Books: Huntingtower

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"Ay, they're some o' Elspeth's things, rale guid furthy claes,"
said Mrs. Morran complacently. "And the shoon are what she used
to gang about the byres wi' when she was in the Castlewham dairy.
The leddy was tellin' me she was for trampin' the hills, and thae
things will keep her dry and warm....I ken the hoose ye mean.
They ca' it the Mains of Garple. And I ken the man that bides in it.
He's yin Sir Erchibald Roylance. English, but his mither was a Dalziel.
I'm no weel acquaint wi' his forbears, but I'm weel eneuch acquaint
wi' Sir Erchie, and 'better a guid coo that a coo o' a guid kind,"
as my mither used to say. He used to be an awfu' wild callont,
a freend o' puir Maister Quentin, and up to ony deevilry.
But they tell me he's a quieter lad since the war, as sair
lamed by fa'in oot o' an airyplane."

"Will he be at the Mains just now?" Dickson asked.

"I wadna wonder. He has a muckle place in England, but he aye used to
come here in the back-end for the shootin' and in April for birds.
He's clean daft about birds. He'll be out a' day at the craig watchin'
solans, or lyin' a' mornin' i' the moss lookin' at bog-blitters."

"Will he help, think you?"

"I'll wager he'll help. Onyway it's your best chance, and better
a wee bush than nae beild. Now, sit in to your breakfast."

It was a merry meal. Mrs. Morran dispensed tea and gnomic wisdom.
Saskia ate heartily, speaking little, but once or twice laying her
hand softly on her hostess's gnarled fingers. Dickson was in such
spirits that he gobbled shamelessly, being both hungry and hurried,
and he spoke of the still unconquered enemy with ease and disrespect,
so that Mrs. Morran was moved to observe that there was "naething
sae bauld as a blind mear." But when in a sudden return of modesty
he belittled his usefulness and talked sombrely of his mature years
he was told that he "wad never be auld wi' sae muckle honesty."
Indeed it was very clear that Mrs. Morran approved of her nephew.
They did not linger over breakfast, for both were impatient to be
on the road. Mrs. Morran assisted Saskia to put on Elspeth's shoes.
"'Even a young fit finds comfort in an auld bauchle,' as my mother,
honest woman, used to say." Dickson's waterproof was restored to him,
and for Saskia an old raincoat belonging to the son in South Africa
was discovered, which fitted her better. "Siccan weather," said
the hostess, as she opened the door to let in a swirl of wind.
"The deil's aye kind to his ain. Haste ye back, Mem, and be sure
I'll tak' guid care o' your leddy cousin."

The proper way to the Mains of Garple was either by the station and
the Ayr road, or by the Auchenlochan highway, branching off half a
mile beyond the Garple bridge. But Dickson, who had been studying
the map and fancied himself as a pathfinder, chose the direct route
across the Long Muir as being at once shorter and more sequestered.
With the dawn the wind had risen again, but it had shifted towards
the north-west and was many degrees colder. The mist was furling on
the hills like sails, the rain had ceased, and out at sea the eye
covered a mile or two of wild water. The moor was drenching wet,
and the peat bogs were brimming with inky pools, so that soon the
travellers were soaked to the knees. Dickson had no fear of pursuit,
for he calculated that Dobson and his friends, even if they had got out,
would be busy looking for the truants in the vicinity of the House and
would presently be engaged with the old Tower. But he realized, too,
that speed on his errand was vital, for at any moment the Unknown
might arrive from the sea.

So he kept up a good pace, half-running, half-striding, till they
had passed the railway, and he found himself gasping with a stitch
in his side, and compelled to rest in the lee of what had once
been a sheepfold. Saskia amazed him. She moved over the rough heather
like a deer, and it was her hand that helped him across the deeper hags.
Before such youth and vigour he felt clumsy and old. She stood looking
down at him as he recovered his breath, cool, unruffled, alert as Diana.
His mind fled to Heritage, and it occurred to him suddenly that
the Poet had set his affections very high. Loyalty drove him
to speak for his friend.

"I've got the easy job," he said. "Mr. Heritage will have the
whole pack on him in that old Tower, and him with such a sore clout
on his head. I've left him my pistol. He's a terrible brave man!"

She smiled.

"Ay, and he's a poet too."

"So?" she said. "I did not know. He is very young."

"He's a man of very high ideels."

She puzzled at the word, and then smiled. "He is like many of
our young men in Russia, the students--his mind is in a ferment
and he does not know what he wants. But he is brave."

This seemed to Dickson's loyal soul but a chilly tribute.

"I think he is in love with me," she continued.

He looked up startled, and saw in her face that which gave him a view
into a strange new world. He had thought that women blushed when
they talked of love, but he eyes were as grave and candid as a boy's.
Here was one who had gone through waters so deep that she had
lost the foibles of sex. Love to her was only a word of ill omen,
a threat on the lips of brutes, an extra battalion of peril in
an army of perplexities. He felt like some homely rustic who
finds himself swept unwittingly into the moonlight hunt of
Artemis and her maidens.

"He is a romantic," she said. "I have known so many like him."

"He's no that," said Dickson shortly. "Why he used to be aye
laughing at me for being romantic. He's one that's looking for
truth and reality, he says, and he's terrible down on the kind of
poetry I like myself.

She smiled. "They all talk so. But you, my friend Dickson"
(she pronounced the name in two staccato syllables ever so prettily),
"you are different. Tell me about yourself."

"I'm just what you see--a middle-aged retired grocer."

"Grocer?" she queried. "Ah, yes, epicier. But you are a very
remarkable epicier. Mr. Heritage I understand, but you and those
little boys--no. I am sure of one thing--you are not a romantic.
You are too humorous and--and--I think you are like Ulysses,
for it would not be easy to defeat you."

Her eyes were kind, nay affectionate, and Dickson experienced a
preposterous rapture in his soul, followed by a sinking, as he
realized how far the job was still from being completed.

"We must be getting on, Mem," he said hastily, and the two plunged
again into the heather.

The Ayr road was crossed, and the fir wood around the Mains
became visible, and presently the white gates of the entrance.
A wind-blown spire of smoke beyond the trees proclaimed that the
house was not untenanted. As they entered the drive the Scots firs
were tossing in the gale, which blew fiercely at this altitude, but,
the dwelling itself being more in the hollow, the daffodil clumps on
the lawn were but mildly fluttered.

The door was opened by a one-armed butler who bore all the marks
of the old regular soldier. Dickson produced a card and asked to
see his master on urgent business. Sir Archibald was at home,
he was told, and had just finished breakfast. The two were led
into a large bare chamber which had all the chill and mustiness of a
bachelor's drawing-room. The butler returned, and said Sir Archibald
would see him. "I'd better go myself first and prepare the way, Mem,"
Dickson whispered, and followed the man across the hall.

He found himself ushered into a fair-sized room where a bright
fire was burning. On a table lay the remains of breakfast,
and the odour of food mingled pleasantly with the scent of peat.
The horns and heads of big game, foxes' masks, the model of a
gigantic salmon, and several bookcases adorned the walls,
and books and maps were mixed with decanters and cigar-boxes on
the long sideboard. After the wild out of doors the place seemed
the very shrine of comfort. A young man sat in an arm-chair by the
fire with a leg on a stool; he was smoking a pipe, and reading the
Field, and on another stool at his elbow was a pile of new novels.
He was a pleasant brown-faced young man, with remarkably smooth
hair and a roving humorous eye.

"Come in, Mr. McCunn. Very glad to see you. If, as I take it,
you're the grocer, you're a household name in these parts.
I get all my supplies from you, and I've just been makin' inroads
on one of your divine hams. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I'm very proud to hear what you say, Sir Archibald. But I've not
come on business. I've come with the queerest story you ever heard
in your life and I've come to ask your help."

"Go ahead. A good story is just what I want this vile mornin'."

"I'm not here alone. I've a lady with me."

"God bless my soul! A lady!"

"Ay, a princess. She's in the next room."

The young man looked wildly at him and waved the book he had been reading.

"Excuse me, Mr. McCunn, but are you quite sober? I beg your pardon.
I see you are. But you know, it isn't done. Princesses don't
as a rule come here after breakfast to pass the time of day.
It's more absurd than this shocker I've been readin'."

"All the same it's a fact. She'll tell you the story herself,
and you'll believe her quick enough. But to prepare your mind
I'll just give you a sketch of the events of the last few days."

Before the sketch was concluded the young man had violently rung the bell.
"Sime," he shouted to the servant, "clear away this mess and lay
the table again. Order more breakfast, all the breakfast you can get.
Open the windows and get the tobacco smoke out of the air.
Tidy up the place for there's a lady comin'. Quick, you juggins!"

He was on his feet now, and, with his arm in Dickson's, was heading
for the door.

"My sainted aunt! And you topped off with pottin' at the factor.
I've seen a few things in my day, but I'm blessed if I ever met
a bird like you!"

CHAPTER XI

GRAVITY OUT OF BED

It is probable that Sir Archibald Roylance did not altogether
believe Dickson'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 Sunday morning. But his incredulity did not survive one
glance at Saskia as she stood in that bleak drawing-room among
Victorian water-colours and faded chintzes. The young man's
boyishness deserted him. He stopped short in his tracks, and made
a profound and awkward bow. "I am at your service, Mademoiselle,"
he said, amazed at himself. The words seemed to have come out 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 of dames.
"I was telling him that we had had our breakfast."

"Let's get out of this sepulchre," said their host, who was
recovering himself. "There's a roasting fire in my den. Of course
you'll have something to eat--hot coffee, anyhow--I've trained my cook to
make coffee like a Frenchwoman. The housekeeper will take charge of you,
if you want to tidy up, and you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please.
I don'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 by the fire. Smilingly she refused a series of offers which
ranged from a sheepskin mantle which he had got in the Pamirs and
which he thought might 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 brogues provided by Mrs. Morran. Also, while Dickson
started rapaciously on a second 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
Flying Corps. Top-hole time I had too till the day before
the Armistice, when my luck gave out and I took a nasty toss.
Consequently I'm not as fast on 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'tutors, and we were never much separated till he went abroad to
cram for the Diplomatic and I started east to shoot things."

"Then I will tell you what I told Captain Kennedy." Saskia, looking
into the heart of the peats, began the story of which we have already
heard a version, but she told it differently, for she was telling it
to one who more or less belonged to her own world. She mentioned names
at which the other nodded. She spoke of a certain Paul Abreskov.
"I heard of him at Bokhara in 1912," said Sir Archie, and his
face grew solemn. Sometimes she lapsed into French, and her hearer's
brow wrinkled, but he appeared to 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 a pretty effective push; but how on
earth have they got a world-wide graft going in the time so that
they can stretch their net to an out-of-the-way spot like this?
It looks as if they had struck a Napoleon somewhere."

"You do not understand," she said. "I cannot make any one understand-
-except a Russian. My country has been broken to pieces, and there
is no law in it; therefore it is a nursery of crime. So would
England be, or France, if you had suffered the same misfortunes.
My people are not wickeder than others, but for the moment they are
sick and have no strength. As for the government of the Bolsheviki
it matters little, for it will pass. Some parts of it may remain,
but it is a government of the sick and fevered, and cannot endure
in health. Lenin may be a good man--I do not think so, but I do not know-
-but if he were an archangel he could not alter things. Russia is
mortally sick and therefore all evil is unchained, and the criminals
have no one to check them. There is crime everywhere in the world,
and the unfettered crime in Russia is so powerful that it stretches
its hand to crime throughout the globe and there is a great mobilizing
everywhere of wicked men. Once you boasted that law was international
and that the police in one land worked with the police of all others.
To-day that is true about criminals. After a war evil passions
are loosed, and, since Russia is broken, in her they can make
their headquarters....It is not Bolshevism, the theory, you need fear,
for that is a weak and dying thing. It is crime, which to-day finds its
seat in my country, but is not only Russian. It has no fatherland.
It is as old as human nature and as 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 sometimes even regrettin' that the beastly old thing was over,
and all the while the world fairly hummin' with interest. And Loudon too!"

"I would like your candid opinion on yon factor, Sir Archibald,"
said Dickson.

"I can't say I ever liked him, and I've once or twice had a row
with him, for used to bring his pals to shoot over Dalquharter
and he didn'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 great figure at local race-meetin's, and used to
toady old Carforth and the huntin' crowd. He has a pretty big
reputation as a sharp lawyer and some of the thick-headed lairds
swear by him, but Quentin never could stick him. It's quite likely
he's been gettin' into Queer Street, for he was always speculatin'
in horseflesh, and I fancy he plunged a bit on the Turf.
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't dabble in crime for six-and-eightpence....Now for the layout.
You've got three men shut up in Dalquharter House, who by this time
have probably escaped. One of you--what's his name?--Heritage?--is
in the old Tower, and you think that they think the Princess is still
there and will sit round the place like terriers. Sometime to-day
the Danish brig wall arrive with reinforcements, and then there will
be a hefty fight. Well, the first thing to be done it to get rid of
Loudon's stymie with the authorities. Princess, I'm going to carry
you off in my car to the Chief 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's
determined to be back at Dalquharter. You see she's expecting
a friend, and besides, if here's going to be a battle she'd like
to be in it. Is that so, Mem?"

Sir Archie looked helplessly around him, and the sight of the girl's
face convinced him that argument would be fruitless. "Anyhow she
must come with me to the Chief Constable. Lethington's a slow bird
on the wing, and I don't see myself convincin' him that he must get
busy unless I can produce the Princess. Even then it may be a tough
job, for it's Sunday, 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 go to the Chief Constable, and tell him it's life or death.
My lawyer in Glasgow, Mr. Caw, will have been stirring him up
yesterday, and you two should complete the job...But what I'm feared
is that he'll not be in time. As you say, it's the Sabbath day,
and the police are terrible slow. 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 these blagyirds the roughest handling
they ever got in their lives. Therefore I say there's no time to lose.
We're far ower few to put up a fight, and we want every man you've
got about this place to hold the fort till the police come."

Sir Archibald looked upon the earnest flushed face of Dickson
with admiration. "I'm blessed if you're not the most whole-hearted
brigand I've ever struck."

"I'm not. I'm just a business man."

"Do you realize that you're levying a private war and breaking
every law of the land?"

"Hoots!" said Dickson. "I don't care a docken about the law.
I'm for seeing this job through. What force can you produce?"

"Only cripples, I'm afraid. There's Sime, my butler. He was a
Fusilier Jock and, as you saw, has lost an arm. Then McGuffog the
keeper is a good man, but he's still got a Turkish bullet in his thigh.
The chauffeur, Carfrae, was in the Yeomanry, and lost half a foot;
and there's myself, as lame as a duck. The herds on the home farm
are no good, for one's seventy and the other is in bed with jaundice.
The Mains can produce four men, but they're rather a job lot."

"They'll do fine,' said Dickson heartily. "All sodgers, and no
doubt all good shots. Have you plenty guns?"

Sir Archie burst into uproarious laughter. "Mr. McCunn, you're a man
after my own heart. I'm under your orders. If I had a boy I'd put
him into the provision trade, for it's the place to see fightin'.
Yes, we've no end of guns. I advise shot-guns, for they've more
stoppin' power in a rush 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
lend it me, for I must be getting back. You'll take the Princess
and do the best you can with the Chief Constable."

"And then?"

"Then you'll load up your car with your folk, and come down the
hill to Dalquharter. There'll be a laddie, or maybe more than one
waiting for you on this side the village to give you instructions.
Take your orders from them. If it's a red-haired ruffian called
Dougal you'll be wise to heed what he says, for he has a grand
head for battles."

Five minutes later Dickson was pursuing a quavering course like a
snipe down the avenue. He was a miserable performer on a bicycle.
Not for twenty years had he bestridden one, and he did not understand
such new devices as free-wheels and change of gears. The mounting
had been the worst part, and it had only been achieved by the help
of a rockery. He had begun by cutting into two flower-beds, and
missing a birch tree by inches. But he clung on desperately, well
knowing that if he fell off it would be hard to remount, and at
length he gained the avenue. When he passed the lodge gates he
was riding fairly straight, and when he turned off the Ayr highway
to the side road that led to Dalquharter he was more or less master
of his machine.

He crossed the Garple by an ancient hunch-backed bridge, observing
even in his absorption with the handle-bars that the stream was
in roaring spate. He wrestled up the further hill with aching
calf-muscles, and got to the top just before his strength gave out.
Then as the road turned seaward he had the slope with him, and
enjoyed some respite. It was no case for putting up his feet, for
the gale was blowing hard on his right cheek, but the downward grade
enabled him to keep his course with little exertion. His anxiety
to get back to the scene of action was for the moment appeased,
since he knew he was making as good speed as the weather allowed,
so he had leisure for thought.

But the mind of this preposterous being was not on the business
before him. He dallied with irrelevant things--with the problems
of youth and love. He was beginning to be very nervous about Heritage,
not as the solitary garrison of the old Tower, but as the lover of Saskia.
That everybody should be in love with her appeared to him only proper,
for he had never met her like, and assumed that it did not exist.
The desire of the moth for the star seemed to him a reasonable thing,
since hopeless loyalty and unrequited passion were the eternal
stock-in-trade of romance. He wished he were twenty-five himself to
have the chance of indulging in such sentimentality for such a lady.
But Heritage was not like him and would never be content with a
romantic folly....He had been in love with her for two years--a
long time. He spoke about wanting to die for her, which was a flight
beyond Dickson himself. "I doubt it will 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 subtler
than his intelligence. He recognized that the two belonged to different
circles of being, which nowhere intersected. That mysterious lady,
whose eyes had looked through life to the other side, was no mate
for the Poet. His faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed
for Heritage a sincere affection. It would break his heart, poor man.
There was he holding the fort alone and cheering himself with delightful
fancies about one remoter than the moon. Dickson wanted happy endings,
and here there 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 in love with her, if he were not so already. Dickson like
all his class had a profound regard for the country gentry.
The business Scot does not usually revere wealth, though he may
pursue it earnestly, nor does he specially admire rank in
the common sense. But for ancient race he has respect 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....Sir Archie might do.
He was young, good-looking, obviously gallant...But no! 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 be mighty youth,
the youth of a Napoleon or a Caesar. He reflected that the Great Montrose,
for whom he had a special veneration, might have filled the bill.
Or young Harry with his beaver up? Or Claverhouse in the picture
with the flush of temper on his cheek?

The meditations of the match-making Dickson came to an abrupt end.
He had been riding negligently, his head bent against the wind, and his
eyes vaguely fixed on the wet hill-gravel of the road. Of his immediate
environs he was pretty well unconscious. Suddenly he was aware of
figures on each side of him who advanced menacingly. Stung to
activity he attempted to increase his pace, which was already good,
for the road at this point descended steeply. Then, before he could
prevent it, a stick was thrust into his front wheel, and the next
second he was describing a curve through the air. His head took the
ground, he felt a spasm of blinding pain, and then a sense of
horrible suffocation before his wits left him.

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