by John Buchan
Creevey got himself out of his chair, and stood up, an incongruous figure in his neat blue suit, his coloured linen, and his dark tie with its pearl pin. He stretched out his arms as if to assess his bodily strength, and he shivered as if he felt it to be small at the best. Certainly as compared with Adam’s lean virility he looked heavy and feeble.
“Do you think I can do it?” he asked. “I never climbed a mountain in all my days. I am not in good training — I never am — I live too well and too much indoors.”
“I think you can do it,” said Adam gently. “You must do it. You see, the stake is your life. Much more than that, I think, but first and foremost your life.”
“What about Lady Warmestre? Hadn’t she and her servant better get off at once, if her car is in order? She, anyhow, won’t be stopped by whoever is on the watch down the valley.”
“Nonsense,” said Jacqueline, “I’m coming with you. I’m as active as a cat — I’ve climbed the Pomagognon by the west ridge. My father said—”
She stopped, for Adam’s eyes were on her, and she read in them a knowledge of all the things that she had left unsaid. He knew for what purpose she had come here — her mention of Falconet had enlightened him. He knew that she had come to make restitution, to settle an account between two souls predestined to a strange community. He knew, and the knowledge had awakened in him something which she had not seen before in his face. He was looking at her in a passion of tenderness.
“I am going to ask more from Lady Warmestre than that,” he said. “She is our chief hope. I am going to ask her to stay here and receive our guests from over the mountains. If she can delay them for an hour she may save your life.”
Then Creevey did that which surprised at least one of the other two, and may have surprised himself. The pallor left his face, and his voice came out clear and masterful.
“I won’t have it,” he cried. “Damn you, Melfort, do you think I’m so little of a man as to take shelter behind a woman? God knows what those devils might not do to her! It’s the most infamous proposal I ever heard in my life.”
“She will be in no danger,” said Adam. “Our enemies are no doubt devils, but in their own eyes they are gentlemen, rather punctilious gentlemen. They won’t harm her—”
“I refuse to allow it. Lady Warmestre must start off at once in her car and by to-morrow morning she will be out of danger. I’m in the hell of a fix, but if I can help it it won’t be anybody’s funeral but my own. Except yours, of course, and you asked for it—”
He said no more, for Jacqueline’s face silenced him. It had a new strange beauty, the like of which he had never seen before. He felt suddenly that here was a woman in relation to whom it was merely foolish to talk of danger or fear.
“Thank you, Mr Creevey,” she said. “You are very kind and I am very grateful. But I wouldn’t miss doing what Adam wants for anything in the world. It will be the greatest thing in my life. I’m not in the least afraid — except of not succeeding. I’m . . . but I’m going to do more than delay the enemy. Have you thought of the next step, Adam?”
It was her turn to rise. She had put her travelling cloak about her shoulders and now dropped it and stood up to her full height, a head taller than Creevey, almost tall enough to look from the level into Adam’s eyes.
“They are bound to let me go,” she went on. “I think they will try to speed my going. Very well. Somehow or other I will get the car round to the Val Saluzzana — to Santa Chiara — and meet you there. It’s a long road over the Staub . . . and you will be very tired . . . and you may be pursued. I will be there to pick you up and we will finish the run together. Do you understand, both of you? That is my final decision, and nothing will shake me.”
Her face was flushed and gay, her voice had a ringing gallantry. To Creevey in his confused dejection it was like a sudden irradiation of the sun. But Adam did not lift his eyes.
“It’s about time we found somewhere to sleep,” she said, and she called to Amos.
That worthy presently brought candles. “I’ve been outbye again,” he announced, “and it’s snawing hard. The auld wife is pluckin’ her geese for Christmas.”
Creevey slept little, for his will could not subdue his insurgent thoughts. He had moments almost of panic, which he struggled to repress, but his chief preoccupation was to adjust his mind to a world of new values. Oddly enough, in all his confusion the dominant feeling was surprise mingled with something that was almost pride. This man Melfort was ready to risk his life for him. He had been a leader of men, but what disciples had he ever made who would have been prepared for such a sacrifice? And Melfort was no follower, but a stark antagonist. He had hated him and been hated in turn. Something very novel crept into his mind — a boyish shame. He could not allow himself to be outdone in this contest of generosity.
Adam and Jacqueline slept like children, for the one was physically weary, and both had suffered a new and profound emotion.
Amos woke the party an hour before dawn. It was very cold and the storm of the night had covered the ground with two inches of snow. He gave them hot chocolate in the little hall, where he had lit the stove. Creevey looked pinched and haggard in the candlelight. He had put on the nailed boots which Adam had given him, and tucked the bottoms of his trousers into the heavy socks. He drank his chocolate but could eat no food.
But Jacqueline was a radiant figure. From the baggage which Amos had brought she had extricated a thick jumper and a short jacket of russet leather, and the lack of a maid had imparted a gracious disorder to her hair. Even so she had often appeared to Adam’s eyes on winter mornings at Armine Court, a little late after a big day’s hunting.
Adam gave his last instructions. He was still yawning like a sleepy child. They went out of doors, where the skies were beginning to lighten over the Val Saluzzana peaks, and a small wind, which would probably grow to a gale, was whimpering down the valley.
“Confound the snow,” Adam said. “It won’t melt before midday, and it shows footsteps. Amos, you follow us and blur our tracks. We’ll get off the road a hundred yards down, for on that long spit of rock we’ll be harder to trace. There’s a shallow place in the gorge where we can cross. We must be inside the big ravine before daybreak.”
He took Jacqueline’s hand, as she stood in the snow at the doorstep. There was no word spoken, and the manner of each was cheerful, almost casual — au revoir, not good-bye. But in the candlelight which escaped from the hall Creevey saw her face, and it was a sight which he was never to forget. For her eyes were the lit eyes of the bride.
II
Amos was busy indoors removing all signs of occupation, other than that of himself and Jacqueline. The relics of breakfast for two remained in the hall, and only two beds upstairs showed signs of use. He repacked the hold-all, which had carried Jacqueline’s baggage, and the provisions. As he worked, he repeated to himself the instructions he had been given by Adam and his mistress, and his gnarled face wore a contented smile. “It’s like auld times,” he muttered. “Man, Andrew, this is the proper job for you. Ye’re ower young to sit back on your hunkers. But it beats me how the Colonel is to get yon Creevey ower thae fearsome hills.”
Jacqueline put on her hat and her fur-lined coat, and stood in front of the inn watching the shadows break up in the valley. The dawn-wind blew sharper, but she did not feel cold, for her whole being was aglow. Adam had trusted her, and had asked of her a great thing — asked it as an equal. She fired with pride, and pride drove out all fear. She did not attempt to forecast what would happen at the inn in the next few hours, for her thoughts were with the two men now entering the long ravine which led by difficult shelves to the col. They would succeed — they must succeed — and in the evening she herself would carry them to sanctuary. It was the hour of miracles — she had witnessed them. She had seen a man emerge from Creevey’s husk, a man who with white lips was prepared to forget his own interests and sacrifice himself for a whim of honour. She did not forget his stu
bbornness about her own safety. Could he ever return to his old world? Had not a new man been born, the leader of Adam’s dream? And there was still before him a long day of trial and revelation. Of Adam she did not allow herself to think; she had fallen in with his code, and kept her thoughts firm on that purpose which was his life.
The eastern slopes of the valley were still dark, but the inn and its environs were flooded now with a cold pure light. She looked up at the sky, and saw that the growing wind was drifting clouds from the north, clouds contoured and coloured like ice-floes in a Polar sea. Snow would fall again before midday. She occupied herself in recalling the road to the Val Saluzzana — down the Val d’Arras to Colavella, and then east in a detour among the foothills to the great Staub highway. She remembered it vividly; it would be open even in rough weather, and the Staub pass was low and rarely blocked by snow-falls. What about their stock of petrol? She turned to look for Amos, and saw him in the doorway. . . .
He was held by two men, and was spluttering in well-simulated wrath. She was aware of other men. . . . One was advancing to her from the north side of the inn. He was a slim youngish man, rather below the middle height, dressed like a mountaineer in breeches and puttees, with a waterproof cape about his shoulders. He had been in deep snow, for he seemed to be wet to the middle.
Jacqueline cried out to Amos.
“What is wrong, Andrew? What do these men want?”
“I dinna ken. They grippit me when I was tyin’ up the poke. I don’t understand what they’re sayin’.” Then to his warders: “I’ll be obliged if ye’ll let me get at my pipe. I havena had my mornin’s smoke.” He spat philosophically.
The young man addressed her. He had a finely cut face, dark level brows and sombre eyes.
“We want to know who you are, madam, and what you are doing here?” His tone was civil, but peremptory.
“What business have you with me? This is an inn.”
“It was. But for a little it has been the private dwelling-house of myself and my friends. By what right have you entered it?”
Jacqueline laughed merrily. “Have I made a gaffe? It is like the story of the Three Bears. I’m so sorry. Have I been trespassing? You see, I had a fancy to come here again — I’ve been motoring in Italy — and I thought I would like to have a look at the place for auld lang syne. Antonio Menardi used to be a friend of mine, and I came here often with my father. He was a famous mountaineer. Hubert Alban. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
There were now four men on the snow by the inn door, besides the two who still held Amos in custody. One was tall, with massive bull shoulders and a curiously small head. All six looked preternaturally alert and vigorous, just such as she remembered among the Alpine heroes of her youth. But in their faces there was a sullen secrecy which she did not remember, and in their eyes a mad concentration.
One spoke, not to her, but to the others. “I have heard of Herr Alban. Yes, I have seen him. He did many famous courses in the mountains.”
Her first inquisitor spoke again.
“Will you tell us your name, please?”
“I am married. My husband is Lord Warmestre.”
Recognition stirred in the big man.
“I did not think I could be mistaken,” he said. “She is the Marchioness of Warmestre, a very famous lady in England. I have seen her at the Court balls, and elsewhere.”
“Will you tell us how you came here?” the young man asked. He seemed to be bridling a deep impatience, though his voice was still polite.
“I motored here. The road was bad, and a little way down the valley a bridge was broken. But I was determined not to be beaten, so my servant and I left the car and walked the rest of the way.”
“And you found here?”
“An empty house. No Antonio, no servants. No food, but thank goodness I had the sense to bring some of my own. . . . Oh, and I found something else. Another unfortunate guest. A man I have met occasionally in London. A Mr Creevey.”
They were masters at their game, for no flicker of interest moved their faces.
“Will you tell us about this other guest?”
“Oh, he was a dreadful little cross-patch. He was so angry that he could not explain properly, but I gathered that he had had a mishap in an aeroplane, though I can’t for the life of me see how he got here. He was in a desperate hurry to be gone, and after my servant had given him a cup of tea he started off down the valley. He must have had a rotten night of it.”
The faces were still impassive.
“You did not offer to take him away in your car?”
Jacqueline laughed. “No. I didn’t tell him about the car — or rather, I said it had broken down hopelessly. You see, I am not very fond of Mr Creevey. I didn’t see why I should help him out of his troubles when he was as uncivil as a bear, and I certainly didn’t want his company. I was very glad when he decided to go away.”
“And now — you propose?”
“To go home. We camped the night here, but I can’t say it was very comfortable. I was just about to start when you turned up. My maid and my luggage are in the hotel at Chiavagno.”
The young man bowed. “Will you please to go indoors, Lady Warmestre? My friends and I must talk together.”
Jacqueline sat down in the inn hall, where Amos’s fire had almost burned itself out. Amos a little way off puffed stolidly at his pipe.
So far she had managed well, she decided. Her tone had been right, the natural tone of a crazy Englishwoman, and by a great stroke of luck her father’s name had been known to them and she herself had been recognised. Now they were trying to verify her story. She could hear the tramping of heavy boots upstairs, and twice a weather-beaten face looked in from the back parts. The others would be outside ranging the environs.
Presently the young man entered.
“When did Mr Creevey depart last night?” he asked.
Jacqueline considered. “Just when it was growing dark and I got my servant to light a lamp. I think it would be about five o’clock.”
“There are footprints in the new snow.”
“Aye,” said Amos, “they’re mine. I gaed out for a daunder afore it was licht to prospect the weather.”
When he had gone Jacqueline had a sudden disquieting reflection. She had thought it very clever to bring in Creevey, but had it not been the wildest folly? Could they let her go? Had she not fatally compromised their plans? Creevey was supposed to have perished in an aeroplane accident the night before somewhere on the coast, and here was she, a witness to his presence in a remote Alpine valley no earlier than five o’clock. For the first time she knew acute fear. If she was permitted to go away, permitted even to live, their story was exploded and their schemes brought to naught. They had failed to manoeuvre their victim out of the ken of the world. Even if they found his trail and caught him on the col, she and Amos would share his fate. Those mad eyes were capable of the last barbarity.
She told herself that it was impossible. They could not cumber themselves with her as a prisoner. They would not dare to silence her in the old crude way. An English great lady — it would be too dangerous. They were cunning people and would somehow adapt their policy to the changed circumstances. She must carry off things with a high air. . . . And meantime, thank God, she was holding them up. Every minute that she sat shivering in that wretched inn was bringing Adam and Creevey nearer to their goal.
At last the door opened and the young man appeared.
“You can take up your baggage,” he told Amos. Then to Jacqueline: “Are you ready, Lady Warmestre? We have inspected your car, and it is in good order. We wish you to leave — now.”
Outside she found four men waiting like terriers about an earth.
“You will take one of us with you as a guide,” said the young man.
“To Chiavagno?” Jacqueline asked, with a new fear in her heart.
“To Chiavagno — perhaps. At any rate he will guide you. I will accompany you to your car.”
> The others bowed ceremoniously as the three set off down the road. The clouds were no longer floes, but pack-ice almost covering the sky, and a dull leaden light filtered through them, while the wind volleyed in bitter gusts. Jacqueline did not turn her head towards the eastern wall, lest it might wake suspicion, but she wondered if from any vantage-ground on the lip of the ravine Adam could see the party. He had, she knew, his field-glasses. . . . One thing she did not like. Two of the men were busy looking for prints beside the road, and they were dangerously near the long rib of rock down which Adam had gone. Would the enemy after all hit the trail?
They scrambled across the gully of the broken bridge, and Amos with a good deal of trouble started the engine and ran the car into the road.
“I will drive, please,” said Jacqueline. “I am more used to difficult roads than my servant. Will your friend sit beside me?” The rudiments of a wild plan were forming in her brain.
“My friend will sit behind you. Get in, Franz.” The young man said something in German to the other which Jacqueline did not catch, but his face interpreted his words. The sullen figure behind was there as a guard — she saw the bulge made by the pistol in his coat pocket. What were his orders, she wondered dismally. Was it Chiavagno, or some darker goal?
“Bon voyage,” said the young man. “Remember my instructions, Franz,” and he turned to re-cross the ravine.
On a rough piece of road a mile farther on the car gave so much trouble that no one heard a whistle blown behind them. Had he heard it, Franz might have insisted on turning back. That whistle meant portentous things. For the trackers by the roadside had found the spoor on the rib of rock, spoor leading down to the stream, and five minutes later the pack were following it.
Jacqueline was surprised at her own coolness. She was certain in her mind what orders had been given to Franz — that their goal was not Chiavagno. And even if they went to Chiavagno her plan would fail, for then she could not pick up Adam and Creevey at Santa Chiara, and she had a premonition that if she failed them they were doomed. But not a shadow of personal fear lurked in her heart. Her whole being was keyed up to the highest pitch of active purpose.
