Читать книгу Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works) - Buchan John - Страница 66

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The road to the springs of the Garroch water, a stream which never descends to the lowlands but runs its whole course in the heart of mossy hills, is for the motorist a matter of wide and devious circuits. It approaches its goal circumspectly, with an air of cautious reconnaissance. But the foot-traveller has an easier access. He can take the cart-road which runs through the heather of the Clachlands glen and across the intervening hills by the Nick of the Threshes. Beyond that he will look into the amphitheatre of the Garroch, with the loch of that name dark under the shadow of the Caldron, and the stream twining in silver links through the moss, and the white ribbon of highway, on which wheeled vehicles may move, ending in the yard of a moorland cottage.

The Blaweary car had carried Jaikie and Dougal swiftly over the first fifteen miles of their journey. At about three o’clock of the October afternoon they had reached the last green cup where the Clachlands has its source, and were leisurely climbing the hill towards the Nick. Both had ancient knapsacks on their shoulders, but it was their only point of resemblance. Dougal was clad in a new suit of rough tweed knickerbockers which did not fit him well; he had become very hot and carried his jacket on his arm, and he had no hat. Jaikie was in old flannels, for he abominated heavy raiment, and, being always more or less in training, his slender figure looked pleasantly cool and trim. Sometimes they sauntered, sometimes they strode, and now and then they halted, when Dougal had something to say. For Dougal was in the first stage of holiday, when to his closest friend he had to unburden himself of six months’ store of conversation. It was as inevitable as the heat and discomfort which must attend the first day’s walk, before his body rid itself of its sedentary heaviness. Jaikie spoke little; his fate in life was to be a listener.

It is unfair to eavesdrop on the babble of youth when its flow has been long pent up. Dougal’s ran like Ariel over land and sea, with excursions into the upper air. He had recovered his only confidant, and did not mean to spare him. Sometimes he touched upon his daily task—its languors and difficulties, the harassments of the trivial, the profound stupidity of the middle-aged. He defended hotly his politics, and drew so many fine distinctions between his creed and those of all other men, that it appeared that his party was in the loyal, compact, and portable form of his single self. Then ensued torrential confessions of faith and audacious ambition. He was not splashing—he was swimming with a clean stroke to a clear goal. With his pen and voice he was making his power felt, and in time the world would listen to him. His message? There followed a statement of ideals which was nobly eclectic. Dougal was at once nationalist and internationalist, humanitarian and man of iron, realist and poet.

They were now in the Nick of the Threshes, where, in a pad of green lawn between two heathery steeps, a well bubbled among mosses. The thirsty idealist flung himself on the ground and drank deep. He rose with his forelock dripping.

“I sometimes think you are slipping away from me, Jaikie,” he said. “You’ve changed a lot in the last two years… You live in a different kind of world from me, and every year you’re getting less and less of a Scotsman … And I’ve a notion, when I pour out my news to you and haver about myself, that you’re criticising me all the time in your own mind. Am I not right? You’re terribly polite, and you never say much, but I can feel you’re laughing at me. Kindly, maybe, but laughing all the same. You’re saying to yourself, ‘Dougal gets dafter every day. He’s no better than a savage.’”

Jaikie regarded the flushed and bedewed countenance of his friend, and the smile that broadened over his small face was not critical.

“I often think you daft, Dougal. But then I like daftness.”

“Anyway, you’ve none of it yourself. You’re the wisest man I ever met. That’s where you and I differ. I’m always burning or freezing, and you keep a nice, average, normal temperature. I take desperate likes and dislikes. You’ve something good to say about the worst scallywag, and, if you haven’t, you hold your tongue. I’m all for flinging my cap over the moon, while you keep yours snug on your head. No. No”—he quelled an anticipated protest. “It’s the same in your football. It was like that yesterday afternoon. You never run your head against a stone wall. You wait till you see your chance, and then you’re on to it like forked lightning, but you’re determined not to waste one atom of your strength.”

“That’s surely Scotch enough,” said Jaikie laughing. “I’m economical.”

“No, it’s not Scotch. We’re not an economical race. I don’t know what half-wit invented that libel. We spend ourselves—we’ve always spent ourselves—on unprofitable causes. What’s the phrase— perfervidum ingenium? There’s not much of the perfervid about you, Jaikie.”

“No?” said the other, politely interrogatory.

“No. You’ve all the pluck in creation, but it’s the considering kind. You remember how Alan Breck defined his own courage—’Just great penetration and knowledge of affairs.’ That’s yours… Not that you haven’t got the other kind too. David Balfour’s kind—’auld, cauld, dour, deidly courage.’”

“I’ve no courage,” said Jaikie. “I’m nearly always in a funk.”

“Aye, that’s how you would put it. You’ve picked up the English trick of understatement—what they call meiosis in the grammar books. I doubt you and me are very unlike. You’ll not catch me understating. I want to shout both my vices and my virtues on the house-tops… If I dislike a man I want to hit him on the head, while you’d be wondering if the fault wasn’t in yourself… If I want a thing changed I must drive at it like a young bull. If I think there’s dirty work going on I’m for starting a revolution… You don’t seem to care very much about anything, and you’re too fond of playing the devil’s advocate. There was a time… “

“I don’t think I’ve changed,” said Jaikie. “I’m a slow fellow, and I’m so desperately interested in things that I feel my way cautiously. You see, I like so much that I haven’t a great deal of time for hating. I’m not a crusader like you, Dougal.”

“I’m a poor sort of crusader,” said Dougal ruefully. “I get into a tearing passion about something I know very little about, and when I learn more my passion ebbs away. But still I’ve a good hearty stock of dislikes and they keep me from boredom. That’s the difference between us. I’m for breaking a man’s head, and I probably end by shaking hands. You begin by shaking hands … All the same, God help the man or woman or creed or party that you make up your slow mind to dislike… I’m going to make a stir in the world, but I know that I’ll never be formidable. I’m not so sure about you.”

“I don’t want to be formidable.”

“And that’s maybe just the reason why you will be—some day. But I’m serious, Jaikie. It’s a sad business if two ancient friends like you and me are starting to walk on different sides of the road. Our tracks are beginning to diverge, and, though we’re still side by side, in ten years we may be miles apart… You’re not the good Scotsman you used to be. Here am I driving myself mad with the sight of my native land running down the brae—the cities filling up with Irish, the countryside losing its folk, our law and our letters and our language as decrepit as an old wife. Damn it, man, in another half-century there will be nothing left, and we’ll be a mere disconsidered province of England… But you never bother your head about it. Indeed, I think you’ve gone over to the English. What was it I heard you saying to Mr McCunn last night?—that the English had the most political genius of any people because they had the most humour?”

“Well, it’s true,” Jaikie answered. “But every day I spend out of Scotland I like it better. When I’ve nothing else to do I run over in my mind the places I love best—mostly in the Canonry—and when I get a sniff of wood smoke it makes me sick with longing for peat-reek. Do you think I could forget that?”

Jaikie pointed to the scene which was now spread before them, for they had emerged from the Nick of the Threshes and were beginning the long descent to the Garroch. The October afternoon was warm and windless, and not a wisp of cloud broke the level blue of the sky. Such weather in July would have meant that the distances were dim, but on this autumn day, which had begun with frost, there was a crystalline sharpness of outline in the remotest hills. The mountains huddled around the amphitheatre, the round bald forehead of the Yirnie, the twin peaks of the Caldron which hid a tarn in their corrie, the steel-grey fortress of the Calmarton, the vast menacing bulk of the Muneraw. On the far horizon the blue of the sky seemed to fade into white, and a hill shoulder which rose in one of the gaps had an air of infinite distance. The bog in the valley was a mosaic of colours like an Eastern carpet, and the Garroch water twined through it like some fantastic pictured stream in a missal. A glimpse could be had of Loch Garroch, dark as ink in the shadow of the Caldron. There were many sounds, the tinkle of falling burns far below, a faint calling of sheep, an occasional note of a bird. Yet the place had an overmastering silence, a quiet distilled of the blue heavens and the primeval desert. In that loneliness lay the tale of ages since the world’s birth, the song of life and death as uttered by wild living things since the rocks first had form.

The two did not speak for a little. They had seen that which touched in both some deep elemental spring of desire.

Down on the level of the moss, where the green track wound among the haggs, Dougal found his tongue.

“I would like your advice, Jaikie,” he said, “about a point of conduct. It’s not precisely a moral question, but it’s a matter of good taste. I’m drawing a big salary from the Craw firm, and I believe I give good value for it. But all the time I’m despising my job, and despising the paper I help to make up, and despising myself. Thank God, I’ve nothing to do with policy, but I ask myself if I’m justified in taking money from a thing that turns my stomach.”

“But you’re no more responsible for the paper than the head of the case-room that sets the type. You’re a technical expert.”

“That’s the answer I’ve been giving myself, but I’m not sure that it’s sound. It’s quite true that my leaving Craw’s would make no difference—they’d get as good a man next day at a lower wage—maybe at the same wage, for I will say that for them, they’re not skinflints. But it’s a bad thing to work at something you can’t respect. I’m condescending on my job, and that’s ruin for a man’s soul.”

“I see very little harm in the Craw papers,” said Jaikie. “They’re silly, but they’re decent enough.”

“Decent!” Dougal cried. “That’s just what they are not. They’re the most indecent publications on God’s earth. They’re not vicious, if that’s what you mean. They would be more decent if they had a touch of blackguardism. They pander to everything that’s shoddy and slushy and third-rate in human nature. Their politics are an opiate to prevent folk thinking. Their endless stunts, their competitions and insurances and country-holiday schemes—that’s the ordinary dodge to get up their circulation, so as to raise their advertisement prices. I don’t mind that, for it’s just common business. It’s their uplift, their infernal uplift, that makes my spine cold. Oh, Lord! There’s not a vulgar instinct, not a half-baked silliness, in the whole nation that they don’t dig out and print in leaded type. And above all, there’s the man Craw!”

“Did you ever meet him?” Jaikie asked.

“Never. Who has? They tell me he has a house somewhere in the Canonry, when he gets tired of his apartments in foreign hotels. But I study Craw. I’m a specialist in Craw. I’ve four big press-cutting books at home full of Craw. Here’s some of the latest.”

Dougal dived into a pocket and produced a batch of newspaper cuttings.

“They’re mostly about Evallonia. I don’t worry about that. If Craw wants to be a kingmaker he must fight it out with his Evallonians… But listen to some of the other titles. ‘Mr Craw’s Advice to Youth!’ ‘Mr Craw on the Modern Drama.’—He must have sat in the darkness at the back of a box, for he’d never show up in the stalls.—’Mr Craw on Modern Marriage.’—A fine lot he knows about it!—’Mr Craw warns the Trade Unions.’—The devil he does!—’Mr Craw on the Greatness of England.’ ‘Mr Craw’s Open Letter to the President of the U.S.A.’ Will nobody give the body a flea in his ear?… I could write a book about Craw. He’s perpetually denouncing, but always with a hopeful smirk. I’ve discovered his formula. ‘This is the best of all possible worlds, and everything in it is a necessary evil.’ He wants to be half tonic and half sedative, but for me he’s just a plain emetic.”

Dougal waved the cuttings like a flag.

“The man is impregnable, for he never reads any paper but his own, and he has himself guarded like a gun-factory. But I’ve a notion that some day I’ll get him face to face. Some day I’ll have the chance of telling him just what I think of him, and what every honest man—”

Jaikie by a dexterous twitch got possession of the cuttings, crumpled them into a ball, dropped it in a patch of peat, and ground it down with his heel.

“What’s that you’ve done?” Dougal cried angrily. “You’ve spoiled my Craw collection.”

“Better that than spoiling our holiday. Look here, Dougal, my lad. For a week you’ve got to put Craw and all his works out of your head. We are back in an older and pleasanter world, and I won’t have it wrecked by your filthy journalism… “

For the better part of five minutes there was a rough-and-tumble on the green moor-road, from which Jaikie ultimately escaped and fled. When peace was made the two found themselves at a gate in a dry-stone dyke.

“Thank God,” said Dougal. “Here is the Back House at last. I want my tea.”

Their track led them into a little yard behind the cottage, and they made their way to the front, where the slender highway which ascended the valley of the Garroch came to an end in a space of hill gravel before the door. The house was something more than a cottage, for fifty years ago it had been the residence of a prosperous sheep-farmer, before the fashion of “led” farms had spread over the upland glens. It was of two storeys and had a little wing at right angles, the corner between being filled with a huge bush of white roses. The roof was slated, the granite walls had been newly whitewashed, and were painted with the last glories of the tropæolum. A grove of scarlet-berried rowans flanked one end, beyond which lay the walled garden of potatoes and gooseberry bushes, varied with golden-rod and late-flowering phloxes. At the other end were the thatched outhouses and the walls of a sheepfold, where the apparatus for boiling tar rose like a miniature gallows above the dipping-trough. The place slept in a sunny peace. There was a hum of bees from the garden, a slow contented clucking of hens, the echo of a plashing stream descending the steeps of the Caldron, but the undertones made by these sounds were engulfed in the dominant silence. The scent of the moorlands, compounded of miles of stone and heather and winds sharp and pure as the sea, made a masterful background from which it was possible to pick out homelier odours—peat-reek, sheep, the smell of cooking food. To ear, eye, and nostril the place sent a message of intimate and delicate comfort.

The noise of their feet on the gravel brought someone in haste to the door. It was a woman of between forty and fifty, built like a heroine of the Sagas, deep-bosomed, massive, straight as a grenadier. Her broad comely face was brown like a berry, and the dark eyes and hair told of gipsy blood in her ancestry. Her arms were bare, for she had been making butter, and her skirts were kilted, revealing a bright-coloured petticoat, so that she had the air of a Highland warrior.

But in place of the boisterous welcome which Jaikie had expected, her greeting was laughter. She stood in the doorway and shook. Then she held up a hand to enjoin silence, and marched the two travellers to the garden gate out of earshot of the house.

“Did you get my postcard, Mrs Catterick?” Jaikie asked, when they had come to a standstill under a rowan tree.

“Aye, I got your postcaird, and I’m blithe to see ye baith. But ye come at an unco time. I’ve gotten anither visitor.”

“We don’t want to inconvenience you,” Jaikie began. “We can easily go down the water to the Mains of Garroch. The herd there will take us in.”

“Ye’ll dae nae siccan thing. It will never be said that Tibby Catterick turned twae auld freends frae her door, and there’s beds to spare for ye baith… But ye come at an unco time and ye find me at an unco job. I’m a jyler.”

“A what?”

“A jyler. I’ve a man inbye, and I’m under bond no to let him stir a fit frae the Back House till the morn’s morn… I’ll tell ye the gospel truth. My guid-brither’s son—him that’s comin’ out for a minister—is at the college, and the morn the students are electin’ what they ca’ a Rector. Weel, Erchie’s a stirrin’ lad and takes muckle ado wi their politics. It seems that there was a man on the ither side that they wanted to get oot o’ the road—it was fair eneugh, for he had pitten some terrible affronts on Erchie. So what maun the daft laddie dae but kidnap him? How it was done I canna tell, but he brocht him here late last nicht in a cawr, and pit me on my aith no to let him leave the place for thirty ‘oors… So you see I’m turned jyler.” Mrs Catterick again shook with silent merriment.

“Have you got him indoors now?”

“He’s ben the hoose in the best room. I kinnled a fire for him, for he’s a cauldrife body. What’s he like? Oh, a fosy wee man wi’ a bald heid and terrible braw claithes. Ye wad say he was ower auld to be a student, but Erchie says it takes a lang time to get through as a doctor. Linklater, they ca’ him.”

“Has he given you any trouble?” Dougal asked anxiously. He seemed to long to assist in the task of gaoler.

“No him. My man’s awa wi’ the crocks to Gledmouth, and, as ye ken, we hae nae weans, but I could manage twa o’ him my lane. But he never offered to resist. Just ate his supper as if he was in his ain hoose, and spak nae word except to say that he likit my scones. I lent him yin o’ John’s sarks for a nicht-gown and this mornin’ he shaved himsel’ wi’ John’s razor. He’s a quiet, saft-spoken wee body, but there’s nae crack in him. He speaks wi’ a kind o’ English tongue and he ca’s me Madam. I doot that deil Erchie maun be in the wrang o’ it, but kin’s kin and I maun tak the wyte o’ his cantrips.”

Again Jaikie became apologetic and proposed withdrawal, and again his proposal was rejected.

“Ye can bide here fine,” said Mrs Catterick, “now that ye ken the truth. I couldna tell it ye at the door-cheek, for ye were just forenent his windy… Ye’ll hae your meat wi’ me in the kitchen, and ye can hae the twa beds in the loft… Ye’d better no gang near Linklater, for he maybe wadna like folk to ken o’ this performance—nor Erchie neither. He has never stirred frae his room this day, and he’s spak no word except to speir what place he was in and how far it was frae Glen Callowa… Now I think o’t, that was a queer thing to speir, for Erchie said he brocht him frae Kirkmichael… Oh, and he was wantin’ to send a telegram, but I tell’t him there was nae office within saxteen miles and the post wadna be up the water till the morn… I’m just wonderin’ how he’ll get off the morn, for he hasna the buits for walkin’. Ye never saw sic snod, wee, pappymashy things on a man’s feet. But there’s twa bicycles, yin o’ John’s and yin that belongs to the young herd at the west hirsel. Wi’ yin o’ them he’ll maybe manage down the road… But there’s nae sense in crossin’ brigs till ye come to them. I’ve been thrang wi’ the kirnin’, but the butter’s come, and the kettle’s on the boil. Your tea will be ready as sune as ye’ve gotten your faces washed.”

Half an hour later Jaikie and Dougal sat in the kitchen, staying a hearty hunger with farles of oatcake and new-baked scones, and a healthier thirst with immense cups of strong-brewed tea. Their hostess, now garbed somewhat more decorously, presided at the table. She apologised for the delay.

“I had to gie Linklater his tea. He’s gettin’ terrible restless, puir man. He’s been tryin’ to read the books in the best room, but he canna fix his mind, and he’s aye writin’ telegrams. He kens ye’re here, and speired whae ye were, and I telled him twa young lads that were trampin’ the country. I could see that he was feared o’ ye, and nae wonder. It would be sair on a decent body if folk heard that he had been kidnapped by a deil like Erchie. I tried to set his mind at rest about the morn, and telled him about John’s bicycle.”

But the meal was not the jovial affair which Jaikie remembered of old. Mrs Catterick was preoccupied, and did not expand, as was her custom, in hilarious gossip. This new task of gaoler lay heavy on her shoulders. She seemed always to be listening for sounds from the farther part of the house. Twice she left the table and tiptoed along the passage to listen at the door.

“He’s awfu’ restless,” she reported. “He’s walkin’ aboot the floor like a hen on a het girdle. I wish he mayna loss his reason. Dod, I’ll warm Erchie’s lugs for this ploy when I get a haud o’ him. Sic a job to saddle on a decent wumman!”

Then for a little there was peace, for a question of Jaikie’s led their hostess to an account of the great April storm of that year.

“Thirty and three o’ the hill lambs deid in ae nicht… John was oot in the snaw for nineteen ‘oors and I never looked to see him mair. Puir man, when he cam in at last he couldna eat—just a dram o’ whisky in het milk—and he sleepit a round o’ the clock… I had fires in ilka room and lambs afore them in a’ the blankets I possessed… Aye, and it was waur when the snaw went and the floods cam. The moss was like a sea, and the Caldron was streikit wi’ roarin’ burns. We never saw the post for a week, and every brig atween here and Portaway gaed doun to the Solway… Wheesht!”

She broke off and listened. A faint cry of “Madam” came from the other end of the house.

“It’s him. It’s Linklater. ‘Madam’ he ca’s me. Keep us a’!”

She hurried from the kitchen, shutting the door carefully behind her.

When she returned it was with a solemn face.

“He’s wonderin’ if ane o’ you lads wad take a telegram for him to the office. He’s terrible set on’t. ‘Madam,’ he says wi’ his Englishy voice, ‘I assure you it’s a matter of the first importance.’”

“Nonsense,” said Dougal. “Sixteen miles after a long day’s tramp! He can easily wait till the morning. Besides, the office would be closed before we got there.”

“Aye, but hearken.” Mrs Catterick’s voice was hushed in awe. “He offers twenty punds to the man that will dae his will. He’s gotten the notes in his pooch.”

“Now where on earth,” said Dougal, “did a medical student get twenty pounds?”

“He’s no like a student. The mair I look at him the better I see that he’s nane o’ the rough clan that Erchie rins wi’. He’s yin that’s been used wi’ his comforts. And he’s aulder than I thocht—an aulder man than John. I wadna say but that blagyird Erchie has kidnapped a Lord Provost, and whaur will we a’ be then?”

“We had better interview him,” said Dougal. “It’s a shame to let him fret himself.”

“Ane at a time,” advised Mrs Catterick, “for he’s as skeery as a cowt. You gang, Dougal. Ye ken the ways o’ the college lads.”

Dougal departed and the two left behind fell silent. Mrs Catterick’s instinct for the dramatic had been roused, and she kept her eye on the door, through which the envoy would return, as if it had been the curtain of a stage play. Even Jaikie’s placidity was stirred.

“This is a funny business, Mrs Catterick,” he said. “Dougal and I come here for peace, and we find the Back House of the Garroch turned into a robbers’ den. The Canonry is becoming a stirring place. You’ve an election on, too.”

“So I was hearin’, and the post brings us papers about it. John maun try and vote, if he can get an orra day atween the sales. He votit last time, honest man, but we never heard richt whae got in. We’re ower far up the glens for poalitics. Wheesht! Is that Dougal?”

It was not. He did not return for nearly half an hour, and when he came it was to put his head inside the door and violently beckon Jaikie. He led him out of doors to the corner of the garden, and then turned on him a face so excited and portentous that the appropriate utterance should have been a shout. He did not shout: he whispered hoarsely.

“Do you mind our talk coming up the road?… Providence has taken me at my word… Who do you think is sitting ben the house? It’s the man Craw!”