Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  They retraced their steps when the sun had sunk behind the hills and the evening glow was beginning, soft as the bloom on a peach. The Ford was turned, and rumbled down the valley until it was parked in the presbytery yard. The priest, Father Paradis, came out to greet them, a tall, lean old man much bent in the shoulders, who, like all the Quebec clergy, wore the cassock. He had been gardening, and his lumberjack’s boots were coated with soil.

  To Leithen’s relief Father Paradis spoke the French of France, for, though Canadian born, he had been trained in a seminary at Beauvais.

  “But of a surety,” he cried. “You shall sleep here, monsieur, and share my supper. I have a guest room, though it is as small as the Prophet’s Chamber of the Scriptures.”

  He would have Johnny stay also.

  “No doubt Augustin can lodge Monsieur Frizel, but I fear he will have rough quarters.”

  Leithen’s kit was left at the presbytery and he and Johnny walked to the farm to pay their respects to the squire of Clairefontaine. He had ascertained that this Augustin Gaillard, to whom the farm had descended, was an uncle of Francis. The priest had given him a rapid sketch of the family history. The mother had died in bearing Francis; the father a year after Francis had left for the States. There had been an elder brother, Paul, who two years ago had disappeared into the north, leaving his uncle from Chateau-Gaillard in his place. There were also two sisters who were Grey Nuns serving somewhere in the west — the priest did not know where.

  Augustin Gaillard was a man of perhaps sixty years, with a wisp of grey beard and a moist, wandering eye. Everything about him bespoke the drunkard. His loud-patterned shirt had a ragged collar and sleeves, his waistcoat was discoloured with the dribbling of food, his trousers had holes at the knees, and his bare feet were shod with bottes-sauvages. There was nothing in his features to suggest the good breeding which Leithen had noted in the picture of Francis. The house, which was more spacious than the ordinary farm, was in a condition of extreme dirt and disorder. Somewhere in the background Leithen had a glimpse of an ancient crone, who was doubtless the housekeeper.

  But Augustin had the fine manners of his race. He placed his dwelling and all that was in it at their disposal. He pressed Leithen to remove himself from the presbytery.

  “The good father,” he said, “has but a poor table. He will give you nothing to drink but cold water.”

  Leaving Johnny deep in converse in the habitant patois, Leithen went back in the dusk to the presbytery. He was feeling acutely the frailty of his body, as he was apt to do at nightfall. Had he chosen a different course he would be going back to delicate invalid food, to a soft chair and a cool bed; now he must make shift with coarse fare and the hard pallet of the guest room. He wondered for a moment if he had not been every kind of fool.

  But no sick-nurse could have been more attentive than Father Paradis. He had killed and cooked a chicken with his own hands. For supper there was soup and the fowl, and coffee made by one who had learned the art in France. The little room was lit by a paraffin lamp, the smell of which brought back to Leithen far-away days in a Scots shooting box. The old man saw his guest’s weakness, and after the meal he put a pillow in his chair and made him rest his legs on a stool.

  “I see you are not in good health, monsieur,” he said. “Do you travel to restore yourself? The air of these hills is well reputed.”

  “Partly. And partly in hope of finding a friend. I am an Englishman, as you see, and am a stranger in Canada, though I have visited it once before. On that occasion I came to hunt, but my hunting days are over.”

  Father Paradis screwed up his old eyes.

  “At home you were perhaps a professor?”

  “I have been a lawyer — and also a Member of our Parliament. But my working days are past, and I would make my soul.”

  “You are wise. You are then in retreat? You are not, I think, of the Faith?”

  Leithen smiled. “I have my faith to find, and perhaps I have little time in which to find it.”

  “There is little time for any of us,” said the old man. He looked at Leithen with eyes long experienced in life, and shook his head sadly.

  “I spoke of a friend,” said Leithen. “Have you had many visitors this summer?”

  “Few come here nowadays. A pedlar or two, and a drover in the fall for the farm cattle. There is no logging, for our woods are bare. People used to come up from Chateau-Gaillard on holiday, but Chateau-Gaillard is for the moment stagnant. Except for you and Monsieur Frizel it is weeks since I have seen a stranger.”

  “Had you no visitor from New York — perhaps in May? A man of the name of Francis Galliard?”

  Leithen, from long practice in cross-examination, was accustomed to read faces. He saw the priest’s eyes suddenly go blank, as if a shutter had been drawn over them, and his mouth tighten.

  “No man of that name has visited us,” he said.

  “Perhaps he did not give that name. The man I mean is still young,” and he described the figure as he had seen it in the New York portrait. “He is a kinsman, I think, of the folk at the farm.”

  Father Paradis shook his head.

  “No, there has been no Francis Galliard here.”

  But there was that in the old man’s eyes which informed Leithen that he was not telling all he knew, and also that no cross-examination would elicit more. His face had the stony secrecy of the confessional.

  “Well, I must look elsewhere,” Leithen said cheerfully. “Tell me of the people at the farm. I understand they are one of the oldest families in Canada.”

  Father Paradis’s face lightened.

  “Most ancient, but now, alas! pitifully decayed. The father was a good man, and a true son of the Church, but his farm failed, for he had little worldly wisdom. As for Augustin, he is, as you see, a drunkard. The son Paul was a gallant young man, but he was not happy on this soil. He was a wanderer, as his race was in the old days.”

  “Wasn’t there a second son?”

  “Yes, but he left us long ago. He forsook his home and his faith. Let us not speak of him, for he is forgotten.”

  “Tell me about Paul.”

  “You must know, monsieur, that once the Gaillards were a stirring race. They fought with Frontenac against the Iroquois, and very fiercely against the English. Then, when peace came, they exercised their hardihood in distant ventures. Many of the house travelled far into the west and the north, and few of them returned. There was one, Aristide, who searched for the lost British sailor Frankolin — how do you call him? — and won fame. And only the other day there was Paul’s uncle — also an Aristide — who found a new road to the Arctic shores and discovered a great river. Its name should be the Gaillard, but they tell me that the maps have the Indian word, the Ghost.”

  Leithen, who had a passion for studying maps, remembered the river which flowed from north of the Thelon in the least-known corner of Canada.

  “Is that where Paul went?” he asked.

  “That is what we think. He was restless ever after his father died. He would go off for months to guide parties of hunters — even down to the Labrador, and in his dreams he had always his uncle Aristide; he was assured he was still alive and that if he went to the Ghost River he would find him. So one day he summons the other uncle, the worthless one, and bids him take over the farm of Clairefontaine.”

  “You have heard nothing of him since?”

  “Not a word has come. Why should it? He has no care for Clairefontaine. . . . Now, monsieur, it is imperative that you go to bed, for you are very weary. I will conduct you to the Prophet’s Chamber.”

  Leithen was in the habit of falling asleep at once — it was now his one bodily comfort — but this night he lay long awake. He thought that he had read himself into the soul of Francis Galliard, a summary and provisional reading, but enough to give him a starting point. He was convinced beyond doubt that he had come to Clairefontaine in the spring. He could not mistake the slight hesitation in the speech of Fathe
r Paradis, the tremor of the eyelids, the twitch of the mouth before it set — he had seen these things too often in the courts to be wrong. The priest had not lied, but he had equivocated, and had he been pressed would have taken refuge in obstinate silence. Francis had been here and had enjoined secrecy on the priest and no doubt on old Augustin. He was on a private errand and wanted to shut out the world.

  He could picture the sequence of events. The man, out of tune with his environment, had fallen into the clutches of the past. He had come to Chateau-Gaillard and seen the ravaged valley — ravaged by himself and his associates — and thereby a bitter penitence had been awakened. His purpose now was to make his peace with the past — with his family, his birth-place and his religion. No doubt he had confessed himself to the priest. Perhaps he had gone, as Leithen had gone, to the secret meadow at the river head, and, looking to the north, had had boyish memories and ambitions awakened. It was his business — so Leithen read his thoughts — to make restitution, to appease his offended household gods. He must shake off the bonds of an alien civilisation, and, like his uncle and his brother and a hundred Gaillards of old, worship at the altars of the northern wilds.

  Leithen fell asleep with so clear a picture in his mind that he might have been reading in black and white Francis’s confession.

  12

  “We go back to Quebec,” he told Johnny next morning. “But first I want to go up the stream again.”

  The mountain meadow haunted his imagination. There, the afternoon before, he had had the first hour of bodily comfort he had known for months. The place, too, inspired him. It seemed to stiffen his purpose and to quicken his fancy.

  Once again he lay on the warm turf beside the spring looking beyond the near forested hills to the blue dimness of the far mountains. It was that halcyon moment of the late Canadian summer when there are no flies, and even the midday is cool and scented, and the first hints of bright colour are stealing into the woods.

  “I didn’t get a great deal out of the old man,” said Johnny. “He kept me up till three in the morning listenin’ to his stuff. He was soused when he began, and well pickled before he left off, but he was never lit up — the liquor isn’t brewed that could light up that old carcase. I guess he’s got a grouse against the whole world. But I found out one thing. Brother Lew has been here this year.”

  Leithen sat up. “How do you know?”

  “Why, he asked me if I was any relation to another man of my name — a fellow with half a thumb on his left hand and a scar above his right eyebrow. That’s Lew to the life, for he got a bit chawed up at Vimy. When I asked more about the chap he felt he had said too much and shut up like a clam. But that means that Lew has been here all right, and that Augustin saw him, for to my certain knowledge Lew was never before east of Quebec, and yon old perisher has never stirred out of this valley. So I guess that Lew and your pal were here, for Lew wouldn’t have come on his own.”

  Leithen reflected for a moment.

  “Was Lew ever at the Ghost River?” he asked. “I mean the river half-way between Coronation Gulf and the top of Hudson’s Bay.”

  “Never heard of it. Nope. I’m pretty sure brother Lew was never within a thousand miles of it. It ain’t his bailliewick.”

  “Well, I fancy he’s there now. . . . You and I are setting out for the Ghost River.”

  13

  Leithen spent two weary days in Montreal, mostly at the telephone, a business which in London he had always left to Cruddock or his clerk. He knew that the Northland was one vast whispering gallery, and that it was easier to track a man there than in the settled countries, so he hoped to get news by setting the machine of the R.C.M.P. to work. There was telephoning and telegraphing far and wide, but no result. No such travellers as Galliard and Lew Frizel had as yet been reported north of the railways. One thing he did ascertain. The two men had not flown to the Ghost River. That was the evidence of the Air Force and the private aeroplane companies. Leithen decided that this was what he had expected. If Galliard was on a mission of penitence he would travel as his uncle Aristide and his brother Paul had travelled — by canoe and trail. If he had started early in May he should just about have reached the Arctic shores.

  The next task was to get a machine for himself. He hired an aeroplane from Air-Canada, a Baird-Sverisk of a recent pattern, and was lucky enough to get one of the best of the northern flyers, Job Teviot, for his pilot, and one Murchison as his mechanic. The contract was for a month, but with provision for an indefinite extension. All this meant bringing in his bankers, and cabling home, and the influence of Ravelstons had to be sought to complete the business. The barometer at Montreal stood above 100 degrees, and there were times before he and Johnny took off when he thought that his next move would be to a hospital.

  He felt stronger when they reached Winnipeg, and next day, flying over the network of the Manitoba lakes, he found that he drew breath more easily. He had flown little before, and the air at first made him feel very sleepy. This passed, and, since there was no demand for activity, his mind turned in on itself. He felt like some disembodied creature, for already he seemed to have shed all ordinary interests. Aforetime on his travels and his holidays he had been acutely interested in what he saw and heard, and part of his success at the Bar had been due to the wide range of knowledge thus acquired. But now he had no thoughts except for the job on hand. He had meant deliberately to concentrate on it, in order to shut out fruitless meditations on his own case; but he found that this concentration had come about automatically. He simply was not concerned about other things. In New York he had listened to well-informed talk about politics and business and books, and it had woke no response in his mind. Here in Canada he did not care a jot about the present or future of a great British Dominion. The Canadian papers he glanced at were full of the perilous situation in Europe — any week there might be war. The news meant nothing to him, though a little while ago it would have sent him home by the next boat. The world had narrowed itself to Francis Galliard and the frail human creature that was following him.

  By and by it was the latter that crowded in on his thoughts. Since he had nothing to do except watch a slowly moving landscape and the cloud shadows on lake and forest, he began to reflect on the atom, Edward Leithen, now hurrying above the world. The memory of Felicity kept returning — the sudden anguish in her eyes, her cry “I love him! I love him!” and he realised how lonely his life had been. No woman had ever felt like that about him; he had never felt like that about any woman. Was it loss or gain? Gain, he told himself, for he implicated no one in his calamity. But had he not led a starved life? A misfit like Galliard had succeeded in gaining something which he, with all his social adaptability, had missed. He found himself in a mood almost of regret. He had made a niche for himself in the world, but it had been a chilly niche. With a start he awoke to the fact that he was very near the edge of self-pity, a thing forbidden.

  In a blue windless twilight they descended for the night at a new mining centre on the Dog-Rib River. Johnny pitched a tent and cooked supper, while the pilot and the mechanic found quarters with other pilots who ran the daily air service to the south. There was a plague of black flies and mosquitoes, but Leithen was too tired to be troubled by them, and he had eight hours of heavy, unrefreshing sleep.

  When he stood outside the tent next morning, looking over a shining lake and a turbulent river, he had a moment of sharp regret. How often he had stood like this on a lake shore — in Scotland, in Norway, in Canada long ago — and watched the world heave itself out of night into dawn! Like this — but how unlike! Then he had been exhilarated with the prospect of a day’s sport, tingling from his cold plunge, ravenous as a hawk for breakfast, the blood brisk in his veins and every muscle in trim. Now he could face only a finger of bacon and a half-cup of tea, and he was weary before the day had begun.

  “There’s plenty here knows Lew,” Johnny reported. “They haven’t come this way. If they’re at the Ghost River, my gu
ess is that they’ve gone by the Planchette and The Old Man Falls.”

  They crossed Great Slave Lake and all morning flew over those plains miscalled the Barrens, which, seen from above, are a delicate lace-work of lakes and streams criss-crossed by ridges of bald rock and banks of gravel, and with now and then in a hollow a patch of forest. They made camp early at the bend of a river, which Johnny called the Little Fish, for Murchison had some work to do on the engine. While Leithen rested by the fire Job went fishing and brought back three brace of Arctic char. He announced that there was another camp round the next bend — a white man in a canoe with two Crees — a sight in that lonely place as unexpected as the great auk. Somewhat refreshed by his supper, Leithen in the long-lighted evening walked upstream to see his neighbour.

  He found a middle-aged American cleaning a brace of ptarmigan which he had shot, and doing it most expertly. He was a tall man, in breeches, puttees, and a faded yellow shirt, and Leithen took him for an ordinary trapper or prospector until he heard him speak. “I saw you land,” the stranger said. “I was coming round presently to pass the time of day. Apart from my own outfit you are the first man I’ve seen for a month.”

  He prepared a bed of hot ashes, and with the help of rifle rods set the birds to roast. Then he straightened himself, filled a pipe, and had a look at Leithen.

  “I’m an American,” he said. “New York.”

  Leithen nodded. He had already detected the unmistakable metropolitan pitch of the voice.

  “You’re English? Haven’t I seen you before? I used to be a good deal in London. . . . Hold on a minute. I’ve got it. I’ve heard you speak in the British Parliament. That would be in—” And he mentioned a year.

  “Very likely,” said Leithen. “I was in Parliament then. I was Attorney-General.”

  “You don’t say. Well, we’re birds of the same flock. I’m a corporation lawyer. My name’s Taverner. Yours — wait a minute — is Leven.”

  “Leithen,” the other corrected.