Chapter XI. Gravity Out of Bed

Huntingtower

by John Buchan

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.

"Are ye sure it's the richt man, Ecky?" said a voice which he
did not hear.

"Sure. It's the Glesca body Dobson telled us to look for
yesterday. It's a pund note atween us for this job. We'll tie him
up in the wud till we've time to attend to him."

"Is he bad?"

"It doesna maitter," said the one called Ecky. "He'll be deid
onyway long afore the morn."

Mrs. Morran all forenoon was in a state of un-Sabbatical
disquiet. After she had seen Saskia and Dickson start she finished
her housewifely duties, took Cousin Eugenie her breakfast, and made
preparation for the midday dinner. The invalid in the bed in the
parlour was not a repaying subject. Cousin Eugenie belonged to that
type of elderly women who, having been spoiled in youth, find the
rest of life fall far short of their expectations. Her voice had
acquired a perpetual wail, and the corners of what had once been a
pretty mouth drooped in an eternal peevishness. She found herself in
a morass of misery and shabby discomfort, but had her days continued
in an even tenor she would still have lamented. "A dingy body," was
Mrs. Morran's comment, but she laboured in kindness. Unhappily they
had no common language, and it was only by signs that the hostess
could discover her wants and show her goodwill. She fed her and
bathed her face, saw to the fire and left her to sleep. "I'm
boilin' a hen to mak' broth for your denner, Mem. Try and get a bit
sleep now." The purport of the advice was clear, and Cousin Eugenie
turned obediently on her pillow.

It was Mrs. Morran's custom of a Sunday to spend the morning
in devout meditation. Some years before she had given up tramping
the five miles to kirk, on the ground that having been a regular
attendant for fifty years she had got all the good out of it that
was probable. Instead she read slowly aloud to herself the sermon
printed in a certain religious weekly which reached her every
Saturday, and concluded with a chapter or two of the Bible. But
to-day something had gone wrong with her mind. She could not follow
the thread of the Reverend Doctor MacMichael's discourse. She could
not fix her attention on the wanderings and misdeeds of Israel as
recorded in the Book of Exodus. She must always be getting up to
look at the pot on the fire, or to open the back door and study the
weather. For a little she fought against her unrest, and then she
gave up the attempt at concentration. She took the big pot off the
fire and allowed it to simmer, and presently she fetched her boots
and umbrella, and kilted her petticoats. "I'll be none the waur o'
a breath o' caller air," she decided.

The wind was blowing great guns but there was only the
thinnest sprinkle of rain. Sitting on the hen-house roof and
munching a raw turnip was a figure which she recognized as the
smallest of the Die- Hards. Between bites he was singing dolefully
to the tune of "Annie Laurie" one of the ditties of his quondam
Sunday School:

"The Boorjoys' brays are bonnie, Too-roo-ra-roo-raloo, But
the Workers of the World 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 stomach.
Come indoors about midday and I'll gie ye a plate o' broth!" The
Die-Hard saluted and continued on the turnip.

She took the Auchenlochan road across the Garple bridge, for
that was the best road to the Mains, and by it Dickson and the
others might be returning. Her equanimity at all seasons was like a
Turk's, and she would not have admitted that anything mortal had
power to upset or excite her: nevertheless it was a fast-beating
heart that she now bore beneath her Sunday jacket. Great events,
she felt, were on the eve of happening, and of them she was a part.
Dickson's anxiety was hers, to bring things to a business-like
conclusion. The honour of Huntingtower was at stake and of the old
Kennedys. She was carrying out Mr. Quentin's commands, the dead boy
who used to clamour for her treacle scones. And there was more than
duty in it, for youth was not dead in her old heart, and adventure
had still power to quicken it.

Mrs. Morran walked well, with the steady long paces of the
Scots countrywoman. She left the Auchenlochan road and took the
side path along the tableland to the Mains. But for the surge of
the gale and the far-borne boom of the furious sea there was little
noise; not a bird cried in the uneasy air. With the wind behind her
Mrs. Morran breasted the ascent till she had on her right the
moorland running south to the Lochan valley and on her left Garple
chafing in its deep forested gorges. Her eyes were quick and she
noted with interest a weasel creeping from a fern-clad cairn. A
little way on she passed an old ewe in difficulties and assisted it
to rise. "But for me, my wumman, ye'd hae been braxy ere nicht,"
she told it as it departed bleating. Then she realized 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 of turning.

But something caught her eye a hundred yards farther on the
road. It was something which moved with the wind like a wounded
bird, fluttering from the roadside to a puddle and then back to the
rushes. She advanced to it, missed it, and caught it.

It was an old dingy green felt hat, and she recognized it as
Dickson's.

Mrs. Morran's brain, after a second of confusion, worked fast
and clearly. She examined the road and saw that a little way on the
gravel had been violently agitated. She detected several prints of
hobnailed boots. There were prints, too, on a patch of peat on the
south side behind a tall bank of sods. "That's where they were
hidin'," she concluded. Then she explored on the other side in a
thicket of hazels and wild raspberries, and presently her
perseverance was rewarded. The scrub was all crushed and pressed as
if several persons had been forcing a passage. In a hollow was a
gleam of something white. She moved towards it with a quaking
heart, and was relieved to find that it was only a new and expensive
bicycle with the front wheel badly buckled.

Mrs. Morran delayed no longer. If she had walked well on her
out journey, she beat all records on the return. Sometimes she
would run till her breath failed; then she would slow down till
anxiety once more quickened her pace. To her joy, on the
Dalquharter side of the Garple bridge she observed the figure of a
Die-Hard. Breathless, flushed, with her bonnet awry and her
umbrella held like a scimitar, she seized on the boy.

"Awfu' doin's! They've grippit Maister McCunn up the Mains
road just afore 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 rest and awa' and seek him. It'll be the tinklers
frae the Dean. I'd gang misel' but my legs are ower auld. Ah,
laddie, dinna stop to speir questions. They'll hae him murdered or
awa' to sea. And maybe the leddy was 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
filled with 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 the road she had come, she saw a small figure trotting up
the hill like a terrier who has been left behind. As he trotted he
wept bitterly. Jaikie was getting dangerous.