Johnstone of the Border

"Hold on, Dick," interrupted Andrew. "Perhaps you'd better go below and change your clothes."

Dick left them; and soon afterward the boat began to move uneasily.

"The stream's getting slack; the water must be coming through from the other end," Andrew said.

In another minute she slowly floated away and he threw the anchor off the bow.

"She'll ride to it, but as we needn't make sail until the flats are covered, we'll go down and get supper."

He changed his clothes while Whitney lighted the stove.

"How did the lamp go out?" he asked presently.

Whitney related his adventures, and Dick turned to him with a smile.

"Sorry I was huffed, but I dare say you can make allowance for my feelings. They'd got rather harrowed while I wandered about in the dark. You did the right thing, of course, in going back."

Dick made some coffee and when it was on the table Whitney was glad to lean back on a locker and light his pipe. With two candle lamps burning, the narrow cabin looked very snug and cheerful after the desolate sands, and it was something to see Andrew sitting opposite, safe but thoughtful.

"Did you trim the lamp properly?" Dick asked, puzzled.

"Of course," said Andrew, with a touch of dryness. "That's something I don't often neglect. Mixed the oil myself – colza and a dash of paraffin; and the lamp's the best I could get in Glasgow. Suppose you bring it down."

Dick did so, and Andrew took off the oil-container, which was nearly full, and examined the burner. There was nothing wrong, and Whitney noted the good workmanship of the fittings.

"It couldn't go out," he said decidedly.

"That," Andrew replied, frowning, "is my opinion; but as I came down to the gutter I saw only two rows of footsteps, and you made those in coming and going back to the dinghy. I can't say there wasn't another track, because the light was faint so far from the boat; but we might look about the deck and cabin-top to see if anybody has been on board."

"I'm afraid I mussed that all up with sand," Whitney pointed out.

"But who'd want to come on board?" Dick asked. "Theft could be the only object, and we'll soon find out about that."

They looked round the cabin, but missed nothing.

"A thief wouldn't have put out the light, because he'd know that might bring us back before he got away," Dick elucidated; then turned to Whitney. "What do you think?"

"Well," said Whitney, smiling. "I've only one suggestion and it's rather far-fetched. The thing might have been a plot to make us lose the boat or, perhaps, make an end of us. If that's so, it nearly succeeded."

"Rot!" exclaimed Andrew. "Nobody would be twopence the richer for putting me out of the way."

"And I haven't an enemy in the world – unless it's myself," Dick grinned. "I don't count the Kaiser, because the bad feeling's patriotic; I've nothing personal against him."

Andrew made a sign of impatience, and Whitney, watching him closely, thought he felt disturbed.

"Did you see anybody on the bank?"

"No," Whitney answered. "I saw a small sail; a lugsail, I think, because it was long on the head. It looked very black."

"Tanned with blacklead and oil; one of the Annan whammel boats, most likely. They drag a net for salmon, but wouldn't get any just now, as the water's too smooth."

"Then why were they out?"

"After flounders, perhaps. But none of the Annan men would meddle with our light. However, we'd better make a start if we mean to reach Rough Firth this tide."

"Now and then I'm glad I'm not much of a seaman," Dick laughed. "As I'd probably pull the wrong string, I'll stay below and smoke."

A cold east wind was blowing when Whitney went on deck, and after hoisting sail they crept away against the tide. Whitney sounded with the pole until he could no longer touch bottom, when Andrew seemed satisfied. It was very dark, but two quivering beams pierced the gloom.

"Get the topsail down," Andrew ordered after a while. "We'll find the stream that fills Rough Firth in a few minutes and it will take us up fast enough."

This proved correct, for shortly afterward the sea broke about them in confused eddies, and the boat splashed and lurched as she crossed the troubled space that divided the tides. Then she forged ahead very fast, and blurred hills and shadowy cliffs soon loomed out. Whitney used the sounding pole again, the cliffs grew plainer, and when the land closed in on them, they dropped anchor. She brought up and, after helping to stow the canvas, Whitney climbed into his folding cot.

For a time he did not sleep but lay thinking about the extinguished light. It seemed impossible that the lamp should have gone out accidentally, and he was not satisfied that the explanation he had humorously offered was altogether absurd. His friends had had another narrow escape not long before, and it might be significant that although they were together on both occasions, Andrew had run the greater risk. Whitney admitted that this might be coincidence and he must not let his imagination run away with him. One must use sense and not wrap up in romantic mystery a matter that might be perfectly simple. For all that, he meant to seize any clue that chance might offer him.

Next morning they landed and joined Murray at a village among the hills. They spent the day upon the heather, working inland across broad, grassy spaces and red moors where the sheep fled before them, and then climbed a line of rugged hills. These were not high, but Whitney found them romantically interesting as he scrambled among black peat-hags where the wild cotton grew, up marshy ravines, and past great granite boulders. Stopping now and then to get his breath, he watched the line of small figures stretched out across the waste and thought that nobody lurking among the stones and heather could escape. Still, when the different detachments met upon a windy summit, none of them had seen anything suspicious.

"We've drawn blank," Murray remarked, as they ate some sandwiches behind a boulder.

"Yes," said Andrew. "If there is anything to be found out, I'd locate it farther east."

Murray looked at him keenly for a moment and then answered:

"On the whole, I agree with you. It's my business, however, to search where I am told."

They went downhill soon afterward, and the next day the Rowan sailed west along the coast, carrying Dick, who had reluctantly consented to go with the others.

CHAPTER X

THE YOUNG OFFICER

It was a fine afternoon when the train ran down from the granite wilds round Cairnsmuir into a broad green valley. Behind, the red heath, strewn with boulders and scarred by watercourses, rolled upward into gathering clouds; in front, yellow stubble fields and smooth meadows lay shining in the light, with a river flashing through their midst. Whitney, watching the scene from a window, thought the change was typical of southern Scotland, which he had found a land of contrasts.

They had left the Rowan where the river mouth opened into a sheltered, hill-girt bay, and walked up a dale that was steeped in quiet pastoral beauty. It led them to a wind-swept tableland, in which lonely, ruffled lakes lay among the stones, and granite outcrops ribbed the desolate heath. There they had caught the train; and now it was running down to well-tilled levels, dotted with trim white houses and marked in the distance by the blue smoke of a town. Andrew had chosen the route to show Whitney the country, and he admitted that it had its charm.

The train slowed down as it approached a station, and when it stopped Dick jumped up.

"I may be able to get a paper here," he said, and leaped down on to the station platform, where shepherds with rough collies, cattle-dealers, and quarrymen stood waiting.

Dick vanished among the crowd; but a few moments later he returned hurriedly, without his paper.

"I nearly ran into old Mackellar!" he exclaimed with a chuckle. "But I dodged him!"

"Who is Mackellar?" Whitney asked. "One of your creditors?"

"Worse than that. One of my trustees. I thought I'd better not meet him; he might have felt embarrassed after what he said to me not long ago."

Alighting at the next station, they walked downhill to the narrow town beside the Cree, and here they arranged to be driven up the waterside to the shooting lodge where Whitney's mother was staying. After standing on the bridge a while they went to the little inn. It was now getting late in the afternoon, the hillside above the town shut out the light, and the room they entered was rather dim. Dick stopped just inside the door.

"Mackellar!" he exclaimed; and turned to be off.

"Dick! Ye're not going before ye speak to me?"

"I want to show my friend the town," he explained with a laugh, but he came forward and shook hands and presented Whitney.

Mackellar was about fifty years of age, strongly built, and dressed in quiet taste. He had a shrewd, thoughtful face, with a hint of command in it, and there was a touch of formality in his manner, but Whitney liked his faint, twinkling smile.

"Weel," said the Scot, after they had talked a while, "ye may take your friend out to see the town now, Dick; but, with Mr. Whitney's leave, I'll keep your cousin here until ye come back."

Whitney felt amused as he saw that Dick had failed in his rather obvious intention of preventing the others from enjoying a private talk.

When Whitney and Dick had gone, Mackellar rang a bell that stood on the table. "Ye'll join me with a glass o' wine," he said to Andrew.

The wine was brought, and though Andrew did not hear what Mackellar said to the waitress, he imagined that they would not be disturbed.

"I would say Dick's new friend is to be trusted," Mackellar began when they were alone.

"Of course," said Andrew. "If I grasp what you mean, he'll do the boy no harm; but he's really a friend of mine."

"That should put the thing beyond all doubt," Mackellar replied, and filled the glasses.

Andrew waited. Mackellar was generally deliberate, but people valued his opinion. He had been a lawyer, and in the small Scottish towns lawyers are entrusted with their clients' investments, and, in consequence, are often appointed agents by the banks.

"I think ye see your duty to your cousin," Mackellar resumed.

"Yes," said Andrew simply. "I wish I saw how it ought to be carried out. I'm at a loss there."

Mackellar's nod indicated sympathetic understanding.

"Ye're young and want to see the whole road ahead. It's enough that ye walk cannily, doing what seems needful as ye find it. For a' that, I'm glad to hear ye feel that ye are responsible. It's some help to me."

"Then you take a personal interest in him?" Andrew hesitated and added: "I mean, if you understand, apart from your being a trustee."

Mackellar smiled.

"I understand. We're dour folk and not given to sentiment, but I think we can be trusted to pay our debts, and Dick's father was a good friend o' mine. It was the Appleyard business first put me on my feet. Then your cousin is a likable lad; though he's given me trouble. But we'll not dwell on that – there are other things to talk about."

"Have you paid off his debts?"

"Some. There are one or two for which the holders would not give up his notes."

"Why?"

"They carry high interest and fall due at a future date. Then I have reasons for thinking the holders are agents for a principal in the background."

"The fellow must take a risk, because Dick's not of age. Hasn't the law something to say about a minor's debts?"

"I'm not sure the risk is as big as it looks. Would ye expect a Johnstone o' Appleyard to repudiate his obligations?"

"No," said Andrew. "When you come to think of it, such a thing's impossible."

"Weel, there's another point; your cousin did not tell us all he owed."

Andrew frowned.

"I must admit that I was afraid Dick hadn't been quite straight with us. What's to be done? Can we take him away from Staffer?"

"Why would ye wish that?" Mackellar asked sharply.

"It's not easy to explain, and my position's difficult. Dick thinks highly of the fellow, and I can't see anything that's openly wrong with him. Still, one feels he hasn't a good influence on Dick."

"Just that," Mackellar dryly returned. "Dick's mother put the lad into Staffer's hands and I had no power to stop her. If Staffer abused his position, it would give me a handle, but I cannot find fault with anything he does. A careful, well-thought-of man, and exact to a penny in the estate accounts."

"And yet you don't trust him. If you did, you'd tell him about those debts instead of me."

"Weel," chuckled Mackellar, "there's maybe something in that."

Andrew knitted his brows.

"I feel that there's something going on, so to speak, behind the scenes, but I can't tell what it is. Do you know that Dick's heart is weak, and dissipation and excitement are bad for him?"

"I heard something about it." Mackellar gave Andrew a steady, meaning look. "Your cousin will not be in danger until he's twenty-one."

"What danger do you mean?" Andrew asked uneasily.

"I cannot tell – ye have heard that loose living is bad for him. He'll be free from restraint when he comes of age."

Andrew suspected that this was not all that Mackellar meant.

"Suppose his creditors insisted on his insuring his life?" he asked.

"There's a difficulty – insurance companies are not as a rule anxious to take a man with a weak heart. For a' that – " Mackellar broke off and sipped his wine in silence before he resumed: "I'll try to follow up the matter of the notes and ye'll keep an eye on Dick. If ye remark anything suspicious, ye will let me know. Now, I think there's no more to be said."

Andrew agreed, and lighted his pipe. He was troubled by vague suspicions that Mackellar seemed to share. On the surface, the suspicions looked somewhat ridiculous; but Andrew was not satisfied, and Mackellar had admitted the need for vigilance. Well, he must keep the best watch he could.

Whitney came in while they sat there.

"Dick's not back?" he said. "I thought I'd find him here."

"Ye might try the bar," Mackellar replied, with a twinkle. "Mr. Johnstone's not anxious to talk to me. How did ye lose him?"

"I rather think he lost me," Whitney laughed; "but he knows we've ordered tea and he'll be along soon."

When the trap they had hired was waiting, Dick came in. His face was flushed, and his eyes gleamed with amusement as he glanced at Mackellar.

"I shan't have to leave without a word or two, after all."

"Well," said Mackellar, "ye cut it very fine. Where have ye been?"

"In the other hotel. I found a number of people there. They'd been to the Creetown sheep sales and were in a convivial mood. In fact, they wouldn't let me go."

"It's no doubt a matter o' taste, but one would not expect to find a Johnstone o' Applegate colloging with drovers in a second-class bar," Mackellar observed.

Dick laughed.

"I don't know that it makes much difference, but I was playing cards," he said.

"Losing money ye could not afford!"

They drove away in a high-wheeled trap that is locally called a machine. Andrew had set off in a serious mood, but it was difficult to continue thoughtful in Dick's society, and he enlivened the way as they followed the winding river. It led them up a long valley, past turnip-fields, smooth pasture, and alder-fringed pools. The soil was well tilled on their bank, but across the stream, birchwoods turning yellow straggled up the barren hill slopes, and to the north, rugged fells rose dark against the sky. By degrees the landscape changed. There was less cultivation and the woods got thinner. Rough heath ran down to the river, which foamed and brawled among the stones, and white tufts of wild cotton shone among the peat. They were climbing to a desolation of moor and bog that looked strangely wild and lonely in the fading light. Then, as the shadows closed upon the wilderness, lights blinked among the firs in a glen, a lodge gate was opened, and a smooth drive led them to a straggling modern house.

They were hospitably welcomed, and Andrew liked his host, a genial, gray-haired man who had lately retired from business to spend his well-earned leisure in outdoor sports. Whitney's mother and sister also impressed him favorably. Mrs. Whitney was quiet and dignified, and there was a touch of stateliness in Madge's refined beauty. At first, Andrew felt shy of her and left her to Dick, but she soon set him at his ease. Madge rang true, and he found that she could be remarkably frank.

On the evening after his arrival he strolled along the terrace talking to her. A soft red glow still shone behind the firs that straggled up the western end of the glen and the air was cool and still. They could hear a little burn splashing in the shadow and the river tumbling among the stones.

"How do you like this place?" Andrew asked. "From what I've seen of your country this is a change."

"Yes," Madge said; "it's quiet. When we rusticate in the wilds we take a troop of friends along. The environment we're used to goes with us. Perhaps that's why I don't harmonize with a natural background as some of your people do. Here, for instance, I feel I'm an exotic."

"Exotics are generally beautiful and one likes them for their glow and color. Ours is a land of neutral tints and I dare say it has an effect upon our character."

Madge laughed.

"That's very nice of you, but it's difficult to judge your character. You're not an expansive race, and, for another thing, there are no young men about – though one must admit that's to their credit, just now. It seems there's still an answer when you send round the Fiery Cross."

"Yes," said Andrew with a flush. "They were wanted somewhere else, and they went."

Andrew paused and Madge gave him a sympathetic glance.

"Jim told me why you couldn't go," she said softly. "After all, you have something to do at home, haven't you?"

Andrew saw that she was well-informed about his affairs, but he did not resent it. When he took his comrade into his confidence he did not do so rashly; and that Whitney had told his sister only proved that she could be trusted. Something in her manner and her frank, level glance made him sure of this.

"Well," he said hesitatingly, "it's nice to feel that one is needed; though of course there's a risk of being officious."

"I don't suppose Elsie thinks you officious for trying to look after her cousin. He's quite charming, but I imagine he'll keep you busy."

"I'm prepared for that," Andrew laughed; "and I don't mind the trouble. Dick's a very likable fellow, and Elsie feels more satisfied when I'm about. I wish you could meet her. Little Elsie's worth knowing."

"Little? Jim told me she was tall; regal, I think he said. In fact, he's enthusiastic about her; and that makes me curious, because Jim's taste is not often bad."

"It isn't. But I always thought of her as little Elsie – she was a girl when I left home. I can understand what struck your brother: I felt it myself when I first saw her, after I came back."

"Elsie had grown up?"

"It wasn't quite that. She had grown up in the way I had expected, but she had somehow grown beyond it. In fact, though I used to be a kind of elder brother, she had caught me up and left me."

He broke off as their host came toward them with Lieutenant Rankine, a brown-faced young man, who had arrived on the previous afternoon.

"I hear you're cruising about the Galloway coast," Rankine said to Andrew. "If you happen to be between the Isle of Man and the Solway, I dare say we shall meet, and we'll be glad to see you on board the Tern."

"The Tern?" Andrew looked his surprise. "She's – "

"An antiquated barge!" Rankine laughed. "Well, she makes a handy surveying craft, and the sea lords have lent me to the hydrographic department. Rather a come down just now; but somebody must keep the charts up to date."

Andrew felt puzzled. Rankine had a capable look, and, being young, was no doubt ambitious. It was curious that he should be satisfied with the monotonous task of taking soundings, when the battleships were watching for the enemy's fleet. He looked at Rankine keenly; but the young lieutenant merely smiled back at him in a quizzical manner and began to speak of shoals and tides.

Madge slipped off to join her brother.

"What do you think of my partner?" Whitney asked her. "Are you still pleased with him?"

"Entirely so; he improves, which doesn't often happen. In fact, he's fine, if you get what I mean."

"Well, I imagine Andrew's unique, but that doesn't quite hit it. Suppose we say rare, in its old English sense. Anyhow, though I don't know that he's very susceptible, I'd rather you didn't turn his head. You are attractive when you exert yourself."

Madge laughed.

"He's proof against my charms. Andrew's earmarked for somebody else."

"Elsie Woodhouse? Well, that struck me, but I don't know. He says it's very probable that she'll marry Dick."

"Andrew is in love with her himself," Madge said firmly; "though I don't think he knows it yet. Dick's delightful, but the girl would never be satisfied with him."

"So I think; but you don't know her."

"Your partner has told me about her."

Whitney laughed.

"Andrew has his talents, but the delineation of character's not his strong point."

"A precise description isn't always needed," Madge rejoined. "When you have an image clearly stamped upon your mind, it's sometimes possible to make others see it without saying very much. Your partner can do that."

"Perhaps you're right. He has now an idea that his country's somehow threatened from the old main road to the south. On the face of it, the idea's absurd, and yet he makes one feel that he's not quite mistaken."

Madge indicated Rankine, who was still talking to Andrew.

"I wonder why they sent that man to a post where ability doesn't seem to be required?" she questioned.

"It's possible that Rankine's job is more important than he's allowed to admit."

He broke off, for Rankine was coming toward them, and he saw his sister's face flush prettily.

CHAPTER XI

THE SIGNAL

A light breeze was blowing when the Rowan ran into a confused tide eddy in the mouth of Wigtown Bay. There had been more wind and the swell it left was broken by the current into short, splashing seas amid which the yacht lurched uneasily. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and about two hours before high-water, and when the breeze fell very light a stream that ran north from the disturbed patch swept the Rowan up the bay.

Andrew frowned as he looked about.

"She's right off her course, but it's too deep to anchor, and the bottom's foul near the beach," he said. "We must let her drift until the ebb sets in and carries her down along the opposite shore. We ought to make Ramsey on the next flood."

"At four or five o'clock in the morning!" Dick grumbled. "Well, I'm glad I'm no use at the helm in the dark, and we may get a few hours' smooth water before we round the Burrow Head. At present I'm wondering why I came."

"There's some water in the bilge, and it's your turn to pump," Whitney remarked.

"If she was half full, I wouldn't pump until this rolling stops," Dick said firmly.

The sea got smoother as they drifted along the coast, and presently ran in faint undulations that gleamed like oil where their surface caught the light. The days, however, were getting short, and soon the long tongue of land across the bay cut low and black against the sunset. The hills to the eastward were gray and dim, a heavy dew began to fall, and a pale half-moon came out. Now and then a puff of wind from the south rippled the glassy water and drove the yacht farther up the bay.

When an inlet began to open out ahead Dick took up the glasses.

"We ought to find water enough across the sands to Gatehouse," he said. "I'd a good deal rather sleep ashore and we'd get a much better meal at the Murray Arms than Whitney can cook."

"We can't get ashore without a breeze," Andrew replied.

"There's somebody going up. I can see a lugsail boat beyond the point."

Andrew took the glasses from him. The light had nearly gone and mist hung about the shore, but a belt of water shone with a pale gleam, against which a distant boat stood out sharply.