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

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 9

       THE FIRST DAY OF THE HEJIRA— THE INN AT WATERMEETING

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      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.

      He found it in his intention to go straight to London. There was vigour and decision in that act. He was taking up arms against his sea of troubles. As resolutely as he could he shut out the thought of what might happen when he got to London—further Evallonian solicitations with a horrid chance of publicity. London was at any rate familiar ground, unlike this bleak, sodden wilderness. He had never hated anything so much as that moorland cottage where for two days and three nights he had kept weary vigil. Still more did he loathe the present prospect of sour bent, gaping haggs, and mist low on the naked hills.

      “How far is it to the nearest railway station?” he asked the burdened figure at his side.

      “It’s about twelve miles to Glendonan,” Jaikie answered.

      “Do you know anything about the trains?”

      “It’s a branch line, but there’s sure to be an afternoon train to Gledmouth. The night mail stops there about eleven, I think.”

      Twelve miles! Mr Craw felt some sinking of the heart, which was succeeded by