by John Buchan
CHAPTER VIII
MR. WRATISLAW'S ADVENT
As the three men went home in the dusk they talked of the day. Lewishad been in a bad humour, but the company of his friends exorcised theimp of irritation, and he felt only the mellow gloom of the evening andthe sweet scents of the moor. In such weather he had a trick of walkingwith his head high and his nostrils wide, sniffing the air like the wildass of the desert with which the metaphorical George had erstwhilecompared him. That young man meanwhile was occupied with his ownreflections. His good nature had been victimized, he had been made tofetch and carry continually, and the result was that he had scarcelyspoken a word to Miss Wishart. His plans thus early foiled, nothingremained but to draw the more fortunate Arthur, so in a conspirator'saside he asked him his verdict. But Arthur refused to speak. "She ispretty and clever," he said, "and excellent company." And with this hislips were sealed, and his thoughts went off on his own concerns.
Lewis heard and smiled. The sun and wind of the hills beat in hispulses like wine. To have breathed all day the fragrance of heather andpines, to have gladdened the eye with an infinite distance and bluelines of mountain, was with this man to have drunk the cup ofintoxicating youth. The cool gloaming did not chill; rather it was thehigh and solemn aftermath of the day's harvesting. The faces ofgracious women seemed blent with the pageant of summer weather; kindlyvoices, simple joys--for a moment they seemed to him the major matters inlife. So far it was pleasing fancy, but Alice soon entered to disturbwith the disquieting glory of her hair. The family of the Haystouns hadever a knack of fine sentiment. Fantastic, unpractical, they weregluttons for the romantic, the recondite, and the dainty. But now hadcome a breath of strong wind which rent the meshes of a philanderingfancy. A very new and strange feeling was beginning to make itselfknown. He had come to think of Alice with the hot pained affectionwhich makes the high mountains of the world sink for the time to aspecies of mole-hillock. She danced through his dreams and usurped allthe paths of his ambition. Formerly he had thought of himself--for theman was given to self-portraiture--as the adventurer, the scorner of thedomestic; now he struggled to regain the old attitude, but he struggledin vain. The ways were blocked, a slim figure was ever in view, and lo!when he blotted it from his sight the world was dark and the roadsblind. For a moment he had lost his bearings on the sea of life. Asyet the discomfiture was sweet, his confusion was a joy; and it is thefirst trace of weakness which we have seen in the man that he acceptedthe unsatisfactory with composure.
At the door of Etterick it became apparent that something was astir.Wheel-marks were clear in the gravel, and the ancient butler had an airof ceremony. "Mr. Wratislaw has arrived, sir," he whispered to Lewis,whereat that young man's face shone.
"When? How? Where is he now?" he cried, and with a word to hiscompanions he had crossed the hall, raced down a lengthy passage, andflung open the door of his sanctum. There, sure enough, were the broadshoulders of Wratislaw bending among the books.
"Lord bless me, Tommy, what extraordinary surprise visit is this? Ithought you would be over your ears in work. We are tremendouslypleased to see you."
The sharp blue eyes had been scanning the other's frank sunburnt facewith an air of affectionate consideration. "I got off somehow or other,as I had to see you, old man, so I thought I would try this place first.What a fortressed wilderness you live in! I got out at Gledsmuir aftertravelling some dreary miles in a train which stopped at every farm, andthen I had to wait an hour till the solitary dogcart of the innreturned. Hullo! you've got other visitors." And he stretched out amassive hand to Arthur and George.
The sight of him had lifted a load from these gentlemen's hearts. Theold watchdog had come; the little terriers might now take holiday. Thetask of being Lewis's keeper did not by right belong to them; they wereonly amateurs acting in the absence of the properly qualified Wratislaw.Besides, it had been anxious work, for while each had sworn to himselfaforetime to protect his friend from the wiles of Miss Wishart, bothwere now devoted slaves drawn at that young woman's chariot wheel. Youwill perceive that it is a delicate matter to wage war with a goddess,and a task unblest of Heaven.
Supper was brought, and the lamps lit in the cool old room, where,through the open window, they could still catch the glint of foam on thestream and the dark gloom of pines on the hill. They fell ravenously onthe meal, for one man had eaten nothing since midday and the others werefresh from moorland air. Thereafter they pulled armchairs to a window,and lit the pipes of contentment. Wratislaw stretched his arms on thesill and looked out into the fragrant darkness.
"Any news, Tommy?" asked his host. "Things seem lively in the East."
"Very, but I am ill-informed. Did you lay no private lines ofcommunication in your travels?"
"They were too short. I picked up a lot of out-of-the-way hints, but asI am not a diplomatist I cannot use them. I think I have already madeyou a present of most. By the by, I see from the papers that anofficial expedition is going north from Bardur. What idiot inventedthat?"
Wratislaw pulled his head in and sat back in his chair. "You are sureyou don't happen to know?"
"Sure. But it is just the sort of canard which the gentry on the otherside of the frontier would invent to keep things quiet. Who are theEnglishmen at Bardur now?"
The elder man looked shrewdly at the younger, who was carelessly pullinga flower to pieces. "There's Logan, whom you know, and Thwaite andGribton."
"Good men all, but slow in the uptake. Logan is a jewel. He gave methe best three days' shooting I ever dreamed of, and he has more storiesin his head than George. But if matters got into a tangle I wouldrather not be in his company. Thwaite is a gentlemanlike sort offellow, but dull--very, while Gribton is the ordinary shrewd commercialman, very cautious and rather timid."
"Did you ever happen to hear of a man called Marka? He might callhimself Constantine Marka, or Arthur Marker, or the Baron Mark--whateverhappened to suit him."
Lewis puzzled for a little. "Yes, of course I did. By George! Ishould think so. It was a chap of that name who had gone north the weekbefore I arrived. They said he would never be heard of again. Heseemed a reckless sort of fool."
"You didn't see him?"
"No. But why?"
"Simply that you came within a week of meeting one of the cleverest menliving, a cheerful being whom the Foreign Office is more interested inthan any one else in the world. If you should hear again of ConstantineMarka, Marker, or Mark, please note it down."
"You mean that he is the author of the _canard_," said Lewis, with sharpeyes, taking up a newspaper.
"Yes, and many more. This graceful person will complicate things forme, for I am to represent the Office in the Commons if we get back witha decent majority."
Lewis held out a cordial hand. "I congratulate you, Tommy. Nowbeginneth the end, and may I be spared to see!"
"I hope you may, and it's on this I want to talk to you. Merkland hasresigned; it will be in the papers to-morrow. I got it kept out till Icould see you!"
"Yes?" said Lewis, with quickening interest.
"And we want you to take his place. I spoke to him, and he isenthusiastic on the matter. I wired to the Conservative Club atGledsmuir, and it seems you are their most cherished possibility. Theleaders of the party are more than willing, so it only remains for youto consent, my dear boy."
"I--don't--think--I--can," said the possibility slowly. "You see, onlyto-day I told that man Stocks that Merkland would not resign, and that Iwas sick of party politics and would not interfere with his chances.The poor beggar is desperately keen, and if I stood now he would thinkme disingenuous."
"But there is no reason why he should not know the truth. You can tellhim that you only heard about Merkland to-night, and that you act onlyin deference to strong external pressure."
"In that case he would think me a fool. I have a bad enough reputationfor lack of seriousness in these matters already. The man is not veryparticular, and there is nothing to hinder him from blazoning
it up anddown the place that I changed my mind in ten minutes on a friend'srecommendation. I should get a very complete licking."
"Do you mind, Lewie, if I advise you to take it seriously? It is reallynot a case for little scruples about reputation. There are rocks aheadof me, and I want a man like you in the House more than I could make youunderstand. You say you hate party politics, and I am with you, butthere is no reason why you should not use them as a crutch to betterwork. You are in your way an expert, and that is what we will needabove all things in the next few years. Of course, if you feel yourselfbound by a promise not to oppose Stocks, then I have nothing more tosay; but, unless the man is a lunatic, he will admit the justice of yourcase."
"You mean that you really want me, Tommy?" said the young man, in greatdoubt. "I hate the idea of fighting Stocks, and I shall most certainlybe beaten."
"That is on the knees of the gods, and as for the rest I take theresponsibility. I shall speak to Stocks myself. It will be a sharpfight, but I see no reason why you should not win. After all, it isyour own countryside, and you are a better man than your opponent."
"You are the serpent who has broken up this peaceful home. I shall bemiserable for a month, and the house will be divided against itself.Arthur has promised to help Stocks, while the Manorwaters, root andbranch, are pledged to support him."
"I'll do my best, Lewie, for old acquaintance' sake. It had to comesooner or later, you know, and it is as well that you should seize thefavourable moment. Now let us drop the subject for to-night. I want toenjoy myself."
And he rose, stretched his great arms, and wandered about the room.
To all appearance he had forgotten the very existence of thingspolitical. Arthur, who had a contest to face shortly, was eager foradvice and the odds and ends of information which defend the joints in acandidate's harness, but the well-informed man disdained to help. Hetested the guns, gave his verdict on rods, and ranged through a cabinetof sporting requisites. Then he fell on his host's books, and for anhour the three were content to listen to him. It was rarely thatWratislaw fell into such moods, but when the chance came it was not tobe lightly disregarded. A laborious youth had given him great stores ofscholarship, and Lewis's books were a curious if chaotic collection. Onthe fly-leaf of a little duodecimo was an inscription from the author ofWaverley, who had often made Etterick his hunting-ground. A Dunbar hadHawthornden's autograph, and a set of tall classic folios bore thehandwriting of George Buchanan. Lord Kames, Hume, and a score of othershad dedicated works to lairds of Etterick, and the Haystouns themselveshad deigned at times to court the Muse. Lewis's own specialbooks--college prizes, a few modern authors, some well-thumbed poets, anda row in half a dozen languages on some matters of diplomaticinterest--were crowded into a little oak bookcase which had once gracedhis college rooms. Thither Wratislaw ultimately turned, dipping,browsing, reading a score of lines.
"What a nice taste you have in arrangement!" he cried. "Scott, Tolstoi,Meredith, an odd volume of a Saga library, an odd volume of the _CorpusBoreale_, some Irish reprints, Stevenson's poems, Virgil and the_Pilgrim's Progress_, and a French Gazetteer of Mountains wedged abovethem. And then an odd Badminton volume, French _Memoires_, a Dante, aHomer, and a badly printed German text of Schopenhauer! Three differentcopies of Rabelais, a De Thou, a Horace, and-bless my soul!--abouttwenty books of fairy tales! Lewie, you must have a mind like alumber-room."
"I pillaged books from the big library as I wanted them," said the youngman humbly. "Do you know, Tommy, to talk quite seriously, I get moreerratic every day? Knocking about the world and living alone make me aqueer slave of whims. I am straying too far from the normal. I wish togoodness you would take me and drive me back to the ways of commonsense."
"Meaning--?
"That I am getting cranky and diffident. I am beginning to get nervousabout people's opinion and sensitive to my own eccentricity. It is asad case for a man who never used to care a straw for a soul on earth."
"Lewie, attend to me," said Wratislaw, with mock gravity. "You have notby any chance been falling in love?"
The accused blushed like a girl, and lied withal like a trooper, to thedelight of the un-Christian George.
"Well, then, my dear fellow, there is hope for you yet. If a man oncegets sentimental, he desires to be normal above all things, for he has acrazy intuition that it is the normal which women really like, beingthemselves but a hair's-breadth from the commonplace. I suppose it isonly another of the immortal errors with which mankind hedges itselfabout."
"You think it an error?" said Lewis, with such an air of relief thatGeorge began to laugh and Wratislaw looked comically suspicious.
"Why the tone of joy, Lewie?"
"I wanted your opinion," said the perjured young man. "I thought ofwriting a book. But that is not the thing I was talking about. I wantto be normal, aggressively normal, to court the suffrages of Gledsmuir.Do you know Stocks?"
"Surely."
"An excellent person, but I never heard him utter a word above a child'scapacity. He can talk the most shrieking platitudes as if he had foundat last the one and only truth. And people are impressed."
Wratislaw pulled down his eyebrows and proceeded to defend a Scottishconstituency against the libel of gullibility. But Lewis was notlistening. He did not think of the impression made on the votingpowers, but on one small girl who clamorously impeded all his thoughts.She was, he knew, an enthusiast for the finer sentiments of life, and ofthese Mr. Stocks had long ago claimed a monopoly. He felt bitterlyjealous--the jealousy of the innocent man to whom woman is anunaccountable creature, whose habits and likings must be curiouslystudied. He was dimly conscious of lacking the stage attributes of alover. He could not pose as a mirror of all virtues, a fanatic for theTrue and the Good. Somehow or other he had acquired an air ofself-seeking egotism, unscrupulousness, which he felt miserably mustmake him unlovely in certain eyes. Nor would the contest he wasentering upon improve this fancied reputation of his. He would have tosay hard, unfeeling things against what all the world would applaud asgenerous sentiment.
When the others had gone yawning to bed, he returned and sat at thewindow for a little, smoking hard and puzzling out the knots whichconfronted him. He had a dismal anticipation of failure. Notdefeat--that was a little matter; but an abject show of incompetence.His feelings pulled him hither and thither. He could not utter moralplatitudes to checkmate his opponent's rhetoric, for, after all, he washonest; nor could he fill the part of the cold critic of hazy sentiment;gladly though he would have done it, he feared the reproach in girlisheyes. This good man was on the horns of a dilemma. Love and habit, agenerous passion and a keen intellect dragged him alternately to theirside, and as a second sign of weakness the unwilling scribe has torecord that his conclusion as he went to bed was to let things drift--totake his chance.
