Corporal Cameron

R >> Ralph Connor >> Corporal Cameron


The days on which Postie appeared with a large bundle of mail were
accounted good days by the young mistress, for on these and succeeding
days her father would be "busy with his correspondence." And these days
were not few, for the Captain held many honourary offices in county
and other associations for the promotion and encouragement of various
activities, industrial, social, and philanthropic. Of the importance of
these activities to the county and national welfare, the Captain had no
manner of doubt, as his voluminous correspondence testified. As to the
worth of his correspondence his daughter, too, held the highest
opinion, estimating her father, as do all dutiful daughters, at his own
valuation. For the Captain held himself in high esteem; not simply for
his breeding, which was of the Camerons of Erracht; nor for his manners,
which were of the most courtly, if occasionally marred by fretfulness;
nor for his dress, which was that of a Highland gentleman, perfect in
detail and immaculate, but for his many and public services rendered to
the people, the county, and the nation. Indeed his mere membership dues
to the various associations, societies and committees with which he
was connected, and his dining expenses contingent upon their annual
meetings, together with the amounts expended upon the equipment and
adornment of his person proper to such festive occasions, cut so deep
into the slender resources of the family as to give his prudent daughter
some considerable concern; though it is safe to say that such concern
her father would have regarded not only as unnecessary but almost as
impertinent.

The Captain's correspondence, however extensive, was on the whole
regarded by his daughter as a good rather than an evil, in that it
secured her domestic and farm activities from disturbing incursions.
This spring morning Moira's apprehensions awakened by an extremely light
mail, were realized, as she beheld her father bearing down upon her
with an open letter in his hand. His handsome face was set in a fretful
frown.

"Moira, my daughter!" he exclaimed, "how often have I spoke to you about
this--this--unseemly--ah--mussing and meddling in the servants' duties!"

"But, Papa," cried his daughter, "look at these dear things! I love them
and they all know me, and they behave so much better when I feed them
myself. Do they not, Janet?" she added, turning to the stout and sonsy
farmer's daughter standing by.

"Indeed, then, they are clever at knowing you," replied the maid, whose
particular duty was to hold a reserve supply of food for the fowls that
clamoured and scrambled about her young mistress.

"Look at that vain bubbly-jock there, Papa," cried Moira, "he loves to
have me notice him. Conceited creature! Look out, Papa, he does not like
your kilts!" The bubbly-jock, drumming and scraping and sidling ever
nearer to the Captain's naked knees, finally with great outcry flew
straight at the affronting kilts.

"Get off with you, you beast!" cried the Captain, kicking vainly at the
wrathful bird, and at the same time beating a wise retreat before his
onset.

Moira rushed to his rescue. "Hoot, Jock! Shame on ye!" she cried. "There
now, you proud thing, be off! He's just jealous of your fine appearance,
Papa." With her kerchief she flipped into submission the haughty
bubbly-jock and drew her father out of the steading. "Come away, Papa,
and see my pigs."

But the Captain was in no humour for pigs. "Nonsense, child," he cried,
"let us get out of this mess! Besides, I wish to speak to you on a
matter of importance." They passed through the gate. "It is about
Allan," he continued, "and I'm really vexed. Something terrible has
happened."

"Allan!" the girl's voice was faint and her sunny cheek grew white.
"About Allan!" she said again. "And what is wrong with Allan, Papa?"

"That's what I do not know," replied her father fretfully; "but I
must away to Edinburgh this very day, so you'll need to hasten with my
packing. And bid Donald bring round the cart at once."

But Moira stood dazed. "But, Papa, you have not told me what is wrong
with Allan." Her voice was quiet, but with a certain insistence in it
that at once irritated her father and compelled his attention.

"Tut, tut, Moira, I have just said I do not know."

"Is he ill, Papa?" Again the girl's voice grew faint.

"No, no, not ill. I wish he were! I mean it is some business matter you
cannot understand. But it must be serious if Mr. Rae asks my presence
immediately. So you must hasten, child."

In less than half an hour Donald and the cart were waiting at the door,
and Moira stood in the hall with her father's bag ready packed. "Oh, I
am glad," she said, as she helped her father with his coat, "that Allan
is not ill. There can't be much wrong."

"Wrong! Read that, child!" cried the father impatiently.

She took the letter and read, her face reflecting her changing emotions,
perplexity, surprise, finally indignation. "'A matter for the police,'"
she quoted, scornfully, handing her father the letter. "'A matter for
the police' indeed! My but that Mr. Rae is the clever man! The police!
Does he think my brother Allan would cheat?--or steal, perhaps!" she
panted, in her indignant scorn.

"Mr. Rae is a careful man and a very able lawyer," replied her father.

"Able! Careful! He's an auld wife, and that's what he is! You can tell
him so for me." She was trembling and white with a wrath her father had
never before seen in her. He stood gazing at her in silent surprise.

"Papa," cried Moira passionately, answering his look, "do you think what
he is saying? I know my brother Allan clean through to the heart. He
is wild at times, and might rage perhaps and--and--break things, but he
will not lie nor cheat. He will die first, and that I warrant you."

Still her father stood gazing upon her as she stood proudly erect,
her pale face alight with lofty faith in her brother and scorn of his
traducer. "My child, my child," he said, huskily, "how like you are to
your mother! Thank God! Indeed it may be you're right! God grant it!" He
drew her closely to him.

"Papa, Papa," she whispered, clinging to him, while her voice broke in a
sob, "you know Allan will not lie. You know it, don't you, Papa?"

"I hope not, dear child, I hope not," he replied, still holding her to
him.

"Papa," she cried wildly, "say you believe me."

"Yes, yes, I do believe you. Thank God, I do believe you. The boy is
straight."

At that word she let him go. That her father should not believe in Allan
was to her loyal heart an intolerable pain. Now Allan would have someone
to stand for him against "that lawyer" and all others who might seek to
do him harm. At the House door she stood watching her father drive down
through the ragged firs to the highroad, and long after he had passed
out of sight she still stood gazing. Upon the church tower rising out of
its birches and its firs her eyes were resting, but her heart was
with the little mound at the tower's foot, and as she gazed, the tears
gathered and fell.

"Oh, Mother!" she whispered. "Mother, Mother! You know Allan would not
lie!"

A sudden storm was gathering. In a brief moment the world and the Glen
had changed. But half an hour ago and the Cuagh Oir was lying glorious
with its flowing gold. Now, from the Cuagh as from her world, the
flowing gold was gone.



CHAPTER III

THE FAMILY SOLICITOR


The senior member of the legal firm of Rae & Macpherson was perplexed
and annoyed, indeed angry, and angry chiefly because he was perplexed.
He resented such a condition of mind as reflecting upon his legal and
other acumen. Angry, too, he was because he had been forced to accept,
the previous day, a favour from a firm--Mr. Rae would not condescend to
say a rival firm--with which he for thirty years had maintained only
the most distant and formal relations, to wit, the firm of Thomlinson &
Shields. Messrs. Rae & Macpherson were family solicitors and for three
generations had been such; hence there gathered about the firm a fine
flavour of assured respectability which only the combination of solid
integrity and undoubted antiquity can give. Messrs. Rae & Macpherson had
not yielded in the slightest degree to that commercialising spirit
which would transform a respectable and self-respecting firm of family
solicitors into a mere financial agency; a transformation which Mr. Rae
would consider a degradation of an ancient and honourable profession.
This uncompromising attitude toward the commercialising spirit of the
age had doubtless something to do with their losing the solicitorship
for the Bank of Scotland, which went to the firm of Thomlinson &
Shields, to Mr. Rae's keen, though unacknowledged, disappointment;
a disappointment that arose not so much from the loss of the very
honourable and lucrative appointment, and more from the fact that the
appointment should go to such a firm as that of Thomlinson & Shields.
For the firm of Thomlinson & Shields were of recent origin, without
ancestry, boasting an existence of only some thirty-five years, and, as
one might expect of a firm of such recent origin, characterised by the
commercialising modern spirit in its most pronounced and objectionable
form. Mr. Rae, of course, would never condescend to hostile criticism,
dismissing Messrs. Thomlinson & Shields from the conversation with the
single remark, "Pushing, Sir, very pushing, indeed."

It was, then, no small humiliation for Mr. Rae to be forced to accept
a favour from Mr. Thomlinson. "Had it been any other than Cameron," he
said to himself, as he sat in his somewhat dingy and dusty office,
"I would let him swither. But Cameron! I must see to it and at once."
Behind the name there rose before Mr. Rae's imagination a long line
of brave men and fair women for whose name and fame and for whose good
estate it had been his duty and the duty of those who had preceded him
in office to assume responsibility.

"Young fool! Much he cares for the honour of his family! I wonder what's
at the bottom of this business! Looks ugly! Decidedly ugly! The first
thing is to find him." A messenger had failed to discover young Cameron
at his lodgings, and had brought back the word that for a week he
had not been seen there. "He must be found. They have given me till
to-morrow. I cannot ask a further stay of proceedings; I cannot and I
will not." It made Mr. Rae more deeply angry that he knew quite well
if necessity arose he would do just that very thing. "Then there's his
father coming in this evening. We simply must find him. But how and
where?"

Mr. Rae was not unskilled in such a matter. "Find a man, find his
friends," he muttered. "Let's see. What does the young fool do? What
are his games? Ah! Football! I have it! Young Dunn is my man." Hence to
young Dunn forthwith Mr. Rae betook himself.

It was still early in the day when Mr. Rae's mild, round, jolly,
clean-shaven face beamed in upon Mr. Dunn, who sat with dictionaries,
texts, and class notebooks piled high about him, burrowing in that
mound of hidden treasure which it behooves all prudent aspirants for
university honours to diligently mine as the fateful day approaches.
With Mr. Dunn time had now come to be measured by moments, and every
moment golden. But the wrathful impatience that had gathered in his
face at the approach of an intruder was overwhelmed in astonishment at
recognising so distinguished a visitor as Mr. Rae the Writer.

"Ah, Mr. Dunn," said Mr. Rae briskly, "a moment only, one moment, I
assure you. Well do I know the rage which boils behind that genial smile
of yours. Don't deny it, Sir. Have I not suffered all the pangs, with
just a week before the final ordeal? This is your final, I believe?"

"I hope so," said Mr. Dunn somewhat ruefully.

"Yes, yes, and a very fine career, a career befitting your father's
son. And I sincerely trust, Sir, that as your career has been marked by
honour, your exit shall be with distinction; and all the more that I am
not unaware of your achievements in another department of--ah--shall I
say endeavour. I have seen your name, Sir, mentioned more than once,
to the honour of our university, in athletic events." At this point Mr.
Rae's face broke into a smile.

An amazing smile was Mr. Rae's; amazing both in the suddenness of
its appearing and in the suddenness of its vanishing. Upon a face of
supernatural gravity, without warning, without beginning, the smile,
broad, full and effulgent, was instantaneously present. Then equally
without warning and without fading the smile ceased to be. Under its
effulgence the observer unfamiliar with Mr. Rae's smile was moved, to a
responsive geniality of expression, but in the full tide of this emotion
he found himself suddenly regarding a face of such preternatural gravity
as rebuked the very possibility or suggestion of geniality. Before the
smile Mr. Rae's face was like a house, with the shutters up and the
family plunged in gloom. When the smile broke forth every shutter was
flung wide to the pouring sunlight, and every window full of flowers
and laughing children. Then instantly and without warning the house
was blank, lifeless, and shuttered once more, leaving you helplessly
apologetic that you had ever been guilty of the fatuity of associating
anything but death and gloom with its appearance.

To young Mr. Dunn it was extremely disconcerting to discover himself
smiling genially into a face of the severest gravity, and eyes that
rebuked him for his untimely levity. "Oh, I beg pardon," exclaimed Mr.
Dunn hastily, "I thought--"

"Not at all, Sir," replied Mr. Rae. "As I was saying, I have observed
from time to time the distinctions you have achieved in the realm of
athletics. And that reminds me of my business with you to-day,--a sad
business, a serious business, I fear." The solemn impressiveness of
Mr. Rae's manner awakened in Mr. Dunn an awe amounting to dread. "It is
young Cameron, a friend of yours, I believe, Sir."

"Cameron, Sir!" echoed Dunn.

"Yes, Cameron. Does he, or did he not have a place on your team?"

Dunn sat upright and alert. "Yes, Sir. What's the matter, Sir?"

"First of all, do you know where he is? I have tried his lodgings. He is
not there. It is important that I find him to-day, extremely important;
in fact, it is necessary; in short, Mr. Dunn,--I believe I can confide
in your discretion,--if I do not find him to-day, the police will
to-morrow."

"The police, Sir!" Dunn's face expressed an awful fear. In the heart of
the respectable Briton the very mention of the police in connection
with the private life of any of his friends awakens a feeling of gravest
apprehension. No wonder Mr. Dunn's face went pale! "The police!" he said
a second time. "What for?"

Mr. Rae remained silent.

"If it is a case of debts, Sir," suggested Mr. Dunn, "why, I would
gladly--"

Mr. Rae waved him aside. "It is sufficient to say, Mr. Dunn, that we are
the family solicitors, as we have been for his father, his grandfather
and great-grandfather before him."

"Oh, certainly, Sir. I beg pardon," said Mr. Dunn hastily.

"Not at all; quite proper; does you credit. But it is not a case of
debts, though it is a case of money; in fact, Sir,--I feel sure I may
venture to confide in you,--he is in trouble with his bank, the Bank
of Scotland. The young man, or someone using his name, has been guilty
of--ah--well, an irregularity, a decided irregularity, an irregularity
which the bank seems inclined to--to--follow up; indeed, I may say,
instructions have been issued through their solicitors to that effect.
Mr. Thomlinson was good enough to bring this to my attention, and to
offer a stay of proceedings for a day."

"Can I do anything, Sir?" said Dunn. "I'm afraid I've neglected him. The
truth is, I've been in an awful funk about my exams, and I haven't kept
in touch as I should."

"Find him, Mr. Dunn, find him. His father is coming to town this
evening, which makes it doubly imperative. Find him; that is, if you can
spare the time."

"Of course I can. I'm awfully sorry I've lost touch with him. He's been
rather down all this winter; in fact, ever since the International he
seems to have lost his grip of himself."

"Ah, indeed!" said Mr. Rae. "I remember that occasion; in fact, I was
present myself," he admitted. "I occasionally seek to renew my youth."
Mr. Rae's smile broke forth, but anxiety for his friend saved Mr.
Dunn from being caught again in any responsive smile. "Bring him to my
office, if you can, any time to-day. Good-bye, Sir. Your spirit does you
credit. But it is the spirit which I should expect in a man who plays
the forward line as you play it."

Mr. Dunn blushed crimson. "Is there anything else I could do? Anyone I
could see? I mean, for instance, could my father serve in any way?"

"Ah, a good suggestion!" Mr. Rae seized his right ear,--a characteristic
action of his when in deep thought,--twisted it into a horn, and pulled
it quite severely as if to assure himself that that important feature
of his face was firmly fixed in its place. "A very good suggestion! Your
father knows Mr. Sheratt, the manager of the bank, I believe."

"Very well, Sir, I think," answered Mr. Dunn. "I am sure he would see
him. Shall I call him in, Sir?"

"Nothing of the sort, nothing of the sort; don't think of it! I mean,
let there be nothing formal in this matter. If Mr. Dunn should chance to
meet Mr. Sheratt, that is, casually, so to speak, and if young Cameron's
name should come up, and if Mr. Dunn should use his influence, his very
great influence, with Mr. Sheratt, the bank might be induced to take a
more lenient view of the case. I think I can trust you with this." Mr.
Rae shook the young man warmly by the hand, beamed on him for one brief
moment with his amazing smile, presented to his answering smile a face
of unspeakable gravity, and left him extremely uncertain as to the
proper appearance for his face, under the circumstances.

Before Mr. Rae had gained the street Dunn was planning his campaign; for
no matter what business he had in hand, Dunn always worked by plan. By
the time he himself had reached the street his plan was formed. "No use
trying his digs. Shouldn't be surprised if that beast Potts has got
him. Rotten bounder, Potts, and worse! Better go round his way." And
oscillating in his emotions between disgust and rage at Cameron for his
weakness and his folly, and disgust and rage at himself for his neglect
of his friend, Dunn took his way to the office of the Insurance Company
which was honoured by the services of Mr. Potts.

The Insurance Company knew nothing of the whereabouts of Mr. Potts.
Indeed, the young man who assumed responsibility for the information
appeared to treat the very existence of Mr. Potts as a matter of slight
importance to his company; so slight, indeed, that the company had not
found it necessary either to the stability of its business or to the
protection of its policy holders--a prime consideration with Insurance
Companies--to keep in touch with Mr. Potts. That gentleman had left for
the East coast a week ago, and that was the end of the matter as far as
the clerk of the Insurance Company was concerned.

At his lodgings Mr. Dunn discovered an even more callous indifference to
Mr. Potts and his interests. The landlady, under the impression that
in Mr. Dunn she beheld a prospective lodger, at first received him with
that deferential reserve which is the characteristic of respectable
lodging-house keepers in that city of respectable lodgers and
respectable lodging-house keepers. When, however, she learned the real
nature of Mr. Dunn's errand, she became immediately transformed. In a
voice shrill with indignation she repudiated Mr. Potts and his affairs,
and seemed chiefly concerned to re-establish her own reputation for
respectability, which she seemed to consider as being somewhat shattered
by that of her lodger. Mr. Dunn was embarrassed both by her volubility
and by her obvious determination to fasten upon him a certain amount of
responsibility for the character and conduct of Mr. Potts.

"Do you know where Mr. Potts is now, and have you any idea when he may
return?" inquired Mr. Dunn, seizing a fortunate pause.

"Am I no' juist tellin' ye," cried the landlady, in her excitement
reverting to her native South Country dialect, "that I keep nae coont o'
Mr. Potts' stravagins? An' as to his return, I ken naething aboot that
an' care less. He's paid what he's been owing me these three months an'
that's all I care aboot him."

"I am glad to hear that," said Mr. Dunn heartily.

"An' glad I am tae, for it's feared I was for my pay a month back."

"When did he pay up?" inquired Mr. Dunn, scenting a clue.

"A week come Saturday,--or was it Friday?--the day he came in with a
young man, a friend of his. And a night they made of it, I remember,"
replied the landlady, recovering command of herself and of her speech
under the influence of Mr. Dunn's quiet courtesy.

"Did you know the young man that was with him?"

"Yes, it was young Cameron. He had been coming about a good deal."

"Oh, indeed! And have you seen Mr. Cameron since?"

"No; he never came except in company with Mr. Potts."

And with this faint clue Mr. Dunn was forced to content himself, and to
begin a systematic search of Cameron's haunts in the various parts of
the town. It was Martin, his little quarter-back, that finally put him
on the right track. He had heard Cameron's pipes not more than an hour
ago at his lodgings in Morningside Road.

"But what do you want of Cameron these days?" inquired the young
Canadian. "There's nothing on just now, is there, except this infernal
grind?"

Dunn hesitated. "Oh, I just want him. In fact, he has got into some
trouble."

"There you are!" exclaimed Martin in disgust. "Why in thunder should
you waste time on him? You've taken enough trouble with him this winter
already. It's his own funeral, ain't it?"

Dunn looked at him a half moment in surprise. "Well, you can't go back
on a fellow when he's down, can you?"

"Look here, Dunn, I've often thought I'd give you a little wise advice.
This sounds bad, I know, but there's a lot of blamed rot going around
this old town just on this point. When a fellow gets on the bum and gets
into a hole he knows well that there'll be a lot of people tumbling over
each other to get him out, hence he deliberately and cheerfully slides
in. If he knew he'd have to scramble out himself he wouldn't be so
blamed keen to get in. If he's in a hole let him frog it for awhile, by
Jingo! He's hitting the pace, let him take his bumps! He's got to take
'em sooner or later, and better sooner than later, for the sooner he
takes 'em the quicker he'll learn. Bye-bye! I know you think I'm a
semi-civilised Colonial. I ain't; I'm giving you some wisdom gained from
experience. You can't swim by hanging on to a root, you bet!"

Dunn listened in silence, then replied slowly, "I say, old chap, there's
something in that. My governor said something like that some time ago:
'A trainer's business is to train his men to do without him.'"

"There you are!" cried Martin. "That's philosophy! Mine's just horse
sense."

"Still," said Dunn thoughtfully, "when a chap's in you've got to lend
a hand; you simply can't stand and look on." Dunn's words, tone, and
manner revealed the great, honest heart of human sympathy which he
carried in his big frame.

"Oh, hang it," cried Martin, "I suppose so! Guess I'll go along with
you. I can't forget you pulled me out, too."

"Thanks, old chap," cried Dunn, brightening up, "but you're busy, and--"

"Busy! By Jingo, you'd think so if you'd watch me over night and hear my
brain sizzle. But come along, I'm going to stay with you!"

But Dunn's business was private, and could be shared with no one. It was
difficult to check his friend's newly-aroused ardour. "I say, old chap,"
he said, "you really don't need to come along. I can do--"

"Oh, go to blazes! I know you too well! Don't you worry about me! You've
got me going, and I'm in on this thing; so come along!"

Then Dunn grew firm. "Thanks, awfully, old man," he said, "but it's a
thing I'd rather do alone, if you don't mind."

"Oh!" said Martin. "All right! But say, if you need me I'm on. You're a
great old brick, though! Tra-la!"

As Martin had surmised, Dunn found Cameron in his rooms. He was lying
upon his bed enjoying the luxury of a cigarette. "Hello! Come right
in, old chap!" he cried, in gay welcome. "Have a--no, you won't have a
cigarette--have a pipe?"

Dunn gazed at him, conscious of a rising tide of mingled emotions,
relief, wrath, pity, disgust. "Well, I'll be hanged!" at last he said
slowly. "But you've given us a chase! Where in the world have you been?"

"Been? Oh, here and there, enjoying my emancipation from the thralldom
in which doubtless you are still sweating."

"And what does that mean exactly?"

"Mean? It means that I've cut the thing,--notebooks, lectures,
professors, exams, 'the hale hypothick,' as our Nannie would say at
home."

"Oh rot, Cameron! You don't mean it?"