Mr. Standfast
character of the ingenuous inquirer I set him posers about politics and
economics, the kind of thing I might have been supposed to pick up from
unintelligent browsing among little books. Generally he answered with
some slangy catchword, but occasionally he was interested beyond his
discretion, and treated me to a harangue like an equal. I discovered
another thing, that he had a craze for poetry, and a capacious memory
for it. I forgot how we drifted into the subject, but I remember he
quoted some queer haunting stuff which he said was Swinburne, and
verses by people I had heard of from Letchford at Biggleswick. Then he
saw by my silence that he had gone too far, and fell back into the
jargon of the West. He wanted to know about my plans, and we went down
into the cabin and had a look at the map. I explained my route, up
Morvern and round the head of Lochiel, and back to Oban by the east
side of Loch Linnhe.
“Got you,” he said. “You’ve a hell of a walk before you. That bug never
bit me, and I guess I’m not envying you any. And after that, Mr Brand?”
“Back to Glasgow to do some work for the cause,” I said lightly.
“Just so,” he said with a grin. “It’s a great life if you don’t
weaken.”
We steamed out of the bay next morning at dawn, and about nine o’clock
I got on shore at a little place called Lochaline. My kit was all on my
person, and my waterproof’s pockets were stuffed with chocolates and
biscuits I had bought in Oban. The captain was discouraging. “Ye’ll get
your bellyful o’ Hieland hills, Mr Brand, afore ye win round the loch
head. Ye’ll be wishin’ yerself back on the _Tobermory_.” But Gresson
speeded me joyfully on my way, and said he wished he were coming with
me. He even accompanied me the first hundred yards, and waved his hat
after me till I was round the turn of the road.
The first stage in that journey was pure delight. I was thankful to be
rid of the infernal boat, and the hot summer scents coming down the
glen were comforting after the cold, salt smell of the sea. The road
lay up the side of a small bay, at the top of which a big white house
stood among gardens. Presently I had left the coast and was in a glen
where a brown salmon-river swirled through acres of bog-myrtle. It had
its source in a loch, from which the mountain rose steeply—a place so
glassy in that August forenoon that every scar and wrinkle of the
hillside were faithfully reflected. After that I crossed a low pass to
the head of another sea-lock, and, following the map, struck over the
shoulder of a great hill and ate my luncheon far up on its side, with a
wonderful vista of wood and water below me.
All that morning I was very happy, not thinking about Gresson or Ivery,
but getting my mind clear in those wide spaces, and my lungs filled
with the brisk hill air. But I noticed one curious thing. On my last
visit to Scotland, when I covered more moorland miles a day than any
man since Claverhouse, I had been fascinated by the land, and had
pleased myself with plans for settling down in it. But now, after three
years of war and general rocketing, I felt less drawn to that kind of
landscape. I wanted something more green and peaceful and habitable,
and it was to the Cotswolds that my memory turned with longing.
I puzzled over this till I realised that in all my Cotswold pictures a
figure kept going and coming—a young girl with a cloud of gold hair and
the strong, slim grace of a boy, who had sung “Cherry Ripe” in a
moonlit garden. Up on that hillside I understood very clearly that I,
who had been as careless of women as any monk, had fallen wildly in
love with a child of half my age. I was loath to admit it, though for
weeks the conclusion had been forcing itself on me. Not that I didn’t
revel in my madness, but that it seemed too hopeless a business, and I
had no use for barren philandering. But, seated on a rock munching
chocolate and biscuits, I faced up to the fact and resolved to trust my
luck. After all we were comrades in a big job, and it was up to me to
be man enough to win her. The thought seemed to brace any courage that
was in me. No task seemed too hard with her approval to gain and her
companionship somewhere at the back of it. I sat for a long time in a
happy dream, remembering all the glimpses I had had of her, and humming
her song to an audience of one black-faced sheep.
On the highroad half a mile below me, I saw a figure on a bicycle
mounting the hill, and then getting off to mop its face at the summit.
I turned my Zeiss glasses on to it, and observed that it was a country
policeman. It caught sight of me, stared for a bit, tucked its machine
into the side of the road, and then very slowly began to climb the
hillside. Once it stopped, waved its hand and shouted something which I
could not hear. I sat finishing my luncheon, till the features were
revealed to me of a fat oldish man, blowing like a grampus, his cap
well on the back of a bald head, and his trousers tied about the shins
with string.
There was a spring beside me and I had out my flask to round off my
meal.
“Have a drink,” I said.
His eye brightened, and a smile overran his moist face.
“Thank you, sir. It will be very warrm coming up the brae.”
“You oughtn’t to,” I said. “You really oughtn’t, you know. Scorching up
hills and then doubling up a mountain are not good for your time of
life.”
He raised the cap of my flask in solemn salutation. “Your very good
health.” Then he smacked his lips, and had several cupfuls of water
from the spring.
“You will haf come from Achranich way, maybe?” he said in his soft
sing-song, having at last found his breath.
“Just so. Fine weather for the birds, if there was anybody to shoot
them.”
“Ah, no. There will be few shots fired today, for there are no
gentlemen left in Morvern. But I wass asking you, if you come from
Achranich, if you haf seen anybody on the road.”
From his pocket he extricated a brown envelope and a bulky telegraph
form. “Will you read it, sir, for I haf forgot my spectacles?”
It contained a description of one Brand, a South African and a
suspected character, whom the police were warned to stop and return to
Oban. The description wasn’t bad, but it lacked any one good
distinctive detail. Clearly the policeman took me for an innocent
pedestrian, probably the guest of some moorland shooting-box, with my
brown face and rough tweeds and hobnailed shoes.
I frowned and puzzled a little. “I did see a fellow about three miles
back on the hillside. There’s a public-house just where the burn comes
in, and I think he was making for it. Maybe that was your man. This
wire says ‘South African’; and now I remember the fellow had the look
of a colonial.”
The policeman sighed. “No doubt it will be the man. Perhaps he will haf
a pistol and will shoot.”
“Not him,” I laughed. “He looked a mangy sort of chap, and he’ll be
scared out of his senses at the sight of you. But take my advice and
get somebody with you before you tackle him. You’re always the better
of a witness.”
“That is so,” he said, brightening. “Ach, these are the bad times! in
old days there wass nothing to do but watch the doors at the
flower-shows and keep the yachts from poaching the sea-trout. But now
it is spies, spies, and ‘Donald, get out of your bed, and go off twenty
mile to find a German.’ I wass wishing the war wass by, and the Germans
all dead.”
“Hear, hear!” I cried, and on the strength of it gave him another dram.
I accompanied him to the road, and saw him mount his bicycle and
zig-zag like a snipe down the hill towards Achranich. Then I set off
briskly northward. It was clear that the faster I moved the better.
As I went I paid disgusted tribute to the efficiency of the Scottish
police. I wondered how on earth they had marked me down. Perhaps it was
the Glasgow meeting, or perhaps my association with Ivery at
Biggleswick. Anyhow there was somebody somewhere mighty quick at
compiling a _dossier_. Unless I wanted to be bundled back to Oban I
must make good speed to the Arisaig coast.
Presently the road fell to a gleaming sea-loch which lay like the blue
blade of a sword among the purple of the hills. At the head there was a
tiny clachan, nestled among birches and rowans, where a tawny burn
wound to the sea. When I entered the place it was about four o’clock in
the afternoon, and peace lay on it like a garment. In the wide, sunny
street there was no sign of life, and no sound except of hens clucking
and of bees busy among the roses. There was a little grey box of a
kirk, and close to the bridge a thatched cottage which bore the sign of
a post and telegraph office.
For the past hour I had been considering that I had better prepare for
mishaps. If the police of these parts had been warned they might prove
too much for me, and Gresson would be allowed to make his journey
unmatched. The only thing to do was to send a wire to Amos and leave
the matter in his hands. Whether that was possible or not depended upon
this remote postal authority.
I entered the little shop, and passed from bright sunshine to a
twilight smelling of paraffin and black-striped peppermint balls. An
old woman with a mutch sat in an arm-chair behind the counter. She
looked up at me over her spectacles and smiled, and I took to her on
the instant. She had the kind of old wise face that God loves.
Beside her I noticed a little pile of books, one of which was a Bible.
Open on her lap was a paper, the _United Free Church Monthly_. I
noticed these details greedily, for I had to make up my mind on the
part to play.
“It’s a warm day, mistress,” I said, my voice falling into the broad
Lowland speech, for I had an instinct that she was not of the
Highlands.
She laid aside her paper. “It is that, sir. It is grand weather for the
hairst, but here that’s no till the hinner end o’ September, and at the
best it’s a bit scart o’ aits.”
“Ay. It’s a different thing down Annandale way,” I said.
Her face lit up. “Are ye from Dumfries, sir?”
“Not just from Dumfries, but I know the Borders fine.”
“Ye’ll no beat them,” she cried. “Not that this is no a guid place and
I’ve muckle to be thankfu’ for since John Sanderson—that was ma
man—brought me here forty-seeven year syne come Martinmas. But the
aulder I get the mair I think o’ the bit whaur I was born. It was twae
miles from Wamphray on the Lockerbie road, but they tell me the place
is noo just a rickle o’ stanes.”
“I was wondering, mistress, if I could get a cup of tea in the
village.”
“Ye’ll hae a cup wi’ me,” she said. “It’s no often we see onybody frae
the Borders hereaways. The kettle’s just on the boil.”
She gave me tea and scones and butter, and black-currant jam, and
treacle biscuits that melted in the mouth. And as we ate we talked of
many things—chiefly of the war and of the wickedness of the world.
“There’s nae lads left here,” she said. “They a’ joined the Camerons,
and the feck o’ them fell at an awfu’ place called Lowse. John and me
never had no boys, jist the one lassie that’s married on Donald Frew,
the Strontian carrier. I used to vex mysel’ about it, but now I thank
the Lord that in His mercy He spared me sorrow. But I wad hae liked to
have had one laddie fechtin’ for his country. I whiles wish I was a
Catholic and could pit up prayers for the sodgers that are deid. It
maun be a great consolation.”
I whipped out the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ from my pocket. “That is the
grand book for a time like this.”
“Fine I ken it,” she said. “I got it for a prize in the Sabbath School
when I was a lassie.”
I turned the pages. I read out a passage or two, and then I seemed
struck with a sudden memory.
“This is a telegraph office, mistress. Could I trouble you to send a
telegram? You see I’ve a cousin that’s a minister in Ross-shire at the