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This simple tale, which has been compelled to linger in too many sordid by-paths, is to have at last one hour of the idyllic. But an idyll demands a discerning mind, a mind which can savour that quality which we call idyllic, which can realise that Heaven has for a moment brought spirit and matter into exquisite unison. “We receive but what we give,” says the poet, “and in our life alone doth Nature live.” Such a mind was Mr McCunn’s, such a maker of idylls was the laird of Blaweary. He alone of men perceived the romance into which he had stumbled, and by perceiving created it. Cogitavit, ergo fuit.

Prince John did not go to bed on Thursday afternoon as Jaikie had advised. On the contrary he played bridge after dinner till close on midnight, and was with difficulty restrained from convoying Robin Charvill on his road to Castle Gay. But next morning he stayed in bed. It was a mild bright day of late autumn; the pheasants were shouting in the woods; the roads were alive with voters hastening to Portaway; Charvill was to be observed, by those who were meant to observe him, sitting on a seat on the Castle terrace in the royal white waterproof: and in the midst of that pleasant bustle of life Prince John was kept firmly between the sheets at the Mains, smoking many cigarettes and reading a detective novel provided by Alison. The cause of this docility was Dickson, who came over after breakfast and took up position in the sitting-room adjoining the royal bed-chamber. It was his duty to see the Prince out of the country, and he was undertaking it in a business spirit.

Jaikie, his headquarters the Green Tree, spent a busy morning over transport. Wilkie, the mechanic at the Hydropathic, was his chief instrument, and he was also his intelligence officer. He brought news of the Evallonians. Allins had been having a good many conferences in the town, he reported, chiefly in a low class of public house. He had also hired two cars for the evening—the cars only, for his party preferred to find the drivers. “He’s got the Station Hotel Daimler,” said Wilkie, “and young Macvittie’s Bentley. They’ll be for a long run, nae doot. Maybe they’re leaving the place, for Tam Grierson tells me they’ve got a’ their bags packed and have settled their bills… I’ve got our Rolls for you. Ay, and I’ve got my orders clear in my mind. I bring the Mains folk down to the Ball, and syne I’m at the hotel at ten-thirty to take the young gentleman doun to Rinks, and back again to take the leddies home… ‘Deed, yes. I’ll haud my tongue, and ye can see for yersel’ I’m speirin’ nae questions. For this day and this nicht I’m J. Galt’s man and naebody else’s.” He laid a confidential and reassuring finger against his nose.

The one incident of note on that day was Jaikie’s meeting with Tibbets. He ran against him in the Eastgate, and, on a sudden inspiration, invited him to the Green Tree and stood him luncheon—Mrs Fairweather’s plain cooking, far better than the pretentious fare of the Station Hotel.

“Mr Tibbets,” he said solemnly, when his guest had stayed his hunger, “you’re proud of your profession, aren’t you?”

“You may say so,” was the answer.

“And you’re jealous of its honour? I mean that, while you are always trying to get the better of other papers, yet if any attack is made on the Press as a whole, you all stand together like a stone wall.”

“That’s so. We’re very proud of our solidarity. You get a Government proposing a dirty deal, and we’d smash them in twenty-four hours.”

“I thought so. You’re the most powerful trade-union on earth.”

“Just about it.”

“Then, listen to me. I’m going to confess something. That walking-tour we told you about was all moonshine. Dougal—he’s my friend—is a journalist on one of the Craw papers, and he’s been at Castle Gay for the last week. I’m not a journalist, but there was rather a mix-up and I had to lend a hand… You scored heavily over your interview with Craw.”

“My biggest scoop so far,” said Tibbets modestly.

“Well, it was all bogus, you know. You never saw Craw. You saw another man, a friend of mine, who happened to be staying at the Castle. He didn’t know he was being interviewed, so he talked freely… You had a big success, because your readers thought Mr Craw was recanting his opinions, and you emphasised it very respectfully in no less than three leaders… Naturally, Craw’s pretty sore.”

Tibbets’s jaw had fallen and consternation looked out of his eyes.

“He can’t repudiate it,” he stammered.

“Oh yes, he can. He wasn’t in the house at the moment. He’s there now, but he wasn’t last Sunday.”

“Where was he?”

“He was with me,” said Jaikie. “Don’t make any mistake. He has a perfectly watertight alibi. He’s only got to publish the facts in his own papers to make the Wire look particularly foolish.”

“And me,” said Tibbets in a hollow voice. “They’ve just raised my screw. Now they’ll fire me.”

“Probably,” said Jaikie coolly. “It will be the hoax of the year, and the Wire is sensitive about hoaxes. It has been had lots of times… But you may ask why the thing hasn’t been disavowed already? This is Friday, and your interview appeared last Monday. A telegram to the View signed with Craw’s private code-word would have done the trick. That telegram was written out, but it wasn’t sent. Can you guess why?”

Tibbets, sunk in gloom, looked far from guessing.

“I stopped it. And the reason was because we want your help. What’s more, that telegram need never be sent. The interview can remain unrepudiated and your own reputation untarnished. It has done a good deal of harm to Craw, but he’ll say no more about it if—”

“If?” came Tibbets’s sharp question.

“If you give us a hand in an altogether different matter. Craw is being bullied by a gang of foreigners—Evallonians—Evallonian Republicans. That would be grand stuff for the Wire, wouldn’t it? Yes, but not a word must appear about it unless it is absolutely necessary, for, you see, this is a case for your famous solidarity. A portion of the British Press is being threatened, and in defence the rest of it must stand shoulder to shoulder. You’re the only representative of the rest on the spot; and I want you to come with me to-night to Castle Gay to see what happens. There may be no need for your help—in which case you must swear that you’ll never breathe a word about the business. On the other hand, you may be badly wanted. In Craw’s interest it may be necessary to show up a foreign plot to intimidate a British newspaper proprietor, and between the Wire and the View we ought to make a pretty good effort. What do you say?”

Tibbets looked at Jaikie with eyes in which relief was mingled with disappointment.

“Of course I agree,” he said. “I promise that, unless you give me the word, I will wipe anything I may see or hear clean out of my memory. I promise that, if you give me the word, I will put my back into making the highest and holiest row in the history of the British Press… But, Mr Galt, I wish you hadn’t brought in that interview as the price of my help. I needn’t tell you I’ll be thankful if it is allowed to stand. It means a lot to me. But, supposing Craw disowned it straight away, I’d still be glad to come in on to-night’s show. I’ve got my professional standards like other people, and I’m honest about them. If Craw’s independence is threatened by somebody outside our trade, then I’m out to defend him, though he were doing his damnedest to break me. Have you got that?”

“I’ve got it,” said Jaikie, “and I apologise. You see I’m not a journalist myself.”

Dickson McCunn spent the day, as he would have phrased it, “in waiting.” He was both courtier and business man. Middlemas was left to see to the packing of the Prince’s kit. Dickson’s was no menial task; it was for him to act for one day as Chief of Staff to a great man in extremity. He occupied his leisure in investigating Mrs Brisbane-Brown’s reference library, where he conned the history of the royal house of Evallonia. There could be no doubt of it; the blood of Stuart and Sobieski ran in the veins of the young gentleman now engaged in bed with a detective novel and a box of cigarettes.

He lunched alone with Mrs Brisbane-Brown. Alison, it appeared, was at the Castle, to which late the night before Mr Craw had also been secretly conveyed. In the afternoon Dickson fell asleep, and later was given a solitary tea by Middlemas. At the darkening Alison returned, the Prince was got out of bed, and there was a great mustering of the late General’s Highland accoutrements. Presently Dickson had the felicity of watching a young man in the costume of Prince Charles Edward (and, if the miniature in the drawing-room was to be trusted, favouring the original in most respects) being instructed by Alison, with the assistance of her gramophone, in the movements of the foursome and the eightsome reels. Dickson sat through the performance in a happy trance. The faded Stuart tartan of the kilt and plaid, the old worn velvet of the doublet, the bright silver of dirk and sword-hilt, the dim blue of the Garter riband, were part of something which he had always dreamed. The wig was impossible, for the head of the late General had been larger than the Prince’s, but Dickson applauded its absence. He had always thought of Prince Charlie as wearing his own hair, and that hair not too long.

Mrs Brisbane-Brown appeared at dinner “en grande tenue,” as she expressed it, with a magnificent comb of diamonds surmounting her head. But Alison was in her ordinary outdoor clothes. The ball was not for her, she said, for she had far too much to do. Jaikie was due at the Castle at half-past eight, and she must be there when he arrived. “That woman Cazenove,” she observed, “is no manner of use. She has been fluttering round Mr Craw like a scared hen, and undermining his self-confidence. She is undoing all the good you did him, Aunt Hatty. I have told Bannister to carry her to her bedroom and lock her in if she gets hysterical.”

She left before the meal was over, and her adieu to the Prince scandalised Dickson by its informality. “See that you turn up the collar of your ulster, sir, and tie a muffler round your chin. There are several people near the gate who have no business to be there. I shall have some fun dodging them myself.”

The car, driven by Wilkie, duly arrived at the stroke of nine, and Mrs Brisbane-Brown, attended by her nephew, who was muffled, as one would expect in an Australian, against the chills of a Scots October, was packed into it by Middlemas and her maid. Dickson did not show himself. His time was not yet, and he was fortifying himself against it by a pipe and a little hot toddy.

The story of the Ball may be read in the Canonry Standard and Portaway Advertiser, where the party from the Mains was incorrectly given as the Honourable Mrs Brisbane-Brown, the Honourable Alison Westwater, and Mr John Charvill. The Australian cousin was a huge success, and to this day many a Canonry maiden retains a tender memory of the tall young Chevalier, who danced beautifully—except in the reels, where he needed much guidance—and whose charm of manner and wide knowledge of the world upset all their preconceived notions of the inhabitants of the Antipodes. His aunt introduced him also to several of the neighbouring lairds, who found him not less agreeable than their womenkind. It was a misfortune that he left so early and so mysteriously. His name was on many virginal programmes for dances after midnight. Lord Fosterton wanted to continue his conversation with him about a new method of rearing partridges, which Mr Charvill had found in Czecho-Slovakia, and young Mr Kennedy of Kenmair, who was in the Diplomatic Service, and whose memory was haunted by a resemblance which he could not define, was anxious to exchange gossip with him about certain circles in Vienna with which he appeared to be familiar. As it was, Mr Charvill departed like Cinderella, but long before Cinderella’s hour.

At half-past ten Wilkie returned to the Mains and Dickson’s hour had come. He wore a heavy motoring ulster and a soft black hat which belonged to Barbon. It seemed to him the nearest approach he could find to the proper headwear. From Bannister he had borrowed a small revolver, for which he had only four cartridges. He felt it incongruous—it should have been a long sword.

At a quarter to eleven he stood on the pavement outside the Station Hotel, which was empty now, for the crowd which had watched the guests’ arrival had departed. A tall figure in a greatcoat came swiftly out. Dickson held the door open while he entered the car, and then got in beside him. His great hour had begun.

I wish that for Dickson’s sake I could tell of a hazardous journey, of hostile eyes and sinister faces, of a harsh challenge, a brush with the enemy, an escape achieved in the teeth of odds by the subtlety and valour of the Prince’s companion. For such things Dickson longed, and for such he was prepared. But truth compels me to admit that nothing of the sort happened. The idyllic is not the epic. The idyll indeed is an Alexandrian invention, born in the days when the epic spirit had passed out of life. But Dickson, whose soul thirsted for epic, achieved beyond doubt the idyllic.

Prince John was in a cheerful, conversational mood. He was thankful to be out of what promised to be a very tiresome entanglement. He wanted to be back in France, where he was due at a partridge shoot. He had enjoyed the ball, and purposed to take lessons in reel-dancing. “You have pretty girls in Scotland,” he said, “but none to touch Miss Westwater. In another year I back her to lead the field. There’s a good hotel, you say, at Markhaven, where I can get a few hours’ sleep… My friends by this time are in London, but we do not propose to meet till Paris… Happily the wind is slight. I am not the best of sailors.”

He conversed pleasantly, but Dickson’s answers, if respectful, were short. He was too busy savouring the situation to talk. He addressed his companion, not as “Sir,” but as “Sire.”

The car stopped a little beyond the hamlet of Rinks, and “Wait here,” Dickson told Wilkie; “I’ll be back in less than half an hour.” He humped the heavier of the Prince’s two cases (which was all the baggage the Prince proposed to take with him) and led him, by a road he knew well, over the benty links and by way of many plank bridges across the brackish runnels which drained the marshlands. The moon was high in the heavens, and the whole cup of the estuary brimmed with light. The trench of the Callowa was full, a silver snake in a setting of palest gold, and above it, like a magical bird, brooded the Rosabelle. Only the rare calls of sea-fowl broke into the low chuckle and whisper of the ebbing tide.

Maclellan was waiting for them, Maclellan in sea-boots and an ancient greatcoat of frieze.

“Man, I’m glad to see ye, Mr McCunn,” was his greeting. “I’m vexed we’re to hae sae little o’ ye, but I’m proud to be able to oblige your freend… What did you say his name was? Mr Charles? It’s a grand nicht for our job, Mr Charles. The wind’s at our back—what there is o’t. It’s no muckle the noo, but there’ll be mair oot on the Solway. We’ll be in Markhaven by ane o’ the mornin’.”

Dickson’s ear caught Maclellan’s misapprehension of Charvill. He did not correct it, for the name Maclellan gave the Prince was the name he had long given him in his heart.

Far down the estuary he saw the lights of a ship, and from its funnel a thin fluff of smoke showed against the pale sky.

“That’s the yatt that’s lyin’ off Fallatown,” Maclellan said. “She’s gettin’ up steam. She’ll be for off early in the mornin’.”

It was the last touch that was needed to complete the picture. There lay the enemy ship, the English frigate, to prevent escape. Under its jaws the Prince must slip through to the sanctuary of France. The place was no longer an inlet on a lowland firth. It was Loch Nanuamh under the dark hills of Moidart—it was some Hebridean bay, with outside the vast shadowy plain of the Atlantic…

They were on the deck of the Rosabelle now, and, as the Prince unbuttoned his ulster to get at his cigarettes, Dickson saw the flutter of tartan, the gleam of silver, the corner of a blue riband. In that moment his spirit was enlarged. At last—at long last—his dream had come true. He was not pondering romance, he was living it… He was no more the prosperous trader, the cautious business man, the laird of a few humdrum acres, the plump elder whose seat was the chimney-corner. He was young again, and his place was the open road and the seashore and the uncharted world. He was Lochiel, with a price on his head and no home but the heather… He was Montrose in his lonely loyalty… He was Roland in the red twilight of Roncesvalles…

The Prince was saying good-bye.

“I’m very much obliged to you, Mr McCunn. Some day I hope we may meet again and renew our friendship. Meanwhile, will you wear this as a memento of our pleasant adventure?”

He took a ring from his finger, a plain gold ring set with an engraved cornelian. Dickson received it blindly. He was to remember later the words which accompanied it, but at the moment he scarcely heard them. He took the Prince’s hand, bent low, and kissed it. Happily Maclellan was not looking.

“God bless your Royal Highness,” he stammered, “and bring you safe to port. And if you ever have need of me, a word will bring me across the world.”

He was on the bank now, the mooring rope had been loosed, and the Rosabelle was slipping gently down the current. Maclellan had begun to hoist the sail. The Prince stood in the stern and waved his hand, but Dickson did not respond. His thoughts were too insurgent for action. His whole soul was drawn to that patch of dark which was the boat, momentarily growing smaller, speeding down a pathway of silver into a golden haze.

“I meant it,” he said firmly to himself. “By God, I meant it… I’m sixty-one years of age on the 15th of next month, but a man’s just as old as his heart, and mine’s young. I’ve got the ring… And maybe some day I’ll get the word!”

He took his seat beside Wilkie and amazed him by his high spirits. All the road to Portaway he sang what seemed to be Jacobite songs. “I’ll to Lochiel and Appin and kneel to them,” he crooned. When they picked up Mrs Brisbane-Brown at the hotel, she travelled alone inside the car, for Dickson resumed the outside seat and his melodies. “Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee!” he shouted.

“Ye havena got the tune richt,” said the distracted Wilkie.

“Who cares about the tune?” Dickson cried. “It’s the words that matter. And the words are great.”

The car halted in the street of Starr village. Presently Dickson joined Mrs Brisbane-Brown inside, and the place beside the driver was taken by a bulky stranger.

“A friend of mine,” he told the lady. “He’ll maybe come in useful at the Castle.”