THE HIGH STILE
Having finished, Stair seemed to wake as from a dream. He had read and
re-read the letter. The words buzzed in his ears, mingled with the sharp
pain at his heart. Patsy a princess--a real prince making love to her, a
man who could be her husband, who might even now have rights upon her,
yet whom it would be impossible to deal with as he had dealt with the
Duke of Lyonesse! He felt desperately lonely up there.
The escarpments of the cliffs sank away beneath him into the chill
turmoil of the winter sea. He had been sitting on a flat tomb, one of
the few cut in stone. The yellow fog had vanished. The moors spread away
vague and simple, the fine wreath-curves of the snow only interrupted
here and there by the brutal rigidity of the tall stone dykes with the
easterly snow-blast still clinging in the chinks and stuffing the
crevices.
Everything was colourless, the ground of a bluish lilac, fading
imperceptibly into a livid sky. Still half-dazed, Stair looked about
him, Patsy's letter in his hand, surprised to find himself out there and
alone. The written characters danced before his eyes, and it was only
the strongest sense of duty which turned his face towards the Bothy and
Julian Wemyss. He was carrying, he knew it well, a letter from the
Princess, enclosing and doubtless supporting a demand for the hand of
Patsy Ferris.
Whitefoot slunk along at his master's side, his tail and ears eloquently
drooped, and his doleful aspect reflecting admirably the mood of his
master. But Stair set his teeth and went forward. He found his breakfast
waiting for him, and Julian Wemyss took the letter with his usual
grateful urbanity. He was not slow in noticing the depressed state of
his companion, though, naturally, he put it down to his having been kept
waiting so long in the raw fog.
"I suppose Jean could not come exactly to the moment?" he said, his
letter still unopened in his hand.
"No," said Stair, "she was waiting for me, but I came back by the cliffs
and the Sailors' Graveyard."
Julian, who knew that Stair never did anything without a reason, asked
him if he had found everything clear from the lookout.
"Oh, all clear," said Stair, and sat down to make a pretence of
breakfasting. But he could not keep his eyes from wandering in the
direction of Julian Wemyss, who, seated in the great chair between the
window and the fire, was presently bending his brows over the packet he
had received. Eight sheets of a fine and light handwriting like that of
the address--from the Princess Elsa, of that there could be no question.
Julian read on and on, wrapped up in the daintily written words,
unconscious of the thick enclosure on paper like parchment, which had
slipped down on the floor of the Bothy. Stair could see the huge black
downstrokes of the superscription. He stopped eating and began to clear
away.
Julian looked up from his reading at the sudden clattering of pottery.
"Hold there," he said, "it is my day--you must not forget. I claim my
rights."
But Stair continued with a smile to prepare for that part of the work
which is the curse of every bachelor ménage--the washing-up after.
"I think," he said quietly, "that you will have enough to do with your
correspondence--I take everything upon me for to-day. Your pardon, Mr.
Wemyss, but I am afraid you have dropped something!"
"Ah, so I have--it is nothing--I am much obliged to you."
He spoke the truth. It was nothing to him--what, indeed, could be
anything in comparison with those eight closely written sheets of large
letter paper from his Princess--only the half of which he had yet
mastered. Elsa of Saxe-Brunschweig had never written him so long a
letter since the day when they agreed, long ago in Vienna, that for the
good of her house and country she must marry the old duke-elector.
So it came to pass that Julian Wemyss was grateful to Patsy for bringing
him such good fortune. Nor was he surprised out of measure when he heard
that his niece had the offer of the hand of a Prince reigning in his own
right.
But better than any one else, Julian could measure the greatness of the
Prince's affection, because he knew what these royal and grand ducal
persons think of their order. He saw that it was in some sort a defiance
flung at the court of Austria, which Eitel of Altschloss had served so
bravely, and which had done nothing for the young captain of horse till
he found himself suddenly pistoned into a princedom.
Before going further he read the Prince's letter. It was in German, and
most courteously expressed. Julian Wemyss thought well of the man, and
saw no reason why he should not assist, so far as he could, in settling
Patsy in so enviable a position. It would be new, of course, but Patsy
had been carefully taught. The best of blood ran in her veins, and by
nature she was quick, sympathetic and receptive.
The people of Altschloss were simple and would appreciate frankness and
simplicity in others. It was, in fact, almost an ideal arrangement, and
besides, at Altschloss she would find herself in the immediate vicinity
of the Princess Elsa. Nay, she would enter her castle and begin her
duties with the Princess by her side. Nothing could possibly turn out
better. It was wonderful what Elsa could do. There was no doubt she had
caused Patsy to go to London and brought the Prince across half Europe
simply that she might make a love-match--one that would be the very
opposite in every respect of her own unfortunate experience.
Julian Wemyss could contain himself no longer. He must share his delight
with some one. So he turned to his companion, who was busy with the
"drying" of the dishes and utensils.
"Stair," he cried, "what do you think? Our little Patsy is going to be a
Princess!"
"Ah!" said Stair, calmly, without raising his eyes, and finished with
peculiar care the drying of the tall wine-glass which had been brought
over from Abbey Burnfoot by Joseph's special intervention, and reserved
for "the master, who is partial to it."
"Patsy is going to marry the Prince of Altschloss, a man of much courage
and reputation. He was already at the wars when I left Vienna, but I
knew and appreciated his uncle, by whose death at Wagram, Prince Eitel,
then a captain of cavalry in the Bohemian contingent, came to the
title."
"You have heard all this from Patsy?" said Stair suddenly, shooting out
his words as from a catapult. Julian Wemyss, with the trained judgment
of the moods of men and women quick within him, looked once at the young
fellow who pursued his business so methodically.
Could Stair also--? (he thought). No, surely, that was impossible. Yet
who could number the victims of Patsy? He himself--if it had not been
for the Princess and the tables of consanguinity--he knew that he might
very well have committed any folly for Patsy's sake. And why not Stair?
"No," he answered aloud while these thoughts were passing through his
mind, "I have not heard from Patsy. She might have written a note and
forgotten to enclose it. Of that she is quite capable."
But to himself he acknowledged that the boy was right. It _was_
certainly strange that along with the detailed history of all the phases
of the attachment which was enshrined for him in the clear-cut French of
the Princess, with the formal but manly demand of his good offices
written by the Prince Eitel, there should not also be a single word from
Patsy herself. However, he must not let this young man put him down.
"I have no doubt," he said, "that she has written to her father. Would
it be possible, think you, to arrange a meeting with him to-day?"
* * * * *
Stair stood in the doorway looking tall and strong, though in figure
rather spare, his Viking head in striking contrast with the dark hair
threaded with grey, and the fine, delicate features of the
ex-ambassador.
"Difficult, but not impossible," he said, "but I must consider. We
cannot afford to show ourselves in daylight anywhere off the Wild, and
least of all near the military road which passes Cairn Ferris House at
the valley head."
He looked out at the sky. It was a dull slate grey, and grew darker down
towards the edge of the cliffs. He noted that the sea-fog was already
lipping over, and he knew that certainly long before sunset the yellow
fog would again be marching triumphant across the Wild of Blairmore,
blotting out everything.
"I think," he said, "that it would be safe to send to Cairn Ferris about
three. It will be almost dark then, and if you write a note asking Mr.
Ferris to meet you at the High Stile--that will be safest, for it is on
Raincy ground and less likely to be watched than the Ferris valleys--I
shall see that it reaches Mr. Ferris if he is at home in his own house."
Julian Wemyss thanked Stair and turned away to get ready the note for
Patsy's father. And as he wrote his mind was busy with a new conjecture.
He wondered how he could have been so blind. He prided himself on
divining the reasons of things and the hearts of men. But now he seemed
to see Stair Garland for the first time. How different he was from all
those who had been his companions. He himself could associate with the
young man without any feeling of awkwardness or inequality. He did not
even speak like his brothers. He studied deeply and read much. His
opinions were singularly original and his criticisms often valuable. Yet
he strained after no effect, and was ever more ready in action than
word.
Three months ago Stair had never seen a rapier, and now Julian Wemyss
needed all his skill to stand up to a dazzling swiftness of attack,
which together with length of arm and three extra inches of height might
well make his pupil no mean adversary when the buttons were off the
foils.
* * * * *
The letter was dispatched by Whitefoot to Jean, to be given to either of
her brothers. Stair knew that the meeting would be arranged if Mr.
Ferris could be found. There was nothing left for him to do but to get
his writing-materials and, between the leaves of a copy-book, begin his
reply to Patsy. He had not informed her uncle of her letter--neither
would he tell her father, if he should meet him. Patsy had forbidden
him.
Besides, it was certain that whatever these people might arrange among
themselves, Patsy would end by doing just as she liked. Indeed, her
father, Adam, had never in all his life questioned his daughter's
comings or goings, nor interfered with her wishes. He had done his best
for her education, so long as Patsy desired to be educated. He had
provided governesses, but these generally stayed but a short time at
Cairn Ferris, not being accustomed to be left alone during lesson-time
because their pupil had gone bird-nesting with Stair Garland, or to the
moss with the farm lads to fetch peats, from mere thoughtlessness of
heart and delight in the open air.
Later, Adam Ferris had acquiesced in his daughter's wish for complete
emancipation, and had delivered her education up to his brother-in-law.
He had taken even such serious escapades as that of the race to save the
lads from the press-gang, and that of the White Loch, as due to the
strange nature of his daughter, and had been content to believe that all
would turn out well because these things happened to Patsy, and Patsy
was certainly different from any one else.
No doubt he would have revenged the insult perhaps even more sternly
than his brother-in-law had done, if Julian had not begged that the
matter should be left entirely in his hands. But he had so long been
accustomed to give Patsy her head, that no really definite action could
be expected from him now, at least not on his own responsibility.
It was all the more needful, then, that Julian should put his duty
before him. He was a father and the Prince would expect to see him in
the matter of his daughter's hand. He must set off at once for London.
The grey noon darkened rapidly as the long-pent sea-mist overflowed the
cliff, wallowing and billowing like an oceanic invasion, over the face
of the moor. Whitefoot brought back hidden in his collar the simple
message, "I shall be there," signed with the well-known crabbed fist of
"Adam Ferris," traditional in his family for some hundreds of years,
which seemed completely identical with signatures in the family
chartularies.
By this time Stair had finished his letter to Patsy, but with unusual
care he corrected it, and had it recopied before it was time to set out.
He would send it on to Jean that night, and it would be in Patsy's hands
before these wise people, to whom she had not written, had done taking
counsel together. Meanwhile he stood at the door of the Bothy, looking
across the dim wastes of white, hardly a single heather-bush showing up
under the solid cover of snow. Only here and there he could see a deep
black gash which was the side of a moss-hag at the bottom of which a
pool of ink-black water lay frozen solid.
Nevertheless, in spite of the stern grip of winter, there was a tingle
in his blood and a difference, subtle but quite unmistakable, which told
of a change.
Spring was in the air. Far-off as yet, and only, as it were, a
conditional promise, there came a softness on the light airs that came
breathing up over the sea, which told that the frost-sting was gone. The
snow had stopped creaking underfoot, and the march would be
easier--which would be just as well, for they had a long road and a dark
before them, and Julian Wemyss was neither by age nor training an expert
hill-man.
But something else oppressed Stair's mind. The soft breathing off the
sea would melt the snow, clear away the ice and lay the Bothy of the
Wild open to attack. At Cairnryan the press-gang would be re-formed.
They might find their way to a spot to which they had once been led,
and--most important of all, some night towards the dark of the moon, the
_Good Intent_ would be seen, between the star-shine and the luminous
sea, making her way up the firth with the first "run" of the year.
And with her Julian Wemyss would depart for Lisbon on his way to Vienna,
where he would prepare the way for the future Princess of Altschloss.
Stair's lips tightened. He watched the treacly pour of the yellow fog
thickening about him. His eyes noted mechanically the precise shade of
darkness when it would be wise for them to set out for the High Stile,
but his heart was sick with a sense of his own loneliness. He would be
left to fight out a useless battle--with Patsy far off and eternally
inaccessible. What after all would it matter if he took the king's
shilling and went to the wars?
But his own observant eyes automatically reporting on the darkening
landscape checked him.
"It is time for us to start!" he said quietly enough to Julian Wemyss,
who rose to his feet and put away the letter of the Princess which he
had been going over for the twentieth time.