Mr. Standfast - John Buchan (autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

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 armchair 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 Kyle, and him and me are great correspondents. He was writing about something in the Pilgrim’s Progress and I think I’ll send him a telegram in answer.”

“A letter would be cheaper,” she said.

“Ay, but I’m on holiday and I’ve no time for writing.”

She gave me a form, and I wrote:

Ochterlony. Post Office, Kyle.

Demas will be at his mine within the week. Strive with him, lest I faint by the way.

“Ye’re unco lavish wi’ the words, sir,” was her only comment.

We parted with regret, and there was nearly a row when I tried to pay for the tea. I was bidden remember her to one David Tudhole, farmer in Nether Mirecleuch, the next time I passed by Wamphray.

The village was as quiet when I left it as when I had entered. I took my way up the hill with an easier mind, for I had got off the telegram, and I hoped I had covered my tracks. My friend the postmistress would, if questioned, be unlikely to recognize any South African suspect in the frank and homely traveller who had spoken with her of Annandale and the Pilgrim’s Progress.

The soft mulberry gloaming of the west coast was beginning to fall on the hills. I hoped to put in a dozen miles before dark to the next village on the map, where I might find quarters. But ere I had gone far I heard the sound of a motor behind me, and a car slipped past bearing three men. The driver favoured me with a sharp glance, and clapped on the brakes. I noted that the two men in the tonneau were carrying sporting rifles.

“Hi, you, sir,” he cried. “Come here.” The two rifle-bearers⁠—solemn gillies⁠—brought their weapons to attention.

“By God,” he said, “it’s the man. What’s your name? Keep him covered, Angus.”

The gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look of their wavering barrels. They were obviously as surprised as myself.

I had about half a second to make my plans. I advanced with a very stiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant. No Lowland Scots for me now. My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards’ battalion.

My inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat on his small head. He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric blue eyes. I set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment or cavalry, old style.

He produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.

“Middle height⁠—strongly built⁠—grey tweeds⁠—brown hat⁠—speaks with a colonial accent⁠—much sunburnt. What’s your name, sir?”

I did not reply in a colonial accent, but with the hauteur of the British officer when stopped by a French sentry. I asked him