by John Buchan
Dougal made an inconspicuous exit from the station, after satisfying himself that Tibbets was not about. He left his suit-case at the Starr inn, with word that it would be sent for later, for he did not wish to publish his connection with the Castle any sooner than was needful. He entered the park by the gate in the wall which he opened with Alison’s key, and had immediately to present his credentials — a chit signed by Barbon — to a minion of Mackillop’s, the head keeper, who was lurking in a covert. He was admitted to the house by Bannister at ten minutes to eleven, five minutes after Alison had left on her quest of Mackillop and a Callowa salmon.
The party from Knockraw was punctual. Mr Barbon and Dougal received them in the library, a vast apartment on the first floor, lit by six narrow windows and commanding a view of the terrace and the windings of the river. The seventh Lord Rhynns had been a collector, and from the latticed shelves looked down an imposing array of eighteenth-century quartos and folios. Various pieces of classical sculpture occupied black marble pedestals, and a small, richly carved sarcophagus, of a stone which looked like old ivory, had a place of honour under the great Flemish tapestry, which adorned the only wall free of books. The gilt baroque clock on the mantelpiece had not finished chiming when Bannister ushered in the visitors.
They bowed from their hips at the door, and they bowed again when they were within a yard of Barbon. One of the three spoke. He was a tall man with a white face, deep-set brown eyes, and short curly brown hair. Except for his nose he would have been theatrically handsome, but his nose was a pronounced snub. Yet this imperfection gave to his face a vigour and an attractiveness which more regular features might have lacked. He looked amazingly competent and vital. His companions were a slim, older man with greying hair, and a burly fellow with spectacles and a black beard. All three were ceremoniously garbed in morning coats and white linen and dark ties. Dougal wondered if they had motored from Knockraw in top hats. “Permit me to make the necessary introductions,” said the spokesman. “I am your correspondent, Count Casimir Muresco. This is Prince Odalchini, and this is the Herr Doctor Jagon of the University of Melina. We are the chosen and accredited representatives of the Nationalist Party of Evallonia.”
Barbon had dressed himself carefully for the occasion, and his flawless grey suit made a painful contrast to Dougal’s ill-fitting knickerbockers. He looked more than ever like an actor who had just taken his cue in a romantic Victorian comedy.
“My name is Barbon,” he said, “Frederick Barbon. As you are no doubt aware, I am Mr Craw’s principal confidential secretary.”
“You are the second son of Lord Clonkilty, is it not so?” said the Prince. “You I have seen once before — at Monte Carlo.”
Barbon bowed. “I am honoured by your recollection. This is Mr Crombie, one of Mr Craw’s chief assistants in the management of his newspapers.”
The three strangers bowed, and Dougal managed to incline his stiff neck.
“You wish to see Mr Craw. Mr Craw unfortunately is not at home. But in his absence my colleague and I are here to do what we can for you.”
“You do not know where Mr Craw is?” inquired Count Casimir sharply.
“Not at this moment,” replied Barbon truthfully. “Mr Craw is in the habit of going off occasionally on private business.”
“That is a misfortune, but it is temporary. Mr Craw will no doubt return soon. We are in no hurry, for we are at present residents in your beautiful country. You are in Mr Craw’s confidence, and therefore we will speak to you as we would speak to him.”
Barbon motioned them to a table, where were five chairs, and ink, pens, and blotting paper set out as for a board meeting. He and Dougal took their seats on one side, and the three Evallonians on the other.
“I will be brief,” said Count Casimir. “The movement for the restoration of our country to its ancient rights approaches fruition. I have here the details, which I freely offer to you for your study. The day is not yet fixed, but when the word is given the people of Evallonia as one man will rise on behalf of their Prince. The present misgovernors of our land have no popular following, and no credit except among international Jews.”
Mr Barbon averted his eyes from the maps and papers which the other pushed towards him.
“That is what they call a Putsch, isn’t it?” he said. “They haven’t been very successful, you know.”
“It is no foolish thing like a Putsch,” Count Casimir replied emphatically. “You may call it a coup d’état, a bloodless coup d’état. We have waited till our cause is so strong in Evallonia that there need be no violence. The hated republic will tumble down at a touch like a rotten branch. We shall take the strictest precautions against regrettable incidents. It will be the sudden uprising of a nation, a thing as irresistible as the tides of the sea.”
“You may be right,” said Barbon. “Obviously we cannot argue the point with you. But what we want to know is why you come to us. Mr Craw has nothing to do with Evallonia’s domestic affairs.”
“Alas!” said Prince Odalchini, “our affairs are no longer domestic. The republic is the creation of the Powers, the circumscription of our territories is the work of the Powers, the detested League of Nations watches us like an elderly and spectacled governess. We shall succeed in our revolution, but we cannot maintain our success unless we can assure ourselves of the neutrality of Europe. That is why we come to Britain. We ask her — how do you say it? — to keep the ring.”
“To Britain, perhaps,” said Barbon. “But why to Mr Craw?”
Count Casimir laughed. “You are too modest, my friend. It is the English habit, we know, to reverence historic forms even when the power has gone elsewhere. But we have studied your politics very carefully. The Herr Professor has studied them profoundly. We know that in these days with your universal suffrage the fount of authority is not in King or Cabinet, or even in your Parliament. It lies with the whole mass of your people, and who are their leaders? Not your statesmen, for you have lost your taste for oratory, and no longer attend meetings. It is your newspapers that rule you. What your man in the street reads in his newspaper he believes. What he believes he will make your Parliament believe, and what your Parliament orders your Cabinet must do. Is it not so?”
Mr Barbon smiled wearily at this startling version of constitutional practice.
“I think you rather exaggerate the power of the printed word,” he said.
Count Casimir waved the objection aside.
“We come to Mr Craw,” he went on. “We say, ‘You love Evallonia. You have said it often. You have ten — twenty millions of readers who follow you blindly. You will say to them that Evallonia must be free to choose her own form of government, for that is democracy. You will say that this follows from your British principles of policy and from that Puritan religion in which Britain believes. You will preach it to them like a good priest, and you will tell them that it will be a very great sin if they do not permit to others the freedom which they themselves enjoy. The Prime Minister will wake up one morning and find that he has what you call a popular mandate, which if he does not obey he will cease to be Prime Minister. Then, when the day comes for Evallonia to declare herself, he will speak kind words about Evallonia to France and Italy, and he will tell the League of Nations to go to the devil.’”
“That’s all very well,” Barbon protested. “But I don’t see how putting Prince John on the throne will help you to get back your lost territories.”
“It will be a first step. When we have once again a beloved King, Europe will say, ‘Beyond doubt Evallonia is a great and happy nation. She is too good and happy a nation to be so small.’”
“We speak in the name of democracy,” said the Professor in a booming voice. He spoke at some length, and developed an intricate argument to show the true meaning of the word “self-determination.” He dealt largely with history; he had much to say of unity of culture as opposed to uniformity of race; he touched upon Fascism, Bolshevism, and what he called “Ame
ricanism”; he made many subtle distinctions, and he concluded with a definition of modern democracy, of which he said the finest flower would be an Evallonia reconstituted according to the ideas of himself and his friends.
Dougal had so far maintained silence, and had studied the faces of the visitors. All three were patently honest. Casimir was the practical man, the schemer, the Cavour of the party. The Prince might be the prophet, the Mazzini — there was a mild and immovable fanaticism in his pale eyes. The Professor was the scholar, who supplied the ammunition of theory. The man had written a famous book on the British Constitution and had a European reputation; but this was Dougal’s pet subject, and he suddenly hurled himself into the fray.
It would have been well if he had refrained. For half an hour three bored and mystified auditors were treated to a harangue on the fundamentals of politics, in which Dougal’s dialectical zeal led him into so many overstatements that to the scandalised Barbon he seemed to be talking sheer anarchism. Happily to the other two, and possibly to the Professor, he was not very intelligible. For just as in the excitement of debate the Professor lost hold of his careful English and relapsed into Evallonian idioms, so Dougal returned to his ancestral language of Glasgow.
The striking of a single note by the baroque clock gave Count Casimir a chance of breaking off the interview. He gathered up his papers.
“We have opened our case,” he said graciously. “We will come again to expand it, and meantime you will meditate. . . . We dine with you to-night at eight o’clock? There will be ladies present? So?”
“One word, Count,” said Barbon. “We’re infernally plagued with journalists. There’s a by-election going on now in the neighbourhood, and they all want to get hold of Mr Craw. I needn’t tell you that it would be fatal to your cause if they got on to your trail — and very annoying to us.”
“Have no fear,” was the answer. “The official tenant of Knockraw is Mr Williams, a Liverpool merchant. To the world we are three of Mr Williams’s business associates who are enjoying his hospitality. All day we shoot at the grouse like sportsmen. In the evening our own servants wait upon us, so there are no eavesdroppers.”
Mr Craw had entertained but little in Castle Gay, but that night his representatives made up for his remissness. The party from the Mains arrived to find the hall blazing with lights, Bannister with the manner of a Court Chamberlain, and the footmen in the sober splendour of their gala liveries. In the great drawing-room, which had scarcely been used in Alison’s recollection, Barbon and Dougal were holding in play three voluble gentlemen with velvet collars to their dress-coats and odd bits of ribbon in their buttonholes. Their presentation to the ladies reminded Alison of the Oath of the Tennis Court or some other high and disposed piece of history, and she with difficulty preserved her gravity. Presently in the dining-room, which was a remnant of the old keep and vaulted like a dungeon, they sat down to a meal which the chef was ever afterwards to refer to as his masterpiece.
The scene was so bright with flowers and silver, so benignly backgrounded by the mellow Westwater portraits, that it cast a spell over the company and made everyone content — except Dougal. The Evallonians did not once refer to their mission. They might have been a party of county neighbours, except that their talk was of topics not commonly discussed by Canonry sportsmen. The Prince spoke to Mrs Brisbane-Brown of her own relations, for he had been a secretary of legation in London and had hunted several seasons with the Cottesmore. The Professor oraculated on letters, with an elephantine deference to his hearers’ opinions, withdrawing graciously his first judgment that Shakespeare was conspicuously inferior to Mr Bernard Shaw when he saw Mrs Brisbane-Brown’s scandalised face. Count Casimir endeavoured to propitiate Dougal, and learned from him many things about the Scottish race which are not printed in the books. All three, even the Professor, understood the art of social intercourse, and the critical Alison had to admit to herself that they did it well. It appeared that the Prince was a keen fisherman, and Count Casimir an ardent snipe shot, and the offer of the Callowa and the Blae Moss was enthusiastically received.
Dougal alone found the evening a failure. He felt that they were wasting time. Again and again he tried to lead the talk to the position of the Press in Britain, in the hope that Mrs Brisbane-Brown, with whom the strangers were obviously impressed, would enlighten them as to its fundamental unimportance. But Mrs Brisbane-Brown refused his lead. Indeed she did the very opposite, for he heard her say to the Professor: “We have new masters to-day. Britain still tolerates her aristocracy as a harmless and rather ornamental pet, but if it tried to scratch it would be sent to the stables. Our new masters don’t do it badly either. When my brother lived here this was a shabby old country house, but Mr Craw has made it a palace.”
“It is the old passion for romance,” the Professor replied. “The sense of power is generally accompanied by a taste for grandeur. Ubi magnitudo ibi splendor. That, I believe, is St Augustine.”
Late that night, in the smoking-room at Knockraw, there was a consultation. “Things go well,” said Casimir. “We have prepared the way, and the Craw entourage will not be hostile. I do not like the red-haired youth. He is of the fanatic student type, and his talk is flatulence. Him I regard as an enemy. But Barbon is too colourless and timid to oppose us, and we have won favour, I think, with the high-nosed old woman and the pretty girl. They, as representatives of an ancient house, have doubtless much weight with Craw, who is of the lesser bourgeoisie. With them in view, I think it may be well to play our trump card now. His Royal Highness arrives to-day in London, and is graciously holding himself at our disposal.”
“That thought was in my own mind,” said Prince Odalchini, and the Professor concurred.
At the same hour Dougal at Castle Gay was holding forth to Barbon. “Things couldn’t be worse,” he said. “The dinner was a big mistake. All that magnificence only increases their belief in Craw’s power. We’ve got to disillusion them. I can’t do it, for I can see fine that they think me a Bolshevik. You can’t do it, for they believe that you would do anything for a quiet life, and they discount your evidence accordingly. What we want is some real, representative, practical man who would come down like a sledge hammer on their notions — somebody they would be compelled to believe — somebody that they couldn’t help admitting as typical of the British nation.”
“I agree. But where are we to find him without giving Mr Craw away?”
“There’s one man,” said Dougal slowly. “His name’s McCunn — Dickson McCunn — and he lives about fifty miles from here. He was a big business man in Glasgow — but he’s retired now. I never met his equal for whinstone common sense. You’ve only to look at him to see that what he thinks about forty million others think also. He is the incarnate British spirit. He’s a fine man, too, and you could trust him with any secret.”
“How old?” Barbon asked.
“A few years older than Craw. Not unlike him in appearance. The morn’s Sunday and there’s no train where he lives. What about sending a car with a letter from me and bringing him back, if he’ll come? I believe he’d do the trick.”
Barbon, who was ready to seek any port in the storm, and was already in the grip of Dougal’s fierce vitality, wearily agreed. The pleasantness of the dinner had for a little banished his anxieties, but these had now returned and he foresaw a sleepless night. His thoughts turned naturally to his errant master.
“I wonder where Mr Craw is at this moment?” he said.
“I wonder, too. But if he’s with Jaikie I bet he’s seeing life.”
CHAPTER IX. THE FIRST DAY OF THE HEJIRA — THE INN AT WATERMEETING
The October dawn filled the cup of the Garroch with a pale pure light. There had been no frost in the night, but the heather of the bogs, the hill turf, and the gravel of the road had lost their colour under a drench of dew. The mountains were capped with mist, and the air smelt raw and chilly. Jaikie, who, foreseeing a difficult day, had prepared for it by a swim in the
loch and a solid breakfast, found it only tonic. Not so Mr Craw, who, as he stood before the cottage, shivered, and buttoned up the collar of his raincoat.
Mrs Catterick scornfully refused payment. “Is it likely?” she cried. “Ye didna come here o’ your ain wull. A body doesna tak siller for bein’ a jyler.”
“I will see that you are remunerated in some other way,” Mr Craw said pompously.
He had insisted on wearing his neat boots, which his hostess had described as “pappymashy,” and refused those which Jaikie had brought from Castle Gay. Also he made no offer to assume Dougal’s pack, with the consequence that Jaikie added it to his own, and presented the appearance of Christian at the Wicket-gate in some old woodcut from the Pilgrim’s Progress. Mr Craw even endued his hands with a pair of bright wash-leather gloves, and with his smart Homburg hat and silver-knobbed malacca looked exactly like a modish elderly gentleman about to take a morning stroll at a fashionable health-resort. So incongruous a figure did he present in that wild trough of the hills, that Mrs Catterick cut short her farewells and politely hid her laughter indoors.
Thus fantastically began the great Hejira.
Mr Craw was in a bad temper, and such a mood was new to him, for in his life small berufflements had been so rare that his ordinary manner was a composed geniality. Therefore, besides being cross, he was puzzled, and a little ashamed. He told himself that he was being scandalously treated by Fate, and for the first half-mile hugged his miseries like a sulky child. . . . Then he remembered that officially he had never admitted the existence of Fate. In how many eloquent articles had he told his readers that man was the maker of his own fortunes, the captain of his soul? He had preached an optimism secure against the bludgeonings of Chance! . . . This would never do. He cast about to find an attitude which he could justify.
