Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “But we were very kind to him, and he was very happy.”

  “I wasn’t happy. I scarcely slept a wink. What right had you to touch my precious little dog? I think it is the most monstrous thing I ever heard in my life.”

  “I’m so very sorry. Please, please forgive me. But you said yourself that the only advantage of property was that you could disregard it.”

  Lady Claybody, to her enormous credit, stared, gasped, and then laughed. Then something in the attitude of Janet and Archie stopped her, and she asked suddenly: “Are you two engaged?”

  “Yes,” said Janet, “since ten minutes past one this afternoon.”

  Lady Claybody rose from the couch and took her in her arms.

  “You’re the wickedest girl in the world and the most delightful. Oh, my dear, I am so pleased. Sir Archibald, you will let an old woman kiss you. You are brigands, both of you, so you should be very very happy. You must all come and dine here to-morrow night — your father and sister too, and we’ll ask the Bandicotts. It will be a dinner to announce your engagement, and also to say good-bye to John Macnab. Poor John! I feel as if he were a real person who will always haunt this glen, and now he is disappearing into the mist.”

  “No,” said Lamancha, “he is being shrivelled up by coals of fire. By the way” — and he turned to Lord Claybody—”I’ll send over the stag in the morning. I forgot to tell you I got a stag — an old beast with a famous head, who used to visit Crask. It will look rather well in your hall. It has been in Archie’s larder since the early afternoon.”

  Then Johnson Claybody was moved to a course which surprised his audience, and may have surprised himself. His sullenness vanished in hearty laughter.

  “I think,” he said, “I have made rather a fool of myself.”

  “I think we have all made fools of ourselves,” said Lamancha.

  Johnson turned to his late prisoner and held out his hand.

  “Lord Lamancha, I have only one thing to say. I don’t in the least agree with my mother, and I’m dead against John Macnab. But I’m your man from this day on — whatever line you take. You’re my leader, for, by all that’s holy, you’ve a most astonishing gift of getting the goods.”

  EPILOGUE

  Crossby, from whom I had most of this narrative, was a good as his word, though it went sorely against the grain. He himself wrote a tale, and circulated his version to his brother journalists, which made a good enough yarn, but was a sad anticlimax to the Return of Harald Blacktooth. He told of a gallant but frustrated attempt on the Haripol Sanctuary, the taking of the culprit, and the magnanimous release by young Mr Claybody of a nameless monomaniac — a gentleman, it was hinted, who had not recovered from the effects of the war. The story did not occupy a prominent page in the papers, and presently, as he had prophesied, the world had forgotten John Macnab, and had turned its attention to the cinema star, just arrived in London, whom for several days, to the disgust of that lady’s agents, it had strangely neglected.

  The dinner at Haripol, Crossby told me, was a hilarious function, at which four men found reason to modify their opinion of the son of the house, and the host fell in love with Janet, and Archie with his hostess. There is talk, I understand, of making it an annual event to keep green the memory of the triune sportsman who once haunted the place. If you go to Haripol, as I did last week, you will see above the hall chimney a noble thirteen-pointer, and a legend beneath proclaiming that the stag was shot on the Sgurr Dearg beat of the forest by the Earl of Lamancha on a certain day of September in a certain year. Lady Claybody, who does not like stag’s heads as ornaments, makes an exception of this; indeed it is one of her household treasures to which she most often calls her guests’ attention.

  Janet and Archie were married in November in the little kirk of Inverlarrig, and three busy men cancelled urgent engagements to be there. Among the presents was one not shown to the public or mentioned in the papers, and a duplicate of it went to Junius and Agatha at their wedding in the following spring. It was a noble loving-cup in the form of a quaich, inscribed as the gift of John Macnab. Below four signatures were engraved — Lamancha, Edward Leithen, and John Palliser-Yeates, and last, in a hand of surprising boldness, the honoured name of Benjamin Bogle.

  THE END

  THE GODDESS FROM THE SHAD ES

  OR, THE DANCING FLOOR

  First published in 1926, this is the third novel to feature the character Edward Leithen. The first half of The Goddess from the Shades is set mostly in England before the First World War, whilst the second half of the novel is set on the imaginary Greek island of Plakos after the war. The main characters are the narrator and barrister Leithen, one of Buchan’s favourite characters, his younger friend Vernon Milburne and a young woman, Kore Arabin. Both Leithen and Milburne dislike the girl intensely at first. Leithen however soon becomes entranced and obsessed by her. Milburne begins to respect her and eventually he and she fall in love. Later, Milburne divulges that since childhood he has had a recurring dream in which an impending and unknown threat approaches year by year. The year in which the threat is due to occur, the two friends find themselves on Plakos where they must save the beautiful Koré Arabin from the superstitious islanders.

  Buchan, close to the time of publication

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  PART II

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  PART III

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  “Quisque suos patimur Manes”

  VIRGIL, Æneid, vi. 743

  TO

  HENRY NEWBOLT

  An episode in this tale is taken from a short story of mine entitled “Basilissa,” published in Blackwood’s Magazine in 1914.

  J. B.

  PART I

  CHAPTER I.

  This story was told me by Leithen, as we were returning rather late in the season from a shooting holiday in North Ontario. There were few passengers, the weather was a succession of snow blizzards and gales, and as we had the smoking-room for the most part to ourselves, we stoked up the fire and fell into a mood of yarns and reminiscences. Leithen, being a lawyer, has a liking for careful detail, and his tale took long in the telling; indeed, snatches of it filled the whole of that rough October passage. The version I have written out is amplified from his narrative, but I think it is accurate, for he took the trouble to revise it.

  Romance (he said) is a word I am shy of using. It has been so staled and pawed by fools that the bloom is gone from it, and to most people it stands for a sugary world as flat as an eighteenth-century Arcadia. But, dry stick as I am, I hanker after my own notion of romance. I suppose it is the lawyer in me, but I define it as something in life which happens with an exquisite aptness and a splendid finality, as if Fate had suddenly turned artist — something which catches the breath because it is so wholly right. Also for me it must happen to youth. I do not complain of growing old, but I like to keep my faith that at one stage in our mortal existence nothing is impossible. It is part of my belief that the universe is on the whole friendly to man, and that the ordering of the world is in the main benevolent. . . . So I go about expecting things, waiting like an old pagan for the descent of the goddess. And once — only once — I caught the authentic shimmer of her wings.

  I

  My story begins in January 1913, when I took my nephew Charles to dine with the Amysforts for a ball they were giving. Balls are not much in my line, for when I came first to London it was the foolish fashion of young men not to dance, but to lounge superciliously in doorways, while their elders to
ok the floor. I had a good deal of work on hand, and I meant to leave immediately after dinner, but the necessity of launching Charles made me linger through the first few dances. My nephew was a cheerful young gentleman in his second year at Oxford, and it presently appeared that he did not want for friends of his own age. There was a perpetual bandying of nicknames and occult chaff with other fresh-coloured boys.

  One in particular caught my attention. He was a tall young man of about Charles’s age, who was not dancing but stood beside one of the windows with his head silhouetted against a dark curtain. He was uncommonly handsome after the ordinary English pattern, but our youth is mostly good to behold, and that would not have fixed my attention. What struck me was his pose. He was looking at the pretty spectacle with a curious aloofness — with eyes that received much but gave out nothing. I have never seen any one so completely detached, so clothed with his own atmosphere, and since that is rare at the age of twenty, I asked Charles if he knew him.

  “Rather. It’s old Milburne. He’s up at Magdalen with me. First string for the ‘Varsity mile. Believed” — his voice became reverential—”to be going to knock five seconds off his last year’s time. Most awful good chap. Like me to introduce you?”

  The young man in response to my nephew’s beckoning approached us. “Hullo, Vernon, how’s life?” said my nephew. “Want to introduce you to my uncle — Sir Edward Leithen — big legal swell, you know — good fellow to have behind you if you run up against the laws of England.”

  Charles left us to claim a partner, and I exchanged a few commonplaces with his friend, for I too — consule Planco — had run the mile. Our short talk was the merest platitudes, but my feeling about his odd distinction was intensified. There was something old-fashioned in his manner — wholly self-possessed yet with no touch of priggishness — a little formal, as if he had schooled himself to be urbanely and delicately on his guard. My guess at the time was that he had foreign blood in him, not from any difference of colouring or feature, but from his silken reserve. We of the North are apt to be angular in our silences; we have not learned the art of gracious reticence.

  That boy’s face remained clearly fixed in my memory. It is a thing that often happens to me, for without any reason on earth I will carry about with me pictures of some casual witnesses or clients whom I am bound to recognize if I ever see them again. It is as freakish a gift as that which makes some men remember scraps of doggerel. I saw the face so vividly in my mind that, if I had been an artist, I could have drawn it accurately down to the finest lines of the mouth and the wary courtesy of the eyes. I do not suppose I gave the meeting another conscious thought, for I was desperately busy at the time, but I knew that I had added another portrait to the lumber-room of my absurd memory.

  I had meant to go to Scotland that Easter vacation to fish, but a sudden pressure of Crown cases upset all my plans, and I had to limit my holiday to four days. I wanted exercise, so I took it in the most violent form, and went for a walk in the Westmorland hills. The snow lay late that year, and I got the exercise I sought scrambling up icy gullies and breasting north-easters on the long bleak ridges. All went well till the last day, which I spent among the Cartmel fells intending to catch a train at an obscure station which would enable me to join the night mail for London at Lancaster. You know how those little hills break down in stony shelves to the sea. Well, as luck would have it, I stepped into a hole between two boulders masked with snow, and crawled out with the unpleasing certainty that I had either broken or badly wrenched my ankle. By the time I had hobbled down to the beginning of the stonewalled pastures I knew that it was a twist and not a break, but before I reached a road I knew also that I would never reach the station in time for my train.

  It had begun to snow again, the spring dusk was falling, and the place was very lonely. My watch told me that even if I found a farm or inn and hired a trap I should miss my train. The only chance was to get a motor-car to take me to Lancaster. But there was no sign of farm or inn — only interminable dusky snowy fields, and the road was too small and obscure to make a friendly motor-car probable. I limped along in a very bad temper. It was not a matter of desperate urgency that I should be in London next morning, though delay would mean the postponement of a piece of business I wanted to get finished. But the prospect was black for my immediate comfort. The best I could look forward to was a bed in a farm- or a wayside public-house, and a slow and painful journey next day. I was angry with myself for my clumsiness. I had thought my ankles beyond reproach, and it was ridiculous that after three days on rough and dangerous mountains I should come to grief on a paltry hillock.

  The dusk thickened, and not a soul did I meet. Presently woods began to creep around the road, and I walked between two patches of blackness in a thin glimmer of twilight which would soon be gone. I was cold and hungry and rather tired, and my ankle gave me a good deal of pain. I tried to think where I was, and could only remember that the station, which had been my immediate objective, was still at least six miles distant. I had out my map and wasted half a dozen matches on it, but it was a map of the hill country and stopped short of my present whereabouts. Very soon I had come to a determination to stop at the first human habitation, were it a labourer’s cottage, and throw myself upon the compassion of its inmates. But not a flicker of light could I see to mark the presence of man.

  Then something white glimmered faintly on my left, and I saw that it was a wicket gate. This must mean a house near at hand, so I hopefully pushed it open and entered. I found myself in a narrow path running among fir trees. It was nearly pitch-dark in that place, and I was in fear of losing the road, which was obscured by the fallen snow, and getting lost in a wood. Soon, however, I was clear of the firs and in more open country among what looked like beeches. The wind, too, had swept the path bare, and there was just enough light to make it out as it twined up and down a little glade. I suspected that I was in a demesne of some considerable house, and the suspicion became a certainty when my track emerged on a broad gravel drive. After that my way was clear. The drive took me into a park — I knew it was a park because of the frequent swing-gates for cattle — and suddenly it bore to the right and I saw half a dozen irregularly placed lights high up in the air before me. This was the house, and it must be a large one, for some of the lights were far apart.

  Five minutes later I found myself ringing the bell in a massive pillared porch, and explaining my case to a very old butler, to whom I gave my card.

  “I’ve had an accident on the hills,” I said, “and twisted my ankle rather badly. I wonder if I might ask for some assistance — to get to an inn or a station. I’m afraid I don’t in the least know where I am.”

  “This is Severns Hall, sir,” said the man. “My master is Mr. Vernon Milburne. If you will come in, sir, I will acquaint him with the position.”

  “Mr. Vernon Milburne?” I cried. “I believe I have met him. I think he is at Oxford with my nephew.”

  “Mr. Milburne is a member of the University of Oxford,” said the ancient man. He led me into a vast hall of the worst kind of Victorian Gothic, in which a big bright wood fire crackled. When he saw me clearly the butler proved a very angel of mercy. “I think, sir, you should first have a little refreshment,” he said, and brought me a whisky-and-soda. Then, while I thawed my frozen bones before the logs, he departed to seek his master.

  I was too preoccupied with my own grievances to feel much interest in the fact that I had stumbled upon the dwelling of the boy who had so intrigued me at Lady Amysfort’s ball. But as I warmed my hands at the blaze it did occur to me that this was the last kind of house I would have linked him with — this sham-mediæval upholstered magnificence. It was Gothic with every merit of Gothic left out, and an air of dull ecclesiasticism hung about it. There was even an organ at one end, ugly and staring, as if it had come out of some nouveau riche provincial church. Every bit of woodwork was fretted and tortured into fancy shapes.

  I heard a voice at my elbow.


  “I think we have met before, Sir Edward,” it said. “I am so sorry for your misfortune. Let’s get the boot off and look at the ankle.”

  “It’s only a sprain,” I said. “I really don’t want to bother you. If you would be so very kind as to lend me a car to take me to Lancaster, I can manage to travel all right. I ought to be in London to-morrow morning.”

  “Nonsense!” He smiled in a pleasant boyish way. “You are going to stay here to-night, and if you’re well enough I’ll send you into Lancaster to-morrow. You look simply fagged out. Let’s get the boot off and see if we need a doctor.”

  He summoned the butler, and the two of them soon had my foot bare, while the boy, who seemed to know something about sprains, ran a light hand over the ankle bone.

  “Nothing very bad here,” he said; “but it must have been jolly painful to walk with. We’ll bandage it and you need only limp for a day or two. Beaton, find out if Sir Edward’s room is ready. You’d better have a hot bath and then we’ll do the bandaging. After that you’ll want some food. I’ll lend you a dressing-gown and dry clothes.”

  The next hour was spent in restoring me to some ease of body. Severns might be an ugly house, but whoever built it had a pretty notion of comfort in bedrooms. I had two rooms, each with a cheerful fire, and when I had had my bath the two Samaritans bandaged my ankle as neatly as a hospital nurse, and helped me into a suit of flannels. Then Vernon disappeared, and when he returned he was dressed for dinner. A table had been laid for me in the sitting-room, and Beaton was waiting to ask me what I would drink.