskia, looking intothe heart of the peats, began the story of which we have already heard aversion, but she told it differently, for she was telling it to one whomore or less belonged to her own world. She mentioned names at which theother nodded. She spoke of a certain Paul Abreskov. "I heard of him atBokhara in 1912," said Sir Archie, and his face grew solemn. Sometimesshe lapsed into French, and her hearer's brow wrinkled, but he appearedto follow. When she had finished he drew a long breath.
"My Aunt! What a time you've been through! I've seen pluck in my day,but yours! It's not thinkable. D'you mind if I ask a question, Princess?Bolshevism we know all about, and I admit Trotsky and his friends are apretty effective push; but how on earth have they got a world-wide graftgoing in the time so that they can stretch their net to anout-of-the-way spot like this? It looks as if they had struck a Napoleonsomewhere."
"You do not understand," she said. "I cannot make any oneunderstand--except a Russian. My country has been broken to pieces, andthere is no law in it; therefore it is a nursery of crime. So wouldEngland be, or France, if you had suffered the same misfortunes. Mypeople are not wickeder than others, but for the moment they are sickand have no strength. As for the government of the Bolsheviki it matterslittle, for it will pass. Some parts of it may remain, but it is agovernment of the sick and fevered, and cannot endure in health. Leninmay be a good man--I do not think so, but I do not know--but if he werean archangel he could not alter things. Russia is mortally sick andtherefore all evil is unchained, and the criminals have no one to checkthem. There is crime everywhere in the world, and the unfettered crimein Russia is so powerful that it stretches its hand to crime throughoutthe globe and there is a great mobilising everywhere of wicked men. Onceyou boasted that law was international and that the police in one landworked with the police of all others. To-day that is true aboutcriminals. After a war evil passions are loosed, and, since Russia isbroken, in her they can make their headquarters.... It is notBolshevism, the theory, you need fear, for that is a weak and dyingthing. It is crime, which to-day finds its seat in my country, but isnot only Russian. It has no fatherland. It is as old as human nature andas wide as the earth."
"I see," said Sir Archie. "Gad, here have I been vegetatin' and thinkin'that all excitement had gone out of life with the war, and sometimeseven regrettin' that the beastly old thing was over, and all the whilethe world fairly hummin' with interest. And Loudon too!"
"I would like your candid opinion on yon factor, Sir Archibald," saidDickson.
"I can't say I ever liked him, and I've once or twice had a row withhim, for he used to bring his pals to shoot over Dalquharter and hedidn't quite play the game by me. But I know dashed little about him,for I've been a lot away. Bit hairy about the heels, of course. A greatfigure at local race-meetin's, and used to toady old Carforth and thehuntin' crowd. He has a pretty big reputation as a sharp lawyer and someof the thick-headed lairds swear by him, but Quentin never could stickhim. It's quite likely he's been gettin' into Queer Street, for he wasalways speculatin' in horse-flesh, and I fancy he plunged a bit on theTurf. But I can't think how he got mixed up in this show."
"I'm positive Dobson's his brother."
"And put this business in his way. That would explain it all right....He must be runnin' for pretty big stakes, for that kind of lad don'tdabble in crime for six-and-eightpence.... Now for the layout. You'vegot three men shut up in Dalquharter House, who by this time haveprobably escaped. One of you--what's his name?--Heritage?--is in the oldTower, and you think that _they_ think the Princess is still there andwill sit round the place like terriers. Sometime to-day the Danish brigwill arrive with reinforcements, and then there will be a hefty fight.Well, the first thing to be done is to get rid of Loudon's stymie withthe authorities. Princess, I'm going to carry you off in my car to theChief Constable. The second thing is for you after that to stay on here.It's a deadly place on a wet day, but it's safe enough."
Saskia shook her head and Dickson spoke for her.
"You'll no' get her to stop here. I've done my best, but she'sdetermined to be back at Dalquharter. You see she's expecting a friend,and besides, if there's going to be a battle she'd like to be in it. Isthat so, Mem?"
Sir Archie looked helplessly around him, and the sight of the girl'sface convinced him that argument would be fruitless. "Anyhow she mustcome with me to the Chief Constable. Lethington's a slow bird on thewing, and I don't see myself convincin' him that he must get busy unlessI can produce the Princess. Even then it may be a tough job, for it'sSunday, and in these parts people go to sleep till Monday mornin'."
"That's just what I'm trying to get at," said Dickson. "By all means goto the Chief Constable, and tell him it's life or death. My lawyer inGlasgow, Mr. Caw, will have been stirring him up yesterday, and you twoshould complete the job.... But what I'm feared is that he'll not be intime. As you say, it's the Sabbath day, and the police are terribleslow. Now any moment that brig may be here, and the trouble will start.I'm wanting to save the Princess, but I'm wanting too to give theseblagyirds the roughest handling they ever got in their lives. ThereforeI say there's no time to lose. We're far ower few to put up a fight, andwe want every man you've got about this place to hold the fort till thepolice come."
Sir Archibald looked upon the earnest flushed face of Dickson withadmiration. "I'm blessed if you're not the most whole-hearted brigandI've ever struck."
"I'm not. I'm just a business man."
"Do you realise that you're levying a private war and breaking every lawof the land?"
"Hoots!" said Dickson. "I don't care a docken about the law. I'm forseeing this job through. What force can you produce?"
"Only cripples, I'm afraid. There's Sime, my butler. He was a FusilierJock and, as you saw, has lost
an arm. Then McGuffog the keeper is agood man, but he's still got a Turkish bullet in his thigh. Thechauffeur, Carfrae, was in the Yeomanry, and lost half a foot, andthere's myself, as lame as a duck. The herds on the home farm are nogood, for one's seventy and the other is in bed with jaundice. The Mainscan produce four men, but they're rather a job lot."
"They'll do fine," said Dickson heartily. "All sodgers, and no doubt allgood shots. Have you plenty guns?"
Sir Archie burst into uproarious laughter. "Mr. McCunn, you're a manafter my own heart. I'm under your orders. If I had a boy I'd put himinto the provision trade, for it's the place to see fightin'. Yes, we'veno end of guns. I advise shot-guns, for they've more stoppin' power in arush than a rifle, and I take it it's a rough-and-tumble we're lookin'for."
"Right," said Dickson. "I saw a bicycle in the hall. I want you to lendit me, for I must be getting back. You'll take the Princess and do thebest you can with the Chief Constable."
"And then?"
"Then you'll load up your car with your folk, and come down the hill toDalquharter. There'll be a laddie, or maybe more than one, waiting foryou on this side the village to give you instructions. Take your ordersfrom them. If it's a red-haired ruffian called Dougal you'll be wise toheed what he says, for he has a grand head for battles."
Five minutes later Dickson was pursuing a quavering course like a snipedown the avenue. He was a miserable performer on a bicycle. Not fortwenty years had he bestridden one, and he did not understand such newdevices as free-wheels and change of gears. The mounting had been theworst part and it had only been achieved by the help of a rockery. Hehad begun by cutting into two flower-beds, and missing a birch tree byinches. But he clung on desperately, well knowing that if he fell off itwould be hard to remount, and at length he gained the avenue. When hepassed the lodge gates he was riding fairly straight, and when he turnedoff the Ayr highway to the side road that led to Dalquharter he was moreor less master of his machine.
He crossed the Garple by an ancient hunch-backed bridge, observing evenin his absorption with the handle-bars that the stream was in roaringspate. He wrestled up the further hill, with aching calf-muscles, andgot to the top just before his strength gave out. Then as the roadturned seaward he had the slope with him, and enjoyed some respite. Itwas no case for putting up his feet, for the gale was blowing hard onhis right cheek, but the downward grade enabled him to keep his coursewith little exertion. His anxiety to get back to the scene of action wasfor the moment appeased, since he knew he was making as good speed asthe weather allowed, so he had leisure for thought.
But the mind of this preposterous being was not on the business beforehim. He dallied with irrelevant things--with the problems of youth andlove. He was beginning to be very nervous about Heritage, not as thesolitary garrison of the old Tower, but as the lover of Saskia. Thateverybody should be in love with her appeared to him only proper, for hehad never met her like, and assumed that it did not exist. The desireof the moth for the star seemed to him a reasonable thing, sincehopeless loyalty and unrequited passion were the eternal stock-in-tradeof romance. He wished he were twenty-five himself to have the chance ofindulging in such sentimentality for such a lady. But Heritage was notlike him and would never be content with a romantic folly.... He hadbeen in love with her for two years--a long time. He spoke about wantingto die for her, which was a flight beyond Dickson himself. "I doubt itwill be what they call a 'grand passion,'" he reflected with reverence.But it was hopeless; he saw quite clearly that it was hopeless.
Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson's instincts were subtlerthan his intelligence. He recognised that the two belonged to differentcircles of being, which nowhere intersected. That mysterious lady, whoseeyes had looked through life to the other side, was no mate for thePoet. His faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed for Heritagea sincere affection. It would break his heart, poor man. There was heholding the fort alone and cheering himself with delightful fanciesabout one remoter than the moon. Dickson wanted happy endings, and herethere was no hope of such. He hated to admit that life could be crooked,but the optimist in him was now fairly dashed.
Sir Archie might be the fortunate man, for of course he would soon be inlove with her, if he were not so already. Dickson like all his class hada profound regard for the country gentry. The business Scot does notusually revere wealth, though he may pursue it earnestly, nor does hespecially admire rank in the common sense. But for ancient race he hasrespect in his bones, though it may happen that in public he denies it,and the laird has for him a secular association with good family.... SirArchie might do. He was young, good-looking, obviously gallant.... Butno! He was not quite right either. Just a trifle too light in weight,too boyish and callow. The Princess must have youth, but it should bemighty youth, the youth of a Napoleon or a Caesar. He reflected that theGreat Montrose, for whom he had a special veneration, might have filledthe bill. Or young Harry with his beaver up? Or Claverhouse in thepicture with the flush of temper on his cheek?
The meditations of the match-making Dickson came to an abrupt end. Hehad been riding negligently, his head bent against the wind, and hiseyes vaguely fixed on the wet hill-gravel of the road. Of his immediateenvirons he was pretty well unconscious. Suddenly he was aware offigures on each side of him who advanced menacingly. Stung to activityhe attempted to increase his pace, which was already good, for the roadat this point descended steeply. Then, before he could prevent it, astick was thrust into his front wheel, and the next second he wasdescribing a curve through the air. His head took the ground, he felt aspasm of blinding pain, and then a sense of horrible suffocation beforehis wits left him.
"Are ye sure it's the richt man, Ecky?" said a voice which he did nothear.
"Sure. It's the Glesca body Dobson telled us to look for yesterday. It'sa pund note atween us for this job. We'll tie him up in the wud tillwe've time to attend to him."
"Is he bad?"
"It doesna maitter," said the one called Ecky. "He'll be deid onywaylong afore the morn."
* * * * *
Mrs. Morran all forenoon was in a state of un-Sabbatical disquiet. Aftershe had seen Saskia and Dickson start she finished her housewifelyduties, took Cousin Eugenie her breakfast, and made preparation for themidday dinner. The invalid in the bed in the parlour was not a repayingsubject. Cousin Eugenie belonged to that type of elderly women who,having been spoiled in youth, find the rest of life fall far short oftheir expectations. Her voice had acquired a perpetual wail, and thecorners of what had once been a pretty mouth drooped in an eternalpeevishness. She found herself in a morass of misery and shabbydiscomfort, but had her days continued in an even tenor she would stillhave lamented. "A dingy body," was Mrs. Morran's comment, but shelaboured in kindness. Unhappily they had no common language, and it wasonly by signs that the hostess could discover her wants and show hergoodwill. She fed her and bathed her face, saw to the fire and left herto sleep. "I'm boilin' a hen to mak' broth for your denner, Mem. Try andget a bit sleep now." The purport of the advice was clear, and CousinEugenie turned obediently on her pillow.
It was Mrs. Morran's custom of a Sunday to spend the morning in devoutmeditation. Some years before she had given up tramping the five milesto kirk, on the ground that having been a regular attendant for fiftyyears she had got all the good out of it that was probable. Instead sheread slowly aloud to herself the sermon printed in a certain religiousweekly which reached her every Saturday, and concluded with a chapter ortwo of the Bible. But to-day something had gone wrong with her mind. Shecould not follow the thread of the Reverend Doctor MacMichael'sdiscourse. She could not fix her attention on the wanderings andmisdeeds of Israel as recorded in the Book of Exodus. She must always begetting up to look at the pot on the fire, or to open the back door andstudy the weather. For a little she fought against her unrest, and thenshe gave up the attempt at concentration. She took the big pot off thefire and allowed it to simmer, and presently she fetched her boots andumbrell
a, and kilted her petticoats. "I'll be none the waur o' a breatho' caller air," she decided.
The wind was blowing great guns but there was only the thinnest sprinkleof rain. Sitting on the hen-house roof and munching a raw turnip was afigure which she recognised as the smallest of the Die-Hards. Betweenbites he was singing dolefully to the tune of "Annie Laurie" one of theditties of his quondam Sunday school:
"The Boorjoys' brays are bonny, Too-roo-ra-roo-raloo, But the Worrkers o' the Worrld Wull gar them a' look blue, Wull gar them a' look blue, And droon them in the sea, And--for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me down and dee."
"Losh, laddie," she cried, "that's cauld food for the stamach. Comeindoors about midday and I'll gie ye a plate o' broth!" The Die-Hardsaluted and continued on the turnip.
She took the Auchenlochan road across the Garple bridge, for that wasthe best road to the Mains and by it Dickson and the others might bereturning. Her equanimity at all seasons was like a Turk's, and shewould not have admitted that anything mortal had power to upset orexcite her: nevertheless it was a fast-beating heart that she now borebeneath her Sunday jacket. Great events, she felt, were on the eve ofhappening, and of them she was a part. Dickson's anxiety was hers, tobring things to a business-like conclusion. The honour of Huntingtowerwas at stake and of the old Kennedys. She was carrying out Mr. Quentin'scommands, the dead boy who used to clamour for her treacle scones. Andthere was more than duty in it, for youth was not dead in her oldheart, and adventure had still power to quicken it.
Mrs. Morran walked well, with the steady long paces of the Scotscountrywoman. She left the Auchenlochan road and took the side pathalong the tableland to the Mains. But for the surge of the gale and thefar-borne boom of the furious sea there was little noise; not a birdcried in the uneasy air. With the wind behind her Mrs. Morran breastedthe ascent till she had on her right the moorland running south to theLochan valley and on her left Garple chafing in its deep forestedgorges. Her eyes were quick and she noted with interest a weaselcreeping from a fern-clad cairn. A little way on she passed an old ewein difficulties and assisted it to rise. "But for me, my wumman, ye'dhae been braxy ere nicht," she told it as it departed bleating. Then sherealised that she had come a certain distance. "Losh, I maun be gettin'back or the hen will be spiled," she cried, and was on the verge ofturning.
But something caught her eye a hundred yards further on the road. It wassomething which moved with the wind like a wounded bird, fluttering fromthe roadside to a puddle and then back to the rushes. She advanced toit, missed it, and caught it.
It was an old dingy green felt hat, and she recognised it as Dickson's.
Mrs. Morran's brain, after a second of confusion, worked fast andclearly. She examined the road and saw that a little way on the gravelhad been violently agitated. She detected several prints of hobnailedboots. There were prints too, on a patch of peat on the south sidebehind a tall bank of sods. "That's where they were hidin'," sheconcluded. Then she explored on the other side in a thicket of hazelsand wild raspberries, and presently her perseverance was rewarded. Thescrub was all crushed and pressed as if several persons had been forcinga passage. In a hollow was a gleam of something white. She moved towardsit with a quaking heart, and was relieved to find that it was only a newand expensive bicycle with the front wheel badly buckled.
Mrs. Morran delayed no longer. If she had walked well on her outjourney, she beat all records on the return. Sometimes she would runtill her breath failed; then she would slow down till anxiety once morequickened her pace. To her joy on the Dalquharter side of the Garplebridge she observed the figure of a Die-Hard. Breathless, flushed, withher bonnet awry and her umbrella held like a scimitar, she seized on theboy.
"Awfu' doin's! They've grippit Maister McCunn up the Mains road justafore the second milestone and forenent the auld bucht. I fund his hat,and a bicycle's lyin' broken in the wud. Haste ye, man, and get the restand awa' and seek him. It'll be the tinklers frae the Dean. I'd gangmysel', but my legs are ower auld. Oh, laddie, dinna stop to speirquestions. They'll hae him murdered or awa' to sea. And maybe the leddywas wi' him and they've got them baith. Wae's me! Wae's me!"
The Die-Hard, who was Wee Jaikie, did not delay. His eyes had filledwith tears at her news, which we know to have been his habit. When Mrs.Morran, after indulging in a moment of barbaric keening, looked back theroad she had come, she saw a small figure trotting up the hill like aterrier who has been left behind. As he trotted he wept bitterly. Jaikiewas getting dangerous.