Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works). Buchan John

he is in love with her and has pestered her for years. She hated the sight of him, but he wouldn’t take no, and being a powerful man—rich and well-born and all the rest of it—she had a desperate time. I gather he was pretty high in favour with the old Court. Then when the Bolsheviks started he went over to them, like plenty of other grandees, and now he’s one of their chief brains—none of your callow revolutionaries, but a man of the world, a kind of genius, she says, who can hold his own anywhere. She believes him to be in this country, and only waiting the right moment to turn up. Oh, it sounds ridiculous, I know, in Britain in the twentieth century, but I learned in the war that civilization anywhere is a very thin crust. There are a hundred ways by which that kind of fellow could bamboozle all our law and police and spirit her away. That’s the kind of crowd we have to face.”

      “Did she say what he was like in appearance?”

      “A face like an angel—a lost angel, she says.”

      Dickson suddenly had an inspiration.

      “D’you mind the man you said was an Australian—at Kirkmichael? I thought myself he was a foreigner. Well, he was asking for a place he called Darkwater, and there’s no sich place in the countryside. I believe he meant Dalquharter. I believe he’s the man she’s feared of.”

      A gasped “By Jove!” came from the darkness. “Dogson, you’ve hit it. That was five days ago, and he must have got on the right trail by this time. He’ll be here to-night. That’s why the three have been lying so quiet to-day. Well, we’ll go through with it, even if we haven’t a dog’s chance! Only I’m sorry that you should be mixed up in such a hopeless business.”

      “Why me more than you?”

      “Because it’s all pure pride and joy for me to be here. Good God, I wouldn’t be elsewhere for worlds. It’s the great hour of my life. I would gladly die for her.”

      “Tuts, that’s no’ the way to talk, man. Time enough to speak about dying when there’s no other way out. I’m looking at this thing in a business way. We’d better be seeing the ladies.”

      They groped into the pitchy hall, somewhere in which a Die-Hard was on picket, and down the passage to the smoking-room. Dickson blinked in the light of a very feeble lamp and Heritage saw that his hands were cumbered with packages. He deposited them on a sofa and made a ducking bow.

      “I’ve come back, Mem, and glad to be back. Your jools are in safe keeping, and not all the blagyirds in creation could get at them. I’ve come to tell you to cheer up—a stout heart to a stey brae, as the old folk say. I’m handling this affair as a business proposition, so don’t be feared, Mem. If there are enemies seeking you, there’s friends on the road too… Now, you’ll have had your dinner, but you’d maybe like a little dessert.”

      He spread before them a huge box of chocolates, the best that Mearns Street could produce, a box of candied fruits, and another of salted almonds. Then from his hideously overcrowded pockets he took another box, which he offered rather shyly. “That’s some powder for your complexion. They tell me that ladies find it useful whiles.”

      The girl’s strained face watched him at first in mystification, and then broke slowly into a smile. Youth came back into it, the smile changed to a laugh, a low rippling laugh like far-away bells. She took both his hands.

      “You are kind,’ she said, “you are kind and brave. You are a de-ar.”

      And then she kissed him.

      Now, as far as Dickson could remember, no one had ever kissed him except his wife. The light touch of her lips on his forehead was like the pressing of an electric button which explodes some powerful charge and alters the face of a countryside. He blushed scarlet; then he wanted to cry; then he wanted to sing. An immense exhilaration seized him, and I am certain that if at that moment the serried ranks of Bolshevy had appeared in the doorway, Dickson would have hurled himself upon them with a joyful shout.

      Cousin Eugenie was earnestly eating chocolates, but Saskia had other business.

      “You will hold the house?” she asked.

      “Please God, yes,” said Heritage. “I look at it this way. The time is very near when your three gaolers expect the others, their masters. They have not troubled you in the past two days as they threatened, because it was not worth while. But they won’t want to let you out of their sight in the final hours, so they will almost certainly come here to be on the spot. Our object is to keep them out and confuse their plans. Somewhere in this neighbourhood, probably very near, is the man you fear most. If we nonplus the three watchers, they’ll have to revise their policy, and that means a delay, and every hour’s delay is a gain. Mr. McCunn has found out that the factor Loudon is in the plot, and he has purchase enough, it seems, to blanket for a time any appeal to the law. But Mr. McCunn has taken steps to circumvent him, and in twenty-four hours we should have help here.”

      “I do not want the help of your law,” the girl interrupted. “It will entangle me.’

      “Not a bit of it,” said Dickson cheerfully. “You see, Mem, they’ve clean lost track of the jools, and nobody knows where they are but me. I’m a truthful man, but I’ll lie like a packman if I’m asked questions. For the rest, it’s a question of kidnapping, I understand, and that’s a thing that’s not to be allowed. My advice is to go to our beds and get a little sleep while there’s a chance of it. The Gorbals Die-Hards are grand watch-dogs.”

      This view sounded so reasonable that it was at once acted upon. The ladies’ chamber was next door to the smoking-room—what had been the old schoolroom. Heritage arranged with Saskia that the lamp was to be kept burning low, and that on no account were they to move unless summoned by him. Then he and Dickson made their way to the hall, where there was a faint glimmer from the moon in the upper unshuttered windows—enough to reveal the figure of Wee Jaikie on duty at the foot of the staircase. They ascended to the second floor, where, in a large room above the hall, Heritage had bestowed his pack. He had managed to open a fold of the shutters, and there was sufficient light to see two big mahogany bedsteads without mattresses or bedclothes, and wardrobes and chests of drawers sheeted in holland. Outside the wind was rising again, but the rain had stopped. Angry watery clouds scurried across the heavens.

      Dickson made a pillow of his waterproof, stretched himself on one of the bedsteads, and, so quiet was his conscience and so weary his body from the buffetings of the past days, was almost instantly asleep. It seemed to him that he had scarcely closed his eyes when he was awakened by Dougal’s hand pinching his shoulder. He gathered that the moon was setting, for the room was pitchy dark.

      “The three o’ them is approachin’ the kitchen door,” whispered the Chieftain. “I seen them from a spy-hole I made out o’ a ventilator.”

      “Is it barricaded?” asked Heritage, who had apparently not been asleep.

      “Aye, but I’ve thought o’ a far better plan. Why should we keep them out? They’ll be safer inside. Listen! We might manage to get them in one at a time. If they can’t get in at the kitchen door, they’ll send one o’ them round to get in by another door and open to them. That gives us a chance to get them separated, and lock them up. There’s walth o’ closets and hidy-holes all over the place, each with good doors and good keys to them. Supposin’ we get the three o’ them shut up—the others, when they come, will have nobody to guide them. Of course some time or other the three will break out, but it may be ower late for them. At present we’re besieged and they’re roamin’ the country. Would it no’ be far better if they were the ones lockit up and we were goin’ loose?”

      “Supposing they don’t come in one at a time?” Dickson objected.

      “We’ll make them,” said Dougal firmly. “There’s no time to waste. Are ye for it?”

      “Yes,” said Heritage. “Who’s at the kitchen door?”

      “Peter Paterson. I told him no’ to whistle, but to wait on me… Keep your boots off. Ye’re better in your stockin’ feet. Wait you in the hall and see ye’re