Chapter XIX A Sanatorium in Sutherland
Archibald Samphire took with him to Scotland a suit-case and a small handbag. After leaving Perth, where he made an early breakfast, he opened the bag and pulled out a roll of foolscap covered with neat, scholarly handwriting. The reading of this MS. seemed to give him pleasure; but presently his fine brow puckered into wrinkles, and an excellent cigar was allowed to go out prematurely.
“It’s not as good as I thought,” he murmured; and he was not speaking of his cigar.
Presently he lit another cigar and reread the MS.—the sermon prepared for Royalty. When he wrote it, he told himself it eclipsed the one preached on Whit-Sunday at Westchester. Afterwards, rereading it in cold blood, he had come to the conclusion that it did not quite “grip,” as Betty put it, although sound to the core doctrinally, and discreet; better suited, perhaps, for august ears than the other. Now, in this clear, cool northern air, judgment was of a less sanguine complexion. The theme warmed into life in the Close at Westchester lacked vitality in the Highlands. Mountain and moor made it seem anæmic. Archibald looked out of the window, which was open, and inhaled the fresh, pungent air. Not a house was to be seen, not even a shepherd’s hut; the moors spread a purple carpet on which no human creature walked; the mountains, vast, rugged, solitary, encompassed the moors. Yet in the heart of this lonely wilderness men had swarmed together in conflict. These mountains had not barred the progress of an army. Guns, horses, transport waggons had defiled through the passes and across the treacherous peat bogs. That clear burn yonder had run red with blood. Here was fought the battle of Killiecrankie! Archie thought of these things as he sat with the sheets of his sermon in his hand. He bundled the MS. back into his bag, and closed it with a snap, divining his inability to deal adequately with what was primal!
He had wired to Mark that he was coming North; accordingly, at Lairg he found a “machine” awaiting him, a ramshackle cart drawn by a sturdy pony, whose attempts to leave the rough roads and plunge on to the moor indicated that he was more at ease beneath a deer packsaddle than between a pair of shafts. The driver eyed somewhat derisively Archie’s clerical garments. “Ye’re no a meenister?” he asked; and receiving a reply in the affirmative, added with emphasis, “Ye’re verra young for that.” A minute later he asked if his passenger were college-bred.
“I took my degree at Cambridge,” said Archie.
“Indeed. A’m interested in the Punic Wars. Yon Scipio Africanus was a gran’ man. I’d be obliged if ye’d tell me all ye ken aboot him.”
Archie changed from pink to the colour of Turkey twill. What he knew about Scipio Africanus could have been put into a grain of millet seed. In some confusion—not wasted upon the critical Scot—he explained that the Punic Wars were beyond his horizon. The driver nodded compassionately, expressing no surprise at the Sassenach’s ignorance. He was thin and angular; his grey eyes had curious flecks of brown in them; his face and hands were very red and hairy, and beneath the red hair Archie detected a certain amount of dirt. This restored the minor canon’s sense of superiority. The Scot, however, wore stout homespun and superb stockings.
“You wear good clothes,” said Archie.
“D’ye think they’re too guid?”
“Certainly not,” said Archie hastily. “Your Highland sheep look in fine condition.”
Once more the driver’s queer eyes met his. The brown flecks danced in the grey.
“They’re no mine, and they cam frae Teviotdale—they white-faced sheep.” The contempt in the man’s voice was unmistakable.
Archie wondered if the man also came from the border; he did not look like a Highlander; Highlanders always said “whateffer.” He wished to ask questions about Crask, Ross’s lodge, but the brown flecks in the small, closely-set eyes were oddly disconcerting, so he stared at the face of the landscape instead of that of the man. They were driving over a bleak moor which stretched, far as the eye could reach, to some delicately blue hills fringing the western skies. The scene was panoramic and indescribably desolate. Along the road black posts, set at intervals, served as guides to such travellers—shepherds for the most part—who were obliged to cross the moors in winter-time, when snow covered all things. Archie thought of November and shivered. Presently they passed a small slate-tiled cottage built of rough grey stone and surrounded by a grey stone wall. Peats were piled close to a vast midden, on which some hens were scratching; beyond the peat stack stood the byre; garden, ornamental or useful, there was none. As the pony came to a sudden halt, three rough collies rushed out, barking furiously. The driver spoke to them and got down; he strode into the house, remained there ten minutes, and came out wiping his hairy chin. Archie smelled whisky. The driver picked up the reins, the collies barked, the pony shambled forward. Evidently the whisky had had an effect, for the Scot became communicative.
“He’s a verra mean man, yon,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the house. “We were tasting the noo, and I said, as he was filling the glass—‘Stop!’ And wad ye believe it, the brute stoppit?”
Mark would have laughed. Archibald remained calm.
“There’s too much whisky drunk in Scotland,” he said.
“There’s’ mair drunk oot of it,” retorted the driver.
Archie refused to enter into argument, and the driver filled a black cutty with evil-smelling tobacco. After the moor was crossed, the character of the scenery changed. The road wound its way beside a charming burn to which heather-covered hills sloped steeply. Farther on, a loch reflected the saffron splendours of the sky. A splendid mountain—Ben Caryll—towered to the right.
“Yon’s the hoose,” said the driver.
The house crowned a small spur of Ben Caryll. At one side stood a small wooden chapel embellished by a diminutive bell-tower, in which hung a single bell of great sweetness of tone. A big lawn lay on the other side of the house, and Archie noted with surprise that tennis-courts were marked out. He noted also, with equal surprise, the profusion of flowers and flowering shrubs and the care which allotted to each its particular place in the general plan of the garden. The house looked grey and grim, like all houses in this part of Scotland, and the windows had been enlarged, giving the building somewhat the appearance of a small factory. Behind the tennis-courts stood a row of rough sheds covered with creepers and facing the south. In the sheds he caught a glimpse of tables, chairs, sofas, and other simple furnishings.
Archie rang the bell, which jangled discordantly. The door was opened by Mark, who held out both hands, smiling. “It’s awfully good of you, old fellow,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’re just in time for supper. Here’s the Bishop. He’s up for a day or two.”
David Ross nodded cordially and gripped Archie’s hand. Two men came forward and were introduced. One shouldered the big suit-case and went upstairs with it, ignoring protests. Archie followed, carrying his small black bag and feeling that he had come on a fool’s errand so far as Mark was concerned. Dying? Why, he looked stronger than he had looked for months. As soon as the brothers were alone Archie said as much.
“I suppose it’s the air,” Mark explained. “I’m out-of-doors night and day. My trouble is scotched.”
“I can’t understand how you can joke about it,” said Archie.
“A vile pun, but irresistible. I say, wash that frown off your face and come down. We’ll have a pipe and a good jaw afterwards. If you think, by the way, that I do look better, you might say so to David Ross. He’s been awfully kind.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“I c-c-couldn’t,” said Mark shortly.
In the refectory, a long, low annexe to the house, the Bishop’s guests sat at meat. Some of them were ruddy and robust; others looked thin and white, but not one, so Archie remarked, wore the sable of discontent. The eyes that met his were candid and clear—the eyes of men satisfied with their lot in life. At the foot of the table sat a little fellow with a big head, which waggled comically. Archie wondered where he had seen him before; then he remembered. The little man looked like Mr. Pickwick, although he lacked that illustrious character’s deportment and dignity.
“Who is that?” he whispered to Mark, who sat beside him.
“That’s Stride, our resident doctor. He’s mad keen about the open-air cure. He got his ideas from Father Kneippe.”
In those days neither Father Kneippe nor his ideas were famous. The open-air treatment for disease was practically unknown. Mark explained Stride’s methods: his theories on diet and physical culture, facts now familiar to everybody.
“Stride lives here all the year round, you know. David Ross comes and goes at long intervals.”
“It must be desolate in winter.” Archie gave his impressions, including a description of the house with the huge midden. “It was larger than the cottage,” he said in great disgust, “and the drunken savage who drove me wanted to learn what I knew about Scipio Africanus and the Punic wars. Punic wars indeed!”
“I like the country and the people,” said Mark, “but you have to climb to get at either.”
After supper the guests marched outside and settled themselves in the sheds, which were lit with lamps. Some read, some played chess, some listened to Stride, who talked unceasingly. The Bishop led Archie aside and asked him if he would like to smoke a pipe on the lawn.
“I’ll smoke a cigar,” said Archie. “Can I offer you one?”
“I prefer a pipe,” said the Bishop.
They strolled together on to the lawn. Although it was nearly ten, twilight still lingered about the landscape, as if loath to leave a scene so fair in darkness. Archie listened attentively to what his companion was saying.
“Your brother has neglected his body.” (Ross had been warned by Mark to say no more than this.) “In such cases more or less of a breakdown is inevitable. I am delighted that you see a change for the better. Six months up here, under Stride, may set him up.”
“I hoped to take him back with me. I came up for that purpose.”
“Your brother can return with you, if he wishes, but would it be wise?”
“Perhaps not, perhaps not,” said Archie. “We did not know that you were prepared to offer so generous a hospitality.”
“He will be a paying guest in more senses than one. I dare say you would like to talk to him. Good night! I have an immense pile of letters to answer. I hope you will stay with us as long as you please.”
He grasped Archie’s hand, and strode off. Archie watched him for a moment, enviously. Ross gave the impression of power in action. It was certain that his amazing stride would take him far on any road—and always upward and onward: the motto adopted by his followers.
When he found himself alone with Mark, in the bedroom assigned to him, Archie said: “Ross seems to think that you are doing better here than you would, for instance, in Slowshire.”
“Why, of course. I’m mending rapidly. One cannot do anything rapidly in Slowshire. It’s not even a place to die in. One would dawdle over it.”
“You will speak with such levity——”
“I’ve not your gravity, my dear old fellow. Now then, tell me about yourself. What are you doing?”
“I’ve been commanded to preach at Windsor.”
Mark was so eager and warm in his congratulations that Archie found it easy to go on.
“I’ve brought my MS. with me. I want you to skim through it.”
“I must read it at once. This is wildly exciting.”
Archie paced up and down, while Mark sat on the bed reading the sermon. Judging from his face, the fare was proving unpalatable. Archie saw that he was frowning and fidgeting with his fingers, as he used to do at Harrow, when he was looking over his major’s verses. This familiar expression made the big fellow feel ludicrously like a boy. He half shut his eyes and waited for the inevitable: “I say, you know, this is awful bosh,” of the Fifth Form days. Mark read the MS. through, and then glanced again at certain passages, before he said a word.
“Well,” said Archie nervously, “will it do?”
Mark slid off the bed, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at his brother.
“That depends. It will do to light some fires with; but it won’t set the Thames, near Windsor, ablaze.”
“Call it ‘bosh’ and have done with it.”
“It’s not bosh. You’ve taken one of the Beatitudes.”
“The Dean suggested that. He said it would please. Of course he knows.”
“The text is the most inspiring in the New Testament, but you’ve treated it conventionally. Now look here——” He paused to collect his ideas. Archie saw that his eyes were shining with that suffused light which betokened in him mental or spiritual excitement. He began to pace up and down the narrow room; then he burst out: “You lay stress on the reward hereafter; a hereafter which the finite mind is unable to grasp. The pure in heart shall see God in His Heaven. Don’t you know that the pure in heart see God here? That He is revealed, and only to the pure, in everything that lies around us. Ah, that is a theme, a celestial theme: the revelation of the Creator in the things created. And impurity blinds us. We look up to God, if we do look up, through a fog. You must take that line, Archie. Burn this—and begin again. And be sure that you define purity of heart aright. Don’t confound it with purity of body. You are eloquent on the purity of a child. Why, man, the purity which knows not impurity is emasculate compared with the purity which knows impurity, which has fought with impurity, and yet, in the end, after conflicts innumerable, vanquishes impurity! I tell you that what men and women want to-day is substance. An ideal Heaven, an ideal earth, appeal to us, yes, but they charm as a mirage charms; they melt and fade as the mirage does. What you have written here,” he tapped the foolscap impatiently, “might feed saints, but flesh-and-blood sinners would go empty away. By Heaven! if I had your voice, I would make the sinners hear.”
“You must help me,” said Archie in a low, hesitating voice.
“Why not?” said Mark excitedly. “Give me the night to think. To-morrow we’ll put our heads together and the sparks shall fly. I haven’t used my brains for a month. This will do me good.”
“Will it?” said Archie doubtfully. Already Mark’s face was drawn and haggard; he looked ten years older than his brother.
“What is life,” said Mark contemptuously, “if the salt of helping a pal be taken from it? I’m not useless yet. Good night. I sleep in a shed, you know. And I can see the stars whenever I open my eyes.”
“It’s so cloudy here,” said Archibald.
“I can see through most clouds, but s-s-some——”
Mark paused abruptly, the light faded in his eyes, as he turned and left the room.