Читать книгу Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works) - Buchan John - Страница 83

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Next evening the sun, as it declined over the Carrick hills, illumined a small figure plodding up the road which led to Loch Garroch. Very small the figure appeared in that spacious twilight solitude, and behind it, around it, in front of it scampered and sniffed something still smaller. Jaikie and Woolworth were setting out again on their travels, for there was still a week before the University of Cambridge claimed them. Jaikie had left Castle Gay in a sober and meditative mood. “So that’s that,” had been his not very profound reflection. Things did happen sometimes, he reminded himself, unexpected things, decisive things, momentous incidents clotted together in a little space of time. Who dare say that the world was dull? He and Dougal, setting out on an errand as prosaic as Saul’s quest of his father’s asses, had been suddenly caught up into a breathless crisis, which had stopped only on the near side of tragedy. He had been privileged to witness the discovery by an elderly gentleman of something that might almost be called his soul.

There could be no doubt about Mr Craw. Surprising developments might be looked for in that hitherto shy prophet. He had always been assured enough in his mind, but he had been only a voice booming from the sanctuary. He had been afraid of the actual world. Now that fear had gone, for there is no stiffer confidence than that which is won by a man, otherwise secure, who discovers that the one thing which he has dreaded need only be faced to be overcome… Much depended upon Mrs Brisbane-Brown. Jaikie was fairly certain that there would be a marriage between the two, and he approved. They were complementary spirits. The lady’s clear, hard, good sense would keep the prophet’s feet in safe paths. He would never be timid any more. She would be an antiseptic to his sentimentality. She might make a formidable being out of the phrasing journalist.

Much depended, too, upon Dougal. It was plain that Dougal was now high in the great man’s favour. A queer business, thought Jaikie, and yet natural enough… Jaikie had no illusions about how he himself was regarded by Mr Craw. Hatred was too strong a word, but beyond doubt there was dislike. He had seen the great man’s weakness, whereas Dougal had only been the witness of his strength… And Craw and Dougal were alike, too. Both were dogmatists. They might profess different creeds, but they looked on life with the same eyes. Heaven alone knew what the results of the combination would be, but a combination was clearly decreed. Dougal was no more the provincial journalist; he would soon have the chief say in the direction of the Craw Press.

At the thought Jaikie had a momentary pang. He felt very remote not only from the companion of his week’s wanderings but from his ancient friend.

Mr Craw had behaved handsomely by him. He had summoned him that morning into his presence and thanked him with a very fair appearance of cordiality. He had had the decency, too, not to attempt to impose on him an obligation of silence as to their joint adventures, thereby showing that he understood at least part of Jaikie’s character.

“Mr Galt,” he had said, “I have been much impressed by your remarkable abilities. I am not clear what is the best avenue for their exercise. But I am deeply in your debt, and I shall be glad to give you any assistance in my power.”

Jaikie had thanked him, and replied that he had not made up his mind.

“You have no bias, no strong impulse?”

Jaikie had shaken his head.

“You are still very young,” Mr Craw had said, “but you must not postpone your choice too late. You must find a philosophy of life. I had found mine before I was out of my teens. There is no hope for the drifter.”

They had parted amicably, and, as he breasted the hill which led from the Callowa to the Garroch, Jaikie had found himself reflecting on this interview. He realised how oddly detached he was. He was hungry for life, as hungry as Dickson McCunn. He enjoyed every moment, but he knew that his enjoyment came largely from standing a little apart. He was not a cynic, for there was no sourness in him. He had a kindliness towards most things, and a large charity. But he did not take sides. He had not accepted any mood, or creed, or groove as his own. Vix ea nostra voco was his motto. He was only a seeker. Dougal wanted to make converts; he himself was still occupied in finding out what was in his soul.

For the first time in his life he had a sense of loneliness… There was no help for it. He must be honest with himself. He must go on seeking.

At the top of the hill he halted to look down upon the Garroch glen, with the end of Lower Loch Garroch a pool of gold in the late October sun. There was a sound behind him, and he turned to see a girl coming over the crest of the hill. It was Alison, and she was in a hurry, for she was hatless, and her cob was in a lather.

She swung herself to the ground with the reins looped round an arm.

“Oh, Jaikie!” she cried. “Why did you leave without saying good-bye? I only heard by accident that you had gone, and I’ve had such a hustle to catch you up. Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know,” said Jaikie. “It seemed difficult to say good-bye to you, so I shirked it.” He spoke penitently, but there was no penitence in his face. That plain little wedge of countenance was so lit up that it was almost beautiful.

They sat down on a bank of withered heather and looked over the Garroch to the western hills.

“What fun we have had!” Alison sighed. “I hate to think that it is over. I hate your going away.”

Jaikie did not answer. It was difficult for one so sparing of speech to find words equal to that sudden glow in his eyes.

“When are we going to meet again?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “But we are going to meet again… often … always.”

He turned, and he saw in her face that comprehension which needs no words.

They sat for a little, and then she rose. “I must go back,” she said, “or Aunt Hatty will be dragging the ponds for me.”

They shook hands, quite prosaically. He watched her mount and turn her horse’s head to the Callowa, while he turned his own resolutely to the Garroch. He took a few steps and then looked back. The girl had not moved.

“Dear Jaikie,” she said, and the intervening space did not weaken the tenderness of the words. Then she put her horse into a canter, and the last he saw was a golden head disappearing over the brow of the hill.

He quickened his pace, and strode down into the Garroch valley with his mind in a happy confusion. Years later, when the two monosyllables of his name were famous in other circles than those of Rugby football, he was to remember that evening hour as a crisis in his life. For, as he walked, his thoughts moved towards a new clarity and a profound concentration… He was no longer alone. The seeker had found something infinitely precious. He had a spur now to endeavour, such endeavour as would make the common bustle of life seem stagnant. A force of high velocity had been unloosed on the world.

These were not Jaikie’s explicit thoughts; he only knew that he was happy, and that he was glad to have no companion but Woolworth. He passed the shores of Lower Loch Garroch, and his singing scared the mallards out of the reeds. He came into the wide cup of the Garroch moss, shadowed by its sentinel hills, with the light of the Back House to guide him through the thickening darkness. But he was not conscious of the scene, for he was listening to the songs which youth was crooning in his heart.

Mrs Catterick knew his step on the gravel, and met him at the door.

“Bide the nicht?” she cried. “‘Deed ye may, and blithe to see ye! Ye’ve gotten rid o’ the auld man? Whae was he?”

“A gentleman from London. He’s safely home now.”

“Keep us a’. Just what I jaloused. That’s a stick for me to haud ower Erchie’s heid. Erchie was here twae days syne, speirin’ what had become o’ the man he had sae sair mishandled. D’ye ken what I said? I said he was deid and buried among the tatties in the yaird. No anither word could Erchie get oot o’ me, and he gae’d off wi’ an anxious hert. I’ll keep him anxious. He’ll be expectin’ the pollis ony day.”

Five minutes later Jaikie sat in the best room, while his hostess lit the peat fire.

“Ye’ve been doun by Castle Gay?” she gossiped. “It’s a braw bit, and it’s a peety the family canna afford to bide in it. It’s let to somebody—I canna mind his name. We’re on his lordship’s land here, ye ken. There’s a picture o’ Miss Alison. She used to come often here, and a hellicat lassie she was, but rale frank and innerly. I aye said they wad hae a sair job makin’ a young leddy o’ her.”

Mrs Catterick pointed to where above the mantelpiece hung a framed photograph of a girl, whose face was bordered by two solemn plaits of hair.

“It’s a bonny bit face,” she said reflectively. “There’s daftness in it, but there’s something wise and kind in her een. ‘Deed, Jaikie, when I come to look at them, they’re no unlike your ain.”

THE END