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.