by John Buchan
CHAPTER 3. HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO THE DARK TOWER
Dickson woke with a vague sense of irritation. As his recollections took form they produced a very unpleasant picture of Mr. John Heritage. The poet had loosened all his placid idols, so that they shook and rattled in the niches where they had been erstwhile so secure. Mr. McCunn had a mind of a singular candour, and was prepared most honestly at all times to revise his views. But by this iconoclast he had been only irritated and in no way convinced. “Sich poetry!” he muttered to himself as he shivered in his bath (a daily cold tub instead of his customary hot one on Saturday night being part of the discipline of his holiday). “And yon blethers about the working-man!” he ingeminated as he shaved. He breakfasted alone, having outstripped even the fishermen, and as he ate he arrived at conclusions. He had a great respect for youth, but a line must be drawn somewhere. “The man’s a child,” he decided, “and not like to 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 by definitions, Dickson felt comforted. He paid his bill, took an affectionate farewell of the landlord, and at 7.30 precisely stepped out into the gleaming morning.
It was such a day as only a Scots April can show. The cobbled streets of Kirkmichael still shone with the night’s rain, but the storm clouds had fled before a mild south wind, and the whole circumference of the sky was a delicate translucent blue. Homely breakfast smells came from the houses and delighted Mr. McCunn’s nostrils; a squalling child was a pleasant reminder of an awakening world, the urban counterpart to the morning song of birds; even the sanitary cart seemed a picturesque vehicle. He bought his ration of buns and ginger biscuits at a baker’s shop whence various ragamuffin boys were preparing to distribute the householders’ bread, and took his way up the Gallows Hill to the Burgh Muir almost with regret at leaving so pleasant a habitation.
A chronicle of ripe vintages must pass lightly over small beer. I will not dwell on his leisurely progress in the bright weather, or on his luncheon in a coppice of young firs, or on his thoughts which had returned to the idyllic. I take up the narrative at about three o’clock in the afternoon, when he is revealed seated on a milestone examining his map. For he had come, all unwitting, to a turning of the ways, and his choice is the cause of this veracious history.
The place was high up on a bare moor, which showed a white lodge among pines, a white cottage in a green nook by a burnside, and no other marks of human dwelling. To his left, which was the east, the heather rose to a low ridge of hill, much scarred with peat-bogs, behind which appeared the blue shoulder of a considerable mountain. Before him the road was lost momentarily in the woods of a shooting-box, but reappeared at a great distance climbing a swell of upland which seemed to be the glacis of 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 as he sat on the milestone his purpose wavered. For there seemed greater attractions in the country which lay to the westward. Mr. McCunn, be it remembered, was not in search of brown heath and shaggy wood; he wanted greenery and the Spring.
Westward there ran out a peninsula in the shape of an isosceles triangle, of which his present high-road was the base. At a distance of a mile or so a railway ran parallel to the road, and he could see the smoke of a goods train waiting at a tiny station islanded in acres of bog. Thence the moor swept down to meadows and scattered copses, above which hung a thin haze of smoke which betokened a village. Beyond it were further woodlands, not firs but old shady trees, and as they narrowed to a point the gleam of two tiny estuaries appeared on either side. 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 small herring smack flopping listless sails.
Something in the view caught and held his fancy. He conned his map, and made out the names. The peninsula was called the Cruives — an old name apparently, for it was in antique lettering. He vaguely remembered that “cruives” had something to do with fishing, doubtless in the two streams which flanked it. One he had already crossed, the Laver, a clear tumbling water springing from green hills; the other, the Garple, descended from the rougher mountains to the south. The hidden village bore the name of Dalquharter, and the uncouth syllables awoke some vague recollection in his mind. The great house in the trees beyond — it must be a great house, for the map showed large policies — was Huntingtower.
The last name fascinated and almost decided him. He pictured an ancient keep by the sea, defended by converging rivers, which some old Comyn lord of Galloway had built to command the shore road, and from which he had sallied to hunt in his wild hills. He liked the way the moor dropped down to green meadows, and the mystery of the dark woods beyond. He wanted to explore the twin waters, and see how they entered that strange shimmering sea. The odd names, the odd cul-de-sac of a peninsula, powerfully attracted him. Why should he not spend a night there, for the map showed clearly that Dalquharter had an inn? He must decide promptly, for before him a side-road left the highway, and the signpost bore the legend, “Dalquharter and Huntingtower.”
Mr. McCunn, being a cautious and pious man, took the omens. He tossed a penny — heads go on, tails turn aside. It fell tails.
He knew as soon as he had taken three steps down the side-road that he was doing something momentous, and the exhilaration of enterprise stole into his soul. It occurred to him that this was the kind of landscape that he had always especially hankered after, and had made pictures of when he had a longing for the country on him — a wooded cape between streams, with meadows inland and then a long lift of heather. He had the same feeling of expectancy, of something most interesting and curious on the eve of happening, that he had had long ago when he waited on the curtain rising at his first play. His spirits soared like the lark, and he 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 swung down the rough grass-grown road, past the railway, till he came to a point where heath began to merge in pasture, and dry-stone walls split the moor into fields. Suddenly his pace slackened and song died on his lips. 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 his chagrin 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, he cut a more wholesome figure than in the smoking-room the night before. He seemed to be in a companionable mood, for he brandished his stick and shouted greetings.
“Well met!” he cried; “I was hoping to fall in with you again. You must have thought me a pretty fair cub last night.”
“I did that,” was the dry answer.
“Well, I want to apologize. God knows what made me treat you to a university-extension lecture. I may not agree with you, but every man’s entitled to his own views, and it was dashed poor form for me to start jawing you.”
Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and was very susceptible to apologies.
“That’s all right,” he murmured. “Don’t mention it. I’m wondering what brought 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 a wee 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 a particular 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 his circle except on death-beds, “I’ve been a married man for thirty years,” he said hurriedly.
“That won’t do. It should have been a hopeless affair-the last sight of the lady on a spur of coast with water on three sides — that kind of thing, you know, or it might have happened to an ancestor. But you don’t look the kind of breed for hopeless attachments. More likely some scoundrelly 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 as you. As soon as I spotted this Cruives place on the map this morning, I saw it was what I was after. When I came in sight of it I almost shouted. I don’t very often dream but when I do that’s the place I frequent. Odd, isn’t it?”
Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected revelation of romance. “Maybe it’s being in love,” he daringly observed.
The Poet demurred. “No. I’m not a connoisseur of obvious sentiment. That explanation might fit your case, but not mine. I’m pretty certain there’s something hideous at the back of MY complex — some grim old business tucked away back in the ages. For though I’m attracted by the place, I’m frightened too!”
There seemed no room for fear in the delicate landscape now opening before them. In front, in groves of birch and rowan, smoked the first houses of a tiny village. The road had become a green “loaning,” on the ample margin of which cattle grazed. The moorland still showed itself in spits of heather, and some distance off, where a rivulet ran in a hollow, 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 desecrate everything. Why can’t the tunicatus popellus keep away from a paradise like this!” Dickson, a democrat who felt nothing incongruous in the presence of other holiday-makers, was meditating a sharp rejoinder, when Mr. Heritage’s tone changed.
“Ye gods! What a village!” he cried, as they turned a corner. There were not more than a dozen whitewashed houses, all set in little gardens of wallflower and daffodil and early fruit blossom. A triangle of green filled 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 box in a cottage side. Beyond rose the high wall and the dark trees of the demesne, and to the right up a by-road which clung to the park edge stood 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, I warn 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 drew nearer, the inn lost its hospitable look. The cobbles of the yard were weedy, as if rarely visited by traffic, a pane in a window was broken, and the blinds hung tattered. The garden was a wilderness, and the doorstep 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 breeches unbuttoned at the knees, and thick ploughman’s boots. He had no leggings, and his fleshy calves were imperfectly covered with woollen socks. His face was large and pale, his neck bulged, and he had a gross unshaven jowl. He was a type familiar to students of society; not the innkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good breeding and all the refinements; a type not unknown in the House of Lords, especially among recent creations, common enough in the House of Commons and the City of London, 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 a hearty 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 a worse time. I’ve only been here a fortnight myself, and we haven’t got right 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 get the business started. But there it is!” He spat vigorously as if to emphasize the desperation of his quandary.
The man was clearly Scots, but his native speech was overlaid with something alien, something which might have been acquired in America or in going down to the sea in ships. He hitched his breeches, too, with a nautical air.
“Is there nowhere else we can put up?” Dickson asked.
“Not in this one-horse place. Just a wheen auld wives that packed thegither 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’ll yoke the horse and drive ye there.”
“Thank you. We prefer to walk,” said Mr. Heritage. Dickson would have tarried to inquire after the illness in the house, but his companion hurried him off. Once he looked back, and saw the landlord still on the doorstep gazing after them.
“That fellow’s a swine,” said Mr. Heritage sourly. “I wouldn’t trust my neck in his pot-house. Now, Dogson, I’m hanged if I’m going to leave this place. We’ll find a corner in the village somehow. Besides, I’m determined on tea.”
The little street slept in the clear pure light of an early April evening. Blue shadows lay on the white road, and a delicate aroma of cooking tantalized hungry nostrils. The near meadows shone like pale gold against the dark lift of the moor. A light wind had begun to blow from the west and carried the faintest tang of salt. The village at that hour was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the Poet’s opinion. At all costs they must spend the night there.
They selected a cottage whiter and neater than the others, which stood at a corner, where a narrow lane turned southward. Its thatched roof had been lately repaired, and starched curtains of a dazzling whiteness decorated the small, closely-shut windows. Likewise it had a green door and a polished brass knocker.
Tacitly the duty of envoy was entrusted to Mr. McCunn. Leaving the other at the gate, he advanced up the little path lined with quartz stones, and politely but firmly dropped the brass knocker. He must have been observed, for ere the noise had ceased the door opened, and an elderly woman stood before him. She had a sharply-cut face, the rudiments of a beard, big spectacles on her nose, and an old-fashioned lace cap on her smooth white hair. A little grim she looked at first sight, because of her thin lips and roman nose, but her mild curious eyes corrected the impression and gave the envoy confidence.
“Good afternoon, mistress,” he said, broadening his voice to something more rustical than his normal Glasgow speech. “Me and my friend are paying 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. Is there any chance, think you, of a bed here?”
“I’ll no tell ye a lee,” said the woman. “There’s twae guid beds in the loft. 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 the street. Eppie Home micht tak’ ye.”
Dickson wore his most ingratiating smile. “But, mistress, Eppie Home’s house is no’ yours. We’ve taken a tremendous fancy to this bit. Can you no’ manage to put up with us for the one night? We’re quiet auld-fashioned folk and we’ll no’ trouble you much. Just our tea and maybe an egg to it, a
nd a bowl of porridge in the morning.”
The woman seemed to relent. “Whaur’s your freend?” she asked, peering over her spectacles towards the garden gate. The waiting Mr. Heritage, seeing he eyes moving in his direction, took off his cap with a brave gesture 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 homely garments, and apparently found them reassuring. “Come in,” she said shortly. “I see 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 to two spotless beds in the loft, and having washed luxuriously at the pump in the back yard, were seated in Mrs. Morran’s kitchen before a meal which fulfilled their wildest dreams. She had been baking that morning, so there were white scones and barley scones, and oaten farles, and russet pancakes. There were three boiled eggs for each of them; there was a segment of an immense currant cake (“a present from my guid brither last Hogmanay”); there was skim milk cheese; there were several kinds of jam, and there was a pot of dark-gold heather honey. “Try hinny and aitcake,” said their hostess. “My man used to say he never fund onything as guid in a’ his days.”
Presently they heard her story. Her name was Morran, and she had been a widow these ten years. Of her family her son was in South Africa, one daughter a lady’s-maid in London, and the other married to a schoolmaster in Kyle. The son had been in France fighting, and had come safely 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 the place. Naething but auld wives.”
