The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated). Buchan John
wi’ any of the deevils, they must think ye’ve changed your mind and come back from Auchenlochan.”
The night smelt fresh and moist as if a break in the weather were imminent. As they scrambled along the Garple Dean a pinprick of light below showed where the tinklers were busy by their fire. Dickson’s spirits suffered a sharp fall and he began to marvel at his temerity. What in Heaven’s name had he undertaken? To carry very precious things, to which certainly he had no right, through the enemy to distant Glasgow. How could he escape the notice of the watchers? He was already suspect, and the sight of him back again in Dalquharter would double that suspicion. He must brazen it out, but he distrusted his powers with such tell-tale stuff in his pockets. They might murder him anywhere on the moor road or in an empty railway carriage. An unpleasant memory of various novels he had read in which such things happened haunted his mind… There was just one consolation. This job over, he would be quit of the whole business. And honourably quit, too, for he would have played a manly part in a most unpleasant affair. He could retire to the idyllic with the knowledge that he had not been wanting when Romance called. Not a soul should ever hear of it, but he saw himself in the future tramping green roads or sitting by his winter fireside pleasantly retelling himself the tale.
Before they came to the Garple bridge Dougal insisted that they should separate, remarking that “it would never do if we were seen thegither.” Heritage was despatched by a short cut over fields to the left, which eventually, after one or two plunges into ditches, landed him safely in Mrs. Morran’s back yard. Dickson and Dougal crossed the bridge and tramped Dalquharter-wards by the highway. There was no sign of human life in that quiet place with owls hooting and rabbits rustling in the undergrowth. Beyond the woods they came in sight of the light in the back kitchen, and both seemed to relax their watchfulness when it was most needed. Dougal sniffed the air and looked seaward.
“It’s coming on to rain,” he observed. “There should be a muckle star there, and when you can’t see it it means wet weather wi’ this wind.”
“What star?” Dickson asked.
“The one wi’ the Irish-lukkin’ name. What’s that they call it? O’Brien?” And he pointed to where the constellation of the hunter should have been declining on the western horizon.
There was a bend of the road behind them, and suddenly round it came a dogcart driven rapidly. Dougal slipped like a weasel into a bush, and presently Dickson stood revealed in the glare of a lamp. The horse was pulled up sharply and the driver called out to him. He saw that it was Dobson the innkeeper with Leon beside him.
“Who is it?” cried the voice. “Oh, you! I thought ye were off the day?”
Dickson rose nobly to the occasion.
“I thought myself I was. But I didn’t think much of Auchenlochan, and I took a fancy to come back and spend the last night of my holiday with my Auntie. I’m off to Glasgow first thing the morn’s morn.”
“So!” said the voice. “Queer thing I never saw ye on the Auchenlochan road, where ye can see three mile before ye.”
“I left early and took it easy along the shore.”
“Did ye so? Well, good-sight to ye.”
Five minutes later Dickson walked into Mrs. Morran’s kitchen, where Heritage was busy making up for a day of short provender.
“I’m for Glasgow to-morrow, Auntie Phemie,” he cried. “I want you to loan me a wee trunk with a key, and steek the door and windows, for I’ve a lot to tell you.”
CHAPTER 6
HOW MR. MCCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION
At seven o’clock on the following morning the post-cart, summoned by an early message from Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage. In it sat the ancient postman, whose real home was Auchenlochan, but who slept alternate nights in Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson the innkeeper. Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate, the former with his pack on his back, and at his feet a small stout wooden box, of the kind in which cheeses are transported, garnished with an immense padlock. Heritage for obvious reasons did not appear; at the moment he was crouched on the floor of the loft watching the departure through a gap in the dimity curtains.
The traveller, after making sure that Dobson was looking, furtively slipped the key of the trunk into his knapsack.
“Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve been awful kind to me, and I don’t know how to thank you for all you’re sending.”
“Tuts, Dickson, my man, they’re hungry folk about Glesca that’ll be glad o’ my scones and jeelie. Tell Mirren I’m rale pleased wi’ her man, and haste ye back soon.”
The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart, and Dickson clambered into the back seat. He was thankful that he had not to sit next to Dobson, for he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning was wet, so he wore his waterproof, which concealed his odd tendency to stoutness about the middle.
Mrs. Morran played her part well, with all the becoming gravity of an affectionate aunt, but as soon as the post-cart turned the bend of the road her demeanour changed. She was torn with convulsions of silent laughter. She retreated to the kitchen, sank into a chair, wrapped her face in her apron and rocked. Heritage, descending, found her struggling to regain composure. “D’ye ken his wife’s name?” she gasped. “I ca’ed her Mirren! And maybe the body’s no’ mairried! Hech sirs! Hech sirs!”
Meanwhile Dickson was bumping along the moor-road on the back of the post-cart. He had worked out a plan, just as he had been used aforetime to devise a deal in foodstuffs. He had expected one of the watchers to turn up, and was rather relieved that it should be Dobson, whom he regarded as “the most natural beast” of the three. Somehow he did not think that he would be molested before he reached the station, since his enemies would still be undecided in their minds. Probably they only wanted to make sure that he had really departed to forget all about him. But if not, he had his plan ready.
“Are you travelling to-day?” he asked the innkeeper.
“Just as far as the station to see about some oil-cake I’m expectin’. What’s in your wee kist? Ye came here wi’ nothing but the bag on your back.”
“Ay, the kist is no’ mine. It’s my auntie’s. She’s a kind body, and nothing would serve but she must pack a box for me to take back. Let me see. There’s a baking of scones; three pots of honey and one of rhubarb jam—she was aye famous for her rhubarb jam; a mutton ham, which you can’t get for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made black puddings, and a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt I’ll have to take a cab from the station.”
Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe, and relapsed into meditation. The long uphill road, ever climbing to where far off showed the tiny whitewashed buildings which were the railway station, seemed interminable this morning. The aged postman addressed strange objurgations to his aged horse and muttered reflections to himself, the innkeeper smoked, and Dickson stared back into the misty hollow where lay Dalquharter. The south-west wind had brought up a screen of rain clouds and washed all the countryside in a soft wet grey. But the eye could still travel a fair distance, and Dickson thought he had a glimpse of a figure on a bicycle leaving the village two miles back. He wondered who it could be. Not Heritage, who had no bicycle. Perhaps some woman who was conspicuously late for the train. Women were the chief cyclists nowadays in country places.
Then he forgot about the bicycle and twisted his neck to watch the station. It was less than a mile off now, and they had no time to spare, for away to the south among the hummocks of the bog he saw the smoke of the train coming from Auchenlochan. The postman also saw it and whipped up his beast into a clumsy canter. Dickson, always nervous being late for trains, forced his eyes away and regarded again the road behind him. Suddenly the cyclist had become quite