by John Buchan
“John can’t have been such a fool as to get caught,” Archie grumbled. “He has easily the pace of those heavy-footed chaps. Wish he’d show himself.”
Presently first one, then a second, then a third navvy appeared on the high bank of the Doran, moving aimlessly, like hounds at fault.
“They’ve lost him,” Archie cried. “Where d’you suppose the leery old bird has got to? He can’t have gone to earth.”
That was not revealed for about twenty minutes. Then a cry from one of the navvies called the attention of the others to something moving high up on the hill-side.
“It’s John,” Archie muttered. “He must have crawled up one of the side- burns. Lord, that’s pretty work.”
The navvies began heavily to follow, though they had a thousand feet of lee-way to make up. But it was no part of Palliser-Yeates’s plan to discourage them, since he had to draw them clean away from the danger zone. Already this was almost achieved, for Wattie and his stag, even if he had left the ravine, were completely hidden from their view by a shoulder of hill. He pretended to be labouring hard, stumbling often, and now and then throwing himself on the heather in an attitude of utter fatigue, which was visible to the pursuit below.
“It’s a dashed shame,” murmured Archie. “Those poor fellows haven’t a chance with John. I only hope Claybody is payin’ them well for this job.”
The hare let the hounds get within a hundred yards of him. Then he appeared to realise their presence and to struggle to increase his pace, but, instead of ascending, he moved horizontally along the slope, slipping and sprawling in what looked like a desperate final effort. Hopes revived in the navvies’ hearts. Their voices could be heard—”You bet they’re usin’ shockin’ language,” said Archie — and Number One, who seemed the freshest, put on a creditable spurt. Palliser-Yeates waited till the man was almost upon him, and then suddenly turned downhill. He ran straight for Number Two, dodged him with that famous swerve which long ago on the football field had set forty thousand people shouting, and went down the hill like a rolling stone. Once past the navvy line, he seemed to slide a dozen yards and roll over, and when he got up he limped.
“Oh, he has hurt himself,” Janet cried.
“Not a bit of it,” said Archie. “It’s the old fox’s cunning. He’s simply playin’ with the poor fellows. Oh, it’s wicked!”
The navvies followed with difficulty, for they had no gift of speed on a steep hill-face. Palliser-Yeates waited again till they were very near him, and then, like a hen partridge dragging its wing, trotted down the more level ground by the stream side. The pursuit was badly cooked, but it lumbered gallantly along, Number Four now making the running. A quarter of a mile ahead was the beginning of the big Haripol woods which clothed the western skirts of Stob Ban, and stretched to the demesne itself.
Suddenly Palliser-Yeates increased his pace, with no sign of a limp, and, when he passed out of sight of the two on the rock, was going strongly.
Archie shut up his glass. “That’s a workmanlike show, if you like. He’ll tangle them up in the woods, and slip out at his leisure and come home. I knew old John was abso-lute-ly safe. If he doesn’t run slap into Macnicol—”
He broke off and stared in front of him. A figure like some ancient earth- dweller had appeared on the opposite bank. Hair, face, and beard were grimed with peat, sweat made furrows in the grime, and two fierce eyes glowered under shaggy eyebrows. Bumping against its knees were the antlers of a noble stag.
“Wattie,” the two exclaimed with one voice.
“You old sportsman,” cried Archie. “Did you pull that great brute all the way yourself? Where is Lord Lamancha?”
The stalker strode into the water dragging the stag behind him, and did not halt till he had it high on the bank and close to the car. Then he turned his eyes on the two, and wrung the moisture from his beard.
“You needn’t worry,” Archie told him. “Mr Palliser-Yeates has all the navvies in the Haripol woods.”
“So I was thinkin’. I got a glisk of him up the burn. Yon’s the soople one. But we’ve no time to loss. Help me to sling the beast into the cawr. This is a fine hidy-hole.”
“Gad, what a stag!”
“It’s the auld beast we’ve seen for the last five years. Ye mind me tellin’ ye that he was at our stacks last winter. Come on quick, for I’ll no be easy till he’s in the Crask larder.”
“But Lord Lamancha?”
“Never heed him. He’s somewhere up the hill. It maitters little if he waits till the darkenin’ afore he comes hame. The thing is we’ve got the stag. Are ye ready?”
Archie started the car, which had already been turned in the right direction. Coats and wraps and heather were piled on the freight, and Wattie seated himself on it like an ancient raven.
“Now, tak a spy afore ye start. Is the place clear?”
Archie, from the rock, reported that the hill-side was empty.
“What about the Beallach?”
Archie spied long and carefully. “I see nothing there, but of course I only see the south end. There’s a rock which hides the top.”
“No sign o’ his lordship?”
“Not a sign.”
“Never heed. He can look after himsel’ braw and weel. Push on wi’ the cawr, sir, for it’s time we were ower the hill.”
Archie obeyed, and presently they were climbing the long zigzag to the Crask pass. Wattie on the back seat kept an anxious look-out, issuing frequent bulletins, and Janet swept the glen with her glasses. But no sign of life appeared in the wide sunlit place except a buzzard high in the heavens and a weasel slipping into a cairn. Once the watershed had been crossed Wattie’s heart lightened.
“Weel done, John Macnab,” he cried. “Dod, ye’re the great lad. Ye’ve beaten a hundred navvies and Macnicol and a’, and ye’ve gotten the best heid in the country-side... Hae ye a match for my pipe, Sir Erchie? Mine’s been in ower mony bogholes to kindle.”
It was a clear, rain-washed world on which they looked, and the sky to the south was all an unbroken blue. The air was not sticky and oppressive like yesterday, but pure and balmy and crystalline. When Crask was reached the stag was decanted with expedition, and Archie addressed Janet with a new authority.
“I’m goin’ to take you straight home in the Hispana. You’re drippin’ wet and ought to change at once.”
“Might I change here?” the girl asked. “I told them to send over dry things, for I was sure it would be a fine afternoon. You see, I think we ought to go to Haripol.”
“Whatever for?”
“To be in at the finish — and also to give Lady Claybody her dog back. Wee Roguie is rather on my conscience.”
“That’s a good notion,” Archie assented. So Janet was handed over to Mrs Lithgow, who admitted that a suitcase had indeed arrived from Glenraden. Archie repaired to the upper bathroom, which Lamancha had aforetime likened to a drain- pipe, and, having bathed rapidly, habited himself in a suit of a reasonable newness and took special pains with his toilet. And all the while he whistled and sang, and generally comported himself like a madman. Janet was under his roof — Janet would soon always be there — the most miraculous of fates was his! Somebody must be told, so when he was ready he went out to seek the Bluidy Mackenzie and made that serious-minded beast the receptacle of his confidences.
He returned to find a neat and smiling young woman conversing with Fish Benjie, whose task had been that of comforter and friend to Roguie. It appeared that the small dog had been having the morning of his life with the Crask rats and rabbits. “He’s no a bad wee dog,” Benjie reported, “if they’d let him alane. They break his temper keepin’ him indoors and feedin’ him ower high.”
“Benjie must come too,” Janet announced. “It would be a shame to keep him back. You understand — Benjie found Roguie in the woods — which is true, and handed him over to me — which is also true. I don’t like unnecessary fibbing.”
“Right-o! Let’s have the whole bag
of tricks. But, I say, you’ve got to stage-manage this show. Benjie and I put ourselves in your hands, for I’m hanged if I know what to say to Lady Claybody.”
“It’s quite simple. We’re just three nice clean people — well, two clean people — who go to Haripol on an errand of mercy. Get out the Hispana, Archie dear, for I feel that something tremendous may be happening there.”
As they started — Benjie and Roguie on the back seat — Bluidy Mackenzie came into view, hungrily eyeing an expedition from which he seemed to be barred.
“D’you mind if we take Mackenzie,” Archie begged. “We’ll go very slow, and he can trollop behind. The poor old fellow has been havin’ a lonely time of it, and there’s likely to be such a mix-up at Haripol that an extra hound won’t signify.”
Janet approved, and they swung down the hill and on to the highway, as respectable an outfit as the heart could wish, except for the waterproof-caped urchin on the back seat. The casual wayfarer would have noted only a very pretty girl and a well-appointed young man driving an expensive car at a most blameless pace. He could not guess what a cargo of dog-thieves and deer-thieves was behind the shining metal and spruce enamel ... Benjie walked to Wee Roguie in his own tongue, and what Janet and Archie said in whispers to each other is no concern of this chronicle. The sea at Inverlarrig was molten silver running to the translucent blue of the horizon, the shore woods gleamed with a thousand jewels, the abundant waters splashing in every hollow were channels of living light. The world sang in streams and soft winds, the cries of plover and the pipe of shore-birds, and Archie’s heart sang above them all.
Close to Haripol gates a tall figure rose from the milestone as the car slowed down.
“Well, John, my aged sportsman, you did your part like a man. We saw it all.”
“How are things going?”
“Famously.”
“The stag?”
“In the Crask larder.”
“And Charles?”
“Lost. Believed to be still lurkin’ in the hills. Look here, John, get in beside Benjie. We are goin’ to Haripol and restore the pup. You’ll be a tower of strength to us, and old Claybody will be tremendously bucked to meet a brother magnate... Really, I mean it.”
“I’m scarcely presentable,” said Palliser-Yeates, taking off an old cap and looking at it meditatively.
“Rot! You’re as tidy as you’ll ever be. Rather dandified for you. In you get, and don’t tread on the hound... Bloody, you brute, don’t you know a pal when you see him?”
CHAPTER 13. HARIPOL — AUXILIARY TROOPS
Half-way down the avenue, Archie drew up sharply.
“I forgot about Mackenzie. We can’t have him here — he’ll play the fool somehow. Benjie, out you go. You’re one of the few that can manage him. Here’s his lead — you tie him up somewhere and watch for us, and we’ll pick you up outside the gates when we start home... Don’t get into trouble on your own account. I advise you to cut round to the bothies, and try to find out what is happenin’.”
On the massive doorstep of Haripol stood Lady Claybody, parasol in one hand and the now useless dog-whip in the other.
She made a motion as if to retreat, but thought better of it. Her face was flushed, and her air had abated something of its serenity. The sight of Janet — for she looked at Archie without recognition — seemed to awake her to the duties of hospitality, and she advanced with outstretched hand. Then a yelp from the side of Palliser-Yeates wrung from her an answering cry. In a trice Wee Roguie was in her arms.
“Yes,” Janet explained sweetly, “it’s Roguie quite safe and well. There’s a boy who sells fish at Strathlarrig — Benjie they call him — he found him in the woods and brought him to me. I hope you haven’t been worried.”
But Lady Claybody was not listening. She had set the dog on his feet and was wagging her forefinger at him, a procedure which seemed to rouse all the latent epilepsy of his nature. “Oh, you naughty, naughty Roguie! Cruel, cruel doggie! He loved freedom better than his happy home. Master and mistress have been so anxious about Wee Roguie.”
It was an invocation which lasted for two and a half minutes, till the invoker realised the presence of the men. She graciously shook hands with Sir Archie.
“I drove Miss Janet over,” said the young man, explaining the obvious. “And I took the liberty of bringin’ a friend who is stayin’ with me — Mr Palliser-Yeates. I thought Lord Claybody might like to meet him, for I expect he knows all about him.”
The lady beamed on both. “This is a very great pleasure, Mr Palliser- Yeates, and I’m sure Claybody will be delighted. He ought to be in for tea very soon.” As it chanced, Lady Claybody had an excellent memory and a receptive ear for talk, and she was aware that in her husband’s conversation the name of Palliser-Yeates occurred often, and always in dignified connections. She led the way through the hall to a vast new drawing-room which commanded a wide stretch of lawns and flower-beds as far as the woods which muffled the mouth of the Reascuill glen. When the party were seated and butler and footman had brought the materials for tea, Lady Claybody — Roguie on a cushion by her side — became confidential.
“We’ve had such a wearing day, my dear.” She turned to Janet. “First, the ruffian who calls himself John Macnab is probably trying to poach our forest. The rain yesterday kept him off, but we have good reason to believe that he will come to-day. Poor Johnson has been on the hill since breakfast. Then, there was the anxiety about Roguie. I’ve had our people searching the woods and shrubberies, for the little darling might have been caught in a trap... Macnicol says there are no traps, but you never can tell. And then, on the top of it all, we’ve been besieged since quite early in the morning by insolent journalists. No. They hadn’t the good manners to come to the house — I should have sent them packing — but they have been over the grounds and buttonholing our servants. They want to hear about John Macnab, but we can’t tell them anything, for as yet we know nothing ourselves. I gave orders that they should be turned out of the place — no violence, of course, for it doesn’t do to offend the Press — but quite firmly, for they were trespassing. Would you believe it, my dear? they wouldn’t go. So our people had simply to drive them out, and it has taken nearly all day, and they may be coming back any moment... Something should really be done, Mr Palliser-Yeates, to restrain the license of the modern Press, with its horrid, vulgar sensationalism and its invasion of all the sanctities of private life.”
Palliser-Yeates cordially agreed. The lady had not looked to Archie for assent, and her manner towards him was a trifle cold. Perhaps it was the memory of her visit a fortnight before when he was sickening for smallpox; perhaps it was her husband’s emphatic condemnation of his Muirtown speech.
At this point Lord Claybody entered, magnificent in a kilt of fawn- coloured tweed and a ferocious sporran made of the mask of a dog-otter. The garments, which were aggressively new, did not become his short, square figure.
“I don’t think you have met my husband, Miss Raden,” said his wife. Then to Lord Claybody: “You know Sir Archibald Roylance. And this is Mr Palliser- Yeates, who has been so kind as to come over to see us.”
Palliser-Yeates was greeted with enthusiasm. “Delighted to meet you, sir. I heard you were in the North. Funny that we’ve had so much to do with each other indirectly and have never met... You’ve been having a long walk? Well, I know what you need. Cold tea for you. We’ll leave the ladies to their gossip and have a whisky-and-soda in the library. I’ve just had a letter from Dickinson on which I’d like your views. Busy folk like you and me can never make a clean cut of their holiday. There’s always something clawing us back to the mill.”
The two men were led off to the library, and Janet was left to entertain her hostess. That lady was in an expansive mood, which may have been due to the restoration of Roguie, but also owed something to the visit of Palliser-Yeates. “My heart is buried here,” she told the girl. “Every day I love Haripol more — its beauty and poetry and its �
� its wonderful traditions. My dream is to make it a centre for all the nicest people to come and rest. Everybody comes to the Highlands now, and we have so much to offer them here... Claybody, I may as well admit, is apt to be restless when we are alone. He is not enough of a sportsman to be happy shooting and fishing all day and every day. He has a wonderful mind, my dear, and he wants a chance of exercising it. He needs to be stimulated. Look how his eye brightened when he saw Mr Palliser- Yeates... And then, there are the girls ... I’m sure you see what I mean.”
Janet saw, and set herself to cherish the innocent ambition of her hostess. In view of what might befall at any moment, it was most needful to have the Claybodys in a good humour. Then Lady Claybody, one of whose virtues was a love of fresh air, proposed that they should walk in the gardens. Janet would have preferred to remain in the house, had she been able to think of any kind of excuse, for the out-of-doors at the moment was filled with the most explosive material — Benjie, Mackenzie, an assortment of fugitive journalists, and Leithen and Lamancha somewhere in the hinterland. But she assented with a good grace, and, accompanied by Roguie, who after a morning of liberty had cast the part of lap-dog contemptuously behind him, they sauntered into the trim parterres.
The head-gardener at Haripol was a man of the old school. He loved fantastically shaped beds and geometrical patterns, and geraniums and lobelias and calceolarias were still dear to his antiquated soul. On the lawns he had been given his head, but Lady Claybody, who had accepted new fashions in horticulture as in other things, had constructed a pleasaunce of her own, which with crazy-paving and sundials and broad borders was a very fair imitation of an old English garden. She had a lily-pond and a rosery and many pergolas, and what promised in twenty years to be a fine yew-walk. The primitive walled garden, planted in the Scots fashion a long way from the house, was now relegated to fruit and vegetables.
