by John Buchan
“Jaikie here is an undergraduate — Cambridge.”
“Beastly place! I’m sorry, but my sympathies are all with Oxford.”
“And I’m a journalist by trade. I’m on one of the Craw papers. I’ve no sort of admiration for Craw, but of course I’m on his side in this row. The question is—”
Jaikie, who had been busy with his glass, suddenly clutched the speaker by the hair and forced him down. He had no need to perform the same office for Miss Westwater, for at his first movement she had flung herself on her face. The three were on a small eminence of turf with thick bracken before and behind them, and in this they lay crouched.
“What is it?” Dougal whispered.
“There’s a man in the hollow,” said Jaikie. “He’s up to no good, for he’s keeping well in cover. Wait here, and I’ll stalk him.”
He wriggled into the fern, and it was a quarter of an hour before he returned to report. “It’s a man, and he’s wearing a queer kind of knicker-bocker suit. He hasn’t the look of a journalist. He has some notion of keeping cover, for I could get no more than a glimpse of him. He’s trying to get to the house, so we’ll hope he’ll tumble over Tibbets in the ditch, as Dougal and I did last night.”
“The plot thickens!” The girl’s eyes were bright with excitement. “He’s probably one of the strangers who came in the car. . . . The question is, what is to be done next? Mr Craw is at the Back House of the Garroch, twenty miles away, and no one knows it but us three. We have to get him home without the unfriendly journalists knowing about it.”
“We have also to get him out of the country,” said Dougal. “There was some nonsense in the Wire this morning about his being lost, but all the Craw papers will announce that he has left for the Continent. . . . But the first thing is to get him home. We’d better be thinking about delivering that letter, Jaikie.”
“Wait a moment,” said the girl. “How are you going to deliver the letter? Freddy won’t let you near him, even though you say you come from Mr Craw. He’ll consider it a ruse de guerre, and small blame to him. I don’t know what journalists look like as a class, but I suppose you bear the mark of your profession.”
“True. But maybe he wouldn’t suspect Jaikie.”
“He’ll suspect anyone. He has journalists on the brain just now.”
“But he’d recognise the handwriting.”
“Perhaps, if the letter got to him. But it won’t. . . . Besides, that man in the ha-ha — what do you call him — Tibbets? — will see you. And the other man who is crawling down there. All the approaches to the house on this side are as bare as a billiard table. At present you two are dark horses. The enemy doesn’t connect you with Mr Craw, and that’s very important, for you are the clue to Mr Craw’s whereabouts. We mustn’t give that card away. We don’t want Tibbets on your track, for it leads direct to the Back House of the Garroch.”
“That’s common sense,” said Dougal with conviction. “What’s your plan, then?”
The girl sat hunched in the fern, with her chin on one hand, and her eyes on the house and its terraces, where the gardeners were busy with the plots as if nothing could mar its modish tranquillity.
“It’s all very exciting and very difficult. We three are the only people in the world who can do anything to help. Somehow we must get hold of Freddy Barbon and pool our knowledge. I’m beginning to think that he may not be really off his head — only legitimately rattled. What about getting him to come to the Mains? I could send a message by Middlemas — that’s our butler — he wouldn’t suspect him. Also we could get Aunt Harriet’s advice. She can be very wise when she wants to. And—”
She broke off.
“Mother of Moses!” she cried, invoking a saint not known to the Calendar. “I quite forgot. There’s an Australian cousin coming to stay. He’s arriving in time for luncheon. He should be a tower of strength. His name is Charvill — Robin Charvill. He’s at Oxford and a famous football player. He played in the international match two days ago.”
“I saw him,” said Jaikie.
“He’s marvellous, isn’t he?”
“Marvellous.”
“Well, we can count him in. That makes four of us — five if we include Aunt Harriet. A pretty useful support for the distraught Freddy! The next thing to do is to get you inconspicuously to the Mains. I’ll show you the best way.”
Dougal, who had been knitting his brows, suddenly gave a shout.
“What like was the man you stalked down there?” he demanded of Jaikie.
“I didn’t see much of him. He was wearing queer clothes — tight breeches and a belt round his waist.”
“Foreign looking?”
“Perhaps.”
He turned to the girl.
“And the men you saw yesterday in the car? Were they foreigners?”
She considered. “They didn’t look quite English. One had a short black beard. I remember that one had a long pale face.”
“I’ve got it,” Dougal cried. “No wonder Barbon’s scared. It’s the Evallonian Republicans! They’re after Craw!”
CHAPTER VI. THE TROUBLES OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY
The pleasant dwelling, known as the Mains of Starr, or more commonly the Mains, stands on a shelf of hillside above the highway, with a fine prospect over the park of Castle Gay to the rolling heathy uplands which form the grouse-moor of Knockraw. From it indeed had shone that light which Jaikie and Dougal had observed the previous night after they left the barricaded lodge. It is low and whitewashed; it has a rounded front like the poop of a three-decker; its gables are crow-stepped; its air is resolutely of the past.
As such it was a fitting house for its present occupant. In every family there are members who act as guardians of its records and repositories of its traditions. Their sole distinction is their family connection, and they take good care that the world shall not forget it. In Scotland they are usually high-nosed maiden ladies, and such a spinsterhood might well have seemed to be the destiny of Harriet Westwater. But, on a visit to Egypt one winter, she had met and espoused a colonel of Sappers, called Brisbane-Brown, and for a happy decade had followed the drum in his company. He rose to be a major-general before he died of pneumonia (the result of a bitter day in an Irish snipe-bog), and left her a well-dowered widow.
The marriage had been a success, but the change of name had been meaningless, for the lady did not cease to be a Westwater. It used to be the fashion in Scotland for a married woman to retain her maiden name even on her tombstone, and this custom she had always followed in spirit. The Brisbane-Browns gave her no genealogical satisfaction. They were Browns from nowhere, who for five generations had served in the military forces of the Crown and had spent most of their lives abroad. The “Brisbane” was not a link with the ancient Scottish house of that ilk; the General’s father had been born in the capital of Queensland, and the word had been retained in the family’s nomenclature to distinguish it from innumerable other Browns. As wife and widow she remained a Westwater, and the centre of her world was Castle Gay.
Her brother, Lord Rhynns, did not share her creed, for increasing financial embarrassments had made him a harsh realist; but, though acutely aware of his imperfections, she felt for him, as head of the family, the reverence with which the devout regard a Prince of the Church. Her pretty invalidish sister-in-law — a type which she would normally have regarded with contempt — shared in the same glamour. But it was for their only child, Alison, that her family loyalty burned most fiercely. That summer, at immense discomfort to herself, she had chaperoned the girl in her first London season. Her house was Alison’s home, and she strove to bring her up in conformity with the fashions of her own childhood. She signally failed, but she did not repine, for behind her tartness lay a large, tolerant humour, which gave her an odd kinship with youth. The girl’s slanginess and tom-boyishness were proofs of spirit — a Westwater characteristic; her youthful intolerance was not unpleasing to a laudator of the past; her passionate love of Castle Gay
was a variant of her own clannishness. After the experience of a modern season she thanked her Maker that her niece was not one of the lisping mannequins who flutter between London nightclubs and the sands of Deauville or the Lido.
To the tenant of the Castle she was well disposed. She knew nothing of him except that he was a newspaper magnate and very rich, but he paid her brother a large rent, and did not, like too many tenants nowadays, fill the house with noisy underbred parties, or outrage the sense of decency of the estate servants. She respected Mr Craw for his rigid seclusion. On the occasion of her solitary visit to him she had been a little shocked by the luxury of his establishment, till she reflected that a millionaire must spend his money on something, and that three footmen and a horde of secretaries were on the whole innocent extravagances. But indeed Mr Craw and the world for which he stood scarcely came within the orbit of her thoughts. She was no more interested in him than in the family affairs of the Portaway grocer who supplied her with provisions.
Politics she cared nothing for, except in so far as they affected the families which she had known all her life. When there was a chance of Cousin Georgie Whitehaven’s second boy being given a post in the Ministry, she was much excited, but she would have been puzzled to name two other members of that Ministry, and of its policy she knew nothing at all. She read and re-read the books which she had loved from of old, and very occasionally a new work, generally a biography, which was well spoken of by her friends. She had never heard of Marcel Proust, but she could have passed a stiff examination in Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and Walter Scott. Morris and Burne-Jones had once enchained her youthful fancy; she could repeat a good deal of the more decorous parts of Swinburne; she found little merit in recent painting, except in one or two of Sargent’s portraits. Her only musician was Beethoven, but she was a learned connoisseur of Scottish airs.
In her small way she was a notable administrator. The Edinburgh firm of Writers to the Signet who managed her affairs had cause to respect her acumen. Her banker knew her as a shrewd judge of investments. The household at the Mains ran with a clockwork precision, and all the servants, from the butler, Middlemas, to the kitchenmaid, were conscious of her guiding hand. Out of doors an ancient gardener and a boy from the village wrought under her supervision, for she was a keen horticulturist, and won prizes at all the local flower shows for her sweet-peas and cauliflowers. She had given up her carriage, and refused to have a motor-car; but she drove two fat lazy ponies in a phaeton, and occasionally a well-bred grey gelding in a high dogcart. The older folk in the countryside liked to see her pass. She was their one link with a vanished world which they now and then recalled with regret.
Mrs Brisbane-Brown was a relic, but only the unthinking would have called her a snob. For snobbishness implies some sense of insecurity, and she was perfectly secure. She was a specialist, a specialist in kindred. Much has been made in history and fiction of the younger son, but we are apt to forget the younger daughters — the inconspicuous gentlewomen who cling loyally to the skirts of their families, since their birth is their chief title to consideration, and labour to preserve many ancient trifling things which the world to-day holds in small esteem. Mrs Brisbane-Brown loved all that had continuance, and strove to rivet the weakening links. She kept in touch with the remotest members of her own house, and, being an indefatigable letter writer, she constituted herself a trait d’union for a whole chain of allied families. She was a benevolent aunt to a motley of nephews and nieces who were not nephews and nieces by any recognised table of affinity, and a cousin to many whose cousinship was remote even by Scottish standards. This passion for kinship she carried far beyond her own class. She knew every ascendant and descendant and collateral among the farmers and cottagers of the countryside. Newcomers she regarded with suspicion, unless they could link themselves on to some of the Hislops and Blairs and Macmichaels whom she knew to be as long descended as the Westwaters themselves. Her aristocracy was wholly of race; it had nothing to do with position or wealth; it was a creed belated, no doubt, and reactionary, but it was not vulgar.
Jaikie and Dougal made a stealthy exit from the park by the gate in the wall which Alison unlocked for them. Then, with a promise to appear at the Mains for luncheon at one o’clock, they sought the inn at Starr, where they had left their knapsacks, recovering on the road their bicycles from the hazel covert. They said little to each other, for both their minds were full of a new and surprising experience. Dougal was profoundly occupied with the Craw problem, and his own interpretation of its latest developments. Now and then he would mutter to himself, “It’s the Evallonians all right. Poor old Craw has pulled the string of the shower-bath this time.” Jaikie, it must be confessed, was thinking chiefly of Alison. He wished he was like Charvill, and could call her cousin.
As they made their way to the Mains they encountered Tibbets on his motor-bicycle, a dishevelled figure, rather gummy about the eyes. He dismounted to greet them.
“Any luck?” Dougal asked.
He shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll have to try other tactics. I’m off to Portaway to get to-day’s Wire. And you?”
“We’re continuing our travels. The Wire will keep us informed about your doings, no doubt. Good-bye.”
Tibbets was off with a trail of dust and petrol fumes. Dougal watched him disappear round a corner.
“Lucky he doesn’t know yet what a chance he has. God help Craw if Tibbets once gets on to the Evallonians!”
With this pious thought they entered the gate of the Mains, and pushed their bicycles up the steep avenue of sycamores and horse-chestnuts. The leaves were yellowing with the morning frosts, and the fallen nuts crackled under the wheels, but, when they reached the lawn, plots and borders had still a summer glory of flowers. Great banks of Michaelmas daisies made a glow like an autumn sunset, and multi-coloured dahlias stood stiffly like grenadiers on parade. The two followed Middlemas through the shadowy hall with a certain nervousness. It seemed odd to be going to luncheon in a strange house at the invitation of a girl whom they had seen that morning for the first time.
They were five minutes late owing to Tibbets, and the mistress of the house was a precisian in punctuality. Consequently they were ushered into the dining-room, where the meal had already begun. It was a shy business, for Alison did not know their names. She waved a friendly hand. “These are my friends, Aunt Hatty,” she began, when she was interrupted by a tall young man who made a third at the table.
“Great Scot!” he cried, after one stare at Jaikie. “It’s Galt! Whoever would have thought of seeing you here!” And he seized Jaikie’s hand in a massive fist. “You’re entertaining a first-rate celebrity, Aunt Harriet. This is the famous John Galt, the greatest Rugby three-quarter playing to-day. I’m bound to say that in self-defence, for he did me in most nobly on Wednesday.”
The lady at the head of the table extended a gracious hand. “I am very glad to see you, Mr Galt. You bear a name which is famous for other things than football. Was it a kinsman who gave us the Annals of the Parish?”
Jaikie, a little confused, said no, and presented Dougal, who was met with a similar genealogical probing. “I used to know Crombies in Kincardine. One commanded a battalion of the Gordons when I was in India. You remind me of him in your colouring.”
These startling recognitions had the effect of putting Dougal more at his ease. He felt that he and Jaikie were being pleasantly absorbed into an unfamiliar atmosphere. Jaikie on the contrary was made slightly unhappy, the more so as the girl beside whom he sat turned on him reproachful eyes.
“You ought to have told me you played in the match,” she said, “when I spoke about Cousin Robin. I might have made an awful gaffe.”
“We were talking about more solemn things than football,” he replied; adding, “I thought Mr Barbon would be here.”
“He is coming at three. Such a time we had getting hold of him! They wouldn’t let Middlemas in — he only managed it through one of our maids who’s engaged to
the second footman. . . . But we mustn’t talk about it now. My aunt forbids disagreeable topics at lunch, just as she won’t let Tactful and Pensive into the dining-room.”
Mrs Brisbane-Brown had strong views about the kind of talk which aids digestion. It must not be argumentative, and it must not be agitating. It was best, she thought, when it was mildly reminiscent. But her reminiscences were not mildly phrased; as a rule they pointed with some acerbity the contrast between a dignified past and an unworthy present. She had been brought up in the school of straight backs, and she sat as erect as a life-guardsman. A stiff net collar held her head high, a head neat and poised like that of a superior bird of prey. She had the same small high-bridged nose as her niece, and that, combined with a slight droop at the corners of her mouth, gave her an air of severity which was redeemed by her bright, humorous brown eyes. Her voice was high and toneless, and, when she was displeased, of a peculiar, detached, insulting flatness, but this again was atoned for by a very pleasant, ready, girlish laugh. Mrs Brisbane-Brown was a good example of the art of ageing gracefully. Her complexion, always a little high coloured from being much out of doors, would have done credit to a woman of twenty-five; her figure had the trimness of youth; but the fine wrinkles about her eyes and the streak of grey in her hair told of the passage of time. She looked her fifty-seven years; but she looked what fifty-seven should be at its happiest.
The dining-room was of a piece with its mistress. It was full of pictures, most of them copies of the Rhynns family portraits, done by herself, and one fine Canaletto which she had inherited from her mother. There was a Rhynns with long love-locks and armour, a Rhynns in periwig and lace, a Rhynns in a high-collared coat and cravat, and the original Sir Andrew Westwater, who had acquired Castle Gay by a marriage with the Macdowall heiress, and who looked every inch the ruffian he was. There were prints, too, those mellow mezzotints which are the usual overflow of a great house. The room was sombre and yet cosy, a place that commemorated the past and yet was apt for the present. The arrogant sheen of the mahogany table, which mirrored the old silver and the great bowl of sunflowers (the Westwater crest), seemed to Dougal to typify all that he publicly protested against and secretly respected.
