<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></SPAN>CHAPTER XI</h2>
<p class="center">GRAVITY OUT OF BED</p>
<p>It is probable that Sir Archibald Roylance did not
altogether believe Dickson's tale; it may be that
he considered him an agreeable romancer, or a little
mad, or no more than a relief to the tedium of a
wet Sunday morning. But his incredulity did not
survive one glance at Saskia as she stood in that
bleak drawing-room among Victorian water-colours
and faded chintzes. The young man's boyishness
deserted him. He stopped short in his tracks, and
made a profound and awkward bow. "I am at your
service, Mademoiselle," he said, amazed at himself.
The words seemed to have come out of a confused
memory of plays and novels.</p>
<p>She inclined her head—a little on one side, and
looked towards Dickson.</p>
<p>"Sir Archibald's going to do his best for us," said
that squire of dames. "I was telling him that we
had had our breakfast."</p>
<p>"Let's get out of this sepulchre," said their host,
who was recovering himself. "There's a roasting
fire in my den. Of course you'll have something to
eat—hot coffee, anyhow—I've trained my cook to
make coffee like a Frenchwoman. The housekeeper
will take charge of you, if you want to tidy up, and
you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please. I
don't believe there's ever been a lady in this house
before, you know."<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>He led her to the smoking-room and ensconced
her in the great chair by the fire. Smilingly she
refused a series of offers which ranged from a
sheepskin mantle which he had got in the Pamirs
and which he thought might fit her, to hot whisky
and water as a specific against a chill. But she accepted
a pair of slippers and deftly kicked off the
brogues provided by Mrs. Morran. Also, while
Dickson started rapaciously on a second breakfast,
she allowed him to pour her out a cup of coffee.</p>
<p>"You are a soldier?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Two years infantry—5th Battalion Lennox
Highlanders, and then Flying Corps. Top-hole
time I had too, till the day before the Armistice
when my luck gave out and I took a nasty toss.
Consequently I'm not as fast on my legs now as
I'd like to be."</p>
<p>"You were a friend of Captain Kennedy?"</p>
<p>"His oldest. We were at the same private
school, and he was at m' tutor's, and we were never
much separated till he went abroad to cram for the
Diplomatic and I started east to shoot things."</p>
<p>"Then I will tell you what I told Captain Kennedy."
Saskia, looking into the heart of the peats,
began the story of which we have already heard a
version, but she told it differently, for she was telling
it to one who more or less belonged to her own
world. She mentioned names at which the other
nodded. She spoke of a certain Paul Abreskov. "I
heard of him at Bokhara in 1912," said Sir Archie,
and his face grew solemn. Sometimes she lapsed
into French, and her hearer's brow wrinkled, but<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></SPAN></span>
he appeared to follow. When she had finished he
drew a long breath.</p>
<p>"My Aunt! What a time you've been through!
I've seen pluck in my day, but yours! It's not
thinkable. D'you mind if I ask a question, Princess?
Bolshevism we know all about, and I admit
Trotsky and his friends are a pretty effective push;
but how on earth have they got a world-wide graft
going in the time so that they can stretch their net
to an out-of-the-way spot like this? It looks as if
they had struck a Napoleon somewhere."</p>
<p>"You do not understand," she said. "I cannot
make any one understand—except a Russian. My
country has been broken to pieces, and there is no
law in it; therefore it is a nursery of crime. So
would England be, or France, if you had suffered
the same misfortunes. My people are not wickeder
than others, but for the moment they are sick and
have no strength. As for the government of the
Bolsheviki it matters little, for it will pass. Some
parts of it may remain, but it is a government of the
sick and fevered, and cannot endure in health.
Lenin may be a good man—I do not think so, but
I do not know—but if he were an archangel he
could not alter things. Russia is mortally sick and
therefore all evil is unchained, and the criminals
have no one to check them. There is crime everywhere
in the world, and the unfettered crime in
Russia is so powerful that it stretches its hand to
crime throughout the globe and there is a great
mobilising everywhere of wicked men. Once you
boasted that law was international and that the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></SPAN></span>
police in one land worked with the police of all
others. To-day that is true about criminals. After
a war evil passions are loosed, and, since Russia is
broken, in her they can make their headquarters....
It is not Bolshevism, the theory, you need
fear, for that is a weak and dying thing. It is
crime, which to-day finds its seat in my country, but
is not only Russian. It has no fatherland. It is
as old as human nature and as wide as the earth."</p>
<p>"I see," said Sir Archie. "Gad, here have I
been vegetatin' and thinkin' that all excitement had
gone out of life with the war, and sometimes even
regrettin' that the beastly old thing was over, and
all the while the world fairly hummin' with interest.
And Loudon too!"</p>
<p>"I would like your candid opinion on yon factor,
Sir Archibald," said Dickson.</p>
<p>"I can't say I ever liked him, and I've once or
twice had a row with him, for he used to bring his
pals to shoot over Dalquharter and he didn't quite
play the game by me. But I know dashed little
about him, for I've been a lot away. Bit hairy
about the heels, of course. A great figure at local
race-meetin's, and used to toady old Carforth and
the huntin' crowd. He has a pretty big reputation
as a sharp lawyer and some of the thick-headed
lairds swear by him, but Quentin never could stick
him. It's quite likely he's been gettin' into Queer
Street, for he was always speculatin' in horse-flesh,
and I fancy he plunged a bit on the Turf. But I
can't think how he got mixed up in this show."</p>
<p>"I'm positive Dobson's his brother."<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"And put this business in his way. That would
explain it all right.... He must be runnin' for
pretty big stakes, for that kind of lad don't dabble
in crime for six-and-eightpence.... Now for the
layout. You've got three men shut up in Dalquharter
House, who by this time have probably
escaped. One of you—what's his name?—Heritage?—is
in the old Tower, and you think that <i>they</i>
think the Princess is still there and will sit round
the place like terriers. Sometime to-day the Danish
brig will arrive with reinforcements, and then there
will be a hefty fight. Well, the first thing to be
done is to get rid of Loudon's stymie with the authorities.
Princess, I'm going to carry you off in
my car to the Chief Constable. The second thing
is for you after that to stay on here. It's a deadly
place on a wet day, but it's safe enough."</p>
<p>Saskia shook her head and Dickson spoke for her.</p>
<p>"You'll no' get her to stop here. I've done my
best, but she's determined to be back at Dalquharter.
You see she's expecting a friend, and besides, if
there's going to be a battle she'd like to be in it.
Is that so, Mem?"</p>
<p>Sir Archie looked helplessly around him, and the
sight of the girl's face convinced him that argument
would be fruitless. "Anyhow she must come with
me to the Chief Constable. Lethington's a slow
bird on the wing, and I don't see myself convincin'
him that he must get busy unless I can produce the
Princess. Even then it may be a tough job, for it's
Sunday, and in these parts people go to sleep till
Monday mornin'."<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"That's just what I'm trying to get at," said
Dickson. "By all means go to the Chief Constable,
and tell him it's life or death. My lawyer in Glasgow,
Mr. Caw, will have been stirring him up yesterday,
and you two should complete the job....
But what I'm feared is that he'll not be in time.
As you say, it's the Sabbath day, and the police are
terrible slow. Now any moment that brig may be
here, and the trouble will start. I'm wanting to
save the Princess, but I'm wanting too to give these
blagyirds the roughest handling they ever got in
their lives. Therefore I say there's no time to lose.
We're far ower few to put up a fight, and we want
every man you've got about this place to hold the
fort till the police come."</p>
<p>Sir Archibald looked upon the earnest flushed
face of Dickson with admiration. "I'm blessed if
you're not the most whole-hearted brigand I've
ever struck."</p>
<p>"I'm not. I'm just a business man."</p>
<p>"Do you realise that you're levying a private
war and breaking every law of the land?"</p>
<p>"Hoots!" said Dickson. "I don't care a docken
about the law. I'm for seeing this job through.
What force can you produce?"</p>
<p>"Only cripples, I'm afraid. There's Sime, my
butler. He was a Fusilier Jock and, as you saw,
has lost an arm. Then McGuffog the keeper is a
good man, but he's still got a Turkish bullet in his
thigh. The chauffeur, Carfrae, was in the Yeomanry,
and lost half a foot, and there's myself, as
lame as a duck. The herds on the home farm are<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></SPAN></span>
no good, for one's seventy and the other is in bed
with jaundice. The Mains can produce four men,
but they're rather a job lot."</p>
<p>"They'll do fine," said Dickson heartily. "All
sodgers, and no doubt all good shots. Have you
plenty guns?"</p>
<p>Sir Archie burst into uproarious laughter. "Mr.
McCunn, you're a man after my own heart. I'm
under your orders. If I had a boy I'd put him into
the provision trade, for it's the place to see fightin'.
Yes, we've no end of guns. I advise shot-guns, for
they've more stoppin' power in a rush than a rifle,
and I take it it's a rough-and-tumble we're lookin'
for."</p>
<p>"Right," said Dickson. "I saw a bicycle in the
hall. I want you to lend it me, for I must be getting
back. You'll take the Princess and do the
best you can with the Chief Constable."</p>
<p>"And then?"</p>
<p>"Then you'll load up your car with your folk,
and come down the hill to Dalquharter. There'll
be a laddie, or maybe more than one, waiting for
you on this side the village to give you instructions.
Take your orders from them. If it's a red-haired
ruffian called Dougal you'll be wise to heed what
he says, for he has a grand head for battles."</p>
<p>Five minutes later Dickson was pursuing a quavering
course like a snipe down the avenue. He was
a miserable performer on a bicycle. Not for twenty
years had he bestridden one, and he did not understand
such new devices as free-wheels and change
of gears. The mounting had been the worst part<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></SPAN></span>
and it had only been achieved by the help of a
rockery. He had begun by cutting into two flower-beds,
and missing a birch tree by inches. But he
clung on desperately, well knowing that if he fell
off it would be hard to remount, and at length he
gained the avenue. When he passed the lodge
gates he was riding fairly straight, and when he
turned off the Ayr highway to the side road that
led to Dalquharter he was more or less master of
his machine.</p>
<p>He crossed the Garple by an ancient hunch-backed
bridge, observing even in his absorption with the
handle-bars that the stream was in roaring spate.
He wrestled up the further hill, with aching calf-muscles,
and got to the top just before his strength
gave out. Then as the road turned seaward he had
the slope with him, and enjoyed some respite. It
was no case for putting up his feet, for the gale
was blowing hard on his right cheek, but the downward
grade enabled him to keep his course with
little exertion. His anxiety to get back to the scene
of action was for the moment appeased, since he
knew he was making as good speed as the weather
allowed, so he had leisure for thought.</p>
<p>But the mind of this preposterous being was not
on the business before him. He dallied with irrelevant
things—with the problems of youth and love.
He was beginning to be very nervous about Heritage,
not as the solitary garrison of the old Tower,
but as the lover of Saskia. That everybody should
be in love with her appeared to him only proper,
for he had never met her like, and assumed that it<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></SPAN></span>
did not exist. The desire of the moth for the star
seemed to him a reasonable thing, since hopeless
loyalty and unrequited passion were the eternal
stock-in-trade of romance. He wished he were
twenty-five himself to have the chance of indulging
in such sentimentality for such a lady. But Heritage
was not like him and would never be content
with a romantic folly.... He had been in love
with her for two years—a long time. He spoke
about wanting to die for her, which was a flight
beyond Dickson himself. "I doubt it will be what
they call a 'grand passion,'" he reflected with reverence.
But it was hopeless; he saw quite clearly
that it was hopeless.</p>
<p>Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson's
instincts were subtler than his intelligence. He
recognised that the two belonged to different circles
of being, which nowhere intersected. That mysterious
lady, whose eyes had looked through life to
the other side, was no mate for the Poet. His
faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed
for Heritage a sincere affection. It would break
his heart, poor man. There was he holding the
fort alone and cheering himself with delightful
fancies about one remoter than the moon. Dickson
wanted happy endings, and here there was no hope
of such. He hated to admit that life could be
crooked, but the optimist in him was now fairly
dashed.</p>
<p>Sir Archie might be the fortunate man, for of
course he would soon be in love with her, if he were
not so already. Dickson like all his class had a pro<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></SPAN></span>found
regard for the country gentry. The business
Scot does not usually revere wealth, though he may
pursue it earnestly, nor does he specially admire
rank in the common sense. But for ancient race he
has respect in his bones, though it may happen
that in public he denies it, and the laird has for him
a secular association with good family.... Sir
Archie might do. He was young, good-looking,
obviously gallant.... But no! He was not quite
right either. Just a trifle too light in weight, too
boyish and callow. The Princess must have youth,
but it should be mighty youth, the youth of a Napoleon
or a C�sar. He reflected that the Great
Montrose, for whom he had a special veneration,
might have filled the bill. Or young Harry with
his beaver up? Or Claverhouse in the picture with
the flush of temper on his cheek?</p>
<p>The meditations of the match-making Dickson
came to an abrupt end. He had been riding negligently,
his head bent against the wind, and his eyes
vaguely fixed on the wet hill-gravel of the road.
Of his immediate environs he was pretty well unconscious.
Suddenly he was aware of figures on
each side of him who advanced menacingly. Stung
to activity he attempted to increase his pace, which
was already good, for the road at this point descended
steeply. Then, before he could prevent it,
a stick was thrust into his front wheel, and the next
second he was describing a curve through the air.
His head took the ground, he felt a spasm of blinding
pain, and then a sense of horrible suffocation
before his wits left him.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Are ye sure it's the richt man, Ecky?" said a
voice which he did not hear.</p>
<p>"Sure. It's the Glesca body Dobson telled us to
look for yesterday. It's a pund note atween us for
this job. We'll tie him up in the wud till we've
time to attend to him."</p>
<p>"Is he bad?"</p>
<p>"It doesna maitter," said the one called Ecky.
"He'll be deid onyway long afore the morn."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Mrs. Morran all forenoon was in a state of un-Sabbatical
disquiet. After she had seen Saskia and
Dickson start she finished her housewifely duties,
took Cousin Eug�nie her breakfast, and made
preparation for the midday dinner. The invalid
in the bed in the parlour was not a repaying subject.
Cousin Eug�nie belonged to that type of
elderly women who, having been spoiled in youth,
find the rest of life fall far short of their expectations.
Her voice had acquired a perpetual wail,
and the corners of what had once been a pretty
mouth drooped in an eternal peevishness. She
found herself in a morass of misery and shabby
discomfort, but had her days continued in an even
tenor she would still have lamented. "A dingy
body," was Mrs. Morran's comment, but she laboured
in kindness. Unhappily they had no common
language, and it was only by signs that the
hostess could discover her wants and show her
goodwill. She fed her and bathed her face, saw
to the fire and left her to sleep. "I'm boilin' a hen
to mak' broth for your denner, Mem. Try and get<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></SPAN></span>
a bit sleep now." The purport of the advice was
clear, and Cousin Eug�nie turned obediently on her
pillow.</p>
<p>It was Mrs. Morran's custom of a Sunday to
spend the morning in devout meditation. Some
years before she had given up tramping the five
miles to kirk, on the ground that having been a
regular attendant for fifty years she had got all the
good out of it that was probable. Instead she read
slowly aloud to herself the sermon printed in a certain
religious weekly which reached her every Saturday,
and concluded with a chapter or two of the
Bible. But to-day something had gone wrong with
her mind. She could not follow the thread of the
Reverend Doctor MacMichael's discourse. She
could not fix her attention on the wanderings and
misdeeds of Israel as recorded in the Book of
Exodus. She must always be getting up to look at
the pot on the fire, or to open the back door and
study the weather. For a little she fought against
her unrest, and then she gave up the attempt at
concentration. She took the big pot off the fire and
allowed it to simmer, and presently she fetched her
boots and umbrella, and kilted her petticoats. "I'll
be none the waur o' a breath o' caller air," she
decided.</p>
<p>The wind was blowing great guns but there was
only the thinnest sprinkle of rain. Sitting on the
hen-house roof and munching a raw turnip was a
figure which she recognised as the smallest of the
Die-Hards. Between bites he was singing dolefully<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></SPAN></span>
to the tune of "Annie Laurie" one of the ditties of
his quondam Sunday school:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i5q">"The Boorjoys' brays are bonny,<br/></span>
<span class="i6">Too-roo-ra-roo-raloo,<br/></span>
<span class="i5">But the Worrkers o' the Worrld<br/></span>
<span class="i6">Wull gar them a' look blue,<br/></span>
<span class="i5">Wull gar them a' look blue,<br/></span>
<span class="i6">And droon them in the sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i5">And—for bonnie Annie Laurie<br/></span>
<span class="i6">I'll lay me down and dee."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>"Losh, laddie," she cried, "that's cauld food for
the stamach. Come indoors about midday and I'll
gie ye a plate o' broth!" The Die-Hard saluted
and continued on the turnip.</p>
<p>She took the Auchenlochan road across the
Garple bridge, for that was the best road to the
Mains and by it Dickson and the others might be
returning. Her equanimity at all seasons was like
a Turk's, and she would not have admitted that
anything mortal had power to upset or excite her:
nevertheless it was a fast-beating heart that she now
bore beneath her Sunday jacket. Great events, she
felt, were on the eve of happening, and of them
she was a part. Dickson's anxiety was hers, to
bring things to a business-like conclusion. The
honour of Huntingtower was at stake and of the
old Kennedys. She was carrying out Mr. Quentin's
commands, the dead boy who used to clamour for
her treacle scones. And there was more than duty<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></SPAN></span>
in it, for youth was not dead in her old heart, and
adventure had still power to quicken it.</p>
<p>Mrs. Morran walked well, with the steady long
paces of the Scots countrywoman. She left the
Auchenlochan road and took the side path along the
tableland to the Mains. But for the surge of the
gale and the far-borne boom of the furious sea there
was little noise; not a bird cried in the uneasy air.
With the wind behind her Mrs. Morran breasted
the ascent till she had on her right the moorland
running south to the Lochan valley and on her left
Garple chafing in its deep forested gorges. Her
eyes were quick and she noted with interest a weasel
creeping from a fern-clad cairn. A little way on
she passed an old ewe in difficulties and assisted it
to rise. "But for me, my wumman, ye'd hae been
braxy ere nicht," she told it as it departed bleating.
Then she realised that she had come a certain distance.
"Losh, I maun be gettin' back or the hen
will be spiled," she cried, and was on the verge of
turning.</p>
<p>But something caught her eye a hundred yards
further on the road. It was something which moved
with the wind like a wounded bird, fluttering from
the roadside to a puddle and then back to the
rushes. She advanced to it, missed it, and caught it.</p>
<p>It was an old dingy green felt hat, and she recognised
it as Dickson's.</p>
<p>Mrs. Morran's brain, after a second of confusion,
worked fast and clearly. She examined the
road and saw that a little way on the gravel had
been violently agitated. She detected several prints<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></SPAN></span>
of hobnailed boots. There were prints too, on a
patch of peat on the south side behind a tall bank
of sods. "That's where they were hidin'," she concluded.
Then she explored on the other side in a
thicket of hazels and wild raspberries, and presently
her perseverance was rewarded. The scrub was all
crushed and pressed as if several persons had been
forcing a passage. In a hollow was a gleam of
something white. She moved towards it with a
quaking heart, and was relieved to find that it was
only a new and expensive bicycle with the front
wheel badly buckled.</p>
<p>Mrs. Morran delayed no longer. If she had
walked well on her out journey, she beat all records
on the return. Sometimes she would run till
her breath failed; then she would slow down till
anxiety once more quickened her pace. To her joy
on the Dalquharter side of the Garple bridge she
observed the figure of a Die-Hard. Breathless,
flushed, with her bonnet awry and her umbrella held
like a scimitar, she seized on the boy.</p>
<p>"Awfu' doin's! They've grippit Maister McCunn
up the Mains road just afore the second milestone
and forenent the auld bucht. I fund his hat,
and a bicycle's lyin' broken in the wud. Haste ye,
man, and get the rest and awa' and seek him. It'll
be the tinklers frae the Dean. I'd gang mysel', but
my legs are ower auld. Oh, laddie, dinna stop to
speir questions. They'll hae him murdered or awa'
to sea. And maybe the leddy was wi' him and
they've got them baith. Wae's me! Wae's me!"</p>
<p>The Die-Hard, who was Wee Jaikie, did not<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></SPAN></span>
delay. His eyes had filled with tears at her news,
which we know to have been his habit. When Mrs.
Morran, after indulging in a moment of barbaric
keening, looked back the road she had come, she
saw a small figure trotting up the hill like a terrier
who has been left behind. As he trotted he wept
bitterly. Jaikie was getting dangerous.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />