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diff --git a/43732-0.txt b/43732-0.txt index 342e885..e2d8d59 100644 --- a/43732-0.txt +++ b/43732-0.txt @@ -1,28 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Shoes of Fortune - -Author: Neil Munro - -Illustrator: A. S. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Shoes of Fortune - -Author: Neil Munro - -Illustrator: A. S. Boyd - -Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43732] -Last Updated: March 8, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger - - - - - - -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE - -HOW THEY BROUGHT TO MANHOOD LOVE ADVENTURE AND CONTENT AS ALSO INTO -DIVERS PERILS ON LAND AND SEA IN FOREIGN PARTS AND IN AN ALIEN ARMY PAUL -GREIG OF THE HAZEL DEN IN SCOTLAND ONE TIME PURSER OF 'THE SEVEN SISTERS' -BRIGANTINE OF HULL AND LATE LIEUTENANT IN THE REGIMENT D'AUVERGNE ALL -AS WRIT BY HIM AND NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME SET FORTH - -By Neil Munro - -Illustrated by A. S. Boyd - - - - - -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -NARRATES HOW I CAME TO QUIT THE STUDY OF LATIN AND THE LIKE, AND TAKE TO -HARD WORK IN A MOORLAND COUNTRY - -It is an odd thing, chance--the one element to baffle the logician and -make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the -sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the -incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this -day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase -and sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate -overlooked, sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh--a moody soured -man with a jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment -to office. I might have been that, or less, if it had not been for so -trifling a circumstance as the burning of an elderly woman's batch of -scones. Had Mistress Grant a more attentive eye to her Culross griddle, -what time the scones for her lodgers, breakfast were a-baking forty -years ago, I would never have fled furth my native land in a mortal -terror of the gallows: had her griddle, say, been higher on the -swee-chain by a link or two, Paul Greig would never have foregathered -with Dan Risk, the blackguard skipper of a notorious craft; nor pined -in a foreign jail; nor connived, unwitting, at a prince's murder; nor -marched the weary leagues of France and fought there on a beggar's -wage. And this is not all that hung that long-gone day upon a woman's -stair-head gossip to the neglect of her _cuisine_, for had this woman -been more diligent at her baking I had probably never seen my Isobel -with a lover's eye. - -Well, here's one who can rarely regret the past except that it is gone. -It was hard, it was cruel often; dangers the most curious and unexpected -beset me, and I got an insight to deep villainies whereof man may be -capable; yet on my word, if I had the parcelling out of a second life -for myself, I think I would have it not greatly differing from the -first, that seems in God's providence like to end in the parish where -it started, among kent and friendly folk. I would not swear to it, yet I -fancy I would have Lucky Grant again gossiping on her stair-head and -her scones burned black, that Mackellar, my fellow-lodger, might make me -once more, as he used to do, the instrument of his malcontent. - -I mind, as it were yesterday, his gloomy look at the platter that morn's -morning. “Here they are again!” cried he, “fired to a cinder; it's -always that with the old wife, or else a heart of dough. For a bawbee I -would throw them in her face.” - -“Well, not so much as that.” said I, “though it is mighty provoking.” - -“I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, always glooming at the platter -with his dark, wild Hielan' eye. “I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, -“but it's something by way of an insult to you, that had to complain of -Sunday's haddocks.” - -“Oh, as to them,” quo' I, “they did brawly for me; 'twas you put your -share in your pocket and threw it away on the Green. Besides the scones -are not so bad as they look”--I broke one and ate; “they're owre good at -least for a hungry man like me to send back where they came from.” - -His face got red. “What's that rubbish about the haddocks and the -Green?” said he. “You left me at my breakfast when you went to the Ram's -Horn Kirk.” - -“And that's true, Jock,” said I; “but I think I have made no' so bad a -guess. You were feared to affront the landlady by leaving her ancient -fish on the ashet, and you egged me on to do the grumbling.” - -“Well, it's as sure as death, Paul,” said he shamefacedly, “I hate to -vex a woman. And you're a thought wrong in your guess”--he laughed at -his own humour as he said it--“for when you were gone to your kirk I -transferred my share of the stinking fish to your empty plate.” - -He jouked his head, but scarcely quick enough, for my Sallust caught him -on the ear. He replied with a volume of Buchanan the historian, the man -I like because he skelped the Lord's anointed, James the First, and for -a time there was war in Lucky Grant's parlour room, till I threw him -into the recess bed snibbed the door, and went abroad into the street -leaving my room-fellow for once to utter his own complaints. - -I went out with the itch of battle on me, and that was the consequence -of a woman's havering while scones burned, and likewise my undoing, -for the High Street when I came to it was in the yeasty ferment of -encountering hosts, their cries calling poor foolish Paul Greig like a -trumpet. - -It had been a night and morning of snow, though I and Mackellar, so high -in Lucky Grant's chamber in Crombie's Land, had not suspected it. The -dull drab streets, with their crazy, corbelled gable-ends, had been -transformed by a silent miracle of heaven into something new and clean; -where noisome gutters were wont to brim with slops there was the napkin -of the Lord. - -For ordinary I hated this town of my banishment; hated its tun-bellied -Virginian merchants, so constantly airing themselves upon the Tontine -piazza and seeming to suffer from prosperity as from a disease; and felt -no great love of its women--always so much the madame to a drab-coated -lad from the moorlands; suffered from its greed and stifled with the -stinks of it. “Gardyloo! Gardyloo! Gardyloo!” Faith! I hear that evening -slogan yet, and see the daunderers on the Rottenrow skurry like rats -into the closes to escape the cascades from the attic windows. And while -I think I loved learning (when it was not too ill to come by), and was -doing not so bad in my Humanities, the carven gateway of the college -in my two sessions of a scholar's fare never but scowled upon me as I -entered. - -But the snow that morning made of the city a place wherein it was good -to be young, warm-clad, and hardy. It silenced the customary traffic of -the street, it gave the morning bells a song of fairydom and the valleys -of dream; up by-ordinary tall and clean-cut rose the crow-stepped walls, -the chimney heads, and steeples, and I clean forgot my constant fancy -for the hill of Ballageich and the heather all about it. And war raged. -The students faced 'prentice lads and the journeymen of the crafts -with volleys of snowballs; the merchants in the little booths ran -out tremulous and vainly cried the watch. Charge was made and -counter-charge; the air was thick with missiles, and close at hand -the silver bells had their merry sweet chime high over the city of my -banishment drowned by the voices taunting and defiant. - -Merry was that day, but doleful was the end of it, for in the fight -I smote with a snowball one of the bailies of the burgh, who had come -waving his three-cocked hat with the pomp and confidence of an elected -man and ordering an instant stoppage of our war: he made more ado about -the dignity of his office than the breakage of his spectacles, and I was -haled before my masters, where I fear I was not so penitent as prudence -would advise. - -Two days later my father came in upon Dawson's cart to convoy me -home. He saw the Principal, he saw the regents of the college, and up, -somewhat clashed and melancholy, he climbed to my lodging. Mackellar -fled before his face as it had been the face of the Medusa. - -“Well, Paul,” said my father, “it seems we made a mistake about your -birthday.” - -“Did you?” said I, without meaning, for I knew he was ironical. - -“It would seem so, at any rate,” said he, not looking my airt at all, -but sideways to the window and a tremor in his voice. “When your mother -packed your washing last Wednesday and slipped the siller I was not -supposed to see into a stocking-foot, she said, 'Now he's twenty and the -worst of it over.' Poor woman! she was sadly out of her reckoning. I'm -thinking I have here but a bairn of ten. You should still be at the -dominie's.” - -“I was not altogether to blame, father,” I cried. “The thing was an -accident.” - -“Of course, of course,” said he soothingly. “Was't ever otherwise when -the devil joggled an elbow? Whatever it was, accident or design, it's a -session lost. Pack up, Paul, my very young boy, and we'll e'en make our -way quietly from this place where they may ken us.” - -He paid the landlady her lawing, with sixpence over for her -motherliness, whereat she was ready to greet, and he took an end of my -blue kist down the stairs with me, and over with it like a common porter -to the carrier's stance. - -A raw, raining day, and the rough highways over the hoof with slush of -melted snow, we were a chittering pair as we drove under the tilt of the -cart that came to the Mearns to meet us, and it was a dumb and solemn -home-coming for me. - -Not that I cared much myself, for my lawyership thus cracked in the -shell, as it were I had been often seized with the notion that six -feet of a moor-lander, in a lustre gown and a horse-hair wig and a blue -shalloon bag for the fees, was a wastry of good material. But it was -the dad and her at home I thought of, and could put my neck below the -cartwheel for distressing. I knew what he thought of as he sat in the -cart corner, for many a time he had told me his plans; and now they were -sadly marred. I was to get as much as I could from the prelections of -Professor Reid, work my way through the furrows of Van Eck, Van Muyden, -and the Pandects, then go to Utrecht or Groningen for the final baking, -and come back to the desk of Coghill and Sproat, Writers to the Signet, -in Spreull's Land of Edinburgh; run errands between that dusty hole and -the taverns of Salamander Land, where old Sproat (that was my father's -doer) held long sederunts with his clients, to write a thesis finally, -and graduate at the art of making black look--not altogether white -perhaps, but a kind of dirty grey. I had been even privileged to try a -sampling of the lawyer's life before I went to college, in the chambers -of MacGibbon of Lanark town, where I spent a summer (that had been more -profitably passed in my father's fields), backing letters, fair-copying -drafts of lease and process, and indexing the letter-book. The last I -hated least of all, for I could have a half-sheet of foolscap between -the pages, and under MacGibbon's very nose try my hand at something -sombre in the manner of the old ancient ballads of the Border. Doing -that same once, I gave a wild cry and up with my inky hand and shook it. -“Eh! eh!” cried MacGibbon, thinking I had gone mad. “What ails ye?” “He -struck me with his sword!” said I like a fool, not altogether out of my -frenzy; and then the snuffy old body came round the corner of the desk, -keeked into the letter-book where I should have been doing his work, and -saw that I was wasting good paper with clinking trash. “Oh, sirs! sirs! -I never misused a minute of my youth in the like of that!” said he, -sneering, and the sneer hurt. “No, I daresay not,” I answered him. -“Perhaps ye never had the inclination--nor the art.” - -I have gone through the world bound always to say what was in me, and -that has been my sore loss more than once; but to speak thus to an old -man, who had done me no ill beyond demonstrating the general world's -attitude to poetry and men of sentiment, was the blackest insolence. He -was well advised to send me home for a leathering at my father's hands. -And I got the leathering, too, though it was three months after. I had -been off in the interim upon a sloop ship out of Ayr. - -But here I am havering, and the tilted cart with my father and me in it -toiling on the mucky way through the Meams; and it has escaped couping -into the Earn at the ford, and it has landed us at the gate of home; and -in all that weary journey never a word, good or ill, from the man that -loved me and my mother before all else in a world he was well content -with. - -Mother was at the door; that daunted me. - -“Ye must be fair starving, Paul,” quoth she softly with her hand on my -arm, and I daresay my face was blae with cold and chagrin. But my father -was not to let a disgrace well merited blow over just like that. - -“Here's our little Paul, Katrine,” said he, and me towering a head or -two above the pair of them and a black down already on my face. “Here's -our little Paul. I hope you have not put by his bibs and daidlies, for -the wee man's not able to sup the good things of this life clean yet.” - -And that was the last word of reproof I heard for my folly from my -father Quentin Greig. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MISS FORTUNE'S TRYST BY WATER OF EARN, AND HOW I MARRED THE SAME -UNWITTINGLY - -For the most part of a year I toiled and moiled like any crofter's son -on my father's poor estate, and dreary was the weird I had to dree, for -my being there at all was an advertisement to the countryside of what a -fool was young Paul Greig. “The Spoiled Horn” was what they called me in -the neighbourhood (I learned it in the taunt of a drunken packman), for -I had failed at being the spoon I was once designed for, and there was -not a ne'er-do-weel peasant nor a bankrupt portioner came craving some -benefit to my father's door but made up for his deference to the laird -by his free manner with the laird's son. The extra tenderness of my -mother (if that were possible) only served to swell my rebel heart, for -I knew she was but seeking to put me in a better conceit of myself, and -I found a place whereof I had before been fond exceedingly assume a new -complexion. The rain seemed to fall constantly that year, and the earth -in spring was sodden and sour. Hazel Den House appeared sunk in the -rotten leafage of the winter long after the lambs came home and the -snipe went drumming on the marsh, and the rookery in the holm plantation -was busy with scolding parents tutoring their young. A solemn house at -its best--it is so yet, sometimes I think, when my wife is on a jaunt -at her sister's and Walter's bairns are bedded--it was solemn beyond all -description that spring, and little the better for the coming of summer -weather. For then the trees about it, that gave it over long billows of -untimbered countryside an aspect of dark importance, by the same token -robbed it (as I thought then) of its few amenities. How it got the name -of Hazel Den I cannot tell, for autumn never browned a nut there. It was -wych elm and ash that screened Hazel Den House; the elms monstrous and -grotesque with knotty growths: when they were in their full leaf behind -the house they hid the valley of the Clyde and the Highland hills, that -at bleaker seasons gave us a sense of companionship with the wide world -beyond our infield of stunted crops. The ash towered to the number of -two score and three towards the south, shutting us off from the view -there, and working muckle harm to our kitchen-garden. Many a time my -father was for cutting them down, but mother forbade it, though her -syboes suffered from the shade and her roses grew leggy and unblooming. -“That,” said she, “is the want of constant love: flowers are like -bairns; ye must be aye thinking of them kindly to make them thrive.” And -indeed there might be something in the notion, for her apple-ringie -and Dutch Admiral, jonquils, gillyflowers, and peony-roses throve -marvellously, better then they did anywhere in the shire of Renfrew -while she lived and tended them and have never been quite the same since -she died, even with a paid gardener to look after them. - -A winter loud with storm, a spring with rain-rot in the fallen leaf, a -summer whose foliage but made our home more solitary than ever, a short -autumn of stifling heats--that was the year the Spoiled Horn tasted the -bitterness of life, the bitterness that comes from the want of an -aim (that is better than the best inheritance in kind) and from a -consciousness that the world mistrusts your ability. And to cap all, -there was no word about my returning to the prelections of Professor -Reid, for a reason which I could only guess at then, but learned later -was simply the want of money. - -My father comported himself to me as if I were doomed to fall into a -decline, as we say, demanding my avoidance of night airs, preaching the -Horatian virtues of a calm life in the fields, checking with a reddened -face and a half-frightened accent every turn of the conversation that -gave any alluring colour to travel or adventure. Notably he was dumb, -and so was my mother, upon the history of his family. He had had four -brothers: three of them I knew were dead and their tombs not in Mearns -kirkyard; one of them, Andrew, the youngest, still lived: I feared it -might be in a bedlam, by the avoidance they made of all reference to -him. I was fated, then, for Bedlam or a galloping consumption--so I -apprehended dolefully from the mystery of my folk; and the notion sent -me often rambling solitary over the autumn moors, cultivating a not -unpleasing melancholy and often stringing stanzas of a solemn complexion -that I cannot recall nowadays but with a laugh at my folly. - -A favourite walk of mine in these moods was along the Water of Earn, -where the river chattered and sang over rocks and shallows or plunged -thundering in its linn as it did ere I was born and shall do when I and -my story are forgotten. A pleasant place, and yet I nearly always had it -to myself alone. - -I should have had it always to myself but for one person--Isobel Fortune -from the Kirkillstane. She seemed as little pleased to meet me there -as I was to meet her, though we had been brought up in the same school -together; and when I would come suddenly round a bend of the road and -she appeared a hundred yards off, I noticed that she half stopped and -seemed, as it were, to swither whether she should not turn and avoid me. -It would not have surprised me had she done so, for, to tell the truth, -I was no very cheery object to contemplate upon a pleasant highway, with -the bawbee frown of a poetic gloom upon my countenance and the most curt -of salutations as I passed. What she did there all her lone so often -mildly puzzled me, till I concluded she was on a tryst with some young -gentleman of the neighbourhood; but as I never saw sign of him, I did -not think myself so much the marplot as to feel bound to take another -road for my rambling. I was all the surer 'twas a lover she was out to -meet, because she reddened guiltily each time that we encountered (a -fine and sudden charm to a countenance very striking and beautiful, as I -could not but observe even then when weightier affairs engaged me); but -it seemed I was all in error, for long after she maintained she was, -like myself, indulging a sentimental humour that she found go very well -in tune with the noise of Earn Water. - -As it was her habit to be busily reading when we thus met, I had little -doubt as to the ownership of a book that one afternoon I found on -the road not long after passing her. It was--of all things in the -world!--Hervey's “Meditations.” - -“It's an odd graveyard taste for a lass of that stamp,” thought I, -hastening back after her to restore the book, and when I came up to her -she was--not red this time, but wan to the very lips, and otherwise in -such confusion that she seemed to tremble upon her legs, “I think this -is yours, Isobel,” says I: we were too well acquaint from childhood for -any address more formal. - -“Oh, thank you, Paul,” said she hastily. “How stupid of me to lose it!” - She took it from me; her eye fell (for the first time, I felt sure) upon -the title of the volume, and she bit her lip in a vexation. I was all -the more convinced that her book was but a blind in her rambles, and -that there was a lover somewhere; and I think I must have relaxed my -silly black frown a little, and my proud melancholy permitted a faint -smile of amusement. The flag came to her face then. - -“Thank you,” said she very dryly, and she left me in the middle of the -road, like a stirk. If it had been no more than that, I should have -thought it a girl's tantrum; but the wonder was to come, for before -I had taken three steps on my resumed way I heard her run after me. I -stopped, and she stopped, and the notion struck me like a rhyme of song -that there was something inexpressibly pleasant in her panting breath -and her heaving bosom, where a pebble brooch of shining red gleamed like -an eye between her breasts. - -“I'm not going to tell you a lie about it, Master Paul,” she said, -almost like to cry; “I let the book fall on purpose.” - -“Oh, I could have guessed as much as that, Isobel,” said I, wondering -who in all the world the fellow was. Her sun-bonnet had fallen from her -head in her running, and hung at her back on its pink ribbons, and a -curl or two of her hair played truant upon her cheek and temple. It -seemed to me the young gentleman she was willing to let a book drop for -as a signal of her whereabouts was lucky enough. - -“Oh! you could have guessed!” she repeated, with a tone in which were -dumbfounderment and annoyance; “then I might have saved myself the -trouble.” And off she went again, leaving me more the stirk than ever -and greatly struck at her remorse of conscience over a little sophistry -very pardonable in a lass caught gallivanting. When she was gone and her -frock was fluttering pink at the turn of the road, I was seized for the -first time with a notion that a girl like that some way set off, as we -say, or suited with, a fine landscape. - -Not five minutes later I met young David Borland of the Driepps, and -there--I told myself--the lover was revealed! He let on he was taking -a short cut for Polnoon, so I said neither buff nor sty as to Mistress -Isobel. - -The cool superiority of the gentleman, who had, to tell the truth, as -little in his head as I had in the heel of my shoe, somewhat galled me, -for it cried “Spoiled Horn!” as loud as if the taunt were bawled, so my -talk with him was short. There was but one topic in it to interest me. - -“Has the man with the scarred brow come yet?” he asked curiously. - -I did not understand. - -“Then he's not your length yet,” said he, with the manifest gratification -of one who has the hanselling of great news. “Oh! I came on him this -morning outside a tavern in the Gorbals, bargaining loudly about a -saddle horse for Hazel Den. I'll warrant Hazel Den will get a start when -it sees him.” - -I did not care to show young Borland much curiosity in his story, and so -it was just in the few words he gave it to me that I brought it home to -our supper-table. - -My father and mother looked at each other as if I had told them a -tragedy. The supper ended abruptly. The evening worship passed unusually -fast, my father reading the Book as one in a dream, and we went to our -beds nigh an hour before the customary time. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -OF THE COMING OF UNCLE ANDREW WITH A SCARRED FOREHEAD AND A BRASS-BOUND -CHEST, AND HOW I TOOK AN INFECTION - -It was a night--as often happens in the uplands of our shire in autumn -weather--of vast and brooding darkness: the world seemed to swound in -a breathless oven, and I had scarcely come to my chamber when thunder -broke wild upon the world and torrential rain began to fall. I did not -go to bed, but sat with my candle extinguished and watched the lightning -show the landscape as if it had been flooded by the gleam of moon and -star. - -Between the roar of the thunder and the blatter of the rain there were -intervals of an astounding stillness of an ominous suspense, and it -seemed oddly to me, as I sat in my room, that more than I was awake in -Hazel Den House. I felt sure my father and mother sat in their -room, still clad and whispering; it was but the illusion of a -moment--something felt by the instinct and not by reason--and then a -louder, nearer peal of thunder dispelled the notion, and I made to go to -bed. - -I stopped like one shot, with my waistcoat half undone. - -There was a sound of a horse's hoofs coming up the loan, with the beat -of them in mire sounding soft enough to make me shiver at the notion of -the rider's discomfort in that appalling night, and every now and then -the metal click of shoes, showing the animal over-reached himself in the -trot. - -The rider drew up at the front; a flash of the lightning and the wildest -thunder-peal of the night seemed to meet among our outhouses, and when -the roll of the thunder ceased I heard a violent rapping at the outer -door. - -The servants would be long ere they let this late visitor out of the -storm, I fancied, and I hurried down; but my father was there in the -hall before me, all dressed, as my curious intuition had informed me, -and his face strange and inscrutable in the light of a shaded candle. -He was making to open the door. My appearance seemed to startle him. He -paused, dubious and a trifle confused. - -“I thought you had been in bed long ago,” said he, “and--” - -His sentence was not finished, for the horseman broke in upon it with a -masterful rataplan upon the oak, seemingly with a whip-head or a pistol -butt, and a cry, new to my ear and uncanny, rose through the beating -rain. - -With a sigh the most distressing I can mind of, my father seemed to -reconcile himself to some fate he would have warded off if he could. He -unbolted and threw back the door. - -Our visitor threw himself in upon us as if we held the keys of -paradise--a man like a rake for lankiness, as was manifest even through -the dripping wrap-rascal that he wore; bearded cheek and chin in a -fashion that must seem fiendish in our shaven country; with a wild and -angry eye, the Greig mole black on his temple, and an old scar livid -across his sunburned brow. He threw a three-cocked hat upon the floor -with a gesture of indolent possession. - -“Well, I'm damned!” cried he, “but this is a black welcome to one's -poor brother Andy,” and scarcely looked upon my father standing with -the shaded candle in the wind. “What's to drink? Drink, do you hear that -Quentin? Drink--drink--d-r-i-n-k. A long strong drink too, and that's -telling you, and none of the whey that I'm hearing's running through -the Greigs now, that once was a reputable family of three bottles and a -rummer to top all.” - -“Whist, whist, man!” pleaded father tremulously, all the man out of him -as he stood before this drunken apparition. - -“Whist I quo' he. Well stap me! do you no' ken the lean pup of the -litter?” hiccoughed our visitor, with a sort of sneer that made the -blood run to my head, and for the first time I felt the great, the -splendid joy of a good cause to fight for. - -“You're Andrew,” said my father simply, putting his hand upon the man's -coat sleeve in a sympathy for his drenchen clothes. - -That kindly hand was jerked off rudely, an act as insolent as if he had -smitten his host upon the mouth: my heart leaped, and my fingers went at -his throat. I could have spread him out against the wall, though I knew -him now my uncle; I could have given him the rogue's quittance with a -black face and a protruding tongue. The candle fell from my father's -hand; the glass shade shattered; the hall of Hazel Den House was plunged -in darkness, and the rain drave in through the open door upon us three -struggling. - -“Let him go, Paul,” whispered my father, who I knew was in terror of -frightening his wife, and he wrestled mightily with an arm of each of -us. - -Yet I could not let my uncle go, for with the other arm he held a knife, -and he would perhaps have died for it had not another light come on the -stair and my mother's voice risen in a pitiful cry. - -We fell asunder on a common impulse, and the drunken wanderer was the -first to speak. - -“Katrine,” said he; “it's always the old tale with Andy, you see; -they must be misunderstanding me,” and he bowed with a surprising -gentlemanliness that could have made me almost think him not the man -who had fouled our house with oaths and drawn a knife upon us in the -darkness. The blade of the same, by a trick of legerdemain, had gone up -the sleeve of his dripping coat. He seemed all at once sobered. He took -my good mother by the hand as she stood trembling and never to know -clearly upon what elements of murder she had come. - -“It is you, Andrew,” said she, bravely smiling. “What a night to come -home in after twenty years! I'm wae to see you in such a plight. And -your horse?” said she again, lifting her candle and peering into the -darkness of the night. “I must cry up Sandy to stable your horse.” - -I'll give my uncle the credit of a confusion at his own forgetfulness. - -“Good Lord! Katrine,” said he, “if I did not clean forget the brute, a -fiddle-faced, spavined, spatter-dasher of a Gorbals mare, no' worth her -corn; but there's my bit kistie on her hump.” - -The servant was round soon at the stabling of the mare, and my mother -was brewing something of what the gentleman had had too much already, -though she could not guess that; and out of the dripping night he -dragged in none of a rider's customary holsters but a little brass-bound -chest. - -“Yon night I set out for my fortune, Quentin,” said he, “I did not think -I would come back with it a bulk so small as this; did you? It was the -sight of the quiet house and the thought of all it contained that made -me act like an idiot as I came in. Still, we must just take the world as -we get it, Quentin; and I knew I was sure of a warm welcome in the old -house, from one side of it if not from the other, for the sake of lang -syne. And this is your son, is it?” he went on, looking at my six feet -of indignation not yet dead “Split me if there's whey in that piece! You -near jammed my hawze that time! Your Uncle Andrew's hawze, boy. Are you -not ashamed of yourself?” - -“Not a bit,” said I between my teeth; “I leave that to you.” - -He smiled till his teeth shone white in his black beard, and “Lord!” - cried he, “I'm that glad I came. It was but the toss of a bawbee, when I -came to Leith last week, whether I should have a try at the old doocot, -or up Blue Peter again and off to the Indies. I hate ceiled rooms--they -mind me of the tomb; I'm out of practice at sitting doing nothing in -a parlour and saying grace before meat, and--I give you warning, -Quentin--I'll be damned if I drink milk for supper. It was the notion -of milk for supper and all that means that kept me from calling on -Katrine--and you--any sooner. But I'm glad I came to meet a lad of -spirit like young Andy here.” - -“Not Andy,” said my father. “Paul is his name.” - -My uncle laughed. - -“That was ill done of you, Quentin,” said he; “I think it was as little -as Katrine and you could do to have kept up the family name. I suppose -you reckoned to change the family fate when you made him Paul. H'm! You -must have forgotten that Paul the Apostle wandered most, and many ways -fared worst of all the rest. I haven't forgotten my Bible, you see, -Quentin.” - -We were now in the parlour room; a servant lass was puffing up a -new-lighted fire; my uncle, with his head in the shade, had his -greatcoat off, and stood revealed in shabby garments that had once been -most genteel; and his brass-bound fortune, that he seemed averse from -parting with a moment, was at his feet. Getting no answer to what he had -said of the disciples, he looked from one to the other of us and laughed -slyly. - -“Take off your boots, Andy,” said my father. - -“And where have you been since--since--the Plantations?” - -“Stow that, Quentin!” cried my uncle, with an oath and his eye on me. -“What Plantations are you blethering about? And where have I been? Ask -me rather where have I not been. It makes me dizzy even to think of it: -with rotten Jesuits and Pagan gentlemen; with France and Spain, and -with filthy Lascars, lying Greeks, Eboe slaves, stinking niggers, and -slit-eyed Chinese! Oh! I tell you I've seen things in twenty years. And -places, too: this Scotland, with its infernal rain and its grey fields -and its rags, looks like a nightmare to me yet. You may be sure I'll be -out of it pretty fast again.” - -“Poor Scotland!” said father ambiguously. - -There must be people in the world who are oddly affected by the names -of places, peoples, things that have never come within their own -experience. Till this day the name of Barbadoes influences me like a -story of adventure; and when my Uncle Andrew--lank, bearded, drenched -with storm, stood in our parlour glibly hinting at illimitable travel, -I lost my anger with the tipsy wretch and felt a curious glow go through -my being. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -I COME UPON THE RED SHOES - -Uncle Andrew settled for the remainder of his time into our domestic -world at Hazel Den as if his place had been kept warm for him since ever -he went away. For the remainder of his time, I say, because he was to be -in the clods of Mearns kirkyard before the hips and haws were off the -hedges; and I think I someway saw his doom in his ghastly countenance -the first morning he sat at our breakfast table, contrite over his folly -of the night before, as you could see, but carrying off the situation -with worldly _sang froid_, and even showing signs of some affection for -my father. - -His character may be put in two words--he was a lovable rogue; his -tipsy bitterness to the goodman his brother may be explained almost -as briefly: he had had a notion of Katrine Oliver, and had courted her -before ever she met my father, and he had lost her affection through -his own folly. Judging from what I would have felt myself in the like -circumstances, his bitterest punishment for a life ill spent must have -been to see Katrine Oliver's pitying kindness to him now, and the sight -of that douce and loving couple finding their happiness in each other -must have been a constant sermon to him upon repentance. - -Yet, to tell the truth, I fear my Uncle Andrew was not constituted -for repentance or remorse. He had slain a man honestly once, and had -suffered the Plantations, but beyond that (and even that included, as -he must ever insist) he had been guilty of no mean act in all his roving -career. Follies--vices--extremes--ay, a thousand of them; but for most -his conscience never pricked him. On the contrary, he would narrate with -gusto the manifold jeopardies his own follies brought him into; his -wan face, nigh the colour of a shroud, would flush, and his eyes dance -humorously as he shocked the table when we sat at meals, our spoons -suspended in the agitation created by his wonderful histories. - -Kept to a moderation with the bottle, and with the constant influence of -my mother, who used to feed the rogue on vegetables and, unknown to him, -load his broth with simples as a cure for his craving, Uncle Andrew was, -all things considered, an acquisition to Hazel Den House. Speaking for -myself, he brought the element of the unusual and the unexpected to a -place where routine had made me sick of my own society; and though -the man in his sober senses knew he was dying on his feet, he was the -cheeriest person of our company sequestered so remote in the moors. It -was a lesson in resignation to see yon merry eyes loweing like lamps -over his tombstone cheeks, and hear him crack a joke in the flushed and -heaving interludes of his cough. - -It was to me he ever directed the most sensational of his extraordinary -memorials. My father did not like it; I saw it in his eye. It was -apparent to me that a remonstrance often hung on the tip of his tongue. -He would invent ridiculous and unnecessary tasks to keep me out of -reach of that alluring _raconteur_, and nobody saw it plainer than Uncle -Andrew, who but laughed with the mischievousness of a boy. - -Well, the long and short of it was just what Quentin Greig feared--the -Spoiled Horn finally smit with a hunger for the road of the Greigs. -For three hundred years--we could go no further back, because of a bend -sinister--nine out of ten of that family had travelled that road, that -leads so often to a kistful of sailor's shells and a death with boots -on. It was a fate in the blood, like the black hair of us, the mole on -the temple, and the trick of irony. It was that ailment my father -had feared for me; it was that kept the household silent upon missing -brothers (they were dead, my uncle told me, in Trincomalee, and in -Jamaica, and a yard in the Borough of London); it was that inspired the -notion of a lawyer's life for Paul Greig. - -Just when I was in the deepmost confidence of Uncle Andrew, who was by -then confined to his bed and suffering the treatment of Doctor Clews, -his stories stopped abruptly and he began to lament the wastry of his -life. If the thing had been better acted I might have been impressed, -for our follies never look just like what they are till we are finally -on the broad of our backs and the Fell Sergeant's step is at the door. -But it was not well acted; and when the wicked Uncle Andrew groaned over -the very ploys he had a week ago exulted in, I recognised some of my -mother's commonest sentiments in his sideways sermon. She had got her -quondam Andy, for lang syne's sake, to help her keep her son at home; -and he was doing his best, poor man, but a trifle late in the day. - -“Uncle Andrew,” said I, never heeding his homily, “tell me what came of -the pock-marked tobacco planter when you and the negro lay in the swamp -for him?” - -He groaned hopelessly. - -“A rotten tale, Paul, my lad,” said he, never looking me in the face; “I -rue the day I was mixed up in that affair.” - -“But it was a good story so far as it went, no further gone than -Wednesday last,” I protested. - -He laughed at that, and for half an hour he put off the new man of -my mother's bidding, and we were on the old naughty footing again. He -concluded by bequeathing to me for the twentieth time the brass-bound -chest, and its contents that we had never seen nor could guess the -nature of. But now for the first time he let me know what I might expect -there. - -“It's not what Quentin might consider much,” said he, “for there's not a -guelder of money in it, no, nor so little as a groat, for as the world's -divided ye can't have both the money and the dance, and I was aye the -fellow for the dance. There's scarcely anything in it, Paul, but the -trash--ahem!--that is the very fitting reward of a life like mine.” - -“And still and on, uncle,” said I, “it is a very good tale about the -pock-marked man.” - -“Ah! You're there, Greig!” cried the rogue, laughing till his hoast came -to nigh choke him. “Well, the kist's yours, anyway, such as it is; and -there's but one thing in it--to be strict, a pair--that I set any store -by as worth leaving to my nephew.” - -“It ought to be spurs,” said I, “to drive me out of this lamentable -countryside and to where a fellow might be doing something worth while.” - -“Eh!” he cried, “you're no' so far off it, for it's a pair of shoes.” - -“A pair of shoes!” I repeated, half inclined to think that Uncle Andrew -was doited at last. - -“A pair of shoes, and perhaps in some need of the cobbler, for I have -worn them a good deal since I got them in Madras. They were not new when -I got them, but by the look of them they're not a day older now. They -have got me out of some unco' plights in different parts of the world, -for all that the man who sold them to me at a bonny penny called them -the Shoes of Sorrow; and so far as I ken, the virtue's in them yet.” - -“A doomed man's whim,” thought I, and professed myself vastly gratified -by his gift. - -He died next morning. It was Candlemas Day. He went out at last like a -crusie wanting oil. In the morning he had sat up in bed to sup -porridge that, following a practice I had made before his reminiscences -concluded, I had taken in to him myself. Tremendous long and lean the -upper part of him looked, and the cicatrice upon his brow made his -ghastliness the more appalling. When he sat against the bolsters he -could see through the window into the holm field, and, as it happened, -what was there but a wild young roe-deer driven down from some higher -part of the country by stress of winter weather, and a couple of mongrel -dogs keeping him at bay in an angle of the fail dyke. - -I have seldom seen a man more vastly moved than Uncle Andrew looking -upon this tragedy of the wilds. He gasped as though his chest would -crack, a sweat burst on his face. - -“That's--that's the end o't, Paul, my lad!” said he. “Yonder's your -roving uncle, and the tykes have got him cornered at last. No more the -heather and the brae; no more--no more--no more--” - -Such a change came on him that I ran and cried my mother ben, and she -and father were soon at his bedside. - -It was to her he turned his eyes, that had seen so much of the spacious -world of men and women and all their multifarious interests, great and -little. They shone with a light of memory and affection, so that I got -there and then a glimpse of the Uncle Andrew of innocence and the Uncle -Andrew who might have been if fate had had it otherwise. - -He put out his hand and took hers, and said goodbye. - -“The hounds have me, Katrine,” said he. “I'm at the fail dyke corner.” - -“I'll go out and whistle them off, uncle,” said I, fancying it all a -doited man's illusion, though the look of death was on him; but I stood -rebuked in the frank gaze he gave me of a fuller comprehension than -mine, though he answered me not. - -And then he took my father's hand in his other, and to him too he said -farewell. - -“You're there, Quentin!” said he; “and Katrine--Katrine--Katrine chose -by far the better man. God be merciful to poor Andy Greig, a sinner.” - And these were his last words. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -A SPOILED TRYST, AND OTHER THINGS THAT FOLLOWED ON THE OPENING OF THE -CHEST - -The funeral was over before I cared to examine my bequest, and then I -went to it with some reluctance, for if a pair of shoes was the chief -contents of the brass-bound chest, there was like to be little else -except the melancholy relics of a botched life. It lay where he left it -on the night he came--under the foot of his bed--and when I lifted the -lid I felt as if I was spying upon a man through a keyhole. Yet, when I -came more minutely to examine the contents, I was disappointed that at -the first reflection nothing was there half so pregnant as his own most -casual tale to rouse in me the pleasant excitation of romance. - -A bairn's caul--that sailor's trophy that has kept many a mariner -from drowning only that he might die a less pleasant death; a broken -handcuff, whose meaning I cared not to guess at; a pop or pistol; a -chap-book of country ballads, that possibly solaced his exile from -the land they were mostly written about; the batters of a Bible, with -nothing between them but his name in his mother's hand on the inside of -the board; a traveller's log or itinerary, covering a period of fifteen -years, extremely minute in its detail and well written; a broken -sixpence and the pair of shoes. - -The broken sixpence moved my mother to tears, for she had had the other -half twenty years ago, before Andrew Greig grew ne'er-do-weel; the shoes -failed to rouse in her or in my father any interest whatever. If they -could have guessed it, they would have taken them there and then and -sunk them in the deepest linn of Earn. - -There was little kenspeckle about them saving their colour, which was -a dull dark red. They were of the most excellent material, with a great -deal of fine sewing thrown away upon them in parts where it seems to -me their endurance was in no wise benefited, and an odd pair of silver -buckles gave at your second glance a foreign look to them. - -I put them on at the first opportunity: they fitted me as if my feet had -been moulded to them, and I sat down to the study of the log-book. The -afternoon passed, the dusk came. I lit a candle, and at midnight, when I -reached the year of my uncle's escape from the Jesuits of Spain, I came -to myself gasping, to find the house in an alarm, and that lanthorns -were out about Earn Water looking for me, while all the time I was -_perdu_ in the dead uncle's chamber in the baron's wing, as we called -it, of Hazel Den House. I pretended I had fallen asleep; it was the -first and the last time I lied to my mother, and something told me she -knew I was deceiving her. She looked at the red shoes on my feet. - -“Ugly brogues!” said she; “it's a wonder to me you would put them on -your feet. You don't know who has worn them.” - -“They were Uncle Andy's,” said I, complacently looking at them, for they -fitted like a glove; the colour was hardly noticeable in the evening, -and the buckles were most becoming. - -“Ay! and many a one before him, I'm sure,” said she, with distaste in -her tone, “I don't think them nice at all, Paul,” and she shuddered a -little. - -“That's but a freit,” said I; “but it's not likely I'll wear much of -such a legacy.” I went up and left them in the chest, and took the diary -into my own room and read Uncle Andrew's marvellous adventures in the -trade of rover till it was broad daylight. - -When I had come to the conclusion it seemed as if I had been in the -delirium of a fever, so tempestuous and unreal was that memoir of a wild -loose life. The sea was there, buffeting among the pages in rollers and -breakers; there were the chronicles of a hundred ports, with boozing -kens and raving lazarettos in them; far out isles and cays in nameless -oceans, and dozing lagoons below tropic skies; a great clash of weapons -and a bewildering deal of political intrigue in every part of the -Continent from Calais to Constantinople. My uncle's narrative in life -had not hinted at one half the marvel of his career, and I read his -pages with a rapture, as one hears a noble piece of music, fascinated to -the uttermost, and finding no moral at the end beyond that the world -we most of us live in with innocence and ignorance is a crust over -tremendous depths. And then I burned the book. It went up in a grey -smoke on the top of the fire that I had kept going all night for its -perusal; and the thing was no sooner done than I regretted it, though -the act was dictated by the seemly enough idea that its contents would -only distress my parents if they came to their knowledge. - -For days--for weeks--for a season--I went about, my head humming with -Uncle Andy's voice recounting the most stirring of his adventures as -narrated in the log-book. I had been infected by almost his first words -the night he came to Hazel Den House, and made a magic chant of the mere -names of foreign peoples; now I was fevered indeed; and when I put on -the red shoes (as I did of an evening, impelled by some dandyism foreign -to my nature hitherto), they were like the seven-league boots for magic, -as they set my imagination into every harbour Uncle Andy had frequented -and made me a guest at every inn where he had met his boon companions. - -I was wearing them the next time I went on my excursion to Earn side and -there met Isobel Fortune, who had kept away from the place since I had -smiled at my discovery of her tryst with Hervey's “Meditations.” She -came upon me unexpectedly, when the gentility of my shoes and the -recollection of all that they had borne of manliness was making me walk -along the road with a very high head and an unusually jaunty step. - -She seemed struck as she came near, with her face displaying her -confusion, and it seemed to me she was a new woman altogether--at least, -not the Isobel I had been at school with and seen with an indifferent -eye grow up like myself from pinafores. It seemed suddenly scandalous -that the like of her should have any correspondence with so ill-suited a -lover as David Borland of the Dreipps. - -For the first time (except for the unhappy introduction of Hervey's -“Meditations”) we stopped to speak to each other. She was the most -bewitching mixture of smiles and blushes, and stammering now and then, -and vastly eager to be pleasant to me, and thinks I, “My lass, you're -keen on trysting when it's with Borland.” - -The very thought of the fellow in that connection made me angry in her -interest; and with a mischievous intention of spoiling his sport if he -hovered, as I fancied, in the neighbourhood, or at least of delaying his -happiness as long as I could, I kept the conversation going very blithe -indeed. - -She had a laugh, low and brief, and above all sincere, which is the -great thing in laughter, that was more pleasant to hear than the sound -of Earn in its tinkling hollow among the ferns: it surprised me that she -should favour my studied and stupid jocosities with it so frequently. -Here was appreciation! I took, in twenty minutes, a better conceit of -myself, than the folks at home could have given me in the twelve -months since I left the college, and I'll swear to this date 'twas the -consciousness of my fancy shoes that put me in such good key. - -She saw my glance to them at last complacently, and pretended herself to -notice them for the first time. - -She smiled--little hollows came near the corners of her lips; of -a sudden I minded having once kissed Mistress Grant's niece in a -stair-head frolic in Glasgow High Street, and the experience had been -pleasant enough. - -“They're very nice,” said Isobel. - -“They're all that,” said I, gazing boldly at her dimples. She flushed -and drew in her lips. - -“No, no!” I cried, “'twas not them I was thinking of; but their -neighbours. I never saw you had dimples before.” - -At that she was redder than ever. - -“I could not help that, Paul,” said she; “they have been always there, -and you are getting very audacious. I was thinking of your new shoes.” - -“How do you know they're new?” - -“I could tell,” said she, “by the sound of your footstep before you came -in sight.” - -“It might not have been my footstep,” said I, and at that she was taken -back. - -“That is true,” said she, hasty to correct herself. “I only thought it -might be your footstep, as you are often this way.” - -“It might as readily have been David Borland's. I have seen him about -here.” I watched her as closely as I dared: had her face changed, I -would have felt it like a blow. - -“Anyway, they're very nice, your new shoes,” said she, with a marvellous -composure that betrayed nothing. - -“They were uncle's legacy,” I explained, “and had travelled far in many -ways about the world; far--and fast.” - -“And still they don't seem to be in such a hurry as your old ones,” said -she, with a mischievous air. Then she hastened to cover what might seem -a rudeness. “Indeed, they're very handsome, Paul, and become you very -much, and--and--and--” - -“They're called the Shoes of Sorrow; that's the name my uncle had for -them,” said I, to help her to her own relief. - -“Indeed, and I hope it may be no more than a by-name,” she said gravely. - -The day had the first rumour of spring: green shoots thrust among the -bare bushes on the river side, and the smell of new turned soil came -from a field where a plough had been feiring; above us the sky was blue, -in the north the land was pleasantly curved against silver clouds. - -And one small bird began to pipe in a clump of willows, that showered a -dust of gold upon us when the little breeze came among the branches. I -looked at all and I looked at Isobel Fortune, so trim and bonny, and it -seemed there and then good to be a man and my fortunes all to try. - -“Sorrow here or sorrow there, Isobel,” I said, “they are the shoes to -take me away sooner or later from Hazel Den.” - -She caught my meaning with astounding quickness. - -“Are you in earnest?” she asked soberly, and I thought she could not -have been more vexed had it been David Borland. - -“Another year of this.” said I, looking at the vacant land, “would break -my heart.” - -“Indeed, Paul, and I thought Earn-side was never so sweet as now,” said -she, vexed like, as if she was defending a companion. - -“That is true, too,” said I, smiling into the very depths of her large -dark eyes, where I saw a pair of Spoiled Horns as plainly as if I looked -in sunny weather into Linn of Earn. “That is true, too. I have never -been better pleased with it than to-day. But what in the world's to -keep me? It's all bye with the college--at which I'm but middling well -pleased; it's all bye with the law--for which thanks to Heaven! and, -though they seem to think otherwise at Hazel Den House, I don't believe -I've the cut of a man to spend his life among rowting cattle and dour -clay land.” - -“I daresay not; it's true,” said she stammeringly, with one fast glance -that saw me from the buckles of my red shoes to the underlids of my -eyes. For some reason or other she refused to look higher, and the -distant landscape seemed to have charmed her after that. She drummed -with a toe upon the path; she bit her nether lip; upon my word, the lass -had tears at her eyes! I had, plainly, kept her long enough from her -lover. “Well, it's a fine evening; I must be going,” said I stupidly, -making a show at parting, and an ugly sense of annoyance with David -Borland stirring in my heart. “But it will rain before morning,” said -she, making to go too, but always looking to the hump of Dungoyne that -bars the way to the Hielands. “I think, after all, Master Paul, I liked -the old shoon better than the new ones.” - -“Do you say so?” I asked, astonished at the irrelevance that came -rapidly from her lips, as if she must cry it out or choke. “And how -comes that?” - -“Just because--” said she, and never a word more, like a woman, nor fair -good-e'en nor fair good-day to ye, but off she went, and I was the stirk -again. - -I looked after her till she went out of sight, wondering what had been -the cause of her tirravee. She fair ran at the last, as if eager to get -out of my sight; and when she disappeared over the brae that rose from -the river-side there was a sense of deprivation within me. I was clean -gone in love and over the lugs in it with Isobel Fortune. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -MY DEED ON THE MOOR OF MEARNS - - -Next day I shot David Borland of the Driepps. - -It was the seventh of March, the first day I heard the laverock that -season, and it sang like to burst its heart above the spot where the -lad fell with a cry among the rushes. It rose from somewhere in our -neighbourhood, aspiring to the heavens, but chained to earth by its -own song; and even yet I can recall the eerie influence of that strange -conjunction of sin and song as I stood knee-deep in the tangle of the -moor with the pistol smoking in my hand. - -To go up to the victim of my jealousy as he lay ungainly on the ground, -his writhing over, was an ordeal I could not face. - -“Davie, Davie!” I cried to him over the thirty paces; but I got no reply -from yon among the rushes. I tried to wet my cracking lips with a tongue -like a cork, and “Davie, oh, Davie, are ye badly hurt?” I cried, in a -voice I must have borrowed from ancient time when my forefathers fought -with the forest terrors. - -I listened and I better listened, but Borland still lay there at last, a -thing insensate like a gangrel's pack, and in all the dreary land there -was nothing living but the laverock and me. - -The bird was high--a spot upon the blue; his song, I am sure, was the -song of his kind, that has charmed lovers in summer fields from old -time--a melody rapturous, a message like the message of the evening -star that God no more fondly loves than that small warbler in desert -places--and yet there and then it deaved me like a cry from hell. No -heavenly message had the lark for me: he flew aloft there into the -invisible, to tell of this deed of mine among the rushes. Not God alone -would hear him tell his story: they might hear it, I knew, in shepherds' -cots; they might hear it in an old house bowered dark among trees; the -solitary witness of my crime might spread the hue and cry about the -shire; already the law might be on the road for young Paul Greig. - -I seemed to listen a thousand years to that telltale in the air; for a -thousand years I scanned the blue for him in vain, yet when I looked at -my pistol again the barrel was still warm. - -It was the first time I had handled such a weapon. - -A senseless tool it seemed, and yet the crooking of a finger made it -the confederate of hate; though it, with its duty done, relapsed into a -heedless silence, I, that owned it for my instrument, must be wailing in -my breast, torn head to foot with thunders of remorse. - -I raised the hammer, ran a thumb along the flint, seeing something -fiendish in the jaws that held it; I lifted up the prime-cap, and it -seemed some miracle of Satan that the dust I had put there in the peace -of my room that morning in Hazel Den should have disappeared. “Truefitt” - on the lock; a silver shield and an initial graven on it; a butt with a -dragon's grin that had seemed ridiculous before, and now seemed to cry -“Cain!” Lord! that an instrument like this in an unpractised hand should -cut off all young Borland's earthly task, end his toil with plough and -harrow, his laugh and story. - -I looked again at the shapeless thing at thirty paces. “It cannot be,” - I told myself; and I cried again, in the Scots that must make him cease -his joke, “I ken ye're only lettin' on, Davie. Get up oot o' that and -we'll cry quits.” - -But there was no movement; there was no sound; the tell-tale had the -heavens to himself. - -All the poltroon in me came a-top and dragged my better man round about, -let fall the pistol from my nerveless fingers and drove me away from -that place. It was not the gallows I thought of (though that too was -sometimes in my mind), but of the frightful responsibility I had made my -burden, to send a human man before his Maker without a preparation, and -my bullet hole upon his brow or breast, to tell for ever through the -roaring ring of all eternity that this was the work of Paul Greig. The -rushes of the moor hissed me as I ran blindly through them; the tufts of -heather over Whiggit Knowe caught at me to stop me; the laverock seemed -to follow overhead, a sergeant of provost determined on his victim. - -My feet took me, not home to the home that was mine no more, but to -Earn-side, where I felt the water crying in its linn would drown the -sound of the noisy laverock; and the familiar scene would blot for a -space the ugly sight from my eyes. I leant at the side to lave my brow, -and could scarce believe that this haggard countenance I saw look up at -me from the innocent waters was the Spoiled Horn who had been reflected -in Isobel's eyes. Over and over again I wet my lips and bathed my -temples; I washed my hands, and there was on the right forefinger a mark -I bear to this day where the trigger guard of the pistol in the moments -of my agony had cut me to the bone without my knowing it. - -When my face looked less like clay and my plans were clear, I rose and -went home. - -My father and mother were just sitting to supper, and I joined them. -They talked of a cousin to be married in Drymen at Michaelmas, of an -income in the leg of our mare, of Sabbath's sermon, of things that were -as far from me as I from heaven, and I heard them as one in a dream, -far-off. What I was hearing most of the time was the laverock setting -the hue and cry of Paul Greig's crime around the world and up to the -Throne itself, and what I was seeing was the vacant moor, now in the -dusk, and a lad's remains awaiting their discovery. The victuals choked -me as I pretended to eat; my father noticed nothing, my mother gave a -glance, and a fright was in her face. - -I went up to my room and searched a desk for some verses that had been -gathering there in my twelve months' degradation, and particularly for -one no more than a day old with Isobel Fortune for its theme. It was -all bye with that! I was bound to be glancing at some of the lines as -I furiously tore them up and threw them out of the window into the -bleaching-green; and oh! but the black sorrows and glooms that were -there recorded seemed a mockery in the light of this my terrible -experience. They went by the window, every scrap: then I felt cut off -from every innocent day of my youth, the past clean gone from me for -ever. - -The evening worship came. - -_“If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost ends of -the sea.”_ - -My father, peering close at the Book through his spectacles, gave out -the words as if he stood upon a pulpit, deliberate--too deliberate for -Cain his son, that sat with his back to the window shading his face from -a mother's eyes. They were always on me, her eyes, throughout that last -service; they searched me like a torch in a pit, and wae, wae was her -face! - -When we came to pray and knelt upon the floor, I felt as through my shut -eyes that hers were on me even then, exceeding sad and troubled. They -followed me like that when I went up, as they were to think, to my bed, -and I was sitting at my window in the dark half an hour later when -she came up after me. She had never done the like before since I was a -child. - -“Are ye bedded, Paul?” she whispered in the dark. - -I could not answer her in words, but I stood to my feet and lit a -candle, and she saw that I was dressed. - -“What ails ye to-night?” she asked trembling. “I'm going away, mother,” I -answered. “There's something wrong?” she queried in great distress. - -“There's all that!” I confessed. “It'll be time for you to ken about -that in the morning, but I must be off this night.” - -“Oh, Paul, Paul!” she cried, “I did not like to see you going out in -these shoes this afternoon, and I ken't that something ailed ye.” - -“The road to hell suits one shoe as well's another,” said I bitterly; -“where the sorrow lies is that ye never saw me go out with a different -heart. Mother, mother, the worst ye can guess is no' so bad as the worst -ye've yet to hear of your son.” - -I was in a storm of roaring emotions, yet her next words startled me. - -“It's Isobel Fortune of the Kirkillstane,” she said, trying hard to -smile with a wan face in the candle light. - -“It _was_--poor dear! Am I not in torment when I think that she must -know it?” - -“I thought it was that that ailed ye, Paul,” said she, as if she were -relieved. “Look; I got this a little ago on the bleaching-green--this -scrap of paper in your write and her name upon it. Maybe I should not -have read it.” And she handed me part of that ardent ballad I had torn -less than an hour ago. - -I held it in the flame of her candle till it was gone, our hands all -trembling, and “That's the end appointed for Paul Greig,” said I. - -“Oh, Paul, Paul, it cannot be so unco'!” she cried in terror, and -clutched me at the arm. - -“It is--it is the worst.” - -“And yet--and yet--you're my son, Paul. Tell me.” - -She looked so like a reed in the winter wind, so frail and little and -shivering in my room, that I dared not tell her there and then. I said -it was better that both father and she should hear my tale together, and -we went into the room where already he was bedded but not asleep. He sat -up staring at our entry, a night-cowl tassel dangling on his brow. - -“There's a man dead--” I began, when he checked me with a shout. - -“Stop, stop!” he cried, and put my mother in a chair. “I have heard the -tale before with my brother Andy, and the end was not for women's ears.” - -“I must know, Quentin,” said his wife, blanched to the lip but -determined, and then he put his arm about her waist. It seemed like a -second murder to wrench those tender hearts that loved me, but the thing -was bound to do. - -I poured out my tale at one breath and in one sentence, and when it -ended my mother was in her swound. - -“Oh, Paul!” cried the poor man, his face like a clout; “black was the -day she gave you birth!” - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -QUENTIN GREIG LOSES A SON, AND I SET OUT WITH A HORSE AS ALL MY FORTUNE - -He pushed me from the chamber as I had been a stranger intruding, and I -went to the trance door and looked out at the stretching moorlands lit -by an enormous moon that rose over Cathkin Braes, and an immensity of -stars. For the first time in all my life I realised the heedlessness of -nature in human affairs the most momentous. For the moon swung up serene -beyond expression; the stars winked merrily: a late bird glid among the -bushes and perched momentarily on a bough of ash to pipe briefly almost -with the passion of the spring. But not the heedlessness of nature -influenced me so much as the barren prospect of the world that the moon -and stars revealed. There was no one out there in those deep spaces of -darkness I could claim as friend or familiar. Where was I to go? What -was I to do? Only the beginnings of schemes came to me--schemes -of concealment and disguise, of surrender even--but the last to be -dismissed as soon as it occurred to me, for how could I leave this house -the bitter bequest of a memory of the gallows-tree? - -Only the beginnings, I say, for every scheme ran tilt against the -obvious truth that I was not only without affection or regard out there, -but without as much as a crown of money to purchase the semblance of -either. - -I could not have stood very long there when my father came out, his face -like clay, and aged miraculously, and beckoned me to the parlour. - -“Your mother--my wife,” said he, “is very ill, and I am sending for the -doctor. The horse is yoking. There is another woman in Driepps who--God -help her!--will be no better this night, but I wish in truth her case -was ours, and that it was you who lay among the heather.” - -He began pacing up and down the floor, his eyes bent, his hands -continually wringing, his heart bursting, as it were, with sighs and the -dry sobs of the utmost wretchedness. As for me, I must have been clean -gyte (as the saying goes), for my attention was mostly taken up with the -tassel of his nightcap that bobbed grotesquely on his brow. I had not -seen it since, as a child, I used to share his room. - -“What! what!” he cried at last piteously, “have ye never a word to say? -Are ye dumb?” He ran at me and caught me by the collar of the coat and -tried to shake me in an anger, but I felt it no more than I had been a -stone. - -“What did ye do it for? What in heaven's name did ye quarrel on?” - -“It was--it was about a girl,” I said, reddening even at that momentous -hour to speak of such a thing to him. - -“A girl!” he repeated, tossing up his hands. “Keep us! Hoo lang are ye -oot o' daidlies? Well! well!” he went on, subduing himself and prepared -to listen. I wished the tassel had been any other colour than crimson, -and hung fairer on the middle of his forehead; it seemed to fascinate -me. And he, belike, forgot that I was there, for he thought, I knew, -continually of his wife, and he would stop his feverish pacing on the -floor, and hearken for a sound from the room where she was quartered -with the maid. I made no answer. - -“Well, well!” he cried again fiercely, turning upon me. “Out with it; -out with the whole hellish transaction, man!” - -And then I told him in detail what before my mother I had told in a -brief abstract. - -How that I had met young Borland coming down the breast of the brae at -Kirkillstane last night and-- - -“Last night!” he cried. “Are ye havering? I saw ye go to your bed at -ten, and your boots were in the kitchen.” - -It was so, I confessed. I had gone to my room but not to bed, and had -slipped out by the window when the house was still, with Uncle Andrew's -shoes. - -“Oh, lad!” he cried, “it's Andy's shoes you stand in sure enough, for -I have seen him twenty years syne in the plight that you are in this -night. Merciful heaven! what dark blotch is in the history of this -family of ours that it must ever be embroiled in crimes of passion and -come continually to broken ends of fortune? I have lived stark honest -and humble, fearing the Lord; the covenants have I kept, and still and -on it seems I must beget a child of the Evil One!” - -And how, going out thus under cover of night, I had meant to indulge a -boyish fancy by seeing the light of Isobel Fortune's window. And how, -coming to the Kirkillstane, I met David Borland leaving the house, -whistling cheerfully. - -“Oh, Paul, Paul!” cried my father, “I mind of you an infant on her knees -that's ben there, and it might have been but yesterday your greeting in -the night wakened me to mourn and ponder on your fate.” And how Borland, -divining my object there, and himself new out triumphant from that -cheerful house of many daughters, made his contempt for the Spoiled Horn -too apparent. - -“You walked to the trough-stane when you were a twelvemonth old,” said -my father with the irrelevance of great grief, as if he recalled a dead -son's infancy. - -And how, maddened by some irony of mine, he had struck a blow upon -my chest, and so brought my challenge to something more serious and -gentlemanly than a squalid brawl with fists upon the highway. - -I stopped my story; it seemed useless to be telling it to one so much -preoccupied with the thought of the woman he loved. His lips were open, -his eyes were constant on the door. - -But “Well! Well!” he cried again eagerly, and I resumed. - -Of how I had come home, and crept into my guilty chamber and lay the -long night through, torn by grief and anger, jealousy and distress. And -how evading the others of the household as best I could that day, I -had in the afternoon at the hour appointed gone out with Uncle Andrew's -pistol. - -My father moaned--a waefu' sound! - -And found young Borland up on the moor before me with such another -weapon, his face red byordinary, his hands and voice trembling with -passion. - -“Poor lad, poor lad!” my father cried blurting the sentiment as he had -been a bairn. - -How we tossed a coin to decide which should be the first to fire, and -Borland had won the toss, and gone to the other end of our twenty paces -with vulgar menaces and “Spoiled Horn” the sweetest of his epithets. - -“Poor lad! he but tried to bluster down the inward voice that told him -the folly o't,” said father. - -And how Borland had fired first. The air was damp. The sound was like a -slamming door. - -“The door of hope shut up for him, poor dear,” cried father. - -And how he missed me in his trepidation that made his hand that held the -pistol so tremble that I saw the muzzle quiver even at twenty paces. - -“And then you shot him deliberately I M cried my father. - -“No, no,” I cried at that, indignant. “I aimed without a glance along -the barrel: the flint flashed; the prime missed fire, and I was not -sorry, but Borland cried 'Spoiled Horn' braggingly, and I cocked again -as fast as I could, and blindly jerked the trigger. I never thought of -striking him. He fell with one loud cry among the rushes.” - -“Murder, by God!” cried my father, and he relapsed into a chair, his -body all convulsed with horror. - -I had told him all this as if I had been in a delirium, or as if it were -a tale out of a book, and it was only when I saw him writhing in his -chair and the tassel shaking over his eyes, I minded that the murderer -was me. I made for the door; up rose my father quickly and asked me what -I meant to do. - -I confessed I neither knew nor cared. - -“You must thole your assize,” said he, and just as he said it the -clatter of the mare's hoofs sounded on the causey of the yard, and he -must have minded suddenly for what object she was saddled there. - -“No, no,” said he, “you must flee the country. What right have you to -make it any worse for her?” - -“I have not a crown in my pocket,” said I. - -“And I have less,” he answered quickly. “Where are you going? No, no, -don't tell me that; I'm not to know. There's the mare saddled, I meant -Sandy to send the doctor from the Mearns, but you can do that. Bid him -come here as fast as he can.” - -“And must I come back with the mare?” I asked, reckless what he might -say to that, though my life depended on it. - -“For the sake of your mother,” he answered, “I would rather never set -eyes on you or the beast again; she's the last transaction between us, -Paul Greig.” And then he burst in tears, with his arms about my neck. - -[Illustration: 067] - -Ten minutes later I was on the mare, and galloping, for all her ailing -leg, from Hazel Den as if it were my own loweing conscience. I roused -Dr. Clews at the Mearns, and gave him my father's message. “Man,” said -he, holding his chamber light up to my face, “man, ye're as gash as a -ghaist yersel'.” - -“I may well be that,” said I, and off I set, with some of Uncle Andy's -old experience in my mind, upon a ride across broad Scotland. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -I RIDE BY NIGHT ACROSS SCOTLAND, AND MEET A MARINER WITH A GLEED EYE - -That night was like the day, with a full moon shining. The next -afternoon I rode into Borrowstounness, my horse done out and myself sore -from head to heel; and never in all my life have I seen a place with a -more unwelcome aspect, for the streets were over the hoof in mud; the -natives directed me in an accent like a tinker's whine; the Firth of -Forth was wrapped in a haar or fog that too closely put me in mind of my -prospects. But I had no right to be too particular, and in the course of -an hour I had sold the mare for five pounds to a man of much Christian -profession, who would not give a farthing more on the plea that she was -likely stolen. - -The five pounds and the clothes I stood in were my fortune: it did not -seem very much, if it was to take me out of the reach of the long arm of -the doomster; and thinking of the doomster I minded of the mole upon -my brow, that was the most kenspeckle thing about me in the event of a -description going about the country, so the first thing I bought with -my fortune was a pair of scissors. Going into a pend close in one of the -vennels beside the quay, I clipped off the hair upon the mole and felt a -little safer. I was coming out of the close, pouching the scissors, when -a man of sea-going aspect, with high boots and a tarpaulin hat, stumbled -against me and damned my awkwardness. - -“You filthy hog,” said I, exasperated at such manners, for he was -himself to blame for the encounter; “how dare you speak to me like -that?” He was a man of the middle height, sturdy on his bowed legs in -spite of the drink obvious in his face and speech, and he had a roving -gleed black eye. I had never clapped gaze on him in all my life before. - -“Is that the way ye speak to Dan Risk, ye swab?” said he, ludicrously -affecting a dignity that ill suited with his hiccough. “What's the good -of me being a skipper if every linen-draper out of Fife can cut into my -quarter on my own deck?” - -“This is no' your quarter-deck, man, if ye were sober enough to ken it,” - said I; “and I'm no linen-draper from Fife or anywhere else.” - -And then the brute, with his hands thrust to the depth of his pockets, -staggered me as if he had done it with a blow of his fist. - -“No,” said he, with a very cunning tone, “ye're no linen-draper perhaps, -but--ye're maybe no sae decent a man, young Greig.” - -It was impossible for me to conceal even from this tipsy rogue my -astonishment and alarm at this. It seemed to me the devil himself must -be leagued against me in the cause of justice. A cold sweat came on my -face and the palms of my hands. I opened my mouth and meant to give him -the lie but I found I dare not do so in the presence of what seemed a -miracle of heaven. - -“How do you ken my name's Greig?” I asked at the last. - -“Fine that,” he made answer, with a grin; “and there's mony an odd thing -else I ken.” - -“Well, it's no matter,” said I, preparing to quit him, but in great fear -of what the upshot might be; “I'm for off, anyway.” - -By this time it was obvious that he was not so drunk as I thought him at -first, and that in temper and tact he was my match even with the -glass in him. “Do ye ken what I would be doing if I was you?” said he -seemingly determined not to let me depart like that, for he took a step -or two after me. - -I made no reply, but quickened my pace and after me he came, lurching -and catching at my arm; and I mind to this day the roll of him gave me -the impression of a crab. - -“If it's money ye want-” I said at the end of my patience. - -“Curse your money!” he cried, pretending to spit the insult from his -mouth. “Curse your money; but if I was you, and a weel-kent skipper like -Dan Risk--like Dan Risk of the _Seven Sisters_--made up to me out of a -redeeculous good nature and nothing else, I would gladly go and splice -the rope with him in the nearest ken.” - -“Go and drink with yourself, man,” I cried; “there's the money for a -chappin of ate, and I'll forego my share of it.” - -I could have done nothing better calculated to infuriate him. As I held -out the coin on the palm of my hand he struck it up with an oath and -it rolled into the syver. His face flamed till the neck of him seemed a -round of seasoned beef. - -“By the Rock o' Bass!” he roared, “I would clap ye in jyle for less than -your lousy groat.” - -Ah, then, it was in vain I had put the breadth of Scotland between me -and that corpse among the rushes: my heart struggled a moment, and sank -as if it had been drowned in bilge. I turned on the man what must have -been a gallows face, and he laughed, and, gaining his drunken good -nature again he hooked me by the arm, and before my senses were my own -again he was leading me down the street and to the harbour. I had never -a word to say. - -The port, as I tell, was swathed in the haar of the east, out of which -tall masts rose dim like phantom spears; the clumsy tarred bulwarks -loomed like walls along the quay, and the neighbourhood was noisy with -voices that seemed unnatural coming out of the haze. Mariners were -hanging about the sheds, and a low tavern belched others out to keep -them company. Risk made for the tavern, and at that I baulked. - -“Oh, come on!” said he. “If I'm no' mistaken Dan Risk's the very man -ye're in the need of. You're wanting out of Scotland, are ye no'?” - -“More than that; I'm wanting out of myself,” said I, but that seemed -beyond him. - -“Come in anyway, and we'll talk it over.” - -That he might help me out of the country seemed possible if he was not, -as I feared at first, some agent of the law and merely playing with me, -so I entered the tavern with him. - -“Two gills to the coffin-room, Mrs. Clerihew,” he cried to the woman in -the kitchen. “And slippy aboot it, if ye please, for my mate here's been -drinking buttermilk all his life, and ye can tell't in his face.” - -“I would rather have some meat,” said I. - -“Humph!” quo' he, looking at my breeches. “A lang ride!” He ordered the -food at my mentioning, and made no fuss about drinking my share of the -spirits as well as his own, while I ate with a hunger that was soon -appeased, for my eye, as the saying goes, was iller to satisfy than my -appetite. - -He sat on the other side of the table in the little room that doubtless -fairly deserved the name it got of coffin, for many a man, I'm thinking, -was buried there in his evil habits; and I wondered what was to be next. - -“To come to the bit,” said the at last, looking hard into the bottom of -his tankard in a way that was a plain invitation to buy more for him. -“To come to the bit, you're wanting out of the country?” - -“It's true,” said I; “but how do you know? And how do you know my name, -for I never saw you to my knowledge in all my life before?” - -“So much the worse for you; I'm rale weel liked by them that kens me. -What would ye give for a passage to Nova Scotia?” - -“It's a long way,” said I, beginning to see a little clearer. - -“Ay,” said he, “but I've seen a gey lang rope too, and a man danglin' at -the end of it.” - -Again my face betrayed me. I made no answer. - -“I ken all aboot it,” he went on. “Your name's Greig; ye're from a -place called the Hazel Den at the other side o' the country; ye've been -sailing wi' a stiff breeze on the quarter all night, and the clime -o' auld Scotland's one that doesna suit your health, eh? What's the -amount?” said he, and he looked towards my pocket “Could we no' mak' it -halfers?” - -“Five pounds,” said I, and at that he looked strangely dashed. - -“Five pounds,” he repeated incredulously. “It seems to have been hardly -worth the while.” And then his face changed, as if a new thought had -struck him. He leaned over the table and whispered with the infernal -tone of a confederate, “Doused his glim, eh?” winking with his hale eye, -so that I could not but shiver at him, as at the touch of slime. - -“I don't understand,” said I. - -“Do ye no'?” said he, with a sneer; “for a Greig ye're mighty slow in -the uptak'. The plain English o' that, then, is that ye've killed a man. -A trifle like that ance happened to a Greig afore.” - -“What's your name?” I demanded. - -“Am I no tellin' ye?” said he shortly. “It's just Daniel Risk; and where -could you get a better? Perhaps ye were thinkin' aboot swappin' names -wi' me; and by the Bass, it's Dan's family name would suit very weel -your present position,” and the scoundrel laughed at his own humour. - -“I asked because I was frightened it might be Mahoun,” said I. “It seems -gey hard to have ridden through mire for a night and a day, and land -where ye started from at the beginning. And how do ye ken all that?” - -“Oh!” he said, “kennin's my trade, if ye want to know. And whatever way -I ken, ye needna think I'm the fellow to make much of a sang aboot it. -Still and on, the thing's frowned doon on in this country, though in -places I've been it would be coonted to your credit. I'll take anither -gill; and if ye ask me, I would drench the butter-milk wi' something -o' the same, for the look o' ye sittin' there's enough to gie me the -waterbrash. Mrs. Clerihew--here!” He rapped loudly on the table, and -the drink coming in I was compelled again to see him soak himself at my -expense. He reverted to my passage from the country, and “Five pounds is -little enough for it,” said he; “but ye might be eking it oot by partly -working your passage.” - -“I didn't say I was going either to Nova Scotia or with you,” said I, -“and I think I could make a better bargain elsewhere.” - -“So could I, maybe,” said he, fuming of spirits till I felt sick. “And -it's time I was doin' something for the good of my country.” With that -he rose to his feet with a look of great moral resolution, and made as -if for the door, but by this time I understood him better. - -“Sit down, ye muckle hash!” said I, and I stood over him with a most -threatening aspect. - -“By the Lord!” said he, “that's a Greig anyway!” - -“Ay!” said I. “ye seem to ken the breed. Can I get another vessel abroad -besides yours?” - -“Ye can not,” said he, with a promptness I expected, “unless ye wait on -the _Sea Pyat_. She leaves for Jamaica next Thursday; and there's no' -a spark of the Christian in the skipper o' her, one Macallum from -Greenock.” - -For the space of ten minutes I pondered over the situation. Undoubtedly -I was in a hole. This brute had me in his power so long as my feet were -on Scottish land, and he knew it. At sea he might have me in his power -too, but against that there was one precaution I could take, and I made -up my mind. - -“I'll give you four pounds--half at leaving the quay and the other half -when ye land me.” - -“My conscience wadna' aloo me,” protested the rogue; but the greed was -in his face, and at last he struck my thumb on the bargain, and when -he did that I think I felt as much remorse at the transaction as at the -crime from whose punishment I fled. - -“Now,” said I, “tell me how you knew me and heard about--about--” - -“About what?” said he, with an affected surprise. “Let me tell ye this, -Mr. Greig, or whatever your name may be, that Dan Risk is too much of -the gentleman to have any recollection of any unpleasantness ye may -mention, now that he has made the bargain wi' ye. I ken naethin' -aboot ye, if ye please: whether your name's Greig or Mackay or Habbie -Henderson, it's new to me, only ye're a likely lad for a purser's berth -in the _Seven Sisters._” And refusing to say another word on the topic -that so interested me, he took me down to the ship's side, where I found -the _Seven Sisters_ was a brigantine out of Hull, sadly in the want of -tar upon her timbers and her mainmast so decayed and worm-eaten that it -sounded boss when I struck it with my knuckles in the by-going. - -Risk saw me doing it. He gave an ugly smile. - -“What do ye think o' her? said he, showing me down the companion. - -“Mighty little,” I told him straight. “I'm from the moors,” said I, “but -I've had my feet on a sloop of Ayr before now; and by the look of this -craft I would say she has been beeking in the sun idle till she rotted -down to the garboard strake.” - -He gave his gleed eye a turn and vented some appalling oaths, and wound -up with the insult I might expect--namely, that drowning was not my -portion. - -“There was some brag a little ago of your being a gentleman,” said I, -convinced that this blackguard was to be treated to his own fare if he -was to be got on with at all. “There's not much of a gentleman in the -like of that.” - -At this he was taken aback. “Well,” said he, “don't you cross my temper; -if my temper's crossed it's gey hard to keep up gentility. The ship's -sound enough, or she wouldn't be half a dizen times round the Horn and -as weel kent in Halifax as one o' their ain dories. She's guid enough -for your--for our business, if ye please, Mr. Greig; and here's my mate -Murchison.” - -Another tarry-breeks of no more attractive aspect came down the -companion. - -“Here's a new hand for ye,” said the skipper humorously. - -The mate looked me up and down with some contempt from his own height of -little more than five feet four, and peeled an oilskin coat off him. -I was clad myself in a good green coat and breeches with fine wool -rig-and-fur hose, and the buckled red shoon and the cock of my hat I -daresay gave me the look of some importance in tarry-breeks' eyes. -At any rate, he did not take Risk's word for my identity, but at last -touched his hat with awkward fingers after relinquishing his look of -contempt. - -“Mr. Jamieson?” said he questioningly, and the skipper by this time was -searching in a locker for a bottle of rum he said he had there for the -signing of agreements. “Mr. Jamieson,” said the mate, “I'm glad to see -ye. The money's no; enough for the job, and that's letting ye know. It's -all right for Dan here wi' neither wife nor family, but--” - -“What's that, ye idiot?” cried Risk turning about in alarm. “Do ye tak' -this callan for the owner? I tell't ye he was a new hand.” - -“A hand!” repeated Murchison, aback and dubious. - -“Jist that; he's the purser.” - -Murchison laughed. “That's a new ornament on the auld randy; he'll be -to keep his keekers on the manifest, like?” said he as one who cracks a -good joke. But still and on he scanned me with a suspicious eye, and -it was not till Risk had taken him aside later in the day and seemingly -explained, that he was ready to meet me with equanimity. By that time -I had paid the skipper his two guineas, for the last of his crew was on -board, every man Jack of them as full as the Baltic, and staggering at -the coamings of the hatches not yet down, until I thought half of them -would finally land in the hold. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -WHEREIN THE “SEVEN SISTERS” ACTS STRANGELY, AND I SIT WAITING FOR THE -MANACLES - -An air of westerly wind had risen after meridian and the haar was gone, -so that when I stood at the break of the poop as the brigantine crept -into the channel and flung out billows of canvas while her drunken -seamen quarrelled and bawled high on the spars, I saw, as I imagined, -the last of Scotland in a pleasant evening glow. My heart sank. It was -not a departure like this I had many a time anticipated when I listened -to Uncle Andys tales; here was I with blood on my hands and a guinea to -start my life in a foreign country; that was not the worst of it either, -for far more distress was in my mind at the reflection that I travelled -with a man who was in my secret. At first I was afraid to go near him -once our ropes were off the pawls, and I, as it were, was altogether -his, but to my surprise there could be no pleasanter man than Risk when -he had the wash of water under his rotten barque. He was not only a -better-mannered man to myself, but he became, in half an hour of the -Firth breeze, as sober as a judge. But for the roving gleed eye, and -what I had seen of him on shore, Captain Dan Risk might have passed for -a model of all the virtues. He called me Mr. Greig and once or twice -(but I stopped that) Young Hazel Den, with no irony in the appellation, -and he was at pains to make his mate see that I was one to be treated -with some respect, proffering me at our first meal together (for I was -to eat in the cuddy,) the first of everything on the table, and even -making some excuses for the roughness of the viands. And I could see -that whatever his qualities of heart might be, he was a good seaman, a -thing to be told in ten minutes by a skipper's step on a deck and his -grip of the rail, and his word of command. Those drunken barnacles of -his seemed to be men with the stuff of manly deeds in them, when at his -word they dashed aloft among the canvas canopy to fist the bulging sail -and haul on clew or gasket, or when they clung on greasy ropes and at a -gesture of his hand heaved cheerily with that “yo-ho” that is the chant -of all the oceans where keels run. - -Murchison was a saturnine, silent man, from whom little was to be got of -edification. The crew numbered eight men, one of them a black deaf -mute, with the name of Antonio Ferdinando, who cooked in a galley little -larger than the Hazel Den kennel. It was apparent that no two of them -had ever met before, such a career of flux and change is the seaman's, -and except one of them, a fellow Horn, who was foremast man, a more -villainous gang I never set eyes on before or since. If Risk had raked -the ports of Scotland with a fine bone comb for vermin, he could not -have brought together a more unpleasant-looking crew. No more than two -of them brought a bag on board, and so ragged was their appearance that -I felt ashamed to air my own good clothes on the same deck with them. - -Fortunately it seemed I had nothing to do with them nor they with me; -all that was ordered for the eking out of my passage, as Risk had -said, was to copy the manifest, and I had no sooner set to that than I -discerned it was a gowk's job just given me to keep me in employ in the -cabin. Whatever his reason, the man did not want me about his deck. I -saw that in an interlude in my writing, when I came up from his airless -den to learn what progress old rotten-beams made under all her canvas. - -It had declined to a mere handful of wind, and the vessel scarcely -moved, seemed indeed steadfast among the sea-birds that swooped and -wheeled and cried around her. I saw the sun just drop among blood-red -clouds over Stirling, and on the shore of Fife its pleasant glow. The -sea swung flat and oily, running to its ebb, and lapping discernibly -upon a recluse promontory of land with a stronghold on it. - -“What do you call yon, Horn?” I said to the seaman I have before -mentioned, who leaned upon the taffrail and watched the vessel's greasy -wake, and I pointed to the gloomy buildings on the shore. - -“Blackness Castle,” said he, and he had time to tell no more, for the -skipper bawled upon him for a shirking dog, and ordered the flemishing -of some ropes loose upon the forward deck. Nor was I exempt from -his zeal for the industry of other folks for he came up to me with -a suspicious look, as if he feared I had been hearing news from his -foremast man, and “How goes the manifest, Mr. Greig?” says he. - -“Oh, brawly, brawly!” said I, determined to begin with Captain Daniel -Risk as I meant to end. - -He grew purple, but restrained himself with an effort. “This is not -an Ayr sloop, Mr. Greig,” said he; “and when orders go on the _Seven -Sisters_ I like to see them implemented. You must understand that -there's a pressing need for your clerking, or I would not be so soon -putting you at it.” - -“At this rate of sailing,” says I, “I'll have time to copy some hundred -manifests between here and Nova Scotia.” - -“Perhaps you'll permit me to be the best judge of that,” he replied in -the English he ever assumed with his dignity, and seeing there was no -more for it, I went back to my quill. - -It was little wonder, in all the circumstances, that I fell asleep over -my task with my head upon the cabin table whereon I wrote, and it was -still early in the night when I crawled into the narrow bunk that the -skipper had earlier indicated as mine. - -Weariness mastered my body, but my mind still roamed; the bunk became -a coffin quicklimed, and the murderer of David Borland lying in it; the -laverock cried across Earn Water and the moors of Renfrew with the voice -of Daniel Risk. And yet the strange thing was that I knew I slept and -dreamed, and more than once I made effort, and dragged myself into -wakefulness from the horrors of my nightmare. At these times there was -nothing to hear but the plop of little waves against the side of the -ship, a tread on deck, and the call of the watch. - -I had fallen into a sleep more profound than any that had yet blessed my -hard couch, when I was suddenly wakened by a busy clatter on the deck, -the shriek of ill-greased davits, the squeak of blocks, and the fall of -a small-boat into the water. Another odd sound puzzled me: but for the -probability that we were out over Bass I could have sworn it was the -murmur of a stream running upon a gravelled shore. A stream--heavens! -There could be no doubt about it now; we were somewhere close in shore, -and the _Seven Sisters_ was lying to. The brigantine stopped in her -voyage where no stoppage should be; a small boat plying to land in -the middle of the night; come! here was something out of the ordinary, -surely, on a vessel seaward bound. I had dreamt of the gallows and of -Dan Risk as an informer. Was it a wonder that there should flash into my -mind the conviction of my betrayal? What was more likely than that the -skipper, secure of my brace of guineas, was selling me to the garrison -of Blackness? - -I clad myself hurriedly and crept cautiously up the companion ladder, -and found myself in overwhelming darkness, only made the more appalling -and strange because the vessel's lights were all extinguished. Silence -large and brooding lay upon the _Seven Sisters_ as she lay in that -obscuring haar that had fallen again; she might be Charon's craft -pausing mid-way on the cursed stream, and waiting for the ferry cry upon -the shore of Time. We were still in the estuary or firth, to judge -by the bickering burn and the odors off-shore, above all the odour of -rotting brake; and we rode at anchor, for her bows were up-water to -the wind and tide, and above me, in the darkness, I could hear the -idle sails faintly flapping in the breeze and the reef-points all -tap-tapping. I seemed to have the deck alone, but for one figure at the -stern; I went back, and found that it was Horn. - -“Where are we?” I asked, relieved to find there the only man I could -trust on board the ship. - -“A little below Blackness,” said he shortly with a dissatisfied tone. - -“I did not know we were to stop here,” said I, wondering if he knew that -I was doomed. - -“Neither did I,” said he, peering into the void of night. “And whit's -mair, I wish I could guess the reason o' oor stopping. The skipper's -been ashore mair nor ance wi' the lang-boat forward there, and I'm sent -back here to keep an e'e on lord kens what except it be yersel'.” - -“Are ye indeed?” said I, exceedingly vexed. “Then I ken too well, Horn, -the reason for the stoppage. You are to keep your eye on a man who's -being bargained for with the hangman.” - -“I would rather ken naithin' about that,” said he, “and onyway I think -ye're mistaken. Here they're comin' back again.” - -Two or three small boats were coming down on us out of the darkness; not -that I could see them, but that I heard their oars in muffled rowlocks. - -“If they want me,” said I sorrowfully, “they can find me down below,” - and back I went and sat me in the cabin, prepared for the manacles. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE STRUGGLE IN THE CABIN, AND AN EERIE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER - -The place stank with bilge and the odour of an ill-trimmed lamp smoking -from a beam; the fragments of the skipper's supper were on the table, -with a broken quadrant; rats scurried and squealed in the bulkheads, -and one stared at me from an open locker, where lay a rum-bottle, -while beetles and slaters travelled along the timbers. But these -things compelled my attention less than the skylights that were masked -internally by pieces of canvas nailed roughly on them. They were not -so earlier in the evening; it must have been done after I had gone to -sleep, and what could be the object? That puzzled me extremely, for it -must have been the same hand that had extinguished all the deck and mast -lights, and though black was my crime darkness was unnecessary to my -betrayal. - -I waited with a heart like lead. - -I heard the boats swung up on the davits, the squeak of the falls, the -tread of the seamen, the voice of Risk in an unusually low tone. In the -bows in a little I heard the windlass click and the chains rasp in the -hawse-holes; we were lifting the anchor. - -For a moment hope possessed me. If we were weighing anchor then my -arrest was not imminent at least; but that consolation lasted briefly -when I thought of the numerous alternatives to imprisonment in -Blackness. - -We were under weigh again; there was a heel to port, and a more rapid -plop of the waters along the carvel planks. And then Risk and his mate -came down. - -I have seldom seen a man more dashed than the skipper when he saw me -sitting waiting on him, clothed and silent. His face grew livid; round -he turned to Murchison and hurried him with oaths to come and clap eyes -on this sea-clerk. I looked for the officer behind them, but they were -alone, and at that I thought more cheerfully I might have been mistaken -about the night's curious proceedings. - -“Anything wrang?” said Risk, affecting nonchalance now that his spate of -oaths was by, and he pulled the rum out of the locker and helped himself -and his mate to a swingeing caulker. - -“Oh, nothing at all,” said I, “at least nothing that I know of, Captain -Risk. And are we--are we--at Halifax already?” - -“What do you mean?” said he. And then he looked at me closely, put out -the hand unoccupied by his glass and ran an insolent dirty finger over -my new-clipped mole. “Greig, Greig,” said he, “Greig to a hair! I would -have the wee shears to that again, for its growin'.” - -“You're a very noticing man,” said I, striking down his hand no way -gently, and remembering that he had seen my scissors when I emerged from -the Borrowstouness close after my own barbering. - -“I'm all that,” he replied, with a laugh, and all the time Murchison, -the mate, sat mopping his greasy face with a rag, as one after hard -work, and looked on us with wonder at what we meant. “I'm all that,” - he replied, “the hair aff the mole and the horse-hair on your creased -breeches wad hae tauld ony ane that ye had ridden in a hurry and clipped -in a fricht o' discovery.” - -“Oh, oh!” I cried, “and that's what goes to the makin' o' a Mahoun!” - -“Jist that,” said he, throwing himself on a seat with an easy -indifference meant to conceal his vanity. “Jist observation and a knack -o' puttin' twa and twa thegether. Did ye think the skipper o' the _Seven -Sisters_ was fleein' over Scotland at the tail o' your horse?” - -“The Greig mole's weel kent, surely,” said I, astonished and chagrined. -“I jalouse it's notorious through my Uncle Andy?” - -Risk laughed at that. “Oh, ay!” said he, “when Andy Greig girned at ye -it was ill to miss seein' his mole. Man, ye might as well wear your name -on the front o' your hat as gae aboot wi' a mole like that--and--and -that pair o' shoes.” - -The blood ran to my face at this further revelation of his astuteness. -It seemed, then, I carried my identity head and foot, and it was no -wonder a halfeyed man like Risk should so easily discover me. I looked -down at my feet, and sure enough, when I thought of it now, it would -have been a stupid man who, having seen these kenspeckle shoes once, -would ever forget them. - -“My uncle seems to have given me good introductions,” said I. “They -struck mysel' as rather dandy for a ship,” broke in the mate, at last -coming on something he could understand. - -“And did _you_ know Andy Greig, too?” said I. “Andy Greig,” he replied. -“Not me!” - -“Then, by God, ye hinna sailed muckle aboot the warld!” said the -skipper. “I hae seen thae shoes in the four quarters and aye in a good -companionship.” - -“They appear yet to retain that virtue,” said I, unable to resist the -irony. “And, by the way, Captain Risk, now that we have discussed the -shoes and my mole, what have we been waiting for at Blackness?” - -His face grew black with annoyance. - -“What's that to you?” he cried. - -“Oh, I don't know,” I answered indifferently. “I thought that now ye had -got the best part o' your passage money ye might hae been thinking to do -something for your country again. They tell me it's a jail in there, -and it might suggest itself to you as providing a good opportunity for -getting rid of a very indifferent purser.” - -It is one thing I can remember to the man's credit that this innuendo -of treachery seemed to make him frantic. He dashed the rum-glass at -his feet and struck at me with a fist like a jigot of mutton, and I had -barely time to step back and counter. He threw himself at me as he had -been a cat; I closed and flung my arms about him with a wrestler's grip, -and bent him back upon the table edge, where I might have broken his -spine but for Murchison's interference. The mate called loudly for -assistance; footsteps pounded on the cuddy-stair, and down came Horn. -Between them they drew us apart, and while Murchison clung to his -captain, and plied him into quietness with a fresh glass of grog, Horn -thrust me not unkindly out into the night, and with no unwillingness on -my part. - -[Illustration 091] - -It was the hour of dawn, and the haar was gone. - -There was something in that chill grey monotone of sky and sea that -filled me with a very passion of melancholy. The wind had risen, and the -billows ran frothing from the east; enormous clouds hung over the land -behind us, so that it seemed to roll with smoke from the eternal fires. -Out from that reeking pit of my remorse--that lost Scotland where now -perhaps there still lay lying among the rushes, with the pees-weep's cry -above it, the thing from which I flew, our ship went fast, blown upon -the frothy billows, like a ponderous bird, leaving a wake of hissing -bubbling brine, flying, as it seemed, to a world of less imminent -danger, yet unalluring still. - -I looked aloft at the straining spars; they seemed to prick the clouds -between the swelling sails; the ropes and shrouds stretched infinitely -into a region very grey and chill. Oh, the pallor! oh, the cold and -heartless spirit of the sea in that first dawning morn! - -“It's like to be a good day,” said Horn, breaking in upon my silence, -and turning to him I saw his face exceeding hollow and wan. The watch -lay forward, all but a lad who seemed half-dozing at the helm; Risk and -his mate had lapsed to silence in the cuddy. - -“You're no frien', seemingly, o' the pair below!” said Horn again, -whispering, and with a glance across his shoulder at the helm. - -“It did not look as if I were, a minute or two ago,” said I. “Yon's a -scoundrel, and yet I did him an injustice when I thought he meant to -sell me.” - -“I never sailed with a more cheat-the-widdy crew since I followed the -sea,” said Horn, “and whether it's the one way or the other, sold ye -are.” - -“Eh?” said I, uncomprehending. - -He looked again at the helm, and moved over to a water-breaker further -forward, obviously meaning that I should follow. He drew a drink of -water for himself, drank slowly, but seemed not to be much in the need -for it from the little he took, but he had got out of ear-shot of the -man steering. - -“You and me's the gulls this time, Mr. Greig,” said he, whispering. -“This is a doomed ship.” - -“I thought as much from her rotten spars,” I answered. “So long as she -takes me to Nova Scotia I care little what happens to her.” - -“It's a long way to Halifax,” said he. “I wish I could be sure we were -likely even to have Land's End on our starboard before waur happens. -Will ye step this way, Mr. Greig?” and he cautiously led the way -forward. There was a look-out humming a stave of song somewhere in the -bows, and two men stretched among the chains, otherwise that part of the -ship was all our own. We went down the fo'c'sle scuttle quietly, and -I found myself among the carpenter's stores, in darkness, divided by a -bulkhead door from the quarters of the sleeping men. Rats were scurrying -among the timbers and squealing till Horn stamped lightly with his feet -and secured stillness. - -“Listen!” said he. - -I could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of a seaman within, and the -wash of water against the ship's sides. - -“Well?” I queried, wondering. - -“Put your lug here,” said he, indicating a beam that was dimly revealed -by the light from the lamp swinging in the fo'c'sle. I did so, and heard -water running as from a pipe somewhere in the bowels of the vessel. - -“What's that?” I asked. - -“That's all,” said he and led me aft again. - -The dawn by now had spread over half the heavens; behind us the mouth of -the Firth gulped enormous clouds, and the fringe of Fife was as flat -as a bannock; before us the sea spread chill, leaden, all unlovely. “My -sorrow!” says I, “if this is travelling, give me the high-roads and the -hot noon.” - -Horn's face seemed more hollow and dark than ever in the wan morning. I -waited his explanation. “I think ye said Halifax, Mr. Greig?” said he. “I -signed on, mysel', for the same port, but you and me's perhaps the only -ones on this ship that ever hoped to get there. God give me grace to get -foot on shore and Dan Risk will swing for this!” - -Somebody sneezed behind us as Horn thus rashly expressed himself; we -both turned suddenly on the rail we had been leaning against, expecting -that this was the skipper, and though it was not Risk, it was one whose -black visage and gleaming teeth and rolling eyes gave me momentarily -something of a turn. - -It was the cook Ferdinando. He had come up behind on his bare feet, and -out upon the sea he gazed with that odd eerie look of the deaf and dumb, -heedless of us, it seemed, as we had been dead portions of the ship's -fabric, seeing but the salt wave, the rim of rising sun, blood-red upon -the horizon, communing with an old familiar. - -“A cauld momin', cook,” said Horn, like one who tests a humbug -pretending to be dumb, but Ferdinando heard him not. - -“It might have been a man wi' all his faculties,” said the seaman -whispering, “and it's time we werena seen thegether. I'll tell ye later -on.” - -With that we separated, he to some trivial duty of his office, I, with -a mind all disturbed, back to my berth to lie awake, tossing and -speculating on the meaning of Horn's mystery. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE SCUTTLED SHIP - -When I went on deck next morning there was something great ado. We were -out of sight of land, sailing large, as the old phrase went, on a brisk -quarter breeze with top-sails atrip, and the sky a vast fine open blue. -The crew were gathered at the poop, the pump was clanking in the midst -of them, and I saw they were taking spells at the cruellest labour a -seaman knows. - -At first I was noway troubled at the spectacle; a leak was to be -expected in old rotten-beams, and I went forward with the heart of me -not a pulse the faster. - -Risk was leaning over the poop-rail, humped up and his beard on -his hands; Murchison, a little apart, swept the horizon with a -prospect-glass, and the pump sent a great spate of bilge-water upon the -deck. But for a man at the tiller who kept the ship from yawing in the -swell that swung below her counter the _Seven Sisters_ sailed at her -sweet will; all the interest of her company was in this stream of -stinking water that she retched into the scuppers. And yet I could not -but be struck by the half-hearted manner in which the seamen wrought; -they were visibly shirking; I saw it in the slack muscles, in the -heedless eyes. - -Risk rose and looked sourly at me as I went up. “Are ye for a job?” said -he. “It's more in your line perhaps than clerkin'.” - -“What, at the pumps? Is the old randy geyzing already?” - -“Like a washing-boyne,” said he. “Bear a hand like a good lad! we maun -keep her afloat at least till some other vessel heaves in sight.” - -In the tone and look of the man there was something extraordinary. -His words were meant to suggest imminent peril, and yet his voice was -shallow as that of a burgh bellman crying an auction sale, and his eyes -had more interest in the horizon that his mate still searched with the -prospect-glass than in the spate of bilge that gulped upon the deck. - -Bilge did I say? Heavens! it was bilge no more, but the pure sea-green -that answered to the clanking pump. It was no time for idle wonder -at the complacence of the skipper; I flew to the break and threw -my strength into the seaman's task. “Clank-click, clank-click”--the -instrument worked reluctantly as if the sucker moved in slime, and in a -little the sweat poured from me. - -“How is she now, Campbell?” asked Risk, as the carpenter came on deck. - -“Three feet in the hold,” said Campbell airily, like one that had an -easy conscience. - -“Good lord, a foot already!” cried Risk, and then in a tone of sarcasm, -“Hearty, lads, hearty there! A little more Renfrewshire beef into it, -Mr. Greig, if you please.” - -At that I ceased my exertion, stood back straight and looked at the -faces about me. There was only one man in the company who did not seem -to be amused at me, and that was Horn, who stood with folded arms, -moodily eying the open sea. - -“You seem mighty joco about it,” I said to Risk, and I wonder to this -day at my blindness that never read the whole tale in these hurried -events. - -“I can afford to be,” he said quickly; “if I gang I gang wi' clean -hands,” and he spat into the seawater streaming from the pump where the -port-watch now were working with as much listlessness as the men they -superseded. - -To the taunt I made no reply, but moved after Horn who had gone forward -with his hands in his pockets. - -“What does this mean, Horn?” I asked him. “Is the vessel in great -danger?” - -“I suppose she is,” said he bitterly, “but I have had nae experience o' -scuttled ships afore.” - -“Scuttled!” cried I, astounded, only half grasping his meaning. - -“Jist that,” said he. “The job's begun. It began last night in the run -of the vessel as I showed ye when ye put your ear to the beam. After I -left ye, I foun' half a dizen cords fastened to the pump stanchels; ane -of them I pulled and got a plug at the end of it; the ithers hae been -comin' oot since as it suited Dan Risk best, and the _Seven Ststers_ is -doomed to die o' a dropsy this very day. Wasn't I the cursed idiot that -ever lipped drink in Clerihew's coffin-room!” - -“If it was that,” said I, “why did you not cut the cords and spoil the -plot?” - -“Cut the cords! Ye mean cut my ain throat; that's what wad happen if the -skipper guessed my knowledge o' his deevilry. And dae ye think a gallows -job o' this kind depends a'thegither on twa or three bits o' twine? -Na, na, this is a very business-like transaction, Mr. Greig, and I'll -warrant there has been naethin' left to chance. I wondered at them bein' -sae pernicketty about the sma' boats afore we sailed when the timbers -o' the ship hersel' were fair ganting. That big new boat and sails frae -Kirkcaldy was a gey odd thing in itsel' if I had been sober enough to -think o't. I suppose ye paid your passage, Mr. Greig? I can fancy a -purser on the _Seven Sisters_ upon nae ither footin' and that made me -dubious o' ye when I first learned o' this hell's caper for Jamieson o' -the Grange. If ye hadna fought wi' the skipper I would hae coonted ye in -wi' the rest.” - -“He has two pounds of my money,” I answered; “at least I've saved the -other two if we fail to reach Halifax.” - -At that he laughed softly again. - -“It might be as well wi' Risk as wi' the conger,” said he, meaningly. -“I'm no' sae sure that you and me's meant to come oot o' this; that's -what I might tak' frae their leaving only the twa o' us aft when they -were puttin' the cargo aff there back at Blackness.” - -“The cargo!” I repeated. - -“Of course,” said Horn. “Ye fancied they were goin' to get rid o' ye -there, did ye? I'll alloo I thought that but a pretence on your pairt, -and no' very neatly done at that. Well, the smallest pairt but the maist -valuable o' the cargo shipped at Borrowstouness is still in Scotland; -and the underwriters 'll be to pay through the nose for what has never -run sea risks.” - -At that a great light came to me. This was the reason for the masked -cuddy skylights, the utter darkness of the _Seven Sisters_ while her -boats were plying to the shore; for this was I so closely kept at her -ridiculous manifest; the lists of lace and plate I had been fatuously -copying were lists of stuff no longer on the ship at all, but back in -the possession of the owner of the brigantine. - -“You are an experienced seaman--?” - -“I have had a vessel of my own,” broke in Horn, some vanity as well as -shame upon his countenance. - -“Well, you are the more likely to know the best way out of this trap we -are in,” I went on. “For a certain reason I am not at all keen on it to -go back to Scotland, but I would sooner risk that than run in leash -with a scoundrel like this who's sinking his command, not to speak of -hazarding my unworthy life with a villainous gang. Is there any way out -of it, Horn?” - -The seaman pondered, a dark frown upon his tanned forehead, where the -veins stood out in knots, betraying his perturbation. The wind whistled -faintly in the tops, the _Seven Sisters_ plainly went by the head; she -had a slow response to her helm, and moved sluggishly. Still the pump -was clanking and we could hear the water streaming through the scupper -holes. Risk had joined his mate and was casting anxious eyes over the -waters. - -“If we play the safty here, Mr. Greig,” said Horn, “there's a chance o' -a thwart for us when the _Seven Ststers_ comes to her labour. That's oor -only prospect. At least they daurna murder us.” - -“And what about the crew?” I asked. “Do you tell me there is not enough -honesty among them all to prevent a blackguardly scheme like this?” - -“We're the only twa on this ship this morning wi' oor necks ootside tow, -for they're all men o' the free trade, and broken men at that,” said -Horn resolutely, and even in the midst of this looming disaster my -private horror rose within me. - -“Ah!” said I, helpless to check the revelation, “speak for yourself, Mr. -Horn; it's the hangman I'm here fleeing from.” - -He looked at me with quite a new countenance, clearly losing relish for -his company. - -“Anything by-ordinar dirty?” he asked, and in my humility I did not have -the spirit to resent what that tone and query implied. - -“Dirty enough,” said I, “the man's dead,” and Horn's face cleared. - -“Oh, faith! is that all?” quo' he, “I was thinkin' it might be -coinin'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Greig, or somethin' in the fancy way. -But a gentleman's quarrel ower the cartes or a wench--that's a different -tale. I hate homicide mysel' to tell the truth, but whiles I've had -it in my heart, and in a way o' speakin* Dan Risk this meenute has my -gully-knife in his ribs.” - -As he spoke the vessel, mishandled, or a traitor to her helm, now that -she was all awash internally with water, yawed and staggered in the -wind. The sails shivered, the yards swung violently, appalling noises -came from the hold. At once the pumping ceased, and Risk's voice roared -in the confusion, ordering the launch of the Kirkcaldy boat. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -MAKES PLAIN THE DEEPEST VILLAINY OF RISK AND SETS ME ON A FRENCHMAN - -When I come to write these affairs down after the lapse of years, I find -my memory but poorly retains the details of that terrific period between -the cry of Risk and the moment when Horn and I, abandoned on the doomed -vessel, watched the evening fall upon the long Kirkcaldy boat, her mast -stepped, but her sails down, hovering near us for the guarantee of our -eternal silence regarding the crime the men on her were there and then -committing. There is a space--it must have been brief, but I lived a -lifetime in it--whose impressions rest with me, blurred, but with the -general hue of agony. I can see the sun again sailing overhead in the -arching sky of blue; the enormous ocean, cruel, cold, spread out to the -line of the horizon; the flapping sails and drumming reef-points, the -streaming halliards and clew-garnets, the spray buffeting upon our hull -and spitting in our faces like an enemy; I hear the tumult of the seamen -hurrying vulgarly to save their wretched lives, the gluck of waters -in the bowels of the ship, the thud of cargo loose and drifting under -decks. - -But I see and hear it all as in a dream or play, and myself someway -standing only a spectator. - -It seemed that Risk and his men put all their dependence on the -long-boat out of Kirkcaldy. She was partly decked at the bows like a -Ballantrae herring-skiff, beamy and commodious. They clustered round her -like ants; swung her out, and over she went, and the whole hellish -plot lay revealed in the fact that she was all found with equipment and -provisions. - -Horn and I made an effort to assist at her preparation; we were shoved -aside with frantic curses; we were beaten back by her oars when we -sought to enter her, and when she pushed off from the side of the _Seven -Sisters_, Dan Risk was so much the monster that he could jeer at our -perplexity. He sat at the tiller of her without a hat, his long hair, -that was turning lyart, blown by the wind about his black and mocking -eyes. - -“Head her for Halifax, Horn,” said he, “and ye'll get there by-and-by.” - -“Did I ever do ye any harm, skipper?” cried the poor seaman, standing on -the gunwale, hanging to the shrouds, and his aspect hungry for life. - -“Ye never got the chance, Port Glesca,” cried back Risk, hugging the -tiller of the Kirkcaldy boat under his arm. “I'll gie ye a guess-- - - Come-a-riddle, come-a-riddle, come-a-rote-tote-tote-- - -Oh to bleezes! I canna put a rhyme till't, but this is the sense o't--a -darkie's never deaf and dumb till he's deid. Eh! Antonio, ye rascal!” - -He looked forward as he spoke and exchanged a villainous laugh with the -cook, his instrument, who had overheard us and betrayed. - -“Ye would mak' me swing for it, would ye, John Horn, when ye get ashore? -That's what I would expect frae a keelie oot o' Clyde.” - -It is hard to credit that man could be so vile as this, but of such -stuff was Daniel Risk. He was a fiend in the glory of his revenge upon -the seaman who had threatened him with the gallows; uplifted like a -madman's, his face, that was naturally sallow, burned lamp-red at his -high cheek-bones, his hale eye gloated, his free hand flourished as -in an exultation. His mate sat silent beside him on the stern-thwart, -clearing the sheets: the crew, who had out the sweeps to keep the boat's -bows in the wind, made an effort to laugh at his jocosities, but clearly -longed to be away from this tragedy. And all the time, I think, I stood -beside the weather bulwark, surrendered to the certainty of a speedy -death, with the lines of a ballad coming back again and again to my -mind: - - An' he shall lie in fathoms deep, - The star-fish ower his een shall creep. - An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep - In the hall o' Monaltrie. - -I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in -spite of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea -that beat about my feet. - -My silence--my seeming indifference--would seem to have touched the -heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn. -At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on -me. - -“I'm saying, Greig,” he cried, “noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy -was no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole -that--astern, lads, and tak' the purser aboard.” - -The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick -me off the doomed ship. - -At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a -second--praise God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never -released the cleat by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still -upon the lower shrouds and saw hope upon his countenance. - -“Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?” said I. - -“Not if he offered a thousand pounds,” cried Risk, “in ye come!” and -Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump -among them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as -with a spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, -bleeding profusely and half insensible. - -“You are a foul dog!” I cried to his assailant. “And I'll settle with -you for that!” - -“Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!” cried Risk impatient. - -“Let us look oot for oorselves, that's whit I say,” cried Murchison -angry at my threat, and prepared cheerfully to see me perish. “What -for should we risk oor necks with either o' them?” and he pushed off -slightly with his boat-hook. - -The skipper turned, struck down the hook, and snarled upon him. “Shut -up, Murchison!” he cried. “I'm still the captain, if ye please, and I -ken as much about the clerk here as will keep his gab shut on any trifle -we hae dune.” - -I looked upon the clean sea, and then at that huddle of scoundrels in -the Kirkcaldy boat, and then upon the seaman Horn coming back again to -the full consciousness of his impending fate. He gazed upon me with eyes -alarmed and pitiful, and at that I formed my resolution. - -“I stick by Horn,” said I. “If he gets too, I'll go; if not I'll bide -and be drowned with an honest man.” - -“Bide and be damned then! Ye've had your chance,” shouted Risk, letting -his boat fall off. “It's time we werena here.” And the halliards of his -main-sail were running in the blocks as soon as he said it. The boat -swept away rapidly, but not before I gave him a final touch of my irony. -From my pocket I took out my purse and threw it upon his lap. - -“There's the ither twa, Risk,” I cried; “it's no' like the thing at all -to murder a harmless lad for less than what ye bargained for.” - -He bawled back some reply I could not hear, and I turned about, to see -Horn making for the small boat on the starboard chocks. I followed with -a hope again wakened, only to share his lamentation when he found -that two of her planks had been wantonly sprung from their clinkers, -rendering her utterly useless. The two other boats were in a similar -condition; Risk and his confederates had been determined that no chance -should be left of our escape from the _Seven Sisters_. - -It was late in the afternoon. The wind had softened somewhat; in the -west there were rising billowy clouds of silver and red, and half a mile -away the Kirkcaldy boat, impatient doubtless for the end of us, that -final assurance of safety, plied to windward with only her foresail set. -We had gone below in a despairing mind on the chance that the leakage -might be checked, but the holes were under water in the after peak, and -in other parts we could not come near. An inch-and-a-half auger, and a -large bung-borer, a gouge and chisel in the captain's private locker, -told us how the crime had been committed whereof we were the victims. - -We had come on deck again, the pair of us, without the vaguest notion -of what was next to do, and--speaking for myself--convinced that nothing -could avert our hurrying fate. Horn told me later that he proposed full -half a score of plans for at least a prolongation of our time, but that -I paid no heed to them. That may be, for I know the ballad stanza went -in my head like a dirge, as I sat on a hatch with the last few days of -my history rolling out before my eyes. The dusk began to fall like a -veil, the wind declined still further. Horn feverishly hammered and -caulked at the largest of the boats, now and then throwing the tools -from him as in momentary realisations of the hopelessness of his toil -that finally left him in despair. - -“It's no use, Mr. Greig,” he cried then, “they did the job ower weel,” - and he shook his fist at the Kirkcaldy boat. He checked the gesture -suddenly and gave an astonished cry. - -“They're gone, Greig,” said he, now frantic. “They're gone. O God! -they're gone! I was sure they couldna hae the heart to leave us at the -last,” and as he spoke I chanced to look astern, and behold! a ship with -all her canvas full was swiftly bearing down the wind upon us. We had -been so intent upon our fate that we had never seen her! - -I clambered up the shrouds of the main-mast, and cried upon the coming -vessel with some mad notion that she might fancy the _Seven Sisters_ -derelict. But indeed that was not necessary. In a little she went round -into the wind, a long-boat filled with men came towards us, and twenty -minutes later we were on the deck of the _Roi Rouge_. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -WHEREIN APPEARS A GENTLEMANLY CORSAIR AND A FRENCH-IRISH LORD - -While it may be that the actual crisis of my manhood came to me on the -day I first put on my Uncle Andrew's shoes, the sense of it was mine -only when I met with Captain Thurot. I had put the past for ever behind -me (as I fancied) when I tore the verses of a moon-struck boy and -cast them out upon the washing-green at Hazel Den, but I was bound -to foregather with men like Thurot and his friends ere the scope and -fashion of a man's world were apparent to me. Whether his influence on -my destiny in the long run was good or bad I would be the last to say; -he brought me into danger, but--in a manner--he brought me good, though -that perhaps was never in his mind. - -You must fancy this Thurot a great tall man, nearly half a foot -exceeding myself in stature, peak-bearded, straight as a lance, with -plum-black eyes and hair, polished in dress and manner to the rarest -degree and with a good humour that never failed. He sat under a swinging -lamp in his cabin when Horn and I were brought before him, and asked my -name first in an accent of English that was if anything somewhat better -than my own. - -“Greig,” said I; “Paul Greig,” and he started as if I had pricked him -with a knife. - -A little table stood between us, on which there lay a book he had been -reading when we were brought below, some hours after the _Seven Sisters_ -had gone down, and the search for the Kirkcaldy boat had been abandoned. -He took the lamp off its hook, came round the table and held the light -so that he could see my face the clearer. At any time his aspect was -manly and pleasant; most of all was it so when he smiled, and I was -singularly encouraged when he smiled at me, with a rapid survey of my -person that included the Hazel Den mole and my Uncle Andrew's shoes. - -A seaman stood behind us; to him he spoke a message I could not -comprehend, as it was in French, of which I had but little. The seaman -retired; we were offered a seat, and in a minute the seaman came back -with a gentleman--a landsman by his dress. - -“Pardon, my lord,” said the captain to his visitor, “but I thought that -here was a case--speaking of miracles--you would be interested in. -Our friends here”--he indicated myself particularly with a gracious -gesture--“are not, as you know, dropped from heaven, but come from that -unfortunate ship we saw go under a while ago. May I ask your lordship to -tell us--you will see the joke in a moment--whom we were talking of at -the moment our watch first announced the sight of that vessel?” - -His lordship rubbed his chin and smilingly peered at the captain. - -“Gad!” he said. “You are the deuce and all, Thurot. What are you in the -mood for now? Why, we talked of Greig--Andrew Greig, the best player of -_passe-passe_ and the cheerfullest loser that ever cut a pack.” - -Thurot turned to me, triumphant. - -“Behold,” said he, “how ridiculously small the world is. _Ma foi!_ I -wonder how I manage so well to elude my creditors, even when I sail the -high seas. Lord Clancarty, permit me to have the distinguished honour -to introduce another Greig, who I hope has many more of his charming -uncle's qualities than his handsome eyes and red shoes. I assume it is -a nephew, because poor Monsieur Andrew was not of the marrying -kind. Anyhow, 'tis a Greig of the blood, or Antoine Thurot is a bat! -And--Monsieur Greig, it is my felicity to bid you know one of your -uncle's best friends and heartiest admirers--Lord Clancarty.” - -“Lord Clancarty!” I cried, incredulous. “Why he figured in my uncle's -log-book a dozen years ago.” - -“A dozen, no less!” cried his lordship, with a grimace. “We need not be -so particular about the period. I trust he set me down there a decently -good companion; I could hardly hope to figure in a faithful scribe's -tablets as an example otherwise,” said his lordship, laughing and taking -me cordially by the hand. “Gad! one has but to look at you to see Andrew -Greig in every line. I loved your uncle, lad. He had a rugged, manly -nature, and just sufficient folly, bravado, and sinfulness to keep a -poor Irishman in countenance. Thurot, one must apologise for taking from -your very lips the suggestion I see hesitating there, but sure 'tis an -Occasion this; it must be a bottle--the best bottle on your adorable but -somewhat ill-found vessel. Why 'tis Andy Greig come young again. Poor -Andy! I heard of his death no later than a month ago, and have ordered -a score of masses for him--which by the way are still unpaid for to good -Father Hamilton. I could not sleep happily of an evening--of a forenoon -rather--if I thought of our Andy suffering aught that a few candles and -such-like could modify.” And his lordship with great condescension -tapped and passed me his jewelled box of maccabaw. - -You can fancy a raw lad, untutored and untravelled, fresh from the -plough-tail, as it were, was vastly tickled at this introduction to the -genteel world. I was no longer the shivering outlaw, the victim of a -Risk. I was honoured more or less for the sake of my uncle (whose esteem -in this quarter my father surely would have been surprised at), and it -seemed as though my new life in a new country were opening better than I -had planned myself. I blessed my shoes--the Shoes of Sorrow--and for the -time forgot the tragedy from which I was escaping. - -They birled the bottle between them, Clancarty and Thurot, myself -virtually avoiding it, but clinking now and then, and laughing with them -at the numerous exploits they recalled of him that was the bond between -us; Horn elsewhere found himself well treated also; and listening to -these two gentlemen of the world, their allusions, off-hand, to the -great, their indications of adventure, travel, intrigue, enterprise, -gaiety, I saw my horizon expand until it was no longer a cabin on the -sea I sat in, with the lamplight swinging over me, but a spacious world -of castles, palaces, forests, streets, churches, casernes, harbours, -masquerades, routs, operas, love, laughter, and song. Perhaps they saw -my elation and fully understood, and smiled within them at my efforts -to figure as a little man of the world too--as boys will--but they never -showed me other than the finest sympathy and attention. - -I found them fascinating at night; I found them much the same at -morning, which is the test of the thing in youth, and straightway made a -hero of the foreigner Thurot. Clancarty was well enough, but without -any method in his life, beyond a principle of keeping his character ever -trim and presentable like his cravat. Thurot carried on his strenuous -career as soldier, sailor, spy, politician, with a plausible enough -theory that thus he got the very juice and pang of life, that at the -most, as he would aye be telling me, was brief to an absurdity. - -“Your Scots,” he would say to me, “as a rule, are too phlegmatic--is it -not, Lord Clancarty?--but your uncle gave me, on my word, a regard for -your whole nation. He had aplomb--Monsieur Andrew; he had luck too, and -if he cracked a nut anywhere there was always a good kernel in it.” And -the shoes see how I took the allusion to King George, and that gave me a -flood of light upon my new position. - -I remembered that in my uncle's log-book the greater part of the -narrative of his adventures in France had to do with politics and the -intrigues of the Jacobite party. He was not, himself, apparently, “out,” - as we call it, in the affair of the 'Forty-five, because he did not -believe the occasion suitable, and thought the Prince precipitous, but -before and after that untoward event for poor Scotland, he had been -active with such men as Clancarty, Lord Clare, the Murrays, the -Mareschal, and such-like, which was not to be wondered at, perhaps, for -our family had consistently been Jacobite, a fact that helped to its -latter undoing, though my father as nominal head of the house had taken -no interest in politics; and my own sympathies had ever been with the -Chevalier, whom I as a boy had seen ride through the city of Glasgow, -wishing myself old enough to be his follower in such a glittering -escapade as he was then embarked on. - -But though I thought all this in a flash as it were, I betrayed nothing -to Captain Thurot, who seemed somewhat dashed at my silence. There must -have been something in my face, however, to show that I fully realised -what he was feeling at, and was not too complacent, for Clancarty -laughed. - -“Sure, 'tis a good boy, Thurot,” said he, “and loves his King George -properly, like a true patriot.” - -“I won't believe it of a Greig,” said Captain Thurot. “A pestilent, -dull thing, loyalty in England; the other thing came much more readily, -I remember, to the genius of Andrew Greig. Come! Monsieur Paul, to be -quite frank about it, have you no instincts of friendliness to the -exiled house? M. Tête-de-fer has a great need at this particular moment -for English friends. Once he could count on your uncle to the last -ditch; can he count on the nephew?” - -“M. Tête-de-fer?” I repeated, somewhat bewildered. - -“M. Tête-de-mouche, rather,” cried my lord, testily, and then hurried to -correct himself. “He alluded, Monsieur Greig, to Prince Charles Edward. -We are all, I may confess, his Royal Highness's most humble servants; -some of us, however--as our good friend, Captain Thurot--more actively -than others. For myself I begin to weary of a cause that has -been dormant for eight years, but no matter; sure one must have a -recreation!” - -I looked at his lordship to see if he was joking. He was the relic of -a handsome man, though still, I daresay, less than fifty years of age, -with a clever face and gentle, just tinged by the tracery of small -surface veins to a redness that accused him of too many late nights; -his mouth and eyes, that at one time must have been fascinating, had -the ultimate irresolution that comes to one who finds no fingerposts at -life's cross-roads and thinks one road just as good's another. He was -born at Atena, near Hamburg (so much I had remembered from my uncle's -memoir), but he was, even in his accent, as Irish as Kerry. Someway I -liked and yet doubted him, in spite of all the praise of him that I had -read in a dead man's diurnal. - -“_Fi donc! vous devriez avoir honte, milord_,” cried Thurot, somewhat -disturbed, I saw, at this reckless levity. - -“Ashamed!” said his lordship, laughing; “why, 'tis for his Royal -Highness who has taken a diligence to the devil, and left us poor -dependants to pay the bill at the inn. But no matter, Master Greig, I'll -be cursed if I say a single word more to spoil a charming picture of -royalty under a cloud.” And so saying he lounged away from us, a strange -exquisite for shipboard, laced up to the nines, as the saying goes, -parading the deck as it had been the Rue St. Honoré, with merry words -for every sailorman who tapped a forehead to him. - -Captain Thurot looked at him, smiling, and shrugged his shoulders. - -“_Tête-de-mouche!_ There it is for you, M. Paul--the head of a -butterfly. Now you--” he commanded my eyes most masterfully--“now _you_ -have a Scotsman's earnestness; I should like to see you on the right -side. _Mon Dieu_, you owe us your life, no less; 'tis no more King -George's, for one of his subjects has morally sent you to the bottom of -the sea in a scuttled ship. I wish we had laid hands on your Risk and -his augers.” - -But I was learning my world; I was cautious; I said neither yea nor nay. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -IN DUNKERQUE--A LADY SPEAKS TO ME IN SCOTS AND A FAT PRIEST SEEMS TO -HAVE SOMETHING ON HIS MIND - -Two days after, the _Roi Rouge_ came to Dunkerque; Horn the seaman went -home to Scotland in a vessel out of Leith with a letter in his pocket -for my people at Hazel Den, and I did my best for the next fortnight to -forget by day the remorse that was my nightmare. To this Captain Thurot -and Lord Clancarty, without guessing 'twas a homicide they favoured, -zealously helped me. - -And then Dunkerque at the moment was sparkling with attractions. -Something was in its air to distract every waking hour, the pulse -of drums, the sound of trumpets calling along the shores, troops -manoeuvring, elation apparent in every countenance. I was Thurot's guest -in a lodging over a _boulangerie_ upon the sea front, and at daybreak I -would look out from the little window to see regiments of horse and foot -go by on their way to an enormous camp beside the old fort of Risebank. -Later in the morning I would see the soldiers toiling at the grand -sluice for deepening the harbour or repairing the basin, or on the dunes -near Graveline manoeuvring under the command of the Prince de Soubise -and Count St. Germain. All day the paving thundered with the roll of -tumbrels, with the noise of plunging horse; all night the front of -the _boulangerie_ was clamorous with carriages bearing cannon, timber, -fascines, gabions, and other military stores. - -Thurot, with his ship in harbour, became a man of the town, with ruffled -neck- and wrist-bands, the most extravagant of waistcoats, hats laced -with point d'Espagne, and up and down Dunkerque he went with a restless -foot as if the conduct of the world depended on him. He sent an old -person, a reduced gentleman, to me to teach me French that I laboured -with as if my life depended on it from a desire to be as soon as -possible out of his reverence, for, to come to the point and be done -with it, he was my benefactor to the depth of my purse. - -Sometimes Lord Clancarty asked me out to a _déjeuner_. He moved in a -society where I met many fellow countrymen--Captain Foley, of Rooth's -regiment; Lord Roscommon and his brother young Dillon; Lochgarry, -Lieutenant-Colonel of Ogilvie's Corps, among others, and by-and-by -I became known favourably in what, if it was not actually the select -society of Dunkerque, was so at least in the eyes of a very ignorant -young gentleman from the moors of Mearns. - -It was so strange a thing as to be almost incredible, but my Uncle -Andy's shoes seemed to have some magic quality that brought them for -ever on tracks they had taken before, and if my cast of countenance did -not proclaim me a Greig wherever I went, the shoes did so. They were a -passport to the favour of folks the most divergent in social state--to -a poor Swiss who kept the door and attended on the table at Clancarty's -(my uncle, it appeared, had once saved his life), and to Soubise -himself, who counted my uncle the bravest man and the best mimic he had -ever met, and on that consideration alone pledged his influence to find -me a post. - -You may be sure I did not wear such tell-tale shoes too often. I began -to have a freit about them as he had to whom they first belonged, and to -fancy them somehow bound up with my fortune. - -I put them on only when curiosity prompted me to test what new -acquaintances they might make me, and one day I remember I donned them -for a party of blades at Lord Clancarty's, the very day indeed upon -which the poor Swiss, weeping, told me what he owed to the old rogue -with the scarred brow now lying dead in the divots of home. - -There was a new addition to the company that afternoon--a priest who -passed with the name of Father Hamilton, though, as I learned later, he -was formerly Vliegh, a Fleming, born at Ostend, and had been educated -partly at the College Major of Louvain and partly in London. He was -or had been parish priest of Dixmunde near Ostend, and his most -decent memory of my uncle, whom he, too, knew, was a challenge to a -drinking-bout in which the thin man of Meams had been several bottles -more thirsty than the fat priest of Dixmunde. - -He was corpulent beyond belief, with a dewlap like an ox; great limbs, -a Gargantuan appetite, and a laugh like thunder that at its loudest -created such convulsions of his being as compelled him to unbutton the -neck of his _soutane_, else he had died of a seizure. - -His friends at Lord Clancarty's played upon him a little joke wherein I -took an unconscious part. It seemed they had told him Mr. Andrew Greig -was not really dead, but back in France and possessed of an elixir of -youth which could make the ancient and furrowed hills themselves look -like yesterday's creations. - -“What! M. Andrew!” he had cried. “An elixir of grease were more in the -fellow's line; I have never seen a man's viands give so scurvy a return -for the attention he paid them. 'Tis a pole--this M. Andrew--but what a -head--what a head!” - -“Oh! but 'tis true of the elixir,” they protested; “and he looks thirty -years younger; here he comes!” - -It was then that I stepped in with the servant bawling my name, and the -priest surged to his feet with his face all quivering. - -“What! M. Andrew!” he cried; “fattened and five-and-twenty. Holy Mother! -It is, then, that miracles are possible? I shall have a hogshead, -master, of thine infernal essence and drink away this paunch, and skip -anon like to the goats of--of-” - -And then his friends burst into peals of laughter as much at my -bewilderment as at his credulity, and he saw that it was all a -pleasantry. - -“Mon Dieu!” he said, sighing like a November forest. “There was never -more pestilent gleek played upon a wretched man. Oh! oh! oh! I had an -angelic dream for that moment of your entrance, for I saw me again a -stripling--a stripling--and the girl's name was--never mind. God rest -her! she is under grass in Louvain.” - -All the rest of the day--at Clancarty's, at the Café de la Poste, in our -walk along the dunes where cannon were being fired at marks well out at -sea, this obese cleric scarcely let his eyes off me. He seemed to envy -and admire, and then again he would appear to muse upon my countenance, -debating with himself as one who stands at a shop window pondering a -purchase that may be on the verge of his means. - -Captain Thurot observed his interest, and took an occasion to whisper to -me. - -“Have a care, M. Greig,” said he playfully; “this priest schemes -something; that's ever the worst of your Jesuits, and you may swear 'tis -not your eternal salvation.” - -'Twas that afternoon we went all together to the curious lodging in the -Rue de la Boucherie. I remember as it had been yesterday how sunny -was the weather, and how odd it seemed to me that there should be a -country-woman of my own there. - -She was not, as it seems to me now, lovely, though where her features -failed of perfection it would beat me to disclose, but there was -something inexpressibly fascinating in her--in the mild, kind, melting -eyes, and the faint sad innuendo of her smile. She sat at a spinet -playing, and for the sake of this poor exile, sang some of the songs we -are acquainted with at home. Upon my word, the performance touched me -to the core! I felt sick for home: my mother's state, the girl at -Kirkillstane, the dead lad on the moor, sounds of Earn Water, clouds and -heather on the hill of Ballageich--those mingled matters swept through -my thoughts as I sat with these blithe gentlemen, hearkening to a simple -Doric tune, and my eyes filled irrestrainably with tears. - -Miss Walkinshaw--for so her name was--saw what effect her music had -produced; reddened, ceased her playing, took me to the window while the -others discussed French poetry, and bade me tell her, as we looked out -upon the street, all about myself and of my home. She was, perhaps, ten -years my senior, and I ran on like a child. - -“The Mearns!” said she. “Oh dear, oh dear! And you come frae the Meams!” - She dropped into her Scots that showed her heart was true, and told me -she had often had her May milk in my native parish. - -“And you maybe know,” said she, flushing, “the toun of Glasgow, and the -house of Walkinshaw, my--my father, there?” - -I knew the house very well, but no more of it than that it existed. - -It was in her eyes the tears were now, talking of her native place, but -she quickly changed the topic ere I could learn much about her, and -she guessed--with a smile coming through her tears, like a sun through -mist--that I must have been in love and wandered in its fever, to be so -far from home at my age. - -“There was a girl,” I said, my face hot, my heart rapping at the -recollection, and someway she knew all about Isobel Fortune in five -minutes, while the others in the room debated on so trivial a thing as -the songs of the troubadours. - -“Isobel Fortune!” she said (and I never thought the name so beautiful -as it sounded on her lips, where it lingered like a sweet); “Isobel -Fortune; why, it's an omen, Master Greig, and it must be a good fortune. -I am wae for the poor lassie that her big foolish lad”--she smiled with -bewitching sympathy at me under long lashes--“should be so far away frae -her side. You must go back as quick as you can; but stay now, is it true -you love her still?” - -The woman would get the feeling and the truth from a heart of stone; I -only sighed for answer. - -“Then you'll go back,” said she briskly, “and it will be Earn-side again -and trysts at Ballageich--oh! the name is like a bagpipe air to me!--and -you will be happy, and be married and settle down--and--and poor Clemie -Walkinshaw will be friendless far away from her dear Scotland, but not -forgetting you and your wife.” - -“I cannot go back there at all,” I said, with a long face, bitter -enough, you may be sure, at the knowledge I had thrown away all that she -depicted, and her countenance fell. - -“What for no'?” she asked softly. - -“Because I fought a duel with the man that Isobel preferred, -and--and--killed him!” - -She shuddered with a little sucking in of air at her teeth and drew up -her shoulders as if chilled with cold. - -“Ah, then,” said she, “the best thing's to forget. Are you a Jacobite, -Master Greig?” - -She had set aside my love affair and taken to politics with no more than -a sigh of sympathy, whether for the victim of my jealousy, or Isobel -Fortune, or for me, I could not say. - -“I'm neither one thing nor another,” said I. “My father is a staunch -enough royalist, and so, I daresay, I would be too if I had not got a -gliff of bonnie Prince Charlie at the Tontine of Glasgow ten years ago.” - -“Ten years ago!” she repeated, staring abstracted out at the window. -“Ten years ago! So it was; I thought it was a lifetime since. And what -did you think of him?” - -Whatever my answer might have been it never got the air, for here -Clancarty, who had had a message come to the door for him, joined us at -the window, and she turned to him with some phrase about the trampling -of troops that passed along the streets. - -“Yes,” he said, “the affair marches quickly. Have you heard that England -has declared war? And our counter declaration is already on its way -across. _Pardieu!_ there shall be matters toward in a month or two and -the Fox will squeal. Braddock's affair in America has been the best -thing that has happened us in many years.” - -Thus he went on with singular elation that did not escape me, though -my wits were also occupied by some curious calculations as to what -disturbed the minds of Hamilton and of the lady. I felt that I was in -the presence of some machinating influences probably at variance, for -while Clancarty and Roscommon and Thurot were elate, the priest made -only a pretence at it, and was looking all abstracted as if weightier -matters occupied his mind, his large fat hand, heavy-ringed, buttressing -his dewlap, and Miss Walkinshaw was stealing glances of inquiry at -him--glances of inquiry and also of distrust. All this I saw in a mirror -over the mantelpiece of the room. - -“Sure there's but one thing to regret in it,” cried Clancarty suddenly, -stopping and turning to me, “it must mean that we lose Monsieur des -Souliers Rouges. _Peste!_ There is always something to worry one about a -war!” - -“_Comment?_” said Thurot. - -“The deportment,” answered his lordship. “Every English subject has -been ordered out of France. We are going to lose not only your company, -Father Hamilton, because of your confounded hare-brained scheme for -covering all Europe in a glass coach, but our M. Greig must put the -Sleeve between him and those best qualified to estimate and esteem his -thousand virtues of head and heart For a _louis_ or two I'd take ship -with him and fight on the other side. Gad! it would always be fighting -anyway, and one would be by one's friend.” - -The priest's jaw fell as if my going was a blow to his inmost -affections; he turned his face rapidly into shadow; Miss Walkinshaw lost -no movement of his; she was watching him as he had been a snake. - -“Oh! but it is not necessary that we lose my compatriot so fast as -that,” she said. “There are such things as permits, excepting English -friends of ours from deportment,--and--and--I fancy I could get one for -Mr. Greig.” - -In my heart I thanked her for her ready comprehension of my inability to -go back to Britain with an easy mind; and I bowed my recognition of her -goodness. - -She was paying no heed to my politeness; she had again an eye on the -priest, who was obviously cheered marvellously by the prospect. - -And then we took a dish of tea with her, the lords and Thurot loudly -cheerful, Hamilton ruminant and thundering alternately, Miss Walkinshaw -showing a score of graces as hostess, myself stimulated to some unusual -warmth of spirit as I sat beside her, well-nigh fairly loving her -because she was my country-woman and felt so fond about my native -Mearns. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -WHEREIN A SITUATION OFFERS AND I ENGAGE TO GO TRAVELLING WITH THE PRIEST - -A week passed with no further incident particularly affecting this -history. With my reduced and antique mentor I studied _la belle langue_, -sedulous by day, at night pacing the front of the sea, giving words to -its passion as it broke angry on the bar or thundered on the beach--the -sea that still haunts me and invites, whose absence makes often lonely -the moorland country where is my home, where are my people's graves. It -called me then, in the dripping weather of those nights in France--it -called me temptingly to try again my Shoes of Fortune (as now I named -them to myself), and learn whereto they might lead. - -But in truth I was now a prisoner to that inviting sea. The last English -vessel had gone; the Channel was a moat about my native isle, and I -was a tee'd ball with a passport that was no more and no less than a -warder's warrant in my pouch. It had come to me under cover of Thurot -two days after Miss Walkinshaw's promise; it commanded _tous les -gouverneurs et tous les lieutenants-généraux de nos provinces et de nos -armées, gouverneurs particuliers et commandants de nos villes, places -et troupes_ to permit and pass the Sieur Greig anywhere in the country, -_sans lui donner aucun empêchement_, and was signed for the king by the -Duc de Choiseuil. - -I went round to make my devoirs to the lady to whom I owed the favour, -and this time I was alone. - -“Where's your shoon, laddie?” said she at the first go-off. “Losh! do -ye no' ken that they're the very makin' o' ye? If it hadna been for them -Clementina Walkinshaw wad maybe never hae lookit the gait ye were on. -Ye'll be to put them on again!” She thrust forth a _bottine_ like a -doll's for size and trod upon my toes, laughing the while with -her curious suggestion of unpractised merriment at my first solemn -acceptance of her humour as earnest. - -“Am I never to get quit o' thae shoes?” I cried; “the very deil maun be -in them.” - -“It was the very deil,” said she, “was in them when it was your Uncle -Andrew.” And she stopped and sighed. “O Andy Greig, Andy Greig! had I -been a wise woman and ta'en a guid-hearted though throughither Mearns -man's advice--toots! laddie, I micht be a rudas auld wife by my -preachin'. Oh, gie's a sang, or I'll dee.” - -And then she flew to the spinet (a handsome instrument singularly out of -keeping with the rest of the plenishing in that odd lodging in the Rue -de la Boucherie of Dunkerque), and touched a prelude and broke into an -air. - -To-day they call that woman lost and wicked; I have seen it said in -books: God's pity on her! she was not bad; she was the very football of -fate, and a heart of the yellow gold. If I was warlock or otherwise had -charms, I would put back the dial two score years and wrench her from -her chains. - - O waly, waly up the bank, - O waly, waly doon the brae. - And waly, waly yon burn-side, - Where I and my love wont to gae. - I leaned my back unto an aik, - I thocht it was a trusty tree, - But first it bowed and syne it brak, - Sae my true love did lichtly me. - -They have their own sorrow even in script those ballad words of an -exile like herself, but to hear Miss Walkinshaw sing them was one of the -saddest things I can recall in a lifetime that has known many sorrows. -And still, though sad, not wanting in a sort of brave defiance of -calumny, a hope, and an unchanging affection. She had a voice as sweet -as a bird in the thicket at home; she had an eye full and melting; her -lips, at the sentiment, sometimes faintly broke. - -I turned my head away that I might not spy upon her feeling, for here, -it was plain, was a tragedy laid bare. She stopped her song mid-way with -a laugh, dashed a hand across her eyes, and threw herself into a chair. - -“Oh, fie! Mr. Greig, to be backing up a daft woman, old enough to know -better, in her vapours. You must be fancying I am a begrutten bairn to -be snackin' my daidlie in this lamentable fashion, but it's just you and -your Mearns, and your Ballageich, and your douce Scots face and tongue -that have fair bewitched me. O Scotland! Scotland! Let us look oot at -this France o' theirs, Mr. Greig.” She came to the window (her movements -were ever impetuous, like the flight of a butterfly), and “Do I no' wish -that was the Gallowgate,” said she, “and Glasgow merchants were in -the shops and Christian signs abin the doors, like 'MacWhannal' and -'Mackay,' and 'Robin Oliphant'? If that was Bailie John Walkinshaw, wi' -his rattan, and yon was the piazza o' Tontine, would no' his dochter -be the happy woman? Look! look! ye Mearns man, look! look! at the bairn -playing pal-al in the close. 'Tis my little sister Jeanie that's married -on the great Doctor Doig--him wi' the mant i' the Tron kirk--and bairns -o' her ain, I'm tell't, and they'll never hear their Aunt Clemie named -but in a whisper. And yon auld body wi' the mob cap, that's the baxter's -widow, and there's carvie in her scones that you'll can buy for a bawbee -apiece.” - -The maddest thing!--but here was the woman smiling through her tears, -and something tremulous in her as though her heart was leaping at her -breast. Suddenly her manner changed, as if she saw a sobering sight, -and I looked out again, and there was Father Hamilton heaving round the -corner of a lane, his face as red as the moon in a fog of frost. - -“Ah!” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “here's France, sure enough, Mr. Greig. We -must put by our sentiments, and be just witty or as witty as we can be. -If you're no' witty here, my poor Mr. Greig, you might as well be dumb. -A heart doesna maitter much; but, oh! be witty.” - -The priest was making for the house. She dried her tears before me, a -frankness that flattered my vanity; “and let us noo to our English, Mr. -Greig,” said she as the knock came to the door. “It need be nae honest -Scots when France is chappin'. Would you like to travel for a season?” - -The question took me by surprise; it had so little relevance to what had -gone before. - -“Travel?” I repeated. - -“Travel,” said she again quickly. “In a glass coach with a companion -who has plenty of money--wherever it comes from--and see all Europe, and -maybe--for you are Scots like myself--make money. The fat priest wants a -secretary; that's the long and the short of it, for there's his foot on -the stairs, and if you'll say yes, I fancy I can get you the situation.” - -I did not hesitate a second. - -“Why, then yes, to be sure,” said I, “and thank you kindly.” - -“Thank _you_, Paul Greig,” said she softly, for now the Swiss had opened -the door, and she squeezed my wrist. - -“_Benedicite!_” cried his reverence and came in, puffing hugely after -his climb, his face now purple almost to strangulation. “May the devil -fly away with turnpike stairs, Madame!--puff-puff--I curse them whether -they be wood or marble;--puff-puff--I curse them Dunkerque; in Ostend, -Paris, all Europe itself, ay even unto the two Americas. I curse their -designers, artisans, owners, and defenders in their waking and sleeping! -Madame, kindly consider your stairs anathema!” - -“You need all your wind to cool your porridge, as we say in Scotland, -Father Hamilton,” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “and a bonny-like thing it is -to have you coming here blackguarding my honest stairs.” - -He laughed enormously and fell into a chair, shaking the house as if the -world itself had quaked. “Pardon, my dear Miss Walkinshaw,” said he when -his breath was restored, “but, by the Mass, you must confess 'tis the -deuce and all for a man--a real man that loves his viands, and sleeps -well o' nights, and has a contented mind and grows flesh accordingly, -to trip up to Paradise--” here he bowed, his neck swelling in massive -folds--“to trip up to Paradise, where the angels are, as easily as a -ballet-dancer--bless her!--skips to the other place where, by my faith! -I should like to pay a brief visit myself, if 'twere only to see old -friends of the Opéra Comique. Madame, I give you good-day. Sir, Monsieur -Greig--'shalt never be a man like thine Uncle Andrew for all thy -confounded elixir. I favour not your virtuous early rising in the young. -There! thine uncle would a-been abed at this hour an' he were alive and -in Dunkerque; thou must be a confoundedly industrious and sober Greig to -be dangling at a petticoat-tail--Pardon, Madame, 'tis the dearest tail, -anyway!--before the hour meridian.” - -“And this is France,” thought I. “Here's your papistical gospeller at -home!” I minded of the Rev. Scipio Walker in the kirk of Mearns, an -image ever of austerity, waling his words as they had come from Solomon, -groaning even-on for man's eternal doom. - -The priest quickly comprehended my surprise at his humour, and laughed -the more at that till a fit of coughing choked him. “_Mon Dieu_” said -he; “our Andy reincarnate is an Andy most pestilent dull, or I'm a -cockle, a convoluted cockle, and uncooked at that. Why, man! cheer up, -thou _croque mort_, thou lanthorn-jaw, thou veal-eye, thou melancholious -eater of oaten-meal!” - -“It's a humblin' sicht!” said I. The impertinence was no sooner uttered -than I felt degraded that I should have given it voice, for here was a -priest of God, however odd to my thinking, and, what was more, a man who -might in years have been my father. - -But luckily it could never then, or at any other time, be said of Father -Hamilton that he was thin-skinned. He only laughed the more at me. -“Touche!” he cried. “I knew I could prick the old Andy somewhere. Still, -Master Paul, thine uncle was not so young as thou, my cockerel. Had seen -his world and knew that Scotland and its--what do you call them?--its -manses, did not provide the universal ensample of true piety.” - -“I do not think, Father Hamilton,” said I, “that piety troubled him very -much, or his shoes had not been so well known in Dunkerque.” - -Miss Walkinshaw laughed. - -“There you are, Father Hamilton!” said she. “You'll come little speed -with a man from the Mearns moors unless you take him a little more -seriously.” - -Father Hamilton pursed his lips and rubbed down his thighs, an image -of the gross man that would have turned my father's stomach, who always -liked his men lean, clean, and active. He was bantering me, this fat -priest of Dixmunde, but all the time it was with a friendly eye. Thinks -I, here's another legacy of goodwill from my extraordinary uncle! - -“Hast got thy pass yet, Master Dull?” said he. - -“Not so dull, Master Minister, but what I resent the wrong word even in -a joke,” I replied, rising to go. - -Thurot's voice was on the stair now, and Clan-carty's. If they were not -to find their _protégé_ in an undignified war of words with the priest -of Dixmunde, it was time I was taking my feet from there, as the saying -went. - -But Miss Walkinshaw would not hear of it. “No, no,” she protested, “we -have some business before you go to your ridiculous French--weary be on -the language that ever I heard _Je t'aime_ in it!--and how does the same -march with you, Mr. Greig?” - -“I know enough of it to thank my good friends in,” said I, “but that -must be for another occasion.” - -“Father Hamilton,” said she, “here's your secretary.” - -A curious flash came to those eyes pitted in rolls of flabby flesh, I -thought of an eagle old and moulting, languid upon a mountain cliff in -misty weather, catching the first glimpse of sun and turned thereby -to ancient memories. He said nothing; there was at the moment no -opportunity, for the visitors had entered, noisily polite and posturing -as was their manner, somewhat touched by wine, I fancied, and for that -reason scarcely welcomed by the mistress of the house. - -There could be no more eloquent evidence of my innocence in these days -than was in the fact that I never wondered at the footing upon which -these noisy men of the world were with a countrywoman of mine. The cause -they often spoke of covered many mysteries; between the Rue de Paris -and the Rue de la Boucherie I could have picked out a score of Scots in -exile for their political faiths, and why should not Miss Walkinshaw be -one of the company? But sometimes there was just the faintest hint of -over-much freedom in their manner to her, and that I liked as little as -she seemed to do, for when her face flushed and her mouth firmed, and -she became studiously deaf, I felt ashamed of my sex, and could have -retorted had not prudence dictated silence as the wisest policy. - -As for her, she was never but the minted metal, ringing true and decent, -compelling order by a glance, gentle yet secure in her own strength, -tolerant, but in bounds. - -They were that day full of the project for invading England. It had -gone so far that soldiers at Calais and Boulogne were being practised in -embarkation. I supposed she must have a certain favour for a step that -was designed to benefit the cause wherefor I judged her an exile, but -she laughed at the idea of Britain falling, as she said, to a parcel of -_crapauds_. “Treason!” treason!” cried Thurot laughingly. - -“Under the circumstances, Madame----” - -“--Under the circumstances, Captain Thurot,” she interrupted quickly, -“I need not pretend at a lie. This is not in the Prince's interest, this -invasion, and it is a blow at a land I love. Mr. Greig here has just put -it into my mind how good are the hearts there, how pleasant the tongue, -and how much I love the very name of Scotland. I would be sorry to think -of its end come to pleasure the women in Versailles.” - -“Bravo! bravo! _vive la bagatelle!_” cried my Lord Clancarty. “Gad! I -sometimes feel the right old pathriot myself. Sure I have a good mind--” - -“Then 'tis not your own, my lord,” she cried quickly, displeasure in her -expression, and Clancarty only bowed, not a whit abashed at the sarcasm. - -Father Hamilton drew me aside from these cheerful contentions, and -plunged into the matter that was manifestly occupying all his thoughts -since Miss Walkinshaw had mooted me as his secretary. - -“Monsieur Greig,” he said, placing his great carcase between me and the -others in the room, “I declare that women are the seven plagues, and yet -here we come chasing them from _petit lever_ till--till--well, till as -late as the darlings will let us. By the Mass and Father Hamilton knows -their value, and when a man talks to me about a woman and the love he -bears her, I think 'tis a maniac shouting the praise of the snake that -has crept to his breast to sting him. Women--chut!--now tell me what the -mischief is a woman an' thou canst.” - -“I fancy, Father Hamilton,” said I, “you could be convinced of the -merits of woman if your heart was ever attacked by one--your heart, that -does not believe anything in that matter that emanates from your head.” - -Again the eagle's gleam from the pitted eyes; and, upon my word, a sigh! -It was a queer man this priest of Dixmunde. - -“Ah, young cockerel,” said he, “thou knowest nothing at all about it, -and as for me--well, I dare not; but once--once--once there were dews in -the woods, and now it is very dry weather, Master Greig. How about thine -honour's secretaryship? Gripp'st at the opportunity, young fellow? -Eh? Has the lady said sooth? Come now, I like the look of my old -Andrew's--my old Merry Andrew's nephew, and could willingly tolerate -his _croque-mort_ countenance, his odour of the sanctuary, if he could -weather it with a plethoric good liver that takes the world as he finds -it.” - -He was positively eager to have me. It was obvious from his voice. He -took me by the button of my lapel as if I were about to run away from -his offer, but I was in no humour to run away. Here was the very office -I should have chosen if a thousand offered. The man was a fatted sow to -look on, and by no means engaging in his manner to myself, but what was -I and what my state that I should be too particular? Here was a chance -to see the world--and to forget. Seeing the world might have been of -most importance some months ago in the mind of a clean-handed young -lad in the parish of Mearns in Scotland, but now it was of vastly more -importance that I should forget. - -“We start in a week,” said the priest, pressing me closely lest I should -change my mind, and making the prospects as picturesque as he could. -“Why should a man of flesh and blood vex his good stomach with all this -babblement of king's wars? and a pox on their flat-bottomed boats! -I have seen my last Mass in Dixmunde; say not a word on that to our -friends nor to Madame; and I suffer from a very jaundice of gold. Is't a -pact, friend Scotland?” - -A pact it was; I went out from Miss Walkinshaw's lodging that afternoon -travelling secretary to the fat priest. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -RELATES HOW I INDULGED MY CURIOSITY AND HOW LITTLE CAME OF IT - -Dunkerque in these days (it may be so no longer) was a place for a man -to go through with his nose in his fingers. Garbage stewed and festered -in the gutters of the street so that the women were bound to walk -high-kilted, and the sea-breeze at its briskest scarcely sufficed to -stir the stagnant, stenching atmosphere of the town, now villainously -over-populated by the soldiery with whom it was France's pleasant -delusion she should whelm our isle. - -“_Pardieu!_” cried Father Hamilton, as we emerged in this malodorous -open, “'twere a fairy godfather's deed to clear thee out of this -feculent cloaca. Think on't, boy; of you and me a week hence riding -through the sweet woods of Somme or Oise, and after that Paris! Paris! -my lad of tragedy; Paris, where the world moves and folk live. And then, -perhaps, Tours, and Bordeaux, and Flanders, and Sweden, Seville, St. -Petersburg itself, but at least the woods of Somme, where the roads are -among gossamer and dew and enchantment in the early morning--if we cared -to rise early enough to see them, which I promise thee we shall not.” - -His lips were thick and trembling: he gloated as he pictured me this -mad itinerary, leaning heavily on my arm--Silenus on an ash -sapling--half-trotting beside me, looking up every now and then to -satisfy himself I appreciated the prospect. It was pleasant enough, -though in a measure incredible, but at the moment I was thinking of Miss -Walkinshaw, and wondering much to myself that this exposition of foreign -travel should seem barely attractive because it meant a severance from -her. Her sad smile, her brave demeanour, her kind heart, her beauty had -touched me sensibly. - -“Well, Master Scrivener!” cried the priest, panting at my side, “art -dumb?” - -“I fancy, sir, it is scarcely the weather for woods,” said I. “I hope we -are not to put off our journey till the first of April a twelvemonth.” - A suspicion unworthy of me had flashed into my mind that I might, after -all, be no more than the butt of a practical joke. But that was merely -for a moment; the priest was plainly too eager on his scheme to be -play-acting it. - -“I am very grateful to the lady,” I hastened to add, “who gave me the -chance of listing in your service. Had it not been for her you might -have found a better secretary, and I might have remained long enough -in the evil smells of Dunkerque that I'll like all the same in spite of -that, because I have so good a friend as Miss Walkinshaw in it.” - -“La! la! la!” cried out Father Hamilton, squeezing my arm. “Here's our -young cockerel trailing wing already! May I never eat fish again if -'tisn't a fever in this woman that she must infect every man under three -score. For me I am within a month of the period immune, and only feel a -malaise in her company. Boy, perpend! Have I not told thee every woman, -except the ugliest, is an agent of the devil? I am the first to -discover that his majesty is married and his wife keeps shop when he -is travelling--among Jesuits and Jacobites and such busy fuel for the -future fires. His wife keeps shop, lad, and does a little business among -her own sex, using the handsomest for her purposes. Satan comes back to -the _boutique_. 'What!' he cries, and counts the till, 'these have been -busy days, good wife.' And she, Madame Dusky, chuckles with a 'Ha! Jack, -old man, hast a good wife or not? Shalt never know how to herd in souls -like sheep till thou hast a quicker eye for what's below a Capuchin -hood.' This--this is a sweet woman, this Walkinshaw, Paul, but a -dangerous. 'Ware hawk, lad, 'ware hawk!” - -I suppose my face reddened at that; at least he looked at me again and -pinched, and “Smitten to the marrow; may I drink water and grow thin -else. _Sacré nom de nom!_ 'tis time thou wert on the highways of -Europe.” - -“How does it happen that a countrywoman of mine is here alone?” I asked. - -“I'll be shot if thou art not the rascalliest young innocent in France. -Aye! or out of Scotland,” cried Father Hamilton, holding his sides for -laughter. - -“Is thy infernal climate of fogs and rains so pleasant that a woman of -spirit should abide there for ever an' she have the notion to travel -otherwheres? La! la! la! Master Scrivener, and thou must come to an -honest pious priest for news of the world. But, boy, I'm deaf and dumb; -mine eyes on occasion are without vision. Let us say the lady has been -an over-ardent Jacobite; 'twill suffice in the meantime. And now has't -ever set eyes on Charles Edward?” - -I told him I had never had any hand in the Jacobite affairs, if that was -what he meant. - -His countenance fell at that. - -“What!” he cried, losing his Roman manner, “do you tell me you have -never seen him?” - -But once, I explained, when he marched into Glasgow city with his wild -Highlanders and bullied the burgesses into providing shoes for his -ragged army. - -“Ah,” said he with a clearing visage, “that will suffice. Must point him -out to me. Dixmunde parish was a poor place for seeing the great; 'tis -why I go wandering now.” - -Father Hamilton's hint at politics confirmed my guess about Miss -Walkinshaw, but I suppose I must have been in a craze to speak of her on -any pretence, for later in the day I was at Thurot's lodging, and there -must precognosce again. - -“_Oh, mon Dieu, quelle espièglerie!_” cried out the captain. “And this -a Greig too! Well, I do not wonder that your poor uncle stayed so -long away from home; faith, he'd have died of an _ennui_ else. Miss -Walkinshaw is--Miss Walkinshaw; a countryman of her own should know -better than I all that is to be known about her. But 'tis not our -affair, Mr. Greig. For sure 'tis enough that we find her smiling, -gentle, tolerant, what you call the 'perfect lady'--_n'est ce pas?_And -of all the virtues, upon my word, kindness is the best and rarest, and -that she has to a miracle.” - -“I'm thinking that is not a corsair's creed, Captain Thurot,” said I, -smiling at the gentleman's eagerness. He was standing over me like a -lighthouse, with his eyes on fire, gesturing with his arms as they had -been windmill sails. - -“No, faith! but 'tis a man's, Master Greig, and I have been happy with -it. Touching our fair friend, I may say that, much as I admire her, I -agree with some others that ours were a luckier cause without her. Gad! -the best thing you could do, Mr. Greig, would be to marry her yourself -and take her back with you to Scotland.” - -“What! byway of Paris in Father Hamilton's glass coach,” I said, -bantering to conceal my confusion at such a notion. - -“H'm,” said he. “Father Hamilton and the lady are a pair.” He walked a -little up and down the room as if he were in a quandary. “A pair,” he -resumed. “I fancied I could see to the very centre of the Sphinx itself, -for all men are in ourselves if we only knew it, till I came upon -this Scotswoman and this infernal Flemish-English priest of Dix-munde. -Somehow, for them Antoine Thurot has not the key in himself yet. Still, -'twill arrive, 'twill arrive! I like the lady--and yet I wish she were a -thousand miles away; I like the man too, but a Jesuit is too many men -at once to be sure of; and, Gad! I can scarcely sleep at nights for -wondering what he may be plotting. This grand tour of his-” - -“Stop, stop!” I cried, in a fear that he might compromise himself in an -ignorance of my share in the tour in question; “I must tell you that I -am going with Father Hamilton as his secretary, although it bothers me -to know what scrivening is to be accomplished in a glass coach. Like -enough I am to be no more, in truth, than the gentleman's companion or -courier, and it is no matter so long as I am moving.” - -“Indeed, and is it so?” cried Captain Thurot, stopping as if he had been -shot. “And how happens it that this priest is willing to take you, that -are wholly a foreigner and a stranger to the country?” - -“Miss Walkinshaw recommended me,” said I. - -“Oh!” he cried, “you have not been long of getting into your excellent -countrywoman's kind favour. Is it that Tony Thurot has been doing -the handsome by an ingrate? No, no, Monsieur, that were a monstrous -innuendo, for the honour has been all mine. But that Miss Walkinshaw -should be on such good terms with the priest as to trouble with the -provision of his secretary is opposed to all I had expected of her. Why, -she dislikes the man, or I'm a stuffed fish.” - -“Anyhow, she has done a handsome thing by me,” said I. “It is no wonder -that so good a heart as hers should smother its repugnances (and the -priest is a fat sow, there is no denying) for the sake of a poor lad -from its own country. You are but making it the plainer that I owe her -more than at first I gave her credit for.” - -“Bless me, here's gratitude!” cried the captain, laughing at my warmth. -“Mademoiselle Walkinshaw has her own plans; till now, I fancied them -somewhat different from Hamilton's, but more fool I to fancy they were -what they seemed! All that, my dear lad, need not prevent your enjoying -your grand tour with the priest, who has plenty of money and the -disposition to spend it like a gentleman.” - -Finally I went to my Lord Clancarty, for it will be observed that I had -still no hint as to the origin of the lady who was so good a friend of -mine. Though the last thing in the world I should have done was to pry -into her affairs for the indulgence of an idle curiosity, I would know -the best of her before the time came to say farewell, and leave of her -with me no more than a memory. - -The earl was at the Café du Soleil d'Or, eating mussels on the terrace -and tossing the empty shells into the gutter what time he ogled passing -women and exchanged levitous repartee with some other frequenters of the -place. - -“Egad, Paul,” he cried, meeting me with effusion, “'tis said there is -one pearl to be found for every million mussels; but here's a pearl come -to me in the midst of a single score. An Occasion, lad; I sat at the -dice last night till a preposterous hour this morning, and now I have a -headache like the deuce and a thirst to take the Baltic. I must have -the tiniest drop, and on an Occasion too. _Voilà! Gaspard, une autre -bouteille._” - -He had his bottle, that I merely made pretence to help him empty, and I -had my precognition. - -But it came to little in the long run. Oh yes, he understood my interest -in the lady (with rakish winking); 'twas a delicious creature for all -its _hauteur_ when one ventured a gallantry, but somehow no particular -friend to the Earl of Clancarty, who, if she only knew it, was come of -as noble a stock as any rotten Scot ever went unbreeched; not but what -(this with a return of the naturally polite man) there were admirable -and high-bred people of that race, as instance my Uncle Andrew and -myself. But was there any reason why such a man as Charlie Stuart should -be King of Ireland? “I say, Greig, blister the old Chevalier and his two -sons! There is not a greater fumbler on earth than this sotted person, -who has drunk the Cause to degradation and would not stir a hand to -serve me and my likes, that are, begad! the fellow's betters.” - -“But all this,” said I, “has little to do with Miss Walkinshaw. I have -nothing to say of the Prince, who may be all you say, though that is not -the repute he has in Scotland.” - -“Bravo, Mr. Greig!” cried his lordship. “That is the tone if you would -keep in the lady's favour. Heaven knows she has little reason to listen -to praise of such a creature, but, then, women are blind. She loves not -Clancarty, as I have said; but, no matter, I forgive her that; 'tis well -known 'tis because I cannot stomach her prince.” - -“And yet,” said I, “you must interest yourself in these Jacobite -affairs and mix with all that are here of that party.” - -“Faith and I do,” he confessed heartily. “What! am I to be a mole and -stay underground? A man must have his diversion, and though I detest the -Prince I love his foolish followers. Do you know what, Mr. Greig? 'Tis -the infernal irony of things in this absurd world that the good fellows, -the bloods, the men of sensibilities must for ever be wrapped up in poor -mad escapades and emprises. And a Clancarty is ever of such a heart that -the more madcap the scheme the more will he dote on it.” - -A woman passing in a chair at this moment looked in his direction; -fortunately, otherwise I was condemned to a treatise on life and -pleasure. - -“Egad!” he cried, “there's a face that's like a line of song,” and he -smiled at her with unpardonable boldness as it seemed to me, a pleasant -pucker about his eyes, a hint of the good comrade in his mouth. - -She flushed like wine and tried to keep from smiling, but could not -resist, and smiling she was borne away. - -“Do you know her, my lord?” I could not forbear asking. - -“Is it know her?” said he. “Devil a know, but 'tis a woman anyhow, and -a heart at that. Now who the deuce can she be?” And he proceeded, like a -true buck, to fumble with the Mechlin of his fall and dust his stockings -in an airy foppish manner so graceful that I swear no other could have -done the same so well. - -“Now this Miss Walkinshaw--” I went on, determined to have some -satisfaction from my interview. - -“Confound your Miss Walkinshaw, by your leave, Mr. Greig,” he -interrupted. “Can you speak of Miss Walkinshaw when the glory of the -comet is still trailing in the heavens? And--hum!--I mind me of a -certain engagement, Mr. Greig,” he went on hurriedly, drawing a horologe -from his fob and consulting it with a frowning brow. “In the charm of -your conversation I had nigh forgot, so _adieu, adieu, mon ami!_” - -He gave me the tips of his fingers, and a second later he was gone, -stepping down the street with a touch of the minuet, tapping his legs -with his cane, his sword skewering his coat-skirts, all the world giving -him the cleanest portion of the thoroughfare and looking back after him -with envy and admiration. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -WITNESSES THE LAST OF A BLATE YOUNG MAN - -And all this time it may well be wondered where was my remorse for a -shot fired on the moor of Mearns, for two wretched homes created by my -passion and my folly. And where, in that shifting mind of mine, was the -place of Isobel Fortune, whose brief days of favour for myself (if that, -indeed, was not imagination on my part) had been the cause of these my -wanderings? There is one beside me as I write, ready to make allowance -for youth and ignorance, the untutored affection, the distraught mind, -if not for the dubiety as to her feelings for myself when I was outlawed -for a deed of blood and had taken, as the Highland phrase goes, the -world for my pillow. - -I did not forget the girl of Kirkillstane; many a time in the inward -visions of the night, and of the day too, I saw her go about that -far-off solitary house in the hollow of the hills. Oddly enough, 'twas -ever in sunshine I saw her, with her sun-bonnet swinging from its -ribbons and her hand above her eyes, shading them that she might look -across the fields that lay about her home, or on a tryst of fancy by -the side of Earn, hearing the cushats mourn in a magic harmony with her -melancholy thoughts. As for the killing of young Borland, that I kept, -waking at least, from my thoughts, or if the same intruded, I found it -easier, as time passed, to excuse myself for a fatality that had been in -the experience of nearly every man I now knew--of Clancarty and Thurot, -of the very baker in whose house I lodged and who kneaded the dough for -his little bread not a whit the less cheerily because his hands had been -imbrued. - -The late Earl of Clare, in France called the Maréchal Comte de Thomond, -had come to Dunkerque in the quality of Inspector-General of the Armies -of France, to review the troops in garrison and along that menacing -coast. The day after my engagement with Father Hamilton I finished my -French lesson early and went to see his lordship and his army on the -dunes to the east of the town. Cannon thundered, practising at marks far -out in the sea; there was infinite manoeuvring of horse and foot; -the noon was noisy with drums and the turf shook below the hoofs of -galloping chargers. I fancy it was a holiday; at least, as I recall -the thing, Dunkerque was all _en fête_, and a happy and gay populace -gathered in the rear of the maréchales flag. Who should be there among -the rest, or rather a little apart from the crowd, but Miss Walkinshaw! -She had come in a chair; her dainty hand beckoned me to her side almost -as soon as I arrived. - -“Now, that's what I must allow is very considerate,” said she, eyeing -my red shoes, which were put on that day from some notion of proper -splendour. - -“Well considered?” I repeated. - -“Just well considered,” said she. “You know how much it would please me -to see you in your red shoes, and so you must put them on.” - -I was young in these days, and, like the ass I was, I quickly set about -disabusing her mind of a misapprehension that injured her nor me. - -“Indeed, Miss Walkinshaw,” said I, “how could I do that when I did not -know you were to be here? You are the last I should have expected to see -here.” - -“What!” she exclaimed, growing very red. “Does Mr. Greig trouble himself -so much about the _convenances?_ And why should I not be here if I have -the whim? Tell me that, my fastidious compatriot.” - -Here was an accountable flurry over a thoughtless phrase! - -“No reason in the world that I know of,” said I gawkily, as red as -herself, wondering what it was my foot was in. - -“That you know of,” she repeated, as confused as ever. “It seems to -me, Mr. Greig, that the old gentleman who is tutoring you in the French -language would be doing a good turn to throw in a little of the manners -of the same. Let me tell you that I am as much surprised as you can be -to find myself here, and now that you are so good as to put me in mind -of the--of the--of the _convenances_, I will go straight away home. It -was not the priest, nor was it Captain Thurot that got your ear, for -they are by the way of being gentlemen; it could only have been this -Irishman Clancarty--the quality of that country have none of the -scrupulosity that distinguishes our own. You can tell his lordship, next -time you see him, that Miss Walkinshaw will see day about with him for -this.” - -She ordered her chairmen to take her home, and then--burst into tears! - -I followed at her side, in a stew at my indiscoverable blundering, my -_chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand, and myself like to greet too for sympathy -and vexation. - -“You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “Heaven -knows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your good -opinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant.” - -“Go away!” she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, that -was now being borne towards the town. - -“Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for the -freedom,” I said, “for here's some monstrous misconception, and I must -clear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever.” - -She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed to -me. Feeling like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walk -deliberately by her side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. She -dismissed the chair and was for going into the house without letting an -eye light on young persistency. - -“One word, Miss Walkinshaw,” I pleaded. “We are a Scottish man and a -Scottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in this -street, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she will -not give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and an -affection, a chance to know wherein he may have blundered.” - -“Respect and affection,” she said, her profile turned to me, her foot on -the steps, visibly hesitating. - -“Respect and affection,” I repeated, flushing at my own boldness. - -“In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?” she said, biting her nether lip -and still manifestly close on tears. - -“How?” said I, bewildered. “His lordship gave me no tales that I know -of.” - -“And why,” said she, “be at such pains to tell me you wondered I should -be there?” - -I got very red at that. - -“You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig,” she said bitterly. - -“Well, then,” I ventured boldly, “what I should have said was that I -feared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. And -I have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with me -and would not let me explain myself.” - -“What!” she cried, quite radiant, “and, after all, the red shoon were -not without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tell -you the truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only making -believe to be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither you -can see me to my parlour.” - -“Well, Bernard,” she said to the Swiss as we entered, “any news?” - -He informed her there was none. - -“What! no one called?” said she with manifest disappointment. - -“_Personne, Madame_.” - -“No letters?” - -Nor were there any letters, he replied. - -She sighed, paused irresolute a moment with her foot on the stair, one -hand at her heart, the other at the fastening of her coat, and looked at -me with a face almost tragic in its trouble. I cannot but think she was -on the brink of a confidence, but ere it came she changed her mind and -dashed up the stair with a tra-la-la of a song meant to indicate her -indifference, leaving me a while in her parlour while she changed -her dress. She came back to me in a little, attired in a pale -primrose-coloured paduasoy, the cuffs and throat embroidered in a -pattern of roses and leaves, her hair unpowdered and glossy, wantoning -in and out of a neck beyond description. The first thing she did on -entrance was odd enough, for it was to stand over me where I lounged -on her settee, staring down into my eyes until I felt a monstrous -embarrassment. - -“I am wonderin',” said she, “if ye are the man I tak' ye for.” - -Her eyes were moist; I saw she had been crying in her toilet room. - -“I'm just the man you see,” I said, “but for some unco' troubles that -are inside me and are not for airing to my friends on a fine day in -Dunkerque.” - -“Perhaps, like the lave of folks, ye dinna ken yoursel',” she went on, -speaking with no sprightly humour though in the Scots she was given to -fall to in her moments of fun. “All men, Mr. Greig, mean well, but most -of them fall short of their own ideals; they're like the women in that, -no doubt, but in the men the consequence is more disastrous.” - -“When I was a girl in a place you know,” she went on even more soberly, -“I fancied all men were on the model of honest John Walkinshaw--better -within than without. He was stern to austerity, demanding the last -particle of duty from his children, and to some he might seem hard, but -I have never met the man yet with a kinder heart, a pleasanter mind, a -more pious disposition than John Walkin-shaw's. It has taken ten years, -and acquaintance with some gentry not of Scotland, to make it plain that -all men are not on his model.” - -“I could fancy not, to judge from his daughter,” I said, blushing at my -first compliment that was none the less bold because it was sincere. - -At that she put on a little mouth and shrugged her shoulders with a -shiver that made the snaps in her ears tremble. - -“My good young man,” said she, “there you go! If there's to be any -friendship between you and Clementina Walkinshaw, understand there must -be a different key from that. You are not only learning your French, but -you are learning, it would seem, the manners of the nation. It was that -made me wonder if you could be the man I took you for the first day you -were in this room and I found I could make you greet with a Scots sang, -and tell me honestly about a lass you had a notion of and her no' me. -That last's the great stroke of honesty in any man, and let me tell you -there are some women who would not relish it. But you are in a company -here so ready with the tongue of flattery that I doubt each word they -utter, and that's droll enough in me that loves my fellow creatures, and -used to think the very best of every one of them. If I doubt them now -I doubt them with a sore enough heart, I'll warrant you. Oh! am I not -sorry that my man of Mearns should be put in the reverence of such -creatures as Clancarty and Thurot, and all that gang of worldlings? I do -not suppose I could make you understand it, Mr. Paul Greig, but I feel -motherly to you, and to see my son--this great giant fellow who kens the -town of Glasgow and dwelt in Mearns where I had May milk, and speaks wi' -the fine Scots tongue like mysel' when his heart is true--to see him the -boon comrade with folks perhaps good enough for Clementina Walkinshaw -but lacking a particle of principle, is a sight to sorrow me.” - -“And is it for that you seek to get me away with the priest?” I asked, -surprised at all this, and a little resenting the suggestion of youth -implied in her feeling like a mother to me. Her face was lit, her -movement free and beautiful; something in her fascinated me. - -She dropped in a chair and pushed the hair from her ears with a hand -like milk, and laughed. - -“Now how could you guess?” said she. “Am I no' the careful mother of -you to put you in the hands o' the clergy? I doubt this play-acting -rhetorician of a man from Dixmunde is no great improvement on the rest -of your company when all's said and done, but you'll be none the worse -for seeing the world at his costs, and being in other company than -Clancarty's and Thurot's and Roscommon's. He told me to-day you were -going with him, and I was glad that I had been of that little service to -you.” - -“Then it seems you think so little of my company as to be willing enough -to be rid of me at the earliest opportunity,” I said, honestly somewhat -piqued at her readiness to clear me out of Dunkerque. - -She looked at me oddly. “Havers, Mr. Greig!” said she, “just havers!” - -I was thanking her for her offices, but she checked me. “You are well -off,” she said, “to be away from here while these foolish manouvrings -are on foot. Poor me! I must bide and see them plan the breaking down -of my native country. It's a mercy I know in what a fiasco it will end, -this planning. Hearken! Do you hear the bugles? That's Soubise going -back to the caserne. He and his little men are going back to eat another -dinner destined to assist in the destruction of an island where you and -I should be this day if we were wiser than we are. Fancy them destroying -Britain, Mr. Greig!--Britain, where honest John Walkinshaw is, that -never said an ill word in his life, nor owed any man a penny: where the -folks are guid and true, and fear God and want nothing but to be left to -their crofts and herds. If it was England--if it was the palace of Saint -James--no, but it's Scotland, too, and the men you saw marching up and -down to-day are to be marching over the moor o' Mearns when the -heather's red. Can you think of it?” She stamped her foot. “Where the -wee thack hooses are at the foot o' the braes, and the bairns playing -under the rowan trees; where the peat is smelling, and the burns are -singing in the glens, and the kirk-bells are ringing. Poor Mr. Greig! -Are ye no' wae for Scotland? Do ye think Providence will let a man like -Thomond ye saw to-day cursing on horseback--do ye think Providence will -let him lead a French army among the roads you and I ken so well, -affronting the people we ken too, who may be a thought dull in the -matter of repartee, but are for ever decent, who may be hard-visaged, -but are so brave?” - -She laughed, herself, half bitterly, half contemptuously, at the picture -she drew. Outside, in the sunny air of the afternoon, the bugles of -Soubise filled the street with brazen cries, and nearer came the roar -of pounding drums. I thought I heard them menacing the sleep of evening -valleys far away, shattering the calm of the hearth of Hazel Den. - -“The cause for which--for which so many are exile here,” I said, looking -on this Jacobite so strangely inconsistent, “has no reason to regret -that France should plan an attack on Georgius Rex.” - -She shook her head impatiently. “The cause has nothing to do with it, -Mr. Greig,” said she. “The cause will suffer from this madness more than -ever it did, but in any case 'tis the most miserable of lost causes.” - -“Prince Charlie-” - -“Once it was the cause with me, now I would sooner have it Scotland,” - she went on, heedless of my interruption. “Scotland! Scotland! Oh, how -the name of her is like a dirge to me, and my heart is sore for her! -Where is your heart, Mr. Greig, that it does not feel alarm at the -prospect of these _crapauds_ making a single night's sleep uneasy for -the folks you know? Where is your heart, I'm asking?” - -“I wish I knew,” said I impulsively, staring at her, completely -bewitched by her manner so variable and intense, and the straying -tendrils of her hair. - -“Do you not?” said she. “Then I will tell you. It is where it ought to -be--with a girl of the name of Isobel Fortune. Oh, the dear name! oh, -the sweet name! And when you are on your travels with this priest do not -be forgetting her. Oh, yes! I know you will tell me again that all is -over between the pair of you, and that she loved another--but I am not -believing a word of that, Mr. Greig, when I look at you--(and will ye -say 'thank ye' for the compliment that's there?)--you will just go on -thinking her the same, and you will be the better man for it. There's -something tells me she is thinking of you though I never saw her, the -dear! Let me see, this is what sort of girl she will be.” - -She drew her chair closer to the settee and leaned forward in front -of me, and, fixing her eyes on mine, drew a picture of the girl of -Kirkillstane as she imagined her. - -“She will be about my own height, and with the same colour of hair-” - -“How do you know that? I never said a word of that to you,” I cried, -astonished at the nearness of her first guess. - -“Oh, I'm a witch,” she cried triumphantly, “a fair witch. Hoots! do I -no' ken ye wadna hae looked the side o' the street I was on if I -hadna put ye in mind o' her? Well, she's my height and colour--but, -alack-a-day, no' my years. She 'll have a voice like the mavis for -sweetness, and 'll sing to perfection. She'll be shy and forward in -turns, accordin' as you are forward and shy; she 'll can break your -heart in ten minutes wi' a pout o' her lips or mak' ye fair dizzy with -delight at a smile. And then”--here Miss Walkinshaw seemed carried away -herself by her fancy portrait, for she bent her brows studiously as she -thought, and seemed to speak in an abstraction--“and then she'll be a -managing woman. She'll be the sort of woman that the Bible tells of -whose value is over rubies; knowing your needs as you battle with the -world, and cheerful when you come in to the hearthstone from the turmoil -outside. A witty woman and a judge of things, calm but full of fire in -your interests. A household where the wife's a doll is a cart with one -wheel, and your Isobel will be the perfect woman. I think she must have -travelled some, too, and seen how poor is the wide world compared with -what is to be found at your own fire-end; I think she must have had -trials and learned to be brave.” - -She stopped suddenly, looked at me and got very red in the face. - -“A fine picture, Miss Walkinshaw!” said I, with something drumming at my -heart. “It is not just altogether like Isobel Fortune, who has long syne -forgot but to detest me, but I fancy I know who it is like.” - -“And who might that be?” she asked in a low voice and with a somewhat -guilty look. - -“Will I tell you?” I asked, myself alarmed at my boldness. - -“No! no! never mind,” she cried. “I was just making a picture of a -girl I once knew--poor lass! and of what she might have been. But she's -dead--dead and buried. I hope, after all, your Isobel is a nobler woman -than the one I was thinking on and a happier destiny awaiting her.” - -“That cannot matter much to me now,” I said, “for, as I told you, there -is nothing any more between us--except--except a corp upon the heather.” - -She shuddered as she did the first time I told her of my tragedy, and -sucked in the air again through her clenched teeth. - -“Poor lad! poor lad!” said she. “And you have quite lost her. If so, and -the thing must be, then this glass coach of Father Hamilton's must take -you to the country of forgetfulness. I wish I could drive there myself -this minute, but wae's me, there's no chariot at the _remise_ that'll do -that business for John Walkinshaw's girl.” - -Something inexpressively moving was in her mien, all her heart was in -her face as it seemed; a flash of fancy came to me that she was alone in -the world with nothing of affection to hap her round from its abrasions, -and that her soul was crying out for love. Sweet beyond expression was -this woman and I was young; up to my feet I rose, and turned on her a -face that must have plainly revealed my boyish passion. - -“Miss Walkinshaw,” I said, “you may put me out of this door for ever, -but I'm bound to say I'm going travelling in no glass coach; Dunkerque -will be doing very well for me.” - -Her lips trembled; her cheek turned pale; she placed a hand upon her -breast, and there was I contrite before her anger! - -“Is this--is this your respect and your esteem, Mr. Greig?” she asked -brokenly. - -“They were never greater than at this moment,” I replied. - -“And how are they to be manifested by your waiting on in Dunkerque?” she -asked, recovering her colour and some of her ordinary manner. - -How indeed? She had no need to ask me the question, for it was already -ringing through my being. That the Spoiled Horn from Mearns, an outlaw -with blood on his hands and borrowed money in his pocket, should have -the presumption to feel any ardour for this creature seemed preposterous -to myself, and I flushed in an excess of shame and confusion. - -This seemed completely to reassure her. “Oh, Mr. Greig--Mr. Greig, was I -not right to ask if ye were the man ye seemed? Here's a nice display o' -gallantry from my giant son! I believe you are just makin' fun o' this -auld wife; and if no' I hae just one word for you, Paul Greig, and it's -this that I said afore--jist havers!” - -She went to her spinet and ran her fingers over the keys and broke into -a song-- - - Oh, what ails the laddie, new twined frae his mither? - The laddie gallantin' roun' Tibbie and me?-- - -with glances coquettish yet repelling round her shoulder at me as I -stood turning my _chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand as a boy turns his bonnet -in presence of laird or dominie. The street was shaking now with the -sound of marching soldiers, whose platoons were passing in a momentary -silence of trumpet or drum. All at once the trumpets blared forth -just in front of the house, broke upon her song, and gave a heavensent -diversion to our comedy or tragedy or whatever it was in the parlour. - -We both stood looking out at the window for a while in silence, watching -the passing troops, and when the last file had gone, she turned with a -change of topic “If these men had been in England ten years ago,” she -said, “when brisk affairs were doing there with Highland claymores, your -Uncle Andrew would have been there, too, and it would not perhaps be -your father who was Laird of Hazel Den. But that's all by with now. And -when do you set out with Father Hamilton?” - -She had a face as serene as fate; my heart ached to tell her that I -loved her, but her manner made me hold my tongue on that. - -“In three days,” I said, still turning my hat and wishing myself -elsewhere, though her presence intoxicated. - -“In three days!” she said, as one astonished. “I had thought it had been -a week at the earliest. Will I tell you what you might do? You are my -great blate bold son, you know, from the moors of Mearns, and I will be -wae, wae, to think of you travelling all round Europe without a friend -of your own country to exchange a word with. Write to me; will you?” - -“Indeed and I will, and that gaily,” I cried, delighted at the prospect. - -“And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and what -you have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, and -be sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel, -I daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league upon -the map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to be -here at noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will write -to you--but oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would I -have him know that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. That -is bad.” - -She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, but -the problem was beyond me, and she sighed. - -“Of course his reverence need not know anything about it,” she said -then. - -“Certainly,” I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. “I will -never mention to him anything about it.” - -“But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without his -suspecting something?” - -“Oh, but he cannot suspect.” - -“What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this Father -Hamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves so -innocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way that -I shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way. -But never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honour -for that.” - -As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over the -bannister and cried after me: - -“Mr. Greig,” said she, “ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoes -when ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to be -thinkin' of you as traivellin' in them a' the time.” - -I looked up and saw her smiling saucily at me over the rail. - -“Would you indeed?” said I. “Then I'll never put them aff till I see ye -again, when I come back to Dunkerque.” - -“That is kind,” she answered, laughing outright, “but fair reediculous. -To wear them to bed would be against your character for sobriety.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -A RAP IN THE EARLY MORNING AWAKENS ME AND I START IN A GLASS COACH UPON -THE ODDEST OF JOURNEYS - -It was the last, for many months, I was to see of my countrywoman. -Before the crow of the cock next morning I was on the unending roads, -trundling in a noisy vehicle through pitch darkness, my companion -snoring stertorous at my side, his huge head falling every now and then -upon my shoulder, myself peering to catch some revelation of what manner -of country-side we went through as the light from the swinging lanthorn -lit up briefly passing banks of frosted hedge or sleeping hamlets on -whose pave the hoofs of our horses hammered as they had been the very -war-steeds of Bellona. - -But how came I there? How but by my master's whim, that made him -anticipate his departure by three days and drag me from my bed -incontinent to set out upon his trip over Europe. - -I had been sleeping soundly, dreaming I heard the hopper of the mill -of Driepps at home banging to make Jock Alexander's fortune, when I -awakened, or rather half-wakened, to discover that 'twas no hopper but a -nieve at my door, rapping with a vigour to waken the dead. - -“Come out! Sir Secretary, come out! or I shall pull thy domicile about -thine ears,” cried the voice of Father Hamilton. - -He stood at the door when I opened, wrapped over the chin in a muffler -of multitudinous folds, and covered by a roquelaure. - -“_Pax!_” he cried, thrusting a purple face into the room, “and on with -thy boots like a good lad. We must be off and over the dunes before the -bell of St. Eloi knocks another nail in the coffin of time.” - -“What!” I said, dumbfoundered, “are we to start on our journey to-day?” - -“Even so, my sluggardly Scot; faith! before the day even, for the day -will be in a deuce of a hurry an' it catch up on us before we reach -Pont-Opoise. Sop a crust in a jug of wine--I've had no better _petit -déjeuner_ myself--put a clean cravat and a pair of hose in thy sack, -and in all emulate the judicious flea that wastes no time in idle -rumination, but transacts its affairs in a succession of leaps.” - -“And no time to say good-bye to anyone?” I asked, struggling into my -toilet. - -“La! la! la! the flea never takes a _congé_ that I've heard on, Master -Punctilio. Not so much as a kiss o' the hand for you; I have had news, -and 'tis now or never.” - -Twenty minutes later, Thurot's landlord (for Thurot himself was from -home) lit me to the courtyard, and the priest bundled me and my sack -into the bowels of an enormous chariot waiting there. - -The clocks began to strike the hour of five; before the last stroke had -ceased to shiver the darkness we were thundering along the sea front -and my master was already composed to sleep in his corner, without -vouchsafing me a sentence of explanation for so hurried a departure. -Be sure my heart was sore! I felt the blackest of ingrates to be thus -speeding without a sign of farewell from a place where I had met with so -much of friendship. - -Out at the window of the coach I gazed, to see nothing but the cavernous -night on one side, on the other, lit by the lanthorn, the flashing past -of houses all shuttered and asleep. - -It was dry and pleasant weather, with a sting of frost in the air, and -the propinquity of the sea manifest not in its plangent voice alone but -in the odour of it that at that hour dominated the natural smells of the -faubourgs. Only one glimpse I had of fellow creatures; as we passed the -fort, the flare of flambeaux showed an enormous body of soldiers -working upon the walls of Risebank; it but added to the poignance of my -melancholy to reflect that here were my country's enemies unsleeping, -and I made a sharp mental contrast of this most dauntening spectacle -with a picture of the house of Hazel Den dreaming among its trees, and -only crying lambs perhaps upon the moor to indicate that any life -was there. Melancholy! oh, it was eerie beyond expression for me that -morning! Outside, the driver talked to his horses and to some one with -him on the boot; it must have been cheerier for him than for me as I sat -in that sombre and close interior, jolted by my neighbour, and unable to -refrain from rehabilitating all the past. Especially did I think of my -dark home-coming with a silent father on the day I left the college to -go back to the Mearns. And by a natural correlation, that was bound -to lead to all that followed--even to the event for which I was now so -miserably remote from my people. - -Once or twice his reverence woke, to thrust his head out at the window -and ask where we were. Wherever we were when he did so, *twas certain -never to be far enough for his fancy, and he condemned the driver for -a snail until the whip cracked wickedly and the horses laboured more -strenuously than ever, so that our vehicle swung upon its springs till -it might well seem we were upon a ship at sea. - -For me he had but the one comment--“I wonder what's for _déjeuner._” He -said it each time solemnly as it were his matins, and then slid into his -swinish sleep again. - -The night seemed interminable, but by-and-by the day broke. I watched -it with eagerness as it gradually paled the east, and broke up the black -bulk of the surrounding land into fields, orchards, gardens, woods. And -the birds awoke--God bless the little birds!--they woke, and started -twittering and singing in the haze, surely the sweetest, the least -sinless of created things, the tiny angels of the woods, from whom, -walking in summer fields in the mornings of my age as of my youth, I -have borrowed hope and cheer. - -Father Hamilton wakened too, and heard the birds; indeed, they filled -the ear of the dawn with melodies. A smile singularly pleasant came upon -his countenance as he listened. - -“_Pardieu!_” said he, “how they go on! Has't the woodland soul, _Sieur -Croque-mort_? Likely enough not; I never knew another but myself and -thine uncle that had it, and 'tis the mischief that words will not -explain the same. 'Tis a gift of the fairies”--here he crossed himself -devoutly and mumbled a Romish incantation--“that, having the -said woodland spirit--in its nature a Pagan thing perchance, but -_n'importe!_--thou hast in the song of the tiny beings choiring there -something to make the inward tremor that others find in a fiddle and -a glass of wine. No! no! not that, 'tis a million times more precious; -'tis--'tis the pang of the devotee, 'tis the ultimate thrill of things. -Myself, I could expire upon the ecstasy of the thrush, or climb to -heaven upon the lark's May rapture. And there they go! the loves! and -they have the same ditty I heard from them first in Louvain. There are -but three clean things in this world, my lad of Scotland--a bird, a -flower, and a child's laughter. I have been confessor long enough -to know all else is filth. But what's the luck in waiting for us at -Azincourt? and what's the _pot-au-feu_ to-day?” - -He listened a little longer to the birds, and fell asleep smiling, his -fat face for once not amiss, and I was left again alone as it were to -receive the day. - -We had long left the dunes and the side of the sea, though sometimes on -puffs of wind I heard its distant rumour. Now the land was wooded with -the apple tree; we rose high on the side of a glen, full of a rolling -fog that streamed off as the day grew. A tolerable land enough; perhaps -more lush than my own, with scarce a rood uncultivated, and dotted -far and wide by the strangest farm steadings and pendicles, but such -steadings and pendicles as these eyes never before beheld, with enormous -eaves of thatch reaching almost to the ground, and ridiculous windows of -no shape; with the yokings of the cattle, the boynes, stoups, carts, and -ploughs about the places altogether different from our own. We passed -troops marching, peasants slouching with baskets of poultry to market -towns, now and then a horseman, now and then a caleche. And there were -numerous hamlets, and at least two middling-sized towns, and finally -we came, at the hour of eleven, upon the place appointed for our -_déjeuner_. It was a small inn on the banks of the only rivulet I had -seen in all the journey. I forget its name, but I remember there was -a patch of heather on the side of it, and that I wished ardently the -season had been autumn that I might have looked upon the purple bells. - -“Tis a long lane that has no tavern,” said his reverence, and oozed -out of his side of the coach with groanings. The innkeeper ran forth, -louted, and kissed his hand. - -“_Jour, m'sieu jour!_” said Father Hamilton hurriedly. “And now, what -have you here that is worth while?” - -The innkeeper respectfully intimated that the church of -Saint-Jean-en-Grève was generally considered worth notice. Its -vestments, relics, and windows were of merit, and the view from the -tower-- - -“_Mort de ma vie!_” cried the priest angrily, “do I look like a -traveller who trots up belfrys in strange villages at the hour of -_déjeuner?_ A plague on Saint-Jean-en-Grève! I said nothing at all of -churches; I spoke of _déjeuner_, my good fellow. What's for _déjeuner?_” - -The innkeeper recounted a series of dishes. Father Hamilton hummed and -hawed, reflected, condemned, approved, all with an eagerness beyond -description. And when the meal was being dished up, he went frantically -to the kitchen and lifted pot-lids, and swung a salad for himself, and -confounding the ordinary wine for the vilest piquette ordered a special -variety from the cellar. It was a spectacle of gourmandise not without -its humour; I was so vastly engaged in watching him that I scarce -glanced at the men who had travelled on the outside of the coach since -morning. - -What was my amazement when I did so to see that the servant or valet (as -he turned out to be) was no other than the Swiss, Bernard, who had been -in the service of Miss Walkinshaw no later than yesterday morning! - -I commented on the fact to Father Hamilton when we sat down to eat. - -“Why, yes!” he said, gobbling at his vivers with a voracity I learned -not to wonder at later when I knew him more. “The same man. A good man, -too, or I'm a Turk. I've envied Miss Walkinshaw this lusty, trusty, -secret rogue for a good twelvemonth, and just on the eve of my leaving -Dunkerque, by a very providence, the fellow gets drunk and finds himself -dismissed. He came to me with a flush and a hiccough last night to ask -a recommendation, and overlooking the peccadillo that is not of a nature -confined to servants, Master Greig, let me tell thee, I gave him a place -in my _entourage_. Madame will not like it, but no matter! she'll have -time to forget it ere I see her again.” - -I felt a mild satisfaction to have the Swiss with us just because I had -heard him called “Bernard” so often by his late employer. - -We rested for some hours after _déjeuner_, seated under a tree by the -brink of the rivulet, and in the good humour of a man satisfied in -nature the priest condescended to let me into some of his plans. - -We were bound for Paris in the first place. “Zounds!” he cried, “I am -all impatience to clap eyes again on Lutetia, the sweet rogue, and -eat decent bread and behold a noble gown and hear a right cadenza. -And though thou hast lost thy Lyrnessides--la! la! la! I have thee -there!--thou canst console thyself with the Haemonian lyre. Paris! oh, -lad, I'd give all to have thy years and a winter or two in it. Still, we -shall make shift--oh, yes! I warrant thee we shall make shift. We shall -be there, at my closest reckoning, on the second day of Holy Week, and -my health being so poorly we shall not wait to commence _de faire les -Pâques_ an hour after. What's in a _soutane_, anyhow, that it should be -permitted to mortify an honest priest's oesophagus?” - -I sighed in spite of myself, for he had made me think of our throwing of -Easter eggs on the green at Hazel Den. - -“What!” he cried. “Does my frugal Scot fancy we have not enough -trinkgeld for enjoyment. Why, look here!--and here!--and here!” - -He thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth numerous rouleaux--so -many that I thought his corpulence might well be a plethora of coin. - -“There!” said he, squeezing a rouleau till it burst and spreading out -the gold upon the table before him. “Am I a poor parish priest or a very -Croesus?” - -Then he scooped in the coins with his fat hands and returned all to his -bosom. “_Allons!_” he said shortly; we were on the road again! - -That night we put up at the Bon Accueil in a town whose name escapes my -recollection. - -He had gone to bed; through the wall from his chamber came the noise -of his sleep, while I was at the writing of my first letter to Miss -Walkinshaw, making the same as free and almost affectionate as I had -been her lover, for as I know it now, I was but seeking in her for the -face of the love of the first woman and the last my heart was given to. - -I had scarcely concluded when the Swiss came knocking softly to my door, -and handed me a letter from the very woman whose name was still in wet -ink upon my folded page. I tore it open eagerly, to find a score of -pleasant remembrances. She had learned the night before that the priest -was to set out in the morning: “I have kept my word,” she went on. “Your -best friend is Bernard, so I let you have him, and let us exchange our -billets through him. It will be the most Discreet method. And I am, with -every consideration, Ye Ken Wha.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -LEADS ME TO THE FRONT OF A COFFEE-HOUSE WHERE I AM STARTLED TO SEE A -FACE I KNOW - -The occasion for this precaution in our correspondence was beyond my -comprehension; nevertheless I was too proud to have the patronage of so -fine a woman to cavil at what system she should devise for its discreet -conduct, and the Swiss that night got my first letter to frank and -despatch. He got one next evening also, and the evening after that; in -short, I made a diurnal of each stage in our journey and Bernard was my -postman--so to name it--on every occasion that I forwarded the same to -Miss Walkinshaw. He assured me that he was in circumstances to secure -the more prompt forwardation of my epistles than if I trusted in the -common runner, and it was a proof of this that when we got, after some -days, into Versailles, he should bring to me a letter from the lady -herself informing me how much of pleasure she had got from the receipt -of the first communication I had sent her. - -Perhaps it is a sign of the injudicious mind that I should not be very -mightily pleased with this same Versailles. We had come into it of a -sunny afternoon and quartered at the Cerf d'Or Inn, and went out in the -evening for the air. Somehow the place gave me an antagonism; its dipt -trees all in rows upon the wayside like a guard of soldiers; its trim -gardens and bits of plots; its fountains crying, as it seemed, for -attention--these things hurt me as a liberty taken with nature. Here, -thought I, is the fitting place for the raff in ruffles and the scented -wanton; it should be the artificial man and the insincere woman should -be condemned to walk for ever in these alleys and drink in these -_bosquets;_ I would not give a fir planting black against the evening -sky at home for all this pompous play-acting at landscape, nor a yard -of the brown heather of the hills for all these well-drilled flower -parterres. - -“Eh! M. Croque-mort,” said the priest, delighted visibly with all he saw -about him; “what think'st thou of Le Notre's gardening?” - -“A good deal, sir,” I said, “that need never be mentioned. I feel a pity -for the poor trees as I did for yon dipt poodle dog at Griepon.” - -“La! la! la! _sots raissonable_, Monsieur,” cried the priest. “We cannot -have the tastes of our Dubarrys and Pompadours and Maintenons so called -in question by an untravelled Scot that knows but the rude mountain and -stunted oaks dying in a murrain of climate. 'Art too ingenuous, youth. -And yet--and yet”--here he paused and tapped his temple and smiled -whimsically--“between ourselves, I prefer the woods of Somme where the -birds sang together so jocund t'other day. But there now--ah, _quelle -gloire!_” - -We had come upon the front of the palace, and its huge far-reaching -masonry, that I learned later to regard as cold, formal, and wanting in -a soul, vastly discomposed me. I do not know why it should be so, but -as I gazed at this--the greatest palace I had ever beheld--I felt tears -rush irrestrainably to my eyes. Maybe it was the poor little poet in -MacGibbon's law chamber in Lanark town that used to tenant every ancient -dwelling with spirits of the past, cropped up for the moment in Father -Hamilton's secretary, and made me, in a flash, people the place with -kings--and realise something of the wrench it must have been and still -would be to each and all of them to say adieu at the long last to this -place of noisy grandeur where they had had their time of gaiety and -splendour. Anyhow, I well-nigh wept, and the priest was quick to see it. - -“Fore God!” he cried, “here's Andrew Greig again! 'Twas the wickedest -rogue ever threw dice, and yet the man must rain at the eyes like a very -woman.” - -And yet he was pleased, I thought, to see me touched. A band was playing -somewhere in a garden unseen; he tapped time to its music with his -finger tips against each other and smiled beatifically and hummed. He -seemed at peace with the world and himself at that moment, yet a second -later he was the picture of distress and apprehension. - -We were going towards the Place d'Armes; he had, as was customary, his -arm through mine, leaning on me more than was comfortable, for he was -the poorest judge imaginable of his own corpulence. Of a sudden I felt -him jolt as if he had been startled, and then he gripped my arm with -a nervous grasp. All that was to account for his perturbation was that -among the few pedestrians passing us on the road was one in a uniform -who cast a rapid glance at us. It was not wonderful that he should do -so, for indeed we were a singularly ill-assorted pair, but there was a -recognition of the priest in the glance the man in the uniform threw -at him in passing. Nothing was said; the man went on his way and we on -ours, but looking at Father Hamilton I saw his face had lost its colour -and grown blotched in patches. His hand trembled; for the rest of the -walk he was silent, and he could not too soon hurry us back to the Cerf -d'Or. - -Next day was Sunday, and Father Hamilton went to Mass leaving me to my -own affairs, that were not of that complexion perhaps most becoming -on that day to a lad from Scotland. He came back anon and dressed most -scrupulously in a suit of lay clothing. - -“Come out, Master Greig,” said he, “and use thine eyes for a poor -priest that has ruined his own in studying the Fathers and seeking for -honesty.” - -“It is not in the nature of a compliment to myself, that,” I said, a -little tired of his sour sentiments regarding humanity, and not afraid -in the least to tell him so. - -“Eh!” said he. “I spoke not of thee, thou savage. A plague on thy curt -temper; 'twas ever the weakness of the Greigs. Come, and I shall show -thee a house where thy uncle and I had many a game of dominoes.” - -We went to a coffee-house and watched the fashionable world go by. It -was a sight monstrously fine. Because it was the Easter Sunday the women -had on their gayest apparel, the men their most belaced _jabots_. - -“Now look you well, Friend Scotland,” said Father Hamilton, as we sat -at a little table and watched the stream of quality pass, “look you well -and watch particularly every gentleman that passes to the right, and -when you see one you know tell me quickly.” - -He had dropped his Roman manner as if in too sober a mood to act. - -“Is it a game?” I asked. “Who can I ken in the town of Versailles that -never saw me here before?” - -“Never mind,” said he, “do as I tell you. A sharp eye, and-” - -“Why,” I cried, “there's a man I have seen before!” - -“Where? where?” said Father Hamilton, with the utmost interest lighting -his countenance. - -“Yonder, to the left of the man with the velvet breeches. He will pass -us in a minute or two.” - -The person I meant would have been kenspeckle in any company by -the splendour of his clothing, but beyond his clothing there was -a haughtiness in his carriage that singled him out even among the -fashionables of Versailles, who were themselves obviously interested in -his personality, to judge by the looks that they gave him as closely -as breeding permitted. He came sauntering along the pavement swinging -a cane by its tassel, his chin in the air, his eyes anywhere but on the -crowds that parted to give him room. As he came closer I saw it was a -handsome face enough that thus was cocked in haughtiness to the heavens, -not unlike Clancarty's in that it showed the same signs of dissipation, -yet with more of native nobility in it than was in the good enough -countenance of the French-Irish nobleman. Where had I seen that face -before? - -It must have been in Scotland; it must have been when I was a boy; it -was never in the Mearns. This was a hat with a Dettingen cock; when I -saw that forehead last it was under a Highland bonnet. - -A Highland bonnet--why! yes, and five thousand Highland bonnets were in -its company--whom had I here but Prince Charles Edward! - -The recognition set my heart dirling in my breast, for there was -enough of the rebel in me to feel a romantic glow at seeing him who set -Scotland in a blaze, and was now the stuff of songs our women sang -in milking folds among the hills; that heads had fallen for, and the -Hebrides had been searched for in vain for weary seasons. The man was -never a hero of mine so long as I had the cooling influence of my father -to tell me how lamentable for Scotland had been his success had God -permitted the same, yet I was proud to-day to see him. - -“Is it he?” asked the priest, dividing his attention between me and the -approaching nobleman. - -“It's no other,” said I. “I would know Prince Charles in ten thousand, -though I saw him but the once in a rabble of caterans coming up the -Gallow-gate of Glasgow.” - -“Ah,” said the priest, with a curious sighing sound. “They said he -passed here at the hour. And that's our gentleman, is it? I expected -he would have been--would have been different.” When the Prince was -opposite the café where we sat he let his glance come to earth, and it -fell upon myself. His aspect changed; there was something of recognition -in it; though he never slackened his pace and was gazing the next moment -down the vista of the street, I knew that his glance had taken me in -from head to heel, and that I was still the object of his thoughts. - -“You see! you see!” cried the priest, “I was right, and he knew the -Greig. Why, lad, shalt have an Easter egg for this--the best horologe in -Versailles upon Monday morning.” - -“Why, how could he know me?” I asked. “It is an impossibility, for when -he and I were in the same street last he rode a horse high above an army -and I was only a raw laddie standing at a close-mouth in Duff's Land in -the Gallowgate.” - -But all the same I felt the priest was right, and that there was some -sort of recognition in the Prince's glance at me in passing. - -Father Hamilton poured himself a generous glass and drank thirstily. - -“La! la! la!” said he, resuming his customary manner of address. “I -daresay his Royal Highness has never clapt eyes on thy _croque-mori_ -countenance before, but he has seen its like--ay, and had a regard for -it, too! Thine Uncle Andrew has done the thing for thee again; the mole, -the hair, the face, the shoes--sure they advertise the Greig as by a -drum tuck! and Charles Edward knew thy uncle pretty well so I supposed -he would know thee. And this is my gentleman, is it? Well, well! No, not -at all well; mighty ill indeed. Not the sort of fellow I had looked for -at all. Seems a harmless man enough, and has tossed many a goblet in the -way of company. If he had been a sour whey-face now--” - -Father Hamilton applied himself most industriously to the bottle that -afternoon, and it was not long till the last of my respect for him was -gone. Something troubled him. He was moody and hilarious by turns, but -neither very long, and completed my distrust of him when he intimated -that there was some possibility of our trip across Europe never coming -into effect. But all the same, I was to be assured of his patronage, -I was to continue in his service as secretary, if, as was possible, he -should take up his residence for a time in Paris. And money--why, look -again! he had a ship's load of it, and 'twould never be said of Father -Hamilton that he could not share with a friend. And there he thrust some -rouleaux upon me and clapped my shoulder and was so affected at his own -love for Andrew Greig's nephew that he must even weep. - -Weeping indeed was the priest's odd foible for the week we remained -at Versailles. He that had been so jocular before was now filled with -morose moods, and would ruminate over his bottle by the hour at a time. - -He was none the better for the company he met during our stay at the -Cerf d'Or--all priests, and to the number of half a dozen, one of them -an abbé with a most noble and reverent countenance. They used to come to -him late at night, confer with him secretly in his room, and when -they were gone I found him each time drenched in a perspiration and -feverishly gulping spirits. - -Every day we went to the café where we had seen the Prince first, and -every day at the same hour we saw his Royal Highness, who, it appeared, -was not known to the world as such, though known to me. The sight of -him seemed to trouble Father Hamilton amazingly, and yet 'twas the grand -object of the day--its only diversion; when we had seen the Prince we -went back straight to the inn every afternoon. - -The Cerf d'Or had a courtyard, cobbled with rough stones, in which there -was a great and noisy traffic. In the midst of the court there was a -little clump of evergreen trees and bushes in tubs, round which were -gathered a few tables and chairs whereat--now that the weather was -mild--the world sat in the afternoon. The walls about were covered with -dusty ivy where sparrows had begun to busy themselves with love and -housekeeping; lilacs sprouted into green, and the porter of the house -was for ever scratching at the hard earth about the plants, and tying up -twigs and watering the pots. It was here I used to write my letters to -Miss Walkinshaw at a little table separate from the rest, and I think it -was on Friday I was at this pleasant occupation when I looked up to see -the man with the uniform gazing at me from the other side of the bushes -as if he were waiting to have the letter when I was done with it. - -I went in and asked Father Hamilton who this man was. - -“What!” he cried in a great disturbance, “the same as we met near the -Trianon! O Lord! Paul, there is something wrong, for that was Buhot.” - -“And this Buhot?” I asked. - -“A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want -you to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into -the hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that -he passes the café at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest -thing in the world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's -to be done by you.” - -“But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by -the Swiss?” - -“That is my affair,” cried the priest testily. “The Prince knows -you--that is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have -the Swiss with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he -should have this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis -a letter from his Royal Highness's most intimate friend.” - -I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address -was in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the -bosom of my coat! - -What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be -conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must -carry it! - -“Very well,” I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince. - -The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer -clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour -more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my -hat in my hand. “I beg your Royal Highness's pardon,” I said in English, -“but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you.” - -He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes, -and took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction, -reddened, and bit his lip. - -“Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the -honour?” - -“Greig,” I answered. “Paul Greig.” - -“Ah!” he cried, “of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family. -_Charmé, Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance_. M. Andrew Greig-” - -“Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?” - -“So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of -irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M. -Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a--what was it -now?--a gomeral.” - -“It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness,” I said. “But I -know that he loved you and your cause.” - -“I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did,” said the Prince, -flushing, and with a show of pleasure at my speech. “I have learned of -late that the fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it -all I liked M. Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing -Monsieur Greig's nephew soon again. _Au plaisir de vous revoir!_” And -off he went, putting the letter, unread, into his pocket. - -When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed, -he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE - -And now I come to an affair of which there have been many accounts -written, some of them within a mile or two of the truth, the most but -sheer romantics. I have in my mind notably the account of the officer -Buhot printed two years after the events in question, in which he makes -the most fabulous statement as to the valiancy of Father Hamilton's -stand in the private house in the Rue des Reservoirs, and maintains that -myself--_le fier Eccossais_, as he is flattering enough to designate -me--drew my sword upon himself and threatened to run him through for his -proposition that I should confess to a complicity in the attempt upon -his Royal Highness. I have seen his statement reproduced with some extra -ornament in the _Edinburgh Courant_, and the result of all this is -that till this day my neighbours give me credit, of which I am loth to -advantage myself, for having felled two or three of the French officers -before I was overcome at the hinder-end. - -The matter is, in truth, more prosaic as it happened, and if these -memorials of mine leave the shadow of a doubt in the minds of any -interested in an old story that created some stir in its time, I pray -them see the archives of M. Bertin, the late Lieut.-General of the -police. Bertin was no particular friend of mine, that had been the -unconscious cause of great trouble and annoyance to him, but he has the -truth in the deposition I made and signed prior to my appointment to a -company of the d'Auvergne regiment. - -Well, to take matters in their right order, it was the evening of the -day I had given the letter to the Prince that Father Hamilton expressed -his intention of passing that night in the house of a friend. - -I looked at him with manifest surprise, for he had been at the bottle -most of the afternoon, and was by now more in a state for his bed than -for going among friends. - -“Well,” he cried peevishly, observing my dubiety. “Do you think me too -drunk for the society of a parcel of priests? _Ma foi!_ it is a pretty -thing that I cannot budge from my ordinary habitude of things without a -stuck owl setting up a silent protest.” - -To a speech so wanting in dignity I felt it better there should be no -reply, and instead I helped him into his great-coat. As I did so, he -made an awkward lurching movement due to his corpulence, and what jumped -out of an inner pocket but a pistol? Which of us was the more confused -at that it would be hard to say. For my part, the weapon--that I -had never seen in his possession before--was a fillip to my sleeping -conscience; I picked it up with a distaste, and he took it from me with -trembling fingers and an averted look. - -“A dangerous place, Versailles, after dark,” he explained feebly. “One -never knows, one never knows,” and into his pocket hurriedly with it. - -“I shall be back for breakfast,” he went on. “Unless--unless--oh, I -certainly shall be back.” And off he set. - -The incident of the pistol disturbed me for a while. I made a score of -speculations as to why a fat priest should burden himself with such an -article, and finally concluded that it was as he suggested, to defend -himself from night birds if danger offered; though that at the time had -been the last thing I myself would have looked for in the well-ordered -town of Versailles. I sat in the common-room or _salle_ of the inn for -a while after he had gone, and thereafter retired to my own bedchamber, -meaning to read or write for an hour or two before going to bed. In the -priest's room--which was on the same landing and next to my own--I heard -the whistle of Bernard the Swiss, but I had no letters for him that -evening, and we did not meet each other. I was at first uncommon dull, -feeling more than usually the hame-wae that must have been greatly -wanting in the experience of my Uncle Andrew to make him for so long a -wanderer on the face of the earth. But there is no condition of life -so miserable but what one finds in it remissions, diversions, nay, and -delights also, and soon I was--of all things in the world to be doing -when what followed came to pass!--inditing a song to a lady, my quill -scratching across the paper in spurts and dashes, and baffled pauses -where the matter would not attend close enough on the mood, stopping -altogether at a stanza's end to hum the stuff over to myself with great -satisfaction. I was, as I say, in the midst of this; the Swiss had gone -downstairs; all in my part of the house was still, though vehicles moved -about in the courtyard, when unusually noisy footsteps sounded on the -stair, with what seemed like the tap of scabbards on the treads. - -It was a sound so strange that my hand flew by instinct to the small -sword I was now in the habit of wearing and had learned some of the use -of from Thurot. - -There was no knock for entrance; the door was boldly opened and four -officers with Buhot at their head were immediately in the room. - -Buhot intimated in French that I was to consider myself under arrest, -and repeated the same in indifferent English that there might be no -mistake about a fact as patent as that the sword was in his hand. - -For a moment I thought the consequence of my crime had followed me -abroad, and that this squat, dark officer, watching me with the scrutiny -of a forest animal, partly in a dread that my superior bulk should -endanger himself, was in league with the law of my own country. That -I should after all be dragged back in chains to a Scots gallows was a -prospect unendurable; I put up the ridiculous small sword and dared -him to lay a hand on me. But I had no sooner done so than its folly was -apparent, and I laid the weapon down. - -“_Tant mieux!_” said he, much relieved, and then an assurance that he -knew I was a gentleman of discretion and would not make unnecessary -trouble. “Indeed,” he went on, “_Voyez!_ I take these men away; I have -the infinite trust in Monsieur; Monsieur and I shall settle this little -affair between us.” - -And he sent his friends to the foot of the stair. - -“Monsieur may compose himself,” he assured me with a profound -inclination. - -“I am very much obliged to you,” I said, seating myself on the corner of -the table and crushing my poor verses into my pocket as I did so, “I am -very much obliged to you, but I'm at a loss to understand to what I owe -the honour.” - -“Indeed!” he said, also seating himself on the table to show, I -supposed, that he was on terms of confidence with his prisoner. -“Monsieur is Father Hamilton's secretary?” - -“So I believe,” I said; “at least I engaged for the office that's -something of a sinecure, to tell the truth.” - -And then Buhot told me a strange story. - -He told me that Father Hamilton was now a prisoner, and on his way to -the prison of Bicêtre. He was--this Buhot--something of the artist and -loved to make his effects most telling (which accounts, no doubt, for -the romantical nature of the accounts aforesaid), and sitting upon the -table-edge he embarked upon a narrative of the most crowded two hours -that had perhaps been in Father Hamilton's lifetime. - -It seemed that when the priest had left the Cerf d'Or, he had gone to -a place till recently called the Bureau des Carrosses pour la Rochelle, -and now unoccupied save by a concierge, and the property of some person -or persons unknown. There he had ensconced himself in the only habitable -room and waited for a visitor regarding whom the concierge had his -instructions. - -“You must imagine him,” said the officer, always with the fastidiousness -of an artist for his effects, “you must imagine him, Monsieur, sitting -in this room, all alone, breathing hard, with a pistol before him on the -table, and--” - -“What! a pistol!” I cried, astounded and alarmed. “_Certainement_” said -Buhot, charmed with the effect his dramatic narrative was creating. -“Your friend, _mon ami_, would be little good, I fancy, with a rapier. -Anyway, 'twas a pistol. A carriage drives up to the door; the priest -rises to his feet with the pistol in his hand; there is the rap at the -door. '_Entrez!_' cries the priest, cocking the pistol, and no sooner -was his visitor within than he pulled the trigger; the explosion rang -through the dwelling; the chamber was full of smoke.” - -“Good heavens!” I cried in horror, “and who was the unhappy wretch?” - -Buhot shrugged his shoulders, made a French gesture with his hands, and -pursed his mouth. - -“Whom did you invite to the room at the hour of ten, M. Greig?” he -asked. - -“Invite!” I cried. “It's your humour to deal in parables. I declare to -you I invited no one.” - -“And yet, my good sir, you are Hamilton's secretary and you are -Hamilton's envoy. 'Twas you handed to the Prince the _poulet_ that was -designed to bring him to his fate.” - -My instinct grasped the situation in a second; I had been the ignorant -tool of a madman; the whole events of the past week made the fact plain, -and I was for the moment stunned. - -Buhot watched me closely, and not unkindly, I can well believe, from -what I can recall of our interview and all that followed after it. - -“And you tell me he killed the Prince?” I cried at last. - -“No, Monsieur,” said Buhot; “I am happy to say he did not. The Prince -was better advised than to accept the invitation you sent to him.” - -“Still,” I cried with remorse, “there's a man dead, and 'tis as much as -happens when princes themselves are clay.” - -“_Parfaitement_, Monsieur, though it is indiscreet to shout it here. -Luckily there is no one at all dead in this case, otherwise it had been -myself, for I was the man who entered to the priest and received his -pistol fire. It was not the merriest of duties either,” he went on, -always determined I should lose no iota of the drama, “for the priest -might have discovered before I got there that the balls of his pistol -had been abstracted.” - -“Then Father Hamilton has been under watch?” - -“Since ever you set foot in Versailles last Friday,” said Buhot -complacently. “The Damiens affair has sharpened our wits, I warrant -you.” - -“Well, sir,” I said, “let me protest that I have been till this moment -in utter darkness about Hamilton's character or plans. I took him for -what he seemed--a genial buffoon of a kind with more gear than -guidance.” - -“We cannot, with infinite regret, assume that, Monsieur, but personally -I would venture a suggestion,” said Buhot, coming closer on the table -and assuming an affable air. “In this business, Hamilton is a tool--no -more; and a poor one at that, badly wanting the grindstone. To break -him--phew!--'twere as easy as to break a glass, but he is one of a great -movement and the man we seek is his master--one Father Fleuriau of the -Jesuits. Hamilton's travels were but part of a great scheme that has -sent half a dozen of his kind chasing the Prince in the past year or -two from Paris to Amsterdam, from Amsterdam to Orleans, from Orleans to -Hamburg, Seville, Lisbon, Rome, Brussels, Potsdam, Nuremburg, Berlin. -The same hand that extracted his bullets tapped the priest's portfolio -and found the wretch was in promise of a bishopric and a great sum of -money. You see, M. Greig, I am curiously frank with my prisoner.” - -“And no doubt you have your reasons,” said I, but beat, myself, -to imagine what they could be save that he might have proofs of my -innocence. - -“Very well,” said M. Buhot. “To come to the point, it is this, that we -desire to have the scheme of the Jesuits for the Prince's assassination, -and other atrocities shocking to all that revere the divinity of -princes, crumbled up. Father Hamilton is at the very roots of the -secret; if, say, a gentleman so much in his confidence as yourself--now, -if such a one were, say, to share a cell with this regicide for a night -or two, and pursue judicious inquiries----” - -“Stop! stop!” I cried, my blood hammering in my head, and the words like -to choke me. “Am I to understand that you would make me your spy and -informer upon this miserable old madman that has led me such a gowk's -errand?” - -Buhot slid back off the table edge and on to his feet. “Oh,” said he, -“the terms are not happily chosen: 'spy'--'informer'--come, Monsieur -Greig; this man is in all but the actual accomplishment of his purpose -an assassin. 'Tis the duty of every honest man to help in discovering -the band of murderers whose tool he has been.” - -“Then I'm no honest man, M. Buhot,” said I bitterly, “for I've no -stomach for a duty so dirty.” - -“Think of it for a moment,” he pressed, with evident surprise at my -decision. “Bicêtre is an unwholesome hostelry, I give you my word. -Consider that your choice is between a night or two there and--who -knows?--a lifetime of Galbanon that is infinitely worse.” - -“Then let it be Galbanon!” I said, and lifted my sword and slapped it -furiously, sheathed as it was, like a switch upon the table. - -[Illustration: 198] - -Buhot leaped back in a fear that I was to attack him, and cried his men -from the stair foot. - -“This force is not needed at all,” I said. “I am innocent enough to be -prepared to go quietly.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -OF A NIGHT JOURNEY AND BLACK BICETRE AT THE END OF IT - -'Twas a long journey to the prison of Bicêtre, which is two miles to the -south of the city of Paris, a great building that had once (they say) -been a palace, but now in the time of my experience was little better -than a vestibule of hell. I was driven to it through a black loud night -of rain, a plunging troop of horse on either hand the coach as if I were -a traveller of state, and Buhot in front of me as silent as the priest -had been the day we left Dunkerque, though wakeful, and the tip of -his scabbard leaning on my boot to make sure that in the darkness no -movement of mine should go unobserved. - -The trees swung and roared in the wind; the glass lozens of the carriage -pattered to the pelting showers; sometimes we lurched horribly in the -ruts of the highway, and were released but after monstrous efforts -on the part of the cavaliers. Once, as we came close upon a loop of a -brawling river, I wished with all fervency that we might fall in, and -so end for ever this pitiful coil of trials whereto fate had obviously -condemned poor Paul Greig. To die among strangers (as is widely -known) is counted the saddest of deaths by our country people, and so, -nowadays, it would seem to myself, but there and then it appeared an -enviable conclusion to the Spoiled Horn that had blundered from folly to -folly. To die there and then would be to leave no more than a regret and -an everlasting wonder in the folks at home; to die otherwise, as seemed -my weird, upon a block or gallows, would be to foul the name of my -family for generations, and I realised in my own person the agony of my -father when he got the news, and I bowed my shoulders in the coach below -the shame that he would feel as in solemn blacks he walked through the -Sabbath kirkyard in summers to come in Mearns, with the knowledge that -though neighbours looked not at him but with kindness, their inmost -thoughts were on the crimson chapter of his son. - -Well, we came at the long last to Bicêtre, and I was bade alight in the -flare of torches. A strange, a memorable scene; it will never leave me. -Often I remit me there in dreams. When I came out of the conveyance the -lights dazzled me, and Buhot put his hands upon my shoulders and turned -me without a word in the direction he wished me to take. It was through -a vast and frowning doorway that led into a courtyard so great that -the windows on the other side seemed to be the distance of a field. The -windows were innumerable, and though the hour was late they were lit in -stretching corridors. Fires flamed in corners of the yard--great leaping -fires round which warders (as I guessed them) gathered to dry themselves -or get warmth against the chill of the early April morning. Their -scabbards or their muskets glittered now and then in the light of the -flames; their voices--restrained by the presence of Buhot--sounded -deep and dreadful to me that knew not the sum of his iniquity yet could -shudder at the sense of what portended. - -[Illustration: 203] - -It were vain for me to try and give expression to my feeling as I went -past these fires across the stony yard, and entered between a guard or -two at the other side. At the root of my horror was the sentiment that -all was foreign, that I was no more to these midnight monsters round -their torturing flames than a creature of the wood, less, perhaps, for -were they not at sworn war with my countrymen, and had not I a share -at least of the repute of regicide? And when, still led by the silent -officer, I entered the building itself and walked through an unending -corridor broken at intervals by black doors and little barred borrowed -lights, and heard sometimes a moan within, or a shriek far off in -another part of the building, I experienced something of that long -swound that is insanity. Then I was doomed for the rest of my brief days -to be among these unhappy wretches--the victims of the law or political -vengeance, the _forçat_ who had thieved, or poisoned, perjured himself, -or taken human blood! - -At last we came to a door, where Buhot stopped me and spoke, for the -first time, almost, since we had left Versailles. He put his hand out to -check a warder who was going to open the cell for my entrance. - -“I am not a hard man, M. Greig,” said he, in a stumbling English, “and -though this is far beyond my duties, and, indeed, contrary to the same, -I would give you another chance. We shall have, look you, our friend the -priest in any case, and to get the others is but a matter of time. 'Tis -a good citizen helps the law always; you must have that respect for the -law that you should feel bound to circumvent those who would go counter -to it with your cognisance.” - -“My good man,” I said, as quietly as I could, and yet internally with -feelings like to break me, “I have already said my say. If the tow was -round my thrapple I would say no more than that I am innocent of any -plot against a man by whose family mine have lost, and that I myself, -for all my loyalty to my country, would do much to serve as a private -individual.” - -“Consider,” he pleaded. “After all, this Hamilton may be a madman with -nothing at all to tell that will help us.” - -“But the bargain is to be that I must pry and I must listen,” said I, -“and be the tale-pyat whose work may lead to this poor old buffoon's and -many another's slaughtering. Not I, M. Buhot, and thank ye kindly! It's -no' work for one of the Greigs of Hazel Den.” - -“I fear you do not consider all,” he said patiently--so patiently indeed -that I wondered at him. “I will show you to what you are condemned even -before your trial, before you make up your mind irrevocably to refuse -this very reasonable request of ours,” and he made a gesture that caused -the warder to open the door so that I could see within. - -There was no light of its own in the cell, but it borrowed wanly a -little of the radiance of the corridor, and I could see that it was bare -to the penury of a mausoleum, with a stone floor, a wooden palliasse, -and no window other than a barred hole above the door. There was not -even a stool to sit on. But I did not quail. - -“I have been in more comfortable quarters, M. Buhot,” I said, “but in -none that I could occupy with a better conscience.” Assuming with that a -sort of bravado, I stepped in before he asked me. - -“Very good,” he cried; “but I cannot make you my felicitations on your -decision, M. Greig,” and without more ado he had the door shut on me. - -I sat on the woollen palliasse for a while, with my head on my hands, -surrendered all to melancholy; and then, though the thing may seem -beyond belief, I stretched myself and slept till morning. It was not the -most refreshing of sleep, but still 'twas wonderful that I should sleep -at all in such circumstances, and I take it that a moorland life had -been a proper preparation for just such trials. - -When I wakened in the morning the prison seemed full of eerie noises--of -distant shrieks as in a bedlam, and commanding voices, and of ringing -metals, the clank of fetters, or the thud of musket-butts upon the -stones. A great beating of feet was in the yard, as if soldiers were -manoeuvring, and it mastered me to guess what all this might mean, until -a warder opened my door and ordered me out for an airing. - -I mind always of a parrot at a window. - -This window was one that looked into the yard from some official's -dwelling in that dreadful place, and the bird occupied a great cage that -was suspended from a nail outside. - -The bird, high above the rabble of rogues in livery, seemed to have a -devilish joy in the spectacle of the misery tramping round and round -beneath, for it clung upon the bars and thrust out its head to whistle, -as if in irony, or taunt us with a foul song. There was one air it -had, expressed so clearly that I picked up air and words with little -difficulty, and the latter ran something like this: - - Ah! ah! Pierrot, Pierrot! - Fais ta toilette, - Voila le barbier! oh! oh! - Et sa charrette-- - -all in the most lugubrious key. - -And who were we that heard that reference to the axe? We were the scum, -the _sordes_, the rot of France. There was, doubtless, no crime before -the law of the land, no outrage against God and man, that had not here -its representative. We were not men, but beasts, cut off from every -pleasant--every clean and decent association, the visions of sin -always behind the peering eyes, the dreams of vice and crime for ever -fermenting in the low brows. I felt 'twas the forests we should be -frequenting--the forests of old, the club our weapon, the cave our -habitation; no song ours, nor poem, no children to infect with fondness, -no women to smile at in the light of evening lamps. The forest--the -cave--the animal! What were we but children of the outer dark, condemned -from the start of time, our faces ground hard against the flints, our -feet bogged in hag and mire? - -There must have been several hundreds of the convicts in the yard, and -yet I was told later that it was not a fourth of the misery that Bicêtre -held, and that scores were leaving weekly for the _bagnes_--the hulks at -Toulon and at Brest--while others took their places. - -Every man wore a uniform--a coarse brown jacket, vast wide breeches of -the same hue, a high sugar-loaf cap and wooden shoes--all except some -privileged, whereof I was one--and we were divided into gangs, each gang -with its warders--tall grenadiers with their muskets ready. - -Round and round and across and across we marched in the great -quadrangle, every man treading the rogues' measure with leg-weary -reluctance, many cursing their warders under breath, most scowling, all -hopeless and all lost. - -'Twas the exercise of the day. - -As we slouched through that mad ceremony in the mud of the yard, with -rain still drizzling on us, the parrot in its cage had a voice loud -and shrill above the commands of the grenadiers and officers; sang -its taunting song, or whistled like a street boy, a beast so free, so -careless and remote, that I had a fancy it had the only soul in the -place. - -As I say, we were divided into gangs, each gang taking its own course -back and forward in the yard as its commander ordered. The gang I was -with marched a little apart from the rest. We were none of us in this -gang in the ugly livery of the prison, but in our own clothing, and we -were, it appeared, allowed that privilege because we were yet to try. I -knew no reason for the distinction at the time, nor did I prize it very -much, for looking all about the yard--at the officers, the grenadiers, -and other functionaries of the prison, I failed to see a single face -I knew. What could I conclude but that Buhot was gone and that I was -doomed to be forgotten here? - -It would have been a comfort even to have got a glimpse of Father -Hamilton, the man whose machinations were the cause of my imprisonment, -but Father Hamilton, if he had been taken here as Buhot had suggested, -was not, at all events, in view. - -After the morning's exercise we that were the privileged were taken to -what was called the _salle dépreuve_, and with three or four to each -_gamelle_ or mess-tub, ate a scurvy meal of a thin soup and black bread -and onions. To a man who had been living for a month at heck and manger, -as we say, this might naturally seem unpalatable fare, but truth to -tell I ate it with a relish that had been all the greater had it been -permitted me to speak to any of my fellow sufferers. But speech was -strictly interdict and so our meal was supped in silence. - -When it was over I was to be fated for the pleasantest of surprises! - -There came to me a sous-officer of the grenadiers. - -In French he asked if I was Monsieur Greig. I said as best I could in -the same tongue that I was that unhappy person at his service. Then, -said he, “Come with me.” He led me into a hall about a hundred feet long -that had beds or mattresses for about three hundred people. The room was -empty, as those who occupied it were, he said, at Mass. Its open windows -in front looked into another courtyard from that in which we had been -exercising, while the windows at the rear looked into a garden where -already lilac was in bloom and daffodillies endowed the soil of a few -mounds with the colour of the gold. On the other side of the court first -named there was a huge building. “Galbanon,” said my guide, pointing to -it, and then made me understand that the same was worse by far than -the Bastille, and at the moment full of Marquises, Counts, Jesuits, and -other clergymen, many of them in irons for abusing or writing against -the Marchioness de Pompadour. - -I listened respectfully and waited Monsieur's explanation. It was -manifest I had not been brought into this hall for the good of my -education, and naturally I concluded the name of Galbanon, that I had -heard already from Buhot, with its villainous reputation, was meant to -terrify me into a submission to what had been proposed. The moment after -a hearty meal--even of _soup maigre_--was not, however, the happiest of -times to work upon a Greig's feelings of fear or apprehension, and so I -waited, very dour within upon my resolution though outwardly in the most -complacent spirit. - -The hall was empty when we entered as I have said, but we had not been -many minutes in it when the tramp of men returning to it might be heard, -and this hurried my friend the officer to his real business. - -He whipped a letter from his pocket and put it in my hand with a sign to -compel secrecy on my part. It may be readily believed I was quick enough -to conceal the missive. He had no cause to complain of the face I turned -upon another officer who came up to us, for 'twas a visage of clownish -vacuity. - -The duty of the second officer, it appeared, was to take me to a new -cell that had been in preparation for me, and when I got there it -was with satisfaction I discovered it more than tolerable, with a -sufficiency of air and space, a good light from the quadrangle, a few -books, paper, and a writing standish. - -When the door had been shut upon me, I turned to open my letter and -found there was in fact a couple of them--a few lines from her ladyship -in Dunkerque expressing her continued interest in my welfare and -adventures, and another from the Swiss through whom the first had come. -He was still--said the honest Bernard--at my service, having eluded -the vigilance of Buhot, who doubtless thought a lackey scarce worth his -hunting, and he was still in a position to post my letters, thanks to -the goodwill of the sous-officer who was a relative. Furthermore, he -was in hopes that Miss Walkinshaw, who was on terms of intimacy with the -great world and something of an _intriguante_, would speedily take steps -to secure my freedom. “Be tranquil, dear Monsieur!” concluded the brave -fellow, and I was so exceedingly comforted and inspired by these matters -that I straightway sat down to the continuation of my journal for Miss -Walkinshaw's behoof. I had scarce dipped the pen, when my cell -door opened and gave entrance to the man who was the cause of my -incarceration. - -The door shut and locked behind him; it was Father Hamilton! - -It was indeed Father Hamilton, by all appearance none the worse in body -for his violent escapade, so weighty with the most fatal possibilities -for himself, for he advanced to me almost gaily, his hand extended and -his face red and smiling. - -“Scotland! to my heart!” cries he in the French, and throws his arms -about me before I could resist, and kisses me on the cheeks after the -amusing fashion of his nation. “La! la! la! Paul,” he cried, “I'd have -wanted three breakfasts sooner than miss this meeting with my good -secretary lad that is the lovablest rogue never dipped a pen in his -master's service. Might have been dead for all I knew, and run through -by a brutal rapier, victim of mine own innocence. But here's my Paul, -_pardieu!_ I would as soon have my _croque-mort_ now as that jolly dog -his uncle, that never waked till midnight or slept till the dull, -uninteresting noon in the years when we went roving. What! Paul! Paul -Greig! my _croque-mort!_ my Don Dolorous!--oh, Lord, my child, I am the -most miserable of wretches!” - -And there he let me go, and threw himself upon a chair, and gave his -vast body to a convulsion of arid sobs. The man was in hysterics, -compounding smiles and sobs a score to the minute, but at the end 'twas -the natural man won the bout, else he had taken a stroke. I stood by -him in perplexity of opinions whether to laugh or storm, whether to give -myself to the righteous horror a good man ought to feel in the presence -of a murtherer, or shrug my shoulders tolerantly at the imbecile. - -“There!” said he, recovering his natural manner, “I have made a mortal -enemy of Andrew Greig's nephew. Yes, yes, master, glower at Misery, -fat Misery--and the devil take it!--old Misery, without a penny in 'ts -pocket, and its next trip upon wheels a trip to the block to nuzzle at -the dirty end in damp sawdust a nose that has appreciated the bouquet -of the rarest wines. Paul, my boy, has't a pinch of snuff? A brutal -bird out there sings a stave of the _Chanson de la Veuve_ so like the -confounded thing that I heard my own foolish old head drop into the -basket, and there! I swear to you the smell of the sawdust is in my -nostrils now.” - -I handed him my box; 'twas a mull my Uncle Andy gave me before he died, -made of the horn of a young bullock, with a blazon of the house on the -silver lid. He took it eagerly and drenched himself with the contents. - -“Oh, la! la!” he cried; “I give thanks. My head was like yeast. I wish -it were Christmas last, and a man called Hamilton was back in Dixmunde -parish. But there! that is enough, I have made my bed and I must lie -on't, with a blight on all militant jesuitry! When last I had this box -in my fingers they were as steady as Mont St. Michel, now look--they are -trembling like aspen, _n'est-ce pas?_ And all that's different is that I -have eaten one or two better dinners and cracked a few pipkins of better -wine, and--and--well-nigh killed a police officer. Did'st ever hear of -one Hamilton, M. Greig? 'Twas a cheery old fellow in Dixmunde whose name -was the same as mine, and had a garden and bee-hives, and I am on the -rack for my sins.” - -He might be on the rack--and, indeed, I daresay the man was in a passion -of feelings so that he knew not what he was havering about, but what -impressed me most of all about him was that he seemed to have some -momentary gleams of satisfaction in his situation. - -“I have every ground of complaint against you, sir,” I said. - -“What!” he interrupted. “Would'st plague an old man with complaints when -M. de Paris is tapping him on the shoulder to come away and smell the -sawdust of his own coffin? Oh, 'tis not in this wise thy uncle had done, -but no matter!” - -“I have no wish, Father Hamilton, to revile you for what you have -brought me,” I hastened to tell him. “That is far from my thoughts, -though now that you put me in mind of it, there is some ground for my -blaming you if blaming was in my intention. But I shall blame you for -this, that you are a priest of the Church and a Frenchman, and yet did -draw a murderous hand upon a prince of your own country.” - -This took him somewhat aback. He helped himself to another voluminous -pinch of my snuff to give him time for a rejoinder and then--“Regicide, -M. Greig, is sometimes to be defended when----” - -“Regicide!” I cried, losing all patience, “give us the plain English -of it, Father Hamilton, and call it murder. To call it by a Latin name -makes it none the more respectable a crime against the courts of heaven -where the curse of Babel has an end. But for an accident, or the cunning -of others, you had a corpse upon your conscience this day, and your name -had been abhorred throughout the whole of Europe.” - -He put his shoulders up till his dew-laps fell in massive folds. - -“'Fore God!” said he, “here's a treatise in black letter from Andrew -Greig's nephew. It comes indifferently well, I assure thee, from -Andrew's nephew. Those who live in glass houses, _cher ami_,--those who -live in glass houses----” - -He tapped me upon the breast with his fat finger and paused, with a -significant look upon his countenance. - -“Oh, ye can out with it, Father Hamilton!” I cried, certain I knew his -meaning. - -“Those who live in glass houses,” said he, “should have some pity for a -poor old devil out in the weather without a shelter of any sort.” - -“You were about to taunt me with my own unhappy affair,” I said, little -relishing his consideration. - -“Was I, M. Greig?” he said softly. “Faith! a glass residence seems to -breed an ungenerous disposition! If thou can'st credit me I know nothing -of thine affair beyond what I may have suspected from a Greig travelling -hurriedly and in red shoes. I make you my compliments, Monsieur, of your -morality that must be horror-struck at my foolish play with a pistol, -yet thinks me capable of a retort so vile as that you indicate. My dear -lad, I but spoke of what we have spoken of together before in our happy -chariot in the woods of Somme--thine uncle's fate, and all I expected -was, that remembering the same, thou his nephew would'st have enough -tolerance for an old fool to leave his punishment in the hands of -the constitute authority. _Voilà!_ I wish to heaven they had given me -another cell, after all, that I might have imagined thy pity for one -that did thee no harm, or at least meant to do none, which is the main -thing with all our acts else Purgatory's more crowded than I fancy.” - -He went wearily over to the fire and spread his trembling hands to -the blaze; I looked after him perplexed in my mind, but not without an -overpowering pity. - -“I have come, like thyself, doubtless,” he said after a little, “over -vile roads in a common cart, and lay awake last night in a dungeon--a -pretty conclusion to my excursion! And yet I am vastly more happy to-day -than I was this time yesterday morning.” - -“But then you were free,” I said, “you had all you need wish for--money, -a conveyance, servants, leisure----” - -“And M' Croque-mort's company,” he added with a poor smile. “True, true! -But the thing was then to do,” and he shuddered. “Now my part is done, -'twas by God's grace a failure, and I could sing for content like one of -the little birds we heard the other day in Somme.” - -He could not but see my bewilderment in my face. - -“You wonder at that,” said he, relinquishing the Roman manner as he -always did when most in earnest. “Does Monsieur fancy a poor old priest -can take to the ancient art of assassination with an easy mind? _Nom de -nom!_ I could skip to the block like a ballet-dancer if 'twere either -that or live the past two days over again and fifty years after. I have -none of the right stomach for murder; that's flat! 'tis a business that -keeps you awake too much at night, and disturbs the gastric essence; -calls, too, for a confounded agility that must be lacking in a person of -my handsome and plenteous bulk. I had rather go fishing any day in the -week than imbrue. When Buhot entered the room where I waited for a less -worthy man and I fired honestly for my money and missed, I could have -died of sheer rapture. Instead I threw myself upon his breast and -embraced him.” - -“He said none of that to me.” - -“Like enough not, but 'tis true none the less, though he may keep so -favourable a fact out of his records. A good soul enough, Buhot! We knew -him, your uncle and I, in the old days when I was thinner and played a -good game of chess at three in the morning. Fancy Ned Hamilton cutting -short the glorious career of old Buhot! I'd sooner pick a pocket.” - -“Or kill a prince!” - -“Felicitations on your wit, M. Greig! Heaven help the elderly when -the new wit is toward! _N'importe!_ Perhaps 'twere better to kill some -princes than to pick a pocket. Is it not better, or less wicked, let us -say, to take the life of a man villainously abusing it than the purse of -a poor wretch making the most of his scanty _livres?_” - -And then the priest set out upon his defence. It is too long here to -reproduce in his own words, even if I recalled them, and too specious -in its terms for the patience of the honest world of our time. With his -hands behind his back he marched up and down the room for the space of -a half-hour at the least, recounting all that led to his crime. The -tale was like a wild romance, but yet, as we know now, true in every -particular. He was of the Society of Jesus, had lived a stormy youth, -and fallen in later years into a disrepute in his own parish, and there -the heads of his Society discovered him a very likely tool for their -purposes. They had only half convinced him that the death of Charles -Edward was for the glory of God and the good of the Church when they -sent him marching with a pistol and £500 in bills of exchange and -letters of credit upon a chase that covered a great part of three or -four countries, and ended at Lisbon, when a German Jesuit in the secret -gave him ten crusadoes to bring him home with his task unaccomplished. - -“I have what amounts almost to a genius for losing the opportunities -of which I do not desire to avail myself,” said Father Hamilton with a -whimsical smile. - -And then he had lain in disgrace with the Jesuits for a number of -years until it became manifest (as he confessed with shame) that his -experience of leisure, wealth, and travel had enough corrupted him to -make the prospect of a second adventure of a similar kind pleasing. At -that time Charles, lost to the sight of Europe, and only discovered at -brief and tantalising intervals by the Jesuit agents, scarce slept two -nights in the same town, but went from country to country _incognito_, -so that 'twas no trivial task Father Hamilton undertook to run him to -earth. - -“The difficulty of it--indeed the small likelihood there was of my ever -seeing him,” he said, “was what mainly induced me to accept the office, -though in truth it was compelled. I was doing very well at Dunkerque,” - he went on, “and very happy if I had never heard more of prince or -priesthood, when Father Fleuriau sent me a hurried intimation that my -victim was due at Versailles on Easter and ordered my instant departure -there.” - -The name of Fleuriau recalled me to my senses. “Stop, stop, Father -Hamilton!” I cried, “I must hear no more.” - -“What!” said he, bitterly, “is't too good a young gentleman to listen to -the confession of a happy murderer that has failed at his trade?” - -“I have no feeling left but pity,” said I, almost like to weep at this, -“but you have been put into this cell along with me for a purpose.” - -“And what might that be, M. Greig?” he asked, looking round about him, -and seeing for the first time, I swear, the sort of place he was -in. “Faith! it is comfort, at any rate; I scarce noticed that, in my -pleasure at seeing Paul Greig again.” - -“You must not tell me any more of your Jesuit plot, nor name any of -those involved in the same, for Buhot has been at me to cock an ear -to everything you may say in that direction, and betray you and your -friends. It is for that he has put us together into this cell.” - -“_Pardieu!_ am not I betrayed enough already?” cried the priest, -throwing up his hands. “I'll never deny my guilt.” - -“Yes,” I said, “but they want the names of your fellow conspirators, and -Buhot says they never expect them directly from you.” - -“He does, does he?” said the priest, smiling. “Faith, M. Buhot has a -good memory for his friend's characteristics. No, M. Greig, if they -put this comfortable carcase to the rack itself. And was that all -thy concern? Well, as I was saying--let us speak low lest some one be -listening--this Father Fleuriau-” - -Again I stopped him. - -“You put me into a hard position, Father Hamilton,” I said. “My -freedom--my life, perhaps--depends on whether I can tell them your -secret or not, and here you throw it in my face.” - -“And why not?” he asked, simply. “I merely wish to show myself largely -the creature of circumstances, and so secure a decent Scot's most -favourable opinion of me before the end.” - -“But I might be tempted to betray you.” - -The old eagle looked again out at his eyes. He gently slapped my -cheek with a curious touch of fondness almost womanly, and gave a low, -contented laugh. - -“_Farceur!_” he said. “As if I did not know my Don Dolorous, my merry -Andrew's nephew!” His confidence hugely moved me, and, lest he should -think I feared to trust myself with his secrets, I listened to the -remainder of his story, which I shall not here set down, as it bears but -slightly on my own narrative, and may even yet be revealed only at cost -of great distress among good families, not only on the Continent but in -London itself. - -When he had done, he thanked me for listening so attentively to a matter -that was so much on his mind that it gave him relief to share it with -some one. “And not only for that, M. Greig,” said he, “are my thanks -due, for you saved the life that might have been the prince's instead -of my old gossip, Buhot's. To take the bullet out of my pistol was -the device your uncle himself would have followed in the like -circumstances.” - -“But I did not do that!” I protested. - -He looked incredulous. - -“Buhot said as much,” said he; “he let it out unwittingly that I had had -my claws clipped by my own household.” - -“Then assuredly not by me, Father Hamilton.” - -“So!” said he, half incredulous, and a look of speculation came upon his -countenance. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -PHILOSOPHY IN A FELON'S CELL - -It seemed for a while as if we were fated to lie forgotten in Bicêtre -till the crack of doom; not that we were many days there when all was -done, but that in our natural hourly expectation at first of being -called forth for trial the hours passed so sluggishly that Time -seemed finally to sleep, and a week, to our fancy--to mine at all -events--seemed a month at the most modest computation. - -I should have lost my reason but for the company of the priest, who, for -considerations best known to others and to me monstrously inadequate, -was permitted all the time to share my cell. In his singular society -there was a recreation that kept me from too feverishly brooding on my -wrongs, and his character every day presented fresh features of interest -and admiration. He had become quite cheerful again, and as content in -the confine of his cell as he had been when the glass coach was jolting -over the early stages of what had been intended for a gay procession -round the courts of Europe. Once more he affected the Roman manner that -was due to his devotion to Shakespeare and L'Estrange's Seneca, and -“Clarissa Harlowe,” a knowledge of which, next to the Scriptures, he -counted the first essentials for a polite education. I protest he grew -fatter every day, and for ease his corpulence was at last saved the -restraint of buttons, which was an indolent indulgence so much to -his liking that of itself it would have reconciled him to spend the -remainder of his time in prison. - -“_Tiens!_ Paul,” he would say, “here's an old fool has blundered through -the greater part of his life without guessing till now how easy a thing -content is to come by. Why, 'tis no more than a loose waistcoat and a -chemise unbuttoned at the neck. I dared not be happy thus in Dixmunde, -where the folks were plaguily particular that their priest should be -point-devise, as if mortal man had time to tend his soul and keep a -constant eye on the lace of his fall.” - -And he would stretch himself--a very mountain of sloth--in his chair. - -With me 'twas different. Even in a gaol I felt sure a day begun untidily -was a day ill-done by. If I had no engagements with the fastidious -fashionable world I had engagements with myself; moreover, I shared my -father's sentiment, that a good day's darg of work with any thinking in -it was never done in a pair of slippers down at the heel. Thus I was -as peijink (as we say) in Bicêtre as I would have been at large in the -genteel world. - -“Not,” he would admit, “but that I love to see thee in a decent habit, -and so constant plucking at thy hose, for I have been young myself, and -had some right foppish follies, too. But now, my good man Dandiprat, my -_petit-maître_, I am old--oh, so old!--and know so much of wisdom, and -have seen such a confusion of matters, that I count comfort the greatest -of blessings. The devil fly away with buttons and laces! say I, that -have been parish priest of Dixmunde--and happily have not killed a man -nor harmed a flea, though like enough to get killed myself.” - -The weather was genial, yet he sat constantly hugging the fire, and I -at the window, which happily gave a prospect of the yard between our -building and that of Galbanon. I would be looking out there, and -perhaps pining for freedom, while he went prating on upon the scurviest -philosophy surely ever man gave air to. - -[Illustration: 226] - -“Behold, my scrivener, how little man wants for happiness! My constant -fear in Dixmunde was that I would become so useless for all but eating -and sleeping, when I was old, that no one would guarantee me either; -poverty took that place at my table the skull took among the Romans--the -thought on't kept me in a perpetual apprehension. _Nom de chien!_ and -this was what I feared--this, a hard lodging, coarse viands, and sour -wine! What was the fellow's name?--Demetrius, upon the taking of Megara, -asked Monsieur Un-tel the Philosopher what he had lost. 'Nothing at -all,' said he, 'for I have all that I could call my own about me,' and -yet 'twas no more than the skin he stood in. A cell in Bicêtre would -have been paradise to such a gallant fellow. Oh, Paul, I fear thou -may'st be ungrateful--I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining -for freedom,” he went prating on, “to this good Buhot, who has given us -such a fine lodging, and saved us the care of providing for ourselves.” - -“'Tis all very well, father,” I said, leaning on the sill of the window, -and looking at a gang of prisoners being removed from one part of -Galbanon to another--“'tis all very well, but I mind a priest that -thought jaunting round the country in a chariot the pinnacle of bliss. -And that was no further gone than a fortnight ago.” - -“Bah!” said he, and stretched his fat fingers to the fire; “he that -cannot live happily anywhere will live happily nowhere at all. What -avails travel, if Care waits like a hostler to unyoke the horses at -every stage? I tell thee, my boy, I never know what a fine fellow -is Father Hamilton till I have him by himself at a fireside; 'tis by -firesides all the wisest notions come to one.” - -“I wish there came a better dinner than to-day's,” said I, for we had -agreed an hour ago that smoked soup was not very palatable. - -“La! la! la! there goes Sir Gourmet!” cried his reverence. “Have I -infected this poor Scot that ate naught but oats ere he saw France, with -mine own fever for fine feeding from which, praise _le bon Dieu!_ I have -recovered? 'Tis a brutal entertainment, and unworthy of man, to place -his felicity in the service of his senses. I maintain that even smoked -soup is pleasant enough on the palate of a man with an easy conscience, -and a mind purged of vulgar cares.” - -“And you can be happy here, Father Hamilton?” - -I asked, astonished at such sentiments from a man before so ill to -please. - -He heaved like a mountain in travail, and brought forth a peal of -laughter out of all keeping with our melancholy situation. “Happy!” said -he, “I have never been happy for twenty years till Buhot clapped claw -upon my wrist. Thou may'st have seen a sort of mask of happiness, a -false face of jollity in Dunkerque parlours, and heard a well-simulated -laughter now and then as we drank by wayside inns, but may I be called -coxcomb if the miserable wretch who playacted then was half so light of -heart as this that sits here at ease, and has only one regret--that he -should have dragged Andrew Greig's nephew into trouble with him. What -man can be perfectly happy that runs the risk of disappointment--which -is the case of every man that fears or hopes for anything? Here am I, -too old for the flame of love or the ardour of ambition; all that knew -me and understood me best and liked me most are dead long since. I have -a state palace prepared for me free; a domestic in livery to serve my -meals; parishioners do not vex me with their trifling little hackneyed -sins, and my conclusion seems like to come some morning after an omelet -and a glass of wine.” - -I could not withhold a shudder. - -“But to die that way, Father!” I said. - -“_C'est égal!_” said he, and crossed himself. “We must all die somehow, -and I had ever a dread of a stone. Come, come, M. Croque-mort, enough -of thy confounded dolours! I'll be hanged if thou did'st not steal -these shoes, and art after all but an impersonator of a Greig. The lusty -spirit thou call'st thine uncle would have used his teeth ere now to -gnaw his way through the walls of Bicêtre, and here thou must stop to -converse cursedly on death to the fatted ox that smells the blood of the -abattoir--oh lad, give's thy snuff-box, sawdust again!” - -Thus by the hour went on the poor wretch, resigned most obviously to -whatever was in store for him, not so much from a native courage, I -fear, as from a plethora of flesh that smothered every instinct of -self-preservation. As for me I kept up hope for three days that Buhot -would surely come to test my constancy again, and when that seemed -unlikely, when day after day brought the same routine, the same cell -with Hamilton, the same brief exercise in the yard, the same vulgar -struggle at the _gamelle_ in the _salle d'épreuve_--I could have -welcomed Galbanon itself as a change, even if it meant all the -horror that had been associated with it by Buhot and my friend the -sous-officer. - -Galbanon! I hope it has long been levelled with the dust, and even then -I know the ghosts of those there tortured in their lives will habitate -the same in whirling eddies, for a constant cry for generations has -gone up to heaven from that foul spot. It must have been a devilish -ingenuity, an invention of all the impish courts below, that placed me -at a window where Galbanon faced me every hour of the day or night, its -horror all revealed. I have seen in the pool of Earn in autumn weather, -when the river was in spate, dead leaves and broken branches borne down -dizzily upon the water to toss madly in the linn at the foot of the -fall; no less helpless, no less seared by sin and sorrow, or broken by -the storms of circumstance, were the wretches that came in droves to -Galbanon. The stream of crime or tyranny bore them down (some from very -high places), cast them into this boiling pool, and there they eddied in -a circle of degraded tasks from which it seemed the fate of many of them -never to escape, though their luckier fellows went in twos or threes -every other day in a cart to their doom appointed. - -Be sure it was not pleasant each day for me to hear the hiss of the lash -and the moans of the bastinadoed wretch, to see the blood spurt, and -witness the anguish of the men who dragged enormous bilboes on their -galled ankles. - -At last I felt I could stand it no longer, and one day intimated to -Father Hamilton that I was determined on an escape. - -“Good lad!” he cried, his eye brightening. “The most sensible thing thou -hast said in twenty-four hours. 'Twill be a recreation for myself to -help,” and he buttoned his waistcoat. - -“We can surely devise some means of breaking out if----” - -“We!” he repeated, shaking his head. “No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky -a task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by -thyself and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows -when he is well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's -charming and commodious inn until the bill is presented.” - -In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while -I took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day -at least I abandoned the project. - -Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned -before him. - -“Well, Monsieur,” he said, “is it that we have here a more discerning -young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?” - -“Just the very same, M. Buhot,” said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of -his pen and shrugged his shoulders. - -“Come, come, M. Greig,” he went on, “this is a _bêtise_ of the most -ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself -whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool -of others or himself a genius of mischief.” - -“The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but -that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man! -he has not got the energy to kick a dog.” - -“And--and--” said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of -revelation. - -“And that's all, M. Buhot,” said I, with a carriage he could not -mistake. - -He shrugged his shoulders again, wrote something in a book on the desk -before him with great deliberation and then asked me how I liked my -quarters in Bicêtre. - -“Tolerably well,” I said. “I've been in better, but I might be in waur.” - -He laughed a little at the Scotticism that seemed to recall -something--perhaps a pleasantry of my uncle's--to him, and then said -he, “I'm sorry they cannot be yours very much longer, M. Greig. We -calculated that a week or two of this priest's company would have been -enough to inspire a distaste and secure his confession, but apparently -we were mistaken. You shall be taken to other quarters on Saturday.” - -“I hope, M. Buhot,” said I, “they are to be no worse than those I occupy -now.” - -His face reddened a little at this--I felt always there was some vein of -special kindness to me in this man's nature--and he said hesitatingly, -“Well, the truth is, 'tis Galbanon.” - -“Before a trial?” I asked, incredulous. - -“The trial will come in good time,” he said, rising to conclude the -parley, and he turned his back on me as I was conducted out of the -room and back to the cell, where Father Hamilton waited with unwonted -agitation for my tidings. - -“Well, lad,” he cried, whenever we were alone, “what stirs? I warrant -they have not a jot of evidence against thee,” but in a second he saw -from my face the news was not so happy, and his own face fell. - -“We are to be separated on Saturday,” I told him. - -Tears came to his eyes at that--a most feeling old rogue! - -“And where is't for thee, Paul?” he asked. - -“Where is't for yourself ought to be of more importance to you, Father -Hamilton.” - -“No, no,” he cried, “it matters little about me, but surely for you it -cannot be Galbanon?” - -“Indeed, and it is no less.” - -“Then, Paul,” he said firmly, “we must break out, and that without loss -of time.” - -“Is it in the plural this time?” I asked him. - -He affected an indifference, but at the last consented to share the -whole of the enterprise. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -WE ATTEMPT AN ESCAPE - -Father Hamilton was not aware of the extent of it, but he knew I was in -a correspondence with the sous-officer. More than once he had seen us in -the _salle dépreuve_ in a manifest understanding of each other, -though he had no suspicion that the gentleman was a Mercury for Miss -Walkinshaw, whose name seldom, if ever, entered into our conversation -in the cell. From her I had got but one other letter--a brief -acknowledgment of some of my fullest budgets, but 'twas enough to keep -me at my diurnal on every occasion almost on which the priest slept. I -sent her (with the strictest injunction to secrecy upon so important a -matter) a great deal of the tale the priest had told me--not so much -for her entertainment as for the purpose of moving in the poor man's -interests. Especially was I anxious that she should use her influence -to have some one communicate to Father Fleuriau, who was at the time in -Bruges, how hazardous was the position of his unhappy cat's-paw, whose -state I pictured in the most moving colours I could command. There was, -it must be allowed, a risk in entrusting a document so damnatory to -any one in Bicêtre, but that the packet was duly forwarded to its -destination I had every satisfaction of from the sous-officer, who -brought me an acknowledgment to that effect from Bernard the Swiss. - -The priest knew, then, as I say, that I was on certain terms with this -sous-officer, and so it was with no hesitation I informed him that, -through the favour of the latter, I had a very fair conception of -the character and plan of this building of Bicêtre in which we were -interned. What I had learned of most importance to us was that the block -of which our cell was a part had a face to the main road of Paris, from -which thoroughfare it was separated by a spacious court and a long range -of iron palisades. If ever we were to make our way out of the place -it must be in this direction, for on two sides of our building we were -overlooked by buildings vastly more throng than our own, and bordered by -yards in which were constant sentinels. Our block jutted out at an angle -from one very much longer, but lower by two storeys, and the disposition -of both made it clear that to enter into this larger edifice, and -towards the gable end of it that overlooked the palisades of the Paris -road, was our most feasible method of essay. - -I drew a plan of the prison and grounds on paper, estimating as best I -might all the possible checks we were like to meet with, and leaving a -balance of chances in our favour that we could effect our purpose in a -night. - -The priest leaned his chin upon his arms as he lolled over the table on -which I eagerly explained my diagram, and sighed at one or two of the -feats of agility it assumed. There was, for example, a roof to walk -upon--the roof of the building we occupied--though how we were to get -there in the first place was still to be decided. Also there was a -descent from that roof on to the lower building at right angles, though -where the ladder or rope for this was to come from I must meanwhile -airily leave to fortune. Finally, there was--assuming we got into the -larger building, and in some unforeseeable way along its roof and clear -to the gable end--a part of the yard to cross, and the palisade to -escalade. - -“Oh, lad! thou takest me for a bird,” cried his reverence, aghast at -all this. “Is thy poor fellow prisoner a sparrow? A little after this I -might do't with my own wings--the saints guide me!--but figure you that -at present I am not Philetas, the dwarf, who had to wear leaden shoes -lest the wind should blow him away. 'Twould take a wind indeed to stir -this amplitude of good humours, this sepulchre of twenty thousand good -dinners and incomputible tuns of liquid merriment. Pray, Paul, make -an account of my physical infirmities, and mitigate thy transport of -vaultings and soarings and leapings and divings, unless, indeed, thou -meditatest sewing me up in a sheet, and dragging me through the realms -of space.” - -“We shall manage! we shall manage!” I insisted, now quite uplifted in a -fanciful occupation that was all to my tastes, even if nothing came -of it, and I plunged more boldly into my plans. They were favoured -by several circumstances--the first, namely, that we were not in the -uniform of the prison, and, once outside the prison, could mingle with -the world without attracting attention. Furthermore, by postponing the -attempt till the morrow night I could communicate with the Swiss, and -secure his cooperation outside in the matter of a horse or a vehicle, if -the same were called for. I did not, however, say so much as that to his -reverence, whom I did not wish as yet to know of my correspondence -with Bernard. Finally, we had an auspicious fact at the outset of our -attempt, inasmuch as the cell we were in was in the corridor next to -that of which the sous-officer had some surveillance, and I knew his -mind well enough now to feel sure he would help in anything that did not -directly involve his own position and duties. In other words, he was to -procure a copy of the key of our cell, and find a means of leaving it -unlocked when the occasion arose. - -“A copy of the key, Paul!” said Father Hamilton; “sure there are no -bounds to thy cheerful mad expectancy! But go on! go on! art sure he -could not be prevailed on--this fairy godfather--to give us an escort of -cavalry and trumpeters?” - -“This is not much of a backing-up, Father Hamilton,” I said, annoyed at -his skeptic comments upon an affair that involved so much and agitated -myself so profoundly. - -“Pardon! Paul,” he said hastily, confused and vexed himself at the -reproof. “Art quite right, I'm no more than a croaker, and for penance I -shall compel myself to do the wildest feat thou proposest.” - -We determined to put off the attempt at escape till I had communicated -with the sous-officer (in truth, though Father Hamilton did not know -it, till I had communicated with Bernard the Swiss), and it was the -following afternoon I had not only an assurance of the unlocked door, -but in my hand a more trustworthy plan of the prison than my own, and -the promise that the Swiss would be waiting with a carriage outside the -palisades when we broke through, any time between midnight and five in -the morning. - -Next day, then, we were in a considerable agitation; to that extent -indeed that I clean forgot that we had no aid to our descent of twenty -or thirty feet (as the sous-sergeant's diagram made it) from the roof of -our block on to that of the one adjoining. We had had our minds so much -on bolted doors and armed sentinels that this detail had quite escaped -us until almost on the eve of setting out at midnight, the priest began -again to sigh about his bulk and swear no rope short of a ship's cable -would serve to bear him. - -“Rope!” I cried, in a tremendous chagrin at my stupidity. “Lord! if I -have not quite forgot it. We have none.” - -“Ah!” he said, “perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps my heart is so -light at parting with my _croque-mort_ that I can drop upon the tiles -like a pigeon.” - -“Parting,” I repeated, eyeing him suspiciously, for I thought perhaps he -had changed his mind again. “Who thinks of parting?” - -“Not I indeed,” says he, “unless the rope do when thou hast got it.” - -There was no rope, however, and I cursed my own folly that I had not -asked one from the sous-officer whose complaisance might have gone the -length of a fathom or two, though it did not, as the priest suggested, -go so far as an armed convoy and a brace of trumpeters. It was too late -now to repair the overlook, and to the making of rope the two of us had -there and then to apply ourselves, finding the sheets and blankets-of -our beds scanty enough for our purpose, and by no means of an assuring -elegance or strength when finished. But we had thirty feet of some sort -of cord at the last, and whether it was elegant or not it had to do for -our purpose. - -Luckily the night was dark as pitch and a high wind roared in the -chimneys, and in the numerous corners of the prison. There was a sting -in the air that drew many of the sentinels round the braziers flaming -in the larger yard between the main entrance and the buildings, and that -further helped our prospects; so that it was with some hope, in spite -of a heart that beat like a flail in my breast, I unlocked the door and -crept out into the dimly-lighted corridor with the priest close behind -me. - -Midway down this gallery there was a stair of which our plan apprised -us, leading to another gallery--the highest of the block--from which a -few steps led to a cock-loft where the sous-officer told us there was -one chance in a score of finding a blind window leading to the roof. - -No one, luckily, appeared as we hurried down the long gallery. I darted -like a fawn up the stair to the next flat, Father Hamilton grievously -puffing behind me, and we had just got into the shadow of the steps -leading to the cock-loft when a warder's step and the clank of his -chained keys came sounding down the corridor. He passed within three -feet of us and I felt the blood of all my body chill with fear! - -“I told thee, lad,” whispered the priest, mopping the sweat from his -face, “I told thee 'twas an error to burden thyself with such a useless -carcase. Another moment or two--a gasp for the wind that seems so cursed -ill to come by at my years, and I had brought thee into trouble.” - -I paid no heed to him, but crept up the steps and into the cock-loft -that smelt villainously of bats. - -The window was unfastened! I stuck out my head upon the tiles and -sniffed the fine fresh air of freedom as it had been a rare perfume. - -Luckily the window was scarcely any height, and it proved easy to aid -his reverence into the open air. Luckily, further, it was too dark -for him to realise the jeopardies of his situation for whether his -precarious gropings along the tiles were ten feet or thirty from the -yard below was indiscoverable in the darkness. He slid his weighty body -along with an honest effort that was wholly due to his regard for my -interests, because 'twas done with groans and whispered protestations -that 'twas the maddest thing for a man to leave a place where he was -happy and risk his neck in an effort to discover misery. A rime of frost -was on the tiles, and they were bitter cold to the touch. One fell, -too, below me as I slid along, and rattled loudly over its fellows and -plunged into the yard. - -Naturally we stopped dead and listened breathless, a foolish action for -one reason because in any case we had been moving silently at a great -height above the place where the tile should fall so that there was no -risk of our being heard or seen, but our listening discovered so great -an interval between the loosening of the tile and its dull shattering -on the stones below that the height on which we were perched in the -darkness was made more plain--more dreadful to the instincts than if -we could actually measure it with the eye. I confess I felt a touch -of nausea, but nothing compared with the priest, whose teeth began to -chitter in an ague of horror. - -“Good Lord, Paul!” he whispered to me, clutching my leg as I moved in -front of him, “it is the bottomless pit.” - -“Not unless we drop,” said I. And to cheer him up I made some foolish -joke. - -If the falling tile attracted any attention in the yard it was not -apparent to us, and five minutes later we had to brace ourselves to a -matter that sent the tile out of our minds. - -For we were come to the end of the high building, and twenty feet below -us, at right angles, we could plainly see the glow of several skylights -in the long prison to which it was attached. It was now the moment for -our descent on the extemporised rope. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -A RIMEY NIGHT ON ROOF-TOPS, AND A NEW USE FOR AN OLD KIRK BELL - -I fastened the rope about a chimney-head with some misgivings that by -the width and breadth of the same I was reducing our chance of ever -getting down to the lower building, as the knotted sheets from the -outset had been dubious measure for the thirty feet of which my -sous-officer had given the estimate. But I said never a word to the -priest of my fears on that score, and determined for once to let what -was left of honesty go before well-fattened age and test the matter -first myself. If the cord was too brief for its purpose, or (what was -just as likely) on the frail side, I could pull myself back in the one -case as the priest was certainly unfit to do, and in the other my weight -would put less strain upon it than that of Father Hamilton. - -I can hear him yet in my imagination after forty years, as he clung -to the ridge of the roof like a seal on a rock, chittering in the cold -night wind, enviously eyeing some fires that blazed in another yard and -groaning melancholiously. - -“A garden,” said he, “and six beehives--no, 'faith! 'twas seven last -summer, and a roomful of books. Oh, Paul, Paul! Now I know how God cast -out Satan. He took him from his warm fireside, and his books before they -were all read, and his pantoufles, and set him straddling upon a frozen -house-top to ponder through eternal night upon the happy past. Alas, -poor being! How could he know what joys were in the simplicity of a room -of books half-read and a pair of warm old slippers?” - -He was fair rambling in his fears, my poor priest, and I declare -scarcely knew the half of what he uttered, indeed he spoke out so loudly -that I had to check him lest he should attract attention from below. - -“Father Hamilton,” said I, when my cord was fastened, “with your -permission I'll try it first. I want to make it sure that my seamanship -on the sloop _Sarah_, of Ayr, has not deserted me to the extent that I -cannot come down a rope without a ratline or tie a bowling knot.” - -“Certainly, Paul, certainly,” said he, quite eagerly, so that I was -tempted for a second to think he gladly postponed his own descent from -sheer terror. - -I threw over the free end of the cord and crouched upon the beak of the -gable to lower myself. - -“Well, Paul,” said his reverence in a broken voice. “Let us say -'good-bye' in case aught should happen ere we are on the same level -again.” - -“Oh!” said I, impatient, “that's the true _croque-mort_ spirit indeed! -Why, Father, it isn't--it isn't--” I was going to say it was not a -gallows I was venturing on, but the word stuck in my throat, for a -certain thought that sprung to me of how nearly in my own case it had -been to the very gallows, and his reverence doubtless saw some delicacy, -for he came promptly to my help. - -“Not a priest's promise--made to be broken, you would say, good Paul,” - said he. “I promised the merriest of jaunts over Europe in a coach, -and here my scrivener is hanging in the reins! Pardon, dear Scotland, -_milles pardons_ and good-bye and good luck.” And at that he made to -embrace me. - -“Here's a French ceremony just about nothing at all,” I thought, and -began my descent. The priest lay on his stomach upon the ridge. As I -sank, with my eyes turned upwards, I could see his hair blown by the -wind against a little patch of stars, that was the only break in the -Ethiopia of the sky. He seemed to follow my progress breathlessly, -and when I gained the other roof and shook the cord to tell him so he -responded by a faint clapping of his hands. - -“Art all right, lad?” he whispered down to me, and I bade him follow. - -“Good-night, Paul, good-bye, and God bless you!” he whispered. “Get out -of this as quick as you can; 'tis more than behemoth could do in a month -of dark nights, and so I cut my share of the adventure. One will do't -when two (and one of them a hogshead) will die in trying to do't.” - -Here was a pretty pickle! The man's ridiculous regard for my safety -outweighed his natural inclinations, though his prospects in the prison -of Bicêtre were blacker than my own, having nothing less dreadful than -an execution at the end of them. He had been merely humouring me so -far--and such a brave humouring in one whose flesh was in a quaking of -alarms all the time he slid along the roof! - -“Are you not coming?” I whispered. - -“On the contrary, I'm going, dear Paul,” said he with a pretence at -levity. “Going back to my comfortable cell and my uniformed servant and -M. Buhot, the charmingest of hostellers, and I declare my feet are like -ice.” - -“Then,” said I firmly, “I go back too. I'll be eternally cursed if I -give up my situation as scrivener at this point. I must e'en climb up -again.” And with that I prepared to start the ascent. - -“Stop! stop!” said he without a second's pause, “stop where you are and -I'll go down. Though 'tis the most stupendous folly,” he added with a -sigh, and in a moment later I saw his vast bulk laboriously heaving -over the side of the roof. Fortunately the knots in the cord where -the fragments of sheet and blanket were joined made his task not so -difficult as it had otherwise been, and almost as speedily as I had done -it myself he reached the roof of the lower building, though in such a -state he quivered like a jelly, and was dumb with fear or with exertion -when the thing was done. - -“Ah!” he said at last, when he had recovered himself. “Art a fool to be -so particular about an old carcase accursed of easy humours and accused -of regicide. Take another thought on't, Paul. What have you to do with -this wretch of a priest that brought about the whole trouble in your -ignorance? And think of Galbanon!” - -“Think of the devil! Father Hamilton,” I snapped at him, “every minute -we waste havering away here adds to the chances against any of us -getting free, and I am sure that is not your desire. The long and the -short of it is that I'll not stir a step out of Bicêtre--no, not if the -doors themselves were open--unless you consent to come with me.” - -“_Ventre Dieu!_” said he, “'tis just such a mulish folly as I might have -looked for from the nephew of Andrew Greig. But lead on, good imbecile, -lead on, and blame not poor Father Hamilton if the thing ends in a -fiasco!” - -We now crawled along a roof no whit more easily traversed than that -we had already commanded. Again and again I had to stop to permit my -companion to come up on me, for the pitch of the tiles was steep, and -he in a peril from his own lubricity, and it was necessary even to put -a hand under his arm at times when he suffered a vertigo through seeing -the lights in the yard deep down as points of flame. - -“Egad! boy,” he said, and his perspiring hand clutching mine at one of -our pauses, “I thrill at the very entrails. I'd liefer have my nose in -the sawdust any day than thrash through thin air on to a paving-stone.” - -“A minute or two more and we are there,” I answered him. - -“Where?” said he, starting; “in purgatory?” - -“Look up, man!” I told him. “There's a window beaming ten yards off.” - And again I pushed on. - -In very truth there was no window, though I prayed as fervently for one -as it had been a glimpse of paradise, but I was bound to cozen the -old man into effort for his own life and for mine. What I had from the -higher building taken for the glow of skylights had been really the -light of windows on the top flat of the other prison block, and its -roof was wholly unbroken. At least I had made up my mind to that with -a despair benumbing when I touched wood. My fingers went over it in the -dark with frantic eagerness. It was a trap such as we had come out of at -the other block, but it was shut. Before the priest could come up to me -and suffer the fresh horror of disappointment I put my weight upon it, -and had the good fortune to throw it in. The flap fell with a shriek of -hinges and showed gaping darkness. We stretched upon the tiles as close -as limpets and as silent. Nothing stirred within. - -“A garden,” said he in a little, “as sweet as ever bean grew in, with -the rarest plum-tree; and now I am so cold.” - -“I could be doing with some of your complaint,” said I; “as for me, I'm -on fire. Please heaven, you'll be back in the garden again.” - -I lowered myself within, followed by the priest, and found we were -upon the rafters. A good bit off there was a beam of light that led us, -groping, and in an imminent danger of going through the plaster, to -an air-hole over a little gallery whose floor was within stretch as I -lowered myself again. - -Father Hamilton squeezed after me; we both looked over the edge of the -gallery, and found it was a chapel we were in! - -“_Sacré nom!_” said the priest and crossed himself, with a genuflexion -to the side of the altar. - -“Oh, Lord! Paul,” he said, whispering, “if 'twere the Middle Ages, and -this were indeed a sanctuary, how happy was a poor undeserving son of -Mother Church! Even Dagobert's hounds drew back from the stag in St. -Denys.” - -It was a mean interior, as befitted the worship of the _misérables_ who -at times would meet there. A solemn quiet held the place, that seemed -wholly deserted; the dim light that had shown through the air-hole and -guided us came from some candles dripping before a shrine. - -“Heaven help us!” said the priest. “I know just such another.” - -There was nobody in the church so far as we could observe from the -little gallery in which we found ourselves, but when we had gone down a -flight of steps into the body of the same, and made to cross towards the -door, we were suddenly confronted by a priest in a white cope. My heart -jumped to my mouth; I felt a prinkling in the roots of my hair, and -stopped dumb, with all my faculties basely deserted from me. Luckily -Father Hamilton kept his presence of mind. As he told me later, he -remembered of a sudden the Latin proverb that in battles the eye is -first overcome, and he fixed the man in the stole with a glance that was -bold and disconcerting. As it happened, however, the other priest was -almost as blind as a bat, and saw but two civil worshippers in his -chapel. He did not even notice that it was a _soutane_; he passed -peeringly, with a bow to our inclinations, and it was almost -incredulous of our good fortune I darted out of the chapel into the -darkness of a courtyard of equal extent with that I had crossed on the -night of my first arrival at Bicêtre. At its distant end there were the -same flaming braziers with figures around them, and the same glitter of -arms. - -Now this Bicêtre is set upon a hill and commands a prospect of the city -of Paris, of the Seine and its environs. For that reason we could see -to our right the innumerable lights of a great plain twinkling in the -darkness, and it seemed as if we had only to proceed in that direction -to secure freedom by the mere effort of walking. As we stood in the -shadow of the chapel, Father Hamilton eyed the distant prospect of the -lighted town with a singular rapture. - -“Paris!” said he. “Oh, Dieu! and I thought never to clap an eye on't -again. Paris, my Paul! Behold the lights of it--_la ville lumière_ that -is so fine I could spend eternity in it. Hearts are there, lad, kind and -jocund-” - -“And meditating a descent on unhappy Britain,” said I. - -“Good neighbourly hearts, or I'm a gourd else,” he went on, unheeding my -interruption. “The stars in heaven are not so good, are no more notably -the expression of a glowing and fraternal spirit. There is laughter in -the streets of her.” - -“Not at this hour, Father Hamilton,” said I, and the both of us always -whispering. “I've never seen the place by day nor put a foot in it, -but it will be droll indeed if there is laughter in its streets at two -o'clock in the morning.” - -“Ah, Paul, shall we ever get there?” said he longingly. “We can but try, -anyway. I certainly did not come all this way, Father Hamilton, just to -look on the lowe of Paris.” - -What had kept us shrinking in the shadow of the chapel wall had been -the sound of footsteps between us and the palisades that were to be -distinguished a great deal higher than I had expected, on our right. -On the other side of the rails was freedom, as well as Paris that so -greatly interested my companion, but the getting clear of them seemed -like to be a more difficult task than any we had yet overcome, and all -the more hazardous because the footsteps obviously suggested a -sentinel. Whether it was the rawness of the night that tempted him to -a relaxation, or whether he was not strictly on duty, I know not, but, -while we stood in the most wretched of quandaries, the man who was in -our path very soon ceased his perambulation along the palisades, and -went over to one of the distant fires, passing within a few yards of us -as we crouched in the darkness. When he had gone sufficiently out of the -way we ran for it. So plain were the lights of the valley, so flimsy a -thing had seemed to part us from the high-road there, that never a doubt -intruded on my mind that now we were as good as free, and when I came -to the rails I beat my head with my hands when the nature of our folly -dawned upon me. - -“We may just go back,” I said to the priest in a stricken voice. - -“_Comment?_” said he, wiping his brow and gloating on the spectacle of -the lighted town. - -“Look,” I said, indicating the railings that were nearly three times my -own height, “there are no convenient trap-doors here.” - -“But the cord--” said he simply. - -“Exactly,” I said; “the cord's where we left it snugly tied with a -bowling knot to the chimney of our block, and I'm an ass.” - -“Oh, poor Paul!” said the priest in a prostration at this divulgence of -our error. “I'm the millstone on your neck, for had I not parleyed at -the other end of the cord when you had descended, the necessity for it -would never have escaped your mind. I gave you fair warning, lad, 'twas -a quixotic imbecility to burden yourself with me. And are we really at -a stand? God! look at Paris. Had I not seen these lights I had not -cared for myself a straw, but, oh lord! lad, they are so pleasant and so -close! Why will the world sleep when two unhappy wretches die for want -of a little bit of hemp?” - -“You are not to blame,” said I, “one rope was little use to us in any -case. But anyhow I do not desire to die of a little bit of hemp if I can -arrange it better.” And I began hurriedly to scour up and down the -palisade like a trapped mouse. It extended for about a hundred yards, -ending at one side against the walls of a gate-house or lodge; on the -other side it concluded at the wall of the chapel. It had no break in -all its expanse, and so there was nothing left for us to do but to go -back the way we had come, obliterate the signs of our attempt and find -our cells again. We went, be sure, with heavy hearts, again ventured -into the chapel, climbed the stairs, went through the ceiling, and -stopped a little among the rafters to rest his reverence who was finding -these manoeuvres too much for his weighty body. While he sat regaining -sufficient strength to resume his crawling on rimey tiles I made a -search of the loft we were in and found it extended to the gable end of -the chapel, but nothing more for my trouble beyond part of a hanging -chain that came through the roof and passed through the ceiling. I had -almost missed it in the darkness, and even when I touched it my first -thought was to leave it alone. But I took a second thought and tried the -lower end, which came up as I hauled, yard upon yard, until I had the -end of it, finished with a bell-ringer's hempen grip, in my hands. Here -was a discovery if bell-pulls had been made of rope throughout in -Bicêtre prison! But a chain with an end to a bell was not a thing to be -easily borrowed. - -I went back to where Father Hamilton was seated on the rafters, and told -him my discovery. - -“A bell,” said he. “Faith! I never liked them. Pestilent inventions of -the enemy, that suggested duties to be done and the fleeting hours. But -a bell-rope implies a belfry on the roof and a bell in it, and the -chain that may reach the ground within the building may reach the same -desirable place without the same.” - -“That's very true,” said I, struck with the thing. And straight got -through the trap and out upon the roof again. Father Hamilton puffed -after me and in a little we came upon a structure like a dovecot at the -very gable-end. “The right time to harry a nest is at night,” said I, -“for then you get all that's in it.” And I started to pull up the chain -that was fastened to the bell. - -I lowered behemoth with infinite exertion till he reached the ground -outside the prison grounds in safety, wrapped the clapper of the bell in -my waistcoat, and descended hand over hand after him. - -We were on the side of a broad road that dipped down the hill into a -little village. Between us and the village street, across which hung a -swinging lamp, there mounted slowly a carriage with a pair of horses. - -“Bernard!” I cried, running up to it, and found it was the Swiss in the -very article of waiting for us, and he speedily drove us into Paris. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -WE ENTER PARIS AND FIND A SANCTUARY THERE - -Of the town of Paris that is so lamentably notable in these days I have -but the recollection that one takes away from a new scene witnessed -under stress of mind due to matters more immediately affecting him than -the colour, shape, and properties of things seen, and the thought I had -in certain parts of it is more clear to me to-day than the vision of the -place itself. It is, in my mind, like a fog that the bridges thundered -as our coach drove over them with our wretched fortunes on that early -morning of our escape from Bicêtre, but as clear as when it sprung to -me from the uproar of the wheels comes back the dread that the whole of -this community would be at their windows looking out to see what folks -untimeously disturbed their rest. We were delayed briefly at a gate upon -the walls; I can scarcely mind what manner of men they were that stopped -us and thrust a lantern in our faces, and what they asked eludes me -altogether, but I mind distinctly how I gasped relief when we were -permitted to roll on. Blurred, too--no better than the surplusage of -dreams, is my first picture of the river and its isles in the dawn, but, -like a favourite song, I mind the gluck of waters on the quays and that -they made me think of Earn and Cart and Clyde. - -We stopped in the place of the Notre Dame at the corner of a street; -the coach drove off to a _remise_ whence it had come, and we went to an -hospital called the Hôtel Dieu, in the neighbourhood, where Hamilton had -a Jesuit friend in one of the heads, and where we were accommodated in -a room that was generally set aside for clergymen. It was a place of the -most wonderful surroundings, this Hôtel Dieu, choked, as it were, among -towers, the greatest of them those of Our Lady itself that were in -the Gothic taste, regarding which Father Hamilton used to say, “_Dire -gothique, c'est dire mauvais gout_,” though, to tell the truth, I -thought the building pretty braw myself. Alleys and wynds were round -about us, and so narrow that the sky one saw between them was but a -ribbon by day, while at night they seemed no better than ravines. - -'Twas at night I saw most of the city, for only in the darkness did -I dare to venture out of the Hôtel Dieu. Daundering my lone along the -cobbles, I took a pleasure in the exercise of tenanting these towering -lands with people having histories little different from the histories -of the folks far off in my Scottish home--their daughters marrying, -their sons going throughither (as we say), their bairns wakening and -crying in their naked beds, and grannies sitting by the ingle-neuk -cheerfully cracking upon ancient days. Many a time in the by-going I -looked up their pend closes seeking the eternal lovers of our own burgh -towns and never finding them, for I take it that in love the foreign -character is coyer than our own. But no matter how eagerly I went forth -upon my nightly airing in a _roquelaure_ borrowed from Father Hamilton's -friend, the adventure always ended, for me, in a sort of eerie terror -of those close-hemming walls, those tangled lanes where slouched the -outcast and the ne'er-do-weel, and not even the glitter of the moon upon -the river between its laden isles would comfort me. - -“La! la! la!” would Father Hamilton cry at me when I got home with a face -like a fiddle. “Art the most ridiculous rustic ever ate a cabbage or -set foot in Arcady. Why, man! the woman must be wooed--this Mademoiselle -Lutetia. Must take her front and rear, walk round her, ogling bravely. -Call her dull! call her dreadful! _Ciel!_ Has the child never an eye in -his mutton head? I avow she is the queen of the earth this Paris. If I -were young and wealthy I'd buy the glittering stars in constellations -and turn them into necklets for her. With thy plaguey gift of the sonnet -I'd deave her with ecstasies and spill oceans of ink upon leagues -of paper to tell her about her eyes. Go to! Scotland, go to! Ghosts! -ghosts! devil the thing else but ghosts in thy rustic skull, for to take -a fear of Lutetia when her black hair is down of an evening and thou -canst not get a glimpse of that beautiful neck that is rounded like the -same in the Psyche of Praxiteles. Could I pare off a portion of this -rotundity and go out in a masque as Apollo I'd show thee things.” - -And all he saw of Paris himself was from the windows of the hospital, -where he and I would stand by the hour looking out into the square. -For the air itself he had to take it in a little garden at the back, -surrounded by a high wall, and affording a seclusion that even the -priest could avail himself of without the hazard of discovery. He used -to sit in an arbour there in the warmth of the day, and it was there -I saw another trait of his character that helped me much to forget his -shortcomings. - -Over his head, within the doorway of the bower, he hung a box and placed -therein the beginnings of a bird's nest. The thing was not many hours -done when a pair of birds came boldly into his presence as he sat -silent and motionless in the bower, and began to avail themselves of so -excellent a start in householding. In a few days there were eggs in the -nest, and 'twas the most marvellous of spectacles to witness the hen sit -content upon them over the head of the fat man underneath, and the cock, -without concern, fly in and out attentive on his mate. - -But, indeed, the man was the friend of all helpless things, and few of -the same came his way without an instinct that told them it was so. Not -the birds in the nest alone were at ease in his society; he had but -to walk along the garden paths whistling and chirping, and there came -flights of birds about his head and shoulders, and some would even perch -upon his hand. I have never seen him more like his office than when he -talked with the creatures of the air, unless it was on another occasion -when two bairns, the offspring of an inmate in the hospital, ventured -into the garden, finding there another child, though monstrous, who had -not lost the key to the fields where blossom the flowers of infancy, and -frolic is a prayer. - -But he dare not set a foot outside the walls of our retreat, for it was -as useless to hide Ballageich under a Kilmarnock bonnet as to seek a -disguise for his reverence in any suit of clothes. Bernard would come to -us rarely under cover of night, but alas! there were no letters for me -now, and mine that were sent through him were fewer than before. -And there was once an odd thing happened that put an end to these -intromissions; a thing that baffled me to understand at the time, and -indeed for many a day thereafter, but was made plain to me later on in -a manner that proved how contrary in his character was this mad priest, -that was at once assassin and the noblest friend. - -Father Hamilton was not without money, though all had been taken from -him at Bicêtre. It was an evidence of the width and power of the Jesuit -movement that even in the Hôtel Dieu he could command what sums he -needed, and Bernard was habituated to come to him for moneys that might -pay for himself and the coachman and the horses at the _remise_. On -the last of these occasions I took the chance to slip a letter for Miss -Walkinshaw into his hand. Instead of putting it in his pocket he laid it -down a moment on a table, and he and I were busy packing linen for the -wash when a curious cry from Father Hamilton made us turn to see him -with the letter in his hand. - -He was gazing with astonishment on the direction. - -“Ah!” said he, “and so my Achilles is not consoling himself exclusively -with the Haemonian lyre, but has taken to that far more dangerous -instrument the pen. The pen, my child, is the curse of youth. When we -are young we use it for our undoing, and for the facture of regrets -for after years--even if it be no more than the reading of our wives' -letters that I'm told are a bitter revelation to the married man. And -so--and so, Monsieur Croque-mort keeps up a correspondence with the -lady. H'm!” He looked so curiously and inquiringly at me that I felt -compelled to make an explanation. - -“It is quite true, Father Hamilton,” said I. “After all, you gave me so -little clerkly work that I was bound to employ my pen somehow, and how -better than with my countrywoman?” - -“'Tis none of my affair--perhaps,” he said, laying down the letter. -“And yet I have a curiosity. Have we here the essential Mercury?” and he -indicated Bernard who seemed to me to have a greater confusion than the -discovery gave a cause for. - -“Bernard has been good enough,” said I. “You discover two Scots, Father -Hamilton, in a somewhat sentimental situation. The lady did me the -honour to be interested in my little travels, and I did my best to keep -her informed.” - -He turned away as he had been shot, hiding his face, but I saw from his -neck that he had grown as white as parchment. - -“What in the world have I done?” thinks I, and concluded that he -was angry for my taking the liberty to use the dismissed servant as a -go-between. In a moment or two he turned about again, eying me closely, -and at last he put his hand upon my shoulder as a schoolmaster might do -upon a boy's. - -“My good Paul,” said he, “how old are you?” - -“Twenty-one come Martinmas,” I said. - -“Expiscate! elucidate! 'Come Martinmas,'” says he, “and what does that -mean? But no matter--twenty-one says my barbarian; sure 'tis a right -young age, a very baby of an age, an age in frocks if one that has it -has lived the best of his life with sheep and bullocks.” - -“Sir,” I said, indignant, “I was in very honest company among the same -sheep and bullocks.” - -“Hush!” said he, and put up his hand, eying me with compassion and -kindness. “If thou only knew it, lad, thou art due me a civil attention -at the very least. Sure there is no harm in my mentioning that thou art -mighty ingenuous for thy years. 'Tis the quality I would be the last -to find fault with, but sometimes it has its inconveniences. -And Bernard”--he turned to the Swiss who was still greatly -disturbed--“Bernard is a somewhat older gentleman. Perhaps he will -say--our good Bernard--if he was the person I have to thank for taking -the sting out of the wasp, for extracting the bullet from my pistol? Ah! -I see he is the veritable person. Adorable Bernard, let that stand to -his credit!” - -Then Bernard fell trembling like a saugh tree, and protested he did but -what he was told. - -“And a good thing, too,” said the priest, still very pale but with no -displeasure. “And a good thing too, else poor Buhot, that I have seen an -infinity of headachy dawns with, had been beyond any interest in cards -or prisoners. For that I shall forgive you the rest that I can guess at. -Take Monsieur Grog's letter where you have taken the rest, and be gone.” - -The Swiss went out much crestfallen from an interview that was beyond my -comprehension. - -When he was gone Father Hamilton fell into a profound meditation, -walking up and down his room muttering to himself. - -“Faith, I never had such a problem presented to me before,” said he, -stopping his walk; “I know not whether to laugh or swear. I feel that -I have been made a fool of, and yet nothing better could have happened. -And so my Croque-mort, my good Monsieur Propriety, has been writing the -lady? I should not wonder if he thought she loved him.” - -“Nothing so bold,” I cried. “You might without impropriety have seen -every one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log.” - -“A seaman's log!” said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin; -“nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! -And I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear -was what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she -not caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?” - -I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made -the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she -should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman. - -The priest laughed consumedly at this. - -“Interest in her countryman!” said he. “Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me -for thy unexpected spots of innocence.” - -“And as to that,” I said, “you must have had a sort of correspondence -with her yourself.” - -“I!” said he. “_Comment!_” - -“To be quite frank with you,” said I, “it has been the cause of some -vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was -directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, -it was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate -in the Rue des Reservoirs.” Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any -time the terrible affair was mentioned. - -“It is true, Paul, quite true,” said he, “but the letter was a forgery. -I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it.” - -“I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have -troubled me for a while back.” - -“Ah,” said he, “and your perplexities and mine are not over even now, -poor Paul. This Bernard is like to be the ruin of me yet. For you, -however, I have no fear, but it is another matter with the poor old fool -from Dixmunde.” - -His voice broke, he displayed thus and otherwise so troubled a mind and -so great a reluctance to let me know the cause of it that I thought it -well to leave him for a while and let him recover his old manner. - -To that end I put on my coat and hat and went out rather earlier than -usual for my evening walk. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE MAN WITH THE TARTAN WAISTCOAT - -It was the first of May. But for Father Hamilton's birds, and some -scanty signs of it in the small garden, the lengthened day and the -kindlier air of the evenings, I might never have known what season it -was out of the almanac, for all seasons were much the same, no doubt, in -the Isle of the City where the priest and I sequestered. 'Twas ever the -shade of the tenements there; the towers of the churches never greened -nor budded; I would have waited long, in truth, for the scent of the -lilac and the chatter of the rook among these melancholy temples. - -Till that night I had never ventured farther from the gloomy vicinity of -the hospital than I thought I could safely retrace without the necessity -of asking any one the way; but this night, more courageous, or perhaps -more careless than usual, I crossed the bridge of Notre Dame and found -myself in something like the Paris of the priest's rhapsodies and the -same all thrilling with the passion of the summer. It was not flower nor -tree, though these were not wanting, but the spirit in the air--young -girls laughing in the by-going with merriest eyes, windows wide open -letting out the sounds of songs, the pavements like a river with -zesty life of Highland hills when the frosts above are broken and the -overhanging boughs have been flattering it all the way in the valleys. - -I was fair infected. My step, that had been unco' dull and heavy, I -fear, and going to the time of dirges on the Isle, went to a different -tune; my being rhymed and sang. I had got the length of the Rue de -Richelieu and humming to myself in the friendliest key, with the -good-natured people pressing about me, when of a sudden it began to -rain. There was no close in the neighbourhood where I could shelter from -the elements, but in front of me was the door of a tavern called the -Tête du Duc de Burgoyne shining with invitation, and in I went. - -A fat wife sat at a counter; a pot-boy, with a cry of “V'ià!” that was -like a sheep's complaining, served two ancient citizens in skull-caps -that played the game of dominoes, and he came to me with my humble order -of a litre of ordinary and a piece of bread for the good of the house. - -Outside the rain pelted, and the folks upon the pavement ran, and -by-and-by the tavern-room filled up with shelterers like myself and kept -the pot-boy busy. Among the last to enter was a group of five that took -a seat at another corner of the room than that where I sat my lone at a -little table. At first I scarcely noticed them until I heard a word -of Scots. I think the man that used it spoke of “gully-knives,” but at -least the phrase was the broadest lallands, and went about my heart. - -I put down my piece of bread and looked across the room in wonder to see -that three of the men were gazing intently at myself. The fourth was -hid by those in front of him; the fifth that had spoken had a tartan -waistcoat and eyes that were like a gled's, though they were not on me. -In spite of that, 'twas plain that of me he spoke, and that I was the -object of some speculation among them. - -No one that has not been lonely in a foreign town, and hungered for -communion with those that know his native tongue, can guess how much I -longed for speech with this compatriot that in dress and eye and accent -brought back the place of my nativity in one wild surge of memory. -Every bawbee in my pocket would not have been too much to pay for such -a privilege, but it might not be unless the overtures came from the -persons in the corner. - -Very deliberately, though all in a commotion within, I ate my piece and -drank my wine before the stare of the three men, and at last, on the -whisper of one of them, another produced a box of dice. - -“No, no!” said the man with the tartan waistcoat hurriedly, with a -glance from the tail of his eye at me, but they persisted in their -purpose and began to throw. My countryman in tartan got the last chance, -of which he seemed reluctant to avail himself till the one unseen said: -“_Vous avez le de'_, Kilbride.” - -Kilbride! the name was the call of whaups at home upon the moors! - -He laughed, shook, and tossed carelessly, and then the laugh was all -with them, for whatever they had played for he had seemingly lost and -the dice were now put by. - -He rose somewhat confused, looked dubiously across at me with a -reddening face, and then came over with his hat in his hand. - -“Pardon, Monsieur,” he began; then checked the French, and said: “Have I -a countryman here?” - -“It is like enough,” said I, with a bow and looking at his tartan. “I am -from Scotland myself.” - -He smiled at that with a look of some relief and took a vacant chair on -the other side of my small table. - -“I have come better speed with my impudence,” said he in the Hielan' -accent, “than I expected or deserved. My name's Kilbride--MacKellar of -Kilbride--and I am here with another Highland gentleman of the name of -Grant and two or three French friends we picked up at the door of the -play-house. Are you come off the Highlands, if I make take the liberty?” - -“My name is lowland,” said I, “and I hail from the shire of Renfrew.” - -“Ah,” said he, with a vanity that was laughable. “What a pity! I wish -you had been Gaelic, but of course you cannot help it being otherwise, -and indeed there are many estimable persons in the lowlands.” - -“And a great wheen of Highland gentlemen very glad to join them there -too,” said I, resenting the implication. - -“Of course, of course,” said he heartily. “There is no occasion for -offence.” - -“Confound the offence, Mr. MacKellar!” said I. “Do you not think I am -just too glad at this minute to hear a Scottish tongue and see a tartan -waistcoat? Heilan' or Lowlan', we are all the same” when our feet are -off the heather. - -“Not exactly,” he corrected, “but still and on we understand each other. -You must be thinking it gey droll, sir, that a band of strangers in a -common tavern would have the boldness to stare at you like my friends -there, and toss a dice about you in front of your face, but that is the -difference between us. If I had been in your place I would have thrown -the jug across at them, but here I am not better nor the rest, because -the dice fell to me, and I was one that must decide the wadger.” - -“Oh, and was I the object of a wadger?” said I, wondering what we were -coming to. - -“Indeed, and that you were,” said he shamefacedly, “and I'm affronted -to tell it. But when Grant saw you first he swore you were a countryman, -and there was some difference of opinion.” - -“And what, may I ask, did Kilbride side with?” - -“Oh,” said he promptly, “I had never a doubt about that. I knew you were -Scots, but what beat me was to say whether you were Hielan' or Lowlan'.” - “And how, if it's a fair question, did you come to the conclusion that I -was a countryman of any sort?” said I. - -He laughed softly, and “Man,” said he, “I could never make any mistake -about that, whatever of it. There's many a bird that's like the -woodcock, but the woodcock will aye be kennin' which is which, as the -other man said. Thae bones were never built on bread and wine. It's a -French coat you have there, and a cockit hat (by your leave), but to my -view you were as plainly from Scotland as if you had a blue bonnet on -your head and a sprig of heather in your lapels. And here am I giving -you the strange cow's welcome (as the other man said), and that is all -inquiry and no information. You must just be excusing our bit foolish -wadger, and if the proposal would come favourably from myself, that is -of a notable family, though at present under a sort of cloud, as the -other fellow said, I would be proud to have you share in the bottle of -wine that was dependent upon Grant's impudent wadger. I can pass my word -for my friends there that they are all gentry like ourselves--of the -very best, in troth, though not over-nice in putting this task on -myself.” - -I would have liked brawly to spend an hour out any company than my own, -but the indulgence was manifestly one involving the danger of discovery; -it was, as I told myself, the greatest folly to be sitting in a tavern -at all, so MacKellar's manner immediately grew cold when he saw a -swithering in my countenance. - -“Of course,” said he, reddening and rising, “of course, every gentleman -has his own affairs, and I would be the last to make a song of it if -you have any dubiety about my friends and me. I'll allow the thing looks -very like a gambler's contrivance.” - -“No, no, Mr. MacKellar,” said I hurriedly, unwilling to let us part -like that, “I'm swithering here just because I'm like yoursel' of it and -under a cloud of my own.” - -“Dod! Is that so?” said he quite cheerfully again, and clapping down, -“then I'm all the better pleased that the thing that made the roebuck -swim the loch--and that's necessity--as the other man said, should have -driven me over here to precognosce you. But when you say you are under -a cloud, that is to make another way of it altogether, and I will not be -asking you over, for there is a gentleman there among the five of us who -might be making trouble of it.” - -“Have you a brother in Glasgow College?” says I suddenly, putting a -question that had been in my mind ever since he had mentioned his name. - -“Indeed, and I have that,” said he quickly, “but now he is following the -law in Edinburgh, where I am in the hopes it will be paying him better -than ever it paid me that has lost two fine old castles and the best -part of a parish by the same. You'll not be sitting there and telling me -surely that you know my young brother Alasdair?” - -“Man! him and me lodged together in Lucky Grant's, in Crombie's Land in -the High Street, for two Sessions,” said I. - -“What!” said MacKellar. “And you'll be the lad that snow-balled the -bylie, and your name will be Greig?” - -As he said it he bent to look under the table, then drew up suddenly -with a startled face and a whisper of a whistle on his lips. - -“My goodness!” said he, in a cautious tone, “and that beats all. You'll -be the lad that broke jyle with the priest that shot at Buhot, and there -you are, you _amadain_, like a gull with your red brogues on you, crying -'come and catch me' in two languages. I'm telling you to keep thae feet -of yours under this table till we're out of here, if it should be the -morn's morning. No--that's too long, for by the morn's morning Buhot's -men will be at the Hôtel Dieu, and the end of the story will be little -talk and the sound of blows, as the other man said.” - -Every now and then as he spoke he would look over his shoulder with a -quick glance at his friends--a very anxious man, but no more anxious -than Paul Greig. - -“Mercy on us!” said I, “do you tell me you ken all that?” - -“I ken a lot more than that,” said he, “but that's the latest of my -budget, and I'm giving it to you for the sake of the shoes and my -brother Alasdair, that is a writer in Edinburgh. There's not two -Scotchmen drinking a bowl in Paris town this night that does not ken -your description, and it's kent by them at the other table there--where -better?--but because you have that coat on you that was surely made for -you when you were in better health, as the other man said, and because -your long trams of legs and red shoes are under the table there's none -of them suspects you. And now that I'm thinking of it, I would not go -near the hospital place again.” - -“Oh! but the priest's there,” said I, “and it would never do for me to be -leaving him there without a warning.” - -“A warning!” said MacKellar with contempt. “I'm astonished to hear you, -Mr. Greig. The filthy brock that he is!” - -“If you're one of the Prince's party,” said I, “and it has every look of -it, or, indeed, whether you are or not, I'll allow you have some cause -to blame Father Hamilton, but as for me, I'm bound to him because we -have been in some troubles together.” - -“What's all this about 'bound to him'?” said MacKellar with a kind of -sneer. “The dog that's tethered with a black pudding needs no pity, as -the other man said, and I would leave this fellow to shift for himself.” - -“Thank you,” said I, “but I'll not be doing that.” - -“Well, well,” said he, “it's your business, and let me tell you that -you're nothing but a fool to be tangled up with the creature. That's -Kilbride's advice to you. Let me tell you this more of it, that they're -not troubling themselves much about you at all now that you have given -them the information.” - -“Information!” I said with a start. “What do you mean by that?” - -He prepared to join his friends, with a smile of some slyness, and gave -me no satisfaction on the point. - -“You'll maybe ken best yourself,” said he, “and I'm thinking your -name will have to be Robertson and yourself a decent Englishman for my -friends on the other side of the room there. Between here and yonder -I'll have to be making up a bonny lie or two that will put them off the -scent of you.” - -A bonny lie or two seemed to serve the purpose, for their interest in me -appeared to go no further, and by-and-by, when it was obvious that there -would be no remission of the rain, they rose to go. - -The last that went out of the door turned on the threshold and looked at -me with a smile of recognition and amusement. - -It was Buhot! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -WHEREIN THE PRIEST LEAVES ME, AND I MAKE AN INLAND VOYAGE - -What this marvel betokened was altogether beyond my comprehension, but -the five men were no sooner gone than I clapped on my hat and drew up -the collar of my coat and ran like fury through the plashing streets for -the place that was our temporary home. It must have been an intuition of -the raised that guided me; my way was made without reflection on it, -at pure hazard, and yet I landed through a multitude of winding and -bewildering streets upon the Isle of the City and in front of the Hôtel -Dieu in a much shorter time than it had taken me to get from there to -the Duke of Burgundy's Head. - -I banged past the doorkeeper, jumped upstairs to the clergyman's -quarters, threw open the door and--found Father Hamilton was gone! - -About the matter there could be no manner of dubiety, for he had left a -letter directed to myself upon the drawers-head. - -“My Good Paul (said the epistle, that I have kept till now as a memorial -of my adventure): When you return you will discover from this that I -have taken leave _a l'anglaise_, and I fancy I can see my secretary -looking like the arms of Bourges (though that is an unkind imputation). -'Tis fated, seemingly, that there shall be no rest for the sole of -the foot of poor Father Hamilton. I had no sooner got to like a loose -collar, and an unbuttoned vest, and the seclusion of a cell, than I must -be plucked out; and now when my birds--the darlings!--are on the very -point of hatching I must make adieux. _Oh! la belle équipée!_ M. Buhot -knows where I am--that's certain, so I must remove myself, and this time -I do not propose to burden M. Paul Greig with my company, for it will -be a miracle if they fail to find me. As for my dear Croque-mort, he can -have the glass coach and Jacques and Bernard, and doubtless the best -he can do with them is to take all to Dunkerque and leave them there. -I myself, I go _sans trompette_, and no inquiries will discover to him -where I go.” - -As a postscript he added, “And 'twas only a sailor's log, dear lad! My -poor young Paul!” When I read the letter I was puzzled tremendously, and -at first I felt inclined to blame the priest for a scurvy flitting to -rid himself of my society, but a little deliberation convinced me that -no such ignoble consideration was at the bottom of his flight. If I read -his epistle aright the step he took was in my own interest, though how -it could be so there was no surmising. In any case he was gone; his -friend in the hospital told me he had set out behind myself, and taken -a candle with him and given a farewell visit to his birds, and almost -cried about them and about myself, and then departed for good to conceal -himself, in some other part of the city, probably, but exactly where -his friend had no way of guessing. And it was a further evidence of the -priest's good feeling to myself (if such were needed) that he had left a -sum of a hundred livres for me towards the costs of my future movements. - -I left the Hôtel Dieu at midnight to wander very melancholy about the -streets for a time, and finally came out upon the river's bank, where -some small vessels hung at a wooden quay. I saw them in moonlight (for -now the rain was gone), and there rose in me such a feeling as I had -often experienced as a lad in another parish than the Mearns, to see the -road that led from strangeness past my mother's door. The river seemed a -pathway out of mystery and discontent to the open sea, and the open sea -was the same that beat about the shores of Britain, and my thought -took flight there and then to Britain, but stopped for a space, like a -wearied bird, upon the town Dunkerque. There is one who reads this -who will judge kindly, and pardon when I say that I felt a sort of -tenderness for the lady there, who was not only my one friend in France, -so far as I could guess, but, next to my mother, the only woman who knew -my shame and still retained regard for me. And thinking about Scotland -and about Dunkerque, and seeing that watery highway to them both, I was -seized with a great repugnance for the city I stood in, and felt that -I must take my feet from there at once. Father Hamilton was lost to me: -that was certain. I could no more have found him in this tanglement -of streets and strange faces than I could have found a needle in a -haystack, and I felt disinclined to make the trial. Nor was I prepared -to avail myself of his offer of the coach and horses, for to go -travelling again in them would be to court Bicêtre anew. - -There was a group of busses or barges at the quay, as I have said, all -huddled together as it were animals seeking warmth, with their bows -nuzzling each other, and on one of them there were preparations being -made for her departure. A cargo of empty casks was piled up in her, -lights were being hung up at her bow and stern, and one of her crew was -ashore in the very act of casting off her ropes. At a flash it occurred -to me that I had here the safest and the speediest means of flight. - -I ran at once to the edge of the quay and clumsily propounded a question -as to where the barge was bound for. - -“Rouen or thereabouts,” said the master. - -I asked if I could have a passage, and chinked my money in my pocket. - -My French might have been but middling, but Lewis d'Or talks in a -language all can understand. - -Ten minutes later we were in the fairway of the river running down -through the city which, in that last look I was ever fated to have of -it, seemed to brood on either hand of us like bordering hills, and at -morning we were at a place by name Triel. - -Of all the rivers I have seen I must think the Seine the finest. It runs -in loops like my native Forth, sometimes in great, wide stretches that -have the semblance of moorland lochs. In that fine weather, with a sun -that was most genial, the country round about us basked and smiled. -We moved upon the fairest waters, by magic gardens, and the borders of -enchanted little towns. Now it would be a meadow sloping backward from -the bank, where reeds were nodding, to the horizon; now an orchard -standing upon grass that was the rarest green, then a village with rusty -roofs and spires and the continual chime of bells, with women washing -upon stones or men silent upon wherries fishing. Every link of the -river opened up a fresher wonder; if not some poplared isle that had -the invitation to a childish escapade, 'twould be another town, or the -garden of a château, maybe, with ladies walking stately on the lawns, -perhaps alone, perhaps with cavaliers about them as if they moved -in some odd woodland minuet. I can mind of songs that came from open -windows, sung in women's voices; of girls that stood drawing water and -smiled on us as we passed, at home in our craft of fortune, and still -the lucky roamers seeing the world so pleasantly without the trouble of -moving a step from our galley fire. - -Sometimes in the middle of the days we would stop at a red-faced, -ancient inn, with bowers whose tables almost had their feet dipped in -the river, and there would eat a meal and linger on a pot of wine while -our barge fell asleep at her tether and dreamt of the open sea. About us -in these inns came the kind country-people and talked of trivial things -for the mere sake of talking, because the weather was sweet and God -so gracious; homely sounds would waft from the byres and from the -barns--the laugh of bairns, the whistle of boys, the low of cattle. - -At night we moored wherever we might be, and once I mind of a place -called Andelys, selvedged with chalky cliffs and lorded over by a castle -called Gaillard, that had in every aspect of it something of the clash -of weapons and of trumpet-cry. The sky shone blue through its gaping -gables and its crumbling windows like so many eyes; the birds that -wheeled all round it seemed to taunt it for its inability. The old wars -over, the deep fosse silent, the strong men gone--and there at its foot -the thriving town so loud with sounds of peaceful trade! Whoever has -been young, and has the eye for what is beautiful and great and stately, -must have felt in such a scene that craving for companionship that -tickles like a laugh within the heart--that longing for some one to feel -with him, and understand, and look upon with silence. In my case 'twas -two women I would have there with me just to look upon this Gaillard and -the town below it. - -Then the bending, gliding river again, the willow and the aspen -edges, the hazy orchards and the emerald swards; hamlets, towns, -farm-steadings, châteaux, kirks, and mills; the flying mallard, the -leaping perch, the silver dawns, the starry nights, the ripple of the -water in my dreams, and at last the city of Rouen. My ship of fortune -went no further on. - -I slept a night in an inn upon the quay, and early the next morning, -having bought a pair of boots to save my red shoes, I took the road over -a hill that left Rouen and all its steeples, reeking at the bottom of a -bowl. I walked all day, through woods and meadows and trim small towns -and orchards, and late in the gloaming came upon the port of Havre de -Grace. - -The sea was sounding there, and the smell of it was like a salutation. I -went out at night from my inn, and fairly joyed in its propinquity, and -was so keen on it that I was at the quay before it was well daylight. -The harbour was full of vessels. It was not long ere I got word of one -that was in trim for Dunkerque, to which I took a passage, and by favour -of congenial weather came upon the afternoon of the second day. - -Dunkerque was more busy with soldiers than ever, all the arms of France -seemed to be collected there, and ships of war and flat-bottomed boats -innumerable were in the harbour. - -At the first go-off I made for the lodgings I had parted from so -unceremoniously on the morning of that noisy glass coach. - -The house, as I have said before, was over a baker's shop, and was -reached by a common outer stair that rose from a court-yard behind. -Though internally the domicile was well enough, indeed had a sort of -old-fashioned gentility, and was kept by a woman whose man had been a -colonel of dragoons, but now was a tippling pensioner upon the king, and -his own wife's labours, it was, externally, somewhat mean, the place a -solid merchant of our own country might inhabit, but scarce the place -wherein to look for royal blood. What was my astonishment, then, when, -as I climbed the stair, I came face to face with the Prince! - -I felt the stair swing off below me and half distrusted my senses, but I -had the presence of mind to take my hat off. - -“_Bon jour, Monsieur_, said he, with a slight hiccough, and I saw that -he was flushed and meant to pass with an evasion. There and then a -daft notion to explain myself and my relations with the priest who had -planned his assassination came to me, and I stopped and spoke. - -“Your Royal Highness---” I began, and at that he grew purple. - -“_Cest un drôle de corps!_” said he, and, always speaking in French, -said he again: - -“You make an error, Monsieur; I have not the honour of Monsieur's -acquaintance,” and looked at me with a bold eye and a disconcerting. - -“Greig,” I blurted, a perfect lout, and surely as blind as a mole that -never saw his desire, “I had the honour to meet your Royal Highness at -Versailles.” - -“My Royal Highness!” said he, this time in English. “I think Monsieur -mistakes himself.” And then, when he saw how crestfallen I was, -he smiled and hiccoughed again. “You are going to call on our good -Clancarty,” said he. “In that case please tell him to translate to you -the proverb, _Oui phis sait plus se tait_.” - -“There is no necessity, Monsieur,” I answered promptly. “Now that I look -closer I see I was mistaken. The person I did you the honour to take you -for was one in whose opinion (if he took the trouble to think of me at -all) I should have liked to re-establish myself, that was all.” - -In spite of his dissipation there was something noble in his manner--a -style of the shoulders and the hands, a poise of the head that I might -practise for years and come no closer on than any nowt upon my father's -fields. It was that which I remember best of our engagement on the -stair, and that at the last of it he put out his hand to bid me -good-day. - -“My name,” says he, “is Monsieur Albany so long as I am in Dunkerque. -_À bon entendeur salut!_ I hope we may meet again, Monsieur Greig.” He -looked down at the black boots I had bought me in Rouen. “If I might -take the liberty to suggest it,” said he, smiling, “I should abide by -the others. I have never seen their wearer wanting wit, _esprit_, and -prudence--which are qualities that at this moment I desire above all in -those that count themselves my friends.” - -And with that he was gone. I watched him descend the remainder of the -stair with much deliberation, and did not move a step myself until the -tip of his scabbard had gone round the corner of the close. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -A GUID CONCEIT OF MYSELF LEADS ME FAR ASTRAY - -Clancarty and Thurot were playing cards, so intent upon that recreation -that I was in the middle of the floor before they realised who it was -the servant had ushered in. - -“_Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec! Il n'y a pas de petit chez soi!_” cried -Thurot, dropping his hand, and they jumped to their feet to greet me. - -“I'll be hanged if you want assurance, child,” said Clancarty, surveying -me from head to foot as if I were some curiosity. “Here's your exploits -ringing about the world, and not wholly to your credit, and you must -walk into the very place where they will find the smallest admiration.” - -“Not meaning the lodging of Captain Thurot,” said I. “Whatever my -reputation may be with the world, I make bold to think he and you will -believe me better than I may seem at the first glance.” - -“The first glance!” cried his lordship. “Gad, the first glance suggests -that Bicêtre agreed with our Scotsman. Sure, they must have fed you on -oatmeal. I'd give a hatful of louis d'or to see Father Hamilton, for -if he throve so marvellously in the flesh as his secretary he must look -like the side of St. Eloi. One obviously grows fat on regicide--fatter -than a few poor devils I know do upon devotion to princes.” - -Thurot's face assured me that I was as welcome there as ever I had been. -He chid Clancarty for his badinage, and told me he was certain all along -that the first place I should make for after my flight from Bicêtre (of -which all the world knew) would be Dunkerque. “And a good thing too, M. -Greig,” said he. - -“Not so good,” says I, “but what I must meet on your stair the very -man-” - -“Stop!” he cried, and put his finger on his lip. “In these parts we know -only a certain M. Albany, who is, my faith! a good friend of your own if -you only knew it.” - -“I scarcely see how that can be,” said I. “If any man has a cause to -dislike me it is his Roy--” - -“M. Albany,” corrected Thurot. - -“It is M. Albany, for whom, it seems, I was the decoy in a business that -makes me sick to think on. I would expect no more than that he had gone -out there to send the officers upon my heels, and for me to be sitting -here may be simple suicide.” - -Clancarty laughed. “Tis the way of youth,” said he, “to attach far too -much importance to itself. Take our word for it, M. Greig, all France is -not scurrying round looking for the nephew of Andrew Greig. Faith, and -I wonder at you, my dear Thurot, that has an Occasion here--a veritable -Occasion--and never so much as says bottle. Stap me if I have a -friend come to me from a dungeon without wishing him joy in a glass of -burgundy!” - -The burgundy was forthcoming, and his lordship made the most of it, -while Captain Thurot was at pains to assure me that my position was by -no means so bad as I considered it. In truth, he said, the police had -their own reasons for congratulating themselves on my going out of their -way. They knew very well, as M. Albany did, that I had been the catspaw -of the priest, who was himself no better than that same, and for that -reason as likely to escape further molestation as I was myself. - -Thurot spoke with authority, and hinted that he had the word of M. -Albany himself for what he said. I scarcely knew which pleased me -best--that I should be free myself or that the priest should have a -certain security in his concealment. - -I told them of Buhot, and how oddly he had shown his complacence to his -escaped prisoner in the tavern of the Duke of Burgundy's Head. At that -they laughed. - -“Buhot!” cried his lordship. “My faith! Ned must have been tickled to -see his escaped prisoner in such a cosy _cachette_ as the Duke's Head, -where he and I, and Andy Greig--ay! and this same priest--tossed many -a glass, _Ciel!_ the affair runs like a play. All it wants to make this -the most delightful of farces is that you should have Father Hamilton -outside the door to come in at a whistle. Art sure the fat old man is -not in your waistcoat pocket? Anyhow, here's his good health....” - -=== MISSING PAGES (274-288) === - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -THE BARD OF LOVE WHO WROTE WITH OLD MATERIALS - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -THE DUEL IN THE AUBERGE GARDEN - -Whoever it was that moved at the instigation of Madame on my behalf, -he put speed into the business, for the very next day I was told my -sous-lieutenancy was waiting at the headquarters of the regiment. A -severance that seemed almost impossible to me before I learned from the -lady's own lips that her heart was elsewhere engaged was now a thing to -long for eagerly, and I felt that the sooner I was out of Dunkerque and -employed about something more important than the tying of my hair and -the teasing of my heart with thinking, the better for myself. Teasing my -heart, I say, because Miss Walkinshaw had her own reasons for refusing -to see me any more, and do what I might I could never manage to come -face to face with her. Perhaps on the whole it was as well, for what -in the world I was to say to the lady, supposing I were privileged, -it beats me now to fancy. Anyhow, the opportunity never came my way, -though, for the few days that elapsed before I departed from Dunkerque, -I spent hours in the Rue de la Boucherie sipping sirops on the terrace -of the Café Coignet opposite her lodging, or at night on the old game of -humming ancient love-songs to her high and distant window. All I got -for my pains were brief and tantalising glimpses of her shadow on the -curtains; an attenuate kind of bliss it must be owned, and yet counted -by Master Red-Shoes (who suffered from nostalgia, not from love, if he -had had the sense to know it) a very delirium of delight. - -One night there was an odd thing came to pass. But, first of all, I must -tell that more than once of an evening, as I would be in the street and -staring across at Miss Walkinshaw's windows, I saw his Royal Highness in -the neighbourhood. His cloak might be voluminous, his hat dragged down -upon the very nose of him, but still the step was unmistakable. If there -had been the smallest doubt of it, there came one evening when he passed -me so close in the light of an oil lamp that I saw the very blotches -on his countenance. What was more, he saw and recognised me, though he -passed without any other sign than the flash of an eye and a halfstep of -hesitation. - -[Illustration: 304] - -“H'm,” thinks I, “here's Monsieur Albany looking as if he might, like -myself, be trying to content himself with the mere shadows of things.” - -He saw me more than once, and at last there came a night when a fellow -in drink came staving down the street on the side I was on and jostled -me in the by-going without a word of apology. - -“_Pardonnez, Monsieur!_” said I in irony, with my hat off to give him a -hint at his manners. - -He lurched a second time against me and put up his hand to catch my -chin, as if I were a wench, “_Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec_, 'tis time -you were home,” said he in French, and stuttered some ribaldry that made -me smack his face with an open hand. - -“I saw his Royal Highness in the neighbourhood--” - -At once he sobered with suspicious suddenness if I had had the sense -to reflect upon it, and gave me his name and direction as one George -Bonnat, of the Marine. “Monsieur will do me the honour of a meeting -behind the Auberge Cassard after _petit dejeuner_ to-morrow,” said he, -and named a friend. It was the first time I was ever challenged. It -should have rung in the skull of me like an alarm, but I cannot recall -at this date that my heart beat a stroke the faster, or that the -invitation vexed me more than if it had been one to the share of a -bottle of wine. “It seems a pretty ceremony about a cursed impertinence -on the part of a man in liquor,” I said, “but I'm ready to meet you -either before or after petit déjeuner, as it best suits you, and my -name's Greig, by your leave.” - -“Very well, Monsieur Greig,” said he; “except that you stupidly impede -the pavement and talk French like a Spanish cow (_comme une vache -espagnole_), you seem a gentleman of much accommodation. Eight o'clock -then, behind the _auberge_,” and off went Sir Ruffler, singularly -straight and business-like, with a profound _congé_ for the unfortunate -wretch he planned to thrust a spit through in the morning. - -I went home at once, to find Thurot and Clancarty at lansquenet. They -were as elate at my story as if I had been asked to dine with Louis. - -“Gad, 'tis an Occasion!” cried my lord, and helped himself, as usual, -with a charming sentiment: “_A demain les affaires sérieuses_; to-night -we'll pledge our friend!” - -Thurot evinced a flattering certainty of my ability to break down M. -Bonnat's guard in little or no time. “A crab, this Bonnat,” said he. -“Why he should pick a quarrel with you I cannot conceive, for 'tis well -known the man is M. Albany's creature. But, no matter, we shall tickle -his ribs, M. Paul. _Ma foi!_ here's better gaming than your pestilent -cards. I'd have every man in the kingdom find an affair for himself once -a month to keep his spleen in order.” - -“This one's like to put mine very much out of order with his iron,” I -said, a little ruefully recalling my last affair. - -“What!” cried Thurot, “after all my lessons! And this Bonnat a crab too! -Fie! M. Paul. And what an he pricks a little? a man's the better for -some iron in his system now and then. Come, come, pass down these foils, -my lord, and I shall supple the arms of our Paul.” - -We had a little exercise, and then I went to bed. The two sat in my -room, and smoked and talked till late in the night, while I pretended -to be fast asleep. But so far from sleep was I, that I could hear their -watches ticking in their fobs. Some savagery, some fearful want of soul -in them, as evidenced by their conversation, horrified me. It was no -great matter that I was to risk my life upon a drunkard's folly, but -for the first time since I had come into the port of Dunkerque, and knew -these men beside my bed, there intruded a fiery sense of alienation. It -seemed a dream--a dreadful dream, that I should be lying in a foreign -land, upon the eve, perhaps, of my own death or of another manslaughter, -and in a correspondence with two such worldly men as those that sat -there recalling combats innumerable with never a thought of the ultimate -fearful retribution. Compared with this close room, where fumed the wine -and weed, and men with never a tie domestic were paying away their lives -in the small change of trivial pleasures, how noble and august seemed -our old life upon the moors! - -When they were gone I fell asleep and slept without a break till -Thurot's fingers drummed reveille on my door. I jumped into the sunshine -of a lovely day that streamed into the room, soused my head in water and -in a little stood upon the street with my companion. - -“_Bon matin_, Paul!” he cried cheerfully. “Faith, you sleep sur _les -deux oreilles_, and we must be marching briskly to be at M. Bonnat's -rendezvous at eight o'clock.” - -We went through the town and out upon its edge at the Calais road. The -sky was blue like another sea; the sea itself was all unvexed by wave; a -sweeter day for slaughtering would pass the wit of man to fancy. Thurot -hummed an air as he walked along the street, but I was busy thinking -of another morning in Scotland, when I got a bitter lesson I now seemed -scandalously soon to have forgotten. By-and-by we came to the inn. It -stood by itself upon the roadside, with a couple of workmen sitting on -a bench in front dipping their morning crusts in a common jug of wine. -Thurot entered and made some inquiry; came out radiant. “Monsieur is not -going to disappoint us, as I feared,” said he; and led me quickly behind -the _auberge_. We passed through the yard, where a servant-girl scoured -pots and pans and sang the while as if the world were wholly pleasant in -that sunshine; we crossed a tiny rivulet upon a rotten plank and found -ourselves in an orchard. Great old trees stood silent in the finest -foggy grass, their boughs all bursting out into blossom, and the air -scent-thick-ened; everywhere the birds were busy; it seemed a world -of piping song. I thought to myself there could be no more incongruous -place nor season for our duelling, and it was with half a gladness I -looked around the orchard, finding no one there. - -“Bah! our good Bonnat's gone!” cried Thurot, vastly chagrined and -tugging at his watch. “That comes of being five minutes too late, and I -cannot, by my faith, compliment the gentleman upon his eagerness to meet -you.” - -I was mistaken but for a second; then I spied my fiery friend of the -previous evening lying on his back beneath the oldest of the trees, his -hat tilted over his eyes, as if he had meant to snatch a little sleep -in spite of the dazzling sunshine. He rose to his feet on our approach, -swept off his hat courteously, and hailed Thurot by name. - -“What, you, Antoine! I am ravished! For, look you, the devil's in all my -friends that I can get none of them to move a step at this hour of the -morning, and I have had to come to M. Greig without a second. Had I -known his friend was Captain Thurot I should not have vexed myself. -Doubtless M. Greig has no objection to my entrusting my interests as -well as his own in the hands of M. le Capitaine?” - -I bowed my assent. Captain Thurot cast a somewhat cold and unsatisfied -eye upon the ruffler, protesting the thing was unusual. - -Bonnat smiled and shrugged his shoulders, put off his coat with much -deliberation, and took up his place upon the sward, where I soon -followed him. - -“Remember, it is no fool, this crab,” whispered Captain Thurot as he -took my coat from me. “And 'tis two to one on him who prefers the parry -to the attack.” - -I had been reading Molière's “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” the previous -morning, and as I faced my assailant I had the fencing-master's words as -well as Captain Thurot's running in my ears: “To give and not receive -is the secret of the sword.” It may appear incredible, but it seemed -physically a trivial affair I was engaged upon until I saw the man -Bonnat's eye. He wore a smile, but his eye had the steely glint of -murder! It was as unmistakable as if his tongue confessed it, and for -a second I trembled at the possibilities of the situation. He looked an -unhealthy dog; sallow exceedingly on the neck, which had the sinews -so tight they might have twanged like wire, and on his cheeks, that he -seemed to suck in with a gluttonous exultation such as a gross man shows -in front of a fine meal. - -“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said Thurot; and we nodded. “Then in guard!” - said he. - -We saluted, fell into position and thrust simultaneously in tierce, -parrying alike, then opened more seriously. - -In Thurot's teaching of me there was one lesson he most unweariedly -insisted on, whose object was to keep my point in a straight line and -parry in the smallest possible circles. I had every mind of it now, but -the cursed thing was that this Bonnat knew it too. He fenced, like an -Italian, wholly from the wrist, and, crouched upon his knees, husbanded -every ounce of energy by the infrequency and the brevity of his thrusts. -His lips drew back from his teeth, giving him a most villainous aspect, -and he began to press in the lower lines. - -In a side-glance hazarded I saw the anxiety of Thurot's eye and realised -his apprehension. I broke ground, and still, I think, was the bravo's -match but for the alarm of Thurot's eye. It confused me so much that I -parried widely and gave an opening for a thrust that caught me slightly -on the arm, and dyed my shirt-sleeve crimson in a moment. - -“Halt!” cried Thurot, and put up his arm. - -I lowered my weapon, thinking the bout over, and again saw murder in -Bonnat's eye. He lunged furiously at my chest, missing by a miracle. - -“_Scélérat!_” cried Thurot, and, in an uncontrollable fury at the -action, threw himself upon Bonnat and disarmed him. - -They glared at each other for a minute, and Thurot finally cast the -other's weapon over a hedge. “So much for M. Bonnat!” said he. “This is -our valiant gentleman, is it? To stab like an assassin!” - -“_Oh, malédiction!_” said the other, little abashed, and shrugging his -shoulders as he lifted his coat to put it on. “Talking of assassination, -I but did the duty of the executioner in his absence, and proposed to -kill the man who meditated the same upon the Prince.” - -“The Prince!” cried Thurot. “Why 'tis the Prince's friend, and saved his -life!” - -“I know nothing about that,” said Bonnat; “but do you think I'd be out -here at such a cursed early hour fencing if any other than M. Albany -had sent me? _Pardieu!_ the whole of you are in the farce, but I always -counted you the Prince's friend, and here you must meddle when I do as -I am told to do!” - -“And you tell me, Jean Bonnat, that you take out my friend to murder him -by M. Albany's command?” cried Thurot incredulous. - -“What the devil else?” replied the bravo. “'Tis true M. Albany only -mentioned that M. des Souliers Rouges was an obstruction in the Rue de -la Boucherie and asked me to clear him out of Dunkerque, but 'twere a -tidier job to clear him altogether. And here is a great pother about an -English hog!” - -I was too busily stanching my wound, that was scarce so serious as it -appeared, to join in this dispute, but the allusion to the Prince and -the Rue de la Boucherie extremely puzzled me. I turned to Bonnat with a -cry for an explanation. - -“What!” I says, “does his Royal Highness claim any prerogative to the -Rue de la Boucherie? I'm unconscious that I ever did either you or him -the smallest harm, and if my service--innocent enough as it was--with -the priest Hamilton was something to resent, his Highness has already -condoned the offence.” - -“For the sake of my old friend M. le Capitaine here I shall give you -one word of advice,” said Bonnat, “and that is, to evacuate Dunkerque as -sharply as you may. M. Albany may owe you some obligement, as I've heard -him hint himself, but nevertheless your steps will be safer elsewhere -than in the Rue de la Boucherie.” - -“There is far too much of the Rue de la Boucherie about this,” I said, -“and I hope no insult is intended to certain friends I have or had -there.” - -At this they looked at one another. The bravo (for so I think I may at -this time call him) whistled curiously and winked at the other, and, in -spite of himself, Captain Thurot was bound to laugh. - -“And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?” said he. -“That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. 'Tis, _ma foi!_ -to expect too much of M. Albany's complaisance. After that there is -nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian -work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour.” - -“You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine,” said Bonnat -brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. “M. Blanc-bec -there handles _arme blanche_ rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the -gallant commander of the _Roi Rouge_, but if he has a mother let me -suggest the wisdom of his going back to her.” And with that and a -_congé_ he left us to enter the _auberge_. - -Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, -ruminating upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better -than I could, yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I -pled with him vainly for an explanation of the Prince's objection to -my person. “I thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the -Hamilton affair,” I said. - -“And so he had,” said Thurot. “I have his own assurances.” - -“'Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure -me into a duel.” - -“My dear boy,” said Thurot, “you owe him all--your escape from Bicêtre, -which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of the -lieutenancy in the Regiment d'Auvergne.” - -“What! he has a hand in this?” I cried. - -“Who else?” said he. “'Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled -Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. -It seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not -uncommon with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one -reason, and for the other he would cut your throat. M. Tête-de-fer is my -eternal puzzle. And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, -the same reason for favouring and hating you.” - -“And what might that be?” said I. - -“Who, rather?” said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la -Boucherie. “Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under -your very nose, 'tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the -machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she -were anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with -Hamilton, and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and -now--though she may not have attempted it--she has gained you the same -person's enmity.” - -I stopped in the street and turned to him. “All this is confused enough -to madden me,” I said, “and rather than be longer in the mist I shall -brave her displeasure, compel an audience, and ask her for an -explanation.” - -“Please yourself,” said Thurot, and seeing I meant what I said he left -me. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - -FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW - -It was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle's -stairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!) -responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the same -had been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barren -comfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiled -at first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at the -unresponse of mine. - -“I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw,” said I. - -The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is more -truth in a menial eye than in most others, and this man's fashionable -falsehood extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he was -acting upon instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable for -him, he saw that I saw. - -“Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhood -till she returns,” I said, and leaned against the railing. This -frightened him somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did not -know when she might return. - -“It does not matter,” I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my courage -much higher in the circumstances than I had expected. “If it's midnight -she shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance upon -which to consult her.” - -He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon the -door-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions had -not gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how he -was further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unable -to get a glance of recognition from me, and resenting further -the inconvenience to which I was subjecting him, he rose to an -impertinence--the first (to do him justice) I had ever found in him. - -“Will Monsieur,” said he, “tell me who I shall say called?” - -The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and “My good rogue,” - said I, “if the circumstances were more favourable I should have the -felicity of giving you an honest drubbing.” He got very red. “Come, -Bernard,” I said, adopting another tone, “I think you owe me some -consideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to give -you all the information you required some time ago for your employers, -tell me the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?” - -He was saved an answer by the lady herself. - -“La! Mr. Greig!” she cried, coming to the door and putting forth a -welcoming hand. “My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he should -except my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors.” - So much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, “My dear -man of Mearns, you are as dour as--as dour as--” - -“As a donkey,” I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. “And I -feel very much like that humble beast at this moment.” - -“I do not wonder at it,” said she, throwing herself in a chair. “To -thrust yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!” - -“I am the ass--I have been the ass--it would appear, in other respects -as well.” - -She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back her -hair, that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caught -her rather early in the morning; she had not even the preparation of -a _petit lever_; and because of a certain chagrin at being discovered -scarcely looking her best her first remarks were somewhat chilly. - -“Well, at least you have persistency, I'll say that of it,” she went -on, with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. “And for what am I -indebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?” - -“It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you for -your offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d'Auvergne is -settled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself, -for it looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting my -distinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month, -and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper I -should come in my own person to thank you for your good offices.” - -“Do not mention it,” she said hurriedly. “I am only too glad that I -could be of the smallest service to you.” - -“I cannot think,” I went on, “what I can have done to warrant your -displeasure with me.” - -“Displeasure!” she replied. “Who said I was displeased?” - -“What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing you -for this past week.” - -“Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig,” she said, trifling with her rings. -“Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itself -as a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig's ordinary intuitions.” - -“It's a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to,” I -said. “And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arises -now, and how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me.” - -“No matter,” said she, and paused. “And so you are going to the -frontier, and are come to say good-bye to me?” - -“Now that you remind me that is exactly my object,” I said, rising to -go. She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, as -if she felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet I -noticed a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed. - -“And so you go, Mr. Greig?” she said. “There's but the one thing I would -like to say to my friend, and that's that I should like him not to think -unkindly of one that values his good opinion--if she were worthy to have -it. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and now -that I'm to lose them I feel like to greet.” She was indeed inclined -to tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of my -annoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration. - -“I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “You -found me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it's a man -that's leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than it -would otherwise have been, and this last kindness--that forces me away -from you--is one more I have to thank you for.” - -She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or the -reverse, and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half. - -“I owed all the little I could do to my countryman,” said she. - -“And I hope I have been useful,” I blurted out, determined to show her I -was going with open eyes. - -Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. “I hope you will forgive -that, Mr. Greig,” she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to my -meaning. - -“There is nothing to forgive,” I said shortly. “I am proud that I was of -service, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose house -some more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint is -that the person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the little -share I had unconsciously in preserving his life.” - -“I am sure he is very grateful,” she cried hastily, and perplexed. “I -may tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in the -regiment.” - -“So I have been told,” I said, and she looked a little startled. “So I -have been told. It may be that I'll be more grateful by-and-by, when I -see what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitude -greatly hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the--in the person's -actings towards myself!” - -“Inconsistency!” she repeated bitterly. “That need not surprise you! But -I do not understand.” - -“It is simply that--perhaps to hasten me to my duties--his Royal -Highness this morning sent a ruffian to fight me.” - -I have never seen a face so suddenly change as hers did when she heard -this; for ordinary she had a look of considerable amiability, a soft, -kind eye, a ready smile that had the hint (as I have elsewhere said) -of melancholy, a voice that, especially in the Scots, was singularly -attractive. A temper was the last thing I would have charged her with, -yet now she fairly flamed, “What is this you are telling me, Paul -Greig?” she cried, her eyes stormy, her bosom beginning to heave. “Oh, -just that M. Albany (as he calls himself) has some grudge against me, -for he sent a man--Bonnat--to pick a quarrel with me, and by Bonnat's -own confession the duel that was to ensue was to be _à outrance_. But -for the intervention of a friend, half an hour ago, there would have -been a vacancy already in the Regiment d'Auvergne.” - -“Good heavens!” she cried. “You must be mistaken. What object in the -wide world could his Royal Highness have in doing you any harm? You were -an instrument in the preservation of his life.” - -I bowed extremely low, with a touch of the courts I had not when I -landed first in Dunkerque. - -“I have had the distinguished honour, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “And -I should have thought that enough to counterbalance my unfortunate and -ignorant engagement with his enemies.” - -“But why, in Heaven's name, should he have a shred of resentment against -you?” - -“It seems,” I said, “that it has something to do with my boldness in -using the Rue de la Boucherie for an occasional promenade.” - -She put her two hands up to her face for a moment, but I could see the -wine-spill in between, and her very neck was in a flame. - -“Oh, the shame! the shame!” she cried, and began to walk up and down the -room like one demented. “Am I to suffer these insults for ever in spite -of all that I may do to prove--to prove----” - -She pulled herself up short, put down her hands from a face exceedingly -distressed, and looked closely at me. “What must you think of me, Mr. -Greig?” she asked suddenly in quite a new key. - -“What do I think of myself to so disturb you?” I replied. “I do not -know in what way I have vexed you, but to do so was not at all in my -intention. I must tell you that I am not a politician, and that since I -came here these affairs of the Prince and all the rest of it are quite -beyond my understanding. If the cause of the white cockade brought you -to France, Miss Walkinshaw, as seems apparent, I cannot think you are -very happy in it nowadays, but that is no affair of mine.” - -She stared at me. “I hope,” said she, “you are not mocking me?” - -“Heaven forbid!” I said. “It would be the last thing I should presume -to do, even if I had a reason. I owe you, after all, nothing but the -deepest gratitude.” - -Beyond the parlour we stood in was a lesser room that was the lady's -boudoir. We stood with our backs to it, and I know not how much of our -conversation had been overheard when I suddenly turned at the sound of a -man's voice, and saw his Royal Highness standing in the door! - -I could have rubbed my eyes out of sheer incredulity, for that he should -be in that position was as if I had come upon a ghost. He stood with a -face flushed and frowning, rubbing his eyes, and there was something in -his manner that suggested he was not wholly sober. - -“I'll be cursed,” said he, “if I haven't been asleep. Deuce take -Clancarty! He kept me at cards till dawn this morning, and I feel as if -I had been all night on heather. _Pardieu_----!” - -He pulled himself up short and stared, seeing me for the first time. -His face grew purple with annoyance. “A thousand pardons!” he cried with -sarcasm, and making a deep bow. “I was not aware that I intruded on -affairs.” - -Miss Walkinshaw turned to him sharply. - -“There is no intrusion,” said she, “but honesty, in the person of my -dear countryman, who has come to strange quarters with it. Your Royal -Highness has now the opportunity of thanking this gentleman.” - -“I' faith,” said he, “I seem to be kept pretty constantly in mind of -the little I owe to this gentleman in spite of himself. Harkee, my good -Monsieur, I got you a post; I thought you had been out of Dunkerque by -now.” - -“The post waits, M. Albany,” said I, “and I am going to take it up -forthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owe -the post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should be -addressed.” - -“My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us owe -her everything, and--egad!--are not grateful enough,” and with that he -looked for the first time at her with his frown gone. - -“Yes, yes,” she cried; “we may put off the compliments till another -occasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me that -this gentleman, who has done so much for me--I speak for myself, your -Royal Highness will observe--should be so poorly requited.” - -“Requited!” cried he. “How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied.” - His face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at his -unshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child of -kings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myself -upon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true. - -“I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergne -office, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude----” - -“Bah!” cried he. “Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that does -aught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none of -your gratitude, Monsieur Greig.” - -“'Tis just as well, M. Albany,” I cried, “for what there was of it is -mortgaged.” - -“_Comment?_” he asked, uneasily. - -“I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that calls -himself your servant,” I replied, always very careful to take his own -word for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. “He -informed me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing the -same street with you, and had given him his instructions.” - -“Bonnat,” cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples. -“I'll be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!--stay--let -me think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner, -but--but----” - -“After dinner! Then surely it should have been in a more favourable mood -to myself, that has done M. Albany no harm,” I said. “I do not wonder -that M. Albany has lost so many of his friends if he settles their -destinies after dinner.” - -At first he frowned at this and then he laughed outright. - -“_Ma foi!_” he cried, “here's another Greig to call me gomeral to my -face,” and he lounged to a chair where he sunk in inextinguishable -laughter. - -But if I had brought laughter from him I had precipitated anger -elsewhere. - -“Here's a pretty way to speak to his Royal Highness,” cried Miss -Walkinshaw, her face like thunder. “The manners of the Mearns shine very -poorly here. You forget that you speak to one that is your prince, in -faith your king!” - -“Neither prince nor king of mine, Miss Walkinshaw,” I cried, and turned -to go. “No, if a hundred thousand swords were at his back. I had once a -notion of a prince that rode along the Gallowgate, but I was then a boy, -and now I am a man--which you yourself have made me.” - -With that I bowed low and left them. They neither of them said a word. -It was the last I was to see of Clementina Walkinshaw and the last of -Charles Edward. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - -OF MY WINTER CAMPAIGN IN PRUSSIA, AND ANOTHER MEETING WITH MACKELLAR OF -KILBRIDE - -I have no intention here of narrating at large what happened in my -short career as a soldier of the French Army, curious though some of -the things that befell me chanced to be. They may stand for another -occasion, while I hurriedly and briefly chronicle what led to my -second meeting with MacKellar of Kilbride, and through that same to the -restoration of the company of Father Hamilton, the sometime priest of -Dixmunde. - -The Regiment d'Auvergne was far from its native hills when first I -joined it, being indeed on the frontier of Austria. 'Twas a corps not -long embodied, composed of a preposterous number of mere lads as soft as -kail, yet driven to miracles of exertion by drafted veteran officers of -other regiments who stiffened their command with the flat of the sword. -As for my lieutenancy it was nothing to be proud of in such a battalion, -for I herded in a mess of foul-mouthed scoundrels and learned little of -the trade of soldiering that I was supposed to be taught in the interval -between our departure from the frontier and our engagement on the field -as allies with the Austrians. Of the Scots that had been in the regiment -at one time there was only one left--a major named MacKay, that came -somewhere out of the Reay country in the shire of Sutherland, and was -reputed the drunkenest officer among the allies, yet comported himself, -on the strength of his Hielan' extraction, towards myself, his Lowland -countryman, with such a ludicrous haughtiness I could not bear the -man--no, not from the first moment I set eyes on him! - -He was a pompous little person with legs bowed through years of riding -horse, and naturally he was the first of my new comrades I introduced -myself to when I joined the colours. I mind he sat upon a keg of -bullets, looking like a vision of Bacchus, somewhat soiled and pimply, -when I entered to him and addressed him, with a certain gladness, in our -tongue. - -“Humph!” was what he said. “Another of his Royal Highness's Sassenach -friends! Here's a wheen of the lousiest French privates ever shook in -their breeks in front of a cannon, wanting smeddum and courage drummed -into them with a scabbard, and they send me Sassenachs to do the -business with when the whole hearty North of Scotland is crawling with -the stuff I want particularly.” - -“Anyway, here I am, major,” said I, slightly taken aback at this, “and -you'll have to make the best of me.” - -“Pshaw!” cried he vulgarly and cracked his thumb. “I have small stomach -for his Royal Highness's recommendations; I have found in the past that -he sends to Austria--him and his friends--only the stuff he has no use -for nearer the English Channel, where it's I would like to be this day. -They're talking of an invasion, I hear; wouldn't I like to be among the -first to have a slap again at Geordie?” - -My birse rose at this, which I regarded as a rank treason in any man -that spoke my own language even with a tartan accent. - -“A slap at Geordie!” I cried. “You made a bonny-like job o't when you -had the chance!” - -It was my first and last confabulation of a private nature with Major -Dugald MacKay. Thereafter he seldom looked the road I was on beyond to -give an order or pick a fault, and, luckily, though a pleasant footing -with my neighbours has ever been my one desire in life, I was not much -put up or down by the ill-will of such a creature. - -Like a break in a dream, a space of all unfriended travelling, which -is the worst travelling of all, appears my time of marching with the -Regiment d'Auvergne. I was lost among aliens--aliens in tongue and -sentiment, and engaged, to tell the truth, upon an enterprise that never -enlisted the faintest of my sympathy. All I wished was to forget the -past (and that, be sure, was the one impossible thing), and make a -living of some sort. The latter could not well be more scanty, for -my pay was a beggar's, and infrequent at that, and finally it wholly -ceased. - -I saw the world, so much of it as lies in Prussia, and may be witnessed -from the ranks of a marching regiment of the line; I saw life--the -life of the tent and the bivouac, and the unforgettable thing of it was -death--death in the stricken field among the grinding hoofs of horses, -below the flying wheels of the artillery. - -And yet if I had had love there--some friend to talk to when the -splendour of things filled me; the consciousness of a kind eye to share -the pleasure of a sunshine or to light at a common memory; or if I -had had hope, the prospect of brighter days and a restitution of my -self-respect, they might have been much happier these marching days that -I am now only too willing to forget. For we trod in many pleasant places -even when weary, by summer fields jocund with flowers, and by autumn's -laden orchards. Stars shone on our wearied columns as we rested in the -meadows or on the verge of woods, half satisfied with a gangrel's supper -and sometimes joining in a song. I used to feel then that here was a -better society after all than some I had of late been habituated with -upon the coast. And there were towns we passed through: 'twas sweet -exceedingly to hear the echo of our own loud drums, the tarantara of -trumpets. I liked to see the folks come out although they scarce were -friendly, and feel that priceless zest that is the guerdon of the corps, -the crowd, the mob--that I was something in a vastly moving thing even -if it was no more than the regiment of raw lads called d'Auvergne. - -We were, for long in our progress, no part of the main army, some -strategy of which we could not guess the reasoning, making it necessary -that we should move alone through the country; and to the interest -of our progress through these foreign scenes was added the ofttimes -apprehension that we might some day suffer an alarm from the regiments -of the great Frederick. Twice we were surprised by night and our -pickets broken in, once a native guided us to a _guet-apens_--an -ambuscade--where, to do him justice, the major fought like a lion, and -by his spirit released his corps from the utmost danger. A war is like a -harvest; you cannot aye be leading in, though the common notion is -that in a campaign men are fighting even-on. In the cornfield the work -depends upon the weather; in the field of war (at least with us 'twas -so) the actual strife must often depend upon the enemy, and for weeks on -end we saw them neither tail nor horn, as the saying goes. Sometimes it -seemed as if the war had quite forgotten us, and was waging somewhere -else upon the planet far away from Prussia. - -We got one good from the marching and the waiting; it put vigour in our -men. Day by day they seemed to swell and strengthen, thin faces grew -well-filled and ruddy, slouching steps grew confident and firm. And thus -the Regiment d'Au-vergne was not so badly figured when we fought the -fight of Rosbach that ended my career of glory. - -Rosbach!--its name to me can still create a tremor. We fought it in -November month in a storm of driving snow. Our corps lay out upon the -right of Frederick among fields that were new-ploughed for wheat and -broken up by ditches. The d'Auvergnes charged with all the fire of -veterans; they were smashed by horse, but rose and fell and rose again -though death swept across them like breath from a furnace, scorching -and shrivelling all before it. The Prussian and the Austrian guns -went rat-a-pat like some gigantic drum upon the braes, and nearer -the musketry volleys mingled with the plunge of horse and shouting of -commanders so that each sound individually was indistinguishable, but -all was blended in one unceasing melancholy hum. - -That drumming on the braes and that long melancholy hum are what most -vividly remains to me of Rosbach, for I fell early in the engagement, -struck in the charge by the sabre of a Prussian horseman that cleft -me to the skull in a slanting stroke and left me incapable, but not -unconscious, on the field. - -I lay for hours with other wounded in the snow The battle changed -ground; the noises came from the distance: we seemed to be forgotten. I -pitied myself exceedingly. Finally I swounded. - -When I came to myself it was night and men with lanterns were moving -about the fields gathering us in like blackcock where we lay. Two -Frenchmen came up and spoke to me, but what they said was all beyond -me for I had clean forgotten every word of their language though that -morning I had known it scarcely less fully than my own. I tried to speak -in French, it seems, and thought I did so, but in spite of me the words -were the broadest lallands Scots such as I had not used since I had run, -a bare-legged boy, about the braes of, home. And otherwise my faculties -were singularly acute, for I remember how keenly I noticed the pitying -eye of the younger of the two men. - -What they did was to stanch my wound and go away. I feared I was -deserted, but by-and-by they returned with another man who held the -lantern close to my face as he knelt beside me. - -“By the black stones of Baillinish!” said he in an unmistakable Hielan' -accent, “and what have I here the night but the boy that harmed the -bylie? You were not in your mother's bosom when you got that stroke!” - -I saw his smile in the light of his lanthom, 'twas no other than -MacKellar of Kilbride! - -He was a surgeon in one of the corps; had been busy at his trade in -another part of the field when the two Frenchmen who had recognised me -for a Scot had called him away to look to a compatriot. - -Under charge of Kilbride (as, in our country fashion, I called him) -I was taken in a waggon with several other wounded soldiers over the -frontier into Holland, that was, perhaps, the one unvexed part of all -the Continent of Europe in these stirring days. - -I mended rapidly, and cheery enough were these days of travel in a cart, -so cheery that I never considered what the end of them might be, but was -content to sit in the sunshine blithely conversing with this odd surgeon -of the French army who had been roving the world for twenty years like -my own Uncle Andrew, and had seen service in every army in Europe, but -yet hankered to get back to the glens of his nativity, where he hoped -his connection with the affair of Tearlach and the Forty-five would be -forgotten. - -“It's just this way of it, Hazel Den,” he would say to me, “there's -them that has got enough out of Tearlach to make it worth their while -to stick by him and them that has not. I am of the latter. I have been -hanging about Paris yonder for a twelvemonth on the promise of the body -that I should have a post that suited with my talents, and what does he -do but get me clapped into a scurvy regiment that goes trudging through -Silesia since Whitsunday, with never a sign of the paymaster except the -once and then no more than a tenth of what was due to me. It is, maybe, -glory, as the other man said; but my sorrow, it is not the kind that -makes a clinking in your pouches.” - -He had a comfortable deal of money to have so poor an account of his -paymaster, and at that I hinted. - -“Oh! Allow me for that!” he cried with great amusement at my wonder. -“Fast hand at a feast and fast feet at a foray is what the other man -said, and I'm thinking it is a very good observation, too. Where would I -be if I was lippening on the paymaster?” - -“Man! you surely have not been stealing?” said I, with such great -innocency that he laughed like to end. - -“Stealing!” he cried. “It's no theft to lift a purse in an enemy's -country.” - -“But these were no enemies of yours?” I protested, “though you happen to -be doctoring in their midst.” - -“Tuts! tuts, man!” said he shortly. “When the conies quarrel the quirky -one (and that's Sir Fox if ye like to ken) will get his own. There seems -far too much delicacy about you, my friend, to be a sporran-soldier -fighting for the best terms an army will give you. And what for need you -grumble at my having found a purse in an empty house when it's by virtue -of the same we're at this moment making our way to the sea?” - -I could make no answer to that, for indeed I had had, like the other -three wounded men in the cart with me, the full benefit of his purse, -wherever he had found it, and but for that we had doubtless been -mouldering in a Prussian prison. - -It will be observed that MacKellar spoke of our making for the sea, and -here it behoves that I should tell how that project arose. - -When we had crossed the frontier the first time it was simply because -it seemed the easiest way out of trouble, though it led us away from -the remnants of the army. I had commented upon this the first night we -stopped within the Netherlands, and the surgeon bluntly gave me his mind -on the matter. The truth was, he said, that he was sick of his post and -meant to make this the opportunity of getting quit of it. - -I went as close as I dared upon a hint that the thing looked woundily -like a desertion. He picked me up quick enough and counselled me to -follow his example, and say farewell to so scurvy a service as that I -had embarked on. His advices might have weighed less with me (though in -truth I was sick enough of the Regiment d'Auvergne and a succession -of defeats) if he had not told me that there was a certain man at -Helvoetsluys he knew I should like to see. - -“And who might that be?” I asked. - -“Who but his reverence himself?” said Kilbride, who dearly loved an -effect. “Yon night I met you in the Paris change-house it was planned by -them I was with, one of them being Buhot himself of the police, that the -old man must be driven out of his nest in the Hôtel Dieu, seeing they -had got all the information they wanted from him, and I was one of the -parties who was to carry this into effect. At the time I fancied Buhot -was as keen upon yourself as upon the priest, and I thought I was doing -a wonderfully clever thing to spy your red shoes and give you a warning -to quit the priest, but all the time Buhot was only laughing at me, and -saw you and recognised you himself in the change-house. Well, to make -the long tale short, when we went to the hospital the birds were both -of them gone, which was more than we bargained for, because some sort -of trial was due to the priest though there was no great feeling against -him. Where he had taken wing to we could not guess, but you will not -hinder him to come on a night of nights (as we say) to the lodging I -was tenanting at the time in the Rue Espade, and throw himself upon my -mercy. The muckle hash! I'll allow the insolency of the thing tickled -me greatly. The man was a fair object, too; had not tasted food for two -days, and captured my fancy by a tale I suppose there is no trusting, -that he had given you the last few _livres_ he had in the world.” - -“That was true enough about the _livres_,” I said with gratitude. - -“Was it, faith?” cried Kilbride. “Then I'm glad I did him the little -service that lay in my power, which was to give him enough money to pay -for posting to Helvoetsluys, where he is now, and grateful enough so far -as I could gather from the last letters I had from him, and also mighty -anxious to learn what became of his secretary.” - -“I would give the last plack in my pocket to see the creature,” said I. - -“Would you indeed?” said Kilbride. “Then here's the road for you, and -it must be a long furlough whatever of it from the brigade of Marshal -Clermont.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - -BRINGS ME TO HELVOETSLUYS IN WINTER WEATHER - -Kilbride and I parted company with the others once we had got within the -lines of Holland; the cateran (as I would sometimes be calling him in -a joke) giving them as much money as might take them leisuredly to the -south they meant to make for, and he and I proceeded on our way across -the country towards the mouth of the River Maas. - -It was never my lot before nor since to travel with a more cheerful -companion. Not the priest himself had greater humour in his composition, -and what was more it was a jollity I was able the better to understand, -for while much of Hamilton's _esprit_ missed the spark with me because -it had a foreign savour, the pawkiness of Kilbride was just the marrow -of that I had seen in folks at home. And still the man was strange, for -often he had melancholies. Put him in a day of rain and wind and you -would hear him singing like a laverock the daftest songs in Erse; or -give him a tickle task at haggling in the language of signs with a -broad-bottomed bargeman, or the driver of a rattel-van, and the fun -would froth in him like froth on boiling milk. - -Indeed, and I should say like cream, for this Mac-Kellar man had, what -is common enough among the clans in spite of our miscalling, a heart of -jeel for the tender moment and a heart of iron for the hard. But black, -black, were his vapours when the sun shone, which is surely the poorest -of excuses for dolours. I think he hated the flatness of the land we -travelled in. To me it was none amiss, for though it was winter I could -fancy how rich would be the grass of July in the polders compared with -our poor stunted crops at home, and that has ever a cheerful influence -on any man that has been bred in Lowland fields. But he (if I did not -misread his eye) looked all ungratefully on the stretching leagues that -ever opened before us as we sailed on waterways or jolted on the roads. - -“I do not ken how it may be with you, Mr. Greig,” he said one day as, -somewhere in Brabant, our sluggish vessel opened up a view of canal that -seemed to stretch so far it pricked the eye of the setting sun, and -the windmills whirled on either hand ridiculous like the games of -children--“I do not ken how it may be with you, but I'm sick of this -country. It's no better nor a bannock, and me so fond of Badenoch!” - -“Indeed and there's a sameness about every part of it,” I confessed, -“and yet it has its qualities. See the sun on yonder island--'tis -pleasant enough to my notion, and as for the folk, they are not the cut -of our own, but still they have very much in common with folks I've seen -in Ayr.” - -He frowned at that unbelievingly, and cast a sour eye upon some women -that stood upon a bridge. “Troth!” said he, “you would not compare these -limmers with our own. I have not seen a light foot and a right dark eye -since ever I put the back of me to the town of Inverness in the year of -'Fifty-six.'” - -“Nor I since I left the Mearns,” I cried, suddenly thinking of Isobel -and forgetting all that lay between that lass and me. - -“Oh! oh!” cried Kilbride. “And that's the way of it? Therms more than -Clemie Walkinshaw, is there? I was ill to convince that a nephew of Andy -Greig's began the game at the age of twenty-odd with a lady that might -have been his mother.” - -I felt very much ashamed that he should have any knowledge of this part -of my history, and seeing it he took to bantering me. - -“Come, come!” said he, “you must save my reputation with myself for -penetration, for I aye argued with Buhot that your tanglement with -madame was something short of innocency for all your mim look, and he -was for swearing the lady had found a fool.” - -“I am beat to understand how my affairs came to be the topic of dispute -with you and Buhot?” said I, astonished. - -“And what for no'?” said he. “Wasn't the man's business to find out -things, and would you have me with no interest in a ploy when it turned -up? There were but the two ways of it--you were all the gomeral in love -that Buhot thought you, or you were Andy Greig's nephew and willing to -win the woman's favour (for all her antiquity) by keeping Buhot in the -news of Hamilton's movements.” - -“Good God!” I cried, “that was a horrible alternative!” even then -failing to grasp all that he implied. - -“Maybe,” he said pawkily; “but you cannot deny you kept them very well -informed upon your master's movements, otherwise it had gone very hard -perhaps with his Royal Highness.” - -“Me!” I cried. “I would have as soon informed upon my father. And who -was there to inform?” - -Kilbride looked at me curiously as if he half doubted my innocence. “It -is seldom I have found the man Buhot in a lie of the sort,” said -he, “but he led me to understand that what information he had of the -movements of the priest came from yourself.” - -I jumped to my feet, and almost choked in denying it. - -“Oh, very well, very well!” said Kilbride coolly. “There is no need to -make a _fracas_ about the matter. I am just telling you what Buhot told -me. And troth! it was a circumstantial story he had of it; for he said -that the Marshal Duke de Bellisle, and Monsieur Florentin, and Monsieur -Berrier, and all the others of the Cabinet, had Fleuriau's name and -direction from yourself, and found the plot had some connection with the -affair of Damiens. George Kelly, the Prince's secretary, was another -man that told me.” He gazed along the deck of the scow we sat in, as -if thinking hard, and then turned to me with a hesitating suggestion. -“Perhaps,” said he, “you are forgetting. Perhaps you wrote the woman and -told her innocently enough, and that would come to the same thing.” - -I was overwhelmed with confusion at the idea, though the possibility of -my letters being used had once before occurred to me. - -“Well, if you must know, it is true I wrote some letters to Miss -Walkinshaw,” I confessed shamefacedly. “But they were very carefully -transmitted by Bernard the Swiss to her, for I got her answers back.” - -He burst out laughing. - -“For simplicity you beat all!” cried he. “You sent your news through -the Swiss, that was in Buhot's pay, and took the charge from Hamilton's -pistols, and did his part in helping you to escape from jyle with a -great degree of humour as those of us who knew what was afoot had to -agree, and you think the man would swither about peeping into a letter -you entrusted to him, particularly if it was directed to hersel'! The -sleep-bag was under your head sure enough, as the other man said.” - -“And I was the unconscious wretch that betrayed our hiding in the Hôtel -Dieu!” I cried with much chagrin, seeing at a flash what all this meant. -“If I had Bernard here I could thraw his neck.” - -“Indeed,” said he, “and what for should it be Bernard? The man but did -what he was told, and there, by my troth! when I think of it, I'm no' so -sure that he was any different from yourself.” - -“What do you mean?” said I. - -“Oh, just that hersel' told you to keep her informed of your movements -and you did so. In Bernard and you she had a pair of spies instead of -only the one had she trusted in either.” - -“And what in all the world would she be doing that for?” - -“What but for her lover the prince?” said he with a sickening promptness -that some way left me without a doubt he spoke with knowledge. “Foul fa' -the day he ever clapt eyes on her! for she has the cunning of the fox, -though by all accounts a pleasant person. They say she has a sister -that's in the service of the queen at St. James's, and who kens but for -all her pretended affection for Tearlach she may be playing all the time -into the hands of his enemies? She made you and this Bernard the -means of putting an end to the Jesuit plot upon his Royal Highness by -discovering the source of it, and now the Jesuits, as I'm told, are to -be driven furth the country and putten to the horn.” - -I was stunned by this revelation of what a tool I had been in the hands -of one I fancied briefly that I was in love with. For long I sat silent -pondering on it, and at last unable to make up my mind whether I should -laugh or swear. Kilbride, while affecting to pay no heed to me, was keen -enough to see my perturbation, and had, I think, a sort of pride that he -had been able to display such an astuteness. - -“I'm afraid,” said I at last, “there is too much probability in all that -you have said and thought. I am a stupendous ass, Mr. MacKellar, and you -are a very clever man.” - -“Not at all, not at all!” he protested hurriedly. “I have just some -natural Hielan' interest in affairs of intrigue, and you have not (by -your leave) had my advantages of the world, for I have seen much of the -evil as well as the good of it, and never saw a woman's hand in aught -yet but I wondered what mischief she was planning. There's much, -I'm telling you, to be learned about a place like Fontainebleau or -Versailles, and I advantaged myself so well of my opportunities there -that you could not drive a hole but I would put a nail in it, as the -other man said.” - -“Well,” said I, “my hope is that I may never meet the woman again, and -that's without a single angry feeling to her.” - -“You need not fear about that,” said he. “The thing that does not lie in -your road will never break your leg, as the other man said, and I'll be -surprised if she puts herself in your way again now that her need for -you is done. A score of your friends in Dunkerque could have told you -that she was daft about him. I might be vexed for you if I did not know -from your own mouth of the other one in Mearns.” - -“We'll say nothing about that,” I says, “for that's a tale that's by -wi'. She's lost to me.” - -He gave a little chuckle and had that turn in the eye that showed he had -a curious thought. - -“What are you laughing at?” I asked. “Oh, just an old word we have in -the Language, that with a two-deer stag-hound it will be happening often -that a stag's amissing.” - -“There's another thing I would like you to tell me out of your -experience,” I said, “and that is the reason for the Prince's doing me -a good turn with the one hand and a bad one with the other; using his -efforts to get me the lieutenancy and at the same time putting a man on -my track to quarrel with me?” - -“It's as plain as the nose on your face,” he cried. “It was no great -situation he got you when it was in the Regiment d'Auvergne, as you -have discovered, but it would be got I'll warrant on the pressure of the -Walkinshaw one. Just because she had that interest in you to press him -for the post, and you were in the trim to keep up a correspondence with -her (though in his own interest, as he must know, so far as she was -concerned), he would want you out of the road. Love is like lairdship, -Hazel Den, and it puts up very poorly with fellowship, as the other man -said.” - -I thought of the occasions when his Royal Highness had seen me at night -in front of a certain window in the Rue de la Boucherie, and concluded -that Kilbride in this too had probably hit the mark. - -And so we passed through Holland in many changes of weather that finally -turned to a black frost, which covered the canals with ice whereon -skated the Dutch folks very pleasantly, but we were the losers, as the -rest of our journey had to be made by post. - -It was well on in the winter when we got to Helvoetsluys. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - -FATHER HAMILTON IS THREATENED BY THE JESUITS AND WE ARE FORCED TO FLY -AGAIN - -The priest, poor man! aged a dozen years by his anxieties since I had -seen him last, was dubious of his senses when I entered where he lodged, -and he wept like a bairn to see my face again. - -“Scotland! Scotland! beshrew me, child, and I'd liefer have this than -ten good dinners at Verray's!” cried he, and put his arms about my -shoulders and buried his face in my waistcoat to hide his uncontrollable -tears. - -He was quartered upon a pilot of the Schelde and Hollands Deep, whose -only child he made a shift to tutor in part payment of his costs, and -the very moment that we had come in upon him he was full of a matter -that had puzzled him for weeks before we came to Helvoetsluys. 'Twas a -thing that partly hurt his pride, though that may seem incredible, and -partly gave him pleasure, and 'twas merely that when he had at last -found his concealment day and night in the pilot's house unendurable, -and ventured a stroll or two upon the dunes in broad sunshine, no one -paid any attention to him. There were soldiers and sailors that must -have some suspicions of his identity, and he had himself read his own -story and description in one of the gazettes, yet never a hand was -raised to capture him. - -“_Ma foi!_ Paul,” he cried to me in a perplexity. “I am the most -marvellous priest unfrocked, invisible to the world as if I had -Mambrino's helmet. Sure it cannot be that I am too stale quarry for -their hunting! My _amour propre_ baulks at such conclusion. I that -have--heaven help me!--loaded pistols against the Lord's anointed, might -as well have gone shooting sparrows for all the infamy it has gained me. -But yesterday I passed an officer of the peace that cried '_Bon jour_, -father,' in villainous French with a smile so sly I could swear he knew -my history from the first breeching. I avow that my hair stirred under -my hat when he said it.” - -MacKellar stood by contemptuous of the priest's raptures over his -restored secretary. - -“Goodness be about us!” he said, “what a pity the brock should be hiding -when there's nobody hunting him! The first squirt of the haggis is -always the hottest, as the other man said. If they were keen on -your track at the start of it--and it's myself has the doubt of that -same--you may warrant they are slack on it now. It's Buhot himself would -be greatly put about if you went to the jail and put out your hands for -the manacles.” - -Father Hamilton looked bewildered. - -“Expiscate, good Monsieur MacKellar,” said he. - -“Kilbride just means,” said I, “that you are in the same case as myself, -and that orders have gone out that no one is to trouble you.” - -He believed it, and still he was less cheerful than I looked for. -“Indeed, 'tis like enough,” he sighed. “I have put my fat on a trap for -a fortnight back to catch my captors and never a rat of them will come -near me, but pass with sniffing noses. And yet on my word I have little -to rejoice for. My friends have changed coats with my enemies because -they swear I betrayed poor Fleuriau. I'd sooner die on the rack----” - -“Oh, Father Hamilton!” I could not help crying, with remorse upon my -countenance. He must have read the story in a single glance at me, for -he stammered and took my hand. - -“What! there too, Scotland!” he said. “I forswear the company of -innocence after this. No matter, 'tis never again old Dixmunde parish -for poor Father Hamilton that loved his flock well enough and believed -the best of everybody and hated the confessional because it made the -world so wicked. My honey-bees will hum next summer among another's -flowers, and my darling blackbirds will be all starving in this -pestilent winter weather. Paul, Paul, hear an old man's wisdom--be -frugal in food, and raiment, and pleasure, and let thy ambitions -flutter, but never fly too high to come down at a whistle. But here am -I, old Pater Dull, prating on foolish little affairs, and thou and our -honest friend here new back from the sounding of the guns. Art a brave -fighter, lad? I heard of thee in the grenadier company of d'Auvergne.” - -“We did the best part of our fighting with our shanks, as the other man -said,” cried Kilbride. “But Mr. Greig came by a clout that affected his -mind and made him clean forget the number of his regiment, and that is -what for the lowlands of Holland is a very pleasant country just now.” - -“Wounded!” cried the priest, disturbed at this intelligence. “Had I -known on't I should have prayed for thy deliverance.” - -“I have little doubt he did that for himself,” said Kilbride. “When -I came on him after Rosbach he was behind a dyke, that is not a bad -alternative for prayer when the lead is in the air.” - -We made up our minds to remain for a while at Helvoet, but we had not -determined what our next step should be, when in came the priest one day -with his face like clay and his limbs trembling. - -“Ah, Paul!” he cried, and fell into a chair; “here's Nemesis, daughter -of Nox, a scurvy Italian, and wears a monkish cowl. I fancied it were -too good to be true that I should be free from further trials.” - -“Surely Buhot has not taken it into his head to move again,” I cried. -“That would be very hirpling justice after so long an interval. And in -any case they could scarcely hale you out of the Netherlands.” - -“No, lad, not Buhot,” said he, perspiring with his apprehensions, “but -the Society. There's one Gordoletti, a pretended Lutheran that hails -from Jena, that has been agent between the Society and myself before -now, and when I was out there he followed me upon the street with the -eyes of a viper. I'll swear the fellow has a poignard and means the -letting of blood. I know how 'twill be--a watch set upon this building, -Gordoletti upon the steps some evening; a jostle, a thrust, and a -speeding shade. A right stout shade too! if spirits are in any relation -of measure to the corporeal clay. Oh, lad, what do I say? my sinner's -wit must be evincing in the front of doom itself.” - -I thought he simply havered, but found there was too real cause for his -distress. That afternoon the monk walked up and down the street without -letting his eyes lose a moment's sight of the entrance to the pilot's -house where Father Hamilton abode. I could watch him all the better -because I shared a room with Kilbride on the same side of the street, -and even to me there was something eerie in the sight of this long -thin stooping figure in its monkish garment, slouching on the stones -or hanging over the parapet of the bridge, his eyes, lambent black and -darting, over his narrow chafts. Perhaps it was but fancy, yet I thought -I saw in the side of his gown the unmistakable bulge of a dagger. He -paced the street for hours or leaned over the parapet affecting an -interest in the barges, and all the time the priest sat fascinated -within, counting his sentence come. - -“Oh, by my faith and it is not so bad as that,” I protested on returning -to find him in this piteous condition. “Surely there are two swords here -that at the worst of it can be depended on to protect you.” - -He shook his head dolefully. “It is no use, Paul,” he cried. “The -poignard or the phial--'tis all the same to them or Gordoletti, and -hereafter I dare not touch a drop of wine or indulge in a meagre soup.” - -“But surely,” I said, “there may be a mistake, and this Gordoletti may -have nothing to do with you.” - -“The man wears a cowl--a monkish cowl--and that is enough for me. A -Jesuit out of his customary _soutane_ is like the devil in dancing -shoes--be sure his lordship means mischief. Oh! Paul, I would I were -back in Bicêtre and like to die there cleaner than on the banks of a -Dutch canal. I protest I hate to think of dying by a canal.” - -Still I was incredulous that harm was meant to him, and he proceeded -to tell me the Society of Jesus was upon the brink of dissolution, and -desperate accordingly. The discovery of Fleuriau's plot against the -Prince had determined the authorities upon the demolition and extinction -of the Jesuits throughout the whole of the King's dominion. Their riches -and effects and churches were to be seized to the profit and emolument -of the Crown; the reverend Fathers were to be banished furth of France -for ever. Designs so formidable had to be conducted cautiously, and so -far the only evidence of a scheme against the Society was to be seen -in the Court itself, where the number of priests of the order was being -rapidly diminished. - -I thought no step of the civil power too harsh against the band of whom -the stalking man in the cowl outside was representative, and indeed the -priest at last half-infected myself with his terrors. We sat well back -from the window looking out upon the street till it was dusk. There was -never a moment when the assassin (as I still must think him) was not -there, his interest solely in the house we sat in. And when it was -wholly dark, and a single lamp of oil swinging on a cord across the -thoroughfare lit the passage of the few pedestrians that went along the -street, Gordoletti was still close beneath it, silent, meditating, and -alert. - -MacKellar came in from his coffee-house. We sat in darkness, except -for the flicker of a fire of peat. He must have thought the spectacle -curious. - -“My goodness!” cried he, “candles must be unco dear in this shire when -the pair of you cannot afford one between you to see each other yawning. -I'm of a family myself that must be burning a dozen at a time and at -both ends to make matters cheery, for it's a gey glum world at the best -of it.” - -He stumbled over to the mantel-shelf where there was customarily a -candle; found and lit it, and held it up to see if there was any visible -reason for our silence. - -The priest's woebegone countenance set him into a shout of laughter. His -amusement scarcely lessened when he heard of the ominous gentleman in -the cowl. - -“Let me see!” he said, and speedily devised a plan to test the occasion -of Father Hamilton's terrors. He arranged that he should dress himself -in the priest's garments, and as well as no inconsiderable difference -in their bulk might let him, simulate the priest by lolling into the -street. - -“A brave plan verily,” quo' the priest, “but am I a bowelless rogue to -let another have my own particular poignard? No, no, Messieurs, let me -pay for my own _pots cassés_ and run my own risks in my own _soutane_.” - -With that he rose to his feet and was bold enough to offer a trial that -was attended by considerable hazard. - -It was determined, however, that I should follow close upon the heels -of Kilbride in his disguise, prepared to help him in the case of too -serious a surprise. - -The night was still. There were few people in the street, which was one -of several that led down to the quays. The sky had but a few wan stars. -When MacKellar stepped forth in the priest's hat and cloak, he walked -slowly towards the harbour, ludicrously imitating the rolling gait of -his reverence, while I stayed for a little in the shelter of the -door. Gordoletti left his post upon the bridge and stealthily followed -Kilbride. I gave him some yards of law and followed Gordoletti. - -Our footsteps sounded on the stones; 'twas all that broke the evening -stillness except the song of a roysterer who staggered upon the quays. -The moment was fateful in its way and yet it ended farcically, for ere -he had gained the foot of the street Kilbride turned and walked back to -meet the man that stalked him. We closed upon the Italian to find him -baffled and confused. - -“Take that for your attentions!” cried Kilbride, and buffeted the fellow -on the ear, a blow so secular and telling from a man in a frock that -Gordoletti must have thought himself bewitched, for he gave a howl -and took to his heels. Kilbride attempted to stop him, but the cassock -escaped his hands and his own unwonted costume made a chase hopeless. As -for me, I was content to let matters remain as they were now that Father -Hamilton's suspicions seemed too well founded. - -It did not surprise me that on learning of our experience the priest -should determine on an immediate departure from Helvoetsluys. But where -he was to go was more than he could readily decide. He proposed and -rejected a score of places--Bordeaux, Flanders, the Hague, Katwyk -farther up the coast, and many others--weighing the advantages of each, -enumerating his acquaintances in each, discovering on further thought -that each and every one of them had some feature unfavourable to his -concealment from the Jesuits. - -“You would be as long tuning your pipes as another would be playing a -tune,” said Kilbride at last. “There's one thing sure of it, that you -cannot be going anywhere the now without Mr. Greig and myself, and what -ails you at Dunkerque in which we have all of us acquaintances?” - -A season ago the suggestion would have set my heart in flame; but now -it left me cold. Yet I backed up the proposal, for I reflected that -(keeping away from the Rue de la Boucherie) we might there be among a -good many friends. Nor was his reverence ill to influence in favour of -the proposal. - -The next morning saw us, then, upon a hoy that sailed for Calais and was -bargained to drop us at Dunkerque. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - -I OVERHEAR THE PLAN OF BRITAIN'S INVASION - -I began these chronicles with a homily upon the pregnancy of chance -that gives the simplest of our acts ofttimes far-reaching and appalling -consequences. It is clear that I had never become the Spoiled Horn -and vexed my parents' lives had not a widow woman burned her batch of -scones, and though perhaps the pair of shoes in the chest bequeathed -to me by my Uncle Andrew were without the magic influence he and I -gave credit for, it is probable that I had made a different flight from -Scotland had they not led me in the way of Daniel Risk. - -And even now their influence was not ended. During the months I had -spent at soldiering the red shoes reposed among my baggage; even when -I had changed from the uniform of the Regiment d'Auvergne upon the -frontier of Holland, and made myself again a common citizen of Europe, I -had some freit (as we say of a superstition) against resuming the shoes -that had led me previously into divers perils. But the day we left -Helvoet in the Hollands Deep hoy, I was so hurried in my departure that -the red shoes were the only ones I could lay hands on. As luck would -have it, when I entered Dunkerque for the last time in my history some -days after, I was wearing the same leather as on the first day of my -arrival there, and the fact led, by a singularity of circumstances, to -my final severance from many of those: companions--some of them pleasant -and unforgetable--I had made acquaintance with in France. - -It was thus that the thing happened. - -When we entered Dunkerque, the priest, Kilbride, and I went to an inn -upon the sea front. Having breakfasted I was deputed to go forth and -call upon Thurot, explain our circumstances, take his counsel, and -return to the hoy where my two friends would return to wait for me. He -was out when I reached his lodging, but his Swiss--a different one from -what he had before when I was there--informed me that his master was -expected back at any moment, and invited me to step in and wait for him. -I availed myself of the opportunity. - -Our voyage along the coast had been delayed by contrary winds, so that -now it was the Sabbath; the town was by-ordinary still (though indeed -Sabbath nor Saturday made much difference, as a rule, on the gaiety of -Dunkerque), and wearied by the sea travel that had just concluded I fell -fast asleep in Captain Thurot's chair. - -I was wakened by a loud knocking at the outer door, not the first, as -it may be remembered, that called me forth from dreams to new twists of -fortune, and I started to my feet to meet my host. - -What was my chagrin to hear the Prince's voice in converse with him on -the stair! - -“Here is a pretty pickle!” I told myself. “M. Albany is the last man -on earth I would choose to meet at this moment,” and without another -reflection I darted into the adjoining room and shut the door. It was -Thurot's bed-chamber, with a window that looked out upon the court -where fowls were cackling. I was no sooner in than I somewhat rued my -precipitation, for the manlier course indubitably had been to bide where -I was. But now there was no retreating, so I sat with what patience I -could command to wait my discovery by the tenant of the place after -his royal visitor was gone. - -It was the Sabbath day as I have said, and the chimes of St. Eloi were -going briskly upon some papist canticle, but not so loud that I could -not hear, in spite of myself, all that went on in the next room. - -At first I paid no heed, for the situation was unworthy enough of itself -without any attempt on my part to be an eavesdropper. But by-and-bye, -through the banging of the bells of St. Eloi, I heard M. Albany (still -to give the man his by-name) mention the name Ecosse. - -Scotland! The name of her went through me like a pang! - -They spoke in French of course; I think I could have understood them -had it been Chinese. For they discussed some details of the intended -invasion that still hung fire, and from the first of M. Albany's -sentences I learned that the descent was determined upon Scotland. 'Twas -that which angered me and made me listen for the rest with every sense -of the spy and deterred by never a scruple. At first I had fancied -Thurot would learn from his servant I was in the house, and leave me -alone till his royal guest's departure from an intuition that I desired -no meeting, but it was obvious now that no such consideration would have -induced him to let me hear the vast secret they discussed. - -“Twenty thousand men are between Brest and Vannes,” said M. Albany. “We -shall have them in frigates in a fortnight from to-day, and then, _mon -Capitaine_, affairs shall move briskly.” - -“And still,” said Thurot, who had some odd tone of dissatisfaction in -his voice, “I had preferred it had been the South of England. Dumont has -given us every anchorage and sounding on the coast between Beachy Head -and Arundel, and from there we could all the sooner have thrust at the -heart of England. This Scotland--” - -“Bah! Captain Thurot,” cried his Royal Highness impatiently, “you talk -like a fool. At the heart, indeed! With all habitable England like a fat -about it, rich with forts and troops and no more friendship for us than -for the Mameluke! No, no, Thurot, I cry Scotland; all the chances are -among the rocks, and I am glad it has been so decided on.” - -“And still, with infinite deference, your Royal Highness, this same -West of Scotland never brought but the most abominable luck to you and -yours,” continued Thurot. “Now, Arundel Bay----” - -“Oh! to the devil with Arundel Bay!” cried M. Albany; “'tis settled -otherwise, and you must take it as you find it. Conflans and his men -shall land upon the West--_mon Dieu!_ I trust they may escape its fangs; -and measures will be there taken with more precaution and I hope with -more success than in Seventeen Forty-five. Thence they will march to -England, sweeping the whole country before them, and not leaving behind -them a man or boy who can carry a musket. Thus they must raise the army -to fifty or sixty thousand men, strike a terror into England, and carry -all with a high hand. I swear 'tis a fatted hog this England: with -fewer than ten thousand Highlanders I have made her thrill at the very -vitals.” - -Thurot hummed. Plainly there was much in the project that failed to meet -his favour. - -“And Conflans?” said he. - -His Royal Highness laughed. - -“Ha! Captain,” said he, “I know, I know. 'Twould suit you better if a -certain Tony Thurot had command.” - -“At least,” said Thurot, “I am in my prime, while the Marshal is beyond -his grand climacteric.” - -“And still, by your leave, with the reputation of being yet the best-- -well, let us say among the best--of the sea officers of France. Come, -come, Captain, there must be no half-hearts in this venture; would to -Heaven I were permitted to enjoy a share in it! And on you, my friend, -depends a good half of the emprise and the _gloire_.” - -“_Gloire!_” cried Thurot. “With every deference to your Royal Highness -I must consider myself abominably ill-used in this matter. That I should -be sent off to Norway and hound-in wretched Swedes with a personage like -Flaubert! Oh, I protest, 'tis beyond all reason! Is it for that I have -been superseded by a man like Conflans that totters on the edge of the -grave?” - -“I hope 'tis England's grave,” retorted M. Albany with unfailing good -humour, and I heard the gluck of wine as he helped himself to another -glass. “I repeat _gloire_, with every apology to the experience of M. le -Corsair. 'Tis your duty to advance with your French and your Swedes upon -the North of England, and make the diversion in these parts that shall -inconvenience the English army front or rear.” - -“Oh, curse your diversions!” cried Thurot. “If I have a talent at all -'tis for the main attack. And this Conflans----” - -The remainder of the discussion, so far as I remained to hear it, gave -no enlargement upon the plan thus laid bare. But in any case my whole -desire now was to escape from the house without discovery, for I had -news that made my return to Britain imperative. - -I opened the window quietly and slipped out. The drop to the court was -less than my own height. Into the street I turned with the sober step -of leisure, yet my feet tingled to run hard and my heart was stormy. The -bells of St. Eloi went on ringing; the streets were growing busy -with holiday-makers and the soldiers who were destined to over-run my -country. I took there and then the most dreadful hatred of them, and -scowled so black that some of the soldiers cried after me with a jeer. - -The priest and Kilbride I found were not at the inn where I had left -them, having gone back to the vessel, so I hurried down to the quay -after them. The hoy had been moved since morning, and in the throng of -other vessels that were in the harbour at the time I lost well-nigh an -hour in seeking her. Whether that was well for me or ill would be folly -now to guess, but when I had no more than set a foot upon the gunwale -of a small boat that was to take me out to her I was clapped upon the -shoulder. - -I turned, to see Thurot and two officers of marine! - -“Pardon, M. Greig, a moment,” said Thurot, with not the kindest of -tones. “Surely you would not hurry out of Dunkerque without a _congé_ -for old friends?” - -I stammered some sentences that were meant to reassure him. He -interrupted me, and--not with any roughness, but with a pressure there -was no mistaking and I was not fool enough to resist--led me from the -side of the quay. - -“_Ma foi!_” said he, “'Tis the most ridiculous thing! I had nearly -missed you and could never have forgiven myself. My Swiss has just -informed me that you were in the house an hour ago while I was there -myself. I fear we must have bored you, M. Albany and I, with our dull -affairs. At least there was no other excuse for your unceremonious -departure through my back window.” - -I was never well-equipped to conceal my feelings, and it was plain in my -face that I knew all. - -He sighed. - -“Well, lad,” said he, rather sorrowfully, “I'd give a good many _louis -d'or_ that you had come visiting at another hour of the day, and -now there's but one thing left me. My Swiss did not know you, but -he has--praise _le bon Dieu!_--a pair of eyes in his head, and -he remembered that my visitor wore red shoes. Red shoes and a -Scotsman!--the conjunction was unmistakable, and here we are, M. Greig. -There are a score of men looking all over Dunkerque at this moment for -these same shoes.” - -“Confound the red shoes!” I cried, unable to conceal my vexation that -they should once more have brought me into trouble. - -“By no means, M. Greig,” said Thurot. “But for them we should never -have identified our visitor, and a somewhat startling tale was over the -Channel a little earlier than we intended. And now all that I may do for -old friendship to yourself and the original wearer of the shoes is to -give you a free trip to England in my own vessel. 'Tis not the _Roi -Rouge_ this time--worse luck!--but a frigate, and we can be happy enough -if you are not a fool.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - -THUROT'S PRISONER. MY FRIEND THE WATCH - -It was plain from the first that my overhearing of the plot must compel -Thurot to the step he took. He was not unkind, but so much depended on -the absolute secrecy of the things he had talked to the Prince, that, -even at the unpleasant cost of trepanning me, he must keep me from -carrying my new-got information elsewhere. For that reason he refused to -accede to my request for a few minutes' conversation with the priest or -my fellow-countrymen. The most ordinary prudence, he insisted, demanded -that he should keep me in a sort of isolation until it was too late to -convey a warning across the Channel. - -It was for these reasons I was taken that Sabbath afternoon to the -frigate that was destined to be in a humble sense his flagship, and was -lying in the harbour with none of her crew as yet on board. I was given -a cabin; books were furnished to cheer my incarceration, for it was -no less. I was to all intents and purposes a prisoner, though enjoying -again some of the privileges of the _salle d'épreuves_ for the sake of -old acquaintance. - -All that day I planned escape. Thurot came to the cabin and smoked and -conversed pleasantly, but found me so abstracted that he could scarcely -fail to think I meant a counter-sap. - -“Be tranquil, my Paul,” he advised; “Clancarty and I will make your life -on ship-board as little irksome as possible, but it is your own cursed -luck that you must make up your mind to a fortnight of it.” - -But that was considerably longer than I was ready to think of with -equanimity. What I wished for was an immediate freedom and a ship to -England, and while he talked I reviewed a dozen methods of escape. Here -was I with a secret worth a vast deal to the British Government; if I -could do my country that service of putting her into possession of it -in time to prevent catastrophe, might I not, without presumption, expect -some clemency from her laws for the crime I had committed in the -hot blood of ignorant and untutored youth? I saw the most cheerful -possibilities rise out of that accident that had made me an eavesdropper -in Thurot's lodging--freedom, my family perhaps restored to me, my name -partly re-established; but the red shoes that set me on wrong roads to -start with still kept me on them. Thurot was an amiable enough gaoler, -but not his best wine nor his wittiest stories might make me forget by -how trivial a chance I had lost my opportunity. - -We were joined in the afternoon by Lord Clancarty. - -“What, lad!” cried his lordship, pomaded and scented beyond words; -fresh, as he told us, from the pursuit of a lady whose wealth was -shortly to patch up his broken fortunes. “What, lad! Here's a pretty -matter! Pressed, egad! A renegade against his will! 'Tis the most cursed -luck, Captain Thurot, and wilt compel the poor young gentleman to cut -the throats of his own countrymen?” - -“I? Faith, not I!” said Thurot. “I press none but filthy Swedes. M. -Greig has my word for it that twelve hours before we weigh anchor he may -take his leave of us. _Je le veux bien_.” - -“Bah! 'Tis an impolite corsair this. As for me I should be inconsolable -to lose M. Greig to such a dull country as this England. Here's an -Occasion, M. le Capitaine, for pledging his health in a bottle, and -wishing him well out of his troubles.” - -“You do not stand sufficiently on your dignity, Clancarty,” laughed -Thurot. “Here's the enemy--” - -“Dignity! pooh!” said his lordship. “To stand on that I should need a -year's practice first on the tight-rope. There's that about an Irish -gentleman that makes the posturings and proprieties and pretences of -the fashionable world unnecessary. Sure, race will show in his face -and action if he stood alone in his shirt-sleeves on a village common -juggling balls. I am of the oldest blood that springs in Irish kings. -'Tis that knowledge keeps my heart up when circumstances make the world -look rotten like a cheese. But the curst thing is one cannot for ever -be drinking and dining off a pedigree, and here I am deserted by M. -Tête-de-mouche----” - -Thurot put up his hand to check one of these disloyalties to the -Pretender that I had long since learned were common with Lord Clancarty. - -“Bah!” cried his lordship. “I love you, Tony, and all the other boys, -but your Prince is a madman--a sotted madman tied to the petticoat tails -of a trollope. This Walkinshaw--saving your presence, Paul Greig, for -she's your countrywoman and by way of being your friend, I hear--has -ruined Charles and the Cause. We have done what we could to make him -send madame back to the place she came from, but he'll do nothing of the -kind. 'She has stuck by me through thick and thin, and lost all for me, -and now I shall stick by her,' says foolish Master Sentiment.” - -“Bravo!” cried Thurot. “'Tis these things make us love the Prince and -have faith in his ultimate success.” - -“You were ever the hopeful ass, Tony,” said his lordship coolly. “_Il -riest pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre_, and you must shut -your ears against a tale that all the world is shouting at the pitch of -its voice. Who knows better than Tony Thurot how his Royal Highness has -declined? Why! 'tis manifest in the fellow's nose; I declare he drinks -like a fish--another vice he brought back from your mountain land, M. -Greig, along with Miss Walkinshaw----” - -“There is far too much of Miss Walkinshaw about your lordship's -remarks,” I cried in an uncontrollable heat that the lady should be the -subject of implications so unkind. - -He stared, and then kissed his hand to me with laughter and a bow, “Ha!” - he cried, “here's another young gentleman of sentiment. Stap me if I say -a word against the lady for your sake, Andy Greig's nephew.” And back he -went to his bottle. - -In this light fashion we spent a day that by rights should have been -more profitably and soberly occupied. The frigate lay well out from the -quays from which Thurot had conveyed me with none of the indignities -that might be expected by a prisoner. There was, as I have said, none of -her crew on board save a watch of two men. Beside her quarter there hung -a small smuggling cutter that had been captured some days previously. As -I sat in the cabin, yawning at the hinder-end over Clancarty's sallies, -I could hear now and then the soft thudding of the smuggler's craft -against the fenders as the sea rocked us lightly, and it put a mad fancy -into my head. - -How good it would be, I thought, to be free on board such a vessel and -speeding before a light wind to Britain! Was it wholly impossible? The -notion so possessed me that I took an occasion to go on deck and see how -things lay. - -The smuggler's boat had her mast stepped, but no sails in her. Over the -bulwark of the frigate leaned one of the watch idly looking at sea-gulls -that cried like bairns upon the smuggler's thwarts and gunnels. He was -a tarry Dutchman (by his build and colour); I fancy that at the time he -never suspected I was a prisoner, for he saluted me with deference. - -The harbour was emptier than usual of shipping. Dusk was falling on the -town; some lights were twinkling wanly and bells rang in the cordage -of the quays. I asked the seaman if he knew where the hoy _Vrijster_ of -Helvoetsluys lay. - -At that his face brightened and he promptly pointed to her yellow hull -on the opposite side of the harbour. - -“Did my honour know Captain Breuer?” he asked, in crabbed French. - -My honour was very pleased to confess that he did, though in truth my -acquaintance with the skipper who had taken us round from Helvoetsluys -went scarcely further than sufficed me to recall his name. - -The best sailor ever canted ship! my Dutchman assured me with -enthusiasm. How often have I heard the self-same sentiment from -mariners? for there is something jovial and kind in the seaman's manner -that makes him ever fond of the free, the brave and competent of his own -calling, and ready to cry their merits round the rolling world. - -A good seaman certainly!--I agreed heartily, though the man might have -been merely middling for all I knew of him. - -He would like nothing better than to have an hour with Captain Breuer, -said Mynheer. - -“And I, too,” said I quickly. “But for Captain Thurot's pressing desire -that I should spend the evening here I should be in Breuer's cabin now. -Next to being with him there I would reckon the privilege of having him -here.” - -There might be very little difficulty about that if my honour was -willing, said Mynheer. They were old shipmates; had sailed the Zuyder -Sea together, and drunken in a score of ports. Dearly indeed would he -love to have some discourse with Breuer. But to take leave from the -frigate and cross to the hoy--no! Captain Thurot would not care for him -to do that. - -“Why not have Breuer come to the frigate?” I asked, with my heart -beating fast. - -“Why, indeed?” repeated Mynheer with a laugh. “A hail across the harbour -would not fetch him.” - -“Then go for him,” said I, my heart beating faster than ever lest he -should have some suspicion of my condition and desires. - -He reminded me that he had no excuse to leave the frigate, though to -take the small boat at the stern and row over to the hoy would mean but -a minute or two. - -“Well, as for excuses,” said I, “that's easily arranged, for I can give -you one to carry a note to the care of the captain, and you may take it -at your leisure.” - -At his leisure! He would take it at once and thankfully while we -gentlemen were drinking below, for there was no pleasure under heaven he -could compare with half an hour of good Jan Breuer's company. - -Without betraying my eagerness to avail myself of such an unlooked-for -opportunity, I deliberately wrote a note in English intimating that I -was a prisoner on the frigate and in pressing humour to get out of -her at the earliest moment. I addressed it to Kilbride, judging the -Highlander more likely than Father Hamilton to take rational steps for -my release if that were within the bounds of possibility. - -I assured the seaman that if he lost no time in taking it over I would -engage his absence would never be noticed, and he agreed to indicate to -me by a whistle when he returned. - -With a cheerful assurance that he would have Jan Breuer on this deck in -less than twenty minutes the seaman loosed the painter of the small -boat and set forth upon his errand, while I returned to the cabin where -Thurot and Clancarty still talked the most contrary and absurd politics -over their wine. The vast and tangled scheme of French intrigue was set -before me; at another time it might have been of the most fascinating -interest, but on this particular occasion I could not subdue my mind to -matters so comparatively trivial, while I kept my hearing strained for -the evidence that the Dutchman had accomplished his mission and got -back. - -The moments passed; the interest flagged; Clancarty began to yawn and -Thurot grew silent. It was manifest that the sooner my Dutchman was back -to his ship the better for my plan. Then it was I showed the brightest -interest in affairs that an hour earlier failed to engage a second of my -attention, and I discovered for the entertainment of my gaoler and -his friend a hitherto unsuspected store of reminiscence about my Uncle -Andrew and a fund of joke and anecdote whereof neither of them probably -had thought me capable. - -But all was useless. The signal that the Dutchman had returned was not -made when Lord Clancarty rose to his feet and intimated his intention -there and then of going ashore, though his manner suggested that it -would have been easy to induce him to wait longer. We went on deck with -him. The night was banked with clouds though a full moon was due; only a -few stars shone in the spaces of the zenith; our vessel was in darkness -except where a lamp swung at the bow. - -“_Mon Dieu!_ Tony, what a pitchy night! I'd liefer be safe ashore than -risking my life getting there in your cockle-shell,” said Clancarty. - -“'Art all right, Lord Clancarty,” said Thurot. “Here's a man will row -you to the quay in two breaths, and you'll be snug in bed before M. -Greig and I have finished our prayers.” Then he cried along the deck for -the seaman. - -I felt that all was lost now the fellow's absence was to be discovered. - -What was my astonishment to hear an answering call, and see the -Dutchman's figure a blotch upon the blackness of the after-deck. - -“Bring round the small boat and take Lord Clancarty ashore,” said the -captain, and the seaman hastened to do so. He sprang into the small -boat, released her rope, and brought her round. - -“_A demain_, dear Paul,” cried his lordship with a hiccough. “It's curst -unkind of Tony Thurot not to let you ashore on parole or permit me to -wait with you.” - -The boat dropped off into the darkness of the harbour, her oars thudding -on the thole-pins. - -“There goes a decent fellow though something of a fool,” said Thurot. -“'Tis his kind have made so many enterprises like our own have an -ineffectual end. And now you must excuse me, M. Greig, if I lock you -into your cabin. There are too few of us on board to let you have the -run of the vessel.” - -He put a friendly hand upon the shoulder I shrugged with chagrin at this -conclusion to an unfortunate day. - -“Sorry, M. Greig, sorry,” he said humorously. “_Qui commence mal finit -mal_, and I wish to heaven you had begun the day by finding Antoine -Thurot at home, in which case we had been in a happier relationship -to-night.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - -DISCLOSES THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE AND HOW WE SET SAIL FOR ALBION - -Thurot turned the key on me with a pleasantry that was in no accordance -with my mood, and himself retired to the round house on deck where his -berth was situated. I sat on a form for a little, surrendered all to -melancholy, then sought to remove it by reading, as sleep in my present -humour was out of the question. My reading, though it lasted for an hour -or two, was scarcely worth the name, for my mind continually wandered -from the page. I wondered if my note to Kilbride had been delivered, and -if any step on his part was to be expected therefrom; the hope that rose -with that reflection died at once upon the certainty that as the Dutch -seaman had not signalled as he had promised he had somehow learned the -true nature of my condition in the frigate. Had he told Thurot? If he -had told Thurot--which was like enough--that I had communicated with any -one outside the vessel there was little doubt that the latter would take -adequate steps to prevent interference by Kilbride or any one else. - -We are compact of memories, a mere bundle of bygone days, childish -recollections, ancient impressions, and so an older experience came to -me, too, of the night I sat in the filthy cabin of Dan Risk's doomed -vessel hearing the splash of illegitimate oars, anticipating with a mind -scarcely more disturbed than I had just now the step of the officer from -the prison at Blackness and the clutch of the chilly fetters. - -There was a faint but rising nor'-east wind. It sighed among the shrouds -of the frigate. I could hear it even in the cabin, pensive like the call -of the curfew at a great distance. The waves washed against the timbers -in curious short gluckings and hissings. On the vessel herself not a -sound was to be heard, until of a sudden there came a scratching at my -cabin door! - -It was incredible! I had heard no footstep on the companion, and I had -ceased to hope for anything from the Dutchman! - -“Who's there?” I asked softly, and at that the key outside was turned -and I was fronted by Kilbride! - -He wore the most ridiculous travesty of the Dutchman's tarry breeks -and tarpaulin hat and coarse wide jumper, and in the light of my candle -there was a humorous twinkle on his face as he entered, closed the door -softly after him, and sat down beside me. - -“My goodness!” he whispered, “you have a face on you as if you were in a -graveyard watching ghosts. It's time you were steeping the withies to go -away as we say in the Language, and you may be telling me all the story -of it elsewhere.” - -“Where's the Dutchman that took my letter?” I asked. - -“Where,” said Kilbride, “but in the place that well befits him--at the -lug of an anker of Rotterdam gin taking his honest night's rest. I'm -here guizing in his tarry clothes, and if I were Paul Greig of the Hazel -Den I would be clapping on my hat gey quick and getting out of here -without any more parley.” - -“You left him in the hoy!” said I astonished. - -“Faith, there was nothing better for it!” said he coolly. “Breuer gave -him so much of the juniper for old acquaintance that when I left he was -so full of it that he had lost the power of his legs and you might as -well try to keep a string of fish standing.” - -“And it was you took Clancarty ashore?” - -“Who else? And I don't think it's a great conceit of myself to believe -I play-acted the Dutch tarry-breeks so very well, though I was in -something of a tremble in case the skipper here would make me out below -my guizard's clothes. You may thank your stars the moon was as late of -rising this night as a man would be that was at a funeral yesterday.” - “And where's the other man who was on this vessel?” I asked, preparing -to go. - -“Come on deck and I'll show you,” said Kilbride, checking a chuckle of -amusement at something. - -We crept softly on deck into the night now slightly lit by a moon veiled -by watery clouds. The ship seemed all our own and we were free to leave -her when we chose for the small boat hung at her stern. - -“You were asking for the other one,” said Kilbride. “There he is,” and -he pointed to a huddled figure bound upon the waist. “When I came on -board after landing Clancarty this stupid fellow discovered I was a -stranger and nearly made an outcry; but I hit him on the lug with the -loom of an oar. He'll not be observing very much for a while yet, but -I was bound all the same to put a rope on him to prevent him disturbing -Captain Thurot's sleep too soon.” - -We spoke in whispers for the night seemed all ear and I was for ever -haunted by the reflection that Thurot was divided from us by little more -than an inch or two of teak-wood. Now and then the moon peeped through -a rift of cloud and lit a golden roadway over the sea, enticing me -irresistibly home. - -“O God, I wish I was in Scotland!” I said passionately. - -“Less luck than that will have to be doing us,” said Kilbride, fumbling -at the painter of the boat. “The hoy sets sail for Calais in an hour -or two, and it's plain from your letter we'll be best to be taking her -round that length.” - -“No, not Calais,” said I. “It's too serious a business with me for that. -I'm wanting England, and wanting it unco fast.” - -“_Oh, Dhe!_” said my countryman, “here's a fellow with the appetite of -Prince Charlie and as likely to gratify it. What for must it be England, -_loachain?_” - -“I can only hint at that,” I answered hastily, “and that in a minute. -Are ye loyal?” - -“To a fine fellow called MacKellar first and to my king and country -after?” - -“The Stuarts?” said I. - -He cracked his thumb. “It's all by with that,” said he quickly and not -without a tone of bitterness. - -“The breed of them has never been loyal to me, and if I could wipe out -of my life six months of the cursedest folly in Forty-five I would go -back to Scotland with the first chance and throw my bonnet for Geordie -ever after like the greasiest burgess ever sold a wab of cloth or a -cargo of Virginia in Glasgow.” - -“Then,” I said, “you and me's bound for England this night, for I have -that in my knowledge should buy the safety of the pair of us,” and I -briefly conveyed my secret. - -He softly whistled with astonishment. - -“Man! it's a gey taking idea,” he confessed. “But the bit is to get over -the Channel.” - -“I have thought of that,” said I. “Here's a smuggler wanting no more -than a rag of sail in this wind to make the passage in a couple of -days.” - -“By the Holy Iron it's the very thing!” he interrupted, slapping his -leg. - -It takes a time to tell all this in writing, but in actual fact our -whole conversation together in the cabin and on the deck occupied less -than five minutes. We were both of us too well aware of the value of -time to have had it otherwise and waste moments in useless conversation. - -“What is to be done is this,” I suggested, casting a rapid glance along -the decks and upwards to the spars. “I will rig up a sail of some sort -here and you will hasten over again in the small-boat to the hoy and -give Father Hamilton the option of coming with us. He may or he may not -care to run the risks involved in the exploit, but at least we owe him -the offer.” - -“But when I'm across at the hoy there, here's you with this dovering -body and Captain Thurot. Another knock might settle the one, but you -would scarcely care to have knocks going in the case of an old friend -like Tony Thurot, who's only doing his duty in keeping you here with -such a secret in your charge.” - -“I have thought of that, too,” I replied quickly, “and I will hazard -Thurot.” - -Kilbride lowered himself into the small-boat, pushed off from the side -of the frigate, and in silence half-drifted in the direction of the -Dutch vessel. My plans were as clear in my head as if they had been -printed on paper. First of all I took such provender as I could get from -my cabin and placed it along with a breaker of water and a lamp in the -cutter. Then I climbed the shrouds of the frigate, and cut away a small -sail that I guessed would serve my purpose, letting it fall into the -cutter. I made a shift at sheets and halyards and found that with a -little contrivance I could spread enough canvas to take the cutter -in that weather at a fair speed before the wind that had a blessed -disposition towards the coast of England. I worked so fast it was a -miracle, dreading at every rustle of the stolen sail--at every creak of -the cutter on the fenders, that either the captain or his unconscious -seaman would awake. - -My work was scarcely done when the small-boat came off again from the -hoy, and as she drew cautiously near I saw that MacKellar had with him -the bulky figure of the priest. He climbed ponderously, at my signal, -into the cutter, and MacKellar joined me for a moment on the deck of the -frigate. - -“He goes with us then?” I asked, indicating the priest. - -“To the Indies if need be,” said Kilbride. “But the truth is that this -accident is a perfect God-send to him, for England's the one place -below the firmament he would choose for a refuge at this moment. Is all -ready?” - -“If my sail-making's to be relied on she's in the best of trim,” I -answered. - -“And--what do ye call it?--all found?” - -“A water breaker, a bottle of brandy, a bag of bread--” - -“Enough for a foray of fifty men!” he said heartily. “Give me meal and -water in the heel of my shoe and I would count it very good vivers for a -fortnight.” - -He went into the cutter; I released the ropes that bound her to the -frigate and followed him. - -“_Mon Dieu_ dear lad, 'tis a world of most fantastic happenings,” was -all the poor old priest said, shivering in the cold night air. - -We had to use the oars of the frigate's small-boat for a stroke or two -so as to get the cutter round before the wind; she drifted quickly -from the large ship's side almost like a living thing with a crave -for freedom at last realised; up speedily ran her sail, unhandsome yet -sufficient, the friendly air filled out the rustling folds and drove her -through the night into the open sea. - -There is something in a moonlit night at sea that must touch in the most -cloddish heart a spring of fancy. It is friendlier than the dawn that at -its most glorious carries a hint of sorrow, or than the bravest sunset -that reminds us life is a brief day at the best of it, and the one -thing sempiternal yet will be the darkness. We sat in the well of the -cutter--three odd adventurers, myself the most silent because I had the -double share of dubiety about the enterprise, for who could tell how -soon the doomster's hand would be on me once my feet were again on -British soil? Yet now when I think of it--of the moonlit sea, the -swelling sail above us, the wake behind that shone with fire--I must -count it one of the happiest experiences of my life. - -The priest looked back at the low land of France receding behind us, -with its scattered lights on the harbour and the shore, mere subjects -to the queenly moon. “There goes poor Father Hamilton,” said he -whimsically, “happy schoolboy, foolish lover in Louvain that had never -but moonlit eves, parish priest of Dixmunde working two gardens, human -and divine, understanding best the human where his bees roved, but -loving all men good and ill. There goes the spoiled page, the botched -effort, and here's a fat old man at the start of a new life, and never -to see his darling France again. Ah! the good mother; _Dieu te bénisse!_” - - - - -CHAPTER XL - -MY INTERVIEW WITH PITT - -Of our voyage across the Channel there need be no more said than that it -was dull to the very verge of monotony, for the wind, though favourable, -was often in a faint where our poor sail shook idly at the mast. Two -days later we were in London, and stopped at the Queen's Head above -Craig's Court in Charing Cross. - -And now I had to make the speediest possible arrangement for a meeting -with those who could make the most immediate and profitable use of the -tidings I was in a position to lay before them, by no means an easy -matter to decide upon for a person who had as little knowledge of London -as he had of the Cities of the Plain. - -MacKellar--ever the impetuous Gael--was for nothing less than a personal -approach to his Majesty. - -“The man that is on the top of the hill will always be seeing furthest,” - he said. “I have come in contact with the best in Europe on that under -standing, but it calls for a kind of Hielan' tact that--that--” - -“That you cannot credit to a poor Lowlander like myself,” said I, amused -at his vanity. - -“Oh, I'm meaning no offence, just no offence at all,” he responded -quickly, and flushing at his _faux pas_. “You have as much talent of -the kind as the best of us I'm not denying, and I have just the one -advantage, that I was brought up in a language that has delicacies of -address beyond the expression of the English, or the French that is, in -some measure, like it.” - -“Well,” said I, “the spirit of it is obviously not to be translated into -English, judging from the way you go on crying up your countrymen at the -expense of my own.” - -“That is true enough,” he conceded, “and a very just observe; but no -matter, what I would be at is that your news is worth too much to be -wasted on any poor lackey hanging about his Majesty's back door, who -might either sell it or you on his own behoof, or otherwise make a mull -of the matter with the very best intentions. If you would take my way of -it, there would be but Geordie himself for you.” - -“What have you to say to that?” I asked the priest, whose knowledge of -the world struck me as in most respects more trustworthy than that of -this impetuous Highland chirurgeon. - -“A plague of your kings! say I; sure I know nothing about them, for -my luck has rubbed me against the gabardine and none of your ermined -cloaks. There must be others who know his Majesty's affairs better than -his Majesty himself, otherwise what advantage were there in being a -king?” - -In fine his decision was for one of the Ministers, and at last the -Secretary of State was decided on. - -How I came to meet with Mr. Pitt need not here be recorded; 'twas indeed -more a matter of good luck than of good guidance, and had there been no -Scots House of Argyll perhaps I had never got rid of my weighty secret -after all. I had expected to meet a person magnificent in robes of -state; instead of which 'twas a man in a blue coat with yellow metal -buttons, full round bob wig, a large hat, and no sword-bag nor ruffles -that met me--more like a country coachman or a waggoner than a personage -of importance. - -He scanned over again the letter that had introduced me and received me -cordially enough. In a few words I indicated that I was newly come from -France, whence I had escaped in a smuggler's boat, and that I had news -of the first importance which I counted it my duty to my country to -convey to him with all possible expedition. - -At that his face changed and he showed singularly little eagerness to -hear any more. - -“There will be--there will be the--the usual bargain, I presume, Mr. -Greig?” he said, half-smiling. “What are the conditions on which I am to -have this vastly important intelligence?” - -“I never dreamt of making any, sir,” I answered, promptly, with some -natural chagrin, and yet mixed with a little confusion that I should in -truth be expecting something in the long run for my story. - -“Pardon my stupid pleasantry, Mr. Greig,” he said, reddening slightly. -“I have been so long one of his Majesty's Ministers, and of late have -seen so many urgent couriers from France with prime news to be bargained -for, that I have grown something of a cynic. You are the first that has -come with a secret not for sale. Believe me, your story will have all -the more attention because it is offered disinterestedly.” - -In twenty minutes I had put him into possession of all I knew of the -plans for invasion. He walked up and down the room, with his hands -behind his back, intently listening, now and then uttering an -exclamation incredulous or astonished. - -“You are sure of all this?” he asked at last sharply, looking in my face -with embarrassing scrutiny. - -“As sure as any mortal man may be with the gift of all his senses,” I -replied firmly. “At this moment Thurot's vessel is, I doubt not, taking -in her stores; the embarkation of troops is being practised daily, -troops are assembled all along the coast from Brest to Vannes, and--” - -“Oh! on these points we are, naturally, not wholly dark,” said the -Minister. “We have known for a year of this somewhat theatrical display -on the part of the French, but the lines of the threatened invasion -are not such as your remarkable narrative suggests. You have been good -enough to honour me with your confidence, Mr. Greig; let me reciprocate -by telling you that we have our--our good friends in France, and that -for six months back I have been in possession of the Chevalier D'Arcy's -instructions to Dumont to reconnoitre the English coast, and of Dumont's -report, with the chart of the harbours and towns where he proposed that -the descent should be made.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “The gentleman -who gave us the information,” he went on, “stipulated for twenty -thousand pounds and a pension of two thousand a year as the just reward -for his loving service to his country in her hour of peril. He was -not to get his twenty thousand, I need scarcely say, but he was to get -something in the event of his intelligence proving to be accurate, and -if it were for no more than to get the better of such a dubious patriot -I should wish his tale wholly disproved, though we have hitherto -acted on the assumption that it might be trustworthy. There cannot be -alternative plans of invasion; our informant--another Scotsman, I may -say--is either lying or has merely the plan of a feint.” - -“You are most kind, sir,” said I. - -“Oh,” he said, “I take your story first, and as probably the most -correct, simply because it comes from one that loves his country -and makes no bagman's bargains for the sale of secrets vital to her -existence.” - -“I am much honoured, sir,” said I, with a bow. - -And then he stopped his walk abruptly and faced me again. - -“You have told me, Mr. Greig,” he went on, “that Conflans is to descend -in a week or two on the coast of Scotland, and that Thurot is to create -a diversion elsewhere with the aid of the Swedes, I have, from the most -delicate considerations, refrained from asking you how you know all -this?” - -“I heard it from the lips of Thurot himself.” - -“Thurot! impossible!” he murmured. - -“Of Thurot himself, sir.” - -“You must be much in that pirate's confidence,” said Mr. Pitt, for the -first time with suspicion. - -“Not to that extent that he would tell me of his plans for invading -my country,” I answered, “and I learned these things by the merest -accident. I overheard him speak last Sunday in Dunkerque with the Young -Pretender--” - -“The Pretender!” cried the Minister, shrugging his shoulders, and -looking at me with more suspicion than ever. “You apparently move in the -most select and interesting society, Mr. Greig?” - -“In this case, sir, it was none of my choosing,” I replied, and went on -briefly to explain how I had got into Thurot's chamber unknown to him, -and unwittingly overhead the Prince and him discuss the plan. - -“Very good, very good, and still--you will pardon me--I cannot see how -so devout a patriot as Mr. Greig should be in the intimacy of men like -Thurot?” - -“A most natural remark under the circumstances,” I replied. “Thurot -saved my life from a sinking British vessel, and it is no more than his -due to say he proved a very good friend to me many a time since. But I -was to know nothing of his plans of invasion, for he knew very well I -had no sympathy with them nor with Charles Edward, and, as I have told -you, he made me his prisoner on his ship so that I might not betray what -I had overheard.” - -The Minister made hurried notes of what I had told him, and concluded -the interview by asking where I could be communicated with during the -next few days. - -I gave him my direction at the Queen's Head, but added that I had it in -my mind to go shortly to Edinburgh, where my address would be best known -to the Lord Advocate. - -“The Lord Advocate!” said Mr. Pitt, raising his eyebrows. - -“I may as well make a clean breast of it, sir,” I proceeded hurriedly, -“and say that I left Scotland under circumstances peculiarly -distressing. Thurot saved me from a ship called the _Seven Sisters_, -that had been scuttled and abandoned with only myself and a seaman on -board of her in mid-channel, by a man named Daniel Risk.” - -“Bless me!” cried Mr. Pitt, “the scoundrel Risk was tried in Edinburgh a -month or two ago on several charges, including the one you mention, and -he has either been hanged, or is waiting to be hanged at this moment, in -the jail at Edinburgh.” - -“I was nominally purser on the _Seven Sisters_, but in actual fact I was -fleeing from justice.” - -The Minister hemmed, and fumbled with his papers. - -“It was owing to a duelling affair, in which I had the misfortune -to--to--kill my opponent. I desire, sir, above all, to be thoroughly -honest, and I am bound to tell you it was my first intention to make the -conveyance of this plan of Thurot's a lever to secure my pardon for the -crime of manslaughter which lies at my charge. I would wish now that my -loyalty to my country was really disinterested, and I have, in the last -half-hour, made up my mind to surrender myself to the law of Scotland.” - -“That is for yourself to decide on,” said the Minister more gravely, -“but I should advise the postponement of your departure to Edinburgh -until you hear further from me. I shall expect to find you at the inn at -Charing Cross during the next week; thereafter----” - -He paused for a moment. “Well--thereafter we shall see,” he added. - -After a few more words of the kindest nature the Minister shook -hands with the confessed manslayer (it flashed on me as a curious -circumstance), and I went back to join the priest and my fellow -countryman. - -They were waiting full of impatience. - -“Hast the King's pardon in thy pocket, friend Scotland?” cried Father -Hamilton; then his face sank in sympathy with the sobriety of my own -that was due to my determination on a surrender to justice once my -business with the Government was over. - -“I have no more in my pocket than I went out with in the morning,” said -I. “But my object, so far, has been served. Mr. Pitt knows my story and -is like to take such steps as maybe needful. As for my own affair I have -mentioned it, but it has gone no further than that.” - -“You're not telling me you did not make a bargain of it before saying -a word about the bit plan?” cried MacKellar in surprise, and could -scarcely find words strong enough to condemn me for what he described as -my stupidity. - -“Many a man will sow the seed that will never eat the syboe,” was his -comment; “and was I not right yonder when I said yon about the tact? If -it had been me now I would have gone very canny to the King himself and -said: 'Your Majesty, I'm a man that has made a slip in a little affair -as between gentlemen, and had to put off abroad until the thing blew -by. I can save the lives of many thousand Englishmen, and perhaps the -country itself, by intelligence that came to my knowledge when I was -abroad; if I prove it, will your Majesty pardon the thing that lies at -my charge?'” - -“And would have his Majesty's signature to the promise as 'twere a deed -of sale!” laughed the priest convulsively. “La! la! la! Paul, here's our -Celtic Solon with tact--the tact of the foot-pad. Stand and deliver! -My pardon, sire, or your life! _Mon Dieu!_ there runs much of the old -original cateran in thy methods of diplomacy, good Master MacKellar. Too -much for royal courts, I reckon.” MacKellar pshawed impatiently. “I'm -asking you what is the Secretary's name, Mr. Greig?” said he. “Fox or -Pitt it is all the same--the one is sly and the other is deep, and it is -the natures of their names. I'll warrant Mr. Pitt has forgotten already -the name of the man who gave him the secret, and the wisest thing Paul -Greig could do now would be to go into hiding as fast as he can.” - -But I expressed my determination to wait in the Queen's Head a week -longer, as I had promised, and thereafter (if nothing happened to -prevent it) to submit myself at Edinburgh. Though I tried to make as -little of that as possible to myself, and indeed would make myself -believe I was going to act with a rare bravery, I must confess now that -my determination was strengthened greatly by the reflection that -my service to the country would perhaps annul or greatly modify my -sentence. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI - -TREATS OF FATHER HAMILTON'S DEATH - -It was a gay place, London, in the days I write of, however it may -be now, though Father Hamilton was prone occasionally to compare -it unfavourably with the Paris of his fancy, the which he held a -sample-piece of paradise. The fogs and rains depressed him; he had an -eye altogether unfriendly for the signs of striving commerce in the -streets and the greedy haste of clerks and merchants into whose days of -unremitting industry so few joys (as he fancied) seemed to enter. - -MacKellar soon found company in it among silken bucks that held noisy -sederunts in the evenings at a place called White's and another called -(if my memory does not fail me) the Cocoa Nut Tree. 'Twas marvellous the -number of old friends and fellow countrymen that, by his own account, -he found there. And what open hands they had! But for him that was -privileged, for old acquaintance sake, to borrow from them, we had found -our week or two in London singularly hungry because (to tell the truth -of it) our money was come very nearly to an end. But MacKellar, who -had foraged so well in Silesia, was equally good at it in the city of -London. From these night escapades he seldom failed to return richer -than he went, and it was he who paid the piper with so much of an air of -thinking it a privilege, that we had not the heart, even if we had the -inclination, to protest. - -If I had known then, as I know now, or at least suspect, that the money -that fed and boarded us was won through his skill at dice and cards, I -daresay I had shifted sooner from London than I did at the last. - -Day after day passed, and no word from Mr. Pitt. I dared scarcely leave -my inn for an hour's airing lest I should be asked for in my absence. -There was, for a while, a hope that though I had refused to make any -bargain about the pardon, something--I could not so much as guess -what--might happen to avert the scandal of a trial at Edinburgh, and the -disgrace that same might bring upon my family. But day after day passed, -as I have said, and there came no hint of how matters stood. - -And then there came a day when I was to consider it mattered very little -whether I heard from Pitt or not; when even my country was forgotten and -I was to suffer a loss whose bitterness abides with me yet. It was the -death of Father Hamilton, whom I had grown to like exceedingly. Birds -have built and sung for many generations since then; children play in -the garden still; there is essence at the table, there is sparkle in -the wine, and he will never enjoy them any more. Fortune has come to me -since then, so that I might have the wherewithal, if I had the wish, -to take the road again with him in honesty, and see it even better than -when Sin paid the bill for us, but it cannot be with him. - -It was a December day of the whitest, the city smothered in snow, its -tumult hushed. I had been tempted to wander in the forenoon a good -way from our lodging. Coming home in the afternoon I met Kilbride, -distracted, setting out to seek for me. He had a face like the clay, and -his hands, that grasped my lapels as if I meant to fly from him, were -trembling. - -“Oh, Paul,” said he. “Here's the worst of all,” and I declare his cheeks -were wet with tears. - -“What is it?” I cried in great alarm. - -“The priest, the priest,” said he. “He's lying yonder at the ebb, -and I'm no more use to him than if I were a bairn. I've seen the -death-thraws a thousand times, but never to vex me just like this -before. He could make two or three of us in bulk, and yet his heart -was like a wean's, and there he's crying on you even-on till I was near -demented and must run about the streets to seek for you.” - -“But still you give me no clue!” I cried, hurrying home with him. - -He gave me the story by the way. It seemed his reverence had had a -notion to see Eastcheap, round which the writer Shakespeare had thrown -a glamour for him. He had gone there shortly after I had gone out in the -forenoon, and after a space of walking about it had found himself in a -mean street where a blackguard was beating a child. 'Twas the man's own -child, doubtless, and so he had, I make no doubt, the law of it on his -own side, but the drunken wretch outdid all reasonable chastisement, and -thrashed her till the blood flowed. - -Up ran the priest and took her in his arms, shielding her from the blows -of the father's cudgel with his arm. The child nuzzled to his breast, -shrieking, and the father tried to pull her away. Between them she fell; -the priest stood over her, keeping back the beast that threatened. The -man struck at him with his stick; Father Hamilton wrenched it from him, -threw it down that he might have no unfair advantage, and flung himself -upon the wretch. He could have crushed him into jelly, but the man -was armed, and suddenly drew a knife. He thrust suddenly between the -priest's shoulders, released himself from the tottering body, -and disappeared with his child apparently beyond all chance of -identification or discovery. - -Father Hamilton was carried home upon a litter. - -“O God! Kilbride, and must he die?” I cried in horror. - -“He will travel in less than an hour,” said the Highlander, vastly -moved. “And since he came here his whole cry has been for you and Father -Joyce.” - -We went into the room that seemed unnaturally white and sunny. He lay -upon the bed-clothes. The bed was drawn towards the window, through -which the domes and towers and roofs of London could be seen, with their -accustomed greyness gone below the curtain of the snow. A blotch of -blood was on his shirt-front as he lay upon his side. I thought at first -it was his own life oozing, but learned a little later that the stricken -child had had her face there. - -“Paul! Paul!” he said, “I thought thou wouldst blame me for deserting -thee again, and this time without so much as a letter of farewell.” - -What could I do but take his hand, and fall upon my knees beside his -bed? He had blue eyes that never aged nor grossened--the eyes of a boy, -clear, clean, and brave, and round about them wrinkles played in a sad, -sweet smile. - -“What, Paul!” he said, “all this for behemoth! for the old man of the -sea that has stuck on thy shoulders for a twelvemonth, and spurred thee -to infinite follies and perils! I am no more worth a tear of thine than -is the ivied ash that falls untimely and decayed, eaten out of essence -by the sins he sheltered. And the poor child, Paul!--the poor child -with her arms round my neck, her tears brine--sure I have them on my -lips--the true _viaticum!_ The brute! the brute! Ah no! ah no! poor -sinner, we do not know.” - -“Oh, father!” I cried, “and must we never go into the woods and towns -any more?” - -He smiled again and stroked my hair. - -“Not in these fields, boy,” said he, “but perhaps in more spacious, less -perplexed. Be good, be simple, be kind! Tis all I know.” - -We heard the steps of Father Joyce upon the stairs. - -“All I know!” repeated the priest. “Fifty years to learn it, and I might -have found it in my mother's lap. _Chère ange_--the little mother--'twas -a good world! And Fanchon that is dead below the snow in Louvain--oh, -the sweet world! And the sunny gardens of bees and children--” - -His eyes were dull. A pallor was on his countenance. He breathed with -difficulty. Kilbride, who stood by, silent, put a finger on his pulse. -At that he opened his eyes again, once more smiling, and Father Joyce -was at the door. - -“Kiss me, Paul,” said the dying man, “I hear them singing prime.” - -When Father Joyce was gone I came into the room again where the priest -lay smiling still, great in figure, in the simplicity and sweetness of -his countenance like a child. - -Kilbride and I stood silent for a little by the bed, and the Highlander -was the first to speak. “I have seen worse,” said he, “than Father -Hamilton.” - -It may seem a grudging testimony, but not to me that heard it. - -On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news -which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, “Have you -heard the latest?” he cried. “It is just what I expected,” he went on. -“They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the -tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove -him back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of -the Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The -invasion is at an end.” - -“It is gallant news!” I cried, warm with satisfaction. - -“Maybe,” said he indifferently, “but the main thing is that Paul Greig, -who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in -cheap lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. -Indeed, perhaps he's worse off than ever he was.” - -“How is that?” - -“Well, they ken where you are, for one thing, and you put yourself in -their power. I am one that has small faith in Governments. What will -hinder them to clap you in jail and save another reward like the first -one Pitt told you about? I would never put it past a Sassenach of the -name.” - -Then I told him it had been in my mind ever since I had seen the -Minister to go to Edinburgh and give myself up to the authorities. - -“Are ye daft?” he cried, astonished. - -I could only shrug my shoulders at that. - -“Perhaps you fancy this business of the invasion will help you to get -your neck out of the loop? I would not lippen on a Government for ten -minutes. You have saved the country--that's the long and the short of -it; now you must just be saving your own hide. There's nothing for us -but the Continent again, and whether you're in the key for that or not, -here's a fellow will sleep uneasy till he has Europe under his head.” - -Even at the cost of parting with Kilbride I determined to carry out -my intention of going to Edinburgh. With the priest gone, no prospect -of Mr. Pitt taking the first step, and Kilbride in the humour for a -retreat, I decided that the sooner I brought matters to a head the -better. - -There was a mail coach that went north weekly. It took a considerable -deal of money and a fortnight of time to make the journey between the -two capitals, but MacKellar, free-handed to the last, lent me the -money (which I sent him six months later to Holland), and I set out one -Saturday from the “Bull and Whistle” in a genteel two-end spring machine -that made a brisk passage--the weather considered--as far as York on our -way into Scotland. - -I left on a night of jubilation for the close of the war and the -overthrow of Conflans. Bonfires blazed on the river-side and the -eminences round the city; candles were in every window, the people -were huzzaing in the streets where I left behind me only the one kent -face--that of MacKellar of Kilbride who came to the coach to see the -last of me. And everywhere was the snow--deep, silent, apparently -enduring. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII - -I DEPART IN THE MIDST OF ILLUMINATION AND COME TO A JAIL, BAD NEWS, AND -AN OLD ENEMY - -We carried this elation all through England with us. Whatever town we -stopped at flags were flying, and the oldest resident must be tipsy on -the green for the glory of the British Isles. The seven passengers who -occupied the coach with me found in these rejoicings, and in the great -event which gave rise to them, subjects of unending discourse as we -dragged through the country in the wake of steaming horses. There was -with us a maker of perukes that had found trade dull in Town (as they -call it), and planned to start business in York; a widow woman who -had buried her second husband and was returning to her parents in -Northumberland with a sprightliness that told she was ready to try a -third if he offered; and a squire (as they call a laird) of Morpeth. - -But for the common interest in the rejoicings it might have been a week -before the company thawed to each other enough to start a conversation. -The first mile of the journey, however, found us in the briskest clebate -on Hawke and his doings. I say us, but in truth my own share in the -conversation was very small as I had more serious reflections. - -The perruquier, as was natural to his trade, knew everything and itched -to prove it. - -“I have it on the very best authority,” he would say, “indeed”--with -a whisper for all the passengers as if he feared the toiling horses -outside might hear him--“indeed between ourselves I do not mind telling -that it was from Sir Patrick Dall's man--that the French would have been -on top of us had not one of themselves sold the plot for a hatful of -guineas.” - -“That is not what I heard at all,” broke in the squire. “I fancy you are -mistaken, sir. The truth, as I have every reason to believe, is that one -of the spies of the Government--a Scotsman, by all accounts--discovered -Conflans' plans, and came over to London with them. A good business too, -egad! otherwise we'd soon have nothing to eat at Morpeth George Inn on -market days but frogs, and would find the parley-voos overrunning the -country by next Lent with their masses and mistresses, and so on. A good -business for merry old England that this spy had his English ears open.” - -“It may be you are right, sir,” conceded the perruquier deferentially. -“Now that I remember, Sir Patrick's gentleman said something of the same -kind, and that it was one of them Scotsmen brought the news. Like enough -the fellow found it worth his while. It will be a pretty penny in his -pocket, I'll wager. He'll be able to give up spying and start an inn.” - -I have little doubt the ideal nature of retirement to an inn came to -the mind of the peruke maker from the fact that at the moment we were -drawing up before “The Crown” at Bawtry. Reek rose in clouds from the -horses, as could be seen from the light of the doors that showed the -narrow street knee-deep in snow; a pleasant smell of cooking supper and -warm cordials came out to us, welcome enough it may be guessed after our -long day's stage. The widow clung just a trifle too long on my arm as -I gallantly helped her out of the coach; perhaps she thought my silence -and my abstracted gaze at her for the last hour or two betrayed a tender -interest, but I was thinking how close the squire and the wig-maker had -come upon the truth, and yet made one mistake in that part of their tale -that most closely affected their silent fellow passenger. - -The sea-fight and the war lasted us for a topic all through England, but -when we had got into Scotland on the seventh day after my departure from -London, the hostlers at the various change-houses yoked fresh horses to -the tune of “Daniel Risk.” - -We travelled in the most tempestuous weather. Snow fell incessantly, -and was cast in drifts along the road; sometimes it looked as if we were -bound for days, but we carried the mails, and with gigantic toil the -driver pushed us through. - -The nearer we got to Edinburgh the more we learned of the notorious -Daniel Risk, whom no one knew better than myself. The charge of losing -his ship wilfully was, it appeared, among the oldest and least heinous -of his crimes. Smuggling had engaged his talent since then, and he had -murdered a cabin-boy under the most revolting circumstances. He had -almost escaped the charge of scuttling the _Seven Sisters_, for it was -not till he had been in the dock for the murder that evidence of that -transaction came from the seaman Horn, who had been wrecked twice, it -appeared, and far in other parts of the world between the time he was -abandoned in the scuttled ship and returned to his native land, to tell -how the ruffian had left two innocent men to perish. - -Even in these days of wild happenings the fame of Risk exceeded that of -every malefactor that season, and when we got to Edinburgh the street -singers were chanting doleful ballads about him. - -I would have given the wretch no thought, or very little, for my own -affairs were heavy enough, had not the very day I landed in Edinburgh -seen a broad-sheet published with “The Last Words and Warning” of Risk. -The last words were in an extraordinarily devout spirit; the homily -breathed what seemed a real repentance for a very black life. It would -have moved me less if I could have learned then, as I did later, that -the whole thing was the invention of some drunken lawyer's clerk in -the Canongate, who had probably devised scores of such fictions for the -entertainment of the world that likes to read of scaffold repentances -and of wicked lives. The condition of the wretch touched me, and I -made up my mind to see the condemned man who, by the accounts of the -journals, was being visited daily by folks interested in his forlorn -case. - -With some manoeuvring I got outside the bars of his cell. - -There was little change in him. The same wild aspect was there though -he pretended a humility. The skellie eye still roved with little of -the love of God or man in it; his iron-grey hair hung tawted about his -temples. Only his face was changed and had the jail-white of the cells, -for he had been nearly two months in confinement. When I entered he did -not know me; indeed, he scarce looked the road I was on at first, but -applied himself zealously to the study of a book wherein he pretended to -be rapturously engrossed. - -The fact that the Bible (for so it was) happened to be upside down in -his hands somewhat staggered my faith in the repentance of Daniel Risk, -who, I remembered, had never numbered reading among his arts. - -I addressed him as Captain. - -“I am no Captain,” said he in a whine, “but plain Dan Risk, the blackest -sinner under the cope and canopy of heaven.” And he applied himself to -his volume as before. - -“Do you know me?” I asked, and he must have found the voice familiar, -for he rose from his stool, approached the bars of his cage, and -examined me. “Andy Greigs nephew!” he cried. “It's you; I hope you're a -guid man?” - -“I might be the best of men--and that's a dead one--so far as you are -concerned,” I replied, stung a little by the impertinence of him. - -“The hand of Providence saved me that last item in my bloody list o' -crimes,” said he, with a singular mixture of the whine for his sins and -of pride in their number. “Your life was spared, I mak' nae doubt, that -ye micht repent o' your past, and I'm sorry to see ye in sic fallals o' -dress, betokenin' a licht mind and a surrender to the vanities.” - -My dress was scantily different from what it had been on the _Seven -Sisters_, except for some lace, my tied hair, and a sword. - -“Indeed, and I am in anything but a light frame of mind, Captain Risk,” - I said. “There are reasons for that, apart from seeing you in this -condition which I honestly deplore in spite of all the wrong you did -me.” - -“I thank God that has been forgiven me,” he said, with a hypocritical -cock of his hale eye. “I was lost in sin, a child o' the deevil, but noo -I am made clean,” and much more of the same sort that it is unnecessary -here to repeat. - -“You can count on my forgiveness, so far as that goes,” I said, -disgusted with his manner. - -“I'm greatly obleeged,” said he, “but man's forgiveness doesna coont sae -muckle as a preen, and I would ask ye to see hoo it stands wi' yersel', -Daniel Risk has made his peace wi' his Maker, but what way is it wi' the -nephew o' Andrew Greig?” - -“It ill becomes a man in a condemned cell to be preacher to those -outside of it,” I told him in some exasperation at his presumption. - -He threw up his hands and glowered at me with his gleed eye looking -seven ways for sixpence as the saying goes. - -“Dinna craw ower crouse, young man,” he said. “Whit brings ye here I -canna guess, but I ken that you that's there should be in here where I -am, for there's blood on your hands.” - -He had me there! Oh, yes, he had me there! Every vein in my body told -me so. But I was not in the humour to make an admission of that kind to -this creature. - -“I have no conceit of myself in any respect whatever, Daniel Risk,” I -said slowly. “I came here from France but yesterday after experiences -there that paid pretty well for my boy's crime, for I have heard from -neither kith nor kin since you cozened me on the boards of the _Seven -Sisters_.” - -He put his hands upon the bars and looked at me. He wore a prison garb -of the most horrible colour, and there were round him the foul stenches -of the cell. - -“Ay!” said he. “New back! And they havena nabbed ye yet! Weel, -they'll no' be lang, maybe, o' doin' that, for I'll warrant ye've been -advertised plenty aboot the country; ony man that has read a gazette or -clattered in a public-hoose kens your description and the blackness o' -the deed you're chairged wi'. All I did was to sink a bit ship that was -rotten onyway, mak' free trade wi' a few ankers o' brandy that wad hae -been drunk by the best i' the land includin' the very lords that tried -me, and accidentally kill a lad that sair needed a beltin' to gar him -dae his honest wark. But you shot a man deliberate and his blood is -crying frae the grund. If ye hurry ye'll maybe dance on naethin' sooner -nor mysel'.” - -There was so much impotent venom in what he said that I lost my anger -with the wretch drawing near his end, and looked on him with pity. It -seemed to annoy him more than if I had reviled him. - -“I'm a white soul.” says he, clasping his hands--the most arrant -blasphemy of a gesture from one whose deeds were desperately wicked! -“I'm a white soul, praise God! and value not your opinions a docken -leaf. Ye micht hae come here to this melancholy place to slip a bit -guinea into my hand for some few extra comforts, instead o' which it's -jist to anger me.” - -He glued his cheek against the bars and stared at me from head to foot, -catching at the last a glance of my fateful shoes. He pointed at them -with a rigid finger. - -[Illustration: 407] - -“Man! man!” he cried, “there's the sign and token o' the lot o' ye--the -bloody shoon. They may weel be red for him and you that wore them. Red -shoon! red shoon!” He stopped suddenly. “After a',” said he, “I bear -ye nae ill-will, though I hae but to pass the word to the warder on the -ither side o' the rails. And oh! abin a' repent----” He was off again -into one of his blasphemies, for at my elbow now was an old lady who was -doubtless come to confirm the conversion of Daniel Risk. I turned to go. - -He cast his unaffected eye piously heavenward, and coolly offered up a -brief prayer for “this erring young brother determined on the ways of -vice and folly.” - -It may be scarce credible that I went forth from the condemned cell with -the most shaken mind I had had since the day I fled from the moor of -Mearns. The streets were thronged with citizens; the castle ramparts -rose up white and fine, the bastions touched by sunset fires, a window -blazing like a star. Above the muffled valley, clear, silvery, proud, -rang a trumpet on the walls, reminding me of many a morning rouse in far -Silesia. Was I not better there? Why should I be the sentimental fool -and run my head into a noose? Risk, whom I had gone to see in pity, paid -me with a vengeance! He had put into the blunt language of the world all -the horror I had never heard in words before, though it had often been -in my mind. I saw myself for the first time the hunted outlaw, captured -at last. “You that's out there should be in where I am!” It was true! -But to sit for weeks in that foul hole within the iron rail, waiting on -doom, reflecting on my folks disgraced--I could not bear it! - -Risk cured me of my intention to hazard all on the flimsy chance of -a Government's gratitude, and I made up my mind to seek safety and -forgetfulness again in flight to another country. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII - -BACK TO THE MOORLAND - -I had seen yon remnant of a man in the Tolbooth cell, and an immediate -death upon the gallows seemed less dreadful than the degradation and the -doubt he must suffer waiting weary months behind bars. But gallows or -cell was become impossible for the new poltroon of Dan Risk's making to -contemplate with any equanimity, and I made up my mind that America was -a country which would benefit greatly by my presence, if I could get a -passage there by working for it. - -Perhaps I would not have made so prompt a decision upon America had -not America implied a Clyde ship, and the Clyde as naturally implied -a flying visit to my home in Mearns. Since ever I had set foot on -Scotland, and saw Scots reek rise from Scots lums, and blue bonnets on -Scots heads, and heard the twang of the true North and kindly from the -people about me, I had been wondering about my folk. It was plain they -had never got the letter I had sent by Horn, or got it only recently, -for he himself had only late got home. - -To see the house among the trees, then, to get a reassuring sight of its -smoke and learn about my parents, was actually of more importance in my -mind than my projected trip to America, though I did not care to confess -so much to myself. - -I went to Glasgow on the following day; the snow was on the roofs; the -students were noisily battling; the bells were cheerfully ringing as -on the day with whose description I open this history. I put up at the -“Saracen Head,” and next morning engaged a horse to ride to Mearns. In -the night there had come a change in the weather; I splashed through -slush of melted snow, and soaked in a constant rain, but objected none -at all because it gave me an excuse to keep up the collar of my cloak, -and pull the brim of my hat well forward on my face and so minimise the -risk of identification. - -There is the lichened root of an ancient fallen saugh tree by the side -of Earn Water between Kirkillstane and Driepps that I cannot till this -day look on without a deep emotion. Walter's bairns have seen me sitting -there more than once, and unco solemn so that they have wondered, the -cause beyond their comprehension. It was there I drew up my horse to see -the house of Kirkillstane from the very spot where I had rambled with my -shabby stanzas, and felt the first throb of passion for a woman. - -The country was about me familiar in every dyke and tree and eminence; -where the water sobbed in the pool it had the accent it had in my -dreams; there was a broken branch of ash that trailed above the fall, -where I myself had dragged it once in climbing. The smell of moss and -rotten leafage in the dripping rain, the eerie aspect of the moorland in -the mist, the call of lapwings--all was as I had left it. There was not -the most infinite difference to suggest that I had seen another world, -and lived another life, and become another than the boy that wandered -here. - -I rode along the river to find the smoke rising from my father's -house--thank God! but what the better was the outlaw son for that? Dare -he darken again the door he had disgraced, and disturb anew the hearts -he had made sore? - -I pray my worst enemy may never feel torn by warring dictates of the -spirit as I was that dreary afternoon by the side of Earn; I pray he may -never know the pang with which I decided that old events were best let -lie, and that I must be content with that brief glimpse of home before -setting forth again upon the roads of dubious fortune. Fortune! Did I -not wear just now the very Shoes of Fortune? They had come I knew not -whence, from what magic part and artisan of heathendom I could not even -guess, to my father's brother; they had covered the unresting foot of -him; to me they had brought their curse of discontent, and so in wearing -them I seemed doomed to be the unhappy rover, too. - -The afternoon grew loud with wind as I sat my horse beside the -increasing water; I felt desolate beyond expression. - -“Well, there must be an end of it some way!” I said bitterly, and I -turned to go. - -The storm opposed me as I cantered over Whig-gitlaw, and won by Brooms, -and Bishops Offerance, and Kilree. Shepherds sheltered in the lee -of dykes, and women hurried out and shuttered windows. I saw sheep -hastening into the angles of the fields, and the wild white sea-gull -beating across the sky. The tempest thrashed on me as though it could -not have me go too soon from the country of my shame; I broke the horse -to gallop, and fields and dykes flew by like things demented. - -Then of a sudden the beast grew lame; I searched for a stone or a cast -shoe, but neither ailed him, and plainly the ride to town that night was -impossible. Where the beast failed was within half a mile of Newton, -and at all hazards I decided I must make for the inn there. I felt there -were risks of recognition, but I must run them. I led the horse by a -side path, and reached the inn no sooner than the darkness that fell -that night with unusual suddenness. Lights were in the house, and the -sound of rural merriment in the kitchen, where farm lads drank twopenny -ale, and sang. - -A man--he proved to be the innkeeper--came to my summons with a lantern -in his hand, and held it up to see what wayfarer was this in such a -night. He saw as little of me as my hat and cloak could reveal, and I -saw, what greatly relieved me, that he was not John Warnock, who had -tenanted the inn when I left the country, but a new tenant and one -unknown to me. He helped me to unsaddle the horse, discovered with me -that the lameness would probably succumb to a night in the stall, and -unburdened himself to the questions every unknown traveller in the shire -of Renfrew may expect. - -“You'll be frae Ayr, maybe, or Irvine?” - -No, I was from neither; I was from Glasgow. - -“Say ye sae, noo! Dod! it's nae nicht for travelling and nae wonder your -horse is lamed. Ye'll be for ower Fenwick way, noo, i' the mornin'?” Nor -was I for over Fenwick way in the morning. I was for Glasgow again. - -He looked from the corners of his eyes at this oddity who travelled -like a shuttle in such weather. I was drenched with rain, and my -spatter-dashes, with which I had thought to make up in some degree for -the inadequate foot-wear of red shoes on horseback, were foul with clay. -He presumed I was for supper? - -“No,” I answered; “I'm more in the humour for bed, and I will be obliged -if you send to my room for my clothes in a little so that they may be -dry by the time I start in the morning, and I shall set out at seven if -by that time my horse is recovered.” - -I drank a tankard of ale for the good of the house, as we say, during -a few minutes in the parlour, making my dripping clothes and a headache -the excuse for refusing the proffered hospitality of the kitchen where -the ploughboys sang, and then went to the little cam-ceiled room where a -hasty bed had been made for me. - -The world outside was full of warring winds and plashing rains, into -which the yokels went at last reluctantly, and when they were gone I -fell asleep, wakening once only for a moment when my wet clothes were -being taken from the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV - -WHEREIN THE SHOES OF FORTUNE BRING ME HOME - -I came down from my cam-ceiled room to a breakfast by candle-light in a -morning that was yet stormy. The landlord himself waited on me ['twas no -other than Ralph Craig that's now retired at the Whinnell), and he had -a score of apologies for his servant lass that had slept in too long, as -he clumsily set a table with his own hand, bringing in its equipment in -single pieces. - -There was a nervousness in his manner that escaped me for a little in -the candle-light, but I saw it finally with some wonder, rueing I had -agreed to have breakfast here at all, and had not taken my horse, now -recovered of his lameness, and pushed on out of a neighbourhood where I -had no right in common sense to be. - -If the meal was slow of coming it was hearty enough, though the host -embarrassed me too much with his attentions. He was clearly interested -in my personality. - -“It's not the first time ye've been in the 'Red Lion,'” said he with -an assurance that made me stare. - -“And what way should you be thinking that?” I asked, beginning to feel -more anxious about my position. - -“Oh, jist a surmise o' my ain,” he answered. “Ye kent your way to the -stable in the dark, and then--and then there's whiles a twang o' the -Mearns in your speech.” - -This was certainly coming too close! I hastened through my breakfast, -paid my lawing, and ordered out my horse. That took so long that I -surmised the man was wilfully detaining me. “This fellow has certainly -some project to my detriment,” I told myself, and as speedily as I might -got into the saddle. Then he said what left no doubt: - -“They'll be gey glad to see ye at the Hazel Den, Mr. Greig.” - -I felt a stound of anguish at the words that might in other -circumstances have been true but now were so remote from it. - -“You seem to have a very gleg eye in your head,” I said, “and to have a -great interest in my own affairs.” - -“No offence, Mr. Paul, no offence!” said he civilly, and indeed abashed. -“There's a lassie in the kitchen that was ance your mither's servant and -she kent your shoes.” - -“I hope then you'll say nothing about my being here to any one--for the -sake of the servant's old mistress--that was my mother.” - -“That _was_ your mither!” he repeated. “And what for no' yet? She'll be -prood to see ye hame.” - -“Is it well with them up there?” I eagerly asked. - -I rode like fury home. The day was come before I reached the dykes of -Hazel Den. Smoke was rising from its chimneys; there was a homely -sound of lowing cattle, and a horse was saddling for my father who was -preparing to ride over to the inn at Newton to capture his errant son. -He stood before the door, a little more grey, a little more bent, a -little more shrunken than when I had seen him last. When I drew up -before him with my hat in my hand and leaped out of the saddle, he -scarcely grasped at first the fact that here was his son. - -“Father! Father!” I cried to him, and he put his arms about my -shoulders. - -“You're there, Paul!” said he at last. “Come your ways in; your dear -mother is making your breakfast.” - -I could not have had it otherwise--'twas the welcome I would have -chosen! - -His eyes were brimming over; his voice was full of sobs and laughter as -he cried “Katrine! Katrine!” and my mother came to throw herself into my -arms. - -My Shoes of Fortune had done me their one good office; they had brought -me home. - -And now, my dear David, and Quentin, and Jean, my tale is ended, leaving -some folks who figured therein a space with their ultimate fortunes -unexplained. There is a tomb in Rome that marks the end of Prince -Charles Edward's wanderings and exploits, ambitions, follies, and -passions. Of him and of my countrywoman, Clementina Walkinshaw, you -will by-and-by read with understanding in your history-books. She -died unhappy and disgraced, yet I can never think of her but as -young, beautiful, kind, the fool of her affections, the plaything of -Circumstance. Clancarty's after career I never learned, but Thurot, -not long after I escaped from him in Dunkerque, plundered the town of -Carrickfergus, in Ireland, and was overtaken by three frigates when he -was on his way back to France. His ships were captured and he himself -was killed. You have seen Dr. MacKellar here on a visit from his native -Badenoch; his pardon from the Government was all I got, or all I wished -for, from Mr. Pitt. “And where is Isobel Fortune?” you will ask. You -know her best as your grandmother, my wife. My Shoes of Fortune, she -will sometimes say, laughing, brought me first and last Miss Fortune; -indeed they did! I love them for it, but I love you, too, and hope to -keep you from the Greig's temptation, so they are to the fore no longer. - -THE END - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - -***** This file should be named 43732-0.txt or 43732-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/3/43732/ - -Produced by David Widger - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/43732-0.zip b/old/43732-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 4beb8fd..0000000 --- a/old/43732-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/43732-8.txt b/old/43732-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f8a73e4..0000000 --- a/old/43732-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10623 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Shoes of Fortune - -Author: Neil Munro - -Illustrator: A. S. Boyd - -Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43732] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger - - - - - - -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE - -HOW THEY BROUGHT TO MANHOOD LOVE ADVENTURE AND CONTENT AS ALSO INTO -DIVERS PERILS ON LAND AND SEA IN FOREIGN PARTS AND IN AN ALIEN ARMY PAUL -GREIG OF THE HAZEL DEN IN SCOTLAND ONE TIME PURSER OF 'THE SEVEN SISTERS' -BRIGANTINE OF HULL AND LATE LIEUTENANT IN THE REGIMENT D'AUVERGNE ALL -AS WRIT BY HIM AND NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME SET FORTH - -By Neil Munro - -Illustrated by A. S. Boyd - - - - - -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -NARRATES HOW I CAME TO QUIT THE STUDY OF LATIN AND THE LIKE, AND TAKE TO -HARD WORK IN A MOORLAND COUNTRY - -It is an odd thing, chance--the one element to baffle the logician and -make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the -sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the -incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this -day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase -and sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate -overlooked, sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh--a moody soured -man with a jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment -to office. I might have been that, or less, if it had not been for so -trifling a circumstance as the burning of an elderly woman's batch of -scones. Had Mistress Grant a more attentive eye to her Culross griddle, -what time the scones for her lodgers, breakfast were a-baking forty -years ago, I would never have fled furth my native land in a mortal -terror of the gallows: had her griddle, say, been higher on the -swee-chain by a link or two, Paul Greig would never have foregathered -with Dan Risk, the blackguard skipper of a notorious craft; nor pined -in a foreign jail; nor connived, unwitting, at a prince's murder; nor -marched the weary leagues of France and fought there on a beggar's -wage. And this is not all that hung that long-gone day upon a woman's -stair-head gossip to the neglect of her _cuisine_, for had this woman -been more diligent at her baking I had probably never seen my Isobel -with a lover's eye. - -Well, here's one who can rarely regret the past except that it is gone. -It was hard, it was cruel often; dangers the most curious and unexpected -beset me, and I got an insight to deep villainies whereof man may be -capable; yet on my word, if I had the parcelling out of a second life -for myself, I think I would have it not greatly differing from the -first, that seems in God's providence like to end in the parish where -it started, among kent and friendly folk. I would not swear to it, yet I -fancy I would have Lucky Grant again gossiping on her stair-head and -her scones burned black, that Mackellar, my fellow-lodger, might make me -once more, as he used to do, the instrument of his malcontent. - -I mind, as it were yesterday, his gloomy look at the platter that morn's -morning. "Here they are again!" cried he, "fired to a cinder; it's -always that with the old wife, or else a heart of dough. For a bawbee I -would throw them in her face." - -"Well, not so much as that." said I, "though it is mighty provoking." - -"I'm not thinking of myself," said he, always glooming at the platter -with his dark, wild Hielan' eye. "I'm not thinking of myself," said he, -"but it's something by way of an insult to you, that had to complain of -Sunday's haddocks." - -"Oh, as to them," quo' I, "they did brawly for me; 'twas you put your -share in your pocket and threw it away on the Green. Besides the scones -are not so bad as they look"--I broke one and ate; "they're owre good at -least for a hungry man like me to send back where they came from." - -His face got red. "What's that rubbish about the haddocks and the -Green?" said he. "You left me at my breakfast when you went to the Ram's -Horn Kirk." - -"And that's true, Jock," said I; "but I think I have made no' so bad a -guess. You were feared to affront the landlady by leaving her ancient -fish on the ashet, and you egged me on to do the grumbling." - -"Well, it's as sure as death, Paul," said he shamefacedly, "I hate to -vex a woman. And you're a thought wrong in your guess"--he laughed at -his own humour as he said it--"for when you were gone to your kirk I -transferred my share of the stinking fish to your empty plate." - -He jouked his head, but scarcely quick enough, for my Sallust caught him -on the ear. He replied with a volume of Buchanan the historian, the man -I like because he skelped the Lord's anointed, James the First, and for -a time there was war in Lucky Grant's parlour room, till I threw him -into the recess bed snibbed the door, and went abroad into the street -leaving my room-fellow for once to utter his own complaints. - -I went out with the itch of battle on me, and that was the consequence -of a woman's havering while scones burned, and likewise my undoing, -for the High Street when I came to it was in the yeasty ferment of -encountering hosts, their cries calling poor foolish Paul Greig like a -trumpet. - -It had been a night and morning of snow, though I and Mackellar, so high -in Lucky Grant's chamber in Crombie's Land, had not suspected it. The -dull drab streets, with their crazy, corbelled gable-ends, had been -transformed by a silent miracle of heaven into something new and clean; -where noisome gutters were wont to brim with slops there was the napkin -of the Lord. - -For ordinary I hated this town of my banishment; hated its tun-bellied -Virginian merchants, so constantly airing themselves upon the Tontine -piazza and seeming to suffer from prosperity as from a disease; and felt -no great love of its women--always so much the madame to a drab-coated -lad from the moorlands; suffered from its greed and stifled with the -stinks of it. "Gardyloo! Gardyloo! Gardyloo!" Faith! I hear that evening -slogan yet, and see the daunderers on the Rottenrow skurry like rats -into the closes to escape the cascades from the attic windows. And while -I think I loved learning (when it was not too ill to come by), and was -doing not so bad in my Humanities, the carven gateway of the college -in my two sessions of a scholar's fare never but scowled upon me as I -entered. - -But the snow that morning made of the city a place wherein it was good -to be young, warm-clad, and hardy. It silenced the customary traffic of -the street, it gave the morning bells a song of fairydom and the valleys -of dream; up by-ordinary tall and clean-cut rose the crow-stepped walls, -the chimney heads, and steeples, and I clean forgot my constant fancy -for the hill of Ballageich and the heather all about it. And war raged. -The students faced 'prentice lads and the journeymen of the crafts -with volleys of snowballs; the merchants in the little booths ran -out tremulous and vainly cried the watch. Charge was made and -counter-charge; the air was thick with missiles, and close at hand -the silver bells had their merry sweet chime high over the city of my -banishment drowned by the voices taunting and defiant. - -Merry was that day, but doleful was the end of it, for in the fight -I smote with a snowball one of the bailies of the burgh, who had come -waving his three-cocked hat with the pomp and confidence of an elected -man and ordering an instant stoppage of our war: he made more ado about -the dignity of his office than the breakage of his spectacles, and I was -haled before my masters, where I fear I was not so penitent as prudence -would advise. - -Two days later my father came in upon Dawson's cart to convoy me -home. He saw the Principal, he saw the regents of the college, and up, -somewhat clashed and melancholy, he climbed to my lodging. Mackellar -fled before his face as it had been the face of the Medusa. - -"Well, Paul," said my father, "it seems we made a mistake about your -birthday." - -"Did you?" said I, without meaning, for I knew he was ironical. - -"It would seem so, at any rate," said he, not looking my airt at all, -but sideways to the window and a tremor in his voice. "When your mother -packed your washing last Wednesday and slipped the siller I was not -supposed to see into a stocking-foot, she said, 'Now he's twenty and the -worst of it over.' Poor woman! she was sadly out of her reckoning. I'm -thinking I have here but a bairn of ten. You should still be at the -dominie's." - -"I was not altogether to blame, father," I cried. "The thing was an -accident." - -"Of course, of course," said he soothingly. "Was't ever otherwise when -the devil joggled an elbow? Whatever it was, accident or design, it's a -session lost. Pack up, Paul, my very young boy, and we'll e'en make our -way quietly from this place where they may ken us." - -He paid the landlady her lawing, with sixpence over for her -motherliness, whereat she was ready to greet, and he took an end of my -blue kist down the stairs with me, and over with it like a common porter -to the carrier's stance. - -A raw, raining day, and the rough highways over the hoof with slush of -melted snow, we were a chittering pair as we drove under the tilt of the -cart that came to the Mearns to meet us, and it was a dumb and solemn -home-coming for me. - -Not that I cared much myself, for my lawyership thus cracked in the -shell, as it were I had been often seized with the notion that six -feet of a moor-lander, in a lustre gown and a horse-hair wig and a blue -shalloon bag for the fees, was a wastry of good material. But it was -the dad and her at home I thought of, and could put my neck below the -cartwheel for distressing. I knew what he thought of as he sat in the -cart corner, for many a time he had told me his plans; and now they were -sadly marred. I was to get as much as I could from the prelections of -Professor Reid, work my way through the furrows of Van Eck, Van Muyden, -and the Pandects, then go to Utrecht or Groningen for the final baking, -and come back to the desk of Coghill and Sproat, Writers to the Signet, -in Spreull's Land of Edinburgh; run errands between that dusty hole and -the taverns of Salamander Land, where old Sproat (that was my father's -doer) held long sederunts with his clients, to write a thesis finally, -and graduate at the art of making black look--not altogether white -perhaps, but a kind of dirty grey. I had been even privileged to try a -sampling of the lawyer's life before I went to college, in the chambers -of MacGibbon of Lanark town, where I spent a summer (that had been more -profitably passed in my father's fields), backing letters, fair-copying -drafts of lease and process, and indexing the letter-book. The last I -hated least of all, for I could have a half-sheet of foolscap between -the pages, and under MacGibbon's very nose try my hand at something -sombre in the manner of the old ancient ballads of the Border. Doing -that same once, I gave a wild cry and up with my inky hand and shook it. -"Eh! eh!" cried MacGibbon, thinking I had gone mad. "What ails ye?" "He -struck me with his sword!" said I like a fool, not altogether out of my -frenzy; and then the snuffy old body came round the corner of the desk, -keeked into the letter-book where I should have been doing his work, and -saw that I was wasting good paper with clinking trash. "Oh, sirs! sirs! -I never misused a minute of my youth in the like of that!" said he, -sneering, and the sneer hurt. "No, I daresay not," I answered him. -"Perhaps ye never had the inclination--nor the art." - -I have gone through the world bound always to say what was in me, and -that has been my sore loss more than once; but to speak thus to an old -man, who had done me no ill beyond demonstrating the general world's -attitude to poetry and men of sentiment, was the blackest insolence. He -was well advised to send me home for a leathering at my father's hands. -And I got the leathering, too, though it was three months after. I had -been off in the interim upon a sloop ship out of Ayr. - -But here I am havering, and the tilted cart with my father and me in it -toiling on the mucky way through the Meams; and it has escaped couping -into the Earn at the ford, and it has landed us at the gate of home; and -in all that weary journey never a word, good or ill, from the man that -loved me and my mother before all else in a world he was well content -with. - -Mother was at the door; that daunted me. - -"Ye must be fair starving, Paul," quoth she softly with her hand on my -arm, and I daresay my face was blae with cold and chagrin. But my father -was not to let a disgrace well merited blow over just like that. - -"Here's our little Paul, Katrine," said he, and me towering a head or -two above the pair of them and a black down already on my face. "Here's -our little Paul. I hope you have not put by his bibs and daidlies, for -the wee man's not able to sup the good things of this life clean yet." - -And that was the last word of reproof I heard for my folly from my -father Quentin Greig. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MISS FORTUNE'S TRYST BY WATER OF EARN, AND HOW I MARRED THE SAME -UNWITTINGLY - -For the most part of a year I toiled and moiled like any crofter's son -on my father's poor estate, and dreary was the weird I had to dree, for -my being there at all was an advertisement to the countryside of what a -fool was young Paul Greig. "The Spoiled Horn" was what they called me in -the neighbourhood (I learned it in the taunt of a drunken packman), for -I had failed at being the spoon I was once designed for, and there was -not a ne'er-do-weel peasant nor a bankrupt portioner came craving some -benefit to my father's door but made up for his deference to the laird -by his free manner with the laird's son. The extra tenderness of my -mother (if that were possible) only served to swell my rebel heart, for -I knew she was but seeking to put me in a better conceit of myself, and -I found a place whereof I had before been fond exceedingly assume a new -complexion. The rain seemed to fall constantly that year, and the earth -in spring was sodden and sour. Hazel Den House appeared sunk in the -rotten leafage of the winter long after the lambs came home and the -snipe went drumming on the marsh, and the rookery in the holm plantation -was busy with scolding parents tutoring their young. A solemn house at -its best--it is so yet, sometimes I think, when my wife is on a jaunt -at her sister's and Walter's bairns are bedded--it was solemn beyond all -description that spring, and little the better for the coming of summer -weather. For then the trees about it, that gave it over long billows of -untimbered countryside an aspect of dark importance, by the same token -robbed it (as I thought then) of its few amenities. How it got the name -of Hazel Den I cannot tell, for autumn never browned a nut there. It was -wych elm and ash that screened Hazel Den House; the elms monstrous and -grotesque with knotty growths: when they were in their full leaf behind -the house they hid the valley of the Clyde and the Highland hills, that -at bleaker seasons gave us a sense of companionship with the wide world -beyond our infield of stunted crops. The ash towered to the number of -two score and three towards the south, shutting us off from the view -there, and working muckle harm to our kitchen-garden. Many a time my -father was for cutting them down, but mother forbade it, though her -syboes suffered from the shade and her roses grew leggy and unblooming. -"That," said she, "is the want of constant love: flowers are like -bairns; ye must be aye thinking of them kindly to make them thrive." And -indeed there might be something in the notion, for her apple-ringie -and Dutch Admiral, jonquils, gillyflowers, and peony-roses throve -marvellously, better then they did anywhere in the shire of Renfrew -while she lived and tended them and have never been quite the same since -she died, even with a paid gardener to look after them. - -A winter loud with storm, a spring with rain-rot in the fallen leaf, a -summer whose foliage but made our home more solitary than ever, a short -autumn of stifling heats--that was the year the Spoiled Horn tasted the -bitterness of life, the bitterness that comes from the want of an -aim (that is better than the best inheritance in kind) and from a -consciousness that the world mistrusts your ability. And to cap all, -there was no word about my returning to the prelections of Professor -Reid, for a reason which I could only guess at then, but learned later -was simply the want of money. - -My father comported himself to me as if I were doomed to fall into a -decline, as we say, demanding my avoidance of night airs, preaching the -Horatian virtues of a calm life in the fields, checking with a reddened -face and a half-frightened accent every turn of the conversation that -gave any alluring colour to travel or adventure. Notably he was dumb, -and so was my mother, upon the history of his family. He had had four -brothers: three of them I knew were dead and their tombs not in Mearns -kirkyard; one of them, Andrew, the youngest, still lived: I feared it -might be in a bedlam, by the avoidance they made of all reference to -him. I was fated, then, for Bedlam or a galloping consumption--so I -apprehended dolefully from the mystery of my folk; and the notion sent -me often rambling solitary over the autumn moors, cultivating a not -unpleasing melancholy and often stringing stanzas of a solemn complexion -that I cannot recall nowadays but with a laugh at my folly. - -A favourite walk of mine in these moods was along the Water of Earn, -where the river chattered and sang over rocks and shallows or plunged -thundering in its linn as it did ere I was born and shall do when I and -my story are forgotten. A pleasant place, and yet I nearly always had it -to myself alone. - -I should have had it always to myself but for one person--Isobel Fortune -from the Kirkillstane. She seemed as little pleased to meet me there -as I was to meet her, though we had been brought up in the same school -together; and when I would come suddenly round a bend of the road and -she appeared a hundred yards off, I noticed that she half stopped and -seemed, as it were, to swither whether she should not turn and avoid me. -It would not have surprised me had she done so, for, to tell the truth, -I was no very cheery object to contemplate upon a pleasant highway, with -the bawbee frown of a poetic gloom upon my countenance and the most curt -of salutations as I passed. What she did there all her lone so often -mildly puzzled me, till I concluded she was on a tryst with some young -gentleman of the neighbourhood; but as I never saw sign of him, I did -not think myself so much the marplot as to feel bound to take another -road for my rambling. I was all the surer 'twas a lover she was out to -meet, because she reddened guiltily each time that we encountered (a -fine and sudden charm to a countenance very striking and beautiful, as I -could not but observe even then when weightier affairs engaged me); but -it seemed I was all in error, for long after she maintained she was, -like myself, indulging a sentimental humour that she found go very well -in tune with the noise of Earn Water. - -As it was her habit to be busily reading when we thus met, I had little -doubt as to the ownership of a book that one afternoon I found on -the road not long after passing her. It was--of all things in the -world!--Hervey's "Meditations." - -"It's an odd graveyard taste for a lass of that stamp," thought I, -hastening back after her to restore the book, and when I came up to her -she was--not red this time, but wan to the very lips, and otherwise in -such confusion that she seemed to tremble upon her legs, "I think this -is yours, Isobel," says I: we were too well acquaint from childhood for -any address more formal. - -"Oh, thank you, Paul," said she hastily. "How stupid of me to lose it!" -She took it from me; her eye fell (for the first time, I felt sure) upon -the title of the volume, and she bit her lip in a vexation. I was all -the more convinced that her book was but a blind in her rambles, and -that there was a lover somewhere; and I think I must have relaxed my -silly black frown a little, and my proud melancholy permitted a faint -smile of amusement. The flag came to her face then. - -"Thank you," said she very dryly, and she left me in the middle of the -road, like a stirk. If it had been no more than that, I should have -thought it a girl's tantrum; but the wonder was to come, for before -I had taken three steps on my resumed way I heard her run after me. I -stopped, and she stopped, and the notion struck me like a rhyme of song -that there was something inexpressibly pleasant in her panting breath -and her heaving bosom, where a pebble brooch of shining red gleamed like -an eye between her breasts. - -"I'm not going to tell you a lie about it, Master Paul," she said, -almost like to cry; "I let the book fall on purpose." - -"Oh, I could have guessed as much as that, Isobel," said I, wondering -who in all the world the fellow was. Her sun-bonnet had fallen from her -head in her running, and hung at her back on its pink ribbons, and a -curl or two of her hair played truant upon her cheek and temple. It -seemed to me the young gentleman she was willing to let a book drop for -as a signal of her whereabouts was lucky enough. - -"Oh! you could have guessed!" she repeated, with a tone in which were -dumbfounderment and annoyance; "then I might have saved myself the -trouble." And off she went again, leaving me more the stirk than ever -and greatly struck at her remorse of conscience over a little sophistry -very pardonable in a lass caught gallivanting. When she was gone and her -frock was fluttering pink at the turn of the road, I was seized for the -first time with a notion that a girl like that some way set off, as we -say, or suited with, a fine landscape. - -Not five minutes later I met young David Borland of the Driepps, and -there--I told myself--the lover was revealed! He let on he was taking -a short cut for Polnoon, so I said neither buff nor sty as to Mistress -Isobel. - -The cool superiority of the gentleman, who had, to tell the truth, as -little in his head as I had in the heel of my shoe, somewhat galled me, -for it cried "Spoiled Horn!" as loud as if the taunt were bawled, so my -talk with him was short. There was but one topic in it to interest me. - -"Has the man with the scarred brow come yet?" he asked curiously. - -I did not understand. - -"Then he's not your length yet," said he, with the manifest gratification -of one who has the hanselling of great news. "Oh! I came on him this -morning outside a tavern in the Gorbals, bargaining loudly about a -saddle horse for Hazel Den. I'll warrant Hazel Den will get a start when -it sees him." - -I did not care to show young Borland much curiosity in his story, and so -it was just in the few words he gave it to me that I brought it home to -our supper-table. - -My father and mother looked at each other as if I had told them a -tragedy. The supper ended abruptly. The evening worship passed unusually -fast, my father reading the Book as one in a dream, and we went to our -beds nigh an hour before the customary time. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -OF THE COMING OF UNCLE ANDREW WITH A SCARRED FOREHEAD AND A BRASS-BOUND -CHEST, AND HOW I TOOK AN INFECTION - -It was a night--as often happens in the uplands of our shire in autumn -weather--of vast and brooding darkness: the world seemed to swound in -a breathless oven, and I had scarcely come to my chamber when thunder -broke wild upon the world and torrential rain began to fall. I did not -go to bed, but sat with my candle extinguished and watched the lightning -show the landscape as if it had been flooded by the gleam of moon and -star. - -Between the roar of the thunder and the blatter of the rain there were -intervals of an astounding stillness of an ominous suspense, and it -seemed oddly to me, as I sat in my room, that more than I was awake in -Hazel Den House. I felt sure my father and mother sat in their -room, still clad and whispering; it was but the illusion of a -moment--something felt by the instinct and not by reason--and then a -louder, nearer peal of thunder dispelled the notion, and I made to go to -bed. - -I stopped like one shot, with my waistcoat half undone. - -There was a sound of a horse's hoofs coming up the loan, with the beat -of them in mire sounding soft enough to make me shiver at the notion of -the rider's discomfort in that appalling night, and every now and then -the metal click of shoes, showing the animal over-reached himself in the -trot. - -The rider drew up at the front; a flash of the lightning and the wildest -thunder-peal of the night seemed to meet among our outhouses, and when -the roll of the thunder ceased I heard a violent rapping at the outer -door. - -The servants would be long ere they let this late visitor out of the -storm, I fancied, and I hurried down; but my father was there in the -hall before me, all dressed, as my curious intuition had informed me, -and his face strange and inscrutable in the light of a shaded candle. -He was making to open the door. My appearance seemed to startle him. He -paused, dubious and a trifle confused. - -"I thought you had been in bed long ago," said he, "and--" - -His sentence was not finished, for the horseman broke in upon it with a -masterful rataplan upon the oak, seemingly with a whip-head or a pistol -butt, and a cry, new to my ear and uncanny, rose through the beating -rain. - -With a sigh the most distressing I can mind of, my father seemed to -reconcile himself to some fate he would have warded off if he could. He -unbolted and threw back the door. - -Our visitor threw himself in upon us as if we held the keys of -paradise--a man like a rake for lankiness, as was manifest even through -the dripping wrap-rascal that he wore; bearded cheek and chin in a -fashion that must seem fiendish in our shaven country; with a wild and -angry eye, the Greig mole black on his temple, and an old scar livid -across his sunburned brow. He threw a three-cocked hat upon the floor -with a gesture of indolent possession. - -"Well, I'm damned!" cried he, "but this is a black welcome to one's -poor brother Andy," and scarcely looked upon my father standing with -the shaded candle in the wind. "What's to drink? Drink, do you hear that -Quentin? Drink--drink--d-r-i-n-k. A long strong drink too, and that's -telling you, and none of the whey that I'm hearing's running through -the Greigs now, that once was a reputable family of three bottles and a -rummer to top all." - -"Whist, whist, man!" pleaded father tremulously, all the man out of him -as he stood before this drunken apparition. - -"Whist I quo' he. Well stap me! do you no' ken the lean pup of the -litter?" hiccoughed our visitor, with a sort of sneer that made the -blood run to my head, and for the first time I felt the great, the -splendid joy of a good cause to fight for. - -"You're Andrew," said my father simply, putting his hand upon the man's -coat sleeve in a sympathy for his drenchen clothes. - -That kindly hand was jerked off rudely, an act as insolent as if he had -smitten his host upon the mouth: my heart leaped, and my fingers went at -his throat. I could have spread him out against the wall, though I knew -him now my uncle; I could have given him the rogue's quittance with a -black face and a protruding tongue. The candle fell from my father's -hand; the glass shade shattered; the hall of Hazel Den House was plunged -in darkness, and the rain drave in through the open door upon us three -struggling. - -"Let him go, Paul," whispered my father, who I knew was in terror of -frightening his wife, and he wrestled mightily with an arm of each of -us. - -Yet I could not let my uncle go, for with the other arm he held a knife, -and he would perhaps have died for it had not another light come on the -stair and my mother's voice risen in a pitiful cry. - -We fell asunder on a common impulse, and the drunken wanderer was the -first to speak. - -"Katrine," said he; "it's always the old tale with Andy, you see; -they must be misunderstanding me," and he bowed with a surprising -gentlemanliness that could have made me almost think him not the man -who had fouled our house with oaths and drawn a knife upon us in the -darkness. The blade of the same, by a trick of legerdemain, had gone up -the sleeve of his dripping coat. He seemed all at once sobered. He took -my good mother by the hand as she stood trembling and never to know -clearly upon what elements of murder she had come. - -"It is you, Andrew," said she, bravely smiling. "What a night to come -home in after twenty years! I'm wae to see you in such a plight. And -your horse?" said she again, lifting her candle and peering into the -darkness of the night. "I must cry up Sandy to stable your horse." - -I'll give my uncle the credit of a confusion at his own forgetfulness. - -"Good Lord! Katrine," said he, "if I did not clean forget the brute, a -fiddle-faced, spavined, spatter-dasher of a Gorbals mare, no' worth her -corn; but there's my bit kistie on her hump." - -The servant was round soon at the stabling of the mare, and my mother -was brewing something of what the gentleman had had too much already, -though she could not guess that; and out of the dripping night he -dragged in none of a rider's customary holsters but a little brass-bound -chest. - -"Yon night I set out for my fortune, Quentin," said he, "I did not think -I would come back with it a bulk so small as this; did you? It was the -sight of the quiet house and the thought of all it contained that made -me act like an idiot as I came in. Still, we must just take the world as -we get it, Quentin; and I knew I was sure of a warm welcome in the old -house, from one side of it if not from the other, for the sake of lang -syne. And this is your son, is it?" he went on, looking at my six feet -of indignation not yet dead "Split me if there's whey in that piece! You -near jammed my hawze that time! Your Uncle Andrew's hawze, boy. Are you -not ashamed of yourself?" - -"Not a bit," said I between my teeth; "I leave that to you." - -He smiled till his teeth shone white in his black beard, and "Lord!" -cried he, "I'm that glad I came. It was but the toss of a bawbee, when I -came to Leith last week, whether I should have a try at the old doocot, -or up Blue Peter again and off to the Indies. I hate ceiled rooms--they -mind me of the tomb; I'm out of practice at sitting doing nothing in -a parlour and saying grace before meat, and--I give you warning, -Quentin--I'll be damned if I drink milk for supper. It was the notion -of milk for supper and all that means that kept me from calling on -Katrine--and you--any sooner. But I'm glad I came to meet a lad of -spirit like young Andy here." - -"Not Andy," said my father. "Paul is his name." - -My uncle laughed. - -"That was ill done of you, Quentin," said he; "I think it was as little -as Katrine and you could do to have kept up the family name. I suppose -you reckoned to change the family fate when you made him Paul. H'm! You -must have forgotten that Paul the Apostle wandered most, and many ways -fared worst of all the rest. I haven't forgotten my Bible, you see, -Quentin." - -We were now in the parlour room; a servant lass was puffing up a -new-lighted fire; my uncle, with his head in the shade, had his -greatcoat off, and stood revealed in shabby garments that had once been -most genteel; and his brass-bound fortune, that he seemed averse from -parting with a moment, was at his feet. Getting no answer to what he had -said of the disciples, he looked from one to the other of us and laughed -slyly. - -"Take off your boots, Andy," said my father. - -"And where have you been since--since--the Plantations?" - -"Stow that, Quentin!" cried my uncle, with an oath and his eye on me. -"What Plantations are you blethering about? And where have I been? Ask -me rather where have I not been. It makes me dizzy even to think of it: -with rotten Jesuits and Pagan gentlemen; with France and Spain, and -with filthy Lascars, lying Greeks, Eboe slaves, stinking niggers, and -slit-eyed Chinese! Oh! I tell you I've seen things in twenty years. And -places, too: this Scotland, with its infernal rain and its grey fields -and its rags, looks like a nightmare to me yet. You may be sure I'll be -out of it pretty fast again." - -"Poor Scotland!" said father ambiguously. - -There must be people in the world who are oddly affected by the names -of places, peoples, things that have never come within their own -experience. Till this day the name of Barbadoes influences me like a -story of adventure; and when my Uncle Andrew--lank, bearded, drenched -with storm, stood in our parlour glibly hinting at illimitable travel, -I lost my anger with the tipsy wretch and felt a curious glow go through -my being. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -I COME UPON THE RED SHOES - -Uncle Andrew settled for the remainder of his time into our domestic -world at Hazel Den as if his place had been kept warm for him since ever -he went away. For the remainder of his time, I say, because he was to be -in the clods of Mearns kirkyard before the hips and haws were off the -hedges; and I think I someway saw his doom in his ghastly countenance -the first morning he sat at our breakfast table, contrite over his folly -of the night before, as you could see, but carrying off the situation -with worldly _sang froid_, and even showing signs of some affection for -my father. - -His character may be put in two words--he was a lovable rogue; his -tipsy bitterness to the goodman his brother may be explained almost -as briefly: he had had a notion of Katrine Oliver, and had courted her -before ever she met my father, and he had lost her affection through -his own folly. Judging from what I would have felt myself in the like -circumstances, his bitterest punishment for a life ill spent must have -been to see Katrine Oliver's pitying kindness to him now, and the sight -of that douce and loving couple finding their happiness in each other -must have been a constant sermon to him upon repentance. - -Yet, to tell the truth, I fear my Uncle Andrew was not constituted -for repentance or remorse. He had slain a man honestly once, and had -suffered the Plantations, but beyond that (and even that included, as -he must ever insist) he had been guilty of no mean act in all his roving -career. Follies--vices--extremes--ay, a thousand of them; but for most -his conscience never pricked him. On the contrary, he would narrate with -gusto the manifold jeopardies his own follies brought him into; his -wan face, nigh the colour of a shroud, would flush, and his eyes dance -humorously as he shocked the table when we sat at meals, our spoons -suspended in the agitation created by his wonderful histories. - -Kept to a moderation with the bottle, and with the constant influence of -my mother, who used to feed the rogue on vegetables and, unknown to him, -load his broth with simples as a cure for his craving, Uncle Andrew was, -all things considered, an acquisition to Hazel Den House. Speaking for -myself, he brought the element of the unusual and the unexpected to a -place where routine had made me sick of my own society; and though -the man in his sober senses knew he was dying on his feet, he was the -cheeriest person of our company sequestered so remote in the moors. It -was a lesson in resignation to see yon merry eyes loweing like lamps -over his tombstone cheeks, and hear him crack a joke in the flushed and -heaving interludes of his cough. - -It was to me he ever directed the most sensational of his extraordinary -memorials. My father did not like it; I saw it in his eye. It was -apparent to me that a remonstrance often hung on the tip of his tongue. -He would invent ridiculous and unnecessary tasks to keep me out of -reach of that alluring _raconteur_, and nobody saw it plainer than Uncle -Andrew, who but laughed with the mischievousness of a boy. - -Well, the long and short of it was just what Quentin Greig feared--the -Spoiled Horn finally smit with a hunger for the road of the Greigs. -For three hundred years--we could go no further back, because of a bend -sinister--nine out of ten of that family had travelled that road, that -leads so often to a kistful of sailor's shells and a death with boots -on. It was a fate in the blood, like the black hair of us, the mole on -the temple, and the trick of irony. It was that ailment my father -had feared for me; it was that kept the household silent upon missing -brothers (they were dead, my uncle told me, in Trincomalee, and in -Jamaica, and a yard in the Borough of London); it was that inspired the -notion of a lawyer's life for Paul Greig. - -Just when I was in the deepmost confidence of Uncle Andrew, who was by -then confined to his bed and suffering the treatment of Doctor Clews, -his stories stopped abruptly and he began to lament the wastry of his -life. If the thing had been better acted I might have been impressed, -for our follies never look just like what they are till we are finally -on the broad of our backs and the Fell Sergeant's step is at the door. -But it was not well acted; and when the wicked Uncle Andrew groaned over -the very ploys he had a week ago exulted in, I recognised some of my -mother's commonest sentiments in his sideways sermon. She had got her -quondam Andy, for lang syne's sake, to help her keep her son at home; -and he was doing his best, poor man, but a trifle late in the day. - -"Uncle Andrew," said I, never heeding his homily, "tell me what came of -the pock-marked tobacco planter when you and the negro lay in the swamp -for him?" - -He groaned hopelessly. - -"A rotten tale, Paul, my lad," said he, never looking me in the face; "I -rue the day I was mixed up in that affair." - -"But it was a good story so far as it went, no further gone than -Wednesday last," I protested. - -He laughed at that, and for half an hour he put off the new man of -my mother's bidding, and we were on the old naughty footing again. He -concluded by bequeathing to me for the twentieth time the brass-bound -chest, and its contents that we had never seen nor could guess the -nature of. But now for the first time he let me know what I might expect -there. - -"It's not what Quentin might consider much," said he, "for there's not a -guelder of money in it, no, nor so little as a groat, for as the world's -divided ye can't have both the money and the dance, and I was aye the -fellow for the dance. There's scarcely anything in it, Paul, but the -trash--ahem!--that is the very fitting reward of a life like mine." - -"And still and on, uncle," said I, "it is a very good tale about the -pock-marked man." - -"Ah! You're there, Greig!" cried the rogue, laughing till his hoast came -to nigh choke him. "Well, the kist's yours, anyway, such as it is; and -there's but one thing in it--to be strict, a pair--that I set any store -by as worth leaving to my nephew." - -"It ought to be spurs," said I, "to drive me out of this lamentable -countryside and to where a fellow might be doing something worth while." - -"Eh!" he cried, "you're no' so far off it, for it's a pair of shoes." - -"A pair of shoes!" I repeated, half inclined to think that Uncle Andrew -was doited at last. - -"A pair of shoes, and perhaps in some need of the cobbler, for I have -worn them a good deal since I got them in Madras. They were not new when -I got them, but by the look of them they're not a day older now. They -have got me out of some unco' plights in different parts of the world, -for all that the man who sold them to me at a bonny penny called them -the Shoes of Sorrow; and so far as I ken, the virtue's in them yet." - -"A doomed man's whim," thought I, and professed myself vastly gratified -by his gift. - -He died next morning. It was Candlemas Day. He went out at last like a -crusie wanting oil. In the morning he had sat up in bed to sup -porridge that, following a practice I had made before his reminiscences -concluded, I had taken in to him myself. Tremendous long and lean the -upper part of him looked, and the cicatrice upon his brow made his -ghastliness the more appalling. When he sat against the bolsters he -could see through the window into the holm field, and, as it happened, -what was there but a wild young roe-deer driven down from some higher -part of the country by stress of winter weather, and a couple of mongrel -dogs keeping him at bay in an angle of the fail dyke. - -I have seldom seen a man more vastly moved than Uncle Andrew looking -upon this tragedy of the wilds. He gasped as though his chest would -crack, a sweat burst on his face. - -"That's--that's the end o't, Paul, my lad!" said he. "Yonder's your -roving uncle, and the tykes have got him cornered at last. No more the -heather and the brae; no more--no more--no more--" - -Such a change came on him that I ran and cried my mother ben, and she -and father were soon at his bedside. - -It was to her he turned his eyes, that had seen so much of the spacious -world of men and women and all their multifarious interests, great and -little. They shone with a light of memory and affection, so that I got -there and then a glimpse of the Uncle Andrew of innocence and the Uncle -Andrew who might have been if fate had had it otherwise. - -He put out his hand and took hers, and said goodbye. - -"The hounds have me, Katrine," said he. "I'm at the fail dyke corner." - -"I'll go out and whistle them off, uncle," said I, fancying it all a -doited man's illusion, though the look of death was on him; but I stood -rebuked in the frank gaze he gave me of a fuller comprehension than -mine, though he answered me not. - -And then he took my father's hand in his other, and to him too he said -farewell. - -"You're there, Quentin!" said he; "and Katrine--Katrine--Katrine chose -by far the better man. God be merciful to poor Andy Greig, a sinner." -And these were his last words. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -A SPOILED TRYST, AND OTHER THINGS THAT FOLLOWED ON THE OPENING OF THE -CHEST - -The funeral was over before I cared to examine my bequest, and then I -went to it with some reluctance, for if a pair of shoes was the chief -contents of the brass-bound chest, there was like to be little else -except the melancholy relics of a botched life. It lay where he left it -on the night he came--under the foot of his bed--and when I lifted the -lid I felt as if I was spying upon a man through a keyhole. Yet, when I -came more minutely to examine the contents, I was disappointed that at -the first reflection nothing was there half so pregnant as his own most -casual tale to rouse in me the pleasant excitation of romance. - -A bairn's caul--that sailor's trophy that has kept many a mariner -from drowning only that he might die a less pleasant death; a broken -handcuff, whose meaning I cared not to guess at; a pop or pistol; a -chap-book of country ballads, that possibly solaced his exile from -the land they were mostly written about; the batters of a Bible, with -nothing between them but his name in his mother's hand on the inside of -the board; a traveller's log or itinerary, covering a period of fifteen -years, extremely minute in its detail and well written; a broken -sixpence and the pair of shoes. - -The broken sixpence moved my mother to tears, for she had had the other -half twenty years ago, before Andrew Greig grew ne'er-do-weel; the shoes -failed to rouse in her or in my father any interest whatever. If they -could have guessed it, they would have taken them there and then and -sunk them in the deepest linn of Earn. - -There was little kenspeckle about them saving their colour, which was -a dull dark red. They were of the most excellent material, with a great -deal of fine sewing thrown away upon them in parts where it seems to -me their endurance was in no wise benefited, and an odd pair of silver -buckles gave at your second glance a foreign look to them. - -I put them on at the first opportunity: they fitted me as if my feet had -been moulded to them, and I sat down to the study of the log-book. The -afternoon passed, the dusk came. I lit a candle, and at midnight, when I -reached the year of my uncle's escape from the Jesuits of Spain, I came -to myself gasping, to find the house in an alarm, and that lanthorns -were out about Earn Water looking for me, while all the time I was -_perdu_ in the dead uncle's chamber in the baron's wing, as we called -it, of Hazel Den House. I pretended I had fallen asleep; it was the -first and the last time I lied to my mother, and something told me she -knew I was deceiving her. She looked at the red shoes on my feet. - -"Ugly brogues!" said she; "it's a wonder to me you would put them on -your feet. You don't know who has worn them." - -"They were Uncle Andy's," said I, complacently looking at them, for they -fitted like a glove; the colour was hardly noticeable in the evening, -and the buckles were most becoming. - -"Ay! and many a one before him, I'm sure," said she, with distaste in -her tone, "I don't think them nice at all, Paul," and she shuddered a -little. - -"That's but a freit," said I; "but it's not likely I'll wear much of -such a legacy." I went up and left them in the chest, and took the diary -into my own room and read Uncle Andrew's marvellous adventures in the -trade of rover till it was broad daylight. - -When I had come to the conclusion it seemed as if I had been in the -delirium of a fever, so tempestuous and unreal was that memoir of a wild -loose life. The sea was there, buffeting among the pages in rollers and -breakers; there were the chronicles of a hundred ports, with boozing -kens and raving lazarettos in them; far out isles and cays in nameless -oceans, and dozing lagoons below tropic skies; a great clash of weapons -and a bewildering deal of political intrigue in every part of the -Continent from Calais to Constantinople. My uncle's narrative in life -had not hinted at one half the marvel of his career, and I read his -pages with a rapture, as one hears a noble piece of music, fascinated to -the uttermost, and finding no moral at the end beyond that the world -we most of us live in with innocence and ignorance is a crust over -tremendous depths. And then I burned the book. It went up in a grey -smoke on the top of the fire that I had kept going all night for its -perusal; and the thing was no sooner done than I regretted it, though -the act was dictated by the seemly enough idea that its contents would -only distress my parents if they came to their knowledge. - -For days--for weeks--for a season--I went about, my head humming with -Uncle Andy's voice recounting the most stirring of his adventures as -narrated in the log-book. I had been infected by almost his first words -the night he came to Hazel Den House, and made a magic chant of the mere -names of foreign peoples; now I was fevered indeed; and when I put on -the red shoes (as I did of an evening, impelled by some dandyism foreign -to my nature hitherto), they were like the seven-league boots for magic, -as they set my imagination into every harbour Uncle Andy had frequented -and made me a guest at every inn where he had met his boon companions. - -I was wearing them the next time I went on my excursion to Earn side and -there met Isobel Fortune, who had kept away from the place since I had -smiled at my discovery of her tryst with Hervey's "Meditations." She -came upon me unexpectedly, when the gentility of my shoes and the -recollection of all that they had borne of manliness was making me walk -along the road with a very high head and an unusually jaunty step. - -She seemed struck as she came near, with her face displaying her -confusion, and it seemed to me she was a new woman altogether--at least, -not the Isobel I had been at school with and seen with an indifferent -eye grow up like myself from pinafores. It seemed suddenly scandalous -that the like of her should have any correspondence with so ill-suited a -lover as David Borland of the Dreipps. - -For the first time (except for the unhappy introduction of Hervey's -"Meditations") we stopped to speak to each other. She was the most -bewitching mixture of smiles and blushes, and stammering now and then, -and vastly eager to be pleasant to me, and thinks I, "My lass, you're -keen on trysting when it's with Borland." - -The very thought of the fellow in that connection made me angry in her -interest; and with a mischievous intention of spoiling his sport if he -hovered, as I fancied, in the neighbourhood, or at least of delaying his -happiness as long as I could, I kept the conversation going very blithe -indeed. - -She had a laugh, low and brief, and above all sincere, which is the -great thing in laughter, that was more pleasant to hear than the sound -of Earn in its tinkling hollow among the ferns: it surprised me that she -should favour my studied and stupid jocosities with it so frequently. -Here was appreciation! I took, in twenty minutes, a better conceit of -myself, than the folks at home could have given me in the twelve -months since I left the college, and I'll swear to this date 'twas the -consciousness of my fancy shoes that put me in such good key. - -She saw my glance to them at last complacently, and pretended herself to -notice them for the first time. - -She smiled--little hollows came near the corners of her lips; of -a sudden I minded having once kissed Mistress Grant's niece in a -stair-head frolic in Glasgow High Street, and the experience had been -pleasant enough. - -"They're very nice," said Isobel. - -"They're all that," said I, gazing boldly at her dimples. She flushed -and drew in her lips. - -"No, no!" I cried,"'twas not them I was thinking of; but their -neighbours. I never saw you had dimples before." - -At that she was redder than ever. - -"I could not help that, Paul," said she; "they have been always there, -and you are getting very audacious. I was thinking of your new shoes." - -"How do you know they're new?" - -"I could tell," said she, "by the sound of your footstep before you came -in sight." - -"It might not have been my footstep," said I, and at that she was taken -back. - -"That is true," said she, hasty to correct herself. "I only thought it -might be your footstep, as you are often this way." - -"It might as readily have been David Borland's. I have seen him about -here." I watched her as closely as I dared: had her face changed, I -would have felt it like a blow. - -"Anyway, they're very nice, your new shoes," said she, with a marvellous -composure that betrayed nothing. - -"They were uncle's legacy," I explained, "and had travelled far in many -ways about the world; far--and fast." - -"And still they don't seem to be in such a hurry as your old ones," said -she, with a mischievous air. Then she hastened to cover what might seem -a rudeness. "Indeed, they're very handsome, Paul, and become you very -much, and--and--and--" - -"They're called the Shoes of Sorrow; that's the name my uncle had for -them," said I, to help her to her own relief. - -"Indeed, and I hope it may be no more than a by-name," she said gravely. - -The day had the first rumour of spring: green shoots thrust among the -bare bushes on the river side, and the smell of new turned soil came -from a field where a plough had been feiring; above us the sky was blue, -in the north the land was pleasantly curved against silver clouds. - -And one small bird began to pipe in a clump of willows, that showered a -dust of gold upon us when the little breeze came among the branches. I -looked at all and I looked at Isobel Fortune, so trim and bonny, and it -seemed there and then good to be a man and my fortunes all to try. - -"Sorrow here or sorrow there, Isobel," I said, "they are the shoes to -take me away sooner or later from Hazel Den." - -She caught my meaning with astounding quickness. - -"Are you in earnest?" she asked soberly, and I thought she could not -have been more vexed had it been David Borland. - -"Another year of this." said I, looking at the vacant land, "would break -my heart." - -"Indeed, Paul, and I thought Earn-side was never so sweet as now," said -she, vexed like, as if she was defending a companion. - -"That is true, too," said I, smiling into the very depths of her large -dark eyes, where I saw a pair of Spoiled Horns as plainly as if I looked -in sunny weather into Linn of Earn. "That is true, too. I have never -been better pleased with it than to-day. But what in the world's to -keep me? It's all bye with the college--at which I'm but middling well -pleased; it's all bye with the law--for which thanks to Heaven! and, -though they seem to think otherwise at Hazel Den House, I don't believe -I've the cut of a man to spend his life among rowting cattle and dour -clay land." - -"I daresay not; it's true," said she stammeringly, with one fast glance -that saw me from the buckles of my red shoes to the underlids of my -eyes. For some reason or other she refused to look higher, and the -distant landscape seemed to have charmed her after that. She drummed -with a toe upon the path; she bit her nether lip; upon my word, the lass -had tears at her eyes! I had, plainly, kept her long enough from her -lover. "Well, it's a fine evening; I must be going," said I stupidly, -making a show at parting, and an ugly sense of annoyance with David -Borland stirring in my heart. "But it will rain before morning," said -she, making to go too, but always looking to the hump of Dungoyne that -bars the way to the Hielands. "I think, after all, Master Paul, I liked -the old shoon better than the new ones." - -"Do you say so?" I asked, astonished at the irrelevance that came -rapidly from her lips, as if she must cry it out or choke. "And how -comes that?" - -"Just because--" said she, and never a word more, like a woman, nor fair -good-e'en nor fair good-day to ye, but off she went, and I was the stirk -again. - -I looked after her till she went out of sight, wondering what had been -the cause of her tirravee. She fair ran at the last, as if eager to get -out of my sight; and when she disappeared over the brae that rose from -the river-side there was a sense of deprivation within me. I was clean -gone in love and over the lugs in it with Isobel Fortune. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -MY DEED ON THE MOOR OF MEARNS - - -Next day I shot David Borland of the Driepps. - -It was the seventh of March, the first day I heard the laverock that -season, and it sang like to burst its heart above the spot where the -lad fell with a cry among the rushes. It rose from somewhere in our -neighbourhood, aspiring to the heavens, but chained to earth by its -own song; and even yet I can recall the eerie influence of that strange -conjunction of sin and song as I stood knee-deep in the tangle of the -moor with the pistol smoking in my hand. - -To go up to the victim of my jealousy as he lay ungainly on the ground, -his writhing over, was an ordeal I could not face. - -"Davie, Davie!" I cried to him over the thirty paces; but I got no reply -from yon among the rushes. I tried to wet my cracking lips with a tongue -like a cork, and "Davie, oh, Davie, are ye badly hurt?" I cried, in a -voice I must have borrowed from ancient time when my forefathers fought -with the forest terrors. - -I listened and I better listened, but Borland still lay there at last, a -thing insensate like a gangrel's pack, and in all the dreary land there -was nothing living but the laverock and me. - -The bird was high--a spot upon the blue; his song, I am sure, was the -song of his kind, that has charmed lovers in summer fields from old -time--a melody rapturous, a message like the message of the evening -star that God no more fondly loves than that small warbler in desert -places--and yet there and then it deaved me like a cry from hell. No -heavenly message had the lark for me: he flew aloft there into the -invisible, to tell of this deed of mine among the rushes. Not God alone -would hear him tell his story: they might hear it, I knew, in shepherds' -cots; they might hear it in an old house bowered dark among trees; the -solitary witness of my crime might spread the hue and cry about the -shire; already the law might be on the road for young Paul Greig. - -I seemed to listen a thousand years to that telltale in the air; for a -thousand years I scanned the blue for him in vain, yet when I looked at -my pistol again the barrel was still warm. - -It was the first time I had handled such a weapon. - -A senseless tool it seemed, and yet the crooking of a finger made it -the confederate of hate; though it, with its duty done, relapsed into a -heedless silence, I, that owned it for my instrument, must be wailing in -my breast, torn head to foot with thunders of remorse. - -I raised the hammer, ran a thumb along the flint, seeing something -fiendish in the jaws that held it; I lifted up the prime-cap, and it -seemed some miracle of Satan that the dust I had put there in the peace -of my room that morning in Hazel Den should have disappeared. "Truefitt" -on the lock; a silver shield and an initial graven on it; a butt with a -dragon's grin that had seemed ridiculous before, and now seemed to cry -"Cain!" Lord! that an instrument like this in an unpractised hand should -cut off all young Borland's earthly task, end his toil with plough and -harrow, his laugh and story. - -I looked again at the shapeless thing at thirty paces. "It cannot be," -I told myself; and I cried again, in the Scots that must make him cease -his joke, "I ken ye're only lettin' on, Davie. Get up oot o' that and -we'll cry quits." - -But there was no movement; there was no sound; the tell-tale had the -heavens to himself. - -All the poltroon in me came a-top and dragged my better man round about, -let fall the pistol from my nerveless fingers and drove me away from -that place. It was not the gallows I thought of (though that too was -sometimes in my mind), but of the frightful responsibility I had made my -burden, to send a human man before his Maker without a preparation, and -my bullet hole upon his brow or breast, to tell for ever through the -roaring ring of all eternity that this was the work of Paul Greig. The -rushes of the moor hissed me as I ran blindly through them; the tufts of -heather over Whiggit Knowe caught at me to stop me; the laverock seemed -to follow overhead, a sergeant of provost determined on his victim. - -My feet took me, not home to the home that was mine no more, but to -Earn-side, where I felt the water crying in its linn would drown the -sound of the noisy laverock; and the familiar scene would blot for a -space the ugly sight from my eyes. I leant at the side to lave my brow, -and could scarce believe that this haggard countenance I saw look up at -me from the innocent waters was the Spoiled Horn who had been reflected -in Isobel's eyes. Over and over again I wet my lips and bathed my -temples; I washed my hands, and there was on the right forefinger a mark -I bear to this day where the trigger guard of the pistol in the moments -of my agony had cut me to the bone without my knowing it. - -When my face looked less like clay and my plans were clear, I rose and -went home. - -My father and mother were just sitting to supper, and I joined them. -They talked of a cousin to be married in Drymen at Michaelmas, of an -income in the leg of our mare, of Sabbath's sermon, of things that were -as far from me as I from heaven, and I heard them as one in a dream, -far-off. What I was hearing most of the time was the laverock setting -the hue and cry of Paul Greig's crime around the world and up to the -Throne itself, and what I was seeing was the vacant moor, now in the -dusk, and a lad's remains awaiting their discovery. The victuals choked -me as I pretended to eat; my father noticed nothing, my mother gave a -glance, and a fright was in her face. - -I went up to my room and searched a desk for some verses that had been -gathering there in my twelve months' degradation, and particularly for -one no more than a day old with Isobel Fortune for its theme. It was -all bye with that! I was bound to be glancing at some of the lines as -I furiously tore them up and threw them out of the window into the -bleaching-green; and oh! but the black sorrows and glooms that were -there recorded seemed a mockery in the light of this my terrible -experience. They went by the window, every scrap: then I felt cut off -from every innocent day of my youth, the past clean gone from me for -ever. - -The evening worship came. - -_"If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost ends of -the sea."_ - -My father, peering close at the Book through his spectacles, gave out -the words as if he stood upon a pulpit, deliberate--too deliberate for -Cain his son, that sat with his back to the window shading his face from -a mother's eyes. They were always on me, her eyes, throughout that last -service; they searched me like a torch in a pit, and wae, wae was her -face! - -When we came to pray and knelt upon the floor, I felt as through my shut -eyes that hers were on me even then, exceeding sad and troubled. They -followed me like that when I went up, as they were to think, to my bed, -and I was sitting at my window in the dark half an hour later when -she came up after me. She had never done the like before since I was a -child. - -"Are ye bedded, Paul?" she whispered in the dark. - -I could not answer her in words, but I stood to my feet and lit a -candle, and she saw that I was dressed. - -"What ails ye to-night?" she asked trembling. "I'm going away, mother," I -answered. "There's something wrong?" she queried in great distress. - -"There's all that!" I confessed. "It'll be time for you to ken about -that in the morning, but I must be off this night." - -"Oh, Paul, Paul!" she cried, "I did not like to see you going out in -these shoes this afternoon, and I ken't that something ailed ye." - -"The road to hell suits one shoe as well's another," said I bitterly; -"where the sorrow lies is that ye never saw me go out with a different -heart. Mother, mother, the worst ye can guess is no' so bad as the worst -ye've yet to hear of your son." - -I was in a storm of roaring emotions, yet her next words startled me. - -"It's Isobel Fortune of the Kirkillstane," she said, trying hard to -smile with a wan face in the candle light. - -"It _was_--poor dear! Am I not in torment when I think that she must -know it?" - -"I thought it was that that ailed ye, Paul," said she, as if she were -relieved. "Look; I got this a little ago on the bleaching-green--this -scrap of paper in your write and her name upon it. Maybe I should not -have read it." And she handed me part of that ardent ballad I had torn -less than an hour ago. - -I held it in the flame of her candle till it was gone, our hands all -trembling, and "That's the end appointed for Paul Greig," said I. - -"Oh, Paul, Paul, it cannot be so unco'!" she cried in terror, and -clutched me at the arm. - -"It is--it is the worst." - -"And yet--and yet--you're my son, Paul. Tell me." - -She looked so like a reed in the winter wind, so frail and little and -shivering in my room, that I dared not tell her there and then. I said -it was better that both father and she should hear my tale together, and -we went into the room where already he was bedded but not asleep. He sat -up staring at our entry, a night-cowl tassel dangling on his brow. - -"There's a man dead--" I began, when he checked me with a shout. - -"Stop, stop!" he cried, and put my mother in a chair. "I have heard the -tale before with my brother Andy, and the end was not for women's ears." - -"I must know, Quentin," said his wife, blanched to the lip but -determined, and then he put his arm about her waist. It seemed like a -second murder to wrench those tender hearts that loved me, but the thing -was bound to do. - -I poured out my tale at one breath and in one sentence, and when it -ended my mother was in her swound. - -"Oh, Paul!" cried the poor man, his face like a clout; "black was the -day she gave you birth!" - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -QUENTIN GREIG LOSES A SON, AND I SET OUT WITH A HORSE AS ALL MY FORTUNE - -He pushed me from the chamber as I had been a stranger intruding, and I -went to the trance door and looked out at the stretching moorlands lit -by an enormous moon that rose over Cathkin Braes, and an immensity of -stars. For the first time in all my life I realised the heedlessness of -nature in human affairs the most momentous. For the moon swung up serene -beyond expression; the stars winked merrily: a late bird glid among the -bushes and perched momentarily on a bough of ash to pipe briefly almost -with the passion of the spring. But not the heedlessness of nature -influenced me so much as the barren prospect of the world that the moon -and stars revealed. There was no one out there in those deep spaces of -darkness I could claim as friend or familiar. Where was I to go? What -was I to do? Only the beginnings of schemes came to me--schemes -of concealment and disguise, of surrender even--but the last to be -dismissed as soon as it occurred to me, for how could I leave this house -the bitter bequest of a memory of the gallows-tree? - -Only the beginnings, I say, for every scheme ran tilt against the -obvious truth that I was not only without affection or regard out there, -but without as much as a crown of money to purchase the semblance of -either. - -I could not have stood very long there when my father came out, his face -like clay, and aged miraculously, and beckoned me to the parlour. - -"Your mother--my wife," said he, "is very ill, and I am sending for the -doctor. The horse is yoking. There is another woman in Driepps who--God -help her!--will be no better this night, but I wish in truth her case -was ours, and that it was you who lay among the heather." - -He began pacing up and down the floor, his eyes bent, his hands -continually wringing, his heart bursting, as it were, with sighs and the -dry sobs of the utmost wretchedness. As for me, I must have been clean -gyte (as the saying goes), for my attention was mostly taken up with the -tassel of his nightcap that bobbed grotesquely on his brow. I had not -seen it since, as a child, I used to share his room. - -"What! what!" he cried at last piteously, "have ye never a word to say? -Are ye dumb?" He ran at me and caught me by the collar of the coat and -tried to shake me in an anger, but I felt it no more than I had been a -stone. - -"What did ye do it for? What in heaven's name did ye quarrel on?" - -"It was--it was about a girl," I said, reddening even at that momentous -hour to speak of such a thing to him. - -"A girl!" he repeated, tossing up his hands. "Keep us! Hoo lang are ye -oot o' daidlies? Well! well!" he went on, subduing himself and prepared -to listen. I wished the tassel had been any other colour than crimson, -and hung fairer on the middle of his forehead; it seemed to fascinate -me. And he, belike, forgot that I was there, for he thought, I knew, -continually of his wife, and he would stop his feverish pacing on the -floor, and hearken for a sound from the room where she was quartered -with the maid. I made no answer. - -"Well, well!" he cried again fiercely, turning upon me. "Out with it; -out with the whole hellish transaction, man!" - -And then I told him in detail what before my mother I had told in a -brief abstract. - -How that I had met young Borland coming down the breast of the brae at -Kirkillstane last night and-- - -"Last night!" he cried. "Are ye havering? I saw ye go to your bed at -ten, and your boots were in the kitchen." - -It was so, I confessed. I had gone to my room but not to bed, and had -slipped out by the window when the house was still, with Uncle Andrew's -shoes. - -"Oh, lad!" he cried, "it's Andy's shoes you stand in sure enough, for -I have seen him twenty years syne in the plight that you are in this -night. Merciful heaven! what dark blotch is in the history of this -family of ours that it must ever be embroiled in crimes of passion and -come continually to broken ends of fortune? I have lived stark honest -and humble, fearing the Lord; the covenants have I kept, and still and -on it seems I must beget a child of the Evil One!" - -And how, going out thus under cover of night, I had meant to indulge a -boyish fancy by seeing the light of Isobel Fortune's window. And how, -coming to the Kirkillstane, I met David Borland leaving the house, -whistling cheerfully. - -"Oh, Paul, Paul!" cried my father, "I mind of you an infant on her knees -that's ben there, and it might have been but yesterday your greeting in -the night wakened me to mourn and ponder on your fate." And how Borland, -divining my object there, and himself new out triumphant from that -cheerful house of many daughters, made his contempt for the Spoiled Horn -too apparent. - -"You walked to the trough-stane when you were a twelvemonth old," said -my father with the irrelevance of great grief, as if he recalled a dead -son's infancy. - -And how, maddened by some irony of mine, he had struck a blow upon -my chest, and so brought my challenge to something more serious and -gentlemanly than a squalid brawl with fists upon the highway. - -I stopped my story; it seemed useless to be telling it to one so much -preoccupied with the thought of the woman he loved. His lips were open, -his eyes were constant on the door. - -But "Well! Well!" he cried again eagerly, and I resumed. - -Of how I had come home, and crept into my guilty chamber and lay the -long night through, torn by grief and anger, jealousy and distress. And -how evading the others of the household as best I could that day, I -had in the afternoon at the hour appointed gone out with Uncle Andrew's -pistol. - -My father moaned--a waefu' sound! - -And found young Borland up on the moor before me with such another -weapon, his face red byordinary, his hands and voice trembling with -passion. - -"Poor lad, poor lad!" my father cried blurting the sentiment as he had -been a bairn. - -How we tossed a coin to decide which should be the first to fire, and -Borland had won the toss, and gone to the other end of our twenty paces -with vulgar menaces and "Spoiled Horn" the sweetest of his epithets. - -"Poor lad! he but tried to bluster down the inward voice that told him -the folly o't," said father. - -And how Borland had fired first. The air was damp. The sound was like a -slamming door. - -"The door of hope shut up for him, poor dear," cried father. - -And how he missed me in his trepidation that made his hand that held the -pistol so tremble that I saw the muzzle quiver even at twenty paces. - -"And then you shot him deliberately I M cried my father. - -"No, no," I cried at that, indignant. "I aimed without a glance along -the barrel: the flint flashed; the prime missed fire, and I was not -sorry, but Borland cried 'Spoiled Horn' braggingly, and I cocked again -as fast as I could, and blindly jerked the trigger. I never thought of -striking him. He fell with one loud cry among the rushes." - -"Murder, by God!" cried my father, and he relapsed into a chair, his -body all convulsed with horror. - -I had told him all this as if I had been in a delirium, or as if it were -a tale out of a book, and it was only when I saw him writhing in his -chair and the tassel shaking over his eyes, I minded that the murderer -was me. I made for the door; up rose my father quickly and asked me what -I meant to do. - -I confessed I neither knew nor cared. - -"You must thole your assize," said he, and just as he said it the -clatter of the mare's hoofs sounded on the causey of the yard, and he -must have minded suddenly for what object she was saddled there. - -"No, no," said he, "you must flee the country. What right have you to -make it any worse for her?" - -"I have not a crown in my pocket," said I. - -"And I have less," he answered quickly. "Where are you going? No, no, -don't tell me that; I'm not to know. There's the mare saddled, I meant -Sandy to send the doctor from the Mearns, but you can do that. Bid him -come here as fast as he can." - -"And must I come back with the mare?" I asked, reckless what he might -say to that, though my life depended on it. - -"For the sake of your mother," he answered, "I would rather never set -eyes on you or the beast again; she's the last transaction between us, -Paul Greig." And then he burst in tears, with his arms about my neck. - -[Illustration: 067] - -Ten minutes later I was on the mare, and galloping, for all her ailing -leg, from Hazel Den as if it were my own loweing conscience. I roused -Dr. Clews at the Mearns, and gave him my father's message. "Man," said -he, holding his chamber light up to my face, "man, ye're as gash as a -ghaist yersel'." - -"I may well be that," said I, and off I set, with some of Uncle Andy's -old experience in my mind, upon a ride across broad Scotland. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -I RIDE BY NIGHT ACROSS SCOTLAND, AND MEET A MARINER WITH A GLEED EYE - -That night was like the day, with a full moon shining. The next -afternoon I rode into Borrowstounness, my horse done out and myself sore -from head to heel; and never in all my life have I seen a place with a -more unwelcome aspect, for the streets were over the hoof in mud; the -natives directed me in an accent like a tinker's whine; the Firth of -Forth was wrapped in a haar or fog that too closely put me in mind of my -prospects. But I had no right to be too particular, and in the course of -an hour I had sold the mare for five pounds to a man of much Christian -profession, who would not give a farthing more on the plea that she was -likely stolen. - -The five pounds and the clothes I stood in were my fortune: it did not -seem very much, if it was to take me out of the reach of the long arm of -the doomster; and thinking of the doomster I minded of the mole upon -my brow, that was the most kenspeckle thing about me in the event of a -description going about the country, so the first thing I bought with -my fortune was a pair of scissors. Going into a pend close in one of the -vennels beside the quay, I clipped off the hair upon the mole and felt a -little safer. I was coming out of the close, pouching the scissors, when -a man of sea-going aspect, with high boots and a tarpaulin hat, stumbled -against me and damned my awkwardness. - -"You filthy hog," said I, exasperated at such manners, for he was -himself to blame for the encounter; "how dare you speak to me like -that?" He was a man of the middle height, sturdy on his bowed legs in -spite of the drink obvious in his face and speech, and he had a roving -gleed black eye. I had never clapped gaze on him in all my life before. - -"Is that the way ye speak to Dan Risk, ye swab?" said he, ludicrously -affecting a dignity that ill suited with his hiccough. "What's the good -of me being a skipper if every linen-draper out of Fife can cut into my -quarter on my own deck?" - -"This is no' your quarter-deck, man, if ye were sober enough to ken it," -said I; "and I'm no linen-draper from Fife or anywhere else." - -And then the brute, with his hands thrust to the depth of his pockets, -staggered me as if he had done it with a blow of his fist. - -"No," said he, with a very cunning tone, "ye're no linen-draper perhaps, -but--ye're maybe no sae decent a man, young Greig." - -It was impossible for me to conceal even from this tipsy rogue my -astonishment and alarm at this. It seemed to me the devil himself must -be leagued against me in the cause of justice. A cold sweat came on my -face and the palms of my hands. I opened my mouth and meant to give him -the lie but I found I dare not do so in the presence of what seemed a -miracle of heaven. - -"How do you ken my name's Greig?" I asked at the last. - -"Fine that," he made answer, with a grin; "and there's mony an odd thing -else I ken." - -"Well, it's no matter," said I, preparing to quit him, but in great fear -of what the upshot might be; "I'm for off, anyway." - -By this time it was obvious that he was not so drunk as I thought him at -first, and that in temper and tact he was my match even with the -glass in him. "Do ye ken what I would be doing if I was you?" said he -seemingly determined not to let me depart like that, for he took a step -or two after me. - -I made no reply, but quickened my pace and after me he came, lurching -and catching at my arm; and I mind to this day the roll of him gave me -the impression of a crab. - -"If it's money ye want-" I said at the end of my patience. - -"Curse your money!" he cried, pretending to spit the insult from his -mouth. "Curse your money; but if I was you, and a weel-kent skipper like -Dan Risk--like Dan Risk of the _Seven Sisters_--made up to me out of a -redeeculous good nature and nothing else, I would gladly go and splice -the rope with him in the nearest ken." - -"Go and drink with yourself, man," I cried; "there's the money for a -chappin of ate, and I'll forego my share of it." - -I could have done nothing better calculated to infuriate him. As I held -out the coin on the palm of my hand he struck it up with an oath and -it rolled into the syver. His face flamed till the neck of him seemed a -round of seasoned beef. - -"By the Rock o' Bass!" he roared, "I would clap ye in jyle for less than -your lousy groat." - -Ah, then, it was in vain I had put the breadth of Scotland between me -and that corpse among the rushes: my heart struggled a moment, and sank -as if it had been drowned in bilge. I turned on the man what must have -been a gallows face, and he laughed, and, gaining his drunken good -nature again he hooked me by the arm, and before my senses were my own -again he was leading me down the street and to the harbour. I had never -a word to say. - -The port, as I tell, was swathed in the haar of the east, out of which -tall masts rose dim like phantom spears; the clumsy tarred bulwarks -loomed like walls along the quay, and the neighbourhood was noisy with -voices that seemed unnatural coming out of the haze. Mariners were -hanging about the sheds, and a low tavern belched others out to keep -them company. Risk made for the tavern, and at that I baulked. - -"Oh, come on!" said he. "If I'm no' mistaken Dan Risk's the very man -ye're in the need of. You're wanting out of Scotland, are ye no'?" - -"More than that; I'm wanting out of myself," said I, but that seemed -beyond him. - -"Come in anyway, and we'll talk it over." - -That he might help me out of the country seemed possible if he was not, -as I feared at first, some agent of the law and merely playing with me, -so I entered the tavern with him. - -"Two gills to the coffin-room, Mrs. Clerihew," he cried to the woman in -the kitchen. "And slippy aboot it, if ye please, for my mate here's been -drinking buttermilk all his life, and ye can tell't in his face." - -"I would rather have some meat," said I. - -"Humph!" quo' he, looking at my breeches. "A lang ride!" He ordered the -food at my mentioning, and made no fuss about drinking my share of the -spirits as well as his own, while I ate with a hunger that was soon -appeased, for my eye, as the saying goes, was iller to satisfy than my -appetite. - -He sat on the other side of the table in the little room that doubtless -fairly deserved the name it got of coffin, for many a man, I'm thinking, -was buried there in his evil habits; and I wondered what was to be next. - -"To come to the bit," said the at last, looking hard into the bottom of -his tankard in a way that was a plain invitation to buy more for him. -"To come to the bit, you're wanting out of the country?" - -"It's true," said I; "but how do you know? And how do you know my name, -for I never saw you to my knowledge in all my life before?" - -"So much the worse for you; I'm rale weel liked by them that kens me. -What would ye give for a passage to Nova Scotia?" - -"It's a long way," said I, beginning to see a little clearer. - -"Ay," said he, "but I've seen a gey lang rope too, and a man danglin' at -the end of it." - -Again my face betrayed me. I made no answer. - -"I ken all aboot it," he went on. "Your name's Greig; ye're from a -place called the Hazel Den at the other side o' the country; ye've been -sailing wi' a stiff breeze on the quarter all night, and the clime -o' auld Scotland's one that doesna suit your health, eh? What's the -amount?" said he, and he looked towards my pocket "Could we no' mak' it -halfers?" - -"Five pounds," said I, and at that he looked strangely dashed. - -"Five pounds," he repeated incredulously. "It seems to have been hardly -worth the while." And then his face changed, as if a new thought had -struck him. He leaned over the table and whispered with the infernal -tone of a confederate, "Doused his glim, eh?" winking with his hale eye, -so that I could not but shiver at him, as at the touch of slime. - -"I don't understand," said I. - -"Do ye no'?" said he, with a sneer; "for a Greig ye're mighty slow in -the uptak'. The plain English o' that, then, is that ye've killed a man. -A trifle like that ance happened to a Greig afore." - -"What's your name?" I demanded. - -"Am I no tellin' ye?" said he shortly. "It's just Daniel Risk; and where -could you get a better? Perhaps ye were thinkin' aboot swappin' names -wi' me; and by the Bass, it's Dan's family name would suit very weel -your present position," and the scoundrel laughed at his own humour. - -"I asked because I was frightened it might be Mahoun," said I. "It seems -gey hard to have ridden through mire for a night and a day, and land -where ye started from at the beginning. And how do ye ken all that?" - -"Oh!" he said, "kennin's my trade, if ye want to know. And whatever way -I ken, ye needna think I'm the fellow to make much of a sang aboot it. -Still and on, the thing's frowned doon on in this country, though in -places I've been it would be coonted to your credit. I'll take anither -gill; and if ye ask me, I would drench the butter-milk wi' something -o' the same, for the look o' ye sittin' there's enough to gie me the -waterbrash. Mrs. Clerihew--here!" He rapped loudly on the table, and -the drink coming in I was compelled again to see him soak himself at my -expense. He reverted to my passage from the country, and "Five pounds is -little enough for it," said he; "but ye might be eking it oot by partly -working your passage." - -"I didn't say I was going either to Nova Scotia or with you," said I, -"and I think I could make a better bargain elsewhere." - -"So could I, maybe," said he, fuming of spirits till I felt sick. "And -it's time I was doin' something for the good of my country." With that -he rose to his feet with a look of great moral resolution, and made as -if for the door, but by this time I understood him better. - -"Sit down, ye muckle hash!" said I, and I stood over him with a most -threatening aspect. - -"By the Lord!" said he, "that's a Greig anyway!" - -"Ay!" said I. "ye seem to ken the breed. Can I get another vessel abroad -besides yours?" - -"Ye can not," said he, with a promptness I expected, "unless ye wait on -the _Sea Pyat_. She leaves for Jamaica next Thursday; and there's no' -a spark of the Christian in the skipper o' her, one Macallum from -Greenock." - -For the space of ten minutes I pondered over the situation. Undoubtedly -I was in a hole. This brute had me in his power so long as my feet were -on Scottish land, and he knew it. At sea he might have me in his power -too, but against that there was one precaution I could take, and I made -up my mind. - -"I'll give you four pounds--half at leaving the quay and the other half -when ye land me." - -"My conscience wadna' aloo me," protested the rogue; but the greed was -in his face, and at last he struck my thumb on the bargain, and when -he did that I think I felt as much remorse at the transaction as at the -crime from whose punishment I fled. - -"Now," said I, "tell me how you knew me and heard about--about--" - -"About what?" said he, with an affected surprise. "Let me tell ye this, -Mr. Greig, or whatever your name may be, that Dan Risk is too much of -the gentleman to have any recollection of any unpleasantness ye may -mention, now that he has made the bargain wi' ye. I ken naethin' -aboot ye, if ye please: whether your name's Greig or Mackay or Habbie -Henderson, it's new to me, only ye're a likely lad for a purser's berth -in the _Seven Sisters._" And refusing to say another word on the topic -that so interested me, he took me down to the ship's side, where I found -the _Seven Sisters_ was a brigantine out of Hull, sadly in the want of -tar upon her timbers and her mainmast so decayed and worm-eaten that it -sounded boss when I struck it with my knuckles in the by-going. - -Risk saw me doing it. He gave an ugly smile. - -"What do ye think o' her? said he, showing me down the companion. - -"Mighty little," I told him straight. "I'm from the moors," said I, "but -I've had my feet on a sloop of Ayr before now; and by the look of this -craft I would say she has been beeking in the sun idle till she rotted -down to the garboard strake." - -He gave his gleed eye a turn and vented some appalling oaths, and wound -up with the insult I might expect--namely, that drowning was not my -portion. - -"There was some brag a little ago of your being a gentleman," said I, -convinced that this blackguard was to be treated to his own fare if he -was to be got on with at all. "There's not much of a gentleman in the -like of that." - -At this he was taken aback. "Well," said he, "don't you cross my temper; -if my temper's crossed it's gey hard to keep up gentility. The ship's -sound enough, or she wouldn't be half a dizen times round the Horn and -as weel kent in Halifax as one o' their ain dories. She's guid enough -for your--for our business, if ye please, Mr. Greig; and here's my mate -Murchison." - -Another tarry-breeks of no more attractive aspect came down the -companion. - -"Here's a new hand for ye," said the skipper humorously. - -The mate looked me up and down with some contempt from his own height of -little more than five feet four, and peeled an oilskin coat off him. -I was clad myself in a good green coat and breeches with fine wool -rig-and-fur hose, and the buckled red shoon and the cock of my hat I -daresay gave me the look of some importance in tarry-breeks' eyes. -At any rate, he did not take Risk's word for my identity, but at last -touched his hat with awkward fingers after relinquishing his look of -contempt. - -"Mr. Jamieson?" said he questioningly, and the skipper by this time was -searching in a locker for a bottle of rum he said he had there for the -signing of agreements. "Mr. Jamieson," said the mate, "I'm glad to see -ye. The money's no; enough for the job, and that's letting ye know. It's -all right for Dan here wi' neither wife nor family, but--" - -"What's that, ye idiot?" cried Risk turning about in alarm. "Do ye tak' -this callan for the owner? I tell't ye he was a new hand." - -"A hand!" repeated Murchison, aback and dubious. - -"Jist that; he's the purser." - -Murchison laughed. "That's a new ornament on the auld randy; he'll be -to keep his keekers on the manifest, like?" said he as one who cracks a -good joke. But still and on he scanned me with a suspicious eye, and -it was not till Risk had taken him aside later in the day and seemingly -explained, that he was ready to meet me with equanimity. By that time -I had paid the skipper his two guineas, for the last of his crew was on -board, every man Jack of them as full as the Baltic, and staggering at -the coamings of the hatches not yet down, until I thought half of them -would finally land in the hold. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -WHEREIN THE "SEVEN SISTERS" ACTS STRANGELY, AND I SIT WAITING FOR THE -MANACLES - -An air of westerly wind had risen after meridian and the haar was gone, -so that when I stood at the break of the poop as the brigantine crept -into the channel and flung out billows of canvas while her drunken -seamen quarrelled and bawled high on the spars, I saw, as I imagined, -the last of Scotland in a pleasant evening glow. My heart sank. It was -not a departure like this I had many a time anticipated when I listened -to Uncle Andys tales; here was I with blood on my hands and a guinea to -start my life in a foreign country; that was not the worst of it either, -for far more distress was in my mind at the reflection that I travelled -with a man who was in my secret. At first I was afraid to go near him -once our ropes were off the pawls, and I, as it were, was altogether -his, but to my surprise there could be no pleasanter man than Risk when -he had the wash of water under his rotten barque. He was not only a -better-mannered man to myself, but he became, in half an hour of the -Firth breeze, as sober as a judge. But for the roving gleed eye, and -what I had seen of him on shore, Captain Dan Risk might have passed for -a model of all the virtues. He called me Mr. Greig and once or twice -(but I stopped that) Young Hazel Den, with no irony in the appellation, -and he was at pains to make his mate see that I was one to be treated -with some respect, proffering me at our first meal together (for I was -to eat in the cuddy,) the first of everything on the table, and even -making some excuses for the roughness of the viands. And I could see -that whatever his qualities of heart might be, he was a good seaman, a -thing to be told in ten minutes by a skipper's step on a deck and his -grip of the rail, and his word of command. Those drunken barnacles of -his seemed to be men with the stuff of manly deeds in them, when at his -word they dashed aloft among the canvas canopy to fist the bulging sail -and haul on clew or gasket, or when they clung on greasy ropes and at a -gesture of his hand heaved cheerily with that "yo-ho" that is the chant -of all the oceans where keels run. - -Murchison was a saturnine, silent man, from whom little was to be got of -edification. The crew numbered eight men, one of them a black deaf -mute, with the name of Antonio Ferdinando, who cooked in a galley little -larger than the Hazel Den kennel. It was apparent that no two of them -had ever met before, such a career of flux and change is the seaman's, -and except one of them, a fellow Horn, who was foremast man, a more -villainous gang I never set eyes on before or since. If Risk had raked -the ports of Scotland with a fine bone comb for vermin, he could not -have brought together a more unpleasant-looking crew. No more than two -of them brought a bag on board, and so ragged was their appearance that -I felt ashamed to air my own good clothes on the same deck with them. - -Fortunately it seemed I had nothing to do with them nor they with me; -all that was ordered for the eking out of my passage, as Risk had -said, was to copy the manifest, and I had no sooner set to that than I -discerned it was a gowk's job just given me to keep me in employ in the -cabin. Whatever his reason, the man did not want me about his deck. I -saw that in an interlude in my writing, when I came up from his airless -den to learn what progress old rotten-beams made under all her canvas. - -It had declined to a mere handful of wind, and the vessel scarcely -moved, seemed indeed steadfast among the sea-birds that swooped and -wheeled and cried around her. I saw the sun just drop among blood-red -clouds over Stirling, and on the shore of Fife its pleasant glow. The -sea swung flat and oily, running to its ebb, and lapping discernibly -upon a recluse promontory of land with a stronghold on it. - -"What do you call yon, Horn?" I said to the seaman I have before -mentioned, who leaned upon the taffrail and watched the vessel's greasy -wake, and I pointed to the gloomy buildings on the shore. - -"Blackness Castle," said he, and he had time to tell no more, for the -skipper bawled upon him for a shirking dog, and ordered the flemishing -of some ropes loose upon the forward deck. Nor was I exempt from -his zeal for the industry of other folks for he came up to me with -a suspicious look, as if he feared I had been hearing news from his -foremast man, and "How goes the manifest, Mr. Greig?" says he. - -"Oh, brawly, brawly!" said I, determined to begin with Captain Daniel -Risk as I meant to end. - -He grew purple, but restrained himself with an effort. "This is not -an Ayr sloop, Mr. Greig," said he; "and when orders go on the _Seven -Sisters_ I like to see them implemented. You must understand that -there's a pressing need for your clerking, or I would not be so soon -putting you at it." - -"At this rate of sailing," says I, "I'll have time to copy some hundred -manifests between here and Nova Scotia." - -"Perhaps you'll permit me to be the best judge of that," he replied in -the English he ever assumed with his dignity, and seeing there was no -more for it, I went back to my quill. - -It was little wonder, in all the circumstances, that I fell asleep over -my task with my head upon the cabin table whereon I wrote, and it was -still early in the night when I crawled into the narrow bunk that the -skipper had earlier indicated as mine. - -Weariness mastered my body, but my mind still roamed; the bunk became -a coffin quicklimed, and the murderer of David Borland lying in it; the -laverock cried across Earn Water and the moors of Renfrew with the voice -of Daniel Risk. And yet the strange thing was that I knew I slept and -dreamed, and more than once I made effort, and dragged myself into -wakefulness from the horrors of my nightmare. At these times there was -nothing to hear but the plop of little waves against the side of the -ship, a tread on deck, and the call of the watch. - -I had fallen into a sleep more profound than any that had yet blessed my -hard couch, when I was suddenly wakened by a busy clatter on the deck, -the shriek of ill-greased davits, the squeak of blocks, and the fall of -a small-boat into the water. Another odd sound puzzled me: but for the -probability that we were out over Bass I could have sworn it was the -murmur of a stream running upon a gravelled shore. A stream--heavens! -There could be no doubt about it now; we were somewhere close in shore, -and the _Seven Sisters_ was lying to. The brigantine stopped in her -voyage where no stoppage should be; a small boat plying to land in -the middle of the night; come! here was something out of the ordinary, -surely, on a vessel seaward bound. I had dreamt of the gallows and of -Dan Risk as an informer. Was it a wonder that there should flash into my -mind the conviction of my betrayal? What was more likely than that the -skipper, secure of my brace of guineas, was selling me to the garrison -of Blackness? - -I clad myself hurriedly and crept cautiously up the companion ladder, -and found myself in overwhelming darkness, only made the more appalling -and strange because the vessel's lights were all extinguished. Silence -large and brooding lay upon the _Seven Sisters_ as she lay in that -obscuring haar that had fallen again; she might be Charon's craft -pausing mid-way on the cursed stream, and waiting for the ferry cry upon -the shore of Time. We were still in the estuary or firth, to judge -by the bickering burn and the odors off-shore, above all the odour of -rotting brake; and we rode at anchor, for her bows were up-water to -the wind and tide, and above me, in the darkness, I could hear the -idle sails faintly flapping in the breeze and the reef-points all -tap-tapping. I seemed to have the deck alone, but for one figure at the -stern; I went back, and found that it was Horn. - -"Where are we?" I asked, relieved to find there the only man I could -trust on board the ship. - -"A little below Blackness," said he shortly with a dissatisfied tone. - -"I did not know we were to stop here," said I, wondering if he knew that -I was doomed. - -"Neither did I," said he, peering into the void of night. "And whit's -mair, I wish I could guess the reason o' oor stopping. The skipper's -been ashore mair nor ance wi' the lang-boat forward there, and I'm sent -back here to keep an e'e on lord kens what except it be yersel'." - -"Are ye indeed?" said I, exceedingly vexed. "Then I ken too well, Horn, -the reason for the stoppage. You are to keep your eye on a man who's -being bargained for with the hangman." - -"I would rather ken naithin' about that," said he, "and onyway I think -ye're mistaken. Here they're comin' back again." - -Two or three small boats were coming down on us out of the darkness; not -that I could see them, but that I heard their oars in muffled rowlocks. - -"If they want me," said I sorrowfully, "they can find me down below," -and back I went and sat me in the cabin, prepared for the manacles. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE STRUGGLE IN THE CABIN, AND AN EERIE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER - -The place stank with bilge and the odour of an ill-trimmed lamp smoking -from a beam; the fragments of the skipper's supper were on the table, -with a broken quadrant; rats scurried and squealed in the bulkheads, -and one stared at me from an open locker, where lay a rum-bottle, -while beetles and slaters travelled along the timbers. But these -things compelled my attention less than the skylights that were masked -internally by pieces of canvas nailed roughly on them. They were not -so earlier in the evening; it must have been done after I had gone to -sleep, and what could be the object? That puzzled me extremely, for it -must have been the same hand that had extinguished all the deck and mast -lights, and though black was my crime darkness was unnecessary to my -betrayal. - -I waited with a heart like lead. - -I heard the boats swung up on the davits, the squeak of the falls, the -tread of the seamen, the voice of Risk in an unusually low tone. In the -bows in a little I heard the windlass click and the chains rasp in the -hawse-holes; we were lifting the anchor. - -For a moment hope possessed me. If we were weighing anchor then my -arrest was not imminent at least; but that consolation lasted briefly -when I thought of the numerous alternatives to imprisonment in -Blackness. - -We were under weigh again; there was a heel to port, and a more rapid -plop of the waters along the carvel planks. And then Risk and his mate -came down. - -I have seldom seen a man more dashed than the skipper when he saw me -sitting waiting on him, clothed and silent. His face grew livid; round -he turned to Murchison and hurried him with oaths to come and clap eyes -on this sea-clerk. I looked for the officer behind them, but they were -alone, and at that I thought more cheerfully I might have been mistaken -about the night's curious proceedings. - -"Anything wrang?" said Risk, affecting nonchalance now that his spate of -oaths was by, and he pulled the rum out of the locker and helped himself -and his mate to a swingeing caulker. - -"Oh, nothing at all," said I, "at least nothing that I know of, Captain -Risk. And are we--are we--at Halifax already?" - -"What do you mean?" said he. And then he looked at me closely, put out -the hand unoccupied by his glass and ran an insolent dirty finger over -my new-clipped mole. "Greig, Greig," said he, "Greig to a hair! I would -have the wee shears to that again, for its growin'." - -"You're a very noticing man," said I, striking down his hand no way -gently, and remembering that he had seen my scissors when I emerged from -the Borrowstouness close after my own barbering. - -"I'm all that," he replied, with a laugh, and all the time Murchison, -the mate, sat mopping his greasy face with a rag, as one after hard -work, and looked on us with wonder at what we meant. "I'm all that," -he replied, "the hair aff the mole and the horse-hair on your creased -breeches wad hae tauld ony ane that ye had ridden in a hurry and clipped -in a fricht o' discovery." - -"Oh, oh!" I cried, "and that's what goes to the makin' o' a Mahoun!" - -"Jist that," said he, throwing himself on a seat with an easy -indifference meant to conceal his vanity. "Jist observation and a knack -o' puttin' twa and twa thegether. Did ye think the skipper o' the _Seven -Sisters_ was fleein' over Scotland at the tail o' your horse?" - -"The Greig mole's weel kent, surely," said I, astonished and chagrined. -"I jalouse it's notorious through my Uncle Andy?" - -Risk laughed at that. "Oh, ay!" said he, "when Andy Greig girned at ye -it was ill to miss seein' his mole. Man, ye might as well wear your name -on the front o' your hat as gae aboot wi' a mole like that--and--and -that pair o' shoes." - -The blood ran to my face at this further revelation of his astuteness. -It seemed, then, I carried my identity head and foot, and it was no -wonder a halfeyed man like Risk should so easily discover me. I looked -down at my feet, and sure enough, when I thought of it now, it would -have been a stupid man who, having seen these kenspeckle shoes once, -would ever forget them. - -"My uncle seems to have given me good introductions," said I. "They -struck mysel' as rather dandy for a ship," broke in the mate, at last -coming on something he could understand. - -"And did _you_ know Andy Greig, too?" said I. "Andy Greig," he replied. -"Not me!" - -"Then, by God, ye hinna sailed muckle aboot the warld!" said the -skipper. "I hae seen thae shoes in the four quarters and aye in a good -companionship." - -"They appear yet to retain that virtue," said I, unable to resist the -irony. "And, by the way, Captain Risk, now that we have discussed the -shoes and my mole, what have we been waiting for at Blackness?" - -His face grew black with annoyance. - -"What's that to you?" he cried. - -"Oh, I don't know," I answered indifferently. "I thought that now ye had -got the best part o' your passage money ye might hae been thinking to do -something for your country again. They tell me it's a jail in there, -and it might suggest itself to you as providing a good opportunity for -getting rid of a very indifferent purser." - -It is one thing I can remember to the man's credit that this innuendo -of treachery seemed to make him frantic. He dashed the rum-glass at -his feet and struck at me with a fist like a jigot of mutton, and I had -barely time to step back and counter. He threw himself at me as he had -been a cat; I closed and flung my arms about him with a wrestler's grip, -and bent him back upon the table edge, where I might have broken his -spine but for Murchison's interference. The mate called loudly for -assistance; footsteps pounded on the cuddy-stair, and down came Horn. -Between them they drew us apart, and while Murchison clung to his -captain, and plied him into quietness with a fresh glass of grog, Horn -thrust me not unkindly out into the night, and with no unwillingness on -my part. - -[Illustration 091] - -It was the hour of dawn, and the haar was gone. - -There was something in that chill grey monotone of sky and sea that -filled me with a very passion of melancholy. The wind had risen, and the -billows ran frothing from the east; enormous clouds hung over the land -behind us, so that it seemed to roll with smoke from the eternal fires. -Out from that reeking pit of my remorse--that lost Scotland where now -perhaps there still lay lying among the rushes, with the pees-weep's cry -above it, the thing from which I flew, our ship went fast, blown upon -the frothy billows, like a ponderous bird, leaving a wake of hissing -bubbling brine, flying, as it seemed, to a world of less imminent -danger, yet unalluring still. - -I looked aloft at the straining spars; they seemed to prick the clouds -between the swelling sails; the ropes and shrouds stretched infinitely -into a region very grey and chill. Oh, the pallor! oh, the cold and -heartless spirit of the sea in that first dawning morn! - -"It's like to be a good day," said Horn, breaking in upon my silence, -and turning to him I saw his face exceeding hollow and wan. The watch -lay forward, all but a lad who seemed half-dozing at the helm; Risk and -his mate had lapsed to silence in the cuddy. - -"You're no frien', seemingly, o' the pair below!" said Horn again, -whispering, and with a glance across his shoulder at the helm. - -"It did not look as if I were, a minute or two ago," said I. "Yon's a -scoundrel, and yet I did him an injustice when I thought he meant to -sell me." - -"I never sailed with a more cheat-the-widdy crew since I followed the -sea," said Horn, "and whether it's the one way or the other, sold ye -are." - -"Eh?" said I, uncomprehending. - -He looked again at the helm, and moved over to a water-breaker further -forward, obviously meaning that I should follow. He drew a drink of -water for himself, drank slowly, but seemed not to be much in the need -for it from the little he took, but he had got out of ear-shot of the -man steering. - -"You and me's the gulls this time, Mr. Greig," said he, whispering. -"This is a doomed ship." - -"I thought as much from her rotten spars," I answered. "So long as she -takes me to Nova Scotia I care little what happens to her." - -"It's a long way to Halifax," said he. "I wish I could be sure we were -likely even to have Land's End on our starboard before waur happens. -Will ye step this way, Mr. Greig?" and he cautiously led the way -forward. There was a look-out humming a stave of song somewhere in the -bows, and two men stretched among the chains, otherwise that part of the -ship was all our own. We went down the fo'c'sle scuttle quietly, and -I found myself among the carpenter's stores, in darkness, divided by a -bulkhead door from the quarters of the sleeping men. Rats were scurrying -among the timbers and squealing till Horn stamped lightly with his feet -and secured stillness. - -"Listen!" said he. - -I could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of a seaman within, and the -wash of water against the ship's sides. - -"Well?" I queried, wondering. - -"Put your lug here," said he, indicating a beam that was dimly revealed -by the light from the lamp swinging in the fo'c'sle. I did so, and heard -water running as from a pipe somewhere in the bowels of the vessel. - -"What's that?" I asked. - -"That's all," said he and led me aft again. - -The dawn by now had spread over half the heavens; behind us the mouth of -the Firth gulped enormous clouds, and the fringe of Fife was as flat -as a bannock; before us the sea spread chill, leaden, all unlovely. "My -sorrow!" says I, "if this is travelling, give me the high-roads and the -hot noon." - -Horn's face seemed more hollow and dark than ever in the wan morning. I -waited his explanation. "I think ye said Halifax, Mr. Greig?" said he. "I -signed on, mysel', for the same port, but you and me's perhaps the only -ones on this ship that ever hoped to get there. God give me grace to get -foot on shore and Dan Risk will swing for this!" - -Somebody sneezed behind us as Horn thus rashly expressed himself; we -both turned suddenly on the rail we had been leaning against, expecting -that this was the skipper, and though it was not Risk, it was one whose -black visage and gleaming teeth and rolling eyes gave me momentarily -something of a turn. - -It was the cook Ferdinando. He had come up behind on his bare feet, and -out upon the sea he gazed with that odd eerie look of the deaf and dumb, -heedless of us, it seemed, as we had been dead portions of the ship's -fabric, seeing but the salt wave, the rim of rising sun, blood-red upon -the horizon, communing with an old familiar. - -"A cauld momin', cook," said Horn, like one who tests a humbug -pretending to be dumb, but Ferdinando heard him not. - -"It might have been a man wi' all his faculties," said the seaman -whispering, "and it's time we werena seen thegether. I'll tell ye later -on." - -With that we separated, he to some trivial duty of his office, I, with -a mind all disturbed, back to my berth to lie awake, tossing and -speculating on the meaning of Horn's mystery. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE SCUTTLED SHIP - -When I went on deck next morning there was something great ado. We were -out of sight of land, sailing large, as the old phrase went, on a brisk -quarter breeze with top-sails atrip, and the sky a vast fine open blue. -The crew were gathered at the poop, the pump was clanking in the midst -of them, and I saw they were taking spells at the cruellest labour a -seaman knows. - -At first I was noway troubled at the spectacle; a leak was to be -expected in old rotten-beams, and I went forward with the heart of me -not a pulse the faster. - -Risk was leaning over the poop-rail, humped up and his beard on -his hands; Murchison, a little apart, swept the horizon with a -prospect-glass, and the pump sent a great spate of bilge-water upon the -deck. But for a man at the tiller who kept the ship from yawing in the -swell that swung below her counter the _Seven Sisters_ sailed at her -sweet will; all the interest of her company was in this stream of -stinking water that she retched into the scuppers. And yet I could not -but be struck by the half-hearted manner in which the seamen wrought; -they were visibly shirking; I saw it in the slack muscles, in the -heedless eyes. - -Risk rose and looked sourly at me as I went up. "Are ye for a job?" said -he. "It's more in your line perhaps than clerkin'." - -"What, at the pumps? Is the old randy geyzing already?" - -"Like a washing-boyne," said he. "Bear a hand like a good lad! we maun -keep her afloat at least till some other vessel heaves in sight." - -In the tone and look of the man there was something extraordinary. -His words were meant to suggest imminent peril, and yet his voice was -shallow as that of a burgh bellman crying an auction sale, and his eyes -had more interest in the horizon that his mate still searched with the -prospect-glass than in the spate of bilge that gulped upon the deck. - -Bilge did I say? Heavens! it was bilge no more, but the pure sea-green -that answered to the clanking pump. It was no time for idle wonder -at the complacence of the skipper; I flew to the break and threw -my strength into the seaman's task. "Clank-click, clank-click"--the -instrument worked reluctantly as if the sucker moved in slime, and in a -little the sweat poured from me. - -"How is she now, Campbell?" asked Risk, as the carpenter came on deck. - -"Three feet in the hold," said Campbell airily, like one that had an -easy conscience. - -"Good lord, a foot already!" cried Risk, and then in a tone of sarcasm, -"Hearty, lads, hearty there! A little more Renfrewshire beef into it, -Mr. Greig, if you please." - -At that I ceased my exertion, stood back straight and looked at the -faces about me. There was only one man in the company who did not seem -to be amused at me, and that was Horn, who stood with folded arms, -moodily eying the open sea. - -"You seem mighty joco about it," I said to Risk, and I wonder to this -day at my blindness that never read the whole tale in these hurried -events. - -"I can afford to be," he said quickly; "if I gang I gang wi' clean -hands," and he spat into the seawater streaming from the pump where the -port-watch now were working with as much listlessness as the men they -superseded. - -To the taunt I made no reply, but moved after Horn who had gone forward -with his hands in his pockets. - -"What does this mean, Horn?" I asked him. "Is the vessel in great -danger?" - -"I suppose she is," said he bitterly, "but I have had nae experience o' -scuttled ships afore." - -"Scuttled!" cried I, astounded, only half grasping his meaning. - -"Jist that," said he. "The job's begun. It began last night in the run -of the vessel as I showed ye when ye put your ear to the beam. After I -left ye, I foun' half a dizen cords fastened to the pump stanchels; ane -of them I pulled and got a plug at the end of it; the ithers hae been -comin' oot since as it suited Dan Risk best, and the _Seven Ststers_ is -doomed to die o' a dropsy this very day. Wasn't I the cursed idiot that -ever lipped drink in Clerihew's coffin-room!" - -"If it was that," said I, "why did you not cut the cords and spoil the -plot?" - -"Cut the cords! Ye mean cut my ain throat; that's what wad happen if the -skipper guessed my knowledge o' his deevilry. And dae ye think a gallows -job o' this kind depends a'thegither on twa or three bits o' twine? -Na, na, this is a very business-like transaction, Mr. Greig, and I'll -warrant there has been naethin' left to chance. I wondered at them bein' -sae pernicketty about the sma' boats afore we sailed when the timbers -o' the ship hersel' were fair ganting. That big new boat and sails frae -Kirkcaldy was a gey odd thing in itsel' if I had been sober enough to -think o't. I suppose ye paid your passage, Mr. Greig? I can fancy a -purser on the _Seven Sisters_ upon nae ither footin' and that made me -dubious o' ye when I first learned o' this hell's caper for Jamieson o' -the Grange. If ye hadna fought wi' the skipper I would hae coonted ye in -wi' the rest." - -"He has two pounds of my money," I answered; "at least I've saved the -other two if we fail to reach Halifax." - -At that he laughed softly again. - -"It might be as well wi' Risk as wi' the conger," said he, meaningly. -"I'm no' sae sure that you and me's meant to come oot o' this; that's -what I might tak' frae their leaving only the twa o' us aft when they -were puttin' the cargo aff there back at Blackness." - -"The cargo!" I repeated. - -"Of course," said Horn. "Ye fancied they were goin' to get rid o' ye -there, did ye? I'll alloo I thought that but a pretence on your pairt, -and no' very neatly done at that. Well, the smallest pairt but the maist -valuable o' the cargo shipped at Borrowstouness is still in Scotland; -and the underwriters 'll be to pay through the nose for what has never -run sea risks." - -At that a great light came to me. This was the reason for the masked -cuddy skylights, the utter darkness of the _Seven Sisters_ while her -boats were plying to the shore; for this was I so closely kept at her -ridiculous manifest; the lists of lace and plate I had been fatuously -copying were lists of stuff no longer on the ship at all, but back in -the possession of the owner of the brigantine. - -"You are an experienced seaman--?" - -"I have had a vessel of my own," broke in Horn, some vanity as well as -shame upon his countenance. - -"Well, you are the more likely to know the best way out of this trap we -are in," I went on. "For a certain reason I am not at all keen on it to -go back to Scotland, but I would sooner risk that than run in leash -with a scoundrel like this who's sinking his command, not to speak of -hazarding my unworthy life with a villainous gang. Is there any way out -of it, Horn?" - -The seaman pondered, a dark frown upon his tanned forehead, where the -veins stood out in knots, betraying his perturbation. The wind whistled -faintly in the tops, the _Seven Sisters_ plainly went by the head; she -had a slow response to her helm, and moved sluggishly. Still the pump -was clanking and we could hear the water streaming through the scupper -holes. Risk had joined his mate and was casting anxious eyes over the -waters. - -"If we play the safty here, Mr. Greig," said Horn, "there's a chance o' -a thwart for us when the _Seven Ststers_ comes to her labour. That's oor -only prospect. At least they daurna murder us." - -"And what about the crew?" I asked. "Do you tell me there is not enough -honesty among them all to prevent a blackguardly scheme like this?" - -"We're the only twa on this ship this morning wi' oor necks ootside tow, -for they're all men o' the free trade, and broken men at that," said -Horn resolutely, and even in the midst of this looming disaster my -private horror rose within me. - -"Ah!" said I, helpless to check the revelation, "speak for yourself, Mr. -Horn; it's the hangman I'm here fleeing from." - -He looked at me with quite a new countenance, clearly losing relish for -his company. - -"Anything by-ordinar dirty?" he asked, and in my humility I did not have -the spirit to resent what that tone and query implied. - -"Dirty enough," said I, "the man's dead," and Horn's face cleared. - -"Oh, faith! is that all?" quo' he, "I was thinkin' it might be -coinin'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Greig, or somethin' in the fancy way. -But a gentleman's quarrel ower the cartes or a wench--that's a different -tale. I hate homicide mysel' to tell the truth, but whiles I've had -it in my heart, and in a way o' speakin* Dan Risk this meenute has my -gully-knife in his ribs." - -As he spoke the vessel, mishandled, or a traitor to her helm, now that -she was all awash internally with water, yawed and staggered in the -wind. The sails shivered, the yards swung violently, appalling noises -came from the hold. At once the pumping ceased, and Risk's voice roared -in the confusion, ordering the launch of the Kirkcaldy boat. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -MAKES PLAIN THE DEEPEST VILLAINY OF RISK AND SETS ME ON A FRENCHMAN - -When I come to write these affairs down after the lapse of years, I find -my memory but poorly retains the details of that terrific period between -the cry of Risk and the moment when Horn and I, abandoned on the doomed -vessel, watched the evening fall upon the long Kirkcaldy boat, her mast -stepped, but her sails down, hovering near us for the guarantee of our -eternal silence regarding the crime the men on her were there and then -committing. There is a space--it must have been brief, but I lived a -lifetime in it--whose impressions rest with me, blurred, but with the -general hue of agony. I can see the sun again sailing overhead in the -arching sky of blue; the enormous ocean, cruel, cold, spread out to the -line of the horizon; the flapping sails and drumming reef-points, the -streaming halliards and clew-garnets, the spray buffeting upon our hull -and spitting in our faces like an enemy; I hear the tumult of the seamen -hurrying vulgarly to save their wretched lives, the gluck of waters -in the bowels of the ship, the thud of cargo loose and drifting under -decks. - -But I see and hear it all as in a dream or play, and myself someway -standing only a spectator. - -It seemed that Risk and his men put all their dependence on the -long-boat out of Kirkcaldy. She was partly decked at the bows like a -Ballantrae herring-skiff, beamy and commodious. They clustered round her -like ants; swung her out, and over she went, and the whole hellish -plot lay revealed in the fact that she was all found with equipment and -provisions. - -Horn and I made an effort to assist at her preparation; we were shoved -aside with frantic curses; we were beaten back by her oars when we -sought to enter her, and when she pushed off from the side of the _Seven -Sisters_, Dan Risk was so much the monster that he could jeer at our -perplexity. He sat at the tiller of her without a hat, his long hair, -that was turning lyart, blown by the wind about his black and mocking -eyes. - -"Head her for Halifax, Horn," said he, "and ye'll get there by-and-by." - -"Did I ever do ye any harm, skipper?" cried the poor seaman, standing on -the gunwale, hanging to the shrouds, and his aspect hungry for life. - -"Ye never got the chance, Port Glesca," cried back Risk, hugging the -tiller of the Kirkcaldy boat under his arm. "I'll gie ye a guess-- - - Come-a-riddle, come-a-riddle, come-a-rote-tote-tote-- - -Oh to bleezes! I canna put a rhyme till't, but this is the sense o't--a -darkie's never deaf and dumb till he's deid. Eh! Antonio, ye rascal!" - -He looked forward as he spoke and exchanged a villainous laugh with the -cook, his instrument, who had overheard us and betrayed. - -"Ye would mak' me swing for it, would ye, John Horn, when ye get ashore? -That's what I would expect frae a keelie oot o' Clyde." - -It is hard to credit that man could be so vile as this, but of such -stuff was Daniel Risk. He was a fiend in the glory of his revenge upon -the seaman who had threatened him with the gallows; uplifted like a -madman's, his face, that was naturally sallow, burned lamp-red at his -high cheek-bones, his hale eye gloated, his free hand flourished as -in an exultation. His mate sat silent beside him on the stern-thwart, -clearing the sheets: the crew, who had out the sweeps to keep the boat's -bows in the wind, made an effort to laugh at his jocosities, but clearly -longed to be away from this tragedy. And all the time, I think, I stood -beside the weather bulwark, surrendered to the certainty of a speedy -death, with the lines of a ballad coming back again and again to my -mind: - - An' he shall lie in fathoms deep, - The star-fish ower his een shall creep. - An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep - In the hall o' Monaltrie. - -I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in -spite of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea -that beat about my feet. - -My silence--my seeming indifference--would seem to have touched the -heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn. -At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on -me. - -"I'm saying, Greig," he cried, "noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy -was no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole -that--astern, lads, and tak' the purser aboard." - -The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick -me off the doomed ship. - -At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a -second--praise God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never -released the cleat by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still -upon the lower shrouds and saw hope upon his countenance. - -"Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?" said I. - -"Not if he offered a thousand pounds," cried Risk, "in ye come!" and -Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump -among them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as -with a spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, -bleeding profusely and half insensible. - -"You are a foul dog!" I cried to his assailant. "And I'll settle with -you for that!" - -"Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!" cried Risk impatient. - -"Let us look oot for oorselves, that's whit I say," cried Murchison -angry at my threat, and prepared cheerfully to see me perish. "What -for should we risk oor necks with either o' them?" and he pushed off -slightly with his boat-hook. - -The skipper turned, struck down the hook, and snarled upon him. "Shut -up, Murchison!" he cried. "I'm still the captain, if ye please, and I -ken as much about the clerk here as will keep his gab shut on any trifle -we hae dune." - -I looked upon the clean sea, and then at that huddle of scoundrels in -the Kirkcaldy boat, and then upon the seaman Horn coming back again to -the full consciousness of his impending fate. He gazed upon me with eyes -alarmed and pitiful, and at that I formed my resolution. - -"I stick by Horn," said I. "If he gets too, I'll go; if not I'll bide -and be drowned with an honest man." - -"Bide and be damned then! Ye've had your chance," shouted Risk, letting -his boat fall off. "It's time we werena here." And the halliards of his -main-sail were running in the blocks as soon as he said it. The boat -swept away rapidly, but not before I gave him a final touch of my irony. -From my pocket I took out my purse and threw it upon his lap. - -"There's the ither twa, Risk," I cried; "it's no' like the thing at all -to murder a harmless lad for less than what ye bargained for." - -He bawled back some reply I could not hear, and I turned about, to see -Horn making for the small boat on the starboard chocks. I followed with -a hope again wakened, only to share his lamentation when he found -that two of her planks had been wantonly sprung from their clinkers, -rendering her utterly useless. The two other boats were in a similar -condition; Risk and his confederates had been determined that no chance -should be left of our escape from the _Seven Sisters_. - -It was late in the afternoon. The wind had softened somewhat; in the -west there were rising billowy clouds of silver and red, and half a mile -away the Kirkcaldy boat, impatient doubtless for the end of us, that -final assurance of safety, plied to windward with only her foresail set. -We had gone below in a despairing mind on the chance that the leakage -might be checked, but the holes were under water in the after peak, and -in other parts we could not come near. An inch-and-a-half auger, and a -large bung-borer, a gouge and chisel in the captain's private locker, -told us how the crime had been committed whereof we were the victims. - -We had come on deck again, the pair of us, without the vaguest notion -of what was next to do, and--speaking for myself--convinced that nothing -could avert our hurrying fate. Horn told me later that he proposed full -half a score of plans for at least a prolongation of our time, but that -I paid no heed to them. That may be, for I know the ballad stanza went -in my head like a dirge, as I sat on a hatch with the last few days of -my history rolling out before my eyes. The dusk began to fall like a -veil, the wind declined still further. Horn feverishly hammered and -caulked at the largest of the boats, now and then throwing the tools -from him as in momentary realisations of the hopelessness of his toil -that finally left him in despair. - -"It's no use, Mr. Greig," he cried then, "they did the job ower weel," -and he shook his fist at the Kirkcaldy boat. He checked the gesture -suddenly and gave an astonished cry. - -"They're gone, Greig," said he, now frantic. "They're gone. O God! -they're gone! I was sure they couldna hae the heart to leave us at the -last," and as he spoke I chanced to look astern, and behold! a ship with -all her canvas full was swiftly bearing down the wind upon us. We had -been so intent upon our fate that we had never seen her! - -I clambered up the shrouds of the main-mast, and cried upon the coming -vessel with some mad notion that she might fancy the _Seven Sisters_ -derelict. But indeed that was not necessary. In a little she went round -into the wind, a long-boat filled with men came towards us, and twenty -minutes later we were on the deck of the _Roi Rouge_. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -WHEREIN APPEARS A GENTLEMANLY CORSAIR AND A FRENCH-IRISH LORD - -While it may be that the actual crisis of my manhood came to me on the -day I first put on my Uncle Andrew's shoes, the sense of it was mine -only when I met with Captain Thurot. I had put the past for ever behind -me (as I fancied) when I tore the verses of a moon-struck boy and -cast them out upon the washing-green at Hazel Den, but I was bound -to foregather with men like Thurot and his friends ere the scope and -fashion of a man's world were apparent to me. Whether his influence on -my destiny in the long run was good or bad I would be the last to say; -he brought me into danger, but--in a manner--he brought me good, though -that perhaps was never in his mind. - -You must fancy this Thurot a great tall man, nearly half a foot -exceeding myself in stature, peak-bearded, straight as a lance, with -plum-black eyes and hair, polished in dress and manner to the rarest -degree and with a good humour that never failed. He sat under a swinging -lamp in his cabin when Horn and I were brought before him, and asked my -name first in an accent of English that was if anything somewhat better -than my own. - -"Greig," said I; "Paul Greig," and he started as if I had pricked him -with a knife. - -A little table stood between us, on which there lay a book he had been -reading when we were brought below, some hours after the _Seven Sisters_ -had gone down, and the search for the Kirkcaldy boat had been abandoned. -He took the lamp off its hook, came round the table and held the light -so that he could see my face the clearer. At any time his aspect was -manly and pleasant; most of all was it so when he smiled, and I was -singularly encouraged when he smiled at me, with a rapid survey of my -person that included the Hazel Den mole and my Uncle Andrew's shoes. - -A seaman stood behind us; to him he spoke a message I could not -comprehend, as it was in French, of which I had but little. The seaman -retired; we were offered a seat, and in a minute the seaman came back -with a gentleman--a landsman by his dress. - -"Pardon, my lord," said the captain to his visitor, "but I thought that -here was a case--speaking of miracles--you would be interested in. -Our friends here"--he indicated myself particularly with a gracious -gesture--"are not, as you know, dropped from heaven, but come from that -unfortunate ship we saw go under a while ago. May I ask your lordship to -tell us--you will see the joke in a moment--whom we were talking of at -the moment our watch first announced the sight of that vessel?" - -His lordship rubbed his chin and smilingly peered at the captain. - -"Gad!" he said. "You are the deuce and all, Thurot. What are you in the -mood for now? Why, we talked of Greig--Andrew Greig, the best player of -_passe-passe_ and the cheerfullest loser that ever cut a pack." - -Thurot turned to me, triumphant. - -"Behold," said he, "how ridiculously small the world is. _Ma foi!_ I -wonder how I manage so well to elude my creditors, even when I sail the -high seas. Lord Clancarty, permit me to have the distinguished honour -to introduce another Greig, who I hope has many more of his charming -uncle's qualities than his handsome eyes and red shoes. I assume it is -a nephew, because poor Monsieur Andrew was not of the marrying -kind. Anyhow, 'tis a Greig of the blood, or Antoine Thurot is a bat! -And--Monsieur Greig, it is my felicity to bid you know one of your -uncle's best friends and heartiest admirers--Lord Clancarty." - -"Lord Clancarty!" I cried, incredulous. "Why he figured in my uncle's -log-book a dozen years ago." - -"A dozen, no less!" cried his lordship, with a grimace. "We need not be -so particular about the period. I trust he set me down there a decently -good companion; I could hardly hope to figure in a faithful scribe's -tablets as an example otherwise," said his lordship, laughing and taking -me cordially by the hand. "Gad! one has but to look at you to see Andrew -Greig in every line. I loved your uncle, lad. He had a rugged, manly -nature, and just sufficient folly, bravado, and sinfulness to keep a -poor Irishman in countenance. Thurot, one must apologise for taking from -your very lips the suggestion I see hesitating there, but sure 'tis an -Occasion this; it must be a bottle--the best bottle on your adorable but -somewhat ill-found vessel. Why 'tis Andy Greig come young again. Poor -Andy! I heard of his death no later than a month ago, and have ordered -a score of masses for him--which by the way are still unpaid for to good -Father Hamilton. I could not sleep happily of an evening--of a forenoon -rather--if I thought of our Andy suffering aught that a few candles and -such-like could modify." And his lordship with great condescension -tapped and passed me his jewelled box of maccabaw. - -You can fancy a raw lad, untutored and untravelled, fresh from the -plough-tail, as it were, was vastly tickled at this introduction to the -genteel world. I was no longer the shivering outlaw, the victim of a -Risk. I was honoured more or less for the sake of my uncle (whose esteem -in this quarter my father surely would have been surprised at), and it -seemed as though my new life in a new country were opening better than I -had planned myself. I blessed my shoes--the Shoes of Sorrow--and for the -time forgot the tragedy from which I was escaping. - -They birled the bottle between them, Clancarty and Thurot, myself -virtually avoiding it, but clinking now and then, and laughing with them -at the numerous exploits they recalled of him that was the bond between -us; Horn elsewhere found himself well treated also; and listening to -these two gentlemen of the world, their allusions, off-hand, to the -great, their indications of adventure, travel, intrigue, enterprise, -gaiety, I saw my horizon expand until it was no longer a cabin on the -sea I sat in, with the lamplight swinging over me, but a spacious world -of castles, palaces, forests, streets, churches, casernes, harbours, -masquerades, routs, operas, love, laughter, and song. Perhaps they saw -my elation and fully understood, and smiled within them at my efforts -to figure as a little man of the world too--as boys will--but they never -showed me other than the finest sympathy and attention. - -I found them fascinating at night; I found them much the same at -morning, which is the test of the thing in youth, and straightway made a -hero of the foreigner Thurot. Clancarty was well enough, but without -any method in his life, beyond a principle of keeping his character ever -trim and presentable like his cravat. Thurot carried on his strenuous -career as soldier, sailor, spy, politician, with a plausible enough -theory that thus he got the very juice and pang of life, that at the -most, as he would aye be telling me, was brief to an absurdity. - -"Your Scots," he would say to me, "as a rule, are too phlegmatic--is it -not, Lord Clancarty?--but your uncle gave me, on my word, a regard for -your whole nation. He had aplomb--Monsieur Andrew; he had luck too, and -if he cracked a nut anywhere there was always a good kernel in it." And -the shoes see how I took the allusion to King George, and that gave me a -flood of light upon my new position. - -I remembered that in my uncle's log-book the greater part of the -narrative of his adventures in France had to do with politics and the -intrigues of the Jacobite party. He was not, himself, apparently, "out," -as we call it, in the affair of the 'Forty-five, because he did not -believe the occasion suitable, and thought the Prince precipitous, but -before and after that untoward event for poor Scotland, he had been -active with such men as Clancarty, Lord Clare, the Murrays, the -Mareschal, and such-like, which was not to be wondered at, perhaps, for -our family had consistently been Jacobite, a fact that helped to its -latter undoing, though my father as nominal head of the house had taken -no interest in politics; and my own sympathies had ever been with the -Chevalier, whom I as a boy had seen ride through the city of Glasgow, -wishing myself old enough to be his follower in such a glittering -escapade as he was then embarked on. - -But though I thought all this in a flash as it were, I betrayed nothing -to Captain Thurot, who seemed somewhat dashed at my silence. There must -have been something in my face, however, to show that I fully realised -what he was feeling at, and was not too complacent, for Clancarty -laughed. - -"Sure, 'tis a good boy, Thurot," said he, "and loves his King George -properly, like a true patriot." - -"I won't believe it of a Greig," said Captain Thurot. "A pestilent, -dull thing, loyalty in England; the other thing came much more readily, -I remember, to the genius of Andrew Greig. Come! Monsieur Paul, to be -quite frank about it, have you no instincts of friendliness to the -exiled house? M. Tte-de-fer has a great need at this particular moment -for English friends. Once he could count on your uncle to the last -ditch; can he count on the nephew?" - -"M. Tte-de-fer?" I repeated, somewhat bewildered. - -"M. Tte-de-mouche, rather," cried my lord, testily, and then hurried to -correct himself. "He alluded, Monsieur Greig, to Prince Charles Edward. -We are all, I may confess, his Royal Highness's most humble servants; -some of us, however--as our good friend, Captain Thurot--more actively -than others. For myself I begin to weary of a cause that has -been dormant for eight years, but no matter; sure one must have a -recreation!" - -I looked at his lordship to see if he was joking. He was the relic of -a handsome man, though still, I daresay, less than fifty years of age, -with a clever face and gentle, just tinged by the tracery of small -surface veins to a redness that accused him of too many late nights; -his mouth and eyes, that at one time must have been fascinating, had -the ultimate irresolution that comes to one who finds no fingerposts at -life's cross-roads and thinks one road just as good's another. He was -born at Atena, near Hamburg (so much I had remembered from my uncle's -memoir), but he was, even in his accent, as Irish as Kerry. Someway I -liked and yet doubted him, in spite of all the praise of him that I had -read in a dead man's diurnal. - -"_Fi donc! vous devriez avoir honte, milord_," cried Thurot, somewhat -disturbed, I saw, at this reckless levity. - -"Ashamed!" said his lordship, laughing; "why, 'tis for his Royal -Highness who has taken a diligence to the devil, and left us poor -dependants to pay the bill at the inn. But no matter, Master Greig, I'll -be cursed if I say a single word more to spoil a charming picture of -royalty under a cloud." And so saying he lounged away from us, a strange -exquisite for shipboard, laced up to the nines, as the saying goes, -parading the deck as it had been the Rue St. Honor, with merry words -for every sailorman who tapped a forehead to him. - -Captain Thurot looked at him, smiling, and shrugged his shoulders. - -"_Tte-de-mouche!_ There it is for you, M. Paul--the head of a -butterfly. Now you--" he commanded my eyes most masterfully--"now _you_ -have a Scotsman's earnestness; I should like to see you on the right -side. _Mon Dieu_, you owe us your life, no less; 'tis no more King -George's, for one of his subjects has morally sent you to the bottom of -the sea in a scuttled ship. I wish we had laid hands on your Risk and -his augers." - -But I was learning my world; I was cautious; I said neither yea nor nay. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -IN DUNKERQUE--A LADY SPEAKS TO ME IN SCOTS AND A FAT PRIEST SEEMS TO -HAVE SOMETHING ON HIS MIND - -Two days after, the _Roi Rouge_ came to Dunkerque; Horn the seaman went -home to Scotland in a vessel out of Leith with a letter in his pocket -for my people at Hazel Den, and I did my best for the next fortnight to -forget by day the remorse that was my nightmare. To this Captain Thurot -and Lord Clancarty, without guessing 'twas a homicide they favoured, -zealously helped me. - -And then Dunkerque at the moment was sparkling with attractions. -Something was in its air to distract every waking hour, the pulse -of drums, the sound of trumpets calling along the shores, troops -manoeuvring, elation apparent in every countenance. I was Thurot's guest -in a lodging over a _boulangerie_ upon the sea front, and at daybreak I -would look out from the little window to see regiments of horse and foot -go by on their way to an enormous camp beside the old fort of Risebank. -Later in the morning I would see the soldiers toiling at the grand -sluice for deepening the harbour or repairing the basin, or on the dunes -near Graveline manoeuvring under the command of the Prince de Soubise -and Count St. Germain. All day the paving thundered with the roll of -tumbrels, with the noise of plunging horse; all night the front of -the _boulangerie_ was clamorous with carriages bearing cannon, timber, -fascines, gabions, and other military stores. - -Thurot, with his ship in harbour, became a man of the town, with ruffled -neck- and wrist-bands, the most extravagant of waistcoats, hats laced -with point d'Espagne, and up and down Dunkerque he went with a restless -foot as if the conduct of the world depended on him. He sent an old -person, a reduced gentleman, to me to teach me French that I laboured -with as if my life depended on it from a desire to be as soon as -possible out of his reverence, for, to come to the point and be done -with it, he was my benefactor to the depth of my purse. - -Sometimes Lord Clancarty asked me out to a _djeuner_. He moved in a -society where I met many fellow countrymen--Captain Foley, of Rooth's -regiment; Lord Roscommon and his brother young Dillon; Lochgarry, -Lieutenant-Colonel of Ogilvie's Corps, among others, and by-and-by -I became known favourably in what, if it was not actually the select -society of Dunkerque, was so at least in the eyes of a very ignorant -young gentleman from the moors of Mearns. - -It was so strange a thing as to be almost incredible, but my Uncle -Andy's shoes seemed to have some magic quality that brought them for -ever on tracks they had taken before, and if my cast of countenance did -not proclaim me a Greig wherever I went, the shoes did so. They were a -passport to the favour of folks the most divergent in social state--to -a poor Swiss who kept the door and attended on the table at Clancarty's -(my uncle, it appeared, had once saved his life), and to Soubise -himself, who counted my uncle the bravest man and the best mimic he had -ever met, and on that consideration alone pledged his influence to find -me a post. - -You may be sure I did not wear such tell-tale shoes too often. I began -to have a freit about them as he had to whom they first belonged, and to -fancy them somehow bound up with my fortune. - -I put them on only when curiosity prompted me to test what new -acquaintances they might make me, and one day I remember I donned them -for a party of blades at Lord Clancarty's, the very day indeed upon -which the poor Swiss, weeping, told me what he owed to the old rogue -with the scarred brow now lying dead in the divots of home. - -There was a new addition to the company that afternoon--a priest who -passed with the name of Father Hamilton, though, as I learned later, he -was formerly Vliegh, a Fleming, born at Ostend, and had been educated -partly at the College Major of Louvain and partly in London. He was -or had been parish priest of Dixmunde near Ostend, and his most -decent memory of my uncle, whom he, too, knew, was a challenge to a -drinking-bout in which the thin man of Meams had been several bottles -more thirsty than the fat priest of Dixmunde. - -He was corpulent beyond belief, with a dewlap like an ox; great limbs, -a Gargantuan appetite, and a laugh like thunder that at its loudest -created such convulsions of his being as compelled him to unbutton the -neck of his _soutane_, else he had died of a seizure. - -His friends at Lord Clancarty's played upon him a little joke wherein I -took an unconscious part. It seemed they had told him Mr. Andrew Greig -was not really dead, but back in France and possessed of an elixir of -youth which could make the ancient and furrowed hills themselves look -like yesterday's creations. - -"What! M. Andrew!" he had cried. "An elixir of grease were more in the -fellow's line; I have never seen a man's viands give so scurvy a return -for the attention he paid them. 'Tis a pole--this M. Andrew--but what a -head--what a head!" - -"Oh! but 'tis true of the elixir," they protested; "and he looks thirty -years younger; here he comes!" - -It was then that I stepped in with the servant bawling my name, and the -priest surged to his feet with his face all quivering. - -"What! M. Andrew!" he cried; "fattened and five-and-twenty. Holy Mother! -It is, then, that miracles are possible? I shall have a hogshead, -master, of thine infernal essence and drink away this paunch, and skip -anon like to the goats of--of-" - -And then his friends burst into peals of laughter as much at my -bewilderment as at his credulity, and he saw that it was all a -pleasantry. - -"Mon Dieu!" he said, sighing like a November forest. "There was never -more pestilent gleek played upon a wretched man. Oh! oh! oh! I had an -angelic dream for that moment of your entrance, for I saw me again a -stripling--a stripling--and the girl's name was--never mind. God rest -her! she is under grass in Louvain." - -All the rest of the day--at Clancarty's, at the Caf de la Poste, in our -walk along the dunes where cannon were being fired at marks well out at -sea, this obese cleric scarcely let his eyes off me. He seemed to envy -and admire, and then again he would appear to muse upon my countenance, -debating with himself as one who stands at a shop window pondering a -purchase that may be on the verge of his means. - -Captain Thurot observed his interest, and took an occasion to whisper to -me. - -"Have a care, M. Greig," said he playfully; "this priest schemes -something; that's ever the worst of your Jesuits, and you may swear 'tis -not your eternal salvation." - -'Twas that afternoon we went all together to the curious lodging in the -Rue de la Boucherie. I remember as it had been yesterday how sunny -was the weather, and how odd it seemed to me that there should be a -country-woman of my own there. - -She was not, as it seems to me now, lovely, though where her features -failed of perfection it would beat me to disclose, but there was -something inexpressibly fascinating in her--in the mild, kind, melting -eyes, and the faint sad innuendo of her smile. She sat at a spinet -playing, and for the sake of this poor exile, sang some of the songs we -are acquainted with at home. Upon my word, the performance touched me -to the core! I felt sick for home: my mother's state, the girl at -Kirkillstane, the dead lad on the moor, sounds of Earn Water, clouds and -heather on the hill of Ballageich--those mingled matters swept through -my thoughts as I sat with these blithe gentlemen, hearkening to a simple -Doric tune, and my eyes filled irrestrainably with tears. - -Miss Walkinshaw--for so her name was--saw what effect her music had -produced; reddened, ceased her playing, took me to the window while the -others discussed French poetry, and bade me tell her, as we looked out -upon the street, all about myself and of my home. She was, perhaps, ten -years my senior, and I ran on like a child. - -"The Mearns!" said she. "Oh dear, oh dear! And you come frae the Meams!" -She dropped into her Scots that showed her heart was true, and told me -she had often had her May milk in my native parish. - -"And you maybe know," said she, flushing, "the toun of Glasgow, and the -house of Walkinshaw, my--my father, there?" - -I knew the house very well, but no more of it than that it existed. - -It was in her eyes the tears were now, talking of her native place, but -she quickly changed the topic ere I could learn much about her, and -she guessed--with a smile coming through her tears, like a sun through -mist--that I must have been in love and wandered in its fever, to be so -far from home at my age. - -"There was a girl," I said, my face hot, my heart rapping at the -recollection, and someway she knew all about Isobel Fortune in five -minutes, while the others in the room debated on so trivial a thing as -the songs of the troubadours. - -"Isobel Fortune!" she said (and I never thought the name so beautiful -as it sounded on her lips, where it lingered like a sweet); "Isobel -Fortune; why, it's an omen, Master Greig, and it must be a good fortune. -I am wae for the poor lassie that her big foolish lad"--she smiled with -bewitching sympathy at me under long lashes--"should be so far away frae -her side. You must go back as quick as you can; but stay now, is it true -you love her still?" - -The woman would get the feeling and the truth from a heart of stone; I -only sighed for answer. - -"Then you'll go back," said she briskly, "and it will be Earn-side again -and trysts at Ballageich--oh! the name is like a bagpipe air to me!--and -you will be happy, and be married and settle down--and--and poor Clemie -Walkinshaw will be friendless far away from her dear Scotland, but not -forgetting you and your wife." - -"I cannot go back there at all," I said, with a long face, bitter -enough, you may be sure, at the knowledge I had thrown away all that she -depicted, and her countenance fell. - -"What for no'?" she asked softly. - -"Because I fought a duel with the man that Isobel preferred, -and--and--killed him!" - -She shuddered with a little sucking in of air at her teeth and drew up -her shoulders as if chilled with cold. - -"Ah, then," said she, "the best thing's to forget. Are you a Jacobite, -Master Greig?" - -She had set aside my love affair and taken to politics with no more than -a sigh of sympathy, whether for the victim of my jealousy, or Isobel -Fortune, or for me, I could not say. - -"I'm neither one thing nor another," said I. "My father is a staunch -enough royalist, and so, I daresay, I would be too if I had not got a -gliff of bonnie Prince Charlie at the Tontine of Glasgow ten years ago." - -"Ten years ago!" she repeated, staring abstracted out at the window. -"Ten years ago! So it was; I thought it was a lifetime since. And what -did you think of him?" - -Whatever my answer might have been it never got the air, for here -Clancarty, who had had a message come to the door for him, joined us at -the window, and she turned to him with some phrase about the trampling -of troops that passed along the streets. - -"Yes," he said, "the affair marches quickly. Have you heard that England -has declared war? And our counter declaration is already on its way -across. _Pardieu!_ there shall be matters toward in a month or two and -the Fox will squeal. Braddock's affair in America has been the best -thing that has happened us in many years." - -Thus he went on with singular elation that did not escape me, though -my wits were also occupied by some curious calculations as to what -disturbed the minds of Hamilton and of the lady. I felt that I was in -the presence of some machinating influences probably at variance, for -while Clancarty and Roscommon and Thurot were elate, the priest made -only a pretence at it, and was looking all abstracted as if weightier -matters occupied his mind, his large fat hand, heavy-ringed, buttressing -his dewlap, and Miss Walkinshaw was stealing glances of inquiry at -him--glances of inquiry and also of distrust. All this I saw in a mirror -over the mantelpiece of the room. - -"Sure there's but one thing to regret in it," cried Clancarty suddenly, -stopping and turning to me, "it must mean that we lose Monsieur des -Souliers Rouges. _Peste!_ There is always something to worry one about a -war!" - -"_Comment?_" said Thurot. - -"The deportment," answered his lordship. "Every English subject has -been ordered out of France. We are going to lose not only your company, -Father Hamilton, because of your confounded hare-brained scheme for -covering all Europe in a glass coach, but our M. Greig must put the -Sleeve between him and those best qualified to estimate and esteem his -thousand virtues of head and heart For a _louis_ or two I'd take ship -with him and fight on the other side. Gad! it would always be fighting -anyway, and one would be by one's friend." - -The priest's jaw fell as if my going was a blow to his inmost -affections; he turned his face rapidly into shadow; Miss Walkinshaw lost -no movement of his; she was watching him as he had been a snake. - -"Oh! but it is not necessary that we lose my compatriot so fast as -that," she said. "There are such things as permits, excepting English -friends of ours from deportment,--and--and--I fancy I could get one for -Mr. Greig." - -In my heart I thanked her for her ready comprehension of my inability to -go back to Britain with an easy mind; and I bowed my recognition of her -goodness. - -She was paying no heed to my politeness; she had again an eye on the -priest, who was obviously cheered marvellously by the prospect. - -And then we took a dish of tea with her, the lords and Thurot loudly -cheerful, Hamilton ruminant and thundering alternately, Miss Walkinshaw -showing a score of graces as hostess, myself stimulated to some unusual -warmth of spirit as I sat beside her, well-nigh fairly loving her -because she was my country-woman and felt so fond about my native -Mearns. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -WHEREIN A SITUATION OFFERS AND I ENGAGE TO GO TRAVELLING WITH THE PRIEST - -A week passed with no further incident particularly affecting this -history. With my reduced and antique mentor I studied _la belle langue_, -sedulous by day, at night pacing the front of the sea, giving words to -its passion as it broke angry on the bar or thundered on the beach--the -sea that still haunts me and invites, whose absence makes often lonely -the moorland country where is my home, where are my people's graves. It -called me then, in the dripping weather of those nights in France--it -called me temptingly to try again my Shoes of Fortune (as now I named -them to myself), and learn whereto they might lead. - -But in truth I was now a prisoner to that inviting sea. The last English -vessel had gone; the Channel was a moat about my native isle, and I -was a tee'd ball with a passport that was no more and no less than a -warder's warrant in my pouch. It had come to me under cover of Thurot -two days after Miss Walkinshaw's promise; it commanded _tous les -gouverneurs et tous les lieutenants-gnraux de nos provinces et de nos -armes, gouverneurs particuliers et commandants de nos villes, places -et troupes_ to permit and pass the Sieur Greig anywhere in the country, -_sans lui donner aucun empchement_, and was signed for the king by the -Duc de Choiseuil. - -I went round to make my devoirs to the lady to whom I owed the favour, -and this time I was alone. - -"Where's your shoon, laddie?" said she at the first go-off. "Losh! do -ye no' ken that they're the very makin' o' ye? If it hadna been for them -Clementina Walkinshaw wad maybe never hae lookit the gait ye were on. -Ye'll be to put them on again!" She thrust forth a _bottine_ like a -doll's for size and trod upon my toes, laughing the while with -her curious suggestion of unpractised merriment at my first solemn -acceptance of her humour as earnest. - -"Am I never to get quit o' thae shoes?" I cried; "the very deil maun be -in them." - -"It was the very deil," said she, "was in them when it was your Uncle -Andrew." And she stopped and sighed. "O Andy Greig, Andy Greig! had I -been a wise woman and ta'en a guid-hearted though throughither Mearns -man's advice--toots! laddie, I micht be a rudas auld wife by my -preachin'. Oh, gie's a sang, or I'll dee." - -And then she flew to the spinet (a handsome instrument singularly out of -keeping with the rest of the plenishing in that odd lodging in the Rue -de la Boucherie of Dunkerque), and touched a prelude and broke into an -air. - -To-day they call that woman lost and wicked; I have seen it said in -books: God's pity on her! she was not bad; she was the very football of -fate, and a heart of the yellow gold. If I was warlock or otherwise had -charms, I would put back the dial two score years and wrench her from -her chains. - - O waly, waly up the bank, - O waly, waly doon the brae. - And waly, waly yon burn-side, - Where I and my love wont to gae. - I leaned my back unto an aik, - I thocht it was a trusty tree, - But first it bowed and syne it brak, - Sae my true love did lichtly me. - -They have their own sorrow even in script those ballad words of an -exile like herself, but to hear Miss Walkinshaw sing them was one of the -saddest things I can recall in a lifetime that has known many sorrows. -And still, though sad, not wanting in a sort of brave defiance of -calumny, a hope, and an unchanging affection. She had a voice as sweet -as a bird in the thicket at home; she had an eye full and melting; her -lips, at the sentiment, sometimes faintly broke. - -I turned my head away that I might not spy upon her feeling, for here, -it was plain, was a tragedy laid bare. She stopped her song mid-way with -a laugh, dashed a hand across her eyes, and threw herself into a chair. - -"Oh, fie! Mr. Greig, to be backing up a daft woman, old enough to know -better, in her vapours. You must be fancying I am a begrutten bairn to -be snackin' my daidlie in this lamentable fashion, but it's just you and -your Mearns, and your Ballageich, and your douce Scots face and tongue -that have fair bewitched me. O Scotland! Scotland! Let us look oot at -this France o' theirs, Mr. Greig." She came to the window (her movements -were ever impetuous, like the flight of a butterfly), and "Do I no' wish -that was the Gallowgate," said she, "and Glasgow merchants were in -the shops and Christian signs abin the doors, like 'MacWhannal' and -'Mackay,' and 'Robin Oliphant'? If that was Bailie John Walkinshaw, wi' -his rattan, and yon was the piazza o' Tontine, would no' his dochter -be the happy woman? Look! look! ye Mearns man, look! look! at the bairn -playing pal-al in the close. 'Tis my little sister Jeanie that's married -on the great Doctor Doig--him wi' the mant i' the Tron kirk--and bairns -o' her ain, I'm tell't, and they'll never hear their Aunt Clemie named -but in a whisper. And yon auld body wi' the mob cap, that's the baxter's -widow, and there's carvie in her scones that you'll can buy for a bawbee -apiece." - -The maddest thing!--but here was the woman smiling through her tears, -and something tremulous in her as though her heart was leaping at her -breast. Suddenly her manner changed, as if she saw a sobering sight, -and I looked out again, and there was Father Hamilton heaving round the -corner of a lane, his face as red as the moon in a fog of frost. - -"Ah!" cried Miss Walkinshaw, "here's France, sure enough, Mr. Greig. We -must put by our sentiments, and be just witty or as witty as we can be. -If you're no' witty here, my poor Mr. Greig, you might as well be dumb. -A heart doesna maitter much; but, oh! be witty." - -The priest was making for the house. She dried her tears before me, a -frankness that flattered my vanity; "and let us noo to our English, Mr. -Greig," said she as the knock came to the door. "It need be nae honest -Scots when France is chappin'. Would you like to travel for a season?" - -The question took me by surprise; it had so little relevance to what had -gone before. - -"Travel?" I repeated. - -"Travel," said she again quickly. "In a glass coach with a companion -who has plenty of money--wherever it comes from--and see all Europe, and -maybe--for you are Scots like myself--make money. The fat priest wants a -secretary; that's the long and the short of it, for there's his foot on -the stairs, and if you'll say yes, I fancy I can get you the situation." - -I did not hesitate a second. - -"Why, then yes, to be sure," said I, "and thank you kindly." - -"Thank _you_, Paul Greig," said she softly, for now the Swiss had opened -the door, and she squeezed my wrist. - -"_Benedicite!_" cried his reverence and came in, puffing hugely after -his climb, his face now purple almost to strangulation. "May the devil -fly away with turnpike stairs, Madame!--puff-puff--I curse them whether -they be wood or marble;--puff-puff--I curse them Dunkerque; in Ostend, -Paris, all Europe itself, ay even unto the two Americas. I curse their -designers, artisans, owners, and defenders in their waking and sleeping! -Madame, kindly consider your stairs anathema!" - -"You need all your wind to cool your porridge, as we say in Scotland, -Father Hamilton," cried Miss Walkinshaw, "and a bonny-like thing it is -to have you coming here blackguarding my honest stairs." - -He laughed enormously and fell into a chair, shaking the house as if the -world itself had quaked. "Pardon, my dear Miss Walkinshaw," said he when -his breath was restored, "but, by the Mass, you must confess 'tis the -deuce and all for a man--a real man that loves his viands, and sleeps -well o' nights, and has a contented mind and grows flesh accordingly, -to trip up to Paradise--" here he bowed, his neck swelling in massive -folds--"to trip up to Paradise, where the angels are, as easily as a -ballet-dancer--bless her!--skips to the other place where, by my faith! -I should like to pay a brief visit myself, if 'twere only to see old -friends of the Opra Comique. Madame, I give you good-day. Sir, Monsieur -Greig--'shalt never be a man like thine Uncle Andrew for all thy -confounded elixir. I favour not your virtuous early rising in the young. -There! thine uncle would a-been abed at this hour an' he were alive and -in Dunkerque; thou must be a confoundedly industrious and sober Greig to -be dangling at a petticoat-tail--Pardon, Madame, 'tis the dearest tail, -anyway!--before the hour meridian." - -"And this is France," thought I. "Here's your papistical gospeller at -home!" I minded of the Rev. Scipio Walker in the kirk of Mearns, an -image ever of austerity, waling his words as they had come from Solomon, -groaning even-on for man's eternal doom. - -The priest quickly comprehended my surprise at his humour, and laughed -the more at that till a fit of coughing choked him. "_Mon Dieu_" said -he; "our Andy reincarnate is an Andy most pestilent dull, or I'm a -cockle, a convoluted cockle, and uncooked at that. Why, man! cheer up, -thou _croque mort_, thou lanthorn-jaw, thou veal-eye, thou melancholious -eater of oaten-meal!" - -"It's a humblin' sicht!" said I. The impertinence was no sooner uttered -than I felt degraded that I should have given it voice, for here was a -priest of God, however odd to my thinking, and, what was more, a man who -might in years have been my father. - -But luckily it could never then, or at any other time, be said of Father -Hamilton that he was thin-skinned. He only laughed the more at me. -"Touche!" he cried. "I knew I could prick the old Andy somewhere. Still, -Master Paul, thine uncle was not so young as thou, my cockerel. Had seen -his world and knew that Scotland and its--what do you call them?--its -manses, did not provide the universal ensample of true piety." - -"I do not think, Father Hamilton," said I, "that piety troubled him very -much, or his shoes had not been so well known in Dunkerque." - -Miss Walkinshaw laughed. - -"There you are, Father Hamilton!" said she. "You'll come little speed -with a man from the Mearns moors unless you take him a little more -seriously." - -Father Hamilton pursed his lips and rubbed down his thighs, an image -of the gross man that would have turned my father's stomach, who always -liked his men lean, clean, and active. He was bantering me, this fat -priest of Dixmunde, but all the time it was with a friendly eye. Thinks -I, here's another legacy of goodwill from my extraordinary uncle! - -"Hast got thy pass yet, Master Dull?" said he. - -"Not so dull, Master Minister, but what I resent the wrong word even in -a joke," I replied, rising to go. - -Thurot's voice was on the stair now, and Clan-carty's. If they were not -to find their _protg_ in an undignified war of words with the priest -of Dixmunde, it was time I was taking my feet from there, as the saying -went. - -But Miss Walkinshaw would not hear of it. "No, no," she protested, "we -have some business before you go to your ridiculous French--weary be on -the language that ever I heard _Je t'aime_ in it!--and how does the same -march with you, Mr. Greig?" - -"I know enough of it to thank my good friends in," said I, "but that -must be for another occasion." - -"Father Hamilton," said she, "here's your secretary." - -A curious flash came to those eyes pitted in rolls of flabby flesh, I -thought of an eagle old and moulting, languid upon a mountain cliff in -misty weather, catching the first glimpse of sun and turned thereby -to ancient memories. He said nothing; there was at the moment no -opportunity, for the visitors had entered, noisily polite and posturing -as was their manner, somewhat touched by wine, I fancied, and for that -reason scarcely welcomed by the mistress of the house. - -There could be no more eloquent evidence of my innocence in these days -than was in the fact that I never wondered at the footing upon which -these noisy men of the world were with a countrywoman of mine. The cause -they often spoke of covered many mysteries; between the Rue de Paris -and the Rue de la Boucherie I could have picked out a score of Scots in -exile for their political faiths, and why should not Miss Walkinshaw be -one of the company? But sometimes there was just the faintest hint of -over-much freedom in their manner to her, and that I liked as little as -she seemed to do, for when her face flushed and her mouth firmed, and -she became studiously deaf, I felt ashamed of my sex, and could have -retorted had not prudence dictated silence as the wisest policy. - -As for her, she was never but the minted metal, ringing true and decent, -compelling order by a glance, gentle yet secure in her own strength, -tolerant, but in bounds. - -They were that day full of the project for invading England. It had -gone so far that soldiers at Calais and Boulogne were being practised in -embarkation. I supposed she must have a certain favour for a step that -was designed to benefit the cause wherefor I judged her an exile, but -she laughed at the idea of Britain falling, as she said, to a parcel of -_crapauds_. "Treason!" treason!" cried Thurot laughingly. - -"Under the circumstances, Madame----" - -"--Under the circumstances, Captain Thurot," she interrupted quickly, -"I need not pretend at a lie. This is not in the Prince's interest, this -invasion, and it is a blow at a land I love. Mr. Greig here has just put -it into my mind how good are the hearts there, how pleasant the tongue, -and how much I love the very name of Scotland. I would be sorry to think -of its end come to pleasure the women in Versailles." - -"Bravo! bravo! _vive la bagatelle!_" cried my Lord Clancarty. "Gad! I -sometimes feel the right old pathriot myself. Sure I have a good mind--" - -"Then 'tis not your own, my lord," she cried quickly, displeasure in her -expression, and Clancarty only bowed, not a whit abashed at the sarcasm. - -Father Hamilton drew me aside from these cheerful contentions, and -plunged into the matter that was manifestly occupying all his thoughts -since Miss Walkinshaw had mooted me as his secretary. - -"Monsieur Greig," he said, placing his great carcase between me and the -others in the room, "I declare that women are the seven plagues, and yet -here we come chasing them from _petit lever_ till--till--well, till as -late as the darlings will let us. By the Mass and Father Hamilton knows -their value, and when a man talks to me about a woman and the love he -bears her, I think 'tis a maniac shouting the praise of the snake that -has crept to his breast to sting him. Women--chut!--now tell me what the -mischief is a woman an' thou canst." - -"I fancy, Father Hamilton," said I, "you could be convinced of the -merits of woman if your heart was ever attacked by one--your heart, that -does not believe anything in that matter that emanates from your head." - -Again the eagle's gleam from the pitted eyes; and, upon my word, a sigh! -It was a queer man this priest of Dixmunde. - -"Ah, young cockerel," said he, "thou knowest nothing at all about it, -and as for me--well, I dare not; but once--once--once there were dews in -the woods, and now it is very dry weather, Master Greig. How about thine -honour's secretaryship? Gripp'st at the opportunity, young fellow? -Eh? Has the lady said sooth? Come now, I like the look of my old -Andrew's--my old Merry Andrew's nephew, and could willingly tolerate -his _croque-mort_ countenance, his odour of the sanctuary, if he could -weather it with a plethoric good liver that takes the world as he finds -it." - -He was positively eager to have me. It was obvious from his voice. He -took me by the button of my lapel as if I were about to run away from -his offer, but I was in no humour to run away. Here was the very office -I should have chosen if a thousand offered. The man was a fatted sow to -look on, and by no means engaging in his manner to myself, but what was -I and what my state that I should be too particular? Here was a chance -to see the world--and to forget. Seeing the world might have been of -most importance some months ago in the mind of a clean-handed young -lad in the parish of Mearns in Scotland, but now it was of vastly more -importance that I should forget. - -"We start in a week," said the priest, pressing me closely lest I should -change my mind, and making the prospects as picturesque as he could. -"Why should a man of flesh and blood vex his good stomach with all this -babblement of king's wars? and a pox on their flat-bottomed boats! -I have seen my last Mass in Dixmunde; say not a word on that to our -friends nor to Madame; and I suffer from a very jaundice of gold. Is't a -pact, friend Scotland?" - -A pact it was; I went out from Miss Walkinshaw's lodging that afternoon -travelling secretary to the fat priest. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -RELATES HOW I INDULGED MY CURIOSITY AND HOW LITTLE CAME OF IT - -Dunkerque in these days (it may be so no longer) was a place for a man -to go through with his nose in his fingers. Garbage stewed and festered -in the gutters of the street so that the women were bound to walk -high-kilted, and the sea-breeze at its briskest scarcely sufficed to -stir the stagnant, stenching atmosphere of the town, now villainously -over-populated by the soldiery with whom it was France's pleasant -delusion she should whelm our isle. - -"_Pardieu!_" cried Father Hamilton, as we emerged in this malodorous -open, "'twere a fairy godfather's deed to clear thee out of this -feculent cloaca. Think on't, boy; of you and me a week hence riding -through the sweet woods of Somme or Oise, and after that Paris! Paris! -my lad of tragedy; Paris, where the world moves and folk live. And then, -perhaps, Tours, and Bordeaux, and Flanders, and Sweden, Seville, St. -Petersburg itself, but at least the woods of Somme, where the roads are -among gossamer and dew and enchantment in the early morning--if we cared -to rise early enough to see them, which I promise thee we shall not." - -His lips were thick and trembling: he gloated as he pictured me this -mad itinerary, leaning heavily on my arm--Silenus on an ash -sapling--half-trotting beside me, looking up every now and then to -satisfy himself I appreciated the prospect. It was pleasant enough, -though in a measure incredible, but at the moment I was thinking of Miss -Walkinshaw, and wondering much to myself that this exposition of foreign -travel should seem barely attractive because it meant a severance from -her. Her sad smile, her brave demeanour, her kind heart, her beauty had -touched me sensibly. - -"Well, Master Scrivener!" cried the priest, panting at my side, "art -dumb?" - -"I fancy, sir, it is scarcely the weather for woods," said I. "I hope we -are not to put off our journey till the first of April a twelvemonth." -A suspicion unworthy of me had flashed into my mind that I might, after -all, be no more than the butt of a practical joke. But that was merely -for a moment; the priest was plainly too eager on his scheme to be -play-acting it. - -"I am very grateful to the lady," I hastened to add, "who gave me the -chance of listing in your service. Had it not been for her you might -have found a better secretary, and I might have remained long enough -in the evil smells of Dunkerque that I'll like all the same in spite of -that, because I have so good a friend as Miss Walkinshaw in it." - -"La! la! la!" cried out Father Hamilton, squeezing my arm. "Here's our -young cockerel trailing wing already! May I never eat fish again if -'tisn't a fever in this woman that she must infect every man under three -score. For me I am within a month of the period immune, and only feel a -malaise in her company. Boy, perpend! Have I not told thee every woman, -except the ugliest, is an agent of the devil? I am the first to -discover that his majesty is married and his wife keeps shop when he -is travelling--among Jesuits and Jacobites and such busy fuel for the -future fires. His wife keeps shop, lad, and does a little business among -her own sex, using the handsomest for her purposes. Satan comes back to -the _boutique_. 'What!' he cries, and counts the till, 'these have been -busy days, good wife.' And she, Madame Dusky, chuckles with a 'Ha! Jack, -old man, hast a good wife or not? Shalt never know how to herd in souls -like sheep till thou hast a quicker eye for what's below a Capuchin -hood.' This--this is a sweet woman, this Walkinshaw, Paul, but a -dangerous. 'Ware hawk, lad, 'ware hawk!" - -I suppose my face reddened at that; at least he looked at me again and -pinched, and "Smitten to the marrow; may I drink water and grow thin -else. _Sacr nom de nom!_ 'tis time thou wert on the highways of -Europe." - -"How does it happen that a countrywoman of mine is here alone?" I asked. - -"I'll be shot if thou art not the rascalliest young innocent in France. -Aye! or out of Scotland," cried Father Hamilton, holding his sides for -laughter. - -"Is thy infernal climate of fogs and rains so pleasant that a woman of -spirit should abide there for ever an' she have the notion to travel -otherwheres? La! la! la! Master Scrivener, and thou must come to an -honest pious priest for news of the world. But, boy, I'm deaf and dumb; -mine eyes on occasion are without vision. Let us say the lady has been -an over-ardent Jacobite; 'twill suffice in the meantime. And now has't -ever set eyes on Charles Edward?" - -I told him I had never had any hand in the Jacobite affairs, if that was -what he meant. - -His countenance fell at that. - -"What!" he cried, losing his Roman manner, "do you tell me you have -never seen him?" - -But once, I explained, when he marched into Glasgow city with his wild -Highlanders and bullied the burgesses into providing shoes for his -ragged army. - -"Ah," said he with a clearing visage, "that will suffice. Must point him -out to me. Dixmunde parish was a poor place for seeing the great; 'tis -why I go wandering now." - -Father Hamilton's hint at politics confirmed my guess about Miss -Walkinshaw, but I suppose I must have been in a craze to speak of her on -any pretence, for later in the day I was at Thurot's lodging, and there -must precognosce again. - -"_Oh, mon Dieu, quelle espiglerie!_" cried out the captain. "And this -a Greig too! Well, I do not wonder that your poor uncle stayed so -long away from home; faith, he'd have died of an _ennui_ else. Miss -Walkinshaw is--Miss Walkinshaw; a countryman of her own should know -better than I all that is to be known about her. But 'tis not our -affair, Mr. Greig. For sure 'tis enough that we find her smiling, -gentle, tolerant, what you call the 'perfect lady'--_n'est ce pas?_And -of all the virtues, upon my word, kindness is the best and rarest, and -that she has to a miracle." - -"I'm thinking that is not a corsair's creed, Captain Thurot," said I, -smiling at the gentleman's eagerness. He was standing over me like a -lighthouse, with his eyes on fire, gesturing with his arms as they had -been windmill sails. - -"No, faith! but 'tis a man's, Master Greig, and I have been happy with -it. Touching our fair friend, I may say that, much as I admire her, I -agree with some others that ours were a luckier cause without her. Gad! -the best thing you could do, Mr. Greig, would be to marry her yourself -and take her back with you to Scotland." - -"What! byway of Paris in Father Hamilton's glass coach," I said, -bantering to conceal my confusion at such a notion. - -"H'm," said he. "Father Hamilton and the lady are a pair." He walked a -little up and down the room as if he were in a quandary. "A pair," he -resumed. "I fancied I could see to the very centre of the Sphinx itself, -for all men are in ourselves if we only knew it, till I came upon -this Scotswoman and this infernal Flemish-English priest of Dix-munde. -Somehow, for them Antoine Thurot has not the key in himself yet. Still, -'twill arrive, 'twill arrive! I like the lady--and yet I wish she were a -thousand miles away; I like the man too, but a Jesuit is too many men -at once to be sure of; and, Gad! I can scarcely sleep at nights for -wondering what he may be plotting. This grand tour of his-" - -"Stop, stop!" I cried, in a fear that he might compromise himself in an -ignorance of my share in the tour in question; "I must tell you that I -am going with Father Hamilton as his secretary, although it bothers me -to know what scrivening is to be accomplished in a glass coach. Like -enough I am to be no more, in truth, than the gentleman's companion or -courier, and it is no matter so long as I am moving." - -"Indeed, and is it so?" cried Captain Thurot, stopping as if he had been -shot. "And how happens it that this priest is willing to take you, that -are wholly a foreigner and a stranger to the country?" - -"Miss Walkinshaw recommended me," said I. - -"Oh!" he cried, "you have not been long of getting into your excellent -countrywoman's kind favour. Is it that Tony Thurot has been doing -the handsome by an ingrate? No, no, Monsieur, that were a monstrous -innuendo, for the honour has been all mine. But that Miss Walkinshaw -should be on such good terms with the priest as to trouble with the -provision of his secretary is opposed to all I had expected of her. Why, -she dislikes the man, or I'm a stuffed fish." - -"Anyhow, she has done a handsome thing by me," said I. "It is no wonder -that so good a heart as hers should smother its repugnances (and the -priest is a fat sow, there is no denying) for the sake of a poor lad -from its own country. You are but making it the plainer that I owe her -more than at first I gave her credit for." - -"Bless me, here's gratitude!" cried the captain, laughing at my warmth. -"Mademoiselle Walkinshaw has her own plans; till now, I fancied them -somewhat different from Hamilton's, but more fool I to fancy they were -what they seemed! All that, my dear lad, need not prevent your enjoying -your grand tour with the priest, who has plenty of money and the -disposition to spend it like a gentleman." - -Finally I went to my Lord Clancarty, for it will be observed that I had -still no hint as to the origin of the lady who was so good a friend of -mine. Though the last thing in the world I should have done was to pry -into her affairs for the indulgence of an idle curiosity, I would know -the best of her before the time came to say farewell, and leave of her -with me no more than a memory. - -The earl was at the Caf du Soleil d'Or, eating mussels on the terrace -and tossing the empty shells into the gutter what time he ogled passing -women and exchanged levitous repartee with some other frequenters of the -place. - -"Egad, Paul," he cried, meeting me with effusion, "'tis said there is -one pearl to be found for every million mussels; but here's a pearl come -to me in the midst of a single score. An Occasion, lad; I sat at the -dice last night till a preposterous hour this morning, and now I have a -headache like the deuce and a thirst to take the Baltic. I must have -the tiniest drop, and on an Occasion too. _Voil! Gaspard, une autre -bouteille._" - -He had his bottle, that I merely made pretence to help him empty, and I -had my precognition. - -But it came to little in the long run. Oh yes, he understood my interest -in the lady (with rakish winking); 'twas a delicious creature for all -its _hauteur_ when one ventured a gallantry, but somehow no particular -friend to the Earl of Clancarty, who, if she only knew it, was come of -as noble a stock as any rotten Scot ever went unbreeched; not but what -(this with a return of the naturally polite man) there were admirable -and high-bred people of that race, as instance my Uncle Andrew and -myself. But was there any reason why such a man as Charlie Stuart should -be King of Ireland? "I say, Greig, blister the old Chevalier and his two -sons! There is not a greater fumbler on earth than this sotted person, -who has drunk the Cause to degradation and would not stir a hand to -serve me and my likes, that are, begad! the fellow's betters." - -"But all this," said I, "has little to do with Miss Walkinshaw. I have -nothing to say of the Prince, who may be all you say, though that is not -the repute he has in Scotland." - -"Bravo, Mr. Greig!" cried his lordship. "That is the tone if you would -keep in the lady's favour. Heaven knows she has little reason to listen -to praise of such a creature, but, then, women are blind. She loves not -Clancarty, as I have said; but, no matter, I forgive her that; 'tis well -known 'tis because I cannot stomach her prince." - -"And yet," said I, "you must interest yourself in these Jacobite -affairs and mix with all that are here of that party." - -"Faith and I do," he confessed heartily. "What! am I to be a mole and -stay underground? A man must have his diversion, and though I detest the -Prince I love his foolish followers. Do you know what, Mr. Greig? 'Tis -the infernal irony of things in this absurd world that the good fellows, -the bloods, the men of sensibilities must for ever be wrapped up in poor -mad escapades and emprises. And a Clancarty is ever of such a heart that -the more madcap the scheme the more will he dote on it." - -A woman passing in a chair at this moment looked in his direction; -fortunately, otherwise I was condemned to a treatise on life and -pleasure. - -"Egad!" he cried, "there's a face that's like a line of song," and he -smiled at her with unpardonable boldness as it seemed to me, a pleasant -pucker about his eyes, a hint of the good comrade in his mouth. - -She flushed like wine and tried to keep from smiling, but could not -resist, and smiling she was borne away. - -"Do you know her, my lord?" I could not forbear asking. - -"Is it know her?" said he. "Devil a know, but 'tis a woman anyhow, and -a heart at that. Now who the deuce can she be?" And he proceeded, like a -true buck, to fumble with the Mechlin of his fall and dust his stockings -in an airy foppish manner so graceful that I swear no other could have -done the same so well. - -"Now this Miss Walkinshaw--" I went on, determined to have some -satisfaction from my interview. - -"Confound your Miss Walkinshaw, by your leave, Mr. Greig," he -interrupted. "Can you speak of Miss Walkinshaw when the glory of the -comet is still trailing in the heavens? And--hum!--I mind me of a -certain engagement, Mr. Greig," he went on hurriedly, drawing a horologe -from his fob and consulting it with a frowning brow. "In the charm of -your conversation I had nigh forgot, so _adieu, adieu, mon ami!_" - -He gave me the tips of his fingers, and a second later he was gone, -stepping down the street with a touch of the minuet, tapping his legs -with his cane, his sword skewering his coat-skirts, all the world giving -him the cleanest portion of the thoroughfare and looking back after him -with envy and admiration. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -WITNESSES THE LAST OF A BLATE YOUNG MAN - -And all this time it may well be wondered where was my remorse for a -shot fired on the moor of Mearns, for two wretched homes created by my -passion and my folly. And where, in that shifting mind of mine, was the -place of Isobel Fortune, whose brief days of favour for myself (if that, -indeed, was not imagination on my part) had been the cause of these my -wanderings? There is one beside me as I write, ready to make allowance -for youth and ignorance, the untutored affection, the distraught mind, -if not for the dubiety as to her feelings for myself when I was outlawed -for a deed of blood and had taken, as the Highland phrase goes, the -world for my pillow. - -I did not forget the girl of Kirkillstane; many a time in the inward -visions of the night, and of the day too, I saw her go about that -far-off solitary house in the hollow of the hills. Oddly enough, 'twas -ever in sunshine I saw her, with her sun-bonnet swinging from its -ribbons and her hand above her eyes, shading them that she might look -across the fields that lay about her home, or on a tryst of fancy by -the side of Earn, hearing the cushats mourn in a magic harmony with her -melancholy thoughts. As for the killing of young Borland, that I kept, -waking at least, from my thoughts, or if the same intruded, I found it -easier, as time passed, to excuse myself for a fatality that had been in -the experience of nearly every man I now knew--of Clancarty and Thurot, -of the very baker in whose house I lodged and who kneaded the dough for -his little bread not a whit the less cheerily because his hands had been -imbrued. - -The late Earl of Clare, in France called the Marchal Comte de Thomond, -had come to Dunkerque in the quality of Inspector-General of the Armies -of France, to review the troops in garrison and along that menacing -coast. The day after my engagement with Father Hamilton I finished my -French lesson early and went to see his lordship and his army on the -dunes to the east of the town. Cannon thundered, practising at marks far -out in the sea; there was infinite manoeuvring of horse and foot; -the noon was noisy with drums and the turf shook below the hoofs of -galloping chargers. I fancy it was a holiday; at least, as I recall -the thing, Dunkerque was all _en fte_, and a happy and gay populace -gathered in the rear of the marchales flag. Who should be there among -the rest, or rather a little apart from the crowd, but Miss Walkinshaw! -She had come in a chair; her dainty hand beckoned me to her side almost -as soon as I arrived. - -"Now, that's what I must allow is very considerate," said she, eyeing -my red shoes, which were put on that day from some notion of proper -splendour. - -"Well considered?" I repeated. - -"Just well considered," said she. "You know how much it would please me -to see you in your red shoes, and so you must put them on." - -I was young in these days, and, like the ass I was, I quickly set about -disabusing her mind of a misapprehension that injured her nor me. - -"Indeed, Miss Walkinshaw," said I, "how could I do that when I did not -know you were to be here? You are the last I should have expected to see -here." - -"What!" she exclaimed, growing very red. "Does Mr. Greig trouble himself -so much about the _convenances?_ And why should I not be here if I have -the whim? Tell me that, my fastidious compatriot." - -Here was an accountable flurry over a thoughtless phrase! - -"No reason in the world that I know of," said I gawkily, as red as -herself, wondering what it was my foot was in. - -"That you know of," she repeated, as confused as ever. "It seems to -me, Mr. Greig, that the old gentleman who is tutoring you in the French -language would be doing a good turn to throw in a little of the manners -of the same. Let me tell you that I am as much surprised as you can be -to find myself here, and now that you are so good as to put me in mind -of the--of the--of the _convenances_, I will go straight away home. It -was not the priest, nor was it Captain Thurot that got your ear, for -they are by the way of being gentlemen; it could only have been this -Irishman Clancarty--the quality of that country have none of the -scrupulosity that distinguishes our own. You can tell his lordship, next -time you see him, that Miss Walkinshaw will see day about with him for -this." - -She ordered her chairmen to take her home, and then--burst into tears! - -I followed at her side, in a stew at my indiscoverable blundering, my -_chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand, and myself like to greet too for sympathy -and vexation. - -"You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "Heaven -knows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your good -opinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant." - -"Go away!" she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, that -was now being borne towards the town. - -"Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for the -freedom," I said, "for here's some monstrous misconception, and I must -clear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever." - -She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed to -me. Feeling like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walk -deliberately by her side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. She -dismissed the chair and was for going into the house without letting an -eye light on young persistency. - -"One word, Miss Walkinshaw," I pleaded. "We are a Scottish man and a -Scottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in this -street, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she will -not give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and an -affection, a chance to know wherein he may have blundered." - -"Respect and affection," she said, her profile turned to me, her foot on -the steps, visibly hesitating. - -"Respect and affection," I repeated, flushing at my own boldness. - -"In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?" she said, biting her nether lip -and still manifestly close on tears. - -"How?" said I, bewildered. "His lordship gave me no tales that I know -of." - -"And why," said she, "be at such pains to tell me you wondered I should -be there?" - -I got very red at that. - -"You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig," she said bitterly. - -"Well, then," I ventured boldly, "what I should have said was that I -feared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. And -I have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with me -and would not let me explain myself." - -"What!" she cried, quite radiant, "and, after all, the red shoon were -not without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tell -you the truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only making -believe to be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither you -can see me to my parlour." - -"Well, Bernard," she said to the Swiss as we entered, "any news?" - -He informed her there was none. - -"What! no one called?" said she with manifest disappointment. - -"_Personne, Madame_." - -"No letters?" - -Nor were there any letters, he replied. - -She sighed, paused irresolute a moment with her foot on the stair, one -hand at her heart, the other at the fastening of her coat, and looked at -me with a face almost tragic in its trouble. I cannot but think she was -on the brink of a confidence, but ere it came she changed her mind and -dashed up the stair with a tra-la-la of a song meant to indicate her -indifference, leaving me a while in her parlour while she changed -her dress. She came back to me in a little, attired in a pale -primrose-coloured paduasoy, the cuffs and throat embroidered in a -pattern of roses and leaves, her hair unpowdered and glossy, wantoning -in and out of a neck beyond description. The first thing she did on -entrance was odd enough, for it was to stand over me where I lounged -on her settee, staring down into my eyes until I felt a monstrous -embarrassment. - -"I am wonderin'," said she, "if ye are the man I tak' ye for." - -Her eyes were moist; I saw she had been crying in her toilet room. - -"I'm just the man you see," I said, "but for some unco' troubles that -are inside me and are not for airing to my friends on a fine day in -Dunkerque." - -"Perhaps, like the lave of folks, ye dinna ken yoursel'," she went on, -speaking with no sprightly humour though in the Scots she was given to -fall to in her moments of fun. "All men, Mr. Greig, mean well, but most -of them fall short of their own ideals; they're like the women in that, -no doubt, but in the men the consequence is more disastrous." - -"When I was a girl in a place you know," she went on even more soberly, -"I fancied all men were on the model of honest John Walkinshaw--better -within than without. He was stern to austerity, demanding the last -particle of duty from his children, and to some he might seem hard, but -I have never met the man yet with a kinder heart, a pleasanter mind, a -more pious disposition than John Walkin-shaw's. It has taken ten years, -and acquaintance with some gentry not of Scotland, to make it plain that -all men are not on his model." - -"I could fancy not, to judge from his daughter," I said, blushing at my -first compliment that was none the less bold because it was sincere. - -At that she put on a little mouth and shrugged her shoulders with a -shiver that made the snaps in her ears tremble. - -"My good young man," said she, "there you go! If there's to be any -friendship between you and Clementina Walkinshaw, understand there must -be a different key from that. You are not only learning your French, but -you are learning, it would seem, the manners of the nation. It was that -made me wonder if you could be the man I took you for the first day you -were in this room and I found I could make you greet with a Scots sang, -and tell me honestly about a lass you had a notion of and her no' me. -That last's the great stroke of honesty in any man, and let me tell you -there are some women who would not relish it. But you are in a company -here so ready with the tongue of flattery that I doubt each word they -utter, and that's droll enough in me that loves my fellow creatures, and -used to think the very best of every one of them. If I doubt them now -I doubt them with a sore enough heart, I'll warrant you. Oh! am I not -sorry that my man of Mearns should be put in the reverence of such -creatures as Clancarty and Thurot, and all that gang of worldlings? I do -not suppose I could make you understand it, Mr. Paul Greig, but I feel -motherly to you, and to see my son--this great giant fellow who kens the -town of Glasgow and dwelt in Mearns where I had May milk, and speaks wi' -the fine Scots tongue like mysel' when his heart is true--to see him the -boon comrade with folks perhaps good enough for Clementina Walkinshaw -but lacking a particle of principle, is a sight to sorrow me." - -"And is it for that you seek to get me away with the priest?" I asked, -surprised at all this, and a little resenting the suggestion of youth -implied in her feeling like a mother to me. Her face was lit, her -movement free and beautiful; something in her fascinated me. - -She dropped in a chair and pushed the hair from her ears with a hand -like milk, and laughed. - -"Now how could you guess?" said she. "Am I no' the careful mother of -you to put you in the hands o' the clergy? I doubt this play-acting -rhetorician of a man from Dixmunde is no great improvement on the rest -of your company when all's said and done, but you'll be none the worse -for seeing the world at his costs, and being in other company than -Clancarty's and Thurot's and Roscommon's. He told me to-day you were -going with him, and I was glad that I had been of that little service to -you." - -"Then it seems you think so little of my company as to be willing enough -to be rid of me at the earliest opportunity," I said, honestly somewhat -piqued at her readiness to clear me out of Dunkerque. - -She looked at me oddly. "Havers, Mr. Greig!" said she, "just havers!" - -I was thanking her for her offices, but she checked me. "You are well -off," she said, "to be away from here while these foolish manouvrings -are on foot. Poor me! I must bide and see them plan the breaking down -of my native country. It's a mercy I know in what a fiasco it will end, -this planning. Hearken! Do you hear the bugles? That's Soubise going -back to the caserne. He and his little men are going back to eat another -dinner destined to assist in the destruction of an island where you and -I should be this day if we were wiser than we are. Fancy them destroying -Britain, Mr. Greig!--Britain, where honest John Walkinshaw is, that -never said an ill word in his life, nor owed any man a penny: where the -folks are guid and true, and fear God and want nothing but to be left to -their crofts and herds. If it was England--if it was the palace of Saint -James--no, but it's Scotland, too, and the men you saw marching up and -down to-day are to be marching over the moor o' Mearns when the -heather's red. Can you think of it?" She stamped her foot. "Where the -wee thack hooses are at the foot o' the braes, and the bairns playing -under the rowan trees; where the peat is smelling, and the burns are -singing in the glens, and the kirk-bells are ringing. Poor Mr. Greig! -Are ye no' wae for Scotland? Do ye think Providence will let a man like -Thomond ye saw to-day cursing on horseback--do ye think Providence will -let him lead a French army among the roads you and I ken so well, -affronting the people we ken too, who may be a thought dull in the -matter of repartee, but are for ever decent, who may be hard-visaged, -but are so brave?" - -She laughed, herself, half bitterly, half contemptuously, at the picture -she drew. Outside, in the sunny air of the afternoon, the bugles of -Soubise filled the street with brazen cries, and nearer came the roar -of pounding drums. I thought I heard them menacing the sleep of evening -valleys far away, shattering the calm of the hearth of Hazel Den. - -"The cause for which--for which so many are exile here," I said, looking -on this Jacobite so strangely inconsistent, "has no reason to regret -that France should plan an attack on Georgius Rex." - -She shook her head impatiently. "The cause has nothing to do with it, -Mr. Greig," said she. "The cause will suffer from this madness more than -ever it did, but in any case 'tis the most miserable of lost causes." - -"Prince Charlie-" - -"Once it was the cause with me, now I would sooner have it Scotland," -she went on, heedless of my interruption. "Scotland! Scotland! Oh, how -the name of her is like a dirge to me, and my heart is sore for her! -Where is your heart, Mr. Greig, that it does not feel alarm at the -prospect of these _crapauds_ making a single night's sleep uneasy for -the folks you know? Where is your heart, I'm asking?" - -"I wish I knew," said I impulsively, staring at her, completely -bewitched by her manner so variable and intense, and the straying -tendrils of her hair. - -"Do you not?" said she. "Then I will tell you. It is where it ought to -be--with a girl of the name of Isobel Fortune. Oh, the dear name! oh, -the sweet name! And when you are on your travels with this priest do not -be forgetting her. Oh, yes! I know you will tell me again that all is -over between the pair of you, and that she loved another--but I am not -believing a word of that, Mr. Greig, when I look at you--(and will ye -say 'thank ye' for the compliment that's there?)--you will just go on -thinking her the same, and you will be the better man for it. There's -something tells me she is thinking of you though I never saw her, the -dear! Let me see, this is what sort of girl she will be." - -She drew her chair closer to the settee and leaned forward in front -of me, and, fixing her eyes on mine, drew a picture of the girl of -Kirkillstane as she imagined her. - -"She will be about my own height, and with the same colour of hair-" - -"How do you know that? I never said a word of that to you," I cried, -astonished at the nearness of her first guess. - -"Oh, I'm a witch," she cried triumphantly, "a fair witch. Hoots! do I -no' ken ye wadna hae looked the side o' the street I was on if I -hadna put ye in mind o' her? Well, she's my height and colour--but, -alack-a-day, no' my years. She 'll have a voice like the mavis for -sweetness, and 'll sing to perfection. She'll be shy and forward in -turns, accordin' as you are forward and shy; she 'll can break your -heart in ten minutes wi' a pout o' her lips or mak' ye fair dizzy with -delight at a smile. And then"--here Miss Walkinshaw seemed carried away -herself by her fancy portrait, for she bent her brows studiously as she -thought, and seemed to speak in an abstraction--"and then she'll be a -managing woman. She'll be the sort of woman that the Bible tells of -whose value is over rubies; knowing your needs as you battle with the -world, and cheerful when you come in to the hearthstone from the turmoil -outside. A witty woman and a judge of things, calm but full of fire in -your interests. A household where the wife's a doll is a cart with one -wheel, and your Isobel will be the perfect woman. I think she must have -travelled some, too, and seen how poor is the wide world compared with -what is to be found at your own fire-end; I think she must have had -trials and learned to be brave." - -She stopped suddenly, looked at me and got very red in the face. - -"A fine picture, Miss Walkinshaw!" said I, with something drumming at my -heart. "It is not just altogether like Isobel Fortune, who has long syne -forgot but to detest me, but I fancy I know who it is like." - -"And who might that be?" she asked in a low voice and with a somewhat -guilty look. - -"Will I tell you?" I asked, myself alarmed at my boldness. - -"No! no! never mind," she cried. "I was just making a picture of a -girl I once knew--poor lass! and of what she might have been. But she's -dead--dead and buried. I hope, after all, your Isobel is a nobler woman -than the one I was thinking on and a happier destiny awaiting her." - -"That cannot matter much to me now," I said, "for, as I told you, there -is nothing any more between us--except--except a corp upon the heather." - -She shuddered as she did the first time I told her of my tragedy, and -sucked in the air again through her clenched teeth. - -"Poor lad! poor lad!" said she. "And you have quite lost her. If so, and -the thing must be, then this glass coach of Father Hamilton's must take -you to the country of forgetfulness. I wish I could drive there myself -this minute, but wae's me, there's no chariot at the _remise_ that'll do -that business for John Walkinshaw's girl." - -Something inexpressively moving was in her mien, all her heart was in -her face as it seemed; a flash of fancy came to me that she was alone in -the world with nothing of affection to hap her round from its abrasions, -and that her soul was crying out for love. Sweet beyond expression was -this woman and I was young; up to my feet I rose, and turned on her a -face that must have plainly revealed my boyish passion. - -"Miss Walkinshaw," I said, "you may put me out of this door for ever, -but I'm bound to say I'm going travelling in no glass coach; Dunkerque -will be doing very well for me." - -Her lips trembled; her cheek turned pale; she placed a hand upon her -breast, and there was I contrite before her anger! - -"Is this--is this your respect and your esteem, Mr. Greig?" she asked -brokenly. - -"They were never greater than at this moment," I replied. - -"And how are they to be manifested by your waiting on in Dunkerque?" she -asked, recovering her colour and some of her ordinary manner. - -How indeed? She had no need to ask me the question, for it was already -ringing through my being. That the Spoiled Horn from Mearns, an outlaw -with blood on his hands and borrowed money in his pocket, should have -the presumption to feel any ardour for this creature seemed preposterous -to myself, and I flushed in an excess of shame and confusion. - -This seemed completely to reassure her. "Oh, Mr. Greig--Mr. Greig, was I -not right to ask if ye were the man ye seemed? Here's a nice display o' -gallantry from my giant son! I believe you are just makin' fun o' this -auld wife; and if no' I hae just one word for you, Paul Greig, and it's -this that I said afore--jist havers!" - -She went to her spinet and ran her fingers over the keys and broke into -a song-- - - Oh, what ails the laddie, new twined frae his mither? - The laddie gallantin' roun' Tibbie and me?-- - -with glances coquettish yet repelling round her shoulder at me as I -stood turning my _chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand as a boy turns his bonnet -in presence of laird or dominie. The street was shaking now with the -sound of marching soldiers, whose platoons were passing in a momentary -silence of trumpet or drum. All at once the trumpets blared forth -just in front of the house, broke upon her song, and gave a heavensent -diversion to our comedy or tragedy or whatever it was in the parlour. - -We both stood looking out at the window for a while in silence, watching -the passing troops, and when the last file had gone, she turned with a -change of topic "If these men had been in England ten years ago," she -said, "when brisk affairs were doing there with Highland claymores, your -Uncle Andrew would have been there, too, and it would not perhaps be -your father who was Laird of Hazel Den. But that's all by with now. And -when do you set out with Father Hamilton?" - -She had a face as serene as fate; my heart ached to tell her that I -loved her, but her manner made me hold my tongue on that. - -"In three days," I said, still turning my hat and wishing myself -elsewhere, though her presence intoxicated. - -"In three days!" she said, as one astonished. "I had thought it had been -a week at the earliest. Will I tell you what you might do? You are my -great blate bold son, you know, from the moors of Mearns, and I will be -wae, wae, to think of you travelling all round Europe without a friend -of your own country to exchange a word with. Write to me; will you?" - -"Indeed and I will, and that gaily," I cried, delighted at the prospect. - -"And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and what -you have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, and -be sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel, -I daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league upon -the map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to be -here at noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will write -to you--but oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would I -have him know that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. That -is bad." - -She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, but -the problem was beyond me, and she sighed. - -"Of course his reverence need not know anything about it," she said -then. - -"Certainly," I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. "I will -never mention to him anything about it." - -"But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without his -suspecting something?" - -"Oh, but he cannot suspect." - -"What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this Father -Hamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves so -innocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way that -I shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way. -But never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honour -for that." - -As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over the -bannister and cried after me: - -"Mr. Greig," said she, "ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoes -when ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to be -thinkin' of you as traivellin' in them a' the time." - -I looked up and saw her smiling saucily at me over the rail. - -"Would you indeed?" said I. "Then I'll never put them aff till I see ye -again, when I come back to Dunkerque." - -"That is kind," she answered, laughing outright, "but fair reediculous. -To wear them to bed would be against your character for sobriety." - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -A RAP IN THE EARLY MORNING AWAKENS ME AND I START IN A GLASS COACH UPON -THE ODDEST OF JOURNEYS - -It was the last, for many months, I was to see of my countrywoman. -Before the crow of the cock next morning I was on the unending roads, -trundling in a noisy vehicle through pitch darkness, my companion -snoring stertorous at my side, his huge head falling every now and then -upon my shoulder, myself peering to catch some revelation of what manner -of country-side we went through as the light from the swinging lanthorn -lit up briefly passing banks of frosted hedge or sleeping hamlets on -whose pave the hoofs of our horses hammered as they had been the very -war-steeds of Bellona. - -But how came I there? How but by my master's whim, that made him -anticipate his departure by three days and drag me from my bed -incontinent to set out upon his trip over Europe. - -I had been sleeping soundly, dreaming I heard the hopper of the mill -of Driepps at home banging to make Jock Alexander's fortune, when I -awakened, or rather half-wakened, to discover that 'twas no hopper but a -nieve at my door, rapping with a vigour to waken the dead. - -"Come out! Sir Secretary, come out! or I shall pull thy domicile about -thine ears," cried the voice of Father Hamilton. - -He stood at the door when I opened, wrapped over the chin in a muffler -of multitudinous folds, and covered by a roquelaure. - -"_Pax!_" he cried, thrusting a purple face into the room, "and on with -thy boots like a good lad. We must be off and over the dunes before the -bell of St. Eloi knocks another nail in the coffin of time." - -"What!" I said, dumbfoundered, "are we to start on our journey to-day?" - -"Even so, my sluggardly Scot; faith! before the day even, for the day -will be in a deuce of a hurry an' it catch up on us before we reach -Pont-Opoise. Sop a crust in a jug of wine--I've had no better _petit -djeuner_ myself--put a clean cravat and a pair of hose in thy sack, -and in all emulate the judicious flea that wastes no time in idle -rumination, but transacts its affairs in a succession of leaps." - -"And no time to say good-bye to anyone?" I asked, struggling into my -toilet. - -"La! la! la! the flea never takes a _cong_ that I've heard on, Master -Punctilio. Not so much as a kiss o' the hand for you; I have had news, -and 'tis now or never." - -Twenty minutes later, Thurot's landlord (for Thurot himself was from -home) lit me to the courtyard, and the priest bundled me and my sack -into the bowels of an enormous chariot waiting there. - -The clocks began to strike the hour of five; before the last stroke had -ceased to shiver the darkness we were thundering along the sea front -and my master was already composed to sleep in his corner, without -vouchsafing me a sentence of explanation for so hurried a departure. -Be sure my heart was sore! I felt the blackest of ingrates to be thus -speeding without a sign of farewell from a place where I had met with so -much of friendship. - -Out at the window of the coach I gazed, to see nothing but the cavernous -night on one side, on the other, lit by the lanthorn, the flashing past -of houses all shuttered and asleep. - -It was dry and pleasant weather, with a sting of frost in the air, and -the propinquity of the sea manifest not in its plangent voice alone but -in the odour of it that at that hour dominated the natural smells of the -faubourgs. Only one glimpse I had of fellow creatures; as we passed the -fort, the flare of flambeaux showed an enormous body of soldiers -working upon the walls of Risebank; it but added to the poignance of my -melancholy to reflect that here were my country's enemies unsleeping, -and I made a sharp mental contrast of this most dauntening spectacle -with a picture of the house of Hazel Den dreaming among its trees, and -only crying lambs perhaps upon the moor to indicate that any life -was there. Melancholy! oh, it was eerie beyond expression for me that -morning! Outside, the driver talked to his horses and to some one with -him on the boot; it must have been cheerier for him than for me as I sat -in that sombre and close interior, jolted by my neighbour, and unable to -refrain from rehabilitating all the past. Especially did I think of my -dark home-coming with a silent father on the day I left the college to -go back to the Mearns. And by a natural correlation, that was bound -to lead to all that followed--even to the event for which I was now so -miserably remote from my people. - -Once or twice his reverence woke, to thrust his head out at the window -and ask where we were. Wherever we were when he did so, *twas certain -never to be far enough for his fancy, and he condemned the driver for -a snail until the whip cracked wickedly and the horses laboured more -strenuously than ever, so that our vehicle swung upon its springs till -it might well seem we were upon a ship at sea. - -For me he had but the one comment--"I wonder what's for _djeuner._" He -said it each time solemnly as it were his matins, and then slid into his -swinish sleep again. - -The night seemed interminable, but by-and-by the day broke. I watched -it with eagerness as it gradually paled the east, and broke up the black -bulk of the surrounding land into fields, orchards, gardens, woods. And -the birds awoke--God bless the little birds!--they woke, and started -twittering and singing in the haze, surely the sweetest, the least -sinless of created things, the tiny angels of the woods, from whom, -walking in summer fields in the mornings of my age as of my youth, I -have borrowed hope and cheer. - -Father Hamilton wakened too, and heard the birds; indeed, they filled -the ear of the dawn with melodies. A smile singularly pleasant came upon -his countenance as he listened. - -"_Pardieu!_" said he, "how they go on! Has't the woodland soul, _Sieur -Croque-mort_? Likely enough not; I never knew another but myself and -thine uncle that had it, and 'tis the mischief that words will not -explain the same. 'Tis a gift of the fairies"--here he crossed himself -devoutly and mumbled a Romish incantation--"that, having the -said woodland spirit--in its nature a Pagan thing perchance, but -_n'importe!_--thou hast in the song of the tiny beings choiring there -something to make the inward tremor that others find in a fiddle and -a glass of wine. No! no! not that, 'tis a million times more precious; -'tis--'tis the pang of the devotee, 'tis the ultimate thrill of things. -Myself, I could expire upon the ecstasy of the thrush, or climb to -heaven upon the lark's May rapture. And there they go! the loves! and -they have the same ditty I heard from them first in Louvain. There are -but three clean things in this world, my lad of Scotland--a bird, a -flower, and a child's laughter. I have been confessor long enough -to know all else is filth. But what's the luck in waiting for us at -Azincourt? and what's the _pot-au-feu_ to-day?" - -He listened a little longer to the birds, and fell asleep smiling, his -fat face for once not amiss, and I was left again alone as it were to -receive the day. - -We had long left the dunes and the side of the sea, though sometimes on -puffs of wind I heard its distant rumour. Now the land was wooded with -the apple tree; we rose high on the side of a glen, full of a rolling -fog that streamed off as the day grew. A tolerable land enough; perhaps -more lush than my own, with scarce a rood uncultivated, and dotted -far and wide by the strangest farm steadings and pendicles, but such -steadings and pendicles as these eyes never before beheld, with enormous -eaves of thatch reaching almost to the ground, and ridiculous windows of -no shape; with the yokings of the cattle, the boynes, stoups, carts, and -ploughs about the places altogether different from our own. We passed -troops marching, peasants slouching with baskets of poultry to market -towns, now and then a horseman, now and then a caleche. And there were -numerous hamlets, and at least two middling-sized towns, and finally -we came, at the hour of eleven, upon the place appointed for our -_djeuner_. It was a small inn on the banks of the only rivulet I had -seen in all the journey. I forget its name, but I remember there was -a patch of heather on the side of it, and that I wished ardently the -season had been autumn that I might have looked upon the purple bells. - -"Tis a long lane that has no tavern," said his reverence, and oozed -out of his side of the coach with groanings. The innkeeper ran forth, -louted, and kissed his hand. - -"_Jour, m'sieu jour!_" said Father Hamilton hurriedly. "And now, what -have you here that is worth while?" - -The innkeeper respectfully intimated that the church of -Saint-Jean-en-Grve was generally considered worth notice. Its -vestments, relics, and windows were of merit, and the view from the -tower-- - -"_Mort de ma vie!_" cried the priest angrily, "do I look like a -traveller who trots up belfrys in strange villages at the hour of -_djeuner?_ A plague on Saint-Jean-en-Grve! I said nothing at all of -churches; I spoke of _djeuner_, my good fellow. What's for _djeuner?_" - -The innkeeper recounted a series of dishes. Father Hamilton hummed and -hawed, reflected, condemned, approved, all with an eagerness beyond -description. And when the meal was being dished up, he went frantically -to the kitchen and lifted pot-lids, and swung a salad for himself, and -confounding the ordinary wine for the vilest piquette ordered a special -variety from the cellar. It was a spectacle of gourmandise not without -its humour; I was so vastly engaged in watching him that I scarce -glanced at the men who had travelled on the outside of the coach since -morning. - -What was my amazement when I did so to see that the servant or valet (as -he turned out to be) was no other than the Swiss, Bernard, who had been -in the service of Miss Walkinshaw no later than yesterday morning! - -I commented on the fact to Father Hamilton when we sat down to eat. - -"Why, yes!" he said, gobbling at his vivers with a voracity I learned -not to wonder at later when I knew him more. "The same man. A good man, -too, or I'm a Turk. I've envied Miss Walkinshaw this lusty, trusty, -secret rogue for a good twelvemonth, and just on the eve of my leaving -Dunkerque, by a very providence, the fellow gets drunk and finds himself -dismissed. He came to me with a flush and a hiccough last night to ask -a recommendation, and overlooking the peccadillo that is not of a nature -confined to servants, Master Greig, let me tell thee, I gave him a place -in my _entourage_. Madame will not like it, but no matter! she'll have -time to forget it ere I see her again." - -I felt a mild satisfaction to have the Swiss with us just because I had -heard him called "Bernard" so often by his late employer. - -We rested for some hours after _djeuner_, seated under a tree by the -brink of the rivulet, and in the good humour of a man satisfied in -nature the priest condescended to let me into some of his plans. - -We were bound for Paris in the first place. "Zounds!" he cried, "I am -all impatience to clap eyes again on Lutetia, the sweet rogue, and -eat decent bread and behold a noble gown and hear a right cadenza. -And though thou hast lost thy Lyrnessides--la! la! la! I have thee -there!--thou canst console thyself with the Haemonian lyre. Paris! oh, -lad, I'd give all to have thy years and a winter or two in it. Still, we -shall make shift--oh, yes! I warrant thee we shall make shift. We shall -be there, at my closest reckoning, on the second day of Holy Week, and -my health being so poorly we shall not wait to commence _de faire les -Pques_ an hour after. What's in a _soutane_, anyhow, that it should be -permitted to mortify an honest priest's oesophagus?" - -I sighed in spite of myself, for he had made me think of our throwing of -Easter eggs on the green at Hazel Den. - -"What!" he cried. "Does my frugal Scot fancy we have not enough -trinkgeld for enjoyment. Why, look here!--and here!--and here!" - -He thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth numerous rouleaux--so -many that I thought his corpulence might well be a plethora of coin. - -"There!" said he, squeezing a rouleau till it burst and spreading out -the gold upon the table before him. "Am I a poor parish priest or a very -Croesus?" - -Then he scooped in the coins with his fat hands and returned all to his -bosom. "_Allons!_" he said shortly; we were on the road again! - -That night we put up at the Bon Accueil in a town whose name escapes my -recollection. - -He had gone to bed; through the wall from his chamber came the noise -of his sleep, while I was at the writing of my first letter to Miss -Walkinshaw, making the same as free and almost affectionate as I had -been her lover, for as I know it now, I was but seeking in her for the -face of the love of the first woman and the last my heart was given to. - -I had scarcely concluded when the Swiss came knocking softly to my door, -and handed me a letter from the very woman whose name was still in wet -ink upon my folded page. I tore it open eagerly, to find a score of -pleasant remembrances. She had learned the night before that the priest -was to set out in the morning: "I have kept my word," she went on. "Your -best friend is Bernard, so I let you have him, and let us exchange our -billets through him. It will be the most Discreet method. And I am, with -every consideration, Ye Ken Wha." - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -LEADS ME TO THE FRONT OF A COFFEE-HOUSE WHERE I AM STARTLED TO SEE A -FACE I KNOW - -The occasion for this precaution in our correspondence was beyond my -comprehension; nevertheless I was too proud to have the patronage of so -fine a woman to cavil at what system she should devise for its discreet -conduct, and the Swiss that night got my first letter to frank and -despatch. He got one next evening also, and the evening after that; in -short, I made a diurnal of each stage in our journey and Bernard was my -postman--so to name it--on every occasion that I forwarded the same to -Miss Walkinshaw. He assured me that he was in circumstances to secure -the more prompt forwardation of my epistles than if I trusted in the -common runner, and it was a proof of this that when we got, after some -days, into Versailles, he should bring to me a letter from the lady -herself informing me how much of pleasure she had got from the receipt -of the first communication I had sent her. - -Perhaps it is a sign of the injudicious mind that I should not be very -mightily pleased with this same Versailles. We had come into it of a -sunny afternoon and quartered at the Cerf d'Or Inn, and went out in the -evening for the air. Somehow the place gave me an antagonism; its dipt -trees all in rows upon the wayside like a guard of soldiers; its trim -gardens and bits of plots; its fountains crying, as it seemed, for -attention--these things hurt me as a liberty taken with nature. Here, -thought I, is the fitting place for the raff in ruffles and the scented -wanton; it should be the artificial man and the insincere woman should -be condemned to walk for ever in these alleys and drink in these -_bosquets;_ I would not give a fir planting black against the evening -sky at home for all this pompous play-acting at landscape, nor a yard -of the brown heather of the hills for all these well-drilled flower -parterres. - -"Eh! M. Croque-mort," said the priest, delighted visibly with all he saw -about him; "what think'st thou of Le Notre's gardening?" - -"A good deal, sir," I said, "that need never be mentioned. I feel a pity -for the poor trees as I did for yon dipt poodle dog at Griepon." - -"La! la! la! _sots raissonable_, Monsieur," cried the priest. "We cannot -have the tastes of our Dubarrys and Pompadours and Maintenons so called -in question by an untravelled Scot that knows but the rude mountain and -stunted oaks dying in a murrain of climate. 'Art too ingenuous, youth. -And yet--and yet"--here he paused and tapped his temple and smiled -whimsically--"between ourselves, I prefer the woods of Somme where the -birds sang together so jocund t'other day. But there now--ah, _quelle -gloire!_" - -We had come upon the front of the palace, and its huge far-reaching -masonry, that I learned later to regard as cold, formal, and wanting in -a soul, vastly discomposed me. I do not know why it should be so, but -as I gazed at this--the greatest palace I had ever beheld--I felt tears -rush irrestrainably to my eyes. Maybe it was the poor little poet in -MacGibbon's law chamber in Lanark town that used to tenant every ancient -dwelling with spirits of the past, cropped up for the moment in Father -Hamilton's secretary, and made me, in a flash, people the place with -kings--and realise something of the wrench it must have been and still -would be to each and all of them to say adieu at the long last to this -place of noisy grandeur where they had had their time of gaiety and -splendour. Anyhow, I well-nigh wept, and the priest was quick to see it. - -"Fore God!" he cried, "here's Andrew Greig again! 'Twas the wickedest -rogue ever threw dice, and yet the man must rain at the eyes like a very -woman." - -And yet he was pleased, I thought, to see me touched. A band was playing -somewhere in a garden unseen; he tapped time to its music with his -finger tips against each other and smiled beatifically and hummed. He -seemed at peace with the world and himself at that moment, yet a second -later he was the picture of distress and apprehension. - -We were going towards the Place d'Armes; he had, as was customary, his -arm through mine, leaning on me more than was comfortable, for he was -the poorest judge imaginable of his own corpulence. Of a sudden I felt -him jolt as if he had been startled, and then he gripped my arm with -a nervous grasp. All that was to account for his perturbation was that -among the few pedestrians passing us on the road was one in a uniform -who cast a rapid glance at us. It was not wonderful that he should do -so, for indeed we were a singularly ill-assorted pair, but there was a -recognition of the priest in the glance the man in the uniform threw -at him in passing. Nothing was said; the man went on his way and we on -ours, but looking at Father Hamilton I saw his face had lost its colour -and grown blotched in patches. His hand trembled; for the rest of the -walk he was silent, and he could not too soon hurry us back to the Cerf -d'Or. - -Next day was Sunday, and Father Hamilton went to Mass leaving me to my -own affairs, that were not of that complexion perhaps most becoming -on that day to a lad from Scotland. He came back anon and dressed most -scrupulously in a suit of lay clothing. - -"Come out, Master Greig," said he, "and use thine eyes for a poor -priest that has ruined his own in studying the Fathers and seeking for -honesty." - -"It is not in the nature of a compliment to myself, that," I said, a -little tired of his sour sentiments regarding humanity, and not afraid -in the least to tell him so. - -"Eh!" said he. "I spoke not of thee, thou savage. A plague on thy curt -temper; 'twas ever the weakness of the Greigs. Come, and I shall show -thee a house where thy uncle and I had many a game of dominoes." - -We went to a coffee-house and watched the fashionable world go by. It -was a sight monstrously fine. Because it was the Easter Sunday the women -had on their gayest apparel, the men their most belaced _jabots_. - -"Now look you well, Friend Scotland," said Father Hamilton, as we sat -at a little table and watched the stream of quality pass, "look you well -and watch particularly every gentleman that passes to the right, and -when you see one you know tell me quickly." - -He had dropped his Roman manner as if in too sober a mood to act. - -"Is it a game?" I asked. "Who can I ken in the town of Versailles that -never saw me here before?" - -"Never mind," said he, "do as I tell you. A sharp eye, and-" - -"Why," I cried, "there's a man I have seen before!" - -"Where? where?" said Father Hamilton, with the utmost interest lighting -his countenance. - -"Yonder, to the left of the man with the velvet breeches. He will pass -us in a minute or two." - -The person I meant would have been kenspeckle in any company by -the splendour of his clothing, but beyond his clothing there was -a haughtiness in his carriage that singled him out even among the -fashionables of Versailles, who were themselves obviously interested in -his personality, to judge by the looks that they gave him as closely -as breeding permitted. He came sauntering along the pavement swinging -a cane by its tassel, his chin in the air, his eyes anywhere but on the -crowds that parted to give him room. As he came closer I saw it was a -handsome face enough that thus was cocked in haughtiness to the heavens, -not unlike Clancarty's in that it showed the same signs of dissipation, -yet with more of native nobility in it than was in the good enough -countenance of the French-Irish nobleman. Where had I seen that face -before? - -It must have been in Scotland; it must have been when I was a boy; it -was never in the Mearns. This was a hat with a Dettingen cock; when I -saw that forehead last it was under a Highland bonnet. - -A Highland bonnet--why! yes, and five thousand Highland bonnets were in -its company--whom had I here but Prince Charles Edward! - -The recognition set my heart dirling in my breast, for there was -enough of the rebel in me to feel a romantic glow at seeing him who set -Scotland in a blaze, and was now the stuff of songs our women sang -in milking folds among the hills; that heads had fallen for, and the -Hebrides had been searched for in vain for weary seasons. The man was -never a hero of mine so long as I had the cooling influence of my father -to tell me how lamentable for Scotland had been his success had God -permitted the same, yet I was proud to-day to see him. - -"Is it he?" asked the priest, dividing his attention between me and the -approaching nobleman. - -"It's no other," said I. "I would know Prince Charles in ten thousand, -though I saw him but the once in a rabble of caterans coming up the -Gallow-gate of Glasgow." - -"Ah," said the priest, with a curious sighing sound. "They said he -passed here at the hour. And that's our gentleman, is it? I expected -he would have been--would have been different." When the Prince was -opposite the caf where we sat he let his glance come to earth, and it -fell upon myself. His aspect changed; there was something of recognition -in it; though he never slackened his pace and was gazing the next moment -down the vista of the street, I knew that his glance had taken me in -from head to heel, and that I was still the object of his thoughts. - -"You see! you see!" cried the priest, "I was right, and he knew the -Greig. Why, lad, shalt have an Easter egg for this--the best horologe in -Versailles upon Monday morning." - -"Why, how could he know me?" I asked. "It is an impossibility, for when -he and I were in the same street last he rode a horse high above an army -and I was only a raw laddie standing at a close-mouth in Duff's Land in -the Gallowgate." - -But all the same I felt the priest was right, and that there was some -sort of recognition in the Prince's glance at me in passing. - -Father Hamilton poured himself a generous glass and drank thirstily. - -"La! la! la!" said he, resuming his customary manner of address. "I -daresay his Royal Highness has never clapt eyes on thy _croque-mori_ -countenance before, but he has seen its like--ay, and had a regard for -it, too! Thine Uncle Andrew has done the thing for thee again; the mole, -the hair, the face, the shoes--sure they advertise the Greig as by a -drum tuck! and Charles Edward knew thy uncle pretty well so I supposed -he would know thee. And this is my gentleman, is it? Well, well! No, not -at all well; mighty ill indeed. Not the sort of fellow I had looked for -at all. Seems a harmless man enough, and has tossed many a goblet in the -way of company. If he had been a sour whey-face now--" - -Father Hamilton applied himself most industriously to the bottle that -afternoon, and it was not long till the last of my respect for him was -gone. Something troubled him. He was moody and hilarious by turns, but -neither very long, and completed my distrust of him when he intimated -that there was some possibility of our trip across Europe never coming -into effect. But all the same, I was to be assured of his patronage, -I was to continue in his service as secretary, if, as was possible, he -should take up his residence for a time in Paris. And money--why, look -again! he had a ship's load of it, and 'twould never be said of Father -Hamilton that he could not share with a friend. And there he thrust some -rouleaux upon me and clapped my shoulder and was so affected at his own -love for Andrew Greig's nephew that he must even weep. - -Weeping indeed was the priest's odd foible for the week we remained -at Versailles. He that had been so jocular before was now filled with -morose moods, and would ruminate over his bottle by the hour at a time. - -He was none the better for the company he met during our stay at the -Cerf d'Or--all priests, and to the number of half a dozen, one of them -an abb with a most noble and reverent countenance. They used to come to -him late at night, confer with him secretly in his room, and when -they were gone I found him each time drenched in a perspiration and -feverishly gulping spirits. - -Every day we went to the caf where we had seen the Prince first, and -every day at the same hour we saw his Royal Highness, who, it appeared, -was not known to the world as such, though known to me. The sight of -him seemed to trouble Father Hamilton amazingly, and yet 'twas the grand -object of the day--its only diversion; when we had seen the Prince we -went back straight to the inn every afternoon. - -The Cerf d'Or had a courtyard, cobbled with rough stones, in which there -was a great and noisy traffic. In the midst of the court there was a -little clump of evergreen trees and bushes in tubs, round which were -gathered a few tables and chairs whereat--now that the weather was -mild--the world sat in the afternoon. The walls about were covered with -dusty ivy where sparrows had begun to busy themselves with love and -housekeeping; lilacs sprouted into green, and the porter of the house -was for ever scratching at the hard earth about the plants, and tying up -twigs and watering the pots. It was here I used to write my letters to -Miss Walkinshaw at a little table separate from the rest, and I think it -was on Friday I was at this pleasant occupation when I looked up to see -the man with the uniform gazing at me from the other side of the bushes -as if he were waiting to have the letter when I was done with it. - -I went in and asked Father Hamilton who this man was. - -"What!" he cried in a great disturbance, "the same as we met near the -Trianon! O Lord! Paul, there is something wrong, for that was Buhot." - -"And this Buhot?" I asked. - -"A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want -you to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into -the hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that -he passes the caf at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest -thing in the world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's -to be done by you." - -"But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by -the Swiss?" - -"That is my affair," cried the priest testily. "The Prince knows -you--that is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have -the Swiss with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he -should have this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis -a letter from his Royal Highness's most intimate friend." - -I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address -was in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the -bosom of my coat! - -What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be -conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must -carry it! - -"Very well," I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince. - -The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer -clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour -more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my -hat in my hand. "I beg your Royal Highness's pardon," I said in English, -"but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you." - -He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes, -and took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction, -reddened, and bit his lip. - -"Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the -honour?" - -"Greig," I answered. "Paul Greig." - -"Ah!" he cried, "of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family. -_Charm, Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance_. M. Andrew Greig-" - -"Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?" - -"So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of -irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M. -Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a--what was it -now?--a gomeral." - -"It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness," I said. "But I -know that he loved you and your cause." - -"I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did," said the Prince, -flushing, and with a show of pleasure at my speech. "I have learned of -late that the fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it -all I liked M. Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing -Monsieur Greig's nephew soon again. _Au plaisir de vous revoir!_" And -off he went, putting the letter, unread, into his pocket. - -When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed, -he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE - -And now I come to an affair of which there have been many accounts -written, some of them within a mile or two of the truth, the most but -sheer romantics. I have in my mind notably the account of the officer -Buhot printed two years after the events in question, in which he makes -the most fabulous statement as to the valiancy of Father Hamilton's -stand in the private house in the Rue des Reservoirs, and maintains that -myself--_le fier Eccossais_, as he is flattering enough to designate -me--drew my sword upon himself and threatened to run him through for his -proposition that I should confess to a complicity in the attempt upon -his Royal Highness. I have seen his statement reproduced with some extra -ornament in the _Edinburgh Courant_, and the result of all this is -that till this day my neighbours give me credit, of which I am loth to -advantage myself, for having felled two or three of the French officers -before I was overcome at the hinder-end. - -The matter is, in truth, more prosaic as it happened, and if these -memorials of mine leave the shadow of a doubt in the minds of any -interested in an old story that created some stir in its time, I pray -them see the archives of M. Bertin, the late Lieut.-General of the -police. Bertin was no particular friend of mine, that had been the -unconscious cause of great trouble and annoyance to him, but he has the -truth in the deposition I made and signed prior to my appointment to a -company of the d'Auvergne regiment. - -Well, to take matters in their right order, it was the evening of the -day I had given the letter to the Prince that Father Hamilton expressed -his intention of passing that night in the house of a friend. - -I looked at him with manifest surprise, for he had been at the bottle -most of the afternoon, and was by now more in a state for his bed than -for going among friends. - -"Well," he cried peevishly, observing my dubiety. "Do you think me too -drunk for the society of a parcel of priests? _Ma foi!_ it is a pretty -thing that I cannot budge from my ordinary habitude of things without a -stuck owl setting up a silent protest." - -To a speech so wanting in dignity I felt it better there should be no -reply, and instead I helped him into his great-coat. As I did so, he -made an awkward lurching movement due to his corpulence, and what jumped -out of an inner pocket but a pistol? Which of us was the more confused -at that it would be hard to say. For my part, the weapon--that I -had never seen in his possession before--was a fillip to my sleeping -conscience; I picked it up with a distaste, and he took it from me with -trembling fingers and an averted look. - -"A dangerous place, Versailles, after dark," he explained feebly. "One -never knows, one never knows," and into his pocket hurriedly with it. - -"I shall be back for breakfast," he went on. "Unless--unless--oh, I -certainly shall be back." And off he set. - -The incident of the pistol disturbed me for a while. I made a score of -speculations as to why a fat priest should burden himself with such an -article, and finally concluded that it was as he suggested, to defend -himself from night birds if danger offered; though that at the time had -been the last thing I myself would have looked for in the well-ordered -town of Versailles. I sat in the common-room or _salle_ of the inn for -a while after he had gone, and thereafter retired to my own bedchamber, -meaning to read or write for an hour or two before going to bed. In the -priest's room--which was on the same landing and next to my own--I heard -the whistle of Bernard the Swiss, but I had no letters for him that -evening, and we did not meet each other. I was at first uncommon dull, -feeling more than usually the hame-wae that must have been greatly -wanting in the experience of my Uncle Andrew to make him for so long a -wanderer on the face of the earth. But there is no condition of life -so miserable but what one finds in it remissions, diversions, nay, and -delights also, and soon I was--of all things in the world to be doing -when what followed came to pass!--inditing a song to a lady, my quill -scratching across the paper in spurts and dashes, and baffled pauses -where the matter would not attend close enough on the mood, stopping -altogether at a stanza's end to hum the stuff over to myself with great -satisfaction. I was, as I say, in the midst of this; the Swiss had gone -downstairs; all in my part of the house was still, though vehicles moved -about in the courtyard, when unusually noisy footsteps sounded on the -stair, with what seemed like the tap of scabbards on the treads. - -It was a sound so strange that my hand flew by instinct to the small -sword I was now in the habit of wearing and had learned some of the use -of from Thurot. - -There was no knock for entrance; the door was boldly opened and four -officers with Buhot at their head were immediately in the room. - -Buhot intimated in French that I was to consider myself under arrest, -and repeated the same in indifferent English that there might be no -mistake about a fact as patent as that the sword was in his hand. - -For a moment I thought the consequence of my crime had followed me -abroad, and that this squat, dark officer, watching me with the scrutiny -of a forest animal, partly in a dread that my superior bulk should -endanger himself, was in league with the law of my own country. That -I should after all be dragged back in chains to a Scots gallows was a -prospect unendurable; I put up the ridiculous small sword and dared -him to lay a hand on me. But I had no sooner done so than its folly was -apparent, and I laid the weapon down. - -"_Tant mieux!_" said he, much relieved, and then an assurance that he -knew I was a gentleman of discretion and would not make unnecessary -trouble. "Indeed," he went on, "_Voyez!_ I take these men away; I have -the infinite trust in Monsieur; Monsieur and I shall settle this little -affair between us." - -And he sent his friends to the foot of the stair. - -"Monsieur may compose himself," he assured me with a profound -inclination. - -"I am very much obliged to you," I said, seating myself on the corner of -the table and crushing my poor verses into my pocket as I did so, "I am -very much obliged to you, but I'm at a loss to understand to what I owe -the honour." - -"Indeed!" he said, also seating himself on the table to show, I -supposed, that he was on terms of confidence with his prisoner. -"Monsieur is Father Hamilton's secretary?" - -"So I believe," I said; "at least I engaged for the office that's -something of a sinecure, to tell the truth." - -And then Buhot told me a strange story. - -He told me that Father Hamilton was now a prisoner, and on his way to -the prison of Bictre. He was--this Buhot--something of the artist and -loved to make his effects most telling (which accounts, no doubt, for -the romantical nature of the accounts aforesaid), and sitting upon the -table-edge he embarked upon a narrative of the most crowded two hours -that had perhaps been in Father Hamilton's lifetime. - -It seemed that when the priest had left the Cerf d'Or, he had gone to -a place till recently called the Bureau des Carrosses pour la Rochelle, -and now unoccupied save by a concierge, and the property of some person -or persons unknown. There he had ensconced himself in the only habitable -room and waited for a visitor regarding whom the concierge had his -instructions. - -"You must imagine him," said the officer, always with the fastidiousness -of an artist for his effects, "you must imagine him, Monsieur, sitting -in this room, all alone, breathing hard, with a pistol before him on the -table, and--" - -"What! a pistol!" I cried, astounded and alarmed. "_Certainement_" said -Buhot, charmed with the effect his dramatic narrative was creating. -"Your friend, _mon ami_, would be little good, I fancy, with a rapier. -Anyway, 'twas a pistol. A carriage drives up to the door; the priest -rises to his feet with the pistol in his hand; there is the rap at the -door. '_Entrez!_' cries the priest, cocking the pistol, and no sooner -was his visitor within than he pulled the trigger; the explosion rang -through the dwelling; the chamber was full of smoke." - -"Good heavens!" I cried in horror, "and who was the unhappy wretch?" - -Buhot shrugged his shoulders, made a French gesture with his hands, and -pursed his mouth. - -"Whom did you invite to the room at the hour of ten, M. Greig?" he -asked. - -"Invite!" I cried. "It's your humour to deal in parables. I declare to -you I invited no one." - -"And yet, my good sir, you are Hamilton's secretary and you are -Hamilton's envoy. 'Twas you handed to the Prince the _poulet_ that was -designed to bring him to his fate." - -My instinct grasped the situation in a second; I had been the ignorant -tool of a madman; the whole events of the past week made the fact plain, -and I was for the moment stunned. - -Buhot watched me closely, and not unkindly, I can well believe, from -what I can recall of our interview and all that followed after it. - -"And you tell me he killed the Prince?" I cried at last. - -"No, Monsieur," said Buhot; "I am happy to say he did not. The Prince -was better advised than to accept the invitation you sent to him." - -"Still," I cried with remorse, "there's a man dead, and 'tis as much as -happens when princes themselves are clay." - -"_Parfaitement_, Monsieur, though it is indiscreet to shout it here. -Luckily there is no one at all dead in this case, otherwise it had been -myself, for I was the man who entered to the priest and received his -pistol fire. It was not the merriest of duties either," he went on, -always determined I should lose no iota of the drama, "for the priest -might have discovered before I got there that the balls of his pistol -had been abstracted." - -"Then Father Hamilton has been under watch?" - -"Since ever you set foot in Versailles last Friday," said Buhot -complacently. "The Damiens affair has sharpened our wits, I warrant -you." - -"Well, sir," I said, "let me protest that I have been till this moment -in utter darkness about Hamilton's character or plans. I took him for -what he seemed--a genial buffoon of a kind with more gear than -guidance." - -"We cannot, with infinite regret, assume that, Monsieur, but personally -I would venture a suggestion," said Buhot, coming closer on the table -and assuming an affable air. "In this business, Hamilton is a tool--no -more; and a poor one at that, badly wanting the grindstone. To break -him--phew!--'twere as easy as to break a glass, but he is one of a great -movement and the man we seek is his master--one Father Fleuriau of the -Jesuits. Hamilton's travels were but part of a great scheme that has -sent half a dozen of his kind chasing the Prince in the past year or -two from Paris to Amsterdam, from Amsterdam to Orleans, from Orleans to -Hamburg, Seville, Lisbon, Rome, Brussels, Potsdam, Nuremburg, Berlin. -The same hand that extracted his bullets tapped the priest's portfolio -and found the wretch was in promise of a bishopric and a great sum of -money. You see, M. Greig, I am curiously frank with my prisoner." - -"And no doubt you have your reasons," said I, but beat, myself, -to imagine what they could be save that he might have proofs of my -innocence. - -"Very well," said M. Buhot. "To come to the point, it is this, that we -desire to have the scheme of the Jesuits for the Prince's assassination, -and other atrocities shocking to all that revere the divinity of -princes, crumbled up. Father Hamilton is at the very roots of the -secret; if, say, a gentleman so much in his confidence as yourself--now, -if such a one were, say, to share a cell with this regicide for a night -or two, and pursue judicious inquiries----" - -"Stop! stop!" I cried, my blood hammering in my head, and the words like -to choke me. "Am I to understand that you would make me your spy and -informer upon this miserable old madman that has led me such a gowk's -errand?" - -Buhot slid back off the table edge and on to his feet. "Oh," said he, -"the terms are not happily chosen: 'spy'--'informer'--come, Monsieur -Greig; this man is in all but the actual accomplishment of his purpose -an assassin. 'Tis the duty of every honest man to help in discovering -the band of murderers whose tool he has been." - -"Then I'm no honest man, M. Buhot," said I bitterly, "for I've no -stomach for a duty so dirty." - -"Think of it for a moment," he pressed, with evident surprise at my -decision. "Bictre is an unwholesome hostelry, I give you my word. -Consider that your choice is between a night or two there and--who -knows?--a lifetime of Galbanon that is infinitely worse." - -"Then let it be Galbanon!" I said, and lifted my sword and slapped it -furiously, sheathed as it was, like a switch upon the table. - -[Illustration: 198] - -Buhot leaped back in a fear that I was to attack him, and cried his men -from the stair foot. - -"This force is not needed at all," I said. "I am innocent enough to be -prepared to go quietly." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -OF A NIGHT JOURNEY AND BLACK BICETRE AT THE END OF IT - -'Twas a long journey to the prison of Bictre, which is two miles to the -south of the city of Paris, a great building that had once (they say) -been a palace, but now in the time of my experience was little better -than a vestibule of hell. I was driven to it through a black loud night -of rain, a plunging troop of horse on either hand the coach as if I were -a traveller of state, and Buhot in front of me as silent as the priest -had been the day we left Dunkerque, though wakeful, and the tip of -his scabbard leaning on my boot to make sure that in the darkness no -movement of mine should go unobserved. - -The trees swung and roared in the wind; the glass lozens of the carriage -pattered to the pelting showers; sometimes we lurched horribly in the -ruts of the highway, and were released but after monstrous efforts -on the part of the cavaliers. Once, as we came close upon a loop of a -brawling river, I wished with all fervency that we might fall in, and -so end for ever this pitiful coil of trials whereto fate had obviously -condemned poor Paul Greig. To die among strangers (as is widely -known) is counted the saddest of deaths by our country people, and so, -nowadays, it would seem to myself, but there and then it appeared an -enviable conclusion to the Spoiled Horn that had blundered from folly to -folly. To die there and then would be to leave no more than a regret and -an everlasting wonder in the folks at home; to die otherwise, as seemed -my weird, upon a block or gallows, would be to foul the name of my -family for generations, and I realised in my own person the agony of my -father when he got the news, and I bowed my shoulders in the coach below -the shame that he would feel as in solemn blacks he walked through the -Sabbath kirkyard in summers to come in Mearns, with the knowledge that -though neighbours looked not at him but with kindness, their inmost -thoughts were on the crimson chapter of his son. - -Well, we came at the long last to Bictre, and I was bade alight in the -flare of torches. A strange, a memorable scene; it will never leave me. -Often I remit me there in dreams. When I came out of the conveyance the -lights dazzled me, and Buhot put his hands upon my shoulders and turned -me without a word in the direction he wished me to take. It was through -a vast and frowning doorway that led into a courtyard so great that -the windows on the other side seemed to be the distance of a field. The -windows were innumerable, and though the hour was late they were lit in -stretching corridors. Fires flamed in corners of the yard--great leaping -fires round which warders (as I guessed them) gathered to dry themselves -or get warmth against the chill of the early April morning. Their -scabbards or their muskets glittered now and then in the light of the -flames; their voices--restrained by the presence of Buhot--sounded -deep and dreadful to me that knew not the sum of his iniquity yet could -shudder at the sense of what portended. - -[Illustration: 203] - -It were vain for me to try and give expression to my feeling as I went -past these fires across the stony yard, and entered between a guard or -two at the other side. At the root of my horror was the sentiment that -all was foreign, that I was no more to these midnight monsters round -their torturing flames than a creature of the wood, less, perhaps, for -were they not at sworn war with my countrymen, and had not I a share -at least of the repute of regicide? And when, still led by the silent -officer, I entered the building itself and walked through an unending -corridor broken at intervals by black doors and little barred borrowed -lights, and heard sometimes a moan within, or a shriek far off in -another part of the building, I experienced something of that long -swound that is insanity. Then I was doomed for the rest of my brief days -to be among these unhappy wretches--the victims of the law or political -vengeance, the _forat_ who had thieved, or poisoned, perjured himself, -or taken human blood! - -At last we came to a door, where Buhot stopped me and spoke, for the -first time, almost, since we had left Versailles. He put his hand out to -check a warder who was going to open the cell for my entrance. - -"I am not a hard man, M. Greig," said he, in a stumbling English, "and -though this is far beyond my duties, and, indeed, contrary to the same, -I would give you another chance. We shall have, look you, our friend the -priest in any case, and to get the others is but a matter of time. 'Tis -a good citizen helps the law always; you must have that respect for the -law that you should feel bound to circumvent those who would go counter -to it with your cognisance." - -"My good man," I said, as quietly as I could, and yet internally with -feelings like to break me, "I have already said my say. If the tow was -round my thrapple I would say no more than that I am innocent of any -plot against a man by whose family mine have lost, and that I myself, -for all my loyalty to my country, would do much to serve as a private -individual." - -"Consider," he pleaded. "After all, this Hamilton may be a madman with -nothing at all to tell that will help us." - -"But the bargain is to be that I must pry and I must listen," said I, -"and be the tale-pyat whose work may lead to this poor old buffoon's and -many another's slaughtering. Not I, M. Buhot, and thank ye kindly! It's -no' work for one of the Greigs of Hazel Den." - -"I fear you do not consider all," he said patiently--so patiently indeed -that I wondered at him. "I will show you to what you are condemned even -before your trial, before you make up your mind irrevocably to refuse -this very reasonable request of ours," and he made a gesture that caused -the warder to open the door so that I could see within. - -There was no light of its own in the cell, but it borrowed wanly a -little of the radiance of the corridor, and I could see that it was bare -to the penury of a mausoleum, with a stone floor, a wooden palliasse, -and no window other than a barred hole above the door. There was not -even a stool to sit on. But I did not quail. - -"I have been in more comfortable quarters, M. Buhot," I said, "but in -none that I could occupy with a better conscience." Assuming with that a -sort of bravado, I stepped in before he asked me. - -"Very good," he cried; "but I cannot make you my felicitations on your -decision, M. Greig," and without more ado he had the door shut on me. - -I sat on the woollen palliasse for a while, with my head on my hands, -surrendered all to melancholy; and then, though the thing may seem -beyond belief, I stretched myself and slept till morning. It was not the -most refreshing of sleep, but still 'twas wonderful that I should sleep -at all in such circumstances, and I take it that a moorland life had -been a proper preparation for just such trials. - -When I wakened in the morning the prison seemed full of eerie noises--of -distant shrieks as in a bedlam, and commanding voices, and of ringing -metals, the clank of fetters, or the thud of musket-butts upon the -stones. A great beating of feet was in the yard, as if soldiers were -manoeuvring, and it mastered me to guess what all this might mean, until -a warder opened my door and ordered me out for an airing. - -I mind always of a parrot at a window. - -This window was one that looked into the yard from some official's -dwelling in that dreadful place, and the bird occupied a great cage that -was suspended from a nail outside. - -The bird, high above the rabble of rogues in livery, seemed to have a -devilish joy in the spectacle of the misery tramping round and round -beneath, for it clung upon the bars and thrust out its head to whistle, -as if in irony, or taunt us with a foul song. There was one air it -had, expressed so clearly that I picked up air and words with little -difficulty, and the latter ran something like this: - - Ah! ah! Pierrot, Pierrot! - Fais ta toilette, - Voila le barbier! oh! oh! - Et sa charrette-- - -all in the most lugubrious key. - -And who were we that heard that reference to the axe? We were the scum, -the _sordes_, the rot of France. There was, doubtless, no crime before -the law of the land, no outrage against God and man, that had not here -its representative. We were not men, but beasts, cut off from every -pleasant--every clean and decent association, the visions of sin -always behind the peering eyes, the dreams of vice and crime for ever -fermenting in the low brows. I felt 'twas the forests we should be -frequenting--the forests of old, the club our weapon, the cave our -habitation; no song ours, nor poem, no children to infect with fondness, -no women to smile at in the light of evening lamps. The forest--the -cave--the animal! What were we but children of the outer dark, condemned -from the start of time, our faces ground hard against the flints, our -feet bogged in hag and mire? - -There must have been several hundreds of the convicts in the yard, and -yet I was told later that it was not a fourth of the misery that Bictre -held, and that scores were leaving weekly for the _bagnes_--the hulks at -Toulon and at Brest--while others took their places. - -Every man wore a uniform--a coarse brown jacket, vast wide breeches of -the same hue, a high sugar-loaf cap and wooden shoes--all except some -privileged, whereof I was one--and we were divided into gangs, each gang -with its warders--tall grenadiers with their muskets ready. - -Round and round and across and across we marched in the great -quadrangle, every man treading the rogues' measure with leg-weary -reluctance, many cursing their warders under breath, most scowling, all -hopeless and all lost. - -'Twas the exercise of the day. - -As we slouched through that mad ceremony in the mud of the yard, with -rain still drizzling on us, the parrot in its cage had a voice loud -and shrill above the commands of the grenadiers and officers; sang -its taunting song, or whistled like a street boy, a beast so free, so -careless and remote, that I had a fancy it had the only soul in the -place. - -As I say, we were divided into gangs, each gang taking its own course -back and forward in the yard as its commander ordered. The gang I was -with marched a little apart from the rest. We were none of us in this -gang in the ugly livery of the prison, but in our own clothing, and we -were, it appeared, allowed that privilege because we were yet to try. I -knew no reason for the distinction at the time, nor did I prize it very -much, for looking all about the yard--at the officers, the grenadiers, -and other functionaries of the prison, I failed to see a single face -I knew. What could I conclude but that Buhot was gone and that I was -doomed to be forgotten here? - -It would have been a comfort even to have got a glimpse of Father -Hamilton, the man whose machinations were the cause of my imprisonment, -but Father Hamilton, if he had been taken here as Buhot had suggested, -was not, at all events, in view. - -After the morning's exercise we that were the privileged were taken to -what was called the _salle dpreuve_, and with three or four to each -_gamelle_ or mess-tub, ate a scurvy meal of a thin soup and black bread -and onions. To a man who had been living for a month at heck and manger, -as we say, this might naturally seem unpalatable fare, but truth to -tell I ate it with a relish that had been all the greater had it been -permitted me to speak to any of my fellow sufferers. But speech was -strictly interdict and so our meal was supped in silence. - -When it was over I was to be fated for the pleasantest of surprises! - -There came to me a sous-officer of the grenadiers. - -In French he asked if I was Monsieur Greig. I said as best I could in -the same tongue that I was that unhappy person at his service. Then, -said he, "Come with me." He led me into a hall about a hundred feet long -that had beds or mattresses for about three hundred people. The room was -empty, as those who occupied it were, he said, at Mass. Its open windows -in front looked into another courtyard from that in which we had been -exercising, while the windows at the rear looked into a garden where -already lilac was in bloom and daffodillies endowed the soil of a few -mounds with the colour of the gold. On the other side of the court first -named there was a huge building. "Galbanon," said my guide, pointing to -it, and then made me understand that the same was worse by far than -the Bastille, and at the moment full of Marquises, Counts, Jesuits, and -other clergymen, many of them in irons for abusing or writing against -the Marchioness de Pompadour. - -I listened respectfully and waited Monsieur's explanation. It was -manifest I had not been brought into this hall for the good of my -education, and naturally I concluded the name of Galbanon, that I had -heard already from Buhot, with its villainous reputation, was meant to -terrify me into a submission to what had been proposed. The moment after -a hearty meal--even of _soup maigre_--was not, however, the happiest of -times to work upon a Greig's feelings of fear or apprehension, and so I -waited, very dour within upon my resolution though outwardly in the most -complacent spirit. - -The hall was empty when we entered as I have said, but we had not been -many minutes in it when the tramp of men returning to it might be heard, -and this hurried my friend the officer to his real business. - -He whipped a letter from his pocket and put it in my hand with a sign to -compel secrecy on my part. It may be readily believed I was quick enough -to conceal the missive. He had no cause to complain of the face I turned -upon another officer who came up to us, for 'twas a visage of clownish -vacuity. - -The duty of the second officer, it appeared, was to take me to a new -cell that had been in preparation for me, and when I got there it -was with satisfaction I discovered it more than tolerable, with a -sufficiency of air and space, a good light from the quadrangle, a few -books, paper, and a writing standish. - -When the door had been shut upon me, I turned to open my letter and -found there was in fact a couple of them--a few lines from her ladyship -in Dunkerque expressing her continued interest in my welfare and -adventures, and another from the Swiss through whom the first had come. -He was still--said the honest Bernard--at my service, having eluded -the vigilance of Buhot, who doubtless thought a lackey scarce worth his -hunting, and he was still in a position to post my letters, thanks to -the goodwill of the sous-officer who was a relative. Furthermore, he -was in hopes that Miss Walkinshaw, who was on terms of intimacy with the -great world and something of an _intriguante_, would speedily take steps -to secure my freedom. "Be tranquil, dear Monsieur!" concluded the brave -fellow, and I was so exceedingly comforted and inspired by these matters -that I straightway sat down to the continuation of my journal for Miss -Walkinshaw's behoof. I had scarce dipped the pen, when my cell -door opened and gave entrance to the man who was the cause of my -incarceration. - -The door shut and locked behind him; it was Father Hamilton! - -It was indeed Father Hamilton, by all appearance none the worse in body -for his violent escapade, so weighty with the most fatal possibilities -for himself, for he advanced to me almost gaily, his hand extended and -his face red and smiling. - -"Scotland! to my heart!" cries he in the French, and throws his arms -about me before I could resist, and kisses me on the cheeks after the -amusing fashion of his nation. "La! la! la! Paul," he cried, "I'd have -wanted three breakfasts sooner than miss this meeting with my good -secretary lad that is the lovablest rogue never dipped a pen in his -master's service. Might have been dead for all I knew, and run through -by a brutal rapier, victim of mine own innocence. But here's my Paul, -_pardieu!_ I would as soon have my _croque-mort_ now as that jolly dog -his uncle, that never waked till midnight or slept till the dull, -uninteresting noon in the years when we went roving. What! Paul! Paul -Greig! my _croque-mort!_ my Don Dolorous!--oh, Lord, my child, I am the -most miserable of wretches!" - -And there he let me go, and threw himself upon a chair, and gave his -vast body to a convulsion of arid sobs. The man was in hysterics, -compounding smiles and sobs a score to the minute, but at the end 'twas -the natural man won the bout, else he had taken a stroke. I stood by -him in perplexity of opinions whether to laugh or storm, whether to give -myself to the righteous horror a good man ought to feel in the presence -of a murtherer, or shrug my shoulders tolerantly at the imbecile. - -"There!" said he, recovering his natural manner, "I have made a mortal -enemy of Andrew Greig's nephew. Yes, yes, master, glower at Misery, -fat Misery--and the devil take it!--old Misery, without a penny in 'ts -pocket, and its next trip upon wheels a trip to the block to nuzzle at -the dirty end in damp sawdust a nose that has appreciated the bouquet -of the rarest wines. Paul, my boy, has't a pinch of snuff? A brutal -bird out there sings a stave of the _Chanson de la Veuve_ so like the -confounded thing that I heard my own foolish old head drop into the -basket, and there! I swear to you the smell of the sawdust is in my -nostrils now." - -I handed him my box; 'twas a mull my Uncle Andy gave me before he died, -made of the horn of a young bullock, with a blazon of the house on the -silver lid. He took it eagerly and drenched himself with the contents. - -"Oh, la! la!" he cried; "I give thanks. My head was like yeast. I wish -it were Christmas last, and a man called Hamilton was back in Dixmunde -parish. But there! that is enough, I have made my bed and I must lie -on't, with a blight on all militant jesuitry! When last I had this box -in my fingers they were as steady as Mont St. Michel, now look--they are -trembling like aspen, _n'est-ce pas?_ And all that's different is that I -have eaten one or two better dinners and cracked a few pipkins of better -wine, and--and--well-nigh killed a police officer. Did'st ever hear of -one Hamilton, M. Greig? 'Twas a cheery old fellow in Dixmunde whose name -was the same as mine, and had a garden and bee-hives, and I am on the -rack for my sins." - -He might be on the rack--and, indeed, I daresay the man was in a passion -of feelings so that he knew not what he was havering about, but what -impressed me most of all about him was that he seemed to have some -momentary gleams of satisfaction in his situation. - -"I have every ground of complaint against you, sir," I said. - -"What!" he interrupted. "Would'st plague an old man with complaints when -M. de Paris is tapping him on the shoulder to come away and smell the -sawdust of his own coffin? Oh, 'tis not in this wise thy uncle had done, -but no matter!" - -"I have no wish, Father Hamilton, to revile you for what you have -brought me," I hastened to tell him. "That is far from my thoughts, -though now that you put me in mind of it, there is some ground for my -blaming you if blaming was in my intention. But I shall blame you for -this, that you are a priest of the Church and a Frenchman, and yet did -draw a murderous hand upon a prince of your own country." - -This took him somewhat aback. He helped himself to another voluminous -pinch of my snuff to give him time for a rejoinder and then--"Regicide, -M. Greig, is sometimes to be defended when----" - -"Regicide!" I cried, losing all patience, "give us the plain English -of it, Father Hamilton, and call it murder. To call it by a Latin name -makes it none the more respectable a crime against the courts of heaven -where the curse of Babel has an end. But for an accident, or the cunning -of others, you had a corpse upon your conscience this day, and your name -had been abhorred throughout the whole of Europe." - -He put his shoulders up till his dew-laps fell in massive folds. - -"'Fore God!" said he, "here's a treatise in black letter from Andrew -Greig's nephew. It comes indifferently well, I assure thee, from -Andrew's nephew. Those who live in glass houses, _cher ami_,--those who -live in glass houses----" - -He tapped me upon the breast with his fat finger and paused, with a -significant look upon his countenance. - -"Oh, ye can out with it, Father Hamilton!" I cried, certain I knew his -meaning. - -"Those who live in glass houses," said he, "should have some pity for a -poor old devil out in the weather without a shelter of any sort." - -"You were about to taunt me with my own unhappy affair," I said, little -relishing his consideration. - -"Was I, M. Greig?" he said softly. "Faith! a glass residence seems to -breed an ungenerous disposition! If thou can'st credit me I know nothing -of thine affair beyond what I may have suspected from a Greig travelling -hurriedly and in red shoes. I make you my compliments, Monsieur, of your -morality that must be horror-struck at my foolish play with a pistol, -yet thinks me capable of a retort so vile as that you indicate. My dear -lad, I but spoke of what we have spoken of together before in our happy -chariot in the woods of Somme--thine uncle's fate, and all I expected -was, that remembering the same, thou his nephew would'st have enough -tolerance for an old fool to leave his punishment in the hands of -the constitute authority. _Voil!_ I wish to heaven they had given me -another cell, after all, that I might have imagined thy pity for one -that did thee no harm, or at least meant to do none, which is the main -thing with all our acts else Purgatory's more crowded than I fancy." - -He went wearily over to the fire and spread his trembling hands to -the blaze; I looked after him perplexed in my mind, but not without an -overpowering pity. - -"I have come, like thyself, doubtless," he said after a little, "over -vile roads in a common cart, and lay awake last night in a dungeon--a -pretty conclusion to my excursion! And yet I am vastly more happy to-day -than I was this time yesterday morning." - -"But then you were free," I said, "you had all you need wish for--money, -a conveyance, servants, leisure----" - -"And M' Croque-mort's company," he added with a poor smile. "True, true! -But the thing was then to do," and he shuddered. "Now my part is done, -'twas by God's grace a failure, and I could sing for content like one of -the little birds we heard the other day in Somme." - -He could not but see my bewilderment in my face. - -"You wonder at that," said he, relinquishing the Roman manner as he -always did when most in earnest. "Does Monsieur fancy a poor old priest -can take to the ancient art of assassination with an easy mind? _Nom de -nom!_ I could skip to the block like a ballet-dancer if 'twere either -that or live the past two days over again and fifty years after. I have -none of the right stomach for murder; that's flat! 'tis a business that -keeps you awake too much at night, and disturbs the gastric essence; -calls, too, for a confounded agility that must be lacking in a person of -my handsome and plenteous bulk. I had rather go fishing any day in the -week than imbrue. When Buhot entered the room where I waited for a less -worthy man and I fired honestly for my money and missed, I could have -died of sheer rapture. Instead I threw myself upon his breast and -embraced him." - -"He said none of that to me." - -"Like enough not, but 'tis true none the less, though he may keep so -favourable a fact out of his records. A good soul enough, Buhot! We knew -him, your uncle and I, in the old days when I was thinner and played a -good game of chess at three in the morning. Fancy Ned Hamilton cutting -short the glorious career of old Buhot! I'd sooner pick a pocket." - -"Or kill a prince!" - -"Felicitations on your wit, M. Greig! Heaven help the elderly when -the new wit is toward! _N'importe!_ Perhaps 'twere better to kill some -princes than to pick a pocket. Is it not better, or less wicked, let us -say, to take the life of a man villainously abusing it than the purse of -a poor wretch making the most of his scanty _livres?_" - -And then the priest set out upon his defence. It is too long here to -reproduce in his own words, even if I recalled them, and too specious -in its terms for the patience of the honest world of our time. With his -hands behind his back he marched up and down the room for the space of -a half-hour at the least, recounting all that led to his crime. The -tale was like a wild romance, but yet, as we know now, true in every -particular. He was of the Society of Jesus, had lived a stormy youth, -and fallen in later years into a disrepute in his own parish, and there -the heads of his Society discovered him a very likely tool for their -purposes. They had only half convinced him that the death of Charles -Edward was for the glory of God and the good of the Church when they -sent him marching with a pistol and 500 in bills of exchange and -letters of credit upon a chase that covered a great part of three or -four countries, and ended at Lisbon, when a German Jesuit in the secret -gave him ten crusadoes to bring him home with his task unaccomplished. - -"I have what amounts almost to a genius for losing the opportunities -of which I do not desire to avail myself," said Father Hamilton with a -whimsical smile. - -And then he had lain in disgrace with the Jesuits for a number of -years until it became manifest (as he confessed with shame) that his -experience of leisure, wealth, and travel had enough corrupted him to -make the prospect of a second adventure of a similar kind pleasing. At -that time Charles, lost to the sight of Europe, and only discovered at -brief and tantalising intervals by the Jesuit agents, scarce slept two -nights in the same town, but went from country to country _incognito_, -so that 'twas no trivial task Father Hamilton undertook to run him to -earth. - -"The difficulty of it--indeed the small likelihood there was of my ever -seeing him," he said, "was what mainly induced me to accept the office, -though in truth it was compelled. I was doing very well at Dunkerque," -he went on, "and very happy if I had never heard more of prince or -priesthood, when Father Fleuriau sent me a hurried intimation that my -victim was due at Versailles on Easter and ordered my instant departure -there." - -The name of Fleuriau recalled me to my senses. "Stop, stop, Father -Hamilton!" I cried, "I must hear no more." - -"What!" said he, bitterly, "is't too good a young gentleman to listen to -the confession of a happy murderer that has failed at his trade?" - -"I have no feeling left but pity," said I, almost like to weep at this, -"but you have been put into this cell along with me for a purpose." - -"And what might that be, M. Greig?" he asked, looking round about him, -and seeing for the first time, I swear, the sort of place he was -in. "Faith! it is comfort, at any rate; I scarce noticed that, in my -pleasure at seeing Paul Greig again." - -"You must not tell me any more of your Jesuit plot, nor name any of -those involved in the same, for Buhot has been at me to cock an ear -to everything you may say in that direction, and betray you and your -friends. It is for that he has put us together into this cell." - -"_Pardieu!_ am not I betrayed enough already?" cried the priest, -throwing up his hands. "I'll never deny my guilt." - -"Yes," I said, "but they want the names of your fellow conspirators, and -Buhot says they never expect them directly from you." - -"He does, does he?" said the priest, smiling. "Faith, M. Buhot has a -good memory for his friend's characteristics. No, M. Greig, if they -put this comfortable carcase to the rack itself. And was that all -thy concern? Well, as I was saying--let us speak low lest some one be -listening--this Father Fleuriau-" - -Again I stopped him. - -"You put me into a hard position, Father Hamilton," I said. "My -freedom--my life, perhaps--depends on whether I can tell them your -secret or not, and here you throw it in my face." - -"And why not?" he asked, simply. "I merely wish to show myself largely -the creature of circumstances, and so secure a decent Scot's most -favourable opinion of me before the end." - -"But I might be tempted to betray you." - -The old eagle looked again out at his eyes. He gently slapped my -cheek with a curious touch of fondness almost womanly, and gave a low, -contented laugh. - -"_Farceur!_" he said. "As if I did not know my Don Dolorous, my merry -Andrew's nephew!" His confidence hugely moved me, and, lest he should -think I feared to trust myself with his secrets, I listened to the -remainder of his story, which I shall not here set down, as it bears but -slightly on my own narrative, and may even yet be revealed only at cost -of great distress among good families, not only on the Continent but in -London itself. - -When he had done, he thanked me for listening so attentively to a matter -that was so much on his mind that it gave him relief to share it with -some one. "And not only for that, M. Greig," said he, "are my thanks -due, for you saved the life that might have been the prince's instead -of my old gossip, Buhot's. To take the bullet out of my pistol was -the device your uncle himself would have followed in the like -circumstances." - -"But I did not do that!" I protested. - -He looked incredulous. - -"Buhot said as much," said he; "he let it out unwittingly that I had had -my claws clipped by my own household." - -"Then assuredly not by me, Father Hamilton." - -"So!" said he, half incredulous, and a look of speculation came upon his -countenance. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -PHILOSOPHY IN A FELON'S CELL - -It seemed for a while as if we were fated to lie forgotten in Bictre -till the crack of doom; not that we were many days there when all was -done, but that in our natural hourly expectation at first of being -called forth for trial the hours passed so sluggishly that Time -seemed finally to sleep, and a week, to our fancy--to mine at all -events--seemed a month at the most modest computation. - -I should have lost my reason but for the company of the priest, who, for -considerations best known to others and to me monstrously inadequate, -was permitted all the time to share my cell. In his singular society -there was a recreation that kept me from too feverishly brooding on my -wrongs, and his character every day presented fresh features of interest -and admiration. He had become quite cheerful again, and as content in -the confine of his cell as he had been when the glass coach was jolting -over the early stages of what had been intended for a gay procession -round the courts of Europe. Once more he affected the Roman manner that -was due to his devotion to Shakespeare and L'Estrange's Seneca, and -"Clarissa Harlowe," a knowledge of which, next to the Scriptures, he -counted the first essentials for a polite education. I protest he grew -fatter every day, and for ease his corpulence was at last saved the -restraint of buttons, which was an indolent indulgence so much to -his liking that of itself it would have reconciled him to spend the -remainder of his time in prison. - -"_Tiens!_ Paul," he would say, "here's an old fool has blundered through -the greater part of his life without guessing till now how easy a thing -content is to come by. Why, 'tis no more than a loose waistcoat and a -chemise unbuttoned at the neck. I dared not be happy thus in Dixmunde, -where the folks were plaguily particular that their priest should be -point-devise, as if mortal man had time to tend his soul and keep a -constant eye on the lace of his fall." - -And he would stretch himself--a very mountain of sloth--in his chair. - -With me 'twas different. Even in a gaol I felt sure a day begun untidily -was a day ill-done by. If I had no engagements with the fastidious -fashionable world I had engagements with myself; moreover, I shared my -father's sentiment, that a good day's darg of work with any thinking in -it was never done in a pair of slippers down at the heel. Thus I was -as peijink (as we say) in Bictre as I would have been at large in the -genteel world. - -"Not," he would admit, "but that I love to see thee in a decent habit, -and so constant plucking at thy hose, for I have been young myself, and -had some right foppish follies, too. But now, my good man Dandiprat, my -_petit-matre_, I am old--oh, so old!--and know so much of wisdom, and -have seen such a confusion of matters, that I count comfort the greatest -of blessings. The devil fly away with buttons and laces! say I, that -have been parish priest of Dixmunde--and happily have not killed a man -nor harmed a flea, though like enough to get killed myself." - -The weather was genial, yet he sat constantly hugging the fire, and I -at the window, which happily gave a prospect of the yard between our -building and that of Galbanon. I would be looking out there, and -perhaps pining for freedom, while he went prating on upon the scurviest -philosophy surely ever man gave air to. - -[Illustration: 226] - -"Behold, my scrivener, how little man wants for happiness! My constant -fear in Dixmunde was that I would become so useless for all but eating -and sleeping, when I was old, that no one would guarantee me either; -poverty took that place at my table the skull took among the Romans--the -thought on't kept me in a perpetual apprehension. _Nom de chien!_ and -this was what I feared--this, a hard lodging, coarse viands, and sour -wine! What was the fellow's name?--Demetrius, upon the taking of Megara, -asked Monsieur Un-tel the Philosopher what he had lost. 'Nothing at -all,' said he, 'for I have all that I could call my own about me,' and -yet 'twas no more than the skin he stood in. A cell in Bictre would -have been paradise to such a gallant fellow. Oh, Paul, I fear thou -may'st be ungrateful--I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining -for freedom," he went prating on, "to this good Buhot, who has given us -such a fine lodging, and saved us the care of providing for ourselves." - -"'Tis all very well, father," I said, leaning on the sill of the window, -and looking at a gang of prisoners being removed from one part of -Galbanon to another--"'tis all very well, but I mind a priest that -thought jaunting round the country in a chariot the pinnacle of bliss. -And that was no further gone than a fortnight ago." - -"Bah!" said he, and stretched his fat fingers to the fire; "he that -cannot live happily anywhere will live happily nowhere at all. What -avails travel, if Care waits like a hostler to unyoke the horses at -every stage? I tell thee, my boy, I never know what a fine fellow -is Father Hamilton till I have him by himself at a fireside; 'tis by -firesides all the wisest notions come to one." - -"I wish there came a better dinner than to-day's," said I, for we had -agreed an hour ago that smoked soup was not very palatable. - -"La! la! la! there goes Sir Gourmet!" cried his reverence. "Have I -infected this poor Scot that ate naught but oats ere he saw France, with -mine own fever for fine feeding from which, praise _le bon Dieu!_ I have -recovered? 'Tis a brutal entertainment, and unworthy of man, to place -his felicity in the service of his senses. I maintain that even smoked -soup is pleasant enough on the palate of a man with an easy conscience, -and a mind purged of vulgar cares." - -"And you can be happy here, Father Hamilton?" - -I asked, astonished at such sentiments from a man before so ill to -please. - -He heaved like a mountain in travail, and brought forth a peal of -laughter out of all keeping with our melancholy situation. "Happy!" said -he, "I have never been happy for twenty years till Buhot clapped claw -upon my wrist. Thou may'st have seen a sort of mask of happiness, a -false face of jollity in Dunkerque parlours, and heard a well-simulated -laughter now and then as we drank by wayside inns, but may I be called -coxcomb if the miserable wretch who playacted then was half so light of -heart as this that sits here at ease, and has only one regret--that he -should have dragged Andrew Greig's nephew into trouble with him. What -man can be perfectly happy that runs the risk of disappointment--which -is the case of every man that fears or hopes for anything? Here am I, -too old for the flame of love or the ardour of ambition; all that knew -me and understood me best and liked me most are dead long since. I have -a state palace prepared for me free; a domestic in livery to serve my -meals; parishioners do not vex me with their trifling little hackneyed -sins, and my conclusion seems like to come some morning after an omelet -and a glass of wine." - -I could not withhold a shudder. - -"But to die that way, Father!" I said. - -"_C'est gal!_" said he, and crossed himself. "We must all die somehow, -and I had ever a dread of a stone. Come, come, M. Croque-mort, enough -of thy confounded dolours! I'll be hanged if thou did'st not steal -these shoes, and art after all but an impersonator of a Greig. The lusty -spirit thou call'st thine uncle would have used his teeth ere now to -gnaw his way through the walls of Bictre, and here thou must stop to -converse cursedly on death to the fatted ox that smells the blood of the -abattoir--oh lad, give's thy snuff-box, sawdust again!" - -Thus by the hour went on the poor wretch, resigned most obviously to -whatever was in store for him, not so much from a native courage, I -fear, as from a plethora of flesh that smothered every instinct of -self-preservation. As for me I kept up hope for three days that Buhot -would surely come to test my constancy again, and when that seemed -unlikely, when day after day brought the same routine, the same cell -with Hamilton, the same brief exercise in the yard, the same vulgar -struggle at the _gamelle_ in the _salle d'preuve_--I could have -welcomed Galbanon itself as a change, even if it meant all the -horror that had been associated with it by Buhot and my friend the -sous-officer. - -Galbanon! I hope it has long been levelled with the dust, and even then -I know the ghosts of those there tortured in their lives will habitate -the same in whirling eddies, for a constant cry for generations has -gone up to heaven from that foul spot. It must have been a devilish -ingenuity, an invention of all the impish courts below, that placed me -at a window where Galbanon faced me every hour of the day or night, its -horror all revealed. I have seen in the pool of Earn in autumn weather, -when the river was in spate, dead leaves and broken branches borne down -dizzily upon the water to toss madly in the linn at the foot of the -fall; no less helpless, no less seared by sin and sorrow, or broken by -the storms of circumstance, were the wretches that came in droves to -Galbanon. The stream of crime or tyranny bore them down (some from very -high places), cast them into this boiling pool, and there they eddied in -a circle of degraded tasks from which it seemed the fate of many of them -never to escape, though their luckier fellows went in twos or threes -every other day in a cart to their doom appointed. - -Be sure it was not pleasant each day for me to hear the hiss of the lash -and the moans of the bastinadoed wretch, to see the blood spurt, and -witness the anguish of the men who dragged enormous bilboes on their -galled ankles. - -At last I felt I could stand it no longer, and one day intimated to -Father Hamilton that I was determined on an escape. - -"Good lad!" he cried, his eye brightening. "The most sensible thing thou -hast said in twenty-four hours. 'Twill be a recreation for myself to -help," and he buttoned his waistcoat. - -"We can surely devise some means of breaking out if----" - -"We!" he repeated, shaking his head. "No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky -a task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by -thyself and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows -when he is well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's -charming and commodious inn until the bill is presented." - -In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while -I took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day -at least I abandoned the project. - -Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned -before him. - -"Well, Monsieur," he said, "is it that we have here a more discerning -young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?" - -"Just the very same, M. Buhot," said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of -his pen and shrugged his shoulders. - -"Come, come, M. Greig," he went on, "this is a _btise_ of the most -ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself -whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool -of others or himself a genius of mischief." - -"The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but -that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man! -he has not got the energy to kick a dog." - -"And--and--" said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of -revelation. - -"And that's all, M. Buhot," said I, with a carriage he could not -mistake. - -He shrugged his shoulders again, wrote something in a book on the desk -before him with great deliberation and then asked me how I liked my -quarters in Bictre. - -"Tolerably well," I said. "I've been in better, but I might be in waur." - -He laughed a little at the Scotticism that seemed to recall -something--perhaps a pleasantry of my uncle's--to him, and then said -he, "I'm sorry they cannot be yours very much longer, M. Greig. We -calculated that a week or two of this priest's company would have been -enough to inspire a distaste and secure his confession, but apparently -we were mistaken. You shall be taken to other quarters on Saturday." - -"I hope, M. Buhot," said I, "they are to be no worse than those I occupy -now." - -His face reddened a little at this--I felt always there was some vein of -special kindness to me in this man's nature--and he said hesitatingly, -"Well, the truth is, 'tis Galbanon." - -"Before a trial?" I asked, incredulous. - -"The trial will come in good time," he said, rising to conclude the -parley, and he turned his back on me as I was conducted out of the -room and back to the cell, where Father Hamilton waited with unwonted -agitation for my tidings. - -"Well, lad," he cried, whenever we were alone, "what stirs? I warrant -they have not a jot of evidence against thee," but in a second he saw -from my face the news was not so happy, and his own face fell. - -"We are to be separated on Saturday," I told him. - -Tears came to his eyes at that--a most feeling old rogue! - -"And where is't for thee, Paul?" he asked. - -"Where is't for yourself ought to be of more importance to you, Father -Hamilton." - -"No, no," he cried, "it matters little about me, but surely for you it -cannot be Galbanon?" - -"Indeed, and it is no less." - -"Then, Paul," he said firmly, "we must break out, and that without loss -of time." - -"Is it in the plural this time?" I asked him. - -He affected an indifference, but at the last consented to share the -whole of the enterprise. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -WE ATTEMPT AN ESCAPE - -Father Hamilton was not aware of the extent of it, but he knew I was in -a correspondence with the sous-officer. More than once he had seen us in -the _salle dpreuve_ in a manifest understanding of each other, -though he had no suspicion that the gentleman was a Mercury for Miss -Walkinshaw, whose name seldom, if ever, entered into our conversation -in the cell. From her I had got but one other letter--a brief -acknowledgment of some of my fullest budgets, but 'twas enough to keep -me at my diurnal on every occasion almost on which the priest slept. I -sent her (with the strictest injunction to secrecy upon so important a -matter) a great deal of the tale the priest had told me--not so much -for her entertainment as for the purpose of moving in the poor man's -interests. Especially was I anxious that she should use her influence -to have some one communicate to Father Fleuriau, who was at the time in -Bruges, how hazardous was the position of his unhappy cat's-paw, whose -state I pictured in the most moving colours I could command. There was, -it must be allowed, a risk in entrusting a document so damnatory to -any one in Bictre, but that the packet was duly forwarded to its -destination I had every satisfaction of from the sous-officer, who -brought me an acknowledgment to that effect from Bernard the Swiss. - -The priest knew, then, as I say, that I was on certain terms with this -sous-officer, and so it was with no hesitation I informed him that, -through the favour of the latter, I had a very fair conception of -the character and plan of this building of Bictre in which we were -interned. What I had learned of most importance to us was that the block -of which our cell was a part had a face to the main road of Paris, from -which thoroughfare it was separated by a spacious court and a long range -of iron palisades. If ever we were to make our way out of the place -it must be in this direction, for on two sides of our building we were -overlooked by buildings vastly more throng than our own, and bordered by -yards in which were constant sentinels. Our block jutted out at an angle -from one very much longer, but lower by two storeys, and the disposition -of both made it clear that to enter into this larger edifice, and -towards the gable end of it that overlooked the palisades of the Paris -road, was our most feasible method of essay. - -I drew a plan of the prison and grounds on paper, estimating as best I -might all the possible checks we were like to meet with, and leaving a -balance of chances in our favour that we could effect our purpose in a -night. - -The priest leaned his chin upon his arms as he lolled over the table on -which I eagerly explained my diagram, and sighed at one or two of the -feats of agility it assumed. There was, for example, a roof to walk -upon--the roof of the building we occupied--though how we were to get -there in the first place was still to be decided. Also there was a -descent from that roof on to the lower building at right angles, though -where the ladder or rope for this was to come from I must meanwhile -airily leave to fortune. Finally, there was--assuming we got into the -larger building, and in some unforeseeable way along its roof and clear -to the gable end--a part of the yard to cross, and the palisade to -escalade. - -"Oh, lad! thou takest me for a bird," cried his reverence, aghast at -all this. "Is thy poor fellow prisoner a sparrow? A little after this I -might do't with my own wings--the saints guide me!--but figure you that -at present I am not Philetas, the dwarf, who had to wear leaden shoes -lest the wind should blow him away. 'Twould take a wind indeed to stir -this amplitude of good humours, this sepulchre of twenty thousand good -dinners and incomputible tuns of liquid merriment. Pray, Paul, make -an account of my physical infirmities, and mitigate thy transport of -vaultings and soarings and leapings and divings, unless, indeed, thou -meditatest sewing me up in a sheet, and dragging me through the realms -of space." - -"We shall manage! we shall manage!" I insisted, now quite uplifted in a -fanciful occupation that was all to my tastes, even if nothing came -of it, and I plunged more boldly into my plans. They were favoured -by several circumstances--the first, namely, that we were not in the -uniform of the prison, and, once outside the prison, could mingle with -the world without attracting attention. Furthermore, by postponing the -attempt till the morrow night I could communicate with the Swiss, and -secure his cooperation outside in the matter of a horse or a vehicle, if -the same were called for. I did not, however, say so much as that to his -reverence, whom I did not wish as yet to know of my correspondence -with Bernard. Finally, we had an auspicious fact at the outset of our -attempt, inasmuch as the cell we were in was in the corridor next to -that of which the sous-officer had some surveillance, and I knew his -mind well enough now to feel sure he would help in anything that did not -directly involve his own position and duties. In other words, he was to -procure a copy of the key of our cell, and find a means of leaving it -unlocked when the occasion arose. - -"A copy of the key, Paul!" said Father Hamilton; "sure there are no -bounds to thy cheerful mad expectancy! But go on! go on! art sure he -could not be prevailed on--this fairy godfather--to give us an escort of -cavalry and trumpeters?" - -"This is not much of a backing-up, Father Hamilton," I said, annoyed at -his skeptic comments upon an affair that involved so much and agitated -myself so profoundly. - -"Pardon! Paul," he said hastily, confused and vexed himself at the -reproof. "Art quite right, I'm no more than a croaker, and for penance I -shall compel myself to do the wildest feat thou proposest." - -We determined to put off the attempt at escape till I had communicated -with the sous-officer (in truth, though Father Hamilton did not know -it, till I had communicated with Bernard the Swiss), and it was the -following afternoon I had not only an assurance of the unlocked door, -but in my hand a more trustworthy plan of the prison than my own, and -the promise that the Swiss would be waiting with a carriage outside the -palisades when we broke through, any time between midnight and five in -the morning. - -Next day, then, we were in a considerable agitation; to that extent -indeed that I clean forgot that we had no aid to our descent of twenty -or thirty feet (as the sous-sergeant's diagram made it) from the roof of -our block on to that of the one adjoining. We had had our minds so much -on bolted doors and armed sentinels that this detail had quite escaped -us until almost on the eve of setting out at midnight, the priest began -again to sigh about his bulk and swear no rope short of a ship's cable -would serve to bear him. - -"Rope!" I cried, in a tremendous chagrin at my stupidity. "Lord! if I -have not quite forgot it. We have none." - -"Ah!" he said, "perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps my heart is so -light at parting with my _croque-mort_ that I can drop upon the tiles -like a pigeon." - -"Parting," I repeated, eyeing him suspiciously, for I thought perhaps he -had changed his mind again. "Who thinks of parting?" - -"Not I indeed," says he, "unless the rope do when thou hast got it." - -There was no rope, however, and I cursed my own folly that I had not -asked one from the sous-officer whose complaisance might have gone the -length of a fathom or two, though it did not, as the priest suggested, -go so far as an armed convoy and a brace of trumpeters. It was too late -now to repair the overlook, and to the making of rope the two of us had -there and then to apply ourselves, finding the sheets and blankets-of -our beds scanty enough for our purpose, and by no means of an assuring -elegance or strength when finished. But we had thirty feet of some sort -of cord at the last, and whether it was elegant or not it had to do for -our purpose. - -Luckily the night was dark as pitch and a high wind roared in the -chimneys, and in the numerous corners of the prison. There was a sting -in the air that drew many of the sentinels round the braziers flaming -in the larger yard between the main entrance and the buildings, and that -further helped our prospects; so that it was with some hope, in spite -of a heart that beat like a flail in my breast, I unlocked the door and -crept out into the dimly-lighted corridor with the priest close behind -me. - -Midway down this gallery there was a stair of which our plan apprised -us, leading to another gallery--the highest of the block--from which a -few steps led to a cock-loft where the sous-officer told us there was -one chance in a score of finding a blind window leading to the roof. - -No one, luckily, appeared as we hurried down the long gallery. I darted -like a fawn up the stair to the next flat, Father Hamilton grievously -puffing behind me, and we had just got into the shadow of the steps -leading to the cock-loft when a warder's step and the clank of his -chained keys came sounding down the corridor. He passed within three -feet of us and I felt the blood of all my body chill with fear! - -"I told thee, lad," whispered the priest, mopping the sweat from his -face, "I told thee 'twas an error to burden thyself with such a useless -carcase. Another moment or two--a gasp for the wind that seems so cursed -ill to come by at my years, and I had brought thee into trouble." - -I paid no heed to him, but crept up the steps and into the cock-loft -that smelt villainously of bats. - -The window was unfastened! I stuck out my head upon the tiles and -sniffed the fine fresh air of freedom as it had been a rare perfume. - -Luckily the window was scarcely any height, and it proved easy to aid -his reverence into the open air. Luckily, further, it was too dark -for him to realise the jeopardies of his situation for whether his -precarious gropings along the tiles were ten feet or thirty from the -yard below was indiscoverable in the darkness. He slid his weighty body -along with an honest effort that was wholly due to his regard for my -interests, because 'twas done with groans and whispered protestations -that 'twas the maddest thing for a man to leave a place where he was -happy and risk his neck in an effort to discover misery. A rime of frost -was on the tiles, and they were bitter cold to the touch. One fell, -too, below me as I slid along, and rattled loudly over its fellows and -plunged into the yard. - -Naturally we stopped dead and listened breathless, a foolish action for -one reason because in any case we had been moving silently at a great -height above the place where the tile should fall so that there was no -risk of our being heard or seen, but our listening discovered so great -an interval between the loosening of the tile and its dull shattering -on the stones below that the height on which we were perched in the -darkness was made more plain--more dreadful to the instincts than if -we could actually measure it with the eye. I confess I felt a touch -of nausea, but nothing compared with the priest, whose teeth began to -chitter in an ague of horror. - -"Good Lord, Paul!" he whispered to me, clutching my leg as I moved in -front of him, "it is the bottomless pit." - -"Not unless we drop," said I. And to cheer him up I made some foolish -joke. - -If the falling tile attracted any attention in the yard it was not -apparent to us, and five minutes later we had to brace ourselves to a -matter that sent the tile out of our minds. - -For we were come to the end of the high building, and twenty feet below -us, at right angles, we could plainly see the glow of several skylights -in the long prison to which it was attached. It was now the moment for -our descent on the extemporised rope. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -A RIMEY NIGHT ON ROOF-TOPS, AND A NEW USE FOR AN OLD KIRK BELL - -I fastened the rope about a chimney-head with some misgivings that by -the width and breadth of the same I was reducing our chance of ever -getting down to the lower building, as the knotted sheets from the -outset had been dubious measure for the thirty feet of which my -sous-officer had given the estimate. But I said never a word to the -priest of my fears on that score, and determined for once to let what -was left of honesty go before well-fattened age and test the matter -first myself. If the cord was too brief for its purpose, or (what was -just as likely) on the frail side, I could pull myself back in the one -case as the priest was certainly unfit to do, and in the other my weight -would put less strain upon it than that of Father Hamilton. - -I can hear him yet in my imagination after forty years, as he clung -to the ridge of the roof like a seal on a rock, chittering in the cold -night wind, enviously eyeing some fires that blazed in another yard and -groaning melancholiously. - -"A garden," said he, "and six beehives--no, 'faith! 'twas seven last -summer, and a roomful of books. Oh, Paul, Paul! Now I know how God cast -out Satan. He took him from his warm fireside, and his books before they -were all read, and his pantoufles, and set him straddling upon a frozen -house-top to ponder through eternal night upon the happy past. Alas, -poor being! How could he know what joys were in the simplicity of a room -of books half-read and a pair of warm old slippers?" - -He was fair rambling in his fears, my poor priest, and I declare -scarcely knew the half of what he uttered, indeed he spoke out so loudly -that I had to check him lest he should attract attention from below. - -"Father Hamilton," said I, when my cord was fastened, "with your -permission I'll try it first. I want to make it sure that my seamanship -on the sloop _Sarah_, of Ayr, has not deserted me to the extent that I -cannot come down a rope without a ratline or tie a bowling knot." - -"Certainly, Paul, certainly," said he, quite eagerly, so that I was -tempted for a second to think he gladly postponed his own descent from -sheer terror. - -I threw over the free end of the cord and crouched upon the beak of the -gable to lower myself. - -"Well, Paul," said his reverence in a broken voice. "Let us say -'good-bye' in case aught should happen ere we are on the same level -again." - -"Oh!" said I, impatient, "that's the true _croque-mort_ spirit indeed! -Why, Father, it isn't--it isn't--" I was going to say it was not a -gallows I was venturing on, but the word stuck in my throat, for a -certain thought that sprung to me of how nearly in my own case it had -been to the very gallows, and his reverence doubtless saw some delicacy, -for he came promptly to my help. - -"Not a priest's promise--made to be broken, you would say, good Paul," -said he. "I promised the merriest of jaunts over Europe in a coach, -and here my scrivener is hanging in the reins! Pardon, dear Scotland, -_milles pardons_ and good-bye and good luck." And at that he made to -embrace me. - -"Here's a French ceremony just about nothing at all," I thought, and -began my descent. The priest lay on his stomach upon the ridge. As I -sank, with my eyes turned upwards, I could see his hair blown by the -wind against a little patch of stars, that was the only break in the -Ethiopia of the sky. He seemed to follow my progress breathlessly, -and when I gained the other roof and shook the cord to tell him so he -responded by a faint clapping of his hands. - -"Art all right, lad?" he whispered down to me, and I bade him follow. - -"Good-night, Paul, good-bye, and God bless you!" he whispered. "Get out -of this as quick as you can; 'tis more than behemoth could do in a month -of dark nights, and so I cut my share of the adventure. One will do't -when two (and one of them a hogshead) will die in trying to do't." - -Here was a pretty pickle! The man's ridiculous regard for my safety -outweighed his natural inclinations, though his prospects in the prison -of Bictre were blacker than my own, having nothing less dreadful than -an execution at the end of them. He had been merely humouring me so -far--and such a brave humouring in one whose flesh was in a quaking of -alarms all the time he slid along the roof! - -"Are you not coming?" I whispered. - -"On the contrary, I'm going, dear Paul," said he with a pretence at -levity. "Going back to my comfortable cell and my uniformed servant and -M. Buhot, the charmingest of hostellers, and I declare my feet are like -ice." - -"Then," said I firmly, "I go back too. I'll be eternally cursed if I -give up my situation as scrivener at this point. I must e'en climb up -again." And with that I prepared to start the ascent. - -"Stop! stop!" said he without a second's pause, "stop where you are and -I'll go down. Though 'tis the most stupendous folly," he added with a -sigh, and in a moment later I saw his vast bulk laboriously heaving -over the side of the roof. Fortunately the knots in the cord where -the fragments of sheet and blanket were joined made his task not so -difficult as it had otherwise been, and almost as speedily as I had done -it myself he reached the roof of the lower building, though in such a -state he quivered like a jelly, and was dumb with fear or with exertion -when the thing was done. - -"Ah!" he said at last, when he had recovered himself. "Art a fool to be -so particular about an old carcase accursed of easy humours and accused -of regicide. Take another thought on't, Paul. What have you to do with -this wretch of a priest that brought about the whole trouble in your -ignorance? And think of Galbanon!" - -"Think of the devil! Father Hamilton," I snapped at him, "every minute -we waste havering away here adds to the chances against any of us -getting free, and I am sure that is not your desire. The long and the -short of it is that I'll not stir a step out of Bictre--no, not if the -doors themselves were open--unless you consent to come with me." - -"_Ventre Dieu!_" said he, "'tis just such a mulish folly as I might have -looked for from the nephew of Andrew Greig. But lead on, good imbecile, -lead on, and blame not poor Father Hamilton if the thing ends in a -fiasco!" - -We now crawled along a roof no whit more easily traversed than that -we had already commanded. Again and again I had to stop to permit my -companion to come up on me, for the pitch of the tiles was steep, and -he in a peril from his own lubricity, and it was necessary even to put -a hand under his arm at times when he suffered a vertigo through seeing -the lights in the yard deep down as points of flame. - -"Egad! boy," he said, and his perspiring hand clutching mine at one of -our pauses, "I thrill at the very entrails. I'd liefer have my nose in -the sawdust any day than thrash through thin air on to a paving-stone." - -"A minute or two more and we are there," I answered him. - -"Where?" said he, starting; "in purgatory?" - -"Look up, man!" I told him. "There's a window beaming ten yards off." -And again I pushed on. - -In very truth there was no window, though I prayed as fervently for one -as it had been a glimpse of paradise, but I was bound to cozen the -old man into effort for his own life and for mine. What I had from the -higher building taken for the glow of skylights had been really the -light of windows on the top flat of the other prison block, and its -roof was wholly unbroken. At least I had made up my mind to that with -a despair benumbing when I touched wood. My fingers went over it in the -dark with frantic eagerness. It was a trap such as we had come out of at -the other block, but it was shut. Before the priest could come up to me -and suffer the fresh horror of disappointment I put my weight upon it, -and had the good fortune to throw it in. The flap fell with a shriek of -hinges and showed gaping darkness. We stretched upon the tiles as close -as limpets and as silent. Nothing stirred within. - -"A garden," said he in a little, "as sweet as ever bean grew in, with -the rarest plum-tree; and now I am so cold." - -"I could be doing with some of your complaint," said I; "as for me, I'm -on fire. Please heaven, you'll be back in the garden again." - -I lowered myself within, followed by the priest, and found we were -upon the rafters. A good bit off there was a beam of light that led us, -groping, and in an imminent danger of going through the plaster, to -an air-hole over a little gallery whose floor was within stretch as I -lowered myself again. - -Father Hamilton squeezed after me; we both looked over the edge of the -gallery, and found it was a chapel we were in! - -"_Sacr nom!_" said the priest and crossed himself, with a genuflexion -to the side of the altar. - -"Oh, Lord! Paul," he said, whispering, "if 'twere the Middle Ages, and -this were indeed a sanctuary, how happy was a poor undeserving son of -Mother Church! Even Dagobert's hounds drew back from the stag in St. -Denys." - -It was a mean interior, as befitted the worship of the _misrables_ who -at times would meet there. A solemn quiet held the place, that seemed -wholly deserted; the dim light that had shown through the air-hole and -guided us came from some candles dripping before a shrine. - -"Heaven help us!" said the priest. "I know just such another." - -There was nobody in the church so far as we could observe from the -little gallery in which we found ourselves, but when we had gone down a -flight of steps into the body of the same, and made to cross towards the -door, we were suddenly confronted by a priest in a white cope. My heart -jumped to my mouth; I felt a prinkling in the roots of my hair, and -stopped dumb, with all my faculties basely deserted from me. Luckily -Father Hamilton kept his presence of mind. As he told me later, he -remembered of a sudden the Latin proverb that in battles the eye is -first overcome, and he fixed the man in the stole with a glance that was -bold and disconcerting. As it happened, however, the other priest was -almost as blind as a bat, and saw but two civil worshippers in his -chapel. He did not even notice that it was a _soutane_; he passed -peeringly, with a bow to our inclinations, and it was almost -incredulous of our good fortune I darted out of the chapel into the -darkness of a courtyard of equal extent with that I had crossed on the -night of my first arrival at Bictre. At its distant end there were the -same flaming braziers with figures around them, and the same glitter of -arms. - -Now this Bictre is set upon a hill and commands a prospect of the city -of Paris, of the Seine and its environs. For that reason we could see -to our right the innumerable lights of a great plain twinkling in the -darkness, and it seemed as if we had only to proceed in that direction -to secure freedom by the mere effort of walking. As we stood in the -shadow of the chapel, Father Hamilton eyed the distant prospect of the -lighted town with a singular rapture. - -"Paris!" said he. "Oh, Dieu! and I thought never to clap an eye on't -again. Paris, my Paul! Behold the lights of it--_la ville lumire_ that -is so fine I could spend eternity in it. Hearts are there, lad, kind and -jocund-" - -"And meditating a descent on unhappy Britain," said I. - -"Good neighbourly hearts, or I'm a gourd else," he went on, unheeding my -interruption. "The stars in heaven are not so good, are no more notably -the expression of a glowing and fraternal spirit. There is laughter in -the streets of her." - -"Not at this hour, Father Hamilton," said I, and the both of us always -whispering. "I've never seen the place by day nor put a foot in it, -but it will be droll indeed if there is laughter in its streets at two -o'clock in the morning." - -"Ah, Paul, shall we ever get there?" said he longingly. "We can but try, -anyway. I certainly did not come all this way, Father Hamilton, just to -look on the lowe of Paris." - -What had kept us shrinking in the shadow of the chapel wall had been -the sound of footsteps between us and the palisades that were to be -distinguished a great deal higher than I had expected, on our right. -On the other side of the rails was freedom, as well as Paris that so -greatly interested my companion, but the getting clear of them seemed -like to be a more difficult task than any we had yet overcome, and all -the more hazardous because the footsteps obviously suggested a -sentinel. Whether it was the rawness of the night that tempted him to -a relaxation, or whether he was not strictly on duty, I know not, but, -while we stood in the most wretched of quandaries, the man who was in -our path very soon ceased his perambulation along the palisades, and -went over to one of the distant fires, passing within a few yards of us -as we crouched in the darkness. When he had gone sufficiently out of the -way we ran for it. So plain were the lights of the valley, so flimsy a -thing had seemed to part us from the high-road there, that never a doubt -intruded on my mind that now we were as good as free, and when I came -to the rails I beat my head with my hands when the nature of our folly -dawned upon me. - -"We may just go back," I said to the priest in a stricken voice. - -"_Comment?_" said he, wiping his brow and gloating on the spectacle of -the lighted town. - -"Look," I said, indicating the railings that were nearly three times my -own height, "there are no convenient trap-doors here." - -"But the cord--" said he simply. - -"Exactly," I said; "the cord's where we left it snugly tied with a -bowling knot to the chimney of our block, and I'm an ass." - -"Oh, poor Paul!" said the priest in a prostration at this divulgence of -our error. "I'm the millstone on your neck, for had I not parleyed at -the other end of the cord when you had descended, the necessity for it -would never have escaped your mind. I gave you fair warning, lad, 'twas -a quixotic imbecility to burden yourself with me. And are we really at -a stand? God! look at Paris. Had I not seen these lights I had not -cared for myself a straw, but, oh lord! lad, they are so pleasant and so -close! Why will the world sleep when two unhappy wretches die for want -of a little bit of hemp?" - -"You are not to blame," said I, "one rope was little use to us in any -case. But anyhow I do not desire to die of a little bit of hemp if I can -arrange it better." And I began hurriedly to scour up and down the -palisade like a trapped mouse. It extended for about a hundred yards, -ending at one side against the walls of a gate-house or lodge; on the -other side it concluded at the wall of the chapel. It had no break in -all its expanse, and so there was nothing left for us to do but to go -back the way we had come, obliterate the signs of our attempt and find -our cells again. We went, be sure, with heavy hearts, again ventured -into the chapel, climbed the stairs, went through the ceiling, and -stopped a little among the rafters to rest his reverence who was finding -these manoeuvres too much for his weighty body. While he sat regaining -sufficient strength to resume his crawling on rimey tiles I made a -search of the loft we were in and found it extended to the gable end of -the chapel, but nothing more for my trouble beyond part of a hanging -chain that came through the roof and passed through the ceiling. I had -almost missed it in the darkness, and even when I touched it my first -thought was to leave it alone. But I took a second thought and tried the -lower end, which came up as I hauled, yard upon yard, until I had the -end of it, finished with a bell-ringer's hempen grip, in my hands. Here -was a discovery if bell-pulls had been made of rope throughout in -Bictre prison! But a chain with an end to a bell was not a thing to be -easily borrowed. - -I went back to where Father Hamilton was seated on the rafters, and told -him my discovery. - -"A bell," said he. "Faith! I never liked them. Pestilent inventions of -the enemy, that suggested duties to be done and the fleeting hours. But -a bell-rope implies a belfry on the roof and a bell in it, and the -chain that may reach the ground within the building may reach the same -desirable place without the same." - -"That's very true," said I, struck with the thing. And straight got -through the trap and out upon the roof again. Father Hamilton puffed -after me and in a little we came upon a structure like a dovecot at the -very gable-end. "The right time to harry a nest is at night," said I, -"for then you get all that's in it." And I started to pull up the chain -that was fastened to the bell. - -I lowered behemoth with infinite exertion till he reached the ground -outside the prison grounds in safety, wrapped the clapper of the bell in -my waistcoat, and descended hand over hand after him. - -We were on the side of a broad road that dipped down the hill into a -little village. Between us and the village street, across which hung a -swinging lamp, there mounted slowly a carriage with a pair of horses. - -"Bernard!" I cried, running up to it, and found it was the Swiss in the -very article of waiting for us, and he speedily drove us into Paris. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -WE ENTER PARIS AND FIND A SANCTUARY THERE - -Of the town of Paris that is so lamentably notable in these days I have -but the recollection that one takes away from a new scene witnessed -under stress of mind due to matters more immediately affecting him than -the colour, shape, and properties of things seen, and the thought I had -in certain parts of it is more clear to me to-day than the vision of the -place itself. It is, in my mind, like a fog that the bridges thundered -as our coach drove over them with our wretched fortunes on that early -morning of our escape from Bictre, but as clear as when it sprung to -me from the uproar of the wheels comes back the dread that the whole of -this community would be at their windows looking out to see what folks -untimeously disturbed their rest. We were delayed briefly at a gate upon -the walls; I can scarcely mind what manner of men they were that stopped -us and thrust a lantern in our faces, and what they asked eludes me -altogether, but I mind distinctly how I gasped relief when we were -permitted to roll on. Blurred, too--no better than the surplusage of -dreams, is my first picture of the river and its isles in the dawn, but, -like a favourite song, I mind the gluck of waters on the quays and that -they made me think of Earn and Cart and Clyde. - -We stopped in the place of the Notre Dame at the corner of a street; -the coach drove off to a _remise_ whence it had come, and we went to an -hospital called the Htel Dieu, in the neighbourhood, where Hamilton had -a Jesuit friend in one of the heads, and where we were accommodated in -a room that was generally set aside for clergymen. It was a place of the -most wonderful surroundings, this Htel Dieu, choked, as it were, among -towers, the greatest of them those of Our Lady itself that were in -the Gothic taste, regarding which Father Hamilton used to say, "_Dire -gothique, c'est dire mauvais gout_," though, to tell the truth, I -thought the building pretty braw myself. Alleys and wynds were round -about us, and so narrow that the sky one saw between them was but a -ribbon by day, while at night they seemed no better than ravines. - -'Twas at night I saw most of the city, for only in the darkness did -I dare to venture out of the Htel Dieu. Daundering my lone along the -cobbles, I took a pleasure in the exercise of tenanting these towering -lands with people having histories little different from the histories -of the folks far off in my Scottish home--their daughters marrying, -their sons going throughither (as we say), their bairns wakening and -crying in their naked beds, and grannies sitting by the ingle-neuk -cheerfully cracking upon ancient days. Many a time in the by-going I -looked up their pend closes seeking the eternal lovers of our own burgh -towns and never finding them, for I take it that in love the foreign -character is coyer than our own. But no matter how eagerly I went forth -upon my nightly airing in a _roquelaure_ borrowed from Father Hamilton's -friend, the adventure always ended, for me, in a sort of eerie terror -of those close-hemming walls, those tangled lanes where slouched the -outcast and the ne'er-do-weel, and not even the glitter of the moon upon -the river between its laden isles would comfort me. - -"La! la! la!" would Father Hamilton cry at me when I got home with a face -like a fiddle. "Art the most ridiculous rustic ever ate a cabbage or -set foot in Arcady. Why, man! the woman must be wooed--this Mademoiselle -Lutetia. Must take her front and rear, walk round her, ogling bravely. -Call her dull! call her dreadful! _Ciel!_ Has the child never an eye in -his mutton head? I avow she is the queen of the earth this Paris. If I -were young and wealthy I'd buy the glittering stars in constellations -and turn them into necklets for her. With thy plaguey gift of the sonnet -I'd deave her with ecstasies and spill oceans of ink upon leagues -of paper to tell her about her eyes. Go to! Scotland, go to! Ghosts! -ghosts! devil the thing else but ghosts in thy rustic skull, for to take -a fear of Lutetia when her black hair is down of an evening and thou -canst not get a glimpse of that beautiful neck that is rounded like the -same in the Psyche of Praxiteles. Could I pare off a portion of this -rotundity and go out in a masque as Apollo I'd show thee things." - -And all he saw of Paris himself was from the windows of the hospital, -where he and I would stand by the hour looking out into the square. -For the air itself he had to take it in a little garden at the back, -surrounded by a high wall, and affording a seclusion that even the -priest could avail himself of without the hazard of discovery. He used -to sit in an arbour there in the warmth of the day, and it was there -I saw another trait of his character that helped me much to forget his -shortcomings. - -Over his head, within the doorway of the bower, he hung a box and placed -therein the beginnings of a bird's nest. The thing was not many hours -done when a pair of birds came boldly into his presence as he sat -silent and motionless in the bower, and began to avail themselves of so -excellent a start in householding. In a few days there were eggs in the -nest, and 'twas the most marvellous of spectacles to witness the hen sit -content upon them over the head of the fat man underneath, and the cock, -without concern, fly in and out attentive on his mate. - -But, indeed, the man was the friend of all helpless things, and few of -the same came his way without an instinct that told them it was so. Not -the birds in the nest alone were at ease in his society; he had but -to walk along the garden paths whistling and chirping, and there came -flights of birds about his head and shoulders, and some would even perch -upon his hand. I have never seen him more like his office than when he -talked with the creatures of the air, unless it was on another occasion -when two bairns, the offspring of an inmate in the hospital, ventured -into the garden, finding there another child, though monstrous, who had -not lost the key to the fields where blossom the flowers of infancy, and -frolic is a prayer. - -But he dare not set a foot outside the walls of our retreat, for it was -as useless to hide Ballageich under a Kilmarnock bonnet as to seek a -disguise for his reverence in any suit of clothes. Bernard would come to -us rarely under cover of night, but alas! there were no letters for me -now, and mine that were sent through him were fewer than before. -And there was once an odd thing happened that put an end to these -intromissions; a thing that baffled me to understand at the time, and -indeed for many a day thereafter, but was made plain to me later on in -a manner that proved how contrary in his character was this mad priest, -that was at once assassin and the noblest friend. - -Father Hamilton was not without money, though all had been taken from -him at Bictre. It was an evidence of the width and power of the Jesuit -movement that even in the Htel Dieu he could command what sums he -needed, and Bernard was habituated to come to him for moneys that might -pay for himself and the coachman and the horses at the _remise_. On -the last of these occasions I took the chance to slip a letter for Miss -Walkinshaw into his hand. Instead of putting it in his pocket he laid it -down a moment on a table, and he and I were busy packing linen for the -wash when a curious cry from Father Hamilton made us turn to see him -with the letter in his hand. - -He was gazing with astonishment on the direction. - -"Ah!" said he, "and so my Achilles is not consoling himself exclusively -with the Haemonian lyre, but has taken to that far more dangerous -instrument the pen. The pen, my child, is the curse of youth. When we -are young we use it for our undoing, and for the facture of regrets -for after years--even if it be no more than the reading of our wives' -letters that I'm told are a bitter revelation to the married man. And -so--and so, Monsieur Croque-mort keeps up a correspondence with the -lady. H'm!" He looked so curiously and inquiringly at me that I felt -compelled to make an explanation. - -"It is quite true, Father Hamilton," said I. "After all, you gave me so -little clerkly work that I was bound to employ my pen somehow, and how -better than with my countrywoman?" - -"'Tis none of my affair--perhaps," he said, laying down the letter. -"And yet I have a curiosity. Have we here the essential Mercury?" and he -indicated Bernard who seemed to me to have a greater confusion than the -discovery gave a cause for. - -"Bernard has been good enough," said I. "You discover two Scots, Father -Hamilton, in a somewhat sentimental situation. The lady did me the -honour to be interested in my little travels, and I did my best to keep -her informed." - -He turned away as he had been shot, hiding his face, but I saw from his -neck that he had grown as white as parchment. - -"What in the world have I done?" thinks I, and concluded that he -was angry for my taking the liberty to use the dismissed servant as a -go-between. In a moment or two he turned about again, eying me closely, -and at last he put his hand upon my shoulder as a schoolmaster might do -upon a boy's. - -"My good Paul," said he, "how old are you?" - -"Twenty-one come Martinmas," I said. - -"Expiscate! elucidate! 'Come Martinmas,'" says he, "and what does that -mean? But no matter--twenty-one says my barbarian; sure 'tis a right -young age, a very baby of an age, an age in frocks if one that has it -has lived the best of his life with sheep and bullocks." - -"Sir," I said, indignant, "I was in very honest company among the same -sheep and bullocks." - -"Hush!" said he, and put up his hand, eying me with compassion and -kindness. "If thou only knew it, lad, thou art due me a civil attention -at the very least. Sure there is no harm in my mentioning that thou art -mighty ingenuous for thy years. 'Tis the quality I would be the last -to find fault with, but sometimes it has its inconveniences. -And Bernard"--he turned to the Swiss who was still greatly -disturbed--"Bernard is a somewhat older gentleman. Perhaps he will -say--our good Bernard--if he was the person I have to thank for taking -the sting out of the wasp, for extracting the bullet from my pistol? Ah! -I see he is the veritable person. Adorable Bernard, let that stand to -his credit!" - -Then Bernard fell trembling like a saugh tree, and protested he did but -what he was told. - -"And a good thing, too," said the priest, still very pale but with no -displeasure. "And a good thing too, else poor Buhot, that I have seen an -infinity of headachy dawns with, had been beyond any interest in cards -or prisoners. For that I shall forgive you the rest that I can guess at. -Take Monsieur Grog's letter where you have taken the rest, and be gone." - -The Swiss went out much crestfallen from an interview that was beyond my -comprehension. - -When he was gone Father Hamilton fell into a profound meditation, -walking up and down his room muttering to himself. - -"Faith, I never had such a problem presented to me before," said he, -stopping his walk; "I know not whether to laugh or swear. I feel that -I have been made a fool of, and yet nothing better could have happened. -And so my Croque-mort, my good Monsieur Propriety, has been writing the -lady? I should not wonder if he thought she loved him." - -"Nothing so bold," I cried. "You might without impropriety have seen -every one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log." - -"A seaman's log!" said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin; -"nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! -And I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear -was what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she -not caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?" - -I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made -the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she -should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman. - -The priest laughed consumedly at this. - -"Interest in her countryman!" said he. "Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me -for thy unexpected spots of innocence." - -"And as to that," I said, "you must have had a sort of correspondence -with her yourself." - -"I!" said he. "_Comment!_" - -"To be quite frank with you," said I, "it has been the cause of some -vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was -directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, -it was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate -in the Rue des Reservoirs." Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any -time the terrible affair was mentioned. - -"It is true, Paul, quite true," said he, "but the letter was a forgery. -I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it." - -"I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have -troubled me for a while back." - -"Ah," said he, "and your perplexities and mine are not over even now, -poor Paul. This Bernard is like to be the ruin of me yet. For you, -however, I have no fear, but it is another matter with the poor old fool -from Dixmunde." - -His voice broke, he displayed thus and otherwise so troubled a mind and -so great a reluctance to let me know the cause of it that I thought it -well to leave him for a while and let him recover his old manner. - -To that end I put on my coat and hat and went out rather earlier than -usual for my evening walk. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE MAN WITH THE TARTAN WAISTCOAT - -It was the first of May. But for Father Hamilton's birds, and some -scanty signs of it in the small garden, the lengthened day and the -kindlier air of the evenings, I might never have known what season it -was out of the almanac, for all seasons were much the same, no doubt, in -the Isle of the City where the priest and I sequestered. 'Twas ever the -shade of the tenements there; the towers of the churches never greened -nor budded; I would have waited long, in truth, for the scent of the -lilac and the chatter of the rook among these melancholy temples. - -Till that night I had never ventured farther from the gloomy vicinity of -the hospital than I thought I could safely retrace without the necessity -of asking any one the way; but this night, more courageous, or perhaps -more careless than usual, I crossed the bridge of Notre Dame and found -myself in something like the Paris of the priest's rhapsodies and the -same all thrilling with the passion of the summer. It was not flower nor -tree, though these were not wanting, but the spirit in the air--young -girls laughing in the by-going with merriest eyes, windows wide open -letting out the sounds of songs, the pavements like a river with -zesty life of Highland hills when the frosts above are broken and the -overhanging boughs have been flattering it all the way in the valleys. - -I was fair infected. My step, that had been unco' dull and heavy, I -fear, and going to the time of dirges on the Isle, went to a different -tune; my being rhymed and sang. I had got the length of the Rue de -Richelieu and humming to myself in the friendliest key, with the -good-natured people pressing about me, when of a sudden it began to -rain. There was no close in the neighbourhood where I could shelter from -the elements, but in front of me was the door of a tavern called the -Tte du Duc de Burgoyne shining with invitation, and in I went. - -A fat wife sat at a counter; a pot-boy, with a cry of "V'i!" that was -like a sheep's complaining, served two ancient citizens in skull-caps -that played the game of dominoes, and he came to me with my humble order -of a litre of ordinary and a piece of bread for the good of the house. - -Outside the rain pelted, and the folks upon the pavement ran, and -by-and-by the tavern-room filled up with shelterers like myself and kept -the pot-boy busy. Among the last to enter was a group of five that took -a seat at another corner of the room than that where I sat my lone at a -little table. At first I scarcely noticed them until I heard a word -of Scots. I think the man that used it spoke of "gully-knives," but at -least the phrase was the broadest lallands, and went about my heart. - -I put down my piece of bread and looked across the room in wonder to see -that three of the men were gazing intently at myself. The fourth was -hid by those in front of him; the fifth that had spoken had a tartan -waistcoat and eyes that were like a gled's, though they were not on me. -In spite of that, 'twas plain that of me he spoke, and that I was the -object of some speculation among them. - -No one that has not been lonely in a foreign town, and hungered for -communion with those that know his native tongue, can guess how much I -longed for speech with this compatriot that in dress and eye and accent -brought back the place of my nativity in one wild surge of memory. -Every bawbee in my pocket would not have been too much to pay for such -a privilege, but it might not be unless the overtures came from the -persons in the corner. - -Very deliberately, though all in a commotion within, I ate my piece and -drank my wine before the stare of the three men, and at last, on the -whisper of one of them, another produced a box of dice. - -"No, no!" said the man with the tartan waistcoat hurriedly, with a -glance from the tail of his eye at me, but they persisted in their -purpose and began to throw. My countryman in tartan got the last chance, -of which he seemed reluctant to avail himself till the one unseen said: -"_Vous avez le de'_, Kilbride." - -Kilbride! the name was the call of whaups at home upon the moors! - -He laughed, shook, and tossed carelessly, and then the laugh was all -with them, for whatever they had played for he had seemingly lost and -the dice were now put by. - -He rose somewhat confused, looked dubiously across at me with a -reddening face, and then came over with his hat in his hand. - -"Pardon, Monsieur," he began; then checked the French, and said: "Have I -a countryman here?" - -"It is like enough," said I, with a bow and looking at his tartan. "I am -from Scotland myself." - -He smiled at that with a look of some relief and took a vacant chair on -the other side of my small table. - -"I have come better speed with my impudence," said he in the Hielan' -accent, "than I expected or deserved. My name's Kilbride--MacKellar of -Kilbride--and I am here with another Highland gentleman of the name of -Grant and two or three French friends we picked up at the door of the -play-house. Are you come off the Highlands, if I make take the liberty?" - -"My name is lowland," said I, "and I hail from the shire of Renfrew." - -"Ah," said he, with a vanity that was laughable. "What a pity! I wish -you had been Gaelic, but of course you cannot help it being otherwise, -and indeed there are many estimable persons in the lowlands." - -"And a great wheen of Highland gentlemen very glad to join them there -too," said I, resenting the implication. - -"Of course, of course," said he heartily. "There is no occasion for -offence." - -"Confound the offence, Mr. MacKellar!" said I. "Do you not think I am -just too glad at this minute to hear a Scottish tongue and see a tartan -waistcoat? Heilan' or Lowlan', we are all the same" when our feet are -off the heather. - -"Not exactly," he corrected, "but still and on we understand each other. -You must be thinking it gey droll, sir, that a band of strangers in a -common tavern would have the boldness to stare at you like my friends -there, and toss a dice about you in front of your face, but that is the -difference between us. If I had been in your place I would have thrown -the jug across at them, but here I am not better nor the rest, because -the dice fell to me, and I was one that must decide the wadger." - -"Oh, and was I the object of a wadger?" said I, wondering what we were -coming to. - -"Indeed, and that you were," said he shamefacedly, "and I'm affronted -to tell it. But when Grant saw you first he swore you were a countryman, -and there was some difference of opinion." - -"And what, may I ask, did Kilbride side with?" - -"Oh," said he promptly, "I had never a doubt about that. I knew you were -Scots, but what beat me was to say whether you were Hielan' or Lowlan'." -"And how, if it's a fair question, did you come to the conclusion that I -was a countryman of any sort?" said I. - -He laughed softly, and "Man," said he, "I could never make any mistake -about that, whatever of it. There's many a bird that's like the -woodcock, but the woodcock will aye be kennin' which is which, as the -other man said. Thae bones were never built on bread and wine. It's a -French coat you have there, and a cockit hat (by your leave), but to my -view you were as plainly from Scotland as if you had a blue bonnet on -your head and a sprig of heather in your lapels. And here am I giving -you the strange cow's welcome (as the other man said), and that is all -inquiry and no information. You must just be excusing our bit foolish -wadger, and if the proposal would come favourably from myself, that is -of a notable family, though at present under a sort of cloud, as the -other fellow said, I would be proud to have you share in the bottle of -wine that was dependent upon Grant's impudent wadger. I can pass my word -for my friends there that they are all gentry like ourselves--of the -very best, in troth, though not over-nice in putting this task on -myself." - -I would have liked brawly to spend an hour out any company than my own, -but the indulgence was manifestly one involving the danger of discovery; -it was, as I told myself, the greatest folly to be sitting in a tavern -at all, so MacKellar's manner immediately grew cold when he saw a -swithering in my countenance. - -"Of course," said he, reddening and rising, "of course, every gentleman -has his own affairs, and I would be the last to make a song of it if -you have any dubiety about my friends and me. I'll allow the thing looks -very like a gambler's contrivance." - -"No, no, Mr. MacKellar," said I hurriedly, unwilling to let us part -like that, "I'm swithering here just because I'm like yoursel' of it and -under a cloud of my own." - -"Dod! Is that so?" said he quite cheerfully again, and clapping down, -"then I'm all the better pleased that the thing that made the roebuck -swim the loch--and that's necessity--as the other man said, should have -driven me over here to precognosce you. But when you say you are under -a cloud, that is to make another way of it altogether, and I will not be -asking you over, for there is a gentleman there among the five of us who -might be making trouble of it." - -"Have you a brother in Glasgow College?" says I suddenly, putting a -question that had been in my mind ever since he had mentioned his name. - -"Indeed, and I have that," said he quickly, "but now he is following the -law in Edinburgh, where I am in the hopes it will be paying him better -than ever it paid me that has lost two fine old castles and the best -part of a parish by the same. You'll not be sitting there and telling me -surely that you know my young brother Alasdair?" - -"Man! him and me lodged together in Lucky Grant's, in Crombie's Land in -the High Street, for two Sessions," said I. - -"What!" said MacKellar. "And you'll be the lad that snow-balled the -bylie, and your name will be Greig?" - -As he said it he bent to look under the table, then drew up suddenly -with a startled face and a whisper of a whistle on his lips. - -"My goodness!" said he, in a cautious tone, "and that beats all. You'll -be the lad that broke jyle with the priest that shot at Buhot, and there -you are, you _amadain_, like a gull with your red brogues on you, crying -'come and catch me' in two languages. I'm telling you to keep thae feet -of yours under this table till we're out of here, if it should be the -morn's morning. No--that's too long, for by the morn's morning Buhot's -men will be at the Htel Dieu, and the end of the story will be little -talk and the sound of blows, as the other man said." - -Every now and then as he spoke he would look over his shoulder with a -quick glance at his friends--a very anxious man, but no more anxious -than Paul Greig. - -"Mercy on us!" said I, "do you tell me you ken all that?" - -"I ken a lot more than that," said he, "but that's the latest of my -budget, and I'm giving it to you for the sake of the shoes and my -brother Alasdair, that is a writer in Edinburgh. There's not two -Scotchmen drinking a bowl in Paris town this night that does not ken -your description, and it's kent by them at the other table there--where -better?--but because you have that coat on you that was surely made for -you when you were in better health, as the other man said, and because -your long trams of legs and red shoes are under the table there's none -of them suspects you. And now that I'm thinking of it, I would not go -near the hospital place again." - -"Oh! but the priest's there," said I, "and it would never do for me to be -leaving him there without a warning." - -"A warning!" said MacKellar with contempt. "I'm astonished to hear you, -Mr. Greig. The filthy brock that he is!" - -"If you're one of the Prince's party," said I, "and it has every look of -it, or, indeed, whether you are or not, I'll allow you have some cause -to blame Father Hamilton, but as for me, I'm bound to him because we -have been in some troubles together." - -"What's all this about 'bound to him'?" said MacKellar with a kind of -sneer. "The dog that's tethered with a black pudding needs no pity, as -the other man said, and I would leave this fellow to shift for himself." - -"Thank you," said I, "but I'll not be doing that." - -"Well, well," said he, "it's your business, and let me tell you that -you're nothing but a fool to be tangled up with the creature. That's -Kilbride's advice to you. Let me tell you this more of it, that they're -not troubling themselves much about you at all now that you have given -them the information." - -"Information!" I said with a start. "What do you mean by that?" - -He prepared to join his friends, with a smile of some slyness, and gave -me no satisfaction on the point. - -"You'll maybe ken best yourself," said he, "and I'm thinking your -name will have to be Robertson and yourself a decent Englishman for my -friends on the other side of the room there. Between here and yonder -I'll have to be making up a bonny lie or two that will put them off the -scent of you." - -A bonny lie or two seemed to serve the purpose, for their interest in me -appeared to go no further, and by-and-by, when it was obvious that there -would be no remission of the rain, they rose to go. - -The last that went out of the door turned on the threshold and looked at -me with a smile of recognition and amusement. - -It was Buhot! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -WHEREIN THE PRIEST LEAVES ME, AND I MAKE AN INLAND VOYAGE - -What this marvel betokened was altogether beyond my comprehension, but -the five men were no sooner gone than I clapped on my hat and drew up -the collar of my coat and ran like fury through the plashing streets for -the place that was our temporary home. It must have been an intuition of -the raised that guided me; my way was made without reflection on it, -at pure hazard, and yet I landed through a multitude of winding and -bewildering streets upon the Isle of the City and in front of the Htel -Dieu in a much shorter time than it had taken me to get from there to -the Duke of Burgundy's Head. - -I banged past the doorkeeper, jumped upstairs to the clergyman's -quarters, threw open the door and--found Father Hamilton was gone! - -About the matter there could be no manner of dubiety, for he had left a -letter directed to myself upon the drawers-head. - -"My Good Paul (said the epistle, that I have kept till now as a memorial -of my adventure): When you return you will discover from this that I -have taken leave _a l'anglaise_, and I fancy I can see my secretary -looking like the arms of Bourges (though that is an unkind imputation). -'Tis fated, seemingly, that there shall be no rest for the sole of -the foot of poor Father Hamilton. I had no sooner got to like a loose -collar, and an unbuttoned vest, and the seclusion of a cell, than I must -be plucked out; and now when my birds--the darlings!--are on the very -point of hatching I must make adieux. _Oh! la belle quipe!_ M. Buhot -knows where I am--that's certain, so I must remove myself, and this time -I do not propose to burden M. Paul Greig with my company, for it will -be a miracle if they fail to find me. As for my dear Croque-mort, he can -have the glass coach and Jacques and Bernard, and doubtless the best -he can do with them is to take all to Dunkerque and leave them there. -I myself, I go _sans trompette_, and no inquiries will discover to him -where I go." - -As a postscript he added, "And 'twas only a sailor's log, dear lad! My -poor young Paul!" When I read the letter I was puzzled tremendously, and -at first I felt inclined to blame the priest for a scurvy flitting to -rid himself of my society, but a little deliberation convinced me that -no such ignoble consideration was at the bottom of his flight. If I read -his epistle aright the step he took was in my own interest, though how -it could be so there was no surmising. In any case he was gone; his -friend in the hospital told me he had set out behind myself, and taken -a candle with him and given a farewell visit to his birds, and almost -cried about them and about myself, and then departed for good to conceal -himself, in some other part of the city, probably, but exactly where -his friend had no way of guessing. And it was a further evidence of the -priest's good feeling to myself (if such were needed) that he had left a -sum of a hundred livres for me towards the costs of my future movements. - -I left the Htel Dieu at midnight to wander very melancholy about the -streets for a time, and finally came out upon the river's bank, where -some small vessels hung at a wooden quay. I saw them in moonlight (for -now the rain was gone), and there rose in me such a feeling as I had -often experienced as a lad in another parish than the Mearns, to see the -road that led from strangeness past my mother's door. The river seemed a -pathway out of mystery and discontent to the open sea, and the open sea -was the same that beat about the shores of Britain, and my thought -took flight there and then to Britain, but stopped for a space, like a -wearied bird, upon the town Dunkerque. There is one who reads this -who will judge kindly, and pardon when I say that I felt a sort of -tenderness for the lady there, who was not only my one friend in France, -so far as I could guess, but, next to my mother, the only woman who knew -my shame and still retained regard for me. And thinking about Scotland -and about Dunkerque, and seeing that watery highway to them both, I was -seized with a great repugnance for the city I stood in, and felt that -I must take my feet from there at once. Father Hamilton was lost to me: -that was certain. I could no more have found him in this tanglement -of streets and strange faces than I could have found a needle in a -haystack, and I felt disinclined to make the trial. Nor was I prepared -to avail myself of his offer of the coach and horses, for to go -travelling again in them would be to court Bictre anew. - -There was a group of busses or barges at the quay, as I have said, all -huddled together as it were animals seeking warmth, with their bows -nuzzling each other, and on one of them there were preparations being -made for her departure. A cargo of empty casks was piled up in her, -lights were being hung up at her bow and stern, and one of her crew was -ashore in the very act of casting off her ropes. At a flash it occurred -to me that I had here the safest and the speediest means of flight. - -I ran at once to the edge of the quay and clumsily propounded a question -as to where the barge was bound for. - -"Rouen or thereabouts," said the master. - -I asked if I could have a passage, and chinked my money in my pocket. - -My French might have been but middling, but Lewis d'Or talks in a -language all can understand. - -Ten minutes later we were in the fairway of the river running down -through the city which, in that last look I was ever fated to have of -it, seemed to brood on either hand of us like bordering hills, and at -morning we were at a place by name Triel. - -Of all the rivers I have seen I must think the Seine the finest. It runs -in loops like my native Forth, sometimes in great, wide stretches that -have the semblance of moorland lochs. In that fine weather, with a sun -that was most genial, the country round about us basked and smiled. -We moved upon the fairest waters, by magic gardens, and the borders of -enchanted little towns. Now it would be a meadow sloping backward from -the bank, where reeds were nodding, to the horizon; now an orchard -standing upon grass that was the rarest green, then a village with rusty -roofs and spires and the continual chime of bells, with women washing -upon stones or men silent upon wherries fishing. Every link of the -river opened up a fresher wonder; if not some poplared isle that had -the invitation to a childish escapade, 'twould be another town, or the -garden of a chteau, maybe, with ladies walking stately on the lawns, -perhaps alone, perhaps with cavaliers about them as if they moved -in some odd woodland minuet. I can mind of songs that came from open -windows, sung in women's voices; of girls that stood drawing water and -smiled on us as we passed, at home in our craft of fortune, and still -the lucky roamers seeing the world so pleasantly without the trouble of -moving a step from our galley fire. - -Sometimes in the middle of the days we would stop at a red-faced, -ancient inn, with bowers whose tables almost had their feet dipped in -the river, and there would eat a meal and linger on a pot of wine while -our barge fell asleep at her tether and dreamt of the open sea. About us -in these inns came the kind country-people and talked of trivial things -for the mere sake of talking, because the weather was sweet and God -so gracious; homely sounds would waft from the byres and from the -barns--the laugh of bairns, the whistle of boys, the low of cattle. - -At night we moored wherever we might be, and once I mind of a place -called Andelys, selvedged with chalky cliffs and lorded over by a castle -called Gaillard, that had in every aspect of it something of the clash -of weapons and of trumpet-cry. The sky shone blue through its gaping -gables and its crumbling windows like so many eyes; the birds that -wheeled all round it seemed to taunt it for its inability. The old wars -over, the deep fosse silent, the strong men gone--and there at its foot -the thriving town so loud with sounds of peaceful trade! Whoever has -been young, and has the eye for what is beautiful and great and stately, -must have felt in such a scene that craving for companionship that -tickles like a laugh within the heart--that longing for some one to feel -with him, and understand, and look upon with silence. In my case 'twas -two women I would have there with me just to look upon this Gaillard and -the town below it. - -Then the bending, gliding river again, the willow and the aspen -edges, the hazy orchards and the emerald swards; hamlets, towns, -farm-steadings, chteaux, kirks, and mills; the flying mallard, the -leaping perch, the silver dawns, the starry nights, the ripple of the -water in my dreams, and at last the city of Rouen. My ship of fortune -went no further on. - -I slept a night in an inn upon the quay, and early the next morning, -having bought a pair of boots to save my red shoes, I took the road over -a hill that left Rouen and all its steeples, reeking at the bottom of a -bowl. I walked all day, through woods and meadows and trim small towns -and orchards, and late in the gloaming came upon the port of Havre de -Grace. - -The sea was sounding there, and the smell of it was like a salutation. I -went out at night from my inn, and fairly joyed in its propinquity, and -was so keen on it that I was at the quay before it was well daylight. -The harbour was full of vessels. It was not long ere I got word of one -that was in trim for Dunkerque, to which I took a passage, and by favour -of congenial weather came upon the afternoon of the second day. - -Dunkerque was more busy with soldiers than ever, all the arms of France -seemed to be collected there, and ships of war and flat-bottomed boats -innumerable were in the harbour. - -At the first go-off I made for the lodgings I had parted from so -unceremoniously on the morning of that noisy glass coach. - -The house, as I have said before, was over a baker's shop, and was -reached by a common outer stair that rose from a court-yard behind. -Though internally the domicile was well enough, indeed had a sort of -old-fashioned gentility, and was kept by a woman whose man had been a -colonel of dragoons, but now was a tippling pensioner upon the king, and -his own wife's labours, it was, externally, somewhat mean, the place a -solid merchant of our own country might inhabit, but scarce the place -wherein to look for royal blood. What was my astonishment, then, when, -as I climbed the stair, I came face to face with the Prince! - -I felt the stair swing off below me and half distrusted my senses, but I -had the presence of mind to take my hat off. - -"_Bon jour, Monsieur_, said he, with a slight hiccough, and I saw that -he was flushed and meant to pass with an evasion. There and then a -daft notion to explain myself and my relations with the priest who had -planned his assassination came to me, and I stopped and spoke. - -"Your Royal Highness---" I began, and at that he grew purple. - -"_Cest un drle de corps!_" said he, and, always speaking in French, -said he again: - -"You make an error, Monsieur; I have not the honour of Monsieur's -acquaintance," and looked at me with a bold eye and a disconcerting. - -"Greig," I blurted, a perfect lout, and surely as blind as a mole that -never saw his desire, "I had the honour to meet your Royal Highness at -Versailles." - -"My Royal Highness!" said he, this time in English. "I think Monsieur -mistakes himself." And then, when he saw how crestfallen I was, -he smiled and hiccoughed again. "You are going to call on our good -Clancarty," said he. "In that case please tell him to translate to you -the proverb, _Oui phis sait plus se tait_." - -"There is no necessity, Monsieur," I answered promptly. "Now that I look -closer I see I was mistaken. The person I did you the honour to take you -for was one in whose opinion (if he took the trouble to think of me at -all) I should have liked to re-establish myself, that was all." - -In spite of his dissipation there was something noble in his manner--a -style of the shoulders and the hands, a poise of the head that I might -practise for years and come no closer on than any nowt upon my father's -fields. It was that which I remember best of our engagement on the -stair, and that at the last of it he put out his hand to bid me -good-day. - -"My name," says he, "is Monsieur Albany so long as I am in Dunkerque. -_ bon entendeur salut!_ I hope we may meet again, Monsieur Greig." He -looked down at the black boots I had bought me in Rouen. "If I might -take the liberty to suggest it," said he, smiling, "I should abide by -the others. I have never seen their wearer wanting wit, _esprit_, and -prudence--which are qualities that at this moment I desire above all in -those that count themselves my friends." - -And with that he was gone. I watched him descend the remainder of the -stair with much deliberation, and did not move a step myself until the -tip of his scabbard had gone round the corner of the close. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -A GUID CONCEIT OF MYSELF LEADS ME FAR ASTRAY - -Clancarty and Thurot were playing cards, so intent upon that recreation -that I was in the middle of the floor before they realised who it was -the servant had ushered in. - -"_Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec! Il n'y a pas de petit chez soi!_" cried -Thurot, dropping his hand, and they jumped to their feet to greet me. - -"I'll be hanged if you want assurance, child," said Clancarty, surveying -me from head to foot as if I were some curiosity. "Here's your exploits -ringing about the world, and not wholly to your credit, and you must -walk into the very place where they will find the smallest admiration." - -"Not meaning the lodging of Captain Thurot," said I. "Whatever my -reputation may be with the world, I make bold to think he and you will -believe me better than I may seem at the first glance." - -"The first glance!" cried his lordship. "Gad, the first glance suggests -that Bictre agreed with our Scotsman. Sure, they must have fed you on -oatmeal. I'd give a hatful of louis d'or to see Father Hamilton, for -if he throve so marvellously in the flesh as his secretary he must look -like the side of St. Eloi. One obviously grows fat on regicide--fatter -than a few poor devils I know do upon devotion to princes." - -Thurot's face assured me that I was as welcome there as ever I had been. -He chid Clancarty for his badinage, and told me he was certain all along -that the first place I should make for after my flight from Bictre (of -which all the world knew) would be Dunkerque. "And a good thing too, M. -Greig," said he. - -"Not so good," says I, "but what I must meet on your stair the very -man-" - -"Stop!" he cried, and put his finger on his lip. "In these parts we know -only a certain M. Albany, who is, my faith! a good friend of your own if -you only knew it." - -"I scarcely see how that can be," said I. "If any man has a cause to -dislike me it is his Roy--" - -"M. Albany," corrected Thurot. - -"It is M. Albany, for whom, it seems, I was the decoy in a business that -makes me sick to think on. I would expect no more than that he had gone -out there to send the officers upon my heels, and for me to be sitting -here may be simple suicide." - -Clancarty laughed. "Tis the way of youth," said he, "to attach far too -much importance to itself. Take our word for it, M. Greig, all France is -not scurrying round looking for the nephew of Andrew Greig. Faith, and -I wonder at you, my dear Thurot, that has an Occasion here--a veritable -Occasion--and never so much as says bottle. Stap me if I have a -friend come to me from a dungeon without wishing him joy in a glass of -burgundy!" - -The burgundy was forthcoming, and his lordship made the most of it, -while Captain Thurot was at pains to assure me that my position was by -no means so bad as I considered it. In truth, he said, the police had -their own reasons for congratulating themselves on my going out of their -way. They knew very well, as M. Albany did, that I had been the catspaw -of the priest, who was himself no better than that same, and for that -reason as likely to escape further molestation as I was myself. - -Thurot spoke with authority, and hinted that he had the word of M. -Albany himself for what he said. I scarcely knew which pleased me -best--that I should be free myself or that the priest should have a -certain security in his concealment. - -I told them of Buhot, and how oddly he had shown his complacence to his -escaped prisoner in the tavern of the Duke of Burgundy's Head. At that -they laughed. - -"Buhot!" cried his lordship. "My faith! Ned must have been tickled to -see his escaped prisoner in such a cosy _cachette_ as the Duke's Head, -where he and I, and Andy Greig--ay! and this same priest--tossed many -a glass, _Ciel!_ the affair runs like a play. All it wants to make this -the most delightful of farces is that you should have Father Hamilton -outside the door to come in at a whistle. Art sure the fat old man is -not in your waistcoat pocket? Anyhow, here's his good health...." - -=== MISSING PAGES (274-288) === - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -THE BARD OF LOVE WHO WROTE WITH OLD MATERIALS - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -THE DUEL IN THE AUBERGE GARDEN - -Whoever it was that moved at the instigation of Madame on my behalf, -he put speed into the business, for the very next day I was told my -sous-lieutenancy was waiting at the headquarters of the regiment. A -severance that seemed almost impossible to me before I learned from the -lady's own lips that her heart was elsewhere engaged was now a thing to -long for eagerly, and I felt that the sooner I was out of Dunkerque and -employed about something more important than the tying of my hair and -the teasing of my heart with thinking, the better for myself. Teasing my -heart, I say, because Miss Walkinshaw had her own reasons for refusing -to see me any more, and do what I might I could never manage to come -face to face with her. Perhaps on the whole it was as well, for what -in the world I was to say to the lady, supposing I were privileged, -it beats me now to fancy. Anyhow, the opportunity never came my way, -though, for the few days that elapsed before I departed from Dunkerque, -I spent hours in the Rue de la Boucherie sipping sirops on the terrace -of the Caf Coignet opposite her lodging, or at night on the old game of -humming ancient love-songs to her high and distant window. All I got -for my pains were brief and tantalising glimpses of her shadow on the -curtains; an attenuate kind of bliss it must be owned, and yet counted -by Master Red-Shoes (who suffered from nostalgia, not from love, if he -had had the sense to know it) a very delirium of delight. - -One night there was an odd thing came to pass. But, first of all, I must -tell that more than once of an evening, as I would be in the street and -staring across at Miss Walkinshaw's windows, I saw his Royal Highness in -the neighbourhood. His cloak might be voluminous, his hat dragged down -upon the very nose of him, but still the step was unmistakable. If there -had been the smallest doubt of it, there came one evening when he passed -me so close in the light of an oil lamp that I saw the very blotches -on his countenance. What was more, he saw and recognised me, though he -passed without any other sign than the flash of an eye and a halfstep of -hesitation. - -[Illustration: 304] - -"H'm," thinks I, "here's Monsieur Albany looking as if he might, like -myself, be trying to content himself with the mere shadows of things." - -He saw me more than once, and at last there came a night when a fellow -in drink came staving down the street on the side I was on and jostled -me in the by-going without a word of apology. - -"_Pardonnez, Monsieur!_" said I in irony, with my hat off to give him a -hint at his manners. - -He lurched a second time against me and put up his hand to catch my -chin, as if I were a wench, "_Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec_, 'tis time -you were home," said he in French, and stuttered some ribaldry that made -me smack his face with an open hand. - -"I saw his Royal Highness in the neighbourhood--" - -At once he sobered with suspicious suddenness if I had had the sense -to reflect upon it, and gave me his name and direction as one George -Bonnat, of the Marine. "Monsieur will do me the honour of a meeting -behind the Auberge Cassard after _petit dejeuner_ to-morrow," said he, -and named a friend. It was the first time I was ever challenged. It -should have rung in the skull of me like an alarm, but I cannot recall -at this date that my heart beat a stroke the faster, or that the -invitation vexed me more than if it had been one to the share of a -bottle of wine. "It seems a pretty ceremony about a cursed impertinence -on the part of a man in liquor," I said, "but I'm ready to meet you -either before or after petit djeuner, as it best suits you, and my -name's Greig, by your leave." - -"Very well, Monsieur Greig," said he; "except that you stupidly impede -the pavement and talk French like a Spanish cow (_comme une vache -espagnole_), you seem a gentleman of much accommodation. Eight o'clock -then, behind the _auberge_," and off went Sir Ruffler, singularly -straight and business-like, with a profound _cong_ for the unfortunate -wretch he planned to thrust a spit through in the morning. - -I went home at once, to find Thurot and Clancarty at lansquenet. They -were as elate at my story as if I had been asked to dine with Louis. - -"Gad, 'tis an Occasion!" cried my lord, and helped himself, as usual, -with a charming sentiment: "_A demain les affaires srieuses_; to-night -we'll pledge our friend!" - -Thurot evinced a flattering certainty of my ability to break down M. -Bonnat's guard in little or no time. "A crab, this Bonnat," said he. -"Why he should pick a quarrel with you I cannot conceive, for 'tis well -known the man is M. Albany's creature. But, no matter, we shall tickle -his ribs, M. Paul. _Ma foi!_ here's better gaming than your pestilent -cards. I'd have every man in the kingdom find an affair for himself once -a month to keep his spleen in order." - -"This one's like to put mine very much out of order with his iron," I -said, a little ruefully recalling my last affair. - -"What!" cried Thurot, "after all my lessons! And this Bonnat a crab too! -Fie! M. Paul. And what an he pricks a little? a man's the better for -some iron in his system now and then. Come, come, pass down these foils, -my lord, and I shall supple the arms of our Paul." - -We had a little exercise, and then I went to bed. The two sat in my -room, and smoked and talked till late in the night, while I pretended -to be fast asleep. But so far from sleep was I, that I could hear their -watches ticking in their fobs. Some savagery, some fearful want of soul -in them, as evidenced by their conversation, horrified me. It was no -great matter that I was to risk my life upon a drunkard's folly, but -for the first time since I had come into the port of Dunkerque, and knew -these men beside my bed, there intruded a fiery sense of alienation. It -seemed a dream--a dreadful dream, that I should be lying in a foreign -land, upon the eve, perhaps, of my own death or of another manslaughter, -and in a correspondence with two such worldly men as those that sat -there recalling combats innumerable with never a thought of the ultimate -fearful retribution. Compared with this close room, where fumed the wine -and weed, and men with never a tie domestic were paying away their lives -in the small change of trivial pleasures, how noble and august seemed -our old life upon the moors! - -When they were gone I fell asleep and slept without a break till -Thurot's fingers drummed reveille on my door. I jumped into the sunshine -of a lovely day that streamed into the room, soused my head in water and -in a little stood upon the street with my companion. - -"_Bon matin_, Paul!" he cried cheerfully. "Faith, you sleep sur _les -deux oreilles_, and we must be marching briskly to be at M. Bonnat's -rendezvous at eight o'clock." - -We went through the town and out upon its edge at the Calais road. The -sky was blue like another sea; the sea itself was all unvexed by wave; a -sweeter day for slaughtering would pass the wit of man to fancy. Thurot -hummed an air as he walked along the street, but I was busy thinking -of another morning in Scotland, when I got a bitter lesson I now seemed -scandalously soon to have forgotten. By-and-by we came to the inn. It -stood by itself upon the roadside, with a couple of workmen sitting on -a bench in front dipping their morning crusts in a common jug of wine. -Thurot entered and made some inquiry; came out radiant. "Monsieur is not -going to disappoint us, as I feared," said he; and led me quickly behind -the _auberge_. We passed through the yard, where a servant-girl scoured -pots and pans and sang the while as if the world were wholly pleasant in -that sunshine; we crossed a tiny rivulet upon a rotten plank and found -ourselves in an orchard. Great old trees stood silent in the finest -foggy grass, their boughs all bursting out into blossom, and the air -scent-thick-ened; everywhere the birds were busy; it seemed a world -of piping song. I thought to myself there could be no more incongruous -place nor season for our duelling, and it was with half a gladness I -looked around the orchard, finding no one there. - -"Bah! our good Bonnat's gone!" cried Thurot, vastly chagrined and -tugging at his watch. "That comes of being five minutes too late, and I -cannot, by my faith, compliment the gentleman upon his eagerness to meet -you." - -I was mistaken but for a second; then I spied my fiery friend of the -previous evening lying on his back beneath the oldest of the trees, his -hat tilted over his eyes, as if he had meant to snatch a little sleep -in spite of the dazzling sunshine. He rose to his feet on our approach, -swept off his hat courteously, and hailed Thurot by name. - -"What, you, Antoine! I am ravished! For, look you, the devil's in all my -friends that I can get none of them to move a step at this hour of the -morning, and I have had to come to M. Greig without a second. Had I -known his friend was Captain Thurot I should not have vexed myself. -Doubtless M. Greig has no objection to my entrusting my interests as -well as his own in the hands of M. le Capitaine?" - -I bowed my assent. Captain Thurot cast a somewhat cold and unsatisfied -eye upon the ruffler, protesting the thing was unusual. - -Bonnat smiled and shrugged his shoulders, put off his coat with much -deliberation, and took up his place upon the sward, where I soon -followed him. - -"Remember, it is no fool, this crab," whispered Captain Thurot as he -took my coat from me. "And 'tis two to one on him who prefers the parry -to the attack." - -I had been reading Molire's "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" the previous -morning, and as I faced my assailant I had the fencing-master's words as -well as Captain Thurot's running in my ears: "To give and not receive -is the secret of the sword." It may appear incredible, but it seemed -physically a trivial affair I was engaged upon until I saw the man -Bonnat's eye. He wore a smile, but his eye had the steely glint of -murder! It was as unmistakable as if his tongue confessed it, and for -a second I trembled at the possibilities of the situation. He looked an -unhealthy dog; sallow exceedingly on the neck, which had the sinews -so tight they might have twanged like wire, and on his cheeks, that he -seemed to suck in with a gluttonous exultation such as a gross man shows -in front of a fine meal. - -"Are you ready, gentlemen?" said Thurot; and we nodded. "Then in guard!" -said he. - -We saluted, fell into position and thrust simultaneously in tierce, -parrying alike, then opened more seriously. - -In Thurot's teaching of me there was one lesson he most unweariedly -insisted on, whose object was to keep my point in a straight line and -parry in the smallest possible circles. I had every mind of it now, but -the cursed thing was that this Bonnat knew it too. He fenced, like an -Italian, wholly from the wrist, and, crouched upon his knees, husbanded -every ounce of energy by the infrequency and the brevity of his thrusts. -His lips drew back from his teeth, giving him a most villainous aspect, -and he began to press in the lower lines. - -In a side-glance hazarded I saw the anxiety of Thurot's eye and realised -his apprehension. I broke ground, and still, I think, was the bravo's -match but for the alarm of Thurot's eye. It confused me so much that I -parried widely and gave an opening for a thrust that caught me slightly -on the arm, and dyed my shirt-sleeve crimson in a moment. - -"Halt!" cried Thurot, and put up his arm. - -I lowered my weapon, thinking the bout over, and again saw murder in -Bonnat's eye. He lunged furiously at my chest, missing by a miracle. - -"_Sclrat!_" cried Thurot, and, in an uncontrollable fury at the -action, threw himself upon Bonnat and disarmed him. - -They glared at each other for a minute, and Thurot finally cast the -other's weapon over a hedge. "So much for M. Bonnat!" said he. "This is -our valiant gentleman, is it? To stab like an assassin!" - -"_Oh, maldiction!_" said the other, little abashed, and shrugging his -shoulders as he lifted his coat to put it on. "Talking of assassination, -I but did the duty of the executioner in his absence, and proposed to -kill the man who meditated the same upon the Prince." - -"The Prince!" cried Thurot. "Why 'tis the Prince's friend, and saved his -life!" - -"I know nothing about that," said Bonnat; "but do you think I'd be out -here at such a cursed early hour fencing if any other than M. Albany -had sent me? _Pardieu!_ the whole of you are in the farce, but I always -counted you the Prince's friend, and here you must meddle when I do as -I am told to do!" - -"And you tell me, Jean Bonnat, that you take out my friend to murder him -by M. Albany's command?" cried Thurot incredulous. - -"What the devil else?" replied the bravo. "'Tis true M. Albany only -mentioned that M. des Souliers Rouges was an obstruction in the Rue de -la Boucherie and asked me to clear him out of Dunkerque, but 'twere a -tidier job to clear him altogether. And here is a great pother about an -English hog!" - -I was too busily stanching my wound, that was scarce so serious as it -appeared, to join in this dispute, but the allusion to the Prince and -the Rue de la Boucherie extremely puzzled me. I turned to Bonnat with a -cry for an explanation. - -"What!" I says, "does his Royal Highness claim any prerogative to the -Rue de la Boucherie? I'm unconscious that I ever did either you or him -the smallest harm, and if my service--innocent enough as it was--with -the priest Hamilton was something to resent, his Highness has already -condoned the offence." - -"For the sake of my old friend M. le Capitaine here I shall give you -one word of advice," said Bonnat, "and that is, to evacuate Dunkerque as -sharply as you may. M. Albany may owe you some obligement, as I've heard -him hint himself, but nevertheless your steps will be safer elsewhere -than in the Rue de la Boucherie." - -"There is far too much of the Rue de la Boucherie about this," I said, -"and I hope no insult is intended to certain friends I have or had -there." - -At this they looked at one another. The bravo (for so I think I may at -this time call him) whistled curiously and winked at the other, and, in -spite of himself, Captain Thurot was bound to laugh. - -"And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?" said he. -"That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. 'Tis, _ma foi!_ -to expect too much of M. Albany's complaisance. After that there is -nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian -work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour." - -"You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine," said Bonnat -brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. "M. Blanc-bec -there handles _arme blanche_ rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the -gallant commander of the _Roi Rouge_, but if he has a mother let me -suggest the wisdom of his going back to her." And with that and a -_cong_ he left us to enter the _auberge_. - -Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, -ruminating upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better -than I could, yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I -pled with him vainly for an explanation of the Prince's objection to -my person. "I thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the -Hamilton affair," I said. - -"And so he had," said Thurot. "I have his own assurances." - -"'Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure -me into a duel." - -"My dear boy," said Thurot, "you owe him all--your escape from Bictre, -which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of the -lieutenancy in the Regiment d'Auvergne." - -"What! he has a hand in this?" I cried. - -"Who else?" said he. "'Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled -Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. -It seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not -uncommon with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one -reason, and for the other he would cut your throat. M. Tte-de-fer is my -eternal puzzle. And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, -the same reason for favouring and hating you." - -"And what might that be?" said I. - -"Who, rather?" said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la -Boucherie. "Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under -your very nose, 'tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the -machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she -were anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with -Hamilton, and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and -now--though she may not have attempted it--she has gained you the same -person's enmity." - -I stopped in the street and turned to him. "All this is confused enough -to madden me," I said, "and rather than be longer in the mist I shall -brave her displeasure, compel an audience, and ask her for an -explanation." - -"Please yourself," said Thurot, and seeing I meant what I said he left -me. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - -FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW - -It was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle's -stairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!) -responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the same -had been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barren -comfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiled -at first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at the -unresponse of mine. - -"I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw," said I. - -The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is more -truth in a menial eye than in most others, and this man's fashionable -falsehood extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he was -acting upon instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable for -him, he saw that I saw. - -"Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhood -till she returns," I said, and leaned against the railing. This -frightened him somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did not -know when she might return. - -"It does not matter," I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my courage -much higher in the circumstances than I had expected. "If it's midnight -she shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance upon -which to consult her." - -He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon the -door-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions had -not gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how he -was further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unable -to get a glance of recognition from me, and resenting further -the inconvenience to which I was subjecting him, he rose to an -impertinence--the first (to do him justice) I had ever found in him. - -"Will Monsieur," said he, "tell me who I shall say called?" - -The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and "My good rogue," -said I, "if the circumstances were more favourable I should have the -felicity of giving you an honest drubbing." He got very red. "Come, -Bernard," I said, adopting another tone, "I think you owe me some -consideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to give -you all the information you required some time ago for your employers, -tell me the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?" - -He was saved an answer by the lady herself. - -"La! Mr. Greig!" she cried, coming to the door and putting forth a -welcoming hand. "My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he should -except my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors." -So much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, "My dear -man of Mearns, you are as dour as--as dour as--" - -"As a donkey," I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. "And I -feel very much like that humble beast at this moment." - -"I do not wonder at it," said she, throwing herself in a chair. "To -thrust yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!" - -"I am the ass--I have been the ass--it would appear, in other respects -as well." - -She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back her -hair, that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caught -her rather early in the morning; she had not even the preparation of -a _petit lever_; and because of a certain chagrin at being discovered -scarcely looking her best her first remarks were somewhat chilly. - -"Well, at least you have persistency, I'll say that of it," she went -on, with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. "And for what am I -indebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?" - -"It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you for -your offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d'Auvergne is -settled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself, -for it looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting my -distinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month, -and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper I -should come in my own person to thank you for your good offices." - -"Do not mention it," she said hurriedly. "I am only too glad that I -could be of the smallest service to you." - -"I cannot think," I went on, "what I can have done to warrant your -displeasure with me." - -"Displeasure!" she replied. "Who said I was displeased?" - -"What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing you -for this past week." - -"Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig," she said, trifling with her rings. -"Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itself -as a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig's ordinary intuitions." - -"It's a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to," I -said. "And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arises -now, and how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me." - -"No matter," said she, and paused. "And so you are going to the -frontier, and are come to say good-bye to me?" - -"Now that you remind me that is exactly my object," I said, rising to -go. She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, as -if she felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet I -noticed a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed. - -"And so you go, Mr. Greig?" she said. "There's but the one thing I would -like to say to my friend, and that's that I should like him not to think -unkindly of one that values his good opinion--if she were worthy to have -it. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and now -that I'm to lose them I feel like to greet." She was indeed inclined -to tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of my -annoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration. - -"I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "You -found me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it's a man -that's leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than it -would otherwise have been, and this last kindness--that forces me away -from you--is one more I have to thank you for." - -She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or the -reverse, and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half. - -"I owed all the little I could do to my countryman," said she. - -"And I hope I have been useful," I blurted out, determined to show her I -was going with open eyes. - -Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. "I hope you will forgive -that, Mr. Greig," she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to my -meaning. - -"There is nothing to forgive," I said shortly. "I am proud that I was of -service, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose house -some more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint is -that the person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the little -share I had unconsciously in preserving his life." - -"I am sure he is very grateful," she cried hastily, and perplexed. "I -may tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in the -regiment." - -"So I have been told," I said, and she looked a little startled. "So I -have been told. It may be that I'll be more grateful by-and-by, when I -see what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitude -greatly hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the--in the person's -actings towards myself!" - -"Inconsistency!" she repeated bitterly. "That need not surprise you! But -I do not understand." - -"It is simply that--perhaps to hasten me to my duties--his Royal -Highness this morning sent a ruffian to fight me." - -I have never seen a face so suddenly change as hers did when she heard -this; for ordinary she had a look of considerable amiability, a soft, -kind eye, a ready smile that had the hint (as I have elsewhere said) -of melancholy, a voice that, especially in the Scots, was singularly -attractive. A temper was the last thing I would have charged her with, -yet now she fairly flamed, "What is this you are telling me, Paul -Greig?" she cried, her eyes stormy, her bosom beginning to heave. "Oh, -just that M. Albany (as he calls himself) has some grudge against me, -for he sent a man--Bonnat--to pick a quarrel with me, and by Bonnat's -own confession the duel that was to ensue was to be _ outrance_. But -for the intervention of a friend, half an hour ago, there would have -been a vacancy already in the Regiment d'Auvergne." - -"Good heavens!" she cried. "You must be mistaken. What object in the -wide world could his Royal Highness have in doing you any harm? You were -an instrument in the preservation of his life." - -I bowed extremely low, with a touch of the courts I had not when I -landed first in Dunkerque. - -"I have had the distinguished honour, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "And -I should have thought that enough to counterbalance my unfortunate and -ignorant engagement with his enemies." - -"But why, in Heaven's name, should he have a shred of resentment against -you?" - -"It seems," I said, "that it has something to do with my boldness in -using the Rue de la Boucherie for an occasional promenade." - -She put her two hands up to her face for a moment, but I could see the -wine-spill in between, and her very neck was in a flame. - -"Oh, the shame! the shame!" she cried, and began to walk up and down the -room like one demented. "Am I to suffer these insults for ever in spite -of all that I may do to prove--to prove----" - -She pulled herself up short, put down her hands from a face exceedingly -distressed, and looked closely at me. "What must you think of me, Mr. -Greig?" she asked suddenly in quite a new key. - -"What do I think of myself to so disturb you?" I replied. "I do not -know in what way I have vexed you, but to do so was not at all in my -intention. I must tell you that I am not a politician, and that since I -came here these affairs of the Prince and all the rest of it are quite -beyond my understanding. If the cause of the white cockade brought you -to France, Miss Walkinshaw, as seems apparent, I cannot think you are -very happy in it nowadays, but that is no affair of mine." - -She stared at me. "I hope," said she, "you are not mocking me?" - -"Heaven forbid!" I said. "It would be the last thing I should presume -to do, even if I had a reason. I owe you, after all, nothing but the -deepest gratitude." - -Beyond the parlour we stood in was a lesser room that was the lady's -boudoir. We stood with our backs to it, and I know not how much of our -conversation had been overheard when I suddenly turned at the sound of a -man's voice, and saw his Royal Highness standing in the door! - -I could have rubbed my eyes out of sheer incredulity, for that he should -be in that position was as if I had come upon a ghost. He stood with a -face flushed and frowning, rubbing his eyes, and there was something in -his manner that suggested he was not wholly sober. - -"I'll be cursed," said he, "if I haven't been asleep. Deuce take -Clancarty! He kept me at cards till dawn this morning, and I feel as if -I had been all night on heather. _Pardieu_----!" - -He pulled himself up short and stared, seeing me for the first time. -His face grew purple with annoyance. "A thousand pardons!" he cried with -sarcasm, and making a deep bow. "I was not aware that I intruded on -affairs." - -Miss Walkinshaw turned to him sharply. - -"There is no intrusion," said she, "but honesty, in the person of my -dear countryman, who has come to strange quarters with it. Your Royal -Highness has now the opportunity of thanking this gentleman." - -"I' faith," said he, "I seem to be kept pretty constantly in mind of -the little I owe to this gentleman in spite of himself. Harkee, my good -Monsieur, I got you a post; I thought you had been out of Dunkerque by -now." - -"The post waits, M. Albany," said I, "and I am going to take it up -forthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owe -the post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should be -addressed." - -"My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us owe -her everything, and--egad!--are not grateful enough," and with that he -looked for the first time at her with his frown gone. - -"Yes, yes," she cried; "we may put off the compliments till another -occasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me that -this gentleman, who has done so much for me--I speak for myself, your -Royal Highness will observe--should be so poorly requited." - -"Requited!" cried he. "How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied." -His face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at his -unshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child of -kings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myself -upon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true. - -"I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergne -office, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude----" - -"Bah!" cried he. "Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that does -aught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none of -your gratitude, Monsieur Greig." - -"'Tis just as well, M. Albany," I cried, "for what there was of it is -mortgaged." - -"_Comment?_" he asked, uneasily. - -"I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that calls -himself your servant," I replied, always very careful to take his own -word for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. "He -informed me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing the -same street with you, and had given him his instructions." - -"Bonnat," cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples. -"I'll be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!--stay--let -me think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner, -but--but----" - -"After dinner! Then surely it should have been in a more favourable mood -to myself, that has done M. Albany no harm," I said. "I do not wonder -that M. Albany has lost so many of his friends if he settles their -destinies after dinner." - -At first he frowned at this and then he laughed outright. - -"_Ma foi!_" he cried, "here's another Greig to call me gomeral to my -face," and he lounged to a chair where he sunk in inextinguishable -laughter. - -But if I had brought laughter from him I had precipitated anger -elsewhere. - -"Here's a pretty way to speak to his Royal Highness," cried Miss -Walkinshaw, her face like thunder. "The manners of the Mearns shine very -poorly here. You forget that you speak to one that is your prince, in -faith your king!" - -"Neither prince nor king of mine, Miss Walkinshaw," I cried, and turned -to go. "No, if a hundred thousand swords were at his back. I had once a -notion of a prince that rode along the Gallowgate, but I was then a boy, -and now I am a man--which you yourself have made me." - -With that I bowed low and left them. They neither of them said a word. -It was the last I was to see of Clementina Walkinshaw and the last of -Charles Edward. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - -OF MY WINTER CAMPAIGN IN PRUSSIA, AND ANOTHER MEETING WITH MACKELLAR OF -KILBRIDE - -I have no intention here of narrating at large what happened in my -short career as a soldier of the French Army, curious though some of -the things that befell me chanced to be. They may stand for another -occasion, while I hurriedly and briefly chronicle what led to my -second meeting with MacKellar of Kilbride, and through that same to the -restoration of the company of Father Hamilton, the sometime priest of -Dixmunde. - -The Regiment d'Auvergne was far from its native hills when first I -joined it, being indeed on the frontier of Austria. 'Twas a corps not -long embodied, composed of a preposterous number of mere lads as soft as -kail, yet driven to miracles of exertion by drafted veteran officers of -other regiments who stiffened their command with the flat of the sword. -As for my lieutenancy it was nothing to be proud of in such a battalion, -for I herded in a mess of foul-mouthed scoundrels and learned little of -the trade of soldiering that I was supposed to be taught in the interval -between our departure from the frontier and our engagement on the field -as allies with the Austrians. Of the Scots that had been in the regiment -at one time there was only one left--a major named MacKay, that came -somewhere out of the Reay country in the shire of Sutherland, and was -reputed the drunkenest officer among the allies, yet comported himself, -on the strength of his Hielan' extraction, towards myself, his Lowland -countryman, with such a ludicrous haughtiness I could not bear the -man--no, not from the first moment I set eyes on him! - -He was a pompous little person with legs bowed through years of riding -horse, and naturally he was the first of my new comrades I introduced -myself to when I joined the colours. I mind he sat upon a keg of -bullets, looking like a vision of Bacchus, somewhat soiled and pimply, -when I entered to him and addressed him, with a certain gladness, in our -tongue. - -"Humph!" was what he said. "Another of his Royal Highness's Sassenach -friends! Here's a wheen of the lousiest French privates ever shook in -their breeks in front of a cannon, wanting smeddum and courage drummed -into them with a scabbard, and they send me Sassenachs to do the -business with when the whole hearty North of Scotland is crawling with -the stuff I want particularly." - -"Anyway, here I am, major," said I, slightly taken aback at this, "and -you'll have to make the best of me." - -"Pshaw!" cried he vulgarly and cracked his thumb. "I have small stomach -for his Royal Highness's recommendations; I have found in the past that -he sends to Austria--him and his friends--only the stuff he has no use -for nearer the English Channel, where it's I would like to be this day. -They're talking of an invasion, I hear; wouldn't I like to be among the -first to have a slap again at Geordie?" - -My birse rose at this, which I regarded as a rank treason in any man -that spoke my own language even with a tartan accent. - -"A slap at Geordie!" I cried. "You made a bonny-like job o't when you -had the chance!" - -It was my first and last confabulation of a private nature with Major -Dugald MacKay. Thereafter he seldom looked the road I was on beyond to -give an order or pick a fault, and, luckily, though a pleasant footing -with my neighbours has ever been my one desire in life, I was not much -put up or down by the ill-will of such a creature. - -Like a break in a dream, a space of all unfriended travelling, which -is the worst travelling of all, appears my time of marching with the -Regiment d'Auvergne. I was lost among aliens--aliens in tongue and -sentiment, and engaged, to tell the truth, upon an enterprise that never -enlisted the faintest of my sympathy. All I wished was to forget the -past (and that, be sure, was the one impossible thing), and make a -living of some sort. The latter could not well be more scanty, for -my pay was a beggar's, and infrequent at that, and finally it wholly -ceased. - -I saw the world, so much of it as lies in Prussia, and may be witnessed -from the ranks of a marching regiment of the line; I saw life--the -life of the tent and the bivouac, and the unforgettable thing of it was -death--death in the stricken field among the grinding hoofs of horses, -below the flying wheels of the artillery. - -And yet if I had had love there--some friend to talk to when the -splendour of things filled me; the consciousness of a kind eye to share -the pleasure of a sunshine or to light at a common memory; or if I -had had hope, the prospect of brighter days and a restitution of my -self-respect, they might have been much happier these marching days that -I am now only too willing to forget. For we trod in many pleasant places -even when weary, by summer fields jocund with flowers, and by autumn's -laden orchards. Stars shone on our wearied columns as we rested in the -meadows or on the verge of woods, half satisfied with a gangrel's supper -and sometimes joining in a song. I used to feel then that here was a -better society after all than some I had of late been habituated with -upon the coast. And there were towns we passed through: 'twas sweet -exceedingly to hear the echo of our own loud drums, the tarantara of -trumpets. I liked to see the folks come out although they scarce were -friendly, and feel that priceless zest that is the guerdon of the corps, -the crowd, the mob--that I was something in a vastly moving thing even -if it was no more than the regiment of raw lads called d'Auvergne. - -We were, for long in our progress, no part of the main army, some -strategy of which we could not guess the reasoning, making it necessary -that we should move alone through the country; and to the interest -of our progress through these foreign scenes was added the ofttimes -apprehension that we might some day suffer an alarm from the regiments -of the great Frederick. Twice we were surprised by night and our -pickets broken in, once a native guided us to a _guet-apens_--an -ambuscade--where, to do him justice, the major fought like a lion, and -by his spirit released his corps from the utmost danger. A war is like a -harvest; you cannot aye be leading in, though the common notion is -that in a campaign men are fighting even-on. In the cornfield the work -depends upon the weather; in the field of war (at least with us 'twas -so) the actual strife must often depend upon the enemy, and for weeks on -end we saw them neither tail nor horn, as the saying goes. Sometimes it -seemed as if the war had quite forgotten us, and was waging somewhere -else upon the planet far away from Prussia. - -We got one good from the marching and the waiting; it put vigour in our -men. Day by day they seemed to swell and strengthen, thin faces grew -well-filled and ruddy, slouching steps grew confident and firm. And thus -the Regiment d'Au-vergne was not so badly figured when we fought the -fight of Rosbach that ended my career of glory. - -Rosbach!--its name to me can still create a tremor. We fought it in -November month in a storm of driving snow. Our corps lay out upon the -right of Frederick among fields that were new-ploughed for wheat and -broken up by ditches. The d'Auvergnes charged with all the fire of -veterans; they were smashed by horse, but rose and fell and rose again -though death swept across them like breath from a furnace, scorching -and shrivelling all before it. The Prussian and the Austrian guns -went rat-a-pat like some gigantic drum upon the braes, and nearer -the musketry volleys mingled with the plunge of horse and shouting of -commanders so that each sound individually was indistinguishable, but -all was blended in one unceasing melancholy hum. - -That drumming on the braes and that long melancholy hum are what most -vividly remains to me of Rosbach, for I fell early in the engagement, -struck in the charge by the sabre of a Prussian horseman that cleft -me to the skull in a slanting stroke and left me incapable, but not -unconscious, on the field. - -I lay for hours with other wounded in the snow The battle changed -ground; the noises came from the distance: we seemed to be forgotten. I -pitied myself exceedingly. Finally I swounded. - -When I came to myself it was night and men with lanterns were moving -about the fields gathering us in like blackcock where we lay. Two -Frenchmen came up and spoke to me, but what they said was all beyond -me for I had clean forgotten every word of their language though that -morning I had known it scarcely less fully than my own. I tried to speak -in French, it seems, and thought I did so, but in spite of me the words -were the broadest lallands Scots such as I had not used since I had run, -a bare-legged boy, about the braes of, home. And otherwise my faculties -were singularly acute, for I remember how keenly I noticed the pitying -eye of the younger of the two men. - -What they did was to stanch my wound and go away. I feared I was -deserted, but by-and-by they returned with another man who held the -lantern close to my face as he knelt beside me. - -"By the black stones of Baillinish!" said he in an unmistakable Hielan' -accent, "and what have I here the night but the boy that harmed the -bylie? You were not in your mother's bosom when you got that stroke!" - -I saw his smile in the light of his lanthom, 'twas no other than -MacKellar of Kilbride! - -He was a surgeon in one of the corps; had been busy at his trade in -another part of the field when the two Frenchmen who had recognised me -for a Scot had called him away to look to a compatriot. - -Under charge of Kilbride (as, in our country fashion, I called him) -I was taken in a waggon with several other wounded soldiers over the -frontier into Holland, that was, perhaps, the one unvexed part of all -the Continent of Europe in these stirring days. - -I mended rapidly, and cheery enough were these days of travel in a cart, -so cheery that I never considered what the end of them might be, but was -content to sit in the sunshine blithely conversing with this odd surgeon -of the French army who had been roving the world for twenty years like -my own Uncle Andrew, and had seen service in every army in Europe, but -yet hankered to get back to the glens of his nativity, where he hoped -his connection with the affair of Tearlach and the Forty-five would be -forgotten. - -"It's just this way of it, Hazel Den," he would say to me, "there's -them that has got enough out of Tearlach to make it worth their while -to stick by him and them that has not. I am of the latter. I have been -hanging about Paris yonder for a twelvemonth on the promise of the body -that I should have a post that suited with my talents, and what does he -do but get me clapped into a scurvy regiment that goes trudging through -Silesia since Whitsunday, with never a sign of the paymaster except the -once and then no more than a tenth of what was due to me. It is, maybe, -glory, as the other man said; but my sorrow, it is not the kind that -makes a clinking in your pouches." - -He had a comfortable deal of money to have so poor an account of his -paymaster, and at that I hinted. - -"Oh! Allow me for that!" he cried with great amusement at my wonder. -"Fast hand at a feast and fast feet at a foray is what the other man -said, and I'm thinking it is a very good observation, too. Where would I -be if I was lippening on the paymaster?" - -"Man! you surely have not been stealing?" said I, with such great -innocency that he laughed like to end. - -"Stealing!" he cried. "It's no theft to lift a purse in an enemy's -country." - -"But these were no enemies of yours?" I protested, "though you happen to -be doctoring in their midst." - -"Tuts! tuts, man!" said he shortly. "When the conies quarrel the quirky -one (and that's Sir Fox if ye like to ken) will get his own. There seems -far too much delicacy about you, my friend, to be a sporran-soldier -fighting for the best terms an army will give you. And what for need you -grumble at my having found a purse in an empty house when it's by virtue -of the same we're at this moment making our way to the sea?" - -I could make no answer to that, for indeed I had had, like the other -three wounded men in the cart with me, the full benefit of his purse, -wherever he had found it, and but for that we had doubtless been -mouldering in a Prussian prison. - -It will be observed that MacKellar spoke of our making for the sea, and -here it behoves that I should tell how that project arose. - -When we had crossed the frontier the first time it was simply because -it seemed the easiest way out of trouble, though it led us away from -the remnants of the army. I had commented upon this the first night we -stopped within the Netherlands, and the surgeon bluntly gave me his mind -on the matter. The truth was, he said, that he was sick of his post and -meant to make this the opportunity of getting quit of it. - -I went as close as I dared upon a hint that the thing looked woundily -like a desertion. He picked me up quick enough and counselled me to -follow his example, and say farewell to so scurvy a service as that I -had embarked on. His advices might have weighed less with me (though in -truth I was sick enough of the Regiment d'Auvergne and a succession -of defeats) if he had not told me that there was a certain man at -Helvoetsluys he knew I should like to see. - -"And who might that be?" I asked. - -"Who but his reverence himself?" said Kilbride, who dearly loved an -effect. "Yon night I met you in the Paris change-house it was planned by -them I was with, one of them being Buhot himself of the police, that the -old man must be driven out of his nest in the Htel Dieu, seeing they -had got all the information they wanted from him, and I was one of the -parties who was to carry this into effect. At the time I fancied Buhot -was as keen upon yourself as upon the priest, and I thought I was doing -a wonderfully clever thing to spy your red shoes and give you a warning -to quit the priest, but all the time Buhot was only laughing at me, and -saw you and recognised you himself in the change-house. Well, to make -the long tale short, when we went to the hospital the birds were both -of them gone, which was more than we bargained for, because some sort -of trial was due to the priest though there was no great feeling against -him. Where he had taken wing to we could not guess, but you will not -hinder him to come on a night of nights (as we say) to the lodging I -was tenanting at the time in the Rue Espade, and throw himself upon my -mercy. The muckle hash! I'll allow the insolency of the thing tickled -me greatly. The man was a fair object, too; had not tasted food for two -days, and captured my fancy by a tale I suppose there is no trusting, -that he had given you the last few _livres_ he had in the world." - -"That was true enough about the _livres_," I said with gratitude. - -"Was it, faith?" cried Kilbride. "Then I'm glad I did him the little -service that lay in my power, which was to give him enough money to pay -for posting to Helvoetsluys, where he is now, and grateful enough so far -as I could gather from the last letters I had from him, and also mighty -anxious to learn what became of his secretary." - -"I would give the last plack in my pocket to see the creature," said I. - -"Would you indeed?" said Kilbride. "Then here's the road for you, and -it must be a long furlough whatever of it from the brigade of Marshal -Clermont." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - -BRINGS ME TO HELVOETSLUYS IN WINTER WEATHER - -Kilbride and I parted company with the others once we had got within the -lines of Holland; the cateran (as I would sometimes be calling him in -a joke) giving them as much money as might take them leisuredly to the -south they meant to make for, and he and I proceeded on our way across -the country towards the mouth of the River Maas. - -It was never my lot before nor since to travel with a more cheerful -companion. Not the priest himself had greater humour in his composition, -and what was more it was a jollity I was able the better to understand, -for while much of Hamilton's _esprit_ missed the spark with me because -it had a foreign savour, the pawkiness of Kilbride was just the marrow -of that I had seen in folks at home. And still the man was strange, for -often he had melancholies. Put him in a day of rain and wind and you -would hear him singing like a laverock the daftest songs in Erse; or -give him a tickle task at haggling in the language of signs with a -broad-bottomed bargeman, or the driver of a rattel-van, and the fun -would froth in him like froth on boiling milk. - -Indeed, and I should say like cream, for this Mac-Kellar man had, what -is common enough among the clans in spite of our miscalling, a heart of -jeel for the tender moment and a heart of iron for the hard. But black, -black, were his vapours when the sun shone, which is surely the poorest -of excuses for dolours. I think he hated the flatness of the land we -travelled in. To me it was none amiss, for though it was winter I could -fancy how rich would be the grass of July in the polders compared with -our poor stunted crops at home, and that has ever a cheerful influence -on any man that has been bred in Lowland fields. But he (if I did not -misread his eye) looked all ungratefully on the stretching leagues that -ever opened before us as we sailed on waterways or jolted on the roads. - -"I do not ken how it may be with you, Mr. Greig," he said one day as, -somewhere in Brabant, our sluggish vessel opened up a view of canal that -seemed to stretch so far it pricked the eye of the setting sun, and -the windmills whirled on either hand ridiculous like the games of -children--"I do not ken how it may be with you, but I'm sick of this -country. It's no better nor a bannock, and me so fond of Badenoch!" - -"Indeed and there's a sameness about every part of it," I confessed, -"and yet it has its qualities. See the sun on yonder island--'tis -pleasant enough to my notion, and as for the folk, they are not the cut -of our own, but still they have very much in common with folks I've seen -in Ayr." - -He frowned at that unbelievingly, and cast a sour eye upon some women -that stood upon a bridge. "Troth!" said he, "you would not compare these -limmers with our own. I have not seen a light foot and a right dark eye -since ever I put the back of me to the town of Inverness in the year of -'Fifty-six.'" - -"Nor I since I left the Mearns," I cried, suddenly thinking of Isobel -and forgetting all that lay between that lass and me. - -"Oh! oh!" cried Kilbride. "And that's the way of it? Therms more than -Clemie Walkinshaw, is there? I was ill to convince that a nephew of Andy -Greig's began the game at the age of twenty-odd with a lady that might -have been his mother." - -I felt very much ashamed that he should have any knowledge of this part -of my history, and seeing it he took to bantering me. - -"Come, come!" said he, "you must save my reputation with myself for -penetration, for I aye argued with Buhot that your tanglement with -madame was something short of innocency for all your mim look, and he -was for swearing the lady had found a fool." - -"I am beat to understand how my affairs came to be the topic of dispute -with you and Buhot?" said I, astonished. - -"And what for no'?" said he. "Wasn't the man's business to find out -things, and would you have me with no interest in a ploy when it turned -up? There were but the two ways of it--you were all the gomeral in love -that Buhot thought you, or you were Andy Greig's nephew and willing to -win the woman's favour (for all her antiquity) by keeping Buhot in the -news of Hamilton's movements." - -"Good God!" I cried, "that was a horrible alternative!" even then -failing to grasp all that he implied. - -"Maybe," he said pawkily; "but you cannot deny you kept them very well -informed upon your master's movements, otherwise it had gone very hard -perhaps with his Royal Highness." - -"Me!" I cried. "I would have as soon informed upon my father. And who -was there to inform?" - -Kilbride looked at me curiously as if he half doubted my innocence. "It -is seldom I have found the man Buhot in a lie of the sort," said -he, "but he led me to understand that what information he had of the -movements of the priest came from yourself." - -I jumped to my feet, and almost choked in denying it. - -"Oh, very well, very well!" said Kilbride coolly. "There is no need to -make a _fracas_ about the matter. I am just telling you what Buhot told -me. And troth! it was a circumstantial story he had of it; for he said -that the Marshal Duke de Bellisle, and Monsieur Florentin, and Monsieur -Berrier, and all the others of the Cabinet, had Fleuriau's name and -direction from yourself, and found the plot had some connection with the -affair of Damiens. George Kelly, the Prince's secretary, was another -man that told me." He gazed along the deck of the scow we sat in, as -if thinking hard, and then turned to me with a hesitating suggestion. -"Perhaps," said he, "you are forgetting. Perhaps you wrote the woman and -told her innocently enough, and that would come to the same thing." - -I was overwhelmed with confusion at the idea, though the possibility of -my letters being used had once before occurred to me. - -"Well, if you must know, it is true I wrote some letters to Miss -Walkinshaw," I confessed shamefacedly. "But they were very carefully -transmitted by Bernard the Swiss to her, for I got her answers back." - -He burst out laughing. - -"For simplicity you beat all!" cried he. "You sent your news through -the Swiss, that was in Buhot's pay, and took the charge from Hamilton's -pistols, and did his part in helping you to escape from jyle with a -great degree of humour as those of us who knew what was afoot had to -agree, and you think the man would swither about peeping into a letter -you entrusted to him, particularly if it was directed to hersel'! The -sleep-bag was under your head sure enough, as the other man said." - -"And I was the unconscious wretch that betrayed our hiding in the Htel -Dieu!" I cried with much chagrin, seeing at a flash what all this meant. -"If I had Bernard here I could thraw his neck." - -"Indeed," said he, "and what for should it be Bernard? The man but did -what he was told, and there, by my troth! when I think of it, I'm no' so -sure that he was any different from yourself." - -"What do you mean?" said I. - -"Oh, just that hersel' told you to keep her informed of your movements -and you did so. In Bernard and you she had a pair of spies instead of -only the one had she trusted in either." - -"And what in all the world would she be doing that for?" - -"What but for her lover the prince?" said he with a sickening promptness -that some way left me without a doubt he spoke with knowledge. "Foul fa' -the day he ever clapt eyes on her! for she has the cunning of the fox, -though by all accounts a pleasant person. They say she has a sister -that's in the service of the queen at St. James's, and who kens but for -all her pretended affection for Tearlach she may be playing all the time -into the hands of his enemies? She made you and this Bernard the -means of putting an end to the Jesuit plot upon his Royal Highness by -discovering the source of it, and now the Jesuits, as I'm told, are to -be driven furth the country and putten to the horn." - -I was stunned by this revelation of what a tool I had been in the hands -of one I fancied briefly that I was in love with. For long I sat silent -pondering on it, and at last unable to make up my mind whether I should -laugh or swear. Kilbride, while affecting to pay no heed to me, was keen -enough to see my perturbation, and had, I think, a sort of pride that he -had been able to display such an astuteness. - -"I'm afraid," said I at last, "there is too much probability in all that -you have said and thought. I am a stupendous ass, Mr. MacKellar, and you -are a very clever man." - -"Not at all, not at all!" he protested hurriedly. "I have just some -natural Hielan' interest in affairs of intrigue, and you have not (by -your leave) had my advantages of the world, for I have seen much of the -evil as well as the good of it, and never saw a woman's hand in aught -yet but I wondered what mischief she was planning. There's much, -I'm telling you, to be learned about a place like Fontainebleau or -Versailles, and I advantaged myself so well of my opportunities there -that you could not drive a hole but I would put a nail in it, as the -other man said." - -"Well," said I, "my hope is that I may never meet the woman again, and -that's without a single angry feeling to her." - -"You need not fear about that," said he. "The thing that does not lie in -your road will never break your leg, as the other man said, and I'll be -surprised if she puts herself in your way again now that her need for -you is done. A score of your friends in Dunkerque could have told you -that she was daft about him. I might be vexed for you if I did not know -from your own mouth of the other one in Mearns." - -"We'll say nothing about that," I says, "for that's a tale that's by -wi'. She's lost to me." - -He gave a little chuckle and had that turn in the eye that showed he had -a curious thought. - -"What are you laughing at?" I asked. "Oh, just an old word we have in -the Language, that with a two-deer stag-hound it will be happening often -that a stag's amissing." - -"There's another thing I would like you to tell me out of your -experience," I said, "and that is the reason for the Prince's doing me -a good turn with the one hand and a bad one with the other; using his -efforts to get me the lieutenancy and at the same time putting a man on -my track to quarrel with me?" - -"It's as plain as the nose on your face," he cried. "It was no great -situation he got you when it was in the Regiment d'Auvergne, as you -have discovered, but it would be got I'll warrant on the pressure of the -Walkinshaw one. Just because she had that interest in you to press him -for the post, and you were in the trim to keep up a correspondence with -her (though in his own interest, as he must know, so far as she was -concerned), he would want you out of the road. Love is like lairdship, -Hazel Den, and it puts up very poorly with fellowship, as the other man -said." - -I thought of the occasions when his Royal Highness had seen me at night -in front of a certain window in the Rue de la Boucherie, and concluded -that Kilbride in this too had probably hit the mark. - -And so we passed through Holland in many changes of weather that finally -turned to a black frost, which covered the canals with ice whereon -skated the Dutch folks very pleasantly, but we were the losers, as the -rest of our journey had to be made by post. - -It was well on in the winter when we got to Helvoetsluys. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - -FATHER HAMILTON IS THREATENED BY THE JESUITS AND WE ARE FORCED TO FLY -AGAIN - -The priest, poor man! aged a dozen years by his anxieties since I had -seen him last, was dubious of his senses when I entered where he lodged, -and he wept like a bairn to see my face again. - -"Scotland! Scotland! beshrew me, child, and I'd liefer have this than -ten good dinners at Verray's!" cried he, and put his arms about my -shoulders and buried his face in my waistcoat to hide his uncontrollable -tears. - -He was quartered upon a pilot of the Schelde and Hollands Deep, whose -only child he made a shift to tutor in part payment of his costs, and -the very moment that we had come in upon him he was full of a matter -that had puzzled him for weeks before we came to Helvoetsluys. 'Twas a -thing that partly hurt his pride, though that may seem incredible, and -partly gave him pleasure, and 'twas merely that when he had at last -found his concealment day and night in the pilot's house unendurable, -and ventured a stroll or two upon the dunes in broad sunshine, no one -paid any attention to him. There were soldiers and sailors that must -have some suspicions of his identity, and he had himself read his own -story and description in one of the gazettes, yet never a hand was -raised to capture him. - -"_Ma foi!_ Paul," he cried to me in a perplexity. "I am the most -marvellous priest unfrocked, invisible to the world as if I had -Mambrino's helmet. Sure it cannot be that I am too stale quarry for -their hunting! My _amour propre_ baulks at such conclusion. I that -have--heaven help me!--loaded pistols against the Lord's anointed, might -as well have gone shooting sparrows for all the infamy it has gained me. -But yesterday I passed an officer of the peace that cried '_Bon jour_, -father,' in villainous French with a smile so sly I could swear he knew -my history from the first breeching. I avow that my hair stirred under -my hat when he said it." - -MacKellar stood by contemptuous of the priest's raptures over his -restored secretary. - -"Goodness be about us!" he said, "what a pity the brock should be hiding -when there's nobody hunting him! The first squirt of the haggis is -always the hottest, as the other man said. If they were keen on -your track at the start of it--and it's myself has the doubt of that -same--you may warrant they are slack on it now. It's Buhot himself would -be greatly put about if you went to the jail and put out your hands for -the manacles." - -Father Hamilton looked bewildered. - -"Expiscate, good Monsieur MacKellar," said he. - -"Kilbride just means," said I, "that you are in the same case as myself, -and that orders have gone out that no one is to trouble you." - -He believed it, and still he was less cheerful than I looked for. -"Indeed, 'tis like enough," he sighed. "I have put my fat on a trap for -a fortnight back to catch my captors and never a rat of them will come -near me, but pass with sniffing noses. And yet on my word I have little -to rejoice for. My friends have changed coats with my enemies because -they swear I betrayed poor Fleuriau. I'd sooner die on the rack----" - -"Oh, Father Hamilton!" I could not help crying, with remorse upon my -countenance. He must have read the story in a single glance at me, for -he stammered and took my hand. - -"What! there too, Scotland!" he said. "I forswear the company of -innocence after this. No matter, 'tis never again old Dixmunde parish -for poor Father Hamilton that loved his flock well enough and believed -the best of everybody and hated the confessional because it made the -world so wicked. My honey-bees will hum next summer among another's -flowers, and my darling blackbirds will be all starving in this -pestilent winter weather. Paul, Paul, hear an old man's wisdom--be -frugal in food, and raiment, and pleasure, and let thy ambitions -flutter, but never fly too high to come down at a whistle. But here am -I, old Pater Dull, prating on foolish little affairs, and thou and our -honest friend here new back from the sounding of the guns. Art a brave -fighter, lad? I heard of thee in the grenadier company of d'Auvergne." - -"We did the best part of our fighting with our shanks, as the other man -said," cried Kilbride. "But Mr. Greig came by a clout that affected his -mind and made him clean forget the number of his regiment, and that is -what for the lowlands of Holland is a very pleasant country just now." - -"Wounded!" cried the priest, disturbed at this intelligence. "Had I -known on't I should have prayed for thy deliverance." - -"I have little doubt he did that for himself," said Kilbride. "When -I came on him after Rosbach he was behind a dyke, that is not a bad -alternative for prayer when the lead is in the air." - -We made up our minds to remain for a while at Helvoet, but we had not -determined what our next step should be, when in came the priest one day -with his face like clay and his limbs trembling. - -"Ah, Paul!" he cried, and fell into a chair; "here's Nemesis, daughter -of Nox, a scurvy Italian, and wears a monkish cowl. I fancied it were -too good to be true that I should be free from further trials." - -"Surely Buhot has not taken it into his head to move again," I cried. -"That would be very hirpling justice after so long an interval. And in -any case they could scarcely hale you out of the Netherlands." - -"No, lad, not Buhot," said he, perspiring with his apprehensions, "but -the Society. There's one Gordoletti, a pretended Lutheran that hails -from Jena, that has been agent between the Society and myself before -now, and when I was out there he followed me upon the street with the -eyes of a viper. I'll swear the fellow has a poignard and means the -letting of blood. I know how 'twill be--a watch set upon this building, -Gordoletti upon the steps some evening; a jostle, a thrust, and a -speeding shade. A right stout shade too! if spirits are in any relation -of measure to the corporeal clay. Oh, lad, what do I say? my sinner's -wit must be evincing in the front of doom itself." - -I thought he simply havered, but found there was too real cause for his -distress. That afternoon the monk walked up and down the street without -letting his eyes lose a moment's sight of the entrance to the pilot's -house where Father Hamilton abode. I could watch him all the better -because I shared a room with Kilbride on the same side of the street, -and even to me there was something eerie in the sight of this long -thin stooping figure in its monkish garment, slouching on the stones -or hanging over the parapet of the bridge, his eyes, lambent black and -darting, over his narrow chafts. Perhaps it was but fancy, yet I thought -I saw in the side of his gown the unmistakable bulge of a dagger. He -paced the street for hours or leaned over the parapet affecting an -interest in the barges, and all the time the priest sat fascinated -within, counting his sentence come. - -"Oh, by my faith and it is not so bad as that," I protested on returning -to find him in this piteous condition. "Surely there are two swords here -that at the worst of it can be depended on to protect you." - -He shook his head dolefully. "It is no use, Paul," he cried. "The -poignard or the phial--'tis all the same to them or Gordoletti, and -hereafter I dare not touch a drop of wine or indulge in a meagre soup." - -"But surely," I said, "there may be a mistake, and this Gordoletti may -have nothing to do with you." - -"The man wears a cowl--a monkish cowl--and that is enough for me. A -Jesuit out of his customary _soutane_ is like the devil in dancing -shoes--be sure his lordship means mischief. Oh! Paul, I would I were -back in Bictre and like to die there cleaner than on the banks of a -Dutch canal. I protest I hate to think of dying by a canal." - -Still I was incredulous that harm was meant to him, and he proceeded -to tell me the Society of Jesus was upon the brink of dissolution, and -desperate accordingly. The discovery of Fleuriau's plot against the -Prince had determined the authorities upon the demolition and extinction -of the Jesuits throughout the whole of the King's dominion. Their riches -and effects and churches were to be seized to the profit and emolument -of the Crown; the reverend Fathers were to be banished furth of France -for ever. Designs so formidable had to be conducted cautiously, and so -far the only evidence of a scheme against the Society was to be seen -in the Court itself, where the number of priests of the order was being -rapidly diminished. - -I thought no step of the civil power too harsh against the band of whom -the stalking man in the cowl outside was representative, and indeed the -priest at last half-infected myself with his terrors. We sat well back -from the window looking out upon the street till it was dusk. There was -never a moment when the assassin (as I still must think him) was not -there, his interest solely in the house we sat in. And when it was -wholly dark, and a single lamp of oil swinging on a cord across the -thoroughfare lit the passage of the few pedestrians that went along the -street, Gordoletti was still close beneath it, silent, meditating, and -alert. - -MacKellar came in from his coffee-house. We sat in darkness, except -for the flicker of a fire of peat. He must have thought the spectacle -curious. - -"My goodness!" cried he, "candles must be unco dear in this shire when -the pair of you cannot afford one between you to see each other yawning. -I'm of a family myself that must be burning a dozen at a time and at -both ends to make matters cheery, for it's a gey glum world at the best -of it." - -He stumbled over to the mantel-shelf where there was customarily a -candle; found and lit it, and held it up to see if there was any visible -reason for our silence. - -The priest's woebegone countenance set him into a shout of laughter. His -amusement scarcely lessened when he heard of the ominous gentleman in -the cowl. - -"Let me see!" he said, and speedily devised a plan to test the occasion -of Father Hamilton's terrors. He arranged that he should dress himself -in the priest's garments, and as well as no inconsiderable difference -in their bulk might let him, simulate the priest by lolling into the -street. - -"A brave plan verily," quo' the priest, "but am I a bowelless rogue to -let another have my own particular poignard? No, no, Messieurs, let me -pay for my own _pots casss_ and run my own risks in my own _soutane_." - -With that he rose to his feet and was bold enough to offer a trial that -was attended by considerable hazard. - -It was determined, however, that I should follow close upon the heels -of Kilbride in his disguise, prepared to help him in the case of too -serious a surprise. - -The night was still. There were few people in the street, which was one -of several that led down to the quays. The sky had but a few wan stars. -When MacKellar stepped forth in the priest's hat and cloak, he walked -slowly towards the harbour, ludicrously imitating the rolling gait of -his reverence, while I stayed for a little in the shelter of the -door. Gordoletti left his post upon the bridge and stealthily followed -Kilbride. I gave him some yards of law and followed Gordoletti. - -Our footsteps sounded on the stones; 'twas all that broke the evening -stillness except the song of a roysterer who staggered upon the quays. -The moment was fateful in its way and yet it ended farcically, for ere -he had gained the foot of the street Kilbride turned and walked back to -meet the man that stalked him. We closed upon the Italian to find him -baffled and confused. - -"Take that for your attentions!" cried Kilbride, and buffeted the fellow -on the ear, a blow so secular and telling from a man in a frock that -Gordoletti must have thought himself bewitched, for he gave a howl -and took to his heels. Kilbride attempted to stop him, but the cassock -escaped his hands and his own unwonted costume made a chase hopeless. As -for me, I was content to let matters remain as they were now that Father -Hamilton's suspicions seemed too well founded. - -It did not surprise me that on learning of our experience the priest -should determine on an immediate departure from Helvoetsluys. But where -he was to go was more than he could readily decide. He proposed and -rejected a score of places--Bordeaux, Flanders, the Hague, Katwyk -farther up the coast, and many others--weighing the advantages of each, -enumerating his acquaintances in each, discovering on further thought -that each and every one of them had some feature unfavourable to his -concealment from the Jesuits. - -"You would be as long tuning your pipes as another would be playing a -tune," said Kilbride at last. "There's one thing sure of it, that you -cannot be going anywhere the now without Mr. Greig and myself, and what -ails you at Dunkerque in which we have all of us acquaintances?" - -A season ago the suggestion would have set my heart in flame; but now -it left me cold. Yet I backed up the proposal, for I reflected that -(keeping away from the Rue de la Boucherie) we might there be among a -good many friends. Nor was his reverence ill to influence in favour of -the proposal. - -The next morning saw us, then, upon a hoy that sailed for Calais and was -bargained to drop us at Dunkerque. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - -I OVERHEAR THE PLAN OF BRITAIN'S INVASION - -I began these chronicles with a homily upon the pregnancy of chance -that gives the simplest of our acts ofttimes far-reaching and appalling -consequences. It is clear that I had never become the Spoiled Horn -and vexed my parents' lives had not a widow woman burned her batch of -scones, and though perhaps the pair of shoes in the chest bequeathed -to me by my Uncle Andrew were without the magic influence he and I -gave credit for, it is probable that I had made a different flight from -Scotland had they not led me in the way of Daniel Risk. - -And even now their influence was not ended. During the months I had -spent at soldiering the red shoes reposed among my baggage; even when -I had changed from the uniform of the Regiment d'Auvergne upon the -frontier of Holland, and made myself again a common citizen of Europe, I -had some freit (as we say of a superstition) against resuming the shoes -that had led me previously into divers perils. But the day we left -Helvoet in the Hollands Deep hoy, I was so hurried in my departure that -the red shoes were the only ones I could lay hands on. As luck would -have it, when I entered Dunkerque for the last time in my history some -days after, I was wearing the same leather as on the first day of my -arrival there, and the fact led, by a singularity of circumstances, to -my final severance from many of those: companions--some of them pleasant -and unforgetable--I had made acquaintance with in France. - -It was thus that the thing happened. - -When we entered Dunkerque, the priest, Kilbride, and I went to an inn -upon the sea front. Having breakfasted I was deputed to go forth and -call upon Thurot, explain our circumstances, take his counsel, and -return to the hoy where my two friends would return to wait for me. He -was out when I reached his lodging, but his Swiss--a different one from -what he had before when I was there--informed me that his master was -expected back at any moment, and invited me to step in and wait for him. -I availed myself of the opportunity. - -Our voyage along the coast had been delayed by contrary winds, so that -now it was the Sabbath; the town was by-ordinary still (though indeed -Sabbath nor Saturday made much difference, as a rule, on the gaiety of -Dunkerque), and wearied by the sea travel that had just concluded I fell -fast asleep in Captain Thurot's chair. - -I was wakened by a loud knocking at the outer door, not the first, as -it may be remembered, that called me forth from dreams to new twists of -fortune, and I started to my feet to meet my host. - -What was my chagrin to hear the Prince's voice in converse with him on -the stair! - -"Here is a pretty pickle!" I told myself. "M. Albany is the last man -on earth I would choose to meet at this moment," and without another -reflection I darted into the adjoining room and shut the door. It was -Thurot's bed-chamber, with a window that looked out upon the court -where fowls were cackling. I was no sooner in than I somewhat rued my -precipitation, for the manlier course indubitably had been to bide where -I was. But now there was no retreating, so I sat with what patience I -could command to wait my discovery by the tenant of the place after -his royal visitor was gone. - -It was the Sabbath day as I have said, and the chimes of St. Eloi were -going briskly upon some papist canticle, but not so loud that I could -not hear, in spite of myself, all that went on in the next room. - -At first I paid no heed, for the situation was unworthy enough of itself -without any attempt on my part to be an eavesdropper. But by-and-bye, -through the banging of the bells of St. Eloi, I heard M. Albany (still -to give the man his by-name) mention the name Ecosse. - -Scotland! The name of her went through me like a pang! - -They spoke in French of course; I think I could have understood them -had it been Chinese. For they discussed some details of the intended -invasion that still hung fire, and from the first of M. Albany's -sentences I learned that the descent was determined upon Scotland. 'Twas -that which angered me and made me listen for the rest with every sense -of the spy and deterred by never a scruple. At first I had fancied -Thurot would learn from his servant I was in the house, and leave me -alone till his royal guest's departure from an intuition that I desired -no meeting, but it was obvious now that no such consideration would have -induced him to let me hear the vast secret they discussed. - -"Twenty thousand men are between Brest and Vannes," said M. Albany. "We -shall have them in frigates in a fortnight from to-day, and then, _mon -Capitaine_, affairs shall move briskly." - -"And still," said Thurot, who had some odd tone of dissatisfaction in -his voice, "I had preferred it had been the South of England. Dumont has -given us every anchorage and sounding on the coast between Beachy Head -and Arundel, and from there we could all the sooner have thrust at the -heart of England. This Scotland--" - -"Bah! Captain Thurot," cried his Royal Highness impatiently, "you talk -like a fool. At the heart, indeed! With all habitable England like a fat -about it, rich with forts and troops and no more friendship for us than -for the Mameluke! No, no, Thurot, I cry Scotland; all the chances are -among the rocks, and I am glad it has been so decided on." - -"And still, with infinite deference, your Royal Highness, this same -West of Scotland never brought but the most abominable luck to you and -yours," continued Thurot. "Now, Arundel Bay----" - -"Oh! to the devil with Arundel Bay!" cried M. Albany; "'tis settled -otherwise, and you must take it as you find it. Conflans and his men -shall land upon the West--_mon Dieu!_ I trust they may escape its fangs; -and measures will be there taken with more precaution and I hope with -more success than in Seventeen Forty-five. Thence they will march to -England, sweeping the whole country before them, and not leaving behind -them a man or boy who can carry a musket. Thus they must raise the army -to fifty or sixty thousand men, strike a terror into England, and carry -all with a high hand. I swear 'tis a fatted hog this England: with -fewer than ten thousand Highlanders I have made her thrill at the very -vitals." - -Thurot hummed. Plainly there was much in the project that failed to meet -his favour. - -"And Conflans?" said he. - -His Royal Highness laughed. - -"Ha! Captain," said he, "I know, I know. 'Twould suit you better if a -certain Tony Thurot had command." - -"At least," said Thurot, "I am in my prime, while the Marshal is beyond -his grand climacteric." - -"And still, by your leave, with the reputation of being yet the best-- -well, let us say among the best--of the sea officers of France. Come, -come, Captain, there must be no half-hearts in this venture; would to -Heaven I were permitted to enjoy a share in it! And on you, my friend, -depends a good half of the emprise and the _gloire_." - -"_Gloire!_" cried Thurot. "With every deference to your Royal Highness -I must consider myself abominably ill-used in this matter. That I should -be sent off to Norway and hound-in wretched Swedes with a personage like -Flaubert! Oh, I protest, 'tis beyond all reason! Is it for that I have -been superseded by a man like Conflans that totters on the edge of the -grave?" - -"I hope 'tis England's grave," retorted M. Albany with unfailing good -humour, and I heard the gluck of wine as he helped himself to another -glass. "I repeat _gloire_, with every apology to the experience of M. le -Corsair. 'Tis your duty to advance with your French and your Swedes upon -the North of England, and make the diversion in these parts that shall -inconvenience the English army front or rear." - -"Oh, curse your diversions!" cried Thurot. "If I have a talent at all -'tis for the main attack. And this Conflans----" - -The remainder of the discussion, so far as I remained to hear it, gave -no enlargement upon the plan thus laid bare. But in any case my whole -desire now was to escape from the house without discovery, for I had -news that made my return to Britain imperative. - -I opened the window quietly and slipped out. The drop to the court was -less than my own height. Into the street I turned with the sober step -of leisure, yet my feet tingled to run hard and my heart was stormy. The -bells of St. Eloi went on ringing; the streets were growing busy -with holiday-makers and the soldiers who were destined to over-run my -country. I took there and then the most dreadful hatred of them, and -scowled so black that some of the soldiers cried after me with a jeer. - -The priest and Kilbride I found were not at the inn where I had left -them, having gone back to the vessel, so I hurried down to the quay -after them. The hoy had been moved since morning, and in the throng of -other vessels that were in the harbour at the time I lost well-nigh an -hour in seeking her. Whether that was well for me or ill would be folly -now to guess, but when I had no more than set a foot upon the gunwale -of a small boat that was to take me out to her I was clapped upon the -shoulder. - -I turned, to see Thurot and two officers of marine! - -"Pardon, M. Greig, a moment," said Thurot, with not the kindest of -tones. "Surely you would not hurry out of Dunkerque without a _cong_ -for old friends?" - -I stammered some sentences that were meant to reassure him. He -interrupted me, and--not with any roughness, but with a pressure there -was no mistaking and I was not fool enough to resist--led me from the -side of the quay. - -"_Ma foi!_" said he, "'Tis the most ridiculous thing! I had nearly -missed you and could never have forgiven myself. My Swiss has just -informed me that you were in the house an hour ago while I was there -myself. I fear we must have bored you, M. Albany and I, with our dull -affairs. At least there was no other excuse for your unceremonious -departure through my back window." - -I was never well-equipped to conceal my feelings, and it was plain in my -face that I knew all. - -He sighed. - -"Well, lad," said he, rather sorrowfully, "I'd give a good many _louis -d'or_ that you had come visiting at another hour of the day, and -now there's but one thing left me. My Swiss did not know you, but -he has--praise _le bon Dieu!_--a pair of eyes in his head, and -he remembered that my visitor wore red shoes. Red shoes and a -Scotsman!--the conjunction was unmistakable, and here we are, M. Greig. -There are a score of men looking all over Dunkerque at this moment for -these same shoes." - -"Confound the red shoes!" I cried, unable to conceal my vexation that -they should once more have brought me into trouble. - -"By no means, M. Greig," said Thurot. "But for them we should never -have identified our visitor, and a somewhat startling tale was over the -Channel a little earlier than we intended. And now all that I may do for -old friendship to yourself and the original wearer of the shoes is to -give you a free trip to England in my own vessel. 'Tis not the _Roi -Rouge_ this time--worse luck!--but a frigate, and we can be happy enough -if you are not a fool." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - -THUROT'S PRISONER. MY FRIEND THE WATCH - -It was plain from the first that my overhearing of the plot must compel -Thurot to the step he took. He was not unkind, but so much depended on -the absolute secrecy of the things he had talked to the Prince, that, -even at the unpleasant cost of trepanning me, he must keep me from -carrying my new-got information elsewhere. For that reason he refused to -accede to my request for a few minutes' conversation with the priest or -my fellow-countrymen. The most ordinary prudence, he insisted, demanded -that he should keep me in a sort of isolation until it was too late to -convey a warning across the Channel. - -It was for these reasons I was taken that Sabbath afternoon to the -frigate that was destined to be in a humble sense his flagship, and was -lying in the harbour with none of her crew as yet on board. I was given -a cabin; books were furnished to cheer my incarceration, for it was -no less. I was to all intents and purposes a prisoner, though enjoying -again some of the privileges of the _salle d'preuves_ for the sake of -old acquaintance. - -All that day I planned escape. Thurot came to the cabin and smoked and -conversed pleasantly, but found me so abstracted that he could scarcely -fail to think I meant a counter-sap. - -"Be tranquil, my Paul," he advised; "Clancarty and I will make your life -on ship-board as little irksome as possible, but it is your own cursed -luck that you must make up your mind to a fortnight of it." - -But that was considerably longer than I was ready to think of with -equanimity. What I wished for was an immediate freedom and a ship to -England, and while he talked I reviewed a dozen methods of escape. Here -was I with a secret worth a vast deal to the British Government; if I -could do my country that service of putting her into possession of it -in time to prevent catastrophe, might I not, without presumption, expect -some clemency from her laws for the crime I had committed in the -hot blood of ignorant and untutored youth? I saw the most cheerful -possibilities rise out of that accident that had made me an eavesdropper -in Thurot's lodging--freedom, my family perhaps restored to me, my name -partly re-established; but the red shoes that set me on wrong roads to -start with still kept me on them. Thurot was an amiable enough gaoler, -but not his best wine nor his wittiest stories might make me forget by -how trivial a chance I had lost my opportunity. - -We were joined in the afternoon by Lord Clancarty. - -"What, lad!" cried his lordship, pomaded and scented beyond words; -fresh, as he told us, from the pursuit of a lady whose wealth was -shortly to patch up his broken fortunes. "What, lad! Here's a pretty -matter! Pressed, egad! A renegade against his will! 'Tis the most cursed -luck, Captain Thurot, and wilt compel the poor young gentleman to cut -the throats of his own countrymen?" - -"I? Faith, not I!" said Thurot. "I press none but filthy Swedes. M. -Greig has my word for it that twelve hours before we weigh anchor he may -take his leave of us. _Je le veux bien_." - -"Bah! 'Tis an impolite corsair this. As for me I should be inconsolable -to lose M. Greig to such a dull country as this England. Here's an -Occasion, M. le Capitaine, for pledging his health in a bottle, and -wishing him well out of his troubles." - -"You do not stand sufficiently on your dignity, Clancarty," laughed -Thurot. "Here's the enemy--" - -"Dignity! pooh!" said his lordship. "To stand on that I should need a -year's practice first on the tight-rope. There's that about an Irish -gentleman that makes the posturings and proprieties and pretences of -the fashionable world unnecessary. Sure, race will show in his face -and action if he stood alone in his shirt-sleeves on a village common -juggling balls. I am of the oldest blood that springs in Irish kings. -'Tis that knowledge keeps my heart up when circumstances make the world -look rotten like a cheese. But the curst thing is one cannot for ever -be drinking and dining off a pedigree, and here I am deserted by M. -Tte-de-mouche----" - -Thurot put up his hand to check one of these disloyalties to the -Pretender that I had long since learned were common with Lord Clancarty. - -"Bah!" cried his lordship. "I love you, Tony, and all the other boys, -but your Prince is a madman--a sotted madman tied to the petticoat tails -of a trollope. This Walkinshaw--saving your presence, Paul Greig, for -she's your countrywoman and by way of being your friend, I hear--has -ruined Charles and the Cause. We have done what we could to make him -send madame back to the place she came from, but he'll do nothing of the -kind. 'She has stuck by me through thick and thin, and lost all for me, -and now I shall stick by her,' says foolish Master Sentiment." - -"Bravo!" cried Thurot. "'Tis these things make us love the Prince and -have faith in his ultimate success." - -"You were ever the hopeful ass, Tony," said his lordship coolly. "_Il -riest pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre_, and you must shut -your ears against a tale that all the world is shouting at the pitch of -its voice. Who knows better than Tony Thurot how his Royal Highness has -declined? Why! 'tis manifest in the fellow's nose; I declare he drinks -like a fish--another vice he brought back from your mountain land, M. -Greig, along with Miss Walkinshaw----" - -"There is far too much of Miss Walkinshaw about your lordship's -remarks," I cried in an uncontrollable heat that the lady should be the -subject of implications so unkind. - -He stared, and then kissed his hand to me with laughter and a bow, "Ha!" -he cried, "here's another young gentleman of sentiment. Stap me if I say -a word against the lady for your sake, Andy Greig's nephew." And back he -went to his bottle. - -In this light fashion we spent a day that by rights should have been -more profitably and soberly occupied. The frigate lay well out from the -quays from which Thurot had conveyed me with none of the indignities -that might be expected by a prisoner. There was, as I have said, none of -her crew on board save a watch of two men. Beside her quarter there hung -a small smuggling cutter that had been captured some days previously. As -I sat in the cabin, yawning at the hinder-end over Clancarty's sallies, -I could hear now and then the soft thudding of the smuggler's craft -against the fenders as the sea rocked us lightly, and it put a mad fancy -into my head. - -How good it would be, I thought, to be free on board such a vessel and -speeding before a light wind to Britain! Was it wholly impossible? The -notion so possessed me that I took an occasion to go on deck and see how -things lay. - -The smuggler's boat had her mast stepped, but no sails in her. Over the -bulwark of the frigate leaned one of the watch idly looking at sea-gulls -that cried like bairns upon the smuggler's thwarts and gunnels. He was -a tarry Dutchman (by his build and colour); I fancy that at the time he -never suspected I was a prisoner, for he saluted me with deference. - -The harbour was emptier than usual of shipping. Dusk was falling on the -town; some lights were twinkling wanly and bells rang in the cordage -of the quays. I asked the seaman if he knew where the hoy _Vrijster_ of -Helvoetsluys lay. - -At that his face brightened and he promptly pointed to her yellow hull -on the opposite side of the harbour. - -"Did my honour know Captain Breuer?" he asked, in crabbed French. - -My honour was very pleased to confess that he did, though in truth my -acquaintance with the skipper who had taken us round from Helvoetsluys -went scarcely further than sufficed me to recall his name. - -The best sailor ever canted ship! my Dutchman assured me with -enthusiasm. How often have I heard the self-same sentiment from -mariners? for there is something jovial and kind in the seaman's manner -that makes him ever fond of the free, the brave and competent of his own -calling, and ready to cry their merits round the rolling world. - -A good seaman certainly!--I agreed heartily, though the man might have -been merely middling for all I knew of him. - -He would like nothing better than to have an hour with Captain Breuer, -said Mynheer. - -"And I, too," said I quickly. "But for Captain Thurot's pressing desire -that I should spend the evening here I should be in Breuer's cabin now. -Next to being with him there I would reckon the privilege of having him -here." - -There might be very little difficulty about that if my honour was -willing, said Mynheer. They were old shipmates; had sailed the Zuyder -Sea together, and drunken in a score of ports. Dearly indeed would he -love to have some discourse with Breuer. But to take leave from the -frigate and cross to the hoy--no! Captain Thurot would not care for him -to do that. - -"Why not have Breuer come to the frigate?" I asked, with my heart -beating fast. - -"Why, indeed?" repeated Mynheer with a laugh. "A hail across the harbour -would not fetch him." - -"Then go for him," said I, my heart beating faster than ever lest he -should have some suspicion of my condition and desires. - -He reminded me that he had no excuse to leave the frigate, though to -take the small boat at the stern and row over to the hoy would mean but -a minute or two. - -"Well, as for excuses," said I, "that's easily arranged, for I can give -you one to carry a note to the care of the captain, and you may take it -at your leisure." - -At his leisure! He would take it at once and thankfully while we -gentlemen were drinking below, for there was no pleasure under heaven he -could compare with half an hour of good Jan Breuer's company. - -Without betraying my eagerness to avail myself of such an unlooked-for -opportunity, I deliberately wrote a note in English intimating that I -was a prisoner on the frigate and in pressing humour to get out of -her at the earliest moment. I addressed it to Kilbride, judging the -Highlander more likely than Father Hamilton to take rational steps for -my release if that were within the bounds of possibility. - -I assured the seaman that if he lost no time in taking it over I would -engage his absence would never be noticed, and he agreed to indicate to -me by a whistle when he returned. - -With a cheerful assurance that he would have Jan Breuer on this deck in -less than twenty minutes the seaman loosed the painter of the small -boat and set forth upon his errand, while I returned to the cabin where -Thurot and Clancarty still talked the most contrary and absurd politics -over their wine. The vast and tangled scheme of French intrigue was set -before me; at another time it might have been of the most fascinating -interest, but on this particular occasion I could not subdue my mind to -matters so comparatively trivial, while I kept my hearing strained for -the evidence that the Dutchman had accomplished his mission and got -back. - -The moments passed; the interest flagged; Clancarty began to yawn and -Thurot grew silent. It was manifest that the sooner my Dutchman was back -to his ship the better for my plan. Then it was I showed the brightest -interest in affairs that an hour earlier failed to engage a second of my -attention, and I discovered for the entertainment of my gaoler and -his friend a hitherto unsuspected store of reminiscence about my Uncle -Andrew and a fund of joke and anecdote whereof neither of them probably -had thought me capable. - -But all was useless. The signal that the Dutchman had returned was not -made when Lord Clancarty rose to his feet and intimated his intention -there and then of going ashore, though his manner suggested that it -would have been easy to induce him to wait longer. We went on deck with -him. The night was banked with clouds though a full moon was due; only a -few stars shone in the spaces of the zenith; our vessel was in darkness -except where a lamp swung at the bow. - -"_Mon Dieu!_ Tony, what a pitchy night! I'd liefer be safe ashore than -risking my life getting there in your cockle-shell," said Clancarty. - -"'Art all right, Lord Clancarty," said Thurot. "Here's a man will row -you to the quay in two breaths, and you'll be snug in bed before M. -Greig and I have finished our prayers." Then he cried along the deck for -the seaman. - -I felt that all was lost now the fellow's absence was to be discovered. - -What was my astonishment to hear an answering call, and see the -Dutchman's figure a blotch upon the blackness of the after-deck. - -"Bring round the small boat and take Lord Clancarty ashore," said the -captain, and the seaman hastened to do so. He sprang into the small -boat, released her rope, and brought her round. - -"_A demain_, dear Paul," cried his lordship with a hiccough. "It's curst -unkind of Tony Thurot not to let you ashore on parole or permit me to -wait with you." - -The boat dropped off into the darkness of the harbour, her oars thudding -on the thole-pins. - -"There goes a decent fellow though something of a fool," said Thurot. -"'Tis his kind have made so many enterprises like our own have an -ineffectual end. And now you must excuse me, M. Greig, if I lock you -into your cabin. There are too few of us on board to let you have the -run of the vessel." - -He put a friendly hand upon the shoulder I shrugged with chagrin at this -conclusion to an unfortunate day. - -"Sorry, M. Greig, sorry," he said humorously. "_Qui commence mal finit -mal_, and I wish to heaven you had begun the day by finding Antoine -Thurot at home, in which case we had been in a happier relationship -to-night." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - -DISCLOSES THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE AND HOW WE SET SAIL FOR ALBION - -Thurot turned the key on me with a pleasantry that was in no accordance -with my mood, and himself retired to the round house on deck where his -berth was situated. I sat on a form for a little, surrendered all to -melancholy, then sought to remove it by reading, as sleep in my present -humour was out of the question. My reading, though it lasted for an hour -or two, was scarcely worth the name, for my mind continually wandered -from the page. I wondered if my note to Kilbride had been delivered, and -if any step on his part was to be expected therefrom; the hope that rose -with that reflection died at once upon the certainty that as the Dutch -seaman had not signalled as he had promised he had somehow learned the -true nature of my condition in the frigate. Had he told Thurot? If he -had told Thurot--which was like enough--that I had communicated with any -one outside the vessel there was little doubt that the latter would take -adequate steps to prevent interference by Kilbride or any one else. - -We are compact of memories, a mere bundle of bygone days, childish -recollections, ancient impressions, and so an older experience came to -me, too, of the night I sat in the filthy cabin of Dan Risk's doomed -vessel hearing the splash of illegitimate oars, anticipating with a mind -scarcely more disturbed than I had just now the step of the officer from -the prison at Blackness and the clutch of the chilly fetters. - -There was a faint but rising nor'-east wind. It sighed among the shrouds -of the frigate. I could hear it even in the cabin, pensive like the call -of the curfew at a great distance. The waves washed against the timbers -in curious short gluckings and hissings. On the vessel herself not a -sound was to be heard, until of a sudden there came a scratching at my -cabin door! - -It was incredible! I had heard no footstep on the companion, and I had -ceased to hope for anything from the Dutchman! - -"Who's there?" I asked softly, and at that the key outside was turned -and I was fronted by Kilbride! - -He wore the most ridiculous travesty of the Dutchman's tarry breeks -and tarpaulin hat and coarse wide jumper, and in the light of my candle -there was a humorous twinkle on his face as he entered, closed the door -softly after him, and sat down beside me. - -"My goodness!" he whispered, "you have a face on you as if you were in a -graveyard watching ghosts. It's time you were steeping the withies to go -away as we say in the Language, and you may be telling me all the story -of it elsewhere." - -"Where's the Dutchman that took my letter?" I asked. - -"Where," said Kilbride, "but in the place that well befits him--at the -lug of an anker of Rotterdam gin taking his honest night's rest. I'm -here guizing in his tarry clothes, and if I were Paul Greig of the Hazel -Den I would be clapping on my hat gey quick and getting out of here -without any more parley." - -"You left him in the hoy!" said I astonished. - -"Faith, there was nothing better for it!" said he coolly. "Breuer gave -him so much of the juniper for old acquaintance that when I left he was -so full of it that he had lost the power of his legs and you might as -well try to keep a string of fish standing." - -"And it was you took Clancarty ashore?" - -"Who else? And I don't think it's a great conceit of myself to believe -I play-acted the Dutch tarry-breeks so very well, though I was in -something of a tremble in case the skipper here would make me out below -my guizard's clothes. You may thank your stars the moon was as late of -rising this night as a man would be that was at a funeral yesterday." -"And where's the other man who was on this vessel?" I asked, preparing -to go. - -"Come on deck and I'll show you," said Kilbride, checking a chuckle of -amusement at something. - -We crept softly on deck into the night now slightly lit by a moon veiled -by watery clouds. The ship seemed all our own and we were free to leave -her when we chose for the small boat hung at her stern. - -"You were asking for the other one," said Kilbride. "There he is," and -he pointed to a huddled figure bound upon the waist. "When I came on -board after landing Clancarty this stupid fellow discovered I was a -stranger and nearly made an outcry; but I hit him on the lug with the -loom of an oar. He'll not be observing very much for a while yet, but -I was bound all the same to put a rope on him to prevent him disturbing -Captain Thurot's sleep too soon." - -We spoke in whispers for the night seemed all ear and I was for ever -haunted by the reflection that Thurot was divided from us by little more -than an inch or two of teak-wood. Now and then the moon peeped through -a rift of cloud and lit a golden roadway over the sea, enticing me -irresistibly home. - -"O God, I wish I was in Scotland!" I said passionately. - -"Less luck than that will have to be doing us," said Kilbride, fumbling -at the painter of the boat. "The hoy sets sail for Calais in an hour -or two, and it's plain from your letter we'll be best to be taking her -round that length." - -"No, not Calais," said I. "It's too serious a business with me for that. -I'm wanting England, and wanting it unco fast." - -"_Oh, Dhe!_" said my countryman, "here's a fellow with the appetite of -Prince Charlie and as likely to gratify it. What for must it be England, -_loachain?_" - -"I can only hint at that," I answered hastily, "and that in a minute. -Are ye loyal?" - -"To a fine fellow called MacKellar first and to my king and country -after?" - -"The Stuarts?" said I. - -He cracked his thumb. "It's all by with that," said he quickly and not -without a tone of bitterness. - -"The breed of them has never been loyal to me, and if I could wipe out -of my life six months of the cursedest folly in Forty-five I would go -back to Scotland with the first chance and throw my bonnet for Geordie -ever after like the greasiest burgess ever sold a wab of cloth or a -cargo of Virginia in Glasgow." - -"Then," I said, "you and me's bound for England this night, for I have -that in my knowledge should buy the safety of the pair of us," and I -briefly conveyed my secret. - -He softly whistled with astonishment. - -"Man! it's a gey taking idea," he confessed. "But the bit is to get over -the Channel." - -"I have thought of that," said I. "Here's a smuggler wanting no more -than a rag of sail in this wind to make the passage in a couple of -days." - -"By the Holy Iron it's the very thing!" he interrupted, slapping his -leg. - -It takes a time to tell all this in writing, but in actual fact our -whole conversation together in the cabin and on the deck occupied less -than five minutes. We were both of us too well aware of the value of -time to have had it otherwise and waste moments in useless conversation. - -"What is to be done is this," I suggested, casting a rapid glance along -the decks and upwards to the spars. "I will rig up a sail of some sort -here and you will hasten over again in the small-boat to the hoy and -give Father Hamilton the option of coming with us. He may or he may not -care to run the risks involved in the exploit, but at least we owe him -the offer." - -"But when I'm across at the hoy there, here's you with this dovering -body and Captain Thurot. Another knock might settle the one, but you -would scarcely care to have knocks going in the case of an old friend -like Tony Thurot, who's only doing his duty in keeping you here with -such a secret in your charge." - -"I have thought of that, too," I replied quickly, "and I will hazard -Thurot." - -Kilbride lowered himself into the small-boat, pushed off from the side -of the frigate, and in silence half-drifted in the direction of the -Dutch vessel. My plans were as clear in my head as if they had been -printed on paper. First of all I took such provender as I could get from -my cabin and placed it along with a breaker of water and a lamp in the -cutter. Then I climbed the shrouds of the frigate, and cut away a small -sail that I guessed would serve my purpose, letting it fall into the -cutter. I made a shift at sheets and halyards and found that with a -little contrivance I could spread enough canvas to take the cutter -in that weather at a fair speed before the wind that had a blessed -disposition towards the coast of England. I worked so fast it was a -miracle, dreading at every rustle of the stolen sail--at every creak of -the cutter on the fenders, that either the captain or his unconscious -seaman would awake. - -My work was scarcely done when the small-boat came off again from the -hoy, and as she drew cautiously near I saw that MacKellar had with him -the bulky figure of the priest. He climbed ponderously, at my signal, -into the cutter, and MacKellar joined me for a moment on the deck of the -frigate. - -"He goes with us then?" I asked, indicating the priest. - -"To the Indies if need be," said Kilbride. "But the truth is that this -accident is a perfect God-send to him, for England's the one place -below the firmament he would choose for a refuge at this moment. Is all -ready?" - -"If my sail-making's to be relied on she's in the best of trim," I -answered. - -"And--what do ye call it?--all found?" - -"A water breaker, a bottle of brandy, a bag of bread--" - -"Enough for a foray of fifty men!" he said heartily. "Give me meal and -water in the heel of my shoe and I would count it very good vivers for a -fortnight." - -He went into the cutter; I released the ropes that bound her to the -frigate and followed him. - -"_Mon Dieu_ dear lad, 'tis a world of most fantastic happenings," was -all the poor old priest said, shivering in the cold night air. - -We had to use the oars of the frigate's small-boat for a stroke or two -so as to get the cutter round before the wind; she drifted quickly -from the large ship's side almost like a living thing with a crave -for freedom at last realised; up speedily ran her sail, unhandsome yet -sufficient, the friendly air filled out the rustling folds and drove her -through the night into the open sea. - -There is something in a moonlit night at sea that must touch in the most -cloddish heart a spring of fancy. It is friendlier than the dawn that at -its most glorious carries a hint of sorrow, or than the bravest sunset -that reminds us life is a brief day at the best of it, and the one -thing sempiternal yet will be the darkness. We sat in the well of the -cutter--three odd adventurers, myself the most silent because I had the -double share of dubiety about the enterprise, for who could tell how -soon the doomster's hand would be on me once my feet were again on -British soil? Yet now when I think of it--of the moonlit sea, the -swelling sail above us, the wake behind that shone with fire--I must -count it one of the happiest experiences of my life. - -The priest looked back at the low land of France receding behind us, -with its scattered lights on the harbour and the shore, mere subjects -to the queenly moon. "There goes poor Father Hamilton," said he -whimsically, "happy schoolboy, foolish lover in Louvain that had never -but moonlit eves, parish priest of Dixmunde working two gardens, human -and divine, understanding best the human where his bees roved, but -loving all men good and ill. There goes the spoiled page, the botched -effort, and here's a fat old man at the start of a new life, and never -to see his darling France again. Ah! the good mother; _Dieu te bnisse!_" - - - - -CHAPTER XL - -MY INTERVIEW WITH PITT - -Of our voyage across the Channel there need be no more said than that it -was dull to the very verge of monotony, for the wind, though favourable, -was often in a faint where our poor sail shook idly at the mast. Two -days later we were in London, and stopped at the Queen's Head above -Craig's Court in Charing Cross. - -And now I had to make the speediest possible arrangement for a meeting -with those who could make the most immediate and profitable use of the -tidings I was in a position to lay before them, by no means an easy -matter to decide upon for a person who had as little knowledge of London -as he had of the Cities of the Plain. - -MacKellar--ever the impetuous Gael--was for nothing less than a personal -approach to his Majesty. - -"The man that is on the top of the hill will always be seeing furthest," -he said. "I have come in contact with the best in Europe on that under -standing, but it calls for a kind of Hielan' tact that--that--" - -"That you cannot credit to a poor Lowlander like myself," said I, amused -at his vanity. - -"Oh, I'm meaning no offence, just no offence at all," he responded -quickly, and flushing at his _faux pas_. "You have as much talent of -the kind as the best of us I'm not denying, and I have just the one -advantage, that I was brought up in a language that has delicacies of -address beyond the expression of the English, or the French that is, in -some measure, like it." - -"Well," said I, "the spirit of it is obviously not to be translated into -English, judging from the way you go on crying up your countrymen at the -expense of my own." - -"That is true enough," he conceded, "and a very just observe; but no -matter, what I would be at is that your news is worth too much to be -wasted on any poor lackey hanging about his Majesty's back door, who -might either sell it or you on his own behoof, or otherwise make a mull -of the matter with the very best intentions. If you would take my way of -it, there would be but Geordie himself for you." - -"What have you to say to that?" I asked the priest, whose knowledge of -the world struck me as in most respects more trustworthy than that of -this impetuous Highland chirurgeon. - -"A plague of your kings! say I; sure I know nothing about them, for -my luck has rubbed me against the gabardine and none of your ermined -cloaks. There must be others who know his Majesty's affairs better than -his Majesty himself, otherwise what advantage were there in being a -king?" - -In fine his decision was for one of the Ministers, and at last the -Secretary of State was decided on. - -How I came to meet with Mr. Pitt need not here be recorded; 'twas indeed -more a matter of good luck than of good guidance, and had there been no -Scots House of Argyll perhaps I had never got rid of my weighty secret -after all. I had expected to meet a person magnificent in robes of -state; instead of which 'twas a man in a blue coat with yellow metal -buttons, full round bob wig, a large hat, and no sword-bag nor ruffles -that met me--more like a country coachman or a waggoner than a personage -of importance. - -He scanned over again the letter that had introduced me and received me -cordially enough. In a few words I indicated that I was newly come from -France, whence I had escaped in a smuggler's boat, and that I had news -of the first importance which I counted it my duty to my country to -convey to him with all possible expedition. - -At that his face changed and he showed singularly little eagerness to -hear any more. - -"There will be--there will be the--the usual bargain, I presume, Mr. -Greig?" he said, half-smiling. "What are the conditions on which I am to -have this vastly important intelligence?" - -"I never dreamt of making any, sir," I answered, promptly, with some -natural chagrin, and yet mixed with a little confusion that I should in -truth be expecting something in the long run for my story. - -"Pardon my stupid pleasantry, Mr. Greig," he said, reddening slightly. -"I have been so long one of his Majesty's Ministers, and of late have -seen so many urgent couriers from France with prime news to be bargained -for, that I have grown something of a cynic. You are the first that has -come with a secret not for sale. Believe me, your story will have all -the more attention because it is offered disinterestedly." - -In twenty minutes I had put him into possession of all I knew of the -plans for invasion. He walked up and down the room, with his hands -behind his back, intently listening, now and then uttering an -exclamation incredulous or astonished. - -"You are sure of all this?" he asked at last sharply, looking in my face -with embarrassing scrutiny. - -"As sure as any mortal man may be with the gift of all his senses," I -replied firmly. "At this moment Thurot's vessel is, I doubt not, taking -in her stores; the embarkation of troops is being practised daily, -troops are assembled all along the coast from Brest to Vannes, and--" - -"Oh! on these points we are, naturally, not wholly dark," said the -Minister. "We have known for a year of this somewhat theatrical display -on the part of the French, but the lines of the threatened invasion -are not such as your remarkable narrative suggests. You have been good -enough to honour me with your confidence, Mr. Greig; let me reciprocate -by telling you that we have our--our good friends in France, and that -for six months back I have been in possession of the Chevalier D'Arcy's -instructions to Dumont to reconnoitre the English coast, and of Dumont's -report, with the chart of the harbours and towns where he proposed that -the descent should be made." He smiled somewhat grimly. "The gentleman -who gave us the information," he went on, "stipulated for twenty -thousand pounds and a pension of two thousand a year as the just reward -for his loving service to his country in her hour of peril. He was -not to get his twenty thousand, I need scarcely say, but he was to get -something in the event of his intelligence proving to be accurate, and -if it were for no more than to get the better of such a dubious patriot -I should wish his tale wholly disproved, though we have hitherto -acted on the assumption that it might be trustworthy. There cannot be -alternative plans of invasion; our informant--another Scotsman, I may -say--is either lying or has merely the plan of a feint." - -"You are most kind, sir," said I. - -"Oh," he said, "I take your story first, and as probably the most -correct, simply because it comes from one that loves his country -and makes no bagman's bargains for the sale of secrets vital to her -existence." - -"I am much honoured, sir," said I, with a bow. - -And then he stopped his walk abruptly and faced me again. - -"You have told me, Mr. Greig," he went on, "that Conflans is to descend -in a week or two on the coast of Scotland, and that Thurot is to create -a diversion elsewhere with the aid of the Swedes, I have, from the most -delicate considerations, refrained from asking you how you know all -this?" - -"I heard it from the lips of Thurot himself." - -"Thurot! impossible!" he murmured. - -"Of Thurot himself, sir." - -"You must be much in that pirate's confidence," said Mr. Pitt, for the -first time with suspicion. - -"Not to that extent that he would tell me of his plans for invading -my country," I answered, "and I learned these things by the merest -accident. I overheard him speak last Sunday in Dunkerque with the Young -Pretender--" - -"The Pretender!" cried the Minister, shrugging his shoulders, and -looking at me with more suspicion than ever. "You apparently move in the -most select and interesting society, Mr. Greig?" - -"In this case, sir, it was none of my choosing," I replied, and went on -briefly to explain how I had got into Thurot's chamber unknown to him, -and unwittingly overhead the Prince and him discuss the plan. - -"Very good, very good, and still--you will pardon me--I cannot see how -so devout a patriot as Mr. Greig should be in the intimacy of men like -Thurot?" - -"A most natural remark under the circumstances," I replied. "Thurot -saved my life from a sinking British vessel, and it is no more than his -due to say he proved a very good friend to me many a time since. But I -was to know nothing of his plans of invasion, for he knew very well I -had no sympathy with them nor with Charles Edward, and, as I have told -you, he made me his prisoner on his ship so that I might not betray what -I had overheard." - -The Minister made hurried notes of what I had told him, and concluded -the interview by asking where I could be communicated with during the -next few days. - -I gave him my direction at the Queen's Head, but added that I had it in -my mind to go shortly to Edinburgh, where my address would be best known -to the Lord Advocate. - -"The Lord Advocate!" said Mr. Pitt, raising his eyebrows. - -"I may as well make a clean breast of it, sir," I proceeded hurriedly, -"and say that I left Scotland under circumstances peculiarly -distressing. Thurot saved me from a ship called the _Seven Sisters_, -that had been scuttled and abandoned with only myself and a seaman on -board of her in mid-channel, by a man named Daniel Risk." - -"Bless me!" cried Mr. Pitt, "the scoundrel Risk was tried in Edinburgh a -month or two ago on several charges, including the one you mention, and -he has either been hanged, or is waiting to be hanged at this moment, in -the jail at Edinburgh." - -"I was nominally purser on the _Seven Sisters_, but in actual fact I was -fleeing from justice." - -The Minister hemmed, and fumbled with his papers. - -"It was owing to a duelling affair, in which I had the misfortune -to--to--kill my opponent. I desire, sir, above all, to be thoroughly -honest, and I am bound to tell you it was my first intention to make the -conveyance of this plan of Thurot's a lever to secure my pardon for the -crime of manslaughter which lies at my charge. I would wish now that my -loyalty to my country was really disinterested, and I have, in the last -half-hour, made up my mind to surrender myself to the law of Scotland." - -"That is for yourself to decide on," said the Minister more gravely, -"but I should advise the postponement of your departure to Edinburgh -until you hear further from me. I shall expect to find you at the inn at -Charing Cross during the next week; thereafter----" - -He paused for a moment. "Well--thereafter we shall see," he added. - -After a few more words of the kindest nature the Minister shook -hands with the confessed manslayer (it flashed on me as a curious -circumstance), and I went back to join the priest and my fellow -countryman. - -They were waiting full of impatience. - -"Hast the King's pardon in thy pocket, friend Scotland?" cried Father -Hamilton; then his face sank in sympathy with the sobriety of my own -that was due to my determination on a surrender to justice once my -business with the Government was over. - -"I have no more in my pocket than I went out with in the morning," said -I. "But my object, so far, has been served. Mr. Pitt knows my story and -is like to take such steps as maybe needful. As for my own affair I have -mentioned it, but it has gone no further than that." - -"You're not telling me you did not make a bargain of it before saying -a word about the bit plan?" cried MacKellar in surprise, and could -scarcely find words strong enough to condemn me for what he described as -my stupidity. - -"Many a man will sow the seed that will never eat the syboe," was his -comment; "and was I not right yonder when I said yon about the tact? If -it had been me now I would have gone very canny to the King himself and -said: 'Your Majesty, I'm a man that has made a slip in a little affair -as between gentlemen, and had to put off abroad until the thing blew -by. I can save the lives of many thousand Englishmen, and perhaps the -country itself, by intelligence that came to my knowledge when I was -abroad; if I prove it, will your Majesty pardon the thing that lies at -my charge?'" - -"And would have his Majesty's signature to the promise as 'twere a deed -of sale!" laughed the priest convulsively. "La! la! la! Paul, here's our -Celtic Solon with tact--the tact of the foot-pad. Stand and deliver! -My pardon, sire, or your life! _Mon Dieu!_ there runs much of the old -original cateran in thy methods of diplomacy, good Master MacKellar. Too -much for royal courts, I reckon." MacKellar pshawed impatiently. "I'm -asking you what is the Secretary's name, Mr. Greig?" said he. "Fox or -Pitt it is all the same--the one is sly and the other is deep, and it is -the natures of their names. I'll warrant Mr. Pitt has forgotten already -the name of the man who gave him the secret, and the wisest thing Paul -Greig could do now would be to go into hiding as fast as he can." - -But I expressed my determination to wait in the Queen's Head a week -longer, as I had promised, and thereafter (if nothing happened to -prevent it) to submit myself at Edinburgh. Though I tried to make as -little of that as possible to myself, and indeed would make myself -believe I was going to act with a rare bravery, I must confess now that -my determination was strengthened greatly by the reflection that -my service to the country would perhaps annul or greatly modify my -sentence. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI - -TREATS OF FATHER HAMILTON'S DEATH - -It was a gay place, London, in the days I write of, however it may -be now, though Father Hamilton was prone occasionally to compare -it unfavourably with the Paris of his fancy, the which he held a -sample-piece of paradise. The fogs and rains depressed him; he had an -eye altogether unfriendly for the signs of striving commerce in the -streets and the greedy haste of clerks and merchants into whose days of -unremitting industry so few joys (as he fancied) seemed to enter. - -MacKellar soon found company in it among silken bucks that held noisy -sederunts in the evenings at a place called White's and another called -(if my memory does not fail me) the Cocoa Nut Tree. 'Twas marvellous the -number of old friends and fellow countrymen that, by his own account, -he found there. And what open hands they had! But for him that was -privileged, for old acquaintance sake, to borrow from them, we had found -our week or two in London singularly hungry because (to tell the truth -of it) our money was come very nearly to an end. But MacKellar, who -had foraged so well in Silesia, was equally good at it in the city of -London. From these night escapades he seldom failed to return richer -than he went, and it was he who paid the piper with so much of an air of -thinking it a privilege, that we had not the heart, even if we had the -inclination, to protest. - -If I had known then, as I know now, or at least suspect, that the money -that fed and boarded us was won through his skill at dice and cards, I -daresay I had shifted sooner from London than I did at the last. - -Day after day passed, and no word from Mr. Pitt. I dared scarcely leave -my inn for an hour's airing lest I should be asked for in my absence. -There was, for a while, a hope that though I had refused to make any -bargain about the pardon, something--I could not so much as guess -what--might happen to avert the scandal of a trial at Edinburgh, and the -disgrace that same might bring upon my family. But day after day passed, -as I have said, and there came no hint of how matters stood. - -And then there came a day when I was to consider it mattered very little -whether I heard from Pitt or not; when even my country was forgotten and -I was to suffer a loss whose bitterness abides with me yet. It was the -death of Father Hamilton, whom I had grown to like exceedingly. Birds -have built and sung for many generations since then; children play in -the garden still; there is essence at the table, there is sparkle in -the wine, and he will never enjoy them any more. Fortune has come to me -since then, so that I might have the wherewithal, if I had the wish, -to take the road again with him in honesty, and see it even better than -when Sin paid the bill for us, but it cannot be with him. - -It was a December day of the whitest, the city smothered in snow, its -tumult hushed. I had been tempted to wander in the forenoon a good -way from our lodging. Coming home in the afternoon I met Kilbride, -distracted, setting out to seek for me. He had a face like the clay, and -his hands, that grasped my lapels as if I meant to fly from him, were -trembling. - -"Oh, Paul," said he. "Here's the worst of all," and I declare his cheeks -were wet with tears. - -"What is it?" I cried in great alarm. - -"The priest, the priest," said he. "He's lying yonder at the ebb, -and I'm no more use to him than if I were a bairn. I've seen the -death-thraws a thousand times, but never to vex me just like this -before. He could make two or three of us in bulk, and yet his heart -was like a wean's, and there he's crying on you even-on till I was near -demented and must run about the streets to seek for you." - -"But still you give me no clue!" I cried, hurrying home with him. - -He gave me the story by the way. It seemed his reverence had had a -notion to see Eastcheap, round which the writer Shakespeare had thrown -a glamour for him. He had gone there shortly after I had gone out in the -forenoon, and after a space of walking about it had found himself in a -mean street where a blackguard was beating a child. 'Twas the man's own -child, doubtless, and so he had, I make no doubt, the law of it on his -own side, but the drunken wretch outdid all reasonable chastisement, and -thrashed her till the blood flowed. - -Up ran the priest and took her in his arms, shielding her from the blows -of the father's cudgel with his arm. The child nuzzled to his breast, -shrieking, and the father tried to pull her away. Between them she fell; -the priest stood over her, keeping back the beast that threatened. The -man struck at him with his stick; Father Hamilton wrenched it from him, -threw it down that he might have no unfair advantage, and flung himself -upon the wretch. He could have crushed him into jelly, but the man -was armed, and suddenly drew a knife. He thrust suddenly between the -priest's shoulders, released himself from the tottering body, -and disappeared with his child apparently beyond all chance of -identification or discovery. - -Father Hamilton was carried home upon a litter. - -"O God! Kilbride, and must he die?" I cried in horror. - -"He will travel in less than an hour," said the Highlander, vastly -moved. "And since he came here his whole cry has been for you and Father -Joyce." - -We went into the room that seemed unnaturally white and sunny. He lay -upon the bed-clothes. The bed was drawn towards the window, through -which the domes and towers and roofs of London could be seen, with their -accustomed greyness gone below the curtain of the snow. A blotch of -blood was on his shirt-front as he lay upon his side. I thought at first -it was his own life oozing, but learned a little later that the stricken -child had had her face there. - -"Paul! Paul!" he said, "I thought thou wouldst blame me for deserting -thee again, and this time without so much as a letter of farewell." - -What could I do but take his hand, and fall upon my knees beside his -bed? He had blue eyes that never aged nor grossened--the eyes of a boy, -clear, clean, and brave, and round about them wrinkles played in a sad, -sweet smile. - -"What, Paul!" he said, "all this for behemoth! for the old man of the -sea that has stuck on thy shoulders for a twelvemonth, and spurred thee -to infinite follies and perils! I am no more worth a tear of thine than -is the ivied ash that falls untimely and decayed, eaten out of essence -by the sins he sheltered. And the poor child, Paul!--the poor child -with her arms round my neck, her tears brine--sure I have them on my -lips--the true _viaticum!_ The brute! the brute! Ah no! ah no! poor -sinner, we do not know." - -"Oh, father!" I cried, "and must we never go into the woods and towns -any more?" - -He smiled again and stroked my hair. - -"Not in these fields, boy," said he, "but perhaps in more spacious, less -perplexed. Be good, be simple, be kind! Tis all I know." - -We heard the steps of Father Joyce upon the stairs. - -"All I know!" repeated the priest. "Fifty years to learn it, and I might -have found it in my mother's lap. _Chre ange_--the little mother--'twas -a good world! And Fanchon that is dead below the snow in Louvain--oh, -the sweet world! And the sunny gardens of bees and children--" - -His eyes were dull. A pallor was on his countenance. He breathed with -difficulty. Kilbride, who stood by, silent, put a finger on his pulse. -At that he opened his eyes again, once more smiling, and Father Joyce -was at the door. - -"Kiss me, Paul," said the dying man, "I hear them singing prime." - -When Father Joyce was gone I came into the room again where the priest -lay smiling still, great in figure, in the simplicity and sweetness of -his countenance like a child. - -Kilbride and I stood silent for a little by the bed, and the Highlander -was the first to speak. "I have seen worse," said he, "than Father -Hamilton." - -It may seem a grudging testimony, but not to me that heard it. - -On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news -which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, "Have you -heard the latest?" he cried. "It is just what I expected," he went on. -"They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the -tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove -him back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of -the Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The -invasion is at an end." - -"It is gallant news!" I cried, warm with satisfaction. - -"Maybe," said he indifferently, "but the main thing is that Paul Greig, -who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in -cheap lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. -Indeed, perhaps he's worse off than ever he was." - -"How is that?" - -"Well, they ken where you are, for one thing, and you put yourself in -their power. I am one that has small faith in Governments. What will -hinder them to clap you in jail and save another reward like the first -one Pitt told you about? I would never put it past a Sassenach of the -name." - -Then I told him it had been in my mind ever since I had seen the -Minister to go to Edinburgh and give myself up to the authorities. - -"Are ye daft?" he cried, astonished. - -I could only shrug my shoulders at that. - -"Perhaps you fancy this business of the invasion will help you to get -your neck out of the loop? I would not lippen on a Government for ten -minutes. You have saved the country--that's the long and the short of -it; now you must just be saving your own hide. There's nothing for us -but the Continent again, and whether you're in the key for that or not, -here's a fellow will sleep uneasy till he has Europe under his head." - -Even at the cost of parting with Kilbride I determined to carry out -my intention of going to Edinburgh. With the priest gone, no prospect -of Mr. Pitt taking the first step, and Kilbride in the humour for a -retreat, I decided that the sooner I brought matters to a head the -better. - -There was a mail coach that went north weekly. It took a considerable -deal of money and a fortnight of time to make the journey between the -two capitals, but MacKellar, free-handed to the last, lent me the -money (which I sent him six months later to Holland), and I set out one -Saturday from the "Bull and Whistle" in a genteel two-end spring machine -that made a brisk passage--the weather considered--as far as York on our -way into Scotland. - -I left on a night of jubilation for the close of the war and the -overthrow of Conflans. Bonfires blazed on the river-side and the -eminences round the city; candles were in every window, the people -were huzzaing in the streets where I left behind me only the one kent -face--that of MacKellar of Kilbride who came to the coach to see the -last of me. And everywhere was the snow--deep, silent, apparently -enduring. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII - -I DEPART IN THE MIDST OF ILLUMINATION AND COME TO A JAIL, BAD NEWS, AND -AN OLD ENEMY - -We carried this elation all through England with us. Whatever town we -stopped at flags were flying, and the oldest resident must be tipsy on -the green for the glory of the British Isles. The seven passengers who -occupied the coach with me found in these rejoicings, and in the great -event which gave rise to them, subjects of unending discourse as we -dragged through the country in the wake of steaming horses. There was -with us a maker of perukes that had found trade dull in Town (as they -call it), and planned to start business in York; a widow woman who -had buried her second husband and was returning to her parents in -Northumberland with a sprightliness that told she was ready to try a -third if he offered; and a squire (as they call a laird) of Morpeth. - -But for the common interest in the rejoicings it might have been a week -before the company thawed to each other enough to start a conversation. -The first mile of the journey, however, found us in the briskest clebate -on Hawke and his doings. I say us, but in truth my own share in the -conversation was very small as I had more serious reflections. - -The perruquier, as was natural to his trade, knew everything and itched -to prove it. - -"I have it on the very best authority," he would say, "indeed"--with -a whisper for all the passengers as if he feared the toiling horses -outside might hear him--"indeed between ourselves I do not mind telling -that it was from Sir Patrick Dall's man--that the French would have been -on top of us had not one of themselves sold the plot for a hatful of -guineas." - -"That is not what I heard at all," broke in the squire. "I fancy you are -mistaken, sir. The truth, as I have every reason to believe, is that one -of the spies of the Government--a Scotsman, by all accounts--discovered -Conflans' plans, and came over to London with them. A good business too, -egad! otherwise we'd soon have nothing to eat at Morpeth George Inn on -market days but frogs, and would find the parley-voos overrunning the -country by next Lent with their masses and mistresses, and so on. A good -business for merry old England that this spy had his English ears open." - -"It may be you are right, sir," conceded the perruquier deferentially. -"Now that I remember, Sir Patrick's gentleman said something of the same -kind, and that it was one of them Scotsmen brought the news. Like enough -the fellow found it worth his while. It will be a pretty penny in his -pocket, I'll wager. He'll be able to give up spying and start an inn." - -I have little doubt the ideal nature of retirement to an inn came to -the mind of the peruke maker from the fact that at the moment we were -drawing up before "The Crown" at Bawtry. Reek rose in clouds from the -horses, as could be seen from the light of the doors that showed the -narrow street knee-deep in snow; a pleasant smell of cooking supper and -warm cordials came out to us, welcome enough it may be guessed after our -long day's stage. The widow clung just a trifle too long on my arm as -I gallantly helped her out of the coach; perhaps she thought my silence -and my abstracted gaze at her for the last hour or two betrayed a tender -interest, but I was thinking how close the squire and the wig-maker had -come upon the truth, and yet made one mistake in that part of their tale -that most closely affected their silent fellow passenger. - -The sea-fight and the war lasted us for a topic all through England, but -when we had got into Scotland on the seventh day after my departure from -London, the hostlers at the various change-houses yoked fresh horses to -the tune of "Daniel Risk." - -We travelled in the most tempestuous weather. Snow fell incessantly, -and was cast in drifts along the road; sometimes it looked as if we were -bound for days, but we carried the mails, and with gigantic toil the -driver pushed us through. - -The nearer we got to Edinburgh the more we learned of the notorious -Daniel Risk, whom no one knew better than myself. The charge of losing -his ship wilfully was, it appeared, among the oldest and least heinous -of his crimes. Smuggling had engaged his talent since then, and he had -murdered a cabin-boy under the most revolting circumstances. He had -almost escaped the charge of scuttling the _Seven Sisters_, for it was -not till he had been in the dock for the murder that evidence of that -transaction came from the seaman Horn, who had been wrecked twice, it -appeared, and far in other parts of the world between the time he was -abandoned in the scuttled ship and returned to his native land, to tell -how the ruffian had left two innocent men to perish. - -Even in these days of wild happenings the fame of Risk exceeded that of -every malefactor that season, and when we got to Edinburgh the street -singers were chanting doleful ballads about him. - -I would have given the wretch no thought, or very little, for my own -affairs were heavy enough, had not the very day I landed in Edinburgh -seen a broad-sheet published with "The Last Words and Warning" of Risk. -The last words were in an extraordinarily devout spirit; the homily -breathed what seemed a real repentance for a very black life. It would -have moved me less if I could have learned then, as I did later, that -the whole thing was the invention of some drunken lawyer's clerk in -the Canongate, who had probably devised scores of such fictions for the -entertainment of the world that likes to read of scaffold repentances -and of wicked lives. The condition of the wretch touched me, and I -made up my mind to see the condemned man who, by the accounts of the -journals, was being visited daily by folks interested in his forlorn -case. - -With some manoeuvring I got outside the bars of his cell. - -There was little change in him. The same wild aspect was there though -he pretended a humility. The skellie eye still roved with little of -the love of God or man in it; his iron-grey hair hung tawted about his -temples. Only his face was changed and had the jail-white of the cells, -for he had been nearly two months in confinement. When I entered he did -not know me; indeed, he scarce looked the road I was on at first, but -applied himself zealously to the study of a book wherein he pretended to -be rapturously engrossed. - -The fact that the Bible (for so it was) happened to be upside down in -his hands somewhat staggered my faith in the repentance of Daniel Risk, -who, I remembered, had never numbered reading among his arts. - -I addressed him as Captain. - -"I am no Captain," said he in a whine, "but plain Dan Risk, the blackest -sinner under the cope and canopy of heaven." And he applied himself to -his volume as before. - -"Do you know me?" I asked, and he must have found the voice familiar, -for he rose from his stool, approached the bars of his cage, and -examined me. "Andy Greigs nephew!" he cried. "It's you; I hope you're a -guid man?" - -"I might be the best of men--and that's a dead one--so far as you are -concerned," I replied, stung a little by the impertinence of him. - -"The hand of Providence saved me that last item in my bloody list o' -crimes," said he, with a singular mixture of the whine for his sins and -of pride in their number. "Your life was spared, I mak' nae doubt, that -ye micht repent o' your past, and I'm sorry to see ye in sic fallals o' -dress, betokenin' a licht mind and a surrender to the vanities." - -My dress was scantily different from what it had been on the _Seven -Sisters_, except for some lace, my tied hair, and a sword. - -"Indeed, and I am in anything but a light frame of mind, Captain Risk," -I said. "There are reasons for that, apart from seeing you in this -condition which I honestly deplore in spite of all the wrong you did -me." - -"I thank God that has been forgiven me," he said, with a hypocritical -cock of his hale eye. "I was lost in sin, a child o' the deevil, but noo -I am made clean," and much more of the same sort that it is unnecessary -here to repeat. - -"You can count on my forgiveness, so far as that goes," I said, -disgusted with his manner. - -"I'm greatly obleeged," said he, "but man's forgiveness doesna coont sae -muckle as a preen, and I would ask ye to see hoo it stands wi' yersel', -Daniel Risk has made his peace wi' his Maker, but what way is it wi' the -nephew o' Andrew Greig?" - -"It ill becomes a man in a condemned cell to be preacher to those -outside of it," I told him in some exasperation at his presumption. - -He threw up his hands and glowered at me with his gleed eye looking -seven ways for sixpence as the saying goes. - -"Dinna craw ower crouse, young man," he said. "Whit brings ye here I -canna guess, but I ken that you that's there should be in here where I -am, for there's blood on your hands." - -He had me there! Oh, yes, he had me there! Every vein in my body told -me so. But I was not in the humour to make an admission of that kind to -this creature. - -"I have no conceit of myself in any respect whatever, Daniel Risk," I -said slowly. "I came here from France but yesterday after experiences -there that paid pretty well for my boy's crime, for I have heard from -neither kith nor kin since you cozened me on the boards of the _Seven -Sisters_." - -He put his hands upon the bars and looked at me. He wore a prison garb -of the most horrible colour, and there were round him the foul stenches -of the cell. - -"Ay!" said he. "New back! And they havena nabbed ye yet! Weel, -they'll no' be lang, maybe, o' doin' that, for I'll warrant ye've been -advertised plenty aboot the country; ony man that has read a gazette or -clattered in a public-hoose kens your description and the blackness o' -the deed you're chairged wi'. All I did was to sink a bit ship that was -rotten onyway, mak' free trade wi' a few ankers o' brandy that wad hae -been drunk by the best i' the land includin' the very lords that tried -me, and accidentally kill a lad that sair needed a beltin' to gar him -dae his honest wark. But you shot a man deliberate and his blood is -crying frae the grund. If ye hurry ye'll maybe dance on naethin' sooner -nor mysel'." - -There was so much impotent venom in what he said that I lost my anger -with the wretch drawing near his end, and looked on him with pity. It -seemed to annoy him more than if I had reviled him. - -"I'm a white soul." says he, clasping his hands--the most arrant -blasphemy of a gesture from one whose deeds were desperately wicked! -"I'm a white soul, praise God! and value not your opinions a docken -leaf. Ye micht hae come here to this melancholy place to slip a bit -guinea into my hand for some few extra comforts, instead o' which it's -jist to anger me." - -He glued his cheek against the bars and stared at me from head to foot, -catching at the last a glance of my fateful shoes. He pointed at them -with a rigid finger. - -[Illustration: 407] - -"Man! man!" he cried, "there's the sign and token o' the lot o' ye--the -bloody shoon. They may weel be red for him and you that wore them. Red -shoon! red shoon!" He stopped suddenly. "After a'," said he, "I bear -ye nae ill-will, though I hae but to pass the word to the warder on the -ither side o' the rails. And oh! abin a' repent----" He was off again -into one of his blasphemies, for at my elbow now was an old lady who was -doubtless come to confirm the conversion of Daniel Risk. I turned to go. - -He cast his unaffected eye piously heavenward, and coolly offered up a -brief prayer for "this erring young brother determined on the ways of -vice and folly." - -It may be scarce credible that I went forth from the condemned cell with -the most shaken mind I had had since the day I fled from the moor of -Mearns. The streets were thronged with citizens; the castle ramparts -rose up white and fine, the bastions touched by sunset fires, a window -blazing like a star. Above the muffled valley, clear, silvery, proud, -rang a trumpet on the walls, reminding me of many a morning rouse in far -Silesia. Was I not better there? Why should I be the sentimental fool -and run my head into a noose? Risk, whom I had gone to see in pity, paid -me with a vengeance! He had put into the blunt language of the world all -the horror I had never heard in words before, though it had often been -in my mind. I saw myself for the first time the hunted outlaw, captured -at last. "You that's out there should be in where I am!" It was true! -But to sit for weeks in that foul hole within the iron rail, waiting on -doom, reflecting on my folks disgraced--I could not bear it! - -Risk cured me of my intention to hazard all on the flimsy chance of -a Government's gratitude, and I made up my mind to seek safety and -forgetfulness again in flight to another country. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII - -BACK TO THE MOORLAND - -I had seen yon remnant of a man in the Tolbooth cell, and an immediate -death upon the gallows seemed less dreadful than the degradation and the -doubt he must suffer waiting weary months behind bars. But gallows or -cell was become impossible for the new poltroon of Dan Risk's making to -contemplate with any equanimity, and I made up my mind that America was -a country which would benefit greatly by my presence, if I could get a -passage there by working for it. - -Perhaps I would not have made so prompt a decision upon America had -not America implied a Clyde ship, and the Clyde as naturally implied -a flying visit to my home in Mearns. Since ever I had set foot on -Scotland, and saw Scots reek rise from Scots lums, and blue bonnets on -Scots heads, and heard the twang of the true North and kindly from the -people about me, I had been wondering about my folk. It was plain they -had never got the letter I had sent by Horn, or got it only recently, -for he himself had only late got home. - -To see the house among the trees, then, to get a reassuring sight of its -smoke and learn about my parents, was actually of more importance in my -mind than my projected trip to America, though I did not care to confess -so much to myself. - -I went to Glasgow on the following day; the snow was on the roofs; the -students were noisily battling; the bells were cheerfully ringing as -on the day with whose description I open this history. I put up at the -"Saracen Head," and next morning engaged a horse to ride to Mearns. In -the night there had come a change in the weather; I splashed through -slush of melted snow, and soaked in a constant rain, but objected none -at all because it gave me an excuse to keep up the collar of my cloak, -and pull the brim of my hat well forward on my face and so minimise the -risk of identification. - -There is the lichened root of an ancient fallen saugh tree by the side -of Earn Water between Kirkillstane and Driepps that I cannot till this -day look on without a deep emotion. Walter's bairns have seen me sitting -there more than once, and unco solemn so that they have wondered, the -cause beyond their comprehension. It was there I drew up my horse to see -the house of Kirkillstane from the very spot where I had rambled with my -shabby stanzas, and felt the first throb of passion for a woman. - -The country was about me familiar in every dyke and tree and eminence; -where the water sobbed in the pool it had the accent it had in my -dreams; there was a broken branch of ash that trailed above the fall, -where I myself had dragged it once in climbing. The smell of moss and -rotten leafage in the dripping rain, the eerie aspect of the moorland in -the mist, the call of lapwings--all was as I had left it. There was not -the most infinite difference to suggest that I had seen another world, -and lived another life, and become another than the boy that wandered -here. - -I rode along the river to find the smoke rising from my father's -house--thank God! but what the better was the outlaw son for that? Dare -he darken again the door he had disgraced, and disturb anew the hearts -he had made sore? - -I pray my worst enemy may never feel torn by warring dictates of the -spirit as I was that dreary afternoon by the side of Earn; I pray he may -never know the pang with which I decided that old events were best let -lie, and that I must be content with that brief glimpse of home before -setting forth again upon the roads of dubious fortune. Fortune! Did I -not wear just now the very Shoes of Fortune? They had come I knew not -whence, from what magic part and artisan of heathendom I could not even -guess, to my father's brother; they had covered the unresting foot of -him; to me they had brought their curse of discontent, and so in wearing -them I seemed doomed to be the unhappy rover, too. - -The afternoon grew loud with wind as I sat my horse beside the -increasing water; I felt desolate beyond expression. - -"Well, there must be an end of it some way!" I said bitterly, and I -turned to go. - -The storm opposed me as I cantered over Whig-gitlaw, and won by Brooms, -and Bishops Offerance, and Kilree. Shepherds sheltered in the lee -of dykes, and women hurried out and shuttered windows. I saw sheep -hastening into the angles of the fields, and the wild white sea-gull -beating across the sky. The tempest thrashed on me as though it could -not have me go too soon from the country of my shame; I broke the horse -to gallop, and fields and dykes flew by like things demented. - -Then of a sudden the beast grew lame; I searched for a stone or a cast -shoe, but neither ailed him, and plainly the ride to town that night was -impossible. Where the beast failed was within half a mile of Newton, -and at all hazards I decided I must make for the inn there. I felt there -were risks of recognition, but I must run them. I led the horse by a -side path, and reached the inn no sooner than the darkness that fell -that night with unusual suddenness. Lights were in the house, and the -sound of rural merriment in the kitchen, where farm lads drank twopenny -ale, and sang. - -A man--he proved to be the innkeeper--came to my summons with a lantern -in his hand, and held it up to see what wayfarer was this in such a -night. He saw as little of me as my hat and cloak could reveal, and I -saw, what greatly relieved me, that he was not John Warnock, who had -tenanted the inn when I left the country, but a new tenant and one -unknown to me. He helped me to unsaddle the horse, discovered with me -that the lameness would probably succumb to a night in the stall, and -unburdened himself to the questions every unknown traveller in the shire -of Renfrew may expect. - -"You'll be frae Ayr, maybe, or Irvine?" - -No, I was from neither; I was from Glasgow. - -"Say ye sae, noo! Dod! it's nae nicht for travelling and nae wonder your -horse is lamed. Ye'll be for ower Fenwick way, noo, i' the mornin'?" Nor -was I for over Fenwick way in the morning. I was for Glasgow again. - -He looked from the corners of his eyes at this oddity who travelled -like a shuttle in such weather. I was drenched with rain, and my -spatter-dashes, with which I had thought to make up in some degree for -the inadequate foot-wear of red shoes on horseback, were foul with clay. -He presumed I was for supper? - -"No," I answered; "I'm more in the humour for bed, and I will be obliged -if you send to my room for my clothes in a little so that they may be -dry by the time I start in the morning, and I shall set out at seven if -by that time my horse is recovered." - -I drank a tankard of ale for the good of the house, as we say, during -a few minutes in the parlour, making my dripping clothes and a headache -the excuse for refusing the proffered hospitality of the kitchen where -the ploughboys sang, and then went to the little cam-ceiled room where a -hasty bed had been made for me. - -The world outside was full of warring winds and plashing rains, into -which the yokels went at last reluctantly, and when they were gone I -fell asleep, wakening once only for a moment when my wet clothes were -being taken from the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV - -WHEREIN THE SHOES OF FORTUNE BRING ME HOME - -I came down from my cam-ceiled room to a breakfast by candle-light in a -morning that was yet stormy. The landlord himself waited on me ('twas no -other than Ralph Craig that's now retired at the Whinnell), and he had -a score of apologies for his servant lass that had slept in too long, as -he clumsily set a table with his own hand, bringing in its equipment in -single pieces. - -There was a nervousness in his manner that escaped me for a little in -the candle-light, but I saw it finally with some wonder, rueing I had -agreed to have breakfast here at all, and had not taken my horse, now -recovered of his lameness, and pushed on out of a neighbourhood where I -had no right in common sense to be. - -If the meal was slow of coming it was hearty enough, though the host -embarrassed me too much with his attentions. He was clearly interested -in my personality. - -"It's not the first time ye've been in the 'Red Lion,'" said he with -an assurance that made me stare. - -"And what way should you be thinking that?" I asked, beginning to feel -more anxious about my position. - -"Oh, jist a surmise o' my ain," he answered. "Ye kent your way to the -stable in the dark, and then--and then there's whiles a twang o' the -Mearns in your speech." - -This was certainly coming too close! I hastened through my breakfast, -paid my lawing, and ordered out my horse. That took so long that I -surmised the man was wilfully detaining me. "This fellow has certainly -some project to my detriment," I told myself, and as speedily as I might -got into the saddle. Then he said what left no doubt: - -"They'll be gey glad to see ye at the Hazel Den, Mr. Greig." - -I felt a stound of anguish at the words that might in other -circumstances have been true but now were so remote from it. - -"You seem to have a very gleg eye in your head," I said, "and to have a -great interest in my own affairs." - -"No offence, Mr. Paul, no offence!" said he civilly, and indeed abashed. -"There's a lassie in the kitchen that was ance your mither's servant and -she kent your shoes." - -"I hope then you'll say nothing about my being here to any one--for the -sake of the servant's old mistress--that was my mother." - -"That _was_ your mither!" he repeated. "And what for no' yet? She'll be -prood to see ye hame." - -"Is it well with them up there?" I eagerly asked. - -I rode like fury home. The day was come before I reached the dykes of -Hazel Den. Smoke was rising from its chimneys; there was a homely -sound of lowing cattle, and a horse was saddling for my father who was -preparing to ride over to the inn at Newton to capture his errant son. -He stood before the door, a little more grey, a little more bent, a -little more shrunken than when I had seen him last. When I drew up -before him with my hat in my hand and leaped out of the saddle, he -scarcely grasped at first the fact that here was his son. - -"Father! Father!" I cried to him, and he put his arms about my -shoulders. - -"You're there, Paul!" said he at last. "Come your ways in; your dear -mother is making your breakfast." - -I could not have had it otherwise--'twas the welcome I would have -chosen! - -His eyes were brimming over; his voice was full of sobs and laughter as -he cried "Katrine! Katrine!" and my mother came to throw herself into my -arms. - -My Shoes of Fortune had done me their one good office; they had brought -me home. - -And now, my dear David, and Quentin, and Jean, my tale is ended, leaving -some folks who figured therein a space with their ultimate fortunes -unexplained. There is a tomb in Rome that marks the end of Prince -Charles Edward's wanderings and exploits, ambitions, follies, and -passions. Of him and of my countrywoman, Clementina Walkinshaw, you -will by-and-by read with understanding in your history-books. She -died unhappy and disgraced, yet I can never think of her but as -young, beautiful, kind, the fool of her affections, the plaything of -Circumstance. Clancarty's after career I never learned, but Thurot, -not long after I escaped from him in Dunkerque, plundered the town of -Carrickfergus, in Ireland, and was overtaken by three frigates when he -was on his way back to France. His ships were captured and he himself -was killed. You have seen Dr. MacKellar here on a visit from his native -Badenoch; his pardon from the Government was all I got, or all I wished -for, from Mr. Pitt. "And where is Isobel Fortune?" you will ask. You -know her best as your grandmother, my wife. My Shoes of Fortune, she -will sometimes say, laughing, brought me first and last Miss Fortune; -indeed they did! I love them for it, but I love you, too, and hope to -keep you from the Greig's temptation, so they are to the fore no longer. - -THE END - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - -***** This file should be named 43732-8.txt or 43732-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/3/43732/ - -Produced by David Widger - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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-The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro
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-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: The Shoes of Fortune
-
-Author: Neil Munro
-
-Illustrator: A. S. Boyd
-
-Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43732]
-Last Updated: March 8, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
-<div style="height: 8em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h1>
-THE SHOES OF FORTUNE
-</h1>
-<h5>
-HOW THEY BROUGHT TO MANHOOD LOVE ADVENTURE AND CONTENT AS ALSO INTO DIVERS
-PERILS ON LAND AND SEA IN FOREIGN PARTS AND IN AN ALIEN ARMY PAUL GREIG OF
-THE HAZEL DEN IN SCOTLAND ONE TIME PURSER OF 'THE SEVEN SISTERS'
-BRIGANTINE OF HULL AND LATE LIEUTENANT IN THE REGIMENT D'AUVERGNE ALL AS
-WRIT BY HIM AND NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME SET FORTH
-</h5>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h2>
-By Neil Munro
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h3>
-Illustrated by A. S. Boyd
-</h3>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage (97K)" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="frontispiece (135K)" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<p>
-<b>CONTENTS</b>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE SHOES OF FORTUNE</b> </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXVI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXVII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXIX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XL </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XLI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XLII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLIV </a>
-</p>
-
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-THE SHOES OF FORTUNE
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER I
-</h2>
-<h3>
-NARRATES HOW I CAME TO QUIT THE STUDY OF LATIN AND THE LIKE, AND TAKE TO
-HARD WORK IN A MOORLAND COUNTRY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t is an odd thing, chance—the one element to baffle the logician
-and make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the
-sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the
-incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this
-day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase and
-sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate overlooked,
-sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh—a moody soured man with a
-jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment to office. I
-might have been that, or less, if it had not been for so trifling a
-circumstance as the burning of an elderly woman's batch of scones. Had
-Mistress Grant a more attentive eye to her Culross griddle, what time the
-scones for her lodgers, breakfast were a-baking forty years ago, I would
-never have fled furth my native land in a mortal terror of the gallows:
-had her griddle, say, been higher on the swee-chain by a link or two, Paul
-Greig would never have foregathered with Dan Risk, the blackguard skipper
-of a notorious craft; nor pined in a foreign jail; nor connived,
-unwitting, at a prince's murder; nor marched the weary leagues of France
-and fought there on a beggar's wage. And this is not all that hung that
-long-gone day upon a woman's stair-head gossip to the neglect of her <i>cuisine</i>,
-for had this woman been more diligent at her baking I had probably never
-seen my Isobel with a lover's eye.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, here's one who can rarely regret the past except that it is gone. It
-was hard, it was cruel often; dangers the most curious and unexpected
-beset me, and I got an insight to deep villainies whereof man may be
-capable; yet on my word, if I had the parcelling out of a second life for
-myself, I think I would have it not greatly differing from the first, that
-seems in God's providence like to end in the parish where it started,
-among kent and friendly folk. I would not swear to it, yet I fancy I would
-have Lucky Grant again gossiping on her stair-head and her scones burned
-black, that Mackellar, my fellow-lodger, might make me once more, as he
-used to do, the instrument of his malcontent.
-</p>
-<p>
-I mind, as it were yesterday, his gloomy look at the platter that morn's
-morning. “Here they are again!” cried he, “fired to a cinder; it's always
-that with the old wife, or else a heart of dough. For a bawbee I would
-throw them in her face.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, not so much as that.” said I, “though it is mighty provoking.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, always glooming at the platter with
-his dark, wild Hielan' eye. “I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, “but
-it's something by way of an insult to you, that had to complain of
-Sunday's haddocks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, as to them,” quo' I, “they did brawly for me; 'twas you put your
-share in your pocket and threw it away on the Green. Besides the scones
-are not so bad as they look”—I broke one and ate; “they're owre good
-at least for a hungry man like me to send back where they came from.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His face got red. “What's that rubbish about the haddocks and the Green?”
- said he. “You left me at my breakfast when you went to the Ram's Horn
-Kirk.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And that's true, Jock,” said I; “but I think I have made no' so bad a
-guess. You were feared to affront the landlady by leaving her ancient fish
-on the ashet, and you egged me on to do the grumbling.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, it's as sure as death, Paul,” said he shamefacedly, “I hate to vex
-a woman. And you're a thought wrong in your guess”—he laughed at his
-own humour as he said it—“for when you were gone to your kirk I
-transferred my share of the stinking fish to your empty plate.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He jouked his head, but scarcely quick enough, for my Sallust caught him
-on the ear. He replied with a volume of Buchanan the historian, the man I
-like because he skelped the Lord's anointed, James the First, and for a
-time there was war in Lucky Grant's parlour room, till I threw him into
-the recess bed snibbed the door, and went abroad into the street leaving
-my room-fellow for once to utter his own complaints.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went out with the itch of battle on me, and that was the consequence of
-a woman's havering while scones burned, and likewise my undoing, for the
-High Street when I came to it was in the yeasty ferment of encountering
-hosts, their cries calling poor foolish Paul Greig like a trumpet.
-</p>
-<p>
-It had been a night and morning of snow, though I and Mackellar, so high
-in Lucky Grant's chamber in Crombie's Land, had not suspected it. The dull
-drab streets, with their crazy, corbelled gable-ends, had been transformed
-by a silent miracle of heaven into something new and clean; where noisome
-gutters were wont to brim with slops there was the napkin of the Lord.
-</p>
-<p>
-For ordinary I hated this town of my banishment; hated its tun-bellied
-Virginian merchants, so constantly airing themselves upon the Tontine
-piazza and seeming to suffer from prosperity as from a disease; and felt
-no great love of its women—always so much the madame to a
-drab-coated lad from the moorlands; suffered from its greed and stifled
-with the stinks of it. “Gardyloo! Gardyloo! Gardyloo!” Faith! I hear that
-evening slogan yet, and see the daunderers on the Rottenrow skurry like
-rats into the closes to escape the cascades from the attic windows. And
-while I think I loved learning (when it was not too ill to come by), and
-was doing not so bad in my Humanities, the carven gateway of the college
-in my two sessions of a scholar's fare never but scowled upon me as I
-entered.
-</p>
-<p>
-But the snow that morning made of the city a place wherein it was good to
-be young, warm-clad, and hardy. It silenced the customary traffic of the
-street, it gave the morning bells a song of fairydom and the valleys of
-dream; up by-ordinary tall and clean-cut rose the crow-stepped walls, the
-chimney heads, and steeples, and I clean forgot my constant fancy for the
-hill of Ballageich and the heather all about it. And war raged. The
-students faced 'prentice lads and the journeymen of the crafts with
-volleys of snowballs; the merchants in the little booths ran out tremulous
-and vainly cried the watch. Charge was made and counter-charge; the air
-was thick with missiles, and close at hand the silver bells had their
-merry sweet chime high over the city of my banishment drowned by the
-voices taunting and defiant.
-</p>
-<p>
-Merry was that day, but doleful was the end of it, for in the fight I
-smote with a snowball one of the bailies of the burgh, who had come waving
-his three-cocked hat with the pomp and confidence of an elected man and
-ordering an instant stoppage of our war: he made more ado about the
-dignity of his office than the breakage of his spectacles, and I was haled
-before my masters, where I fear I was not so penitent as prudence would
-advise.
-</p>
-<p>
-Two days later my father came in upon Dawson's cart to convoy me home. He
-saw the Principal, he saw the regents of the college, and up, somewhat
-clashed and melancholy, he climbed to my lodging. Mackellar fled before
-his face as it had been the face of the Medusa.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Paul,” said my father, “it seems we made a mistake about your
-birthday.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Did you?” said I, without meaning, for I knew he was ironical.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It would seem so, at any rate,” said he, not looking my airt at all, but
-sideways to the window and a tremor in his voice. “When your mother packed
-your washing last Wednesday and slipped the siller I was not supposed to
-see into a stocking-foot, she said, 'Now he's twenty and the worst of it
-over.' Poor woman! she was sadly out of her reckoning. I'm thinking I have
-here but a bairn of ten. You should still be at the dominie's.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I was not altogether to blame, father,” I cried. “The thing was an
-accident.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Of course, of course,” said he soothingly. “Was't ever otherwise when the
-devil joggled an elbow? Whatever it was, accident or design, it's a
-session lost. Pack up, Paul, my very young boy, and we'll e'en make our
-way quietly from this place where they may ken us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He paid the landlady her lawing, with sixpence over for her motherliness,
-whereat she was ready to greet, and he took an end of my blue kist down
-the stairs with me, and over with it like a common porter to the carrier's
-stance.
-</p>
-<p>
-A raw, raining day, and the rough highways over the hoof with slush of
-melted snow, we were a chittering pair as we drove under the tilt of the
-cart that came to the Mearns to meet us, and it was a dumb and solemn
-home-coming for me.
-</p>
-<p>
-Not that I cared much myself, for my lawyership thus cracked in the shell,
-as it were I had been often seized with the notion that six feet of a
-moor-lander, in a lustre gown and a horse-hair wig and a blue shalloon bag
-for the fees, was a wastry of good material. But it was the dad and her at
-home I thought of, and could put my neck below the cartwheel for
-distressing. I knew what he thought of as he sat in the cart corner, for
-many a time he had told me his plans; and now they were sadly marred. I
-was to get as much as I could from the prelections of Professor Reid, work
-my way through the furrows of Van Eck, Van Muyden, and the Pandects, then
-go to Utrecht or Groningen for the final baking, and come back to the desk
-of Coghill and Sproat, Writers to the Signet, in Spreull's Land of
-Edinburgh; run errands between that dusty hole and the taverns of
-Salamander Land, where old Sproat (that was my father's doer) held long
-sederunts with his clients, to write a thesis finally, and graduate at the
-art of making black look—not altogether white perhaps, but a kind of
-dirty grey. I had been even privileged to try a sampling of the lawyer's
-life before I went to college, in the chambers of MacGibbon of Lanark
-town, where I spent a summer (that had been more profitably passed in my
-father's fields), backing letters, fair-copying drafts of lease and
-process, and indexing the letter-book. The last I hated least of all, for
-I could have a half-sheet of foolscap between the pages, and under
-MacGibbon's very nose try my hand at something sombre in the manner of the
-old ancient ballads of the Border. Doing that same once, I gave a wild cry
-and up with my inky hand and shook it. “Eh! eh!” cried MacGibbon, thinking
-I had gone mad. “What ails ye?” “He struck me with his sword!” said I like
-a fool, not altogether out of my frenzy; and then the snuffy old body came
-round the corner of the desk, keeked into the letter-book where I should
-have been doing his work, and saw that I was wasting good paper with
-clinking trash. “Oh, sirs! sirs! I never misused a minute of my youth in
-the like of that!” said he, sneering, and the sneer hurt. “No, I daresay
-not,” I answered him. “Perhaps ye never had the inclination—nor the
-art.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have gone through the world bound always to say what was in me, and that
-has been my sore loss more than once; but to speak thus to an old man, who
-had done me no ill beyond demonstrating the general world's attitude to
-poetry and men of sentiment, was the blackest insolence. He was well
-advised to send me home for a leathering at my father's hands. And I got
-the leathering, too, though it was three months after. I had been off in
-the interim upon a sloop ship out of Ayr.
-</p>
-<p>
-But here I am havering, and the tilted cart with my father and me in it
-toiling on the mucky way through the Meams; and it has escaped couping
-into the Earn at the ford, and it has landed us at the gate of home; and
-in all that weary journey never a word, good or ill, from the man that
-loved me and my mother before all else in a world he was well content
-with.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mother was at the door; that daunted me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ye must be fair starving, Paul,” quoth she softly with her hand on my
-arm, and I daresay my face was blae with cold and chagrin. But my father
-was not to let a disgrace well merited blow over just like that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's our little Paul, Katrine,” said he, and me towering a head or two
-above the pair of them and a black down already on my face. “Here's our
-little Paul. I hope you have not put by his bibs and daidlies, for the wee
-man's not able to sup the good things of this life clean yet.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And that was the last word of reproof I heard for my folly from my father
-Quentin Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER II
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MISS FORTUNE'S TRYST BY WATER OF EARN, AND HOW I MARRED THE SAME
-UNWITTINGLY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or the most part of a year I toiled and moiled like any crofter's son on
-my father's poor estate, and dreary was the weird I had to dree, for my
-being there at all was an advertisement to the countryside of what a fool
-was young Paul Greig. “The Spoiled Horn” was what they called me in the
-neighbourhood (I learned it in the taunt of a drunken packman), for I had
-failed at being the spoon I was once designed for, and there was not a
-ne'er-do-weel peasant nor a bankrupt portioner came craving some benefit
-to my father's door but made up for his deference to the laird by his free
-manner with the laird's son. The extra tenderness of my mother (if that
-were possible) only served to swell my rebel heart, for I knew she was but
-seeking to put me in a better conceit of myself, and I found a place
-whereof I had before been fond exceedingly assume a new complexion. The
-rain seemed to fall constantly that year, and the earth in spring was
-sodden and sour. Hazel Den House appeared sunk in the rotten leafage of
-the winter long after the lambs came home and the snipe went drumming on
-the marsh, and the rookery in the holm plantation was busy with scolding
-parents tutoring their young. A solemn house at its best—it is so
-yet, sometimes I think, when my wife is on a jaunt at her sister's and
-Walter's bairns are bedded—it was solemn beyond all description that
-spring, and little the better for the coming of summer weather. For then
-the trees about it, that gave it over long billows of untimbered
-countryside an aspect of dark importance, by the same token robbed it (as
-I thought then) of its few amenities. How it got the name of Hazel Den I
-cannot tell, for autumn never browned a nut there. It was wych elm and ash
-that screened Hazel Den House; the elms monstrous and grotesque with
-knotty growths: when they were in their full leaf behind the house they
-hid the valley of the Clyde and the Highland hills, that at bleaker
-seasons gave us a sense of companionship with the wide world beyond our
-infield of stunted crops. The ash towered to the number of two score and
-three towards the south, shutting us off from the view there, and working
-muckle harm to our kitchen-garden. Many a time my father was for cutting
-them down, but mother forbade it, though her syboes suffered from the
-shade and her roses grew leggy and unblooming. “That,” said she, “is the
-want of constant love: flowers are like bairns; ye must be aye thinking of
-them kindly to make them thrive.” And indeed there might be something in
-the notion, for her apple-ringie and Dutch Admiral, jonquils,
-gillyflowers, and peony-roses throve marvellously, better then they did
-anywhere in the shire of Renfrew while she lived and tended them and have
-never been quite the same since she died, even with a paid gardener to
-look after them.
-</p>
-<p>
-A winter loud with storm, a spring with rain-rot in the fallen leaf, a
-summer whose foliage but made our home more solitary than ever, a short
-autumn of stifling heats—that was the year the Spoiled Horn tasted
-the bitterness of life, the bitterness that comes from the want of an aim
-(that is better than the best inheritance in kind) and from a
-consciousness that the world mistrusts your ability. And to cap all, there
-was no word about my returning to the prelections of Professor Reid, for a
-reason which I could only guess at then, but learned later was simply the
-want of money.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father comported himself to me as if I were doomed to fall into a
-decline, as we say, demanding my avoidance of night airs, preaching the
-Horatian virtues of a calm life in the fields, checking with a reddened
-face and a half-frightened accent every turn of the conversation that gave
-any alluring colour to travel or adventure. Notably he was dumb, and so
-was my mother, upon the history of his family. He had had four brothers:
-three of them I knew were dead and their tombs not in Mearns kirkyard; one
-of them, Andrew, the youngest, still lived: I feared it might be in a
-bedlam, by the avoidance they made of all reference to him. I was fated,
-then, for Bedlam or a galloping consumption—so I apprehended
-dolefully from the mystery of my folk; and the notion sent me often
-rambling solitary over the autumn moors, cultivating a not unpleasing
-melancholy and often stringing stanzas of a solemn complexion that I
-cannot recall nowadays but with a laugh at my folly.
-</p>
-<p>
-A favourite walk of mine in these moods was along the Water of Earn, where
-the river chattered and sang over rocks and shallows or plunged thundering
-in its linn as it did ere I was born and shall do when I and my story are
-forgotten. A pleasant place, and yet I nearly always had it to myself
-alone.
-</p>
-<p>
-I should have had it always to myself but for one person—Isobel
-Fortune from the Kirkillstane. She seemed as little pleased to meet me
-there as I was to meet her, though we had been brought up in the same
-school together; and when I would come suddenly round a bend of the road
-and she appeared a hundred yards off, I noticed that she half stopped and
-seemed, as it were, to swither whether she should not turn and avoid me.
-It would not have surprised me had she done so, for, to tell the truth, I
-was no very cheery object to contemplate upon a pleasant highway, with the
-bawbee frown of a poetic gloom upon my countenance and the most curt of
-salutations as I passed. What she did there all her lone so often mildly
-puzzled me, till I concluded she was on a tryst with some young gentleman
-of the neighbourhood; but as I never saw sign of him, I did not think
-myself so much the marplot as to feel bound to take another road for my
-rambling. I was all the surer 'twas a lover she was out to meet, because
-she reddened guiltily each time that we encountered (a fine and sudden
-charm to a countenance very striking and beautiful, as I could not but
-observe even then when weightier affairs engaged me); but it seemed I was
-all in error, for long after she maintained she was, like myself,
-indulging a sentimental humour that she found go very well in tune with
-the noise of Earn Water.
-</p>
-<p>
-As it was her habit to be busily reading when we thus met, I had little
-doubt as to the ownership of a book that one afternoon I found on the road
-not long after passing her. It was—of all things in the world!—Hervey's
-“Meditations.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's an odd graveyard taste for a lass of that stamp,” thought I,
-hastening back after her to restore the book, and when I came up to her
-she was—not red this time, but wan to the very lips, and otherwise
-in such confusion that she seemed to tremble upon her legs, “I think this
-is yours, Isobel,” says I: we were too well acquaint from childhood for
-any address more formal.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, thank you, Paul,” said she hastily. “How stupid of me to lose it!”
- She took it from me; her eye fell (for the first time, I felt sure) upon
-the title of the volume, and she bit her lip in a vexation. I was all the
-more convinced that her book was but a blind in her rambles, and that
-there was a lover somewhere; and I think I must have relaxed my silly
-black frown a little, and my proud melancholy permitted a faint smile of
-amusement. The flag came to her face then.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Thank you,” said she very dryly, and she left me in the middle of the
-road, like a stirk. If it had been no more than that, I should have
-thought it a girl's tantrum; but the wonder was to come, for before I had
-taken three steps on my resumed way I heard her run after me. I stopped,
-and she stopped, and the notion struck me like a rhyme of song that there
-was something inexpressibly pleasant in her panting breath and her heaving
-bosom, where a pebble brooch of shining red gleamed like an eye between
-her breasts.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm not going to tell you a lie about it, Master Paul,” she said, almost
-like to cry; “I let the book fall on purpose.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I could have guessed as much as that, Isobel,” said I, wondering who
-in all the world the fellow was. Her sun-bonnet had fallen from her head
-in her running, and hung at her back on its pink ribbons, and a curl or
-two of her hair played truant upon her cheek and temple. It seemed to me
-the young gentleman she was willing to let a book drop for as a signal of
-her whereabouts was lucky enough.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! you could have guessed!” she repeated, with a tone in which were
-dumbfounderment and annoyance; “then I might have saved myself the
-trouble.” And off she went again, leaving me more the stirk than ever and
-greatly struck at her remorse of conscience over a little sophistry very
-pardonable in a lass caught gallivanting. When she was gone and her frock
-was fluttering pink at the turn of the road, I was seized for the first
-time with a notion that a girl like that some way set off, as we say, or
-suited with, a fine landscape.
-</p>
-<p>
-Not five minutes later I met young David Borland of the Driepps, and there—I
-told myself—the lover was revealed! He let on he was taking a short
-cut for Polnoon, so I said neither buff nor sty as to Mistress Isobel.
-</p>
-<p>
-The cool superiority of the gentleman, who had, to tell the truth, as
-little in his head as I had in the heel of my shoe, somewhat galled me,
-for it cried “Spoiled Horn!” as loud as if the taunt were bawled, so my
-talk with him was short. There was but one topic in it to interest me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Has the man with the scarred brow come yet?” he asked curiously.
-</p>
-<p>
-I did not understand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Then he's not your length yet,” said he, with the manifest gratification
-of one who has the hanselling of great news. “Oh! I came on him this
-morning outside a tavern in the Gorbals, bargaining loudly about a saddle
-horse for Hazel Den. I'll warrant Hazel Den will get a start when it sees
-him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I did not care to show young Borland much curiosity in his story, and so
-it was just in the few words he gave it to me that I brought it home to
-our supper-table.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father and mother looked at each other as if I had told them a tragedy.
-The supper ended abruptly. The evening worship passed unusually fast, my
-father reading the Book as one in a dream, and we went to our beds nigh an
-hour before the customary time.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER III
-</h2>
-<h3>
-OF THE COMING OF UNCLE ANDREW WITH A SCARRED FOREHEAD AND A BRASS-BOUND
-CHEST, AND HOW I TOOK AN INFECTION
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a night—as often happens in the uplands of our shire in
-autumn weather—of vast and brooding darkness: the world seemed to
-swound in a breathless oven, and I had scarcely come to my chamber when
-thunder broke wild upon the world and torrential rain began to fall. I did
-not go to bed, but sat with my candle extinguished and watched the
-lightning show the landscape as if it had been flooded by the gleam of
-moon and star.
-</p>
-<p>
-Between the roar of the thunder and the blatter of the rain there were
-intervals of an astounding stillness of an ominous suspense, and it seemed
-oddly to me, as I sat in my room, that more than I was awake in Hazel Den
-House. I felt sure my father and mother sat in their room, still clad and
-whispering; it was but the illusion of a moment—something felt by
-the instinct and not by reason—and then a louder, nearer peal of
-thunder dispelled the notion, and I made to go to bed.
-</p>
-<p>
-I stopped like one shot, with my waistcoat half undone.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a sound of a horse's hoofs coming up the loan, with the beat of
-them in mire sounding soft enough to make me shiver at the notion of the
-rider's discomfort in that appalling night, and every now and then the
-metal click of shoes, showing the animal over-reached himself in the trot.
-</p>
-<p>
-The rider drew up at the front; a flash of the lightning and the wildest
-thunder-peal of the night seemed to meet among our outhouses, and when the
-roll of the thunder ceased I heard a violent rapping at the outer door.
-</p>
-<p>
-The servants would be long ere they let this late visitor out of the
-storm, I fancied, and I hurried down; but my father was there in the hall
-before me, all dressed, as my curious intuition had informed me, and his
-face strange and inscrutable in the light of a shaded candle. He was
-making to open the door. My appearance seemed to startle him. He paused,
-dubious and a trifle confused.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I thought you had been in bed long ago,” said he, “and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-His sentence was not finished, for the horseman broke in upon it with a
-masterful rataplan upon the oak, seemingly with a whip-head or a pistol
-butt, and a cry, new to my ear and uncanny, rose through the beating rain.
-</p>
-<p>
-With a sigh the most distressing I can mind of, my father seemed to
-reconcile himself to some fate he would have warded off if he could. He
-unbolted and threw back the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our visitor threw himself in upon us as if we held the keys of paradise—a
-man like a rake for lankiness, as was manifest even through the dripping
-wrap-rascal that he wore; bearded cheek and chin in a fashion that must
-seem fiendish in our shaven country; with a wild and angry eye, the Greig
-mole black on his temple, and an old scar livid across his sunburned brow.
-He threw a three-cocked hat upon the floor with a gesture of indolent
-possession.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, I'm damned!” cried he, “but this is a black welcome to one's poor
-brother Andy,” and scarcely looked upon my father standing with the shaded
-candle in the wind. “What's to drink? Drink, do you hear that Quentin?
-Drink—drink—d-r-i-n-k. A long strong drink too, and that's
-telling you, and none of the whey that I'm hearing's running through the
-Greigs now, that once was a reputable family of three bottles and a rummer
-to top all.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Whist, whist, man!” pleaded father tremulously, all the man out of him as
-he stood before this drunken apparition.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Whist I quo' he. Well stap me! do you no' ken the lean pup of the
-litter?” hiccoughed our visitor, with a sort of sneer that made the blood
-run to my head, and for the first time I felt the great, the splendid joy
-of a good cause to fight for.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're Andrew,” said my father simply, putting his hand upon the man's
-coat sleeve in a sympathy for his drenchen clothes.
-</p>
-<p>
-That kindly hand was jerked off rudely, an act as insolent as if he had
-smitten his host upon the mouth: my heart leaped, and my fingers went at
-his throat. I could have spread him out against the wall, though I knew
-him now my uncle; I could have given him the rogue's quittance with a
-black face and a protruding tongue. The candle fell from my father's hand;
-the glass shade shattered; the hall of Hazel Den House was plunged in
-darkness, and the rain drave in through the open door upon us three
-struggling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let him go, Paul,” whispered my father, who I knew was in terror of
-frightening his wife, and he wrestled mightily with an arm of each of us.
-</p>
-<p>
-Yet I could not let my uncle go, for with the other arm he held a knife,
-and he would perhaps have died for it had not another light come on the
-stair and my mother's voice risen in a pitiful cry.
-</p>
-<p>
-We fell asunder on a common impulse, and the drunken wanderer was the
-first to speak.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Katrine,” said he; “it's always the old tale with Andy, you see; they
-must be misunderstanding me,” and he bowed with a surprising
-gentlemanliness that could have made me almost think him not the man who
-had fouled our house with oaths and drawn a knife upon us in the darkness.
-The blade of the same, by a trick of legerdemain, had gone up the sleeve
-of his dripping coat. He seemed all at once sobered. He took my good
-mother by the hand as she stood trembling and never to know clearly upon
-what elements of murder she had come.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is you, Andrew,” said she, bravely smiling. “What a night to come home
-in after twenty years! I'm wae to see you in such a plight. And your
-horse?” said she again, lifting her candle and peering into the darkness
-of the night. “I must cry up Sandy to stable your horse.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I'll give my uncle the credit of a confusion at his own forgetfulness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good Lord! Katrine,” said he, “if I did not clean forget the brute, a
-fiddle-faced, spavined, spatter-dasher of a Gorbals mare, no' worth her
-corn; but there's my bit kistie on her hump.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The servant was round soon at the stabling of the mare, and my mother was
-brewing something of what the gentleman had had too much already, though
-she could not guess that; and out of the dripping night he dragged in none
-of a rider's customary holsters but a little brass-bound chest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yon night I set out for my fortune, Quentin,” said he, “I did not think I
-would come back with it a bulk so small as this; did you? It was the sight
-of the quiet house and the thought of all it contained that made me act
-like an idiot as I came in. Still, we must just take the world as we get
-it, Quentin; and I knew I was sure of a warm welcome in the old house,
-from one side of it if not from the other, for the sake of lang syne. And
-this is your son, is it?” he went on, looking at my six feet of
-indignation not yet dead “Split me if there's whey in that piece! You near
-jammed my hawze that time! Your Uncle Andrew's hawze, boy. Are you not
-ashamed of yourself?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not a bit,” said I between my teeth; “I leave that to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He smiled till his teeth shone white in his black beard, and “Lord!” cried
-he, “I'm that glad I came. It was but the toss of a bawbee, when I came to
-Leith last week, whether I should have a try at the old doocot, or up Blue
-Peter again and off to the Indies. I hate ceiled rooms—they mind me
-of the tomb; I'm out of practice at sitting doing nothing in a parlour and
-saying grace before meat, and—I give you warning, Quentin—I'll
-be damned if I drink milk for supper. It was the notion of milk for supper
-and all that means that kept me from calling on Katrine—and you—any
-sooner. But I'm glad I came to meet a lad of spirit like young Andy here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not Andy,” said my father. “Paul is his name.”
- </p>
-<p>
-My uncle laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That was ill done of you, Quentin,” said he; “I think it was as little as
-Katrine and you could do to have kept up the family name. I suppose you
-reckoned to change the family fate when you made him Paul. H'm! You must
-have forgotten that Paul the Apostle wandered most, and many ways fared
-worst of all the rest. I haven't forgotten my Bible, you see, Quentin.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We were now in the parlour room; a servant lass was puffing up a
-new-lighted fire; my uncle, with his head in the shade, had his greatcoat
-off, and stood revealed in shabby garments that had once been most
-genteel; and his brass-bound fortune, that he seemed averse from parting
-with a moment, was at his feet. Getting no answer to what he had said of
-the disciples, he looked from one to the other of us and laughed slyly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Take off your boots, Andy,” said my father.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And where have you been since—since—the Plantations?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stow that, Quentin!” cried my uncle, with an oath and his eye on me.
-“What Plantations are you blethering about? And where have I been? Ask me
-rather where have I not been. It makes me dizzy even to think of it: with
-rotten Jesuits and Pagan gentlemen; with France and Spain, and with filthy
-Lascars, lying Greeks, Eboe slaves, stinking niggers, and slit-eyed
-Chinese! Oh! I tell you I've seen things in twenty years. And places, too:
-this Scotland, with its infernal rain and its grey fields and its rags,
-looks like a nightmare to me yet. You may be sure I'll be out of it pretty
-fast again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Poor Scotland!” said father ambiguously.
-</p>
-<p>
-There must be people in the world who are oddly affected by the names of
-places, peoples, things that have never come within their own experience.
-Till this day the name of Barbadoes influences me like a story of
-adventure; and when my Uncle Andrew—lank, bearded, drenched with
-storm, stood in our parlour glibly hinting at illimitable travel, I lost
-my anger with the tipsy wretch and felt a curious glow go through my
-being.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER IV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I COME UPON THE RED SHOES
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">U</span>ncle Andrew settled for the remainder of his time into our domestic world
-at Hazel Den as if his place had been kept warm for him since ever he went
-away. For the remainder of his time, I say, because he was to be in the
-clods of Mearns kirkyard before the hips and haws were off the hedges; and
-I think I someway saw his doom in his ghastly countenance the first
-morning he sat at our breakfast table, contrite over his folly of the
-night before, as you could see, but carrying off the situation with
-worldly <i>sang froid</i>, and even showing signs of some affection for my
-father.
-</p>
-<p>
-His character may be put in two words—he was a lovable rogue; his
-tipsy bitterness to the goodman his brother may be explained almost as
-briefly: he had had a notion of Katrine Oliver, and had courted her before
-ever she met my father, and he had lost her affection through his own
-folly. Judging from what I would have felt myself in the like
-circumstances, his bitterest punishment for a life ill spent must have
-been to see Katrine Oliver's pitying kindness to him now, and the sight of
-that douce and loving couple finding their happiness in each other must
-have been a constant sermon to him upon repentance.
-</p>
-<p>
-Yet, to tell the truth, I fear my Uncle Andrew was not constituted for
-repentance or remorse. He had slain a man honestly once, and had suffered
-the Plantations, but beyond that (and even that included, as he must ever
-insist) he had been guilty of no mean act in all his roving career.
-Follies—vices—extremes—ay, a thousand of them; but for
-most his conscience never pricked him. On the contrary, he would narrate
-with gusto the manifold jeopardies his own follies brought him into; his
-wan face, nigh the colour of a shroud, would flush, and his eyes dance
-humorously as he shocked the table when we sat at meals, our spoons
-suspended in the agitation created by his wonderful histories.
-</p>
-<p>
-Kept to a moderation with the bottle, and with the constant influence of
-my mother, who used to feed the rogue on vegetables and, unknown to him,
-load his broth with simples as a cure for his craving, Uncle Andrew was,
-all things considered, an acquisition to Hazel Den House. Speaking for
-myself, he brought the element of the unusual and the unexpected to a
-place where routine had made me sick of my own society; and though the man
-in his sober senses knew he was dying on his feet, he was the cheeriest
-person of our company sequestered so remote in the moors. It was a lesson
-in resignation to see yon merry eyes loweing like lamps over his tombstone
-cheeks, and hear him crack a joke in the flushed and heaving interludes of
-his cough.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was to me he ever directed the most sensational of his extraordinary
-memorials. My father did not like it; I saw it in his eye. It was apparent
-to me that a remonstrance often hung on the tip of his tongue. He would
-invent ridiculous and unnecessary tasks to keep me out of reach of that
-alluring <i>raconteur</i>, and nobody saw it plainer than Uncle Andrew,
-who but laughed with the mischievousness of a boy.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, the long and short of it was just what Quentin Greig feared—the
-Spoiled Horn finally smit with a hunger for the road of the Greigs. For
-three hundred years—we could go no further back, because of a bend
-sinister—nine out of ten of that family had travelled that road,
-that leads so often to a kistful of sailor's shells and a death with boots
-on. It was a fate in the blood, like the black hair of us, the mole on the
-temple, and the trick of irony. It was that ailment my father had feared
-for me; it was that kept the household silent upon missing brothers (they
-were dead, my uncle told me, in Trincomalee, and in Jamaica, and a yard in
-the Borough of London); it was that inspired the notion of a lawyer's life
-for Paul Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-Just when I was in the deepmost confidence of Uncle Andrew, who was by
-then confined to his bed and suffering the treatment of Doctor Clews, his
-stories stopped abruptly and he began to lament the wastry of his life. If
-the thing had been better acted I might have been impressed, for our
-follies never look just like what they are till we are finally on the
-broad of our backs and the Fell Sergeant's step is at the door. But it was
-not well acted; and when the wicked Uncle Andrew groaned over the very
-ploys he had a week ago exulted in, I recognised some of my mother's
-commonest sentiments in his sideways sermon. She had got her quondam Andy,
-for lang syne's sake, to help her keep her son at home; and he was doing
-his best, poor man, but a trifle late in the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Uncle Andrew,” said I, never heeding his homily, “tell me what came of
-the pock-marked tobacco planter when you and the negro lay in the swamp
-for him?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He groaned hopelessly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A rotten tale, Paul, my lad,” said he, never looking me in the face; “I
-rue the day I was mixed up in that affair.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But it was a good story so far as it went, no further gone than Wednesday
-last,” I protested.
-</p>
-<p>
-He laughed at that, and for half an hour he put off the new man of my
-mother's bidding, and we were on the old naughty footing again. He
-concluded by bequeathing to me for the twentieth time the brass-bound
-chest, and its contents that we had never seen nor could guess the nature
-of. But now for the first time he let me know what I might expect there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's not what Quentin might consider much,” said he, “for there's not a
-guelder of money in it, no, nor so little as a groat, for as the world's
-divided ye can't have both the money and the dance, and I was aye the
-fellow for the dance. There's scarcely anything in it, Paul, but the trash—ahem!—that
-is the very fitting reward of a life like mine.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still and on, uncle,” said I, “it is a very good tale about the
-pock-marked man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah! You're there, Greig!” cried the rogue, laughing till his hoast came
-to nigh choke him. “Well, the kist's yours, anyway, such as it is; and
-there's but one thing in it—to be strict, a pair—that I set
-any store by as worth leaving to my nephew.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It ought to be spurs,” said I, “to drive me out of this lamentable
-countryside and to where a fellow might be doing something worth while.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Eh!” he cried, “you're no' so far off it, for it's a pair of shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A pair of shoes!” I repeated, half inclined to think that Uncle Andrew
-was doited at last.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A pair of shoes, and perhaps in some need of the cobbler, for I have worn
-them a good deal since I got them in Madras. They were not new when I got
-them, but by the look of them they're not a day older now. They have got
-me out of some unco' plights in different parts of the world, for all that
-the man who sold them to me at a bonny penny called them the Shoes of
-Sorrow; and so far as I ken, the virtue's in them yet.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A doomed man's whim,” thought I, and professed myself vastly gratified by
-his gift.
-</p>
-<p>
-He died next morning. It was Candlemas Day. He went out at last like a
-crusie wanting oil. In the morning he had sat up in bed to sup porridge
-that, following a practice I had made before his reminiscences concluded,
-I had taken in to him myself. Tremendous long and lean the upper part of
-him looked, and the cicatrice upon his brow made his ghastliness the more
-appalling. When he sat against the bolsters he could see through the
-window into the holm field, and, as it happened, what was there but a wild
-young roe-deer driven down from some higher part of the country by stress
-of winter weather, and a couple of mongrel dogs keeping him at bay in an
-angle of the fail dyke.
-</p>
-<p>
-I have seldom seen a man more vastly moved than Uncle Andrew looking upon
-this tragedy of the wilds. He gasped as though his chest would crack, a
-sweat burst on his face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's—that's the end o't, Paul, my lad!” said he. “Yonder's your
-roving uncle, and the tykes have got him cornered at last. No more the
-heather and the brae; no more—no more—no more—”
- </p>
-<p>
-Such a change came on him that I ran and cried my mother ben, and she and
-father were soon at his bedside.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was to her he turned his eyes, that had seen so much of the spacious
-world of men and women and all their multifarious interests, great and
-little. They shone with a light of memory and affection, so that I got
-there and then a glimpse of the Uncle Andrew of innocence and the Uncle
-Andrew who might have been if fate had had it otherwise.
-</p>
-<p>
-He put out his hand and took hers, and said goodbye.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The hounds have me, Katrine,” said he. “I'm at the fail dyke corner.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'll go out and whistle them off, uncle,” said I, fancying it all a
-doited man's illusion, though the look of death was on him; but I stood
-rebuked in the frank gaze he gave me of a fuller comprehension than mine,
-though he answered me not.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then he took my father's hand in his other, and to him too he said
-farewell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're there, Quentin!” said he; “and Katrine—Katrine—Katrine
-chose by far the better man. God be merciful to poor Andy Greig, a
-sinner.” And these were his last words.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER V
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A SPOILED TRYST, AND OTHER THINGS THAT FOLLOWED ON THE OPENING OF THE
-CHEST
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he funeral was over before I cared to examine my bequest, and then I went
-to it with some reluctance, for if a pair of shoes was the chief contents
-of the brass-bound chest, there was like to be little else except the
-melancholy relics of a botched life. It lay where he left it on the night
-he came—under the foot of his bed—and when I lifted the lid I
-felt as if I was spying upon a man through a keyhole. Yet, when I came
-more minutely to examine the contents, I was disappointed that at the
-first reflection nothing was there half so pregnant as his own most casual
-tale to rouse in me the pleasant excitation of romance.
-</p>
-<p>
-A bairn's caul—that sailor's trophy that has kept many a mariner
-from drowning only that he might die a less pleasant death; a broken
-handcuff, whose meaning I cared not to guess at; a pop or pistol; a
-chap-book of country ballads, that possibly solaced his exile from the
-land they were mostly written about; the batters of a Bible, with nothing
-between them but his name in his mother's hand on the inside of the board;
-a traveller's log or itinerary, covering a period of fifteen years,
-extremely minute in its detail and well written; a broken sixpence and the
-pair of shoes.
-</p>
-<p>
-The broken sixpence moved my mother to tears, for she had had the other
-half twenty years ago, before Andrew Greig grew ne'er-do-weel; the shoes
-failed to rouse in her or in my father any interest whatever. If they
-could have guessed it, they would have taken them there and then and sunk
-them in the deepest linn of Earn.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was little kenspeckle about them saving their colour, which was a
-dull dark red. They were of the most excellent material, with a great deal
-of fine sewing thrown away upon them in parts where it seems to me their
-endurance was in no wise benefited, and an odd pair of silver buckles gave
-at your second glance a foreign look to them.
-</p>
-<p>
-I put them on at the first opportunity: they fitted me as if my feet had
-been moulded to them, and I sat down to the study of the log-book. The
-afternoon passed, the dusk came. I lit a candle, and at midnight, when I
-reached the year of my uncle's escape from the Jesuits of Spain, I came to
-myself gasping, to find the house in an alarm, and that lanthorns were out
-about Earn Water looking for me, while all the time I was <i>perdu</i> in
-the dead uncle's chamber in the baron's wing, as we called it, of Hazel
-Den House. I pretended I had fallen asleep; it was the first and the last
-time I lied to my mother, and something told me she knew I was deceiving
-her. She looked at the red shoes on my feet.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ugly brogues!” said she; “it's a wonder to me you would put them on your
-feet. You don't know who has worn them.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“They were Uncle Andy's,” said I, complacently looking at them, for they
-fitted like a glove; the colour was hardly noticeable in the evening, and
-the buckles were most becoming.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ay! and many a one before him, I'm sure,” said she, with distaste in her
-tone, “I don't think them nice at all, Paul,” and she shuddered a little.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's but a freit,” said I; “but it's not likely I'll wear much of such
-a legacy.” I went up and left them in the chest, and took the diary into
-my own room and read Uncle Andrew's marvellous adventures in the trade of
-rover till it was broad daylight.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I had come to the conclusion it seemed as if I had been in the
-delirium of a fever, so tempestuous and unreal was that memoir of a wild
-loose life. The sea was there, buffeting among the pages in rollers and
-breakers; there were the chronicles of a hundred ports, with boozing kens
-and raving lazarettos in them; far out isles and cays in nameless oceans,
-and dozing lagoons below tropic skies; a great clash of weapons and a
-bewildering deal of political intrigue in every part of the Continent from
-Calais to Constantinople. My uncle's narrative in life had not hinted at
-one half the marvel of his career, and I read his pages with a rapture, as
-one hears a noble piece of music, fascinated to the uttermost, and finding
-no moral at the end beyond that the world we most of us live in with
-innocence and ignorance is a crust over tremendous depths. And then I
-burned the book. It went up in a grey smoke on the top of the fire that I
-had kept going all night for its perusal; and the thing was no sooner done
-than I regretted it, though the act was dictated by the seemly enough idea
-that its contents would only distress my parents if they came to their
-knowledge.
-</p>
-<p>
-For days—for weeks—for a season—I went about, my head
-humming with Uncle Andy's voice recounting the most stirring of his
-adventures as narrated in the log-book. I had been infected by almost his
-first words the night he came to Hazel Den House, and made a magic chant
-of the mere names of foreign peoples; now I was fevered indeed; and when I
-put on the red shoes (as I did of an evening, impelled by some dandyism
-foreign to my nature hitherto), they were like the seven-league boots for
-magic, as they set my imagination into every harbour Uncle Andy had
-frequented and made me a guest at every inn where he had met his boon
-companions.
-</p>
-<p>
-I was wearing them the next time I went on my excursion to Earn side and
-there met Isobel Fortune, who had kept away from the place since I had
-smiled at my discovery of her tryst with Hervey's “Meditations.” She came
-upon me unexpectedly, when the gentility of my shoes and the recollection
-of all that they had borne of manliness was making me walk along the road
-with a very high head and an unusually jaunty step.
-</p>
-<p>
-She seemed struck as she came near, with her face displaying her
-confusion, and it seemed to me she was a new woman altogether—at
-least, not the Isobel I had been at school with and seen with an
-indifferent eye grow up like myself from pinafores. It seemed suddenly
-scandalous that the like of her should have any correspondence with so
-ill-suited a lover as David Borland of the Dreipps.
-</p>
-<p>
-For the first time (except for the unhappy introduction of Hervey's
-“Meditations”) we stopped to speak to each other. She was the most
-bewitching mixture of smiles and blushes, and stammering now and then, and
-vastly eager to be pleasant to me, and thinks I, “My lass, you're keen on
-trysting when it's with Borland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The very thought of the fellow in that connection made me angry in her
-interest; and with a mischievous intention of spoiling his sport if he
-hovered, as I fancied, in the neighbourhood, or at least of delaying his
-happiness as long as I could, I kept the conversation going very blithe
-indeed.
-</p>
-<p>
-She had a laugh, low and brief, and above all sincere, which is the great
-thing in laughter, that was more pleasant to hear than the sound of Earn
-in its tinkling hollow among the ferns: it surprised me that she should
-favour my studied and stupid jocosities with it so frequently. Here was
-appreciation! I took, in twenty minutes, a better conceit of myself, than
-the folks at home could have given me in the twelve months since I left
-the college, and I'll swear to this date 'twas the consciousness of my
-fancy shoes that put me in such good key.
-</p>
-<p>
-She saw my glance to them at last complacently, and pretended herself to
-notice them for the first time.
-</p>
-<p>
-She smiled—little hollows came near the corners of her lips; of a
-sudden I minded having once kissed Mistress Grant's niece in a stair-head
-frolic in Glasgow High Street, and the experience had been pleasant
-enough.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They're very nice,” said Isobel.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They're all that,” said I, gazing boldly at her dimples. She flushed and
-drew in her lips.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no!” I cried, ”'twas not them I was thinking of; but their neighbours.
-I never saw you had dimples before.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that she was redder than ever.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I could not help that, Paul,” said she; “they have been always there, and
-you are getting very audacious. I was thinking of your new shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How do you know they're new?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I could tell,” said she, “by the sound of your footstep before you came
-in sight.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It might not have been my footstep,” said I, and at that she was taken
-back.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That is true,” said she, hasty to correct herself. “I only thought it
-might be your footstep, as you are often this way.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It might as readily have been David Borland's. I have seen him about
-here.” I watched her as closely as I dared: had her face changed, I would
-have felt it like a blow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Anyway, they're very nice, your new shoes,” said she, with a marvellous
-composure that betrayed nothing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They were uncle's legacy,” I explained, “and had travelled far in many
-ways about the world; far—and fast.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still they don't seem to be in such a hurry as your old ones,” said
-she, with a mischievous air. Then she hastened to cover what might seem a
-rudeness. “Indeed, they're very handsome, Paul, and become you very much,
-and—and—and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“They're called the Shoes of Sorrow; that's the name my uncle had for
-them,” said I, to help her to her own relief.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I hope it may be no more than a by-name,” she said gravely.
-</p>
-<p>
-The day had the first rumour of spring: green shoots thrust among the bare
-bushes on the river side, and the smell of new turned soil came from a
-field where a plough had been feiring; above us the sky was blue, in the
-north the land was pleasantly curved against silver clouds.
-</p>
-<p>
-And one small bird began to pipe in a clump of willows, that showered a
-dust of gold upon us when the little breeze came among the branches. I
-looked at all and I looked at Isobel Fortune, so trim and bonny, and it
-seemed there and then good to be a man and my fortunes all to try.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sorrow here or sorrow there, Isobel,” I said, “they are the shoes to take
-me away sooner or later from Hazel Den.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She caught my meaning with astounding quickness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are you in earnest?” she asked soberly, and I thought she could not have
-been more vexed had it been David Borland.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Another year of this.” said I, looking at the vacant land, “would break
-my heart.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, Paul, and I thought Earn-side was never so sweet as now,” said
-she, vexed like, as if she was defending a companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That is true, too,” said I, smiling into the very depths of her large
-dark eyes, where I saw a pair of Spoiled Horns as plainly as if I looked
-in sunny weather into Linn of Earn. “That is true, too. I have never been
-better pleased with it than to-day. But what in the world's to keep me?
-It's all bye with the college—at which I'm but middling well
-pleased; it's all bye with the law—for which thanks to Heaven! and,
-though they seem to think otherwise at Hazel Den House, I don't believe
-I've the cut of a man to spend his life among rowting cattle and dour clay
-land.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I daresay not; it's true,” said she stammeringly, with one fast glance
-that saw me from the buckles of my red shoes to the underlids of my eyes.
-For some reason or other she refused to look higher, and the distant
-landscape seemed to have charmed her after that. She drummed with a toe
-upon the path; she bit her nether lip; upon my word, the lass had tears at
-her eyes! I had, plainly, kept her long enough from her lover. “Well, it's
-a fine evening; I must be going,” said I stupidly, making a show at
-parting, and an ugly sense of annoyance with David Borland stirring in my
-heart. “But it will rain before morning,” said she, making to go too, but
-always looking to the hump of Dungoyne that bars the way to the Hielands.
-“I think, after all, Master Paul, I liked the old shoon better than the
-new ones.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Do you say so?” I asked, astonished at the irrelevance that came rapidly
-from her lips, as if she must cry it out or choke. “And how comes that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Just because—” said she, and never a word more, like a woman, nor
-fair good-e'en nor fair good-day to ye, but off she went, and I was the
-stirk again.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked after her till she went out of sight, wondering what had been the
-cause of her tirravee. She fair ran at the last, as if eager to get out of
-my sight; and when she disappeared over the brae that rose from the
-river-side there was a sense of deprivation within me. I was clean gone in
-love and over the lugs in it with Isobel Fortune.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER VI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MY DEED ON THE MOOR OF MEARNS
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext day I shot David Borland of the Driepps.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the seventh of March, the first day I heard the laverock that
-season, and it sang like to burst its heart above the spot where the lad
-fell with a cry among the rushes. It rose from somewhere in our
-neighbourhood, aspiring to the heavens, but chained to earth by its own
-song; and even yet I can recall the eerie influence of that strange
-conjunction of sin and song as I stood knee-deep in the tangle of the moor
-with the pistol smoking in my hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-To go up to the victim of my jealousy as he lay ungainly on the ground,
-his writhing over, was an ordeal I could not face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Davie, Davie!” I cried to him over the thirty paces; but I got no reply
-from yon among the rushes. I tried to wet my cracking lips with a tongue
-like a cork, and “Davie, oh, Davie, are ye badly hurt?” I cried, in a
-voice I must have borrowed from ancient time when my forefathers fought
-with the forest terrors.
-</p>
-<p>
-I listened and I better listened, but Borland still lay there at last, a
-thing insensate like a gangrel's pack, and in all the dreary land there
-was nothing living but the laverock and me.
-</p>
-<p>
-The bird was high—a spot upon the blue; his song, I am sure, was the
-song of his kind, that has charmed lovers in summer fields from old time—a
-melody rapturous, a message like the message of the evening star that God
-no more fondly loves than that small warbler in desert places—and
-yet there and then it deaved me like a cry from hell. No heavenly message
-had the lark for me: he flew aloft there into the invisible, to tell of
-this deed of mine among the rushes. Not God alone would hear him tell his
-story: they might hear it, I knew, in shepherds' cots; they might hear it
-in an old house bowered dark among trees; the solitary witness of my crime
-might spread the hue and cry about the shire; already the law might be on
-the road for young Paul Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-I seemed to listen a thousand years to that telltale in the air; for a
-thousand years I scanned the blue for him in vain, yet when I looked at my
-pistol again the barrel was still warm.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the first time I had handled such a weapon.
-</p>
-<p>
-A senseless tool it seemed, and yet the crooking of a finger made it the
-confederate of hate; though it, with its duty done, relapsed into a
-heedless silence, I, that owned it for my instrument, must be wailing in
-my breast, torn head to foot with thunders of remorse.
-</p>
-<p>
-I raised the hammer, ran a thumb along the flint, seeing something
-fiendish in the jaws that held it; I lifted up the prime-cap, and it
-seemed some miracle of Satan that the dust I had put there in the peace of
-my room that morning in Hazel Den should have disappeared. “Truefitt” on
-the lock; a silver shield and an initial graven on it; a butt with a
-dragon's grin that had seemed ridiculous before, and now seemed to cry
-“Cain!” Lord! that an instrument like this in an unpractised hand should
-cut off all young Borland's earthly task, end his toil with plough and
-harrow, his laugh and story.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked again at the shapeless thing at thirty paces. “It cannot be,” I
-told myself; and I cried again, in the Scots that must make him cease his
-joke, “I ken ye're only lettin' on, Davie. Get up oot o' that and we'll
-cry quits.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But there was no movement; there was no sound; the tell-tale had the
-heavens to himself.
-</p>
-<p>
-All the poltroon in me came a-top and dragged my better man round about,
-let fall the pistol from my nerveless fingers and drove me away from that
-place. It was not the gallows I thought of (though that too was sometimes
-in my mind), but of the frightful responsibility I had made my burden, to
-send a human man before his Maker without a preparation, and my bullet
-hole upon his brow or breast, to tell for ever through the roaring ring of
-all eternity that this was the work of Paul Greig. The rushes of the moor
-hissed me as I ran blindly through them; the tufts of heather over Whiggit
-Knowe caught at me to stop me; the laverock seemed to follow overhead, a
-sergeant of provost determined on his victim.
-</p>
-<p>
-My feet took me, not home to the home that was mine no more, but to
-Earn-side, where I felt the water crying in its linn would drown the sound
-of the noisy laverock; and the familiar scene would blot for a space the
-ugly sight from my eyes. I leant at the side to lave my brow, and could
-scarce believe that this haggard countenance I saw look up at me from the
-innocent waters was the Spoiled Horn who had been reflected in Isobel's
-eyes. Over and over again I wet my lips and bathed my temples; I washed my
-hands, and there was on the right forefinger a mark I bear to this day
-where the trigger guard of the pistol in the moments of my agony had cut
-me to the bone without my knowing it.
-</p>
-<p>
-When my face looked less like clay and my plans were clear, I rose and
-went home.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father and mother were just sitting to supper, and I joined them. They
-talked of a cousin to be married in Drymen at Michaelmas, of an income in
-the leg of our mare, of Sabbath's sermon, of things that were as far from
-me as I from heaven, and I heard them as one in a dream, far-off. What I
-was hearing most of the time was the laverock setting the hue and cry of
-Paul Greig's crime around the world and up to the Throne itself, and what
-I was seeing was the vacant moor, now in the dusk, and a lad's remains
-awaiting their discovery. The victuals choked me as I pretended to eat; my
-father noticed nothing, my mother gave a glance, and a fright was in her
-face.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went up to my room and searched a desk for some verses that had been
-gathering there in my twelve months' degradation, and particularly for one
-no more than a day old with Isobel Fortune for its theme. It was all bye
-with that! I was bound to be glancing at some of the lines as I furiously
-tore them up and threw them out of the window into the bleaching-green;
-and oh! but the black sorrows and glooms that were there recorded seemed a
-mockery in the light of this my terrible experience. They went by the
-window, every scrap: then I felt cut off from every innocent day of my
-youth, the past clean gone from me for ever.
-</p>
-<p>
-The evening worship came.
-</p>
-<p>
-<i>“If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost ends of
-the sea.”</i>
-</p>
-<p>
-My father, peering close at the Book through his spectacles, gave out the
-words as if he stood upon a pulpit, deliberate—too deliberate for
-Cain his son, that sat with his back to the window shading his face from a
-mother's eyes. They were always on me, her eyes, throughout that last
-service; they searched me like a torch in a pit, and wae, wae was her
-face!
-</p>
-<p>
-When we came to pray and knelt upon the floor, I felt as through my shut
-eyes that hers were on me even then, exceeding sad and troubled. They
-followed me like that when I went up, as they were to think, to my bed,
-and I was sitting at my window in the dark half an hour later when she
-came up after me. She had never done the like before since I was a child.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are ye bedded, Paul?” she whispered in the dark.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could not answer her in words, but I stood to my feet and lit a candle,
-and she saw that I was dressed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What ails ye to-night?” she asked trembling. “I'm going away, mother,” I
-answered. “There's something wrong?” she queried in great distress.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There's all that!” I confessed. “It'll be time for you to ken about that
-in the morning, but I must be off this night.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul, Paul!” she cried, “I did not like to see you going out in these
-shoes this afternoon, and I ken't that something ailed ye.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The road to hell suits one shoe as well's another,” said I bitterly;
-“where the sorrow lies is that ye never saw me go out with a different
-heart. Mother, mother, the worst ye can guess is no' so bad as the worst
-ye've yet to hear of your son.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was in a storm of roaring emotions, yet her next words startled me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's Isobel Fortune of the Kirkillstane,” she said, trying hard to smile
-with a wan face in the candle light.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It <i>was</i>—poor dear! Am I not in torment when I think that she
-must know it?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I thought it was that that ailed ye, Paul,” said she, as if she were
-relieved. “Look; I got this a little ago on the bleaching-green—this
-scrap of paper in your write and her name upon it. Maybe I should not have
-read it.” And she handed me part of that ardent ballad I had torn less
-than an hour ago.
-</p>
-<p>
-I held it in the flame of her candle till it was gone, our hands all
-trembling, and “That's the end appointed for Paul Greig,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul, Paul, it cannot be so unco'!” she cried in terror, and clutched
-me at the arm.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is—it is the worst.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And yet—and yet—you're my son, Paul. Tell me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She looked so like a reed in the winter wind, so frail and little and
-shivering in my room, that I dared not tell her there and then. I said it
-was better that both father and she should hear my tale together, and we
-went into the room where already he was bedded but not asleep. He sat up
-staring at our entry, a night-cowl tassel dangling on his brow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There's a man dead—” I began, when he checked me with a shout.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stop, stop!” he cried, and put my mother in a chair. “I have heard the
-tale before with my brother Andy, and the end was not for women's ears.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I must know, Quentin,” said his wife, blanched to the lip but determined,
-and then he put his arm about her waist. It seemed like a second murder to
-wrench those tender hearts that loved me, but the thing was bound to do.
-</p>
-<p>
-I poured out my tale at one breath and in one sentence, and when it ended
-my mother was in her swound.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul!” cried the poor man, his face like a clout; “black was the day
-she gave you birth!”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER VII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-QUENTIN GREIG LOSES A SON, AND I SET OUT WITH A HORSE AS ALL MY FORTUNE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e pushed me from the chamber as I had been a stranger intruding, and I
-went to the trance door and looked out at the stretching moorlands lit by
-an enormous moon that rose over Cathkin Braes, and an immensity of stars.
-For the first time in all my life I realised the heedlessness of nature in
-human affairs the most momentous. For the moon swung up serene beyond
-expression; the stars winked merrily: a late bird glid among the bushes
-and perched momentarily on a bough of ash to pipe briefly almost with the
-passion of the spring. But not the heedlessness of nature influenced me so
-much as the barren prospect of the world that the moon and stars revealed.
-There was no one out there in those deep spaces of darkness I could claim
-as friend or familiar. Where was I to go? What was I to do? Only the
-beginnings of schemes came to me—schemes of concealment and
-disguise, of surrender even—but the last to be dismissed as soon as
-it occurred to me, for how could I leave this house the bitter bequest of
-a memory of the gallows-tree?
-</p>
-<p>
-Only the beginnings, I say, for every scheme ran tilt against the obvious
-truth that I was not only without affection or regard out there, but
-without as much as a crown of money to purchase the semblance of either.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could not have stood very long there when my father came out, his face
-like clay, and aged miraculously, and beckoned me to the parlour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your mother—my wife,” said he, “is very ill, and I am sending for
-the doctor. The horse is yoking. There is another woman in Driepps who—God
-help her!—will be no better this night, but I wish in truth her case
-was ours, and that it was you who lay among the heather.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He began pacing up and down the floor, his eyes bent, his hands
-continually wringing, his heart bursting, as it were, with sighs and the
-dry sobs of the utmost wretchedness. As for me, I must have been clean
-gyte (as the saying goes), for my attention was mostly taken up with the
-tassel of his nightcap that bobbed grotesquely on his brow. I had not seen
-it since, as a child, I used to share his room.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! what!” he cried at last piteously, “have ye never a word to say?
-Are ye dumb?” He ran at me and caught me by the collar of the coat and
-tried to shake me in an anger, but I felt it no more than I had been a
-stone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What did ye do it for? What in heaven's name did ye quarrel on?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was—it was about a girl,” I said, reddening even at that
-momentous hour to speak of such a thing to him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A girl!” he repeated, tossing up his hands. “Keep us! Hoo lang are ye oot
-o' daidlies? Well! well!” he went on, subduing himself and prepared to
-listen. I wished the tassel had been any other colour than crimson, and
-hung fairer on the middle of his forehead; it seemed to fascinate me. And
-he, belike, forgot that I was there, for he thought, I knew, continually
-of his wife, and he would stop his feverish pacing on the floor, and
-hearken for a sound from the room where she was quartered with the maid. I
-made no answer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, well!” he cried again fiercely, turning upon me. “Out with it; out
-with the whole hellish transaction, man!”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then I told him in detail what before my mother I had told in a brief
-abstract.
-</p>
-<p>
-How that I had met young Borland coming down the breast of the brae at
-Kirkillstane last night and—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Last night!” he cried. “Are ye havering? I saw ye go to your bed at ten,
-and your boots were in the kitchen.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was so, I confessed. I had gone to my room but not to bed, and had
-slipped out by the window when the house was still, with Uncle Andrew's
-shoes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, lad!” he cried, “it's Andy's shoes you stand in sure enough, for I
-have seen him twenty years syne in the plight that you are in this night.
-Merciful heaven! what dark blotch is in the history of this family of ours
-that it must ever be embroiled in crimes of passion and come continually
-to broken ends of fortune? I have lived stark honest and humble, fearing
-the Lord; the covenants have I kept, and still and on it seems I must
-beget a child of the Evil One!”
- </p>
-<p>
-And how, going out thus under cover of night, I had meant to indulge a
-boyish fancy by seeing the light of Isobel Fortune's window. And how,
-coming to the Kirkillstane, I met David Borland leaving the house,
-whistling cheerfully.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul, Paul!” cried my father, “I mind of you an infant on her knees
-that's ben there, and it might have been but yesterday your greeting in
-the night wakened me to mourn and ponder on your fate.” And how Borland,
-divining my object there, and himself new out triumphant from that
-cheerful house of many daughters, made his contempt for the Spoiled Horn
-too apparent.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You walked to the trough-stane when you were a twelvemonth old,” said my
-father with the irrelevance of great grief, as if he recalled a dead son's
-infancy.
-</p>
-<p>
-And how, maddened by some irony of mine, he had struck a blow upon my
-chest, and so brought my challenge to something more serious and
-gentlemanly than a squalid brawl with fists upon the highway.
-</p>
-<p>
-I stopped my story; it seemed useless to be telling it to one so much
-preoccupied with the thought of the woman he loved. His lips were open,
-his eyes were constant on the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-But “Well! Well!” he cried again eagerly, and I resumed.
-</p>
-<p>
-Of how I had come home, and crept into my guilty chamber and lay the long
-night through, torn by grief and anger, jealousy and distress. And how
-evading the others of the household as best I could that day, I had in the
-afternoon at the hour appointed gone out with Uncle Andrew's pistol.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father moaned—a waefu' sound!
-</p>
-<p>
-And found young Borland up on the moor before me with such another weapon,
-his face red byordinary, his hands and voice trembling with passion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poor lad, poor lad!” my father cried blurting the sentiment as he had
-been a bairn.
-</p>
-<p>
-How we tossed a coin to decide which should be the first to fire, and
-Borland had won the toss, and gone to the other end of our twenty paces
-with vulgar menaces and “Spoiled Horn” the sweetest of his epithets.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poor lad! he but tried to bluster down the inward voice that told him the
-folly o't,” said father.
-</p>
-<p>
-And how Borland had fired first. The air was damp. The sound was like a
-slamming door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The door of hope shut up for him, poor dear,” cried father.
-</p>
-<p>
-And how he missed me in his trepidation that made his hand that held the
-pistol so tremble that I saw the muzzle quiver even at twenty paces.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And then you shot him deliberately I M cried my father.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no,” I cried at that, indignant. “I aimed without a glance along the
-barrel: the flint flashed; the prime missed fire, and I was not sorry, but
-Borland cried 'Spoiled Horn' braggingly, and I cocked again as fast as I
-could, and blindly jerked the trigger. I never thought of striking him. He
-fell with one loud cry among the rushes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Murder, by God!” cried my father, and he relapsed into a chair, his body
-all convulsed with horror.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had told him all this as if I had been in a delirium, or as if it were a
-tale out of a book, and it was only when I saw him writhing in his chair
-and the tassel shaking over his eyes, I minded that the murderer was me. I
-made for the door; up rose my father quickly and asked me what I meant to
-do.
-</p>
-<p>
-I confessed I neither knew nor cared.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You must thole your assize,” said he, and just as he said it the clatter
-of the mare's hoofs sounded on the causey of the yard, and he must have
-minded suddenly for what object she was saddled there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no,” said he, “you must flee the country. What right have you to make
-it any worse for her?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have not a crown in my pocket,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And I have less,” he answered quickly. “Where are you going? No, no,
-don't tell me that; I'm not to know. There's the mare saddled, I meant
-Sandy to send the doctor from the Mearns, but you can do that. Bid him
-come here as fast as he can.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And must I come back with the mare?” I asked, reckless what he might say
-to that, though my life depended on it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“For the sake of your mother,” he answered, “I would rather never set eyes
-on you or the beast again; she's the last transaction between us, Paul
-Greig.” And then he burst in tears, with his arms about my neck.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/067.jpg" alt="067 (146K)" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-Ten minutes later I was on the mare, and galloping, for all her ailing
-leg, from Hazel Den as if it were my own loweing conscience. I roused Dr.
-Clews at the Mearns, and gave him my father's message. “Man,” said he,
-holding his chamber light up to my face, “man, ye're as gash as a ghaist
-yersel'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I may well be that,” said I, and off I set, with some of Uncle Andy's old
-experience in my mind, upon a ride across broad Scotland.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER VIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I RIDE BY NIGHT ACROSS SCOTLAND, AND MEET A MARINER WITH A GLEED EYE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat night was like the day, with a full moon shining. The next afternoon
-I rode into Borrowstounness, my horse done out and myself sore from head
-to heel; and never in all my life have I seen a place with a more
-unwelcome aspect, for the streets were over the hoof in mud; the natives
-directed me in an accent like a tinker's whine; the Firth of Forth was
-wrapped in a haar or fog that too closely put me in mind of my prospects.
-But I had no right to be too particular, and in the course of an hour I
-had sold the mare for five pounds to a man of much Christian profession,
-who would not give a farthing more on the plea that she was likely stolen.
-</p>
-<p>
-The five pounds and the clothes I stood in were my fortune: it did not
-seem very much, if it was to take me out of the reach of the long arm of
-the doomster; and thinking of the doomster I minded of the mole upon my
-brow, that was the most kenspeckle thing about me in the event of a
-description going about the country, so the first thing I bought with my
-fortune was a pair of scissors. Going into a pend close in one of the
-vennels beside the quay, I clipped off the hair upon the mole and felt a
-little safer. I was coming out of the close, pouching the scissors, when a
-man of sea-going aspect, with high boots and a tarpaulin hat, stumbled
-against me and damned my awkwardness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You filthy hog,” said I, exasperated at such manners, for he was himself
-to blame for the encounter; “how dare you speak to me like that?” He was a
-man of the middle height, sturdy on his bowed legs in spite of the drink
-obvious in his face and speech, and he had a roving gleed black eye. I had
-never clapped gaze on him in all my life before.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is that the way ye speak to Dan Risk, ye swab?” said he, ludicrously
-affecting a dignity that ill suited with his hiccough. “What's the good of
-me being a skipper if every linen-draper out of Fife can cut into my
-quarter on my own deck?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“This is no' your quarter-deck, man, if ye were sober enough to ken it,”
- said I; “and I'm no linen-draper from Fife or anywhere else.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then the brute, with his hands thrust to the depth of his pockets,
-staggered me as if he had done it with a blow of his fist.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No,” said he, with a very cunning tone, “ye're no linen-draper perhaps,
-but—ye're maybe no sae decent a man, young Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was impossible for me to conceal even from this tipsy rogue my
-astonishment and alarm at this. It seemed to me the devil himself must be
-leagued against me in the cause of justice. A cold sweat came on my face
-and the palms of my hands. I opened my mouth and meant to give him the lie
-but I found I dare not do so in the presence of what seemed a miracle of
-heaven.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How do you ken my name's Greig?” I asked at the last.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Fine that,” he made answer, with a grin; “and there's mony an odd thing
-else I ken.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, it's no matter,” said I, preparing to quit him, but in great fear
-of what the upshot might be; “I'm for off, anyway.”
- </p>
-<p>
-By this time it was obvious that he was not so drunk as I thought him at
-first, and that in temper and tact he was my match even with the glass in
-him. “Do ye ken what I would be doing if I was you?” said he seemingly
-determined not to let me depart like that, for he took a step or two after
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-I made no reply, but quickened my pace and after me he came, lurching and
-catching at my arm; and I mind to this day the roll of him gave me the
-impression of a crab.
-</p>
-<p>
-“If it's money ye want-” I said at the end of my patience.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Curse your money!” he cried, pretending to spit the insult from his
-mouth. “Curse your money; but if I was you, and a weel-kent skipper like
-Dan Risk—like Dan Risk of the <i>Seven Sisters</i>—made up to
-me out of a redeeculous good nature and nothing else, I would gladly go
-and splice the rope with him in the nearest ken.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Go and drink with yourself, man,” I cried; “there's the money for a
-chappin of ate, and I'll forego my share of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could have done nothing better calculated to infuriate him. As I held
-out the coin on the palm of my hand he struck it up with an oath and it
-rolled into the syver. His face flamed till the neck of him seemed a round
-of seasoned beef.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By the Rock o' Bass!” he roared, “I would clap ye in jyle for less than
-your lousy groat.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Ah, then, it was in vain I had put the breadth of Scotland between me and
-that corpse among the rushes: my heart struggled a moment, and sank as if
-it had been drowned in bilge. I turned on the man what must have been a
-gallows face, and he laughed, and, gaining his drunken good nature again
-he hooked me by the arm, and before my senses were my own again he was
-leading me down the street and to the harbour. I had never a word to say.
-</p>
-<p>
-The port, as I tell, was swathed in the haar of the east, out of which
-tall masts rose dim like phantom spears; the clumsy tarred bulwarks loomed
-like walls along the quay, and the neighbourhood was noisy with voices
-that seemed unnatural coming out of the haze. Mariners were hanging about
-the sheds, and a low tavern belched others out to keep them company. Risk
-made for the tavern, and at that I baulked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, come on!” said he. “If I'm no' mistaken Dan Risk's the very man ye're
-in the need of. You're wanting out of Scotland, are ye no'?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“More than that; I'm wanting out of myself,” said I, but that seemed
-beyond him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come in anyway, and we'll talk it over.”
- </p>
-<p>
-That he might help me out of the country seemed possible if he was not, as
-I feared at first, some agent of the law and merely playing with me, so I
-entered the tavern with him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Two gills to the coffin-room, Mrs. Clerihew,” he cried to the woman in
-the kitchen. “And slippy aboot it, if ye please, for my mate here's been
-drinking buttermilk all his life, and ye can tell't in his face.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I would rather have some meat,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Humph!” quo' he, looking at my breeches. “A lang ride!” He ordered the
-food at my mentioning, and made no fuss about drinking my share of the
-spirits as well as his own, while I ate with a hunger that was soon
-appeased, for my eye, as the saying goes, was iller to satisfy than my
-appetite.
-</p>
-<p>
-He sat on the other side of the table in the little room that doubtless
-fairly deserved the name it got of coffin, for many a man, I'm thinking,
-was buried there in his evil habits; and I wondered what was to be next.
-</p>
-<p>
-“To come to the bit,” said the at last, looking hard into the bottom of
-his tankard in a way that was a plain invitation to buy more for him. “To
-come to the bit, you're wanting out of the country?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's true,” said I; “but how do you know? And how do you know my name,
-for I never saw you to my knowledge in all my life before?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So much the worse for you; I'm rale weel liked by them that kens me. What
-would ye give for a passage to Nova Scotia?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a long way,” said I, beginning to see a little clearer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ay,” said he, “but I've seen a gey lang rope too, and a man danglin' at
-the end of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Again my face betrayed me. I made no answer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I ken all aboot it,” he went on. “Your name's Greig; ye're from a place
-called the Hazel Den at the other side o' the country; ye've been sailing
-wi' a stiff breeze on the quarter all night, and the clime o' auld
-Scotland's one that doesna suit your health, eh? What's the amount?” said
-he, and he looked towards my pocket “Could we no' mak' it halfers?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Five pounds,” said I, and at that he looked strangely dashed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Five pounds,” he repeated incredulously. “It seems to have been hardly
-worth the while.” And then his face changed, as if a new thought had
-struck him. He leaned over the table and whispered with the infernal tone
-of a confederate, “Doused his glim, eh?” winking with his hale eye, so
-that I could not but shiver at him, as at the touch of slime.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I don't understand,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do ye no'?” said he, with a sneer; “for a Greig ye're mighty slow in the
-uptak'. The plain English o' that, then, is that ye've killed a man. A
-trifle like that ance happened to a Greig afore.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What's your name?” I demanded.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Am I no tellin' ye?” said he shortly. “It's just Daniel Risk; and where
-could you get a better? Perhaps ye were thinkin' aboot swappin' names wi'
-me; and by the Bass, it's Dan's family name would suit very weel your
-present position,” and the scoundrel laughed at his own humour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I asked because I was frightened it might be Mahoun,” said I. “It seems
-gey hard to have ridden through mire for a night and a day, and land where
-ye started from at the beginning. And how do ye ken all that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh!” he said, “kennin's my trade, if ye want to know. And whatever way I
-ken, ye needna think I'm the fellow to make much of a sang aboot it. Still
-and on, the thing's frowned doon on in this country, though in places I've
-been it would be coonted to your credit. I'll take anither gill; and if ye
-ask me, I would drench the butter-milk wi' something o' the same, for the
-look o' ye sittin' there's enough to gie me the waterbrash. Mrs. Clerihew—here!”
- He rapped loudly on the table, and the drink coming in I was compelled
-again to see him soak himself at my expense. He reverted to my passage
-from the country, and “Five pounds is little enough for it,” said he; “but
-ye might be eking it oot by partly working your passage.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I didn't say I was going either to Nova Scotia or with you,” said I, “and
-I think I could make a better bargain elsewhere.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So could I, maybe,” said he, fuming of spirits till I felt sick. “And
-it's time I was doin' something for the good of my country.” With that he
-rose to his feet with a look of great moral resolution, and made as if for
-the door, but by this time I understood him better.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sit down, ye muckle hash!” said I, and I stood over him with a most
-threatening aspect.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By the Lord!” said he, “that's a Greig anyway!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ay!” said I. “ye seem to ken the breed. Can I get another vessel abroad
-besides yours?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ye can not,” said he, with a promptness I expected, “unless ye wait on
-the <i>Sea Pyat</i>. She leaves for Jamaica next Thursday; and there's no'
-a spark of the Christian in the skipper o' her, one Macallum from
-Greenock.”
- </p>
-<p>
-For the space of ten minutes I pondered over the situation. Undoubtedly I
-was in a hole. This brute had me in his power so long as my feet were on
-Scottish land, and he knew it. At sea he might have me in his power too,
-but against that there was one precaution I could take, and I made up my
-mind.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll give you four pounds—half at leaving the quay and the other
-half when ye land me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My conscience wadna' aloo me,” protested the rogue; but the greed was in
-his face, and at last he struck my thumb on the bargain, and when he did
-that I think I felt as much remorse at the transaction as at the crime
-from whose punishment I fled.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now,” said I, “tell me how you knew me and heard about—about—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“About what?” said he, with an affected surprise. “Let me tell ye this,
-Mr. Greig, or whatever your name may be, that Dan Risk is too much of the
-gentleman to have any recollection of any unpleasantness ye may mention,
-now that he has made the bargain wi' ye. I ken naethin' aboot ye, if ye
-please: whether your name's Greig or Mackay or Habbie Henderson, it's new
-to me, only ye're a likely lad for a purser's berth in the <i>Seven
-Sisters.</i>” And refusing to say another word on the topic that so
-interested me, he took me down to the ship's side, where I found the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i> was a brigantine out of Hull, sadly in the want of tar upon
-her timbers and her mainmast so decayed and worm-eaten that it sounded
-boss when I struck it with my knuckles in the by-going.
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk saw me doing it. He gave an ugly smile.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What do ye think o' her? said he, showing me down the companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mighty little,” I told him straight. “I'm from the moors,” said I, “but
-I've had my feet on a sloop of Ayr before now; and by the look of this
-craft I would say she has been beeking in the sun idle till she rotted
-down to the garboard strake.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He gave his gleed eye a turn and vented some appalling oaths, and wound up
-with the insult I might expect—namely, that drowning was not my
-portion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There was some brag a little ago of your being a gentleman,” said I,
-convinced that this blackguard was to be treated to his own fare if he was
-to be got on with at all. “There's not much of a gentleman in the like of
-that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At this he was taken aback. “Well,” said he, “don't you cross my temper;
-if my temper's crossed it's gey hard to keep up gentility. The ship's
-sound enough, or she wouldn't be half a dizen times round the Horn and as
-weel kent in Halifax as one o' their ain dories. She's guid enough for
-your—for our business, if ye please, Mr. Greig; and here's my mate
-Murchison.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Another tarry-breeks of no more attractive aspect came down the companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's a new hand for ye,” said the skipper humorously.
-</p>
-<p>
-The mate looked me up and down with some contempt from his own height of
-little more than five feet four, and peeled an oilskin coat off him. I was
-clad myself in a good green coat and breeches with fine wool rig-and-fur
-hose, and the buckled red shoon and the cock of my hat I daresay gave me
-the look of some importance in tarry-breeks' eyes. At any rate, he did not
-take Risk's word for my identity, but at last touched his hat with awkward
-fingers after relinquishing his look of contempt.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mr. Jamieson?” said he questioningly, and the skipper by this time was
-searching in a locker for a bottle of rum he said he had there for the
-signing of agreements. “Mr. Jamieson,” said the mate, “I'm glad to see ye.
-The money's no; enough for the job, and that's letting ye know. It's all
-right for Dan here wi' neither wife nor family, but—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What's that, ye idiot?” cried Risk turning about in alarm. “Do ye tak'
-this callan for the owner? I tell't ye he was a new hand.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A hand!” repeated Murchison, aback and dubious.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Jist that; he's the purser.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Murchison laughed. “That's a new ornament on the auld randy; he'll be to
-keep his keekers on the manifest, like?” said he as one who cracks a good
-joke. But still and on he scanned me with a suspicious eye, and it was not
-till Risk had taken him aside later in the day and seemingly explained,
-that he was ready to meet me with equanimity. By that time I had paid the
-skipper his two guineas, for the last of his crew was on board, every man
-Jack of them as full as the Baltic, and staggering at the coamings of the
-hatches not yet down, until I thought half of them would finally land in
-the hold.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER IX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN THE “SEVEN SISTERS” ACTS STRANGELY, AND I SIT WAITING FOR THE
-MANACLES
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>n air of westerly wind had risen after meridian and the haar was gone, so
-that when I stood at the break of the poop as the brigantine crept into
-the channel and flung out billows of canvas while her drunken seamen
-quarrelled and bawled high on the spars, I saw, as I imagined, the last of
-Scotland in a pleasant evening glow. My heart sank. It was not a departure
-like this I had many a time anticipated when I listened to Uncle Andys
-tales; here was I with blood on my hands and a guinea to start my life in
-a foreign country; that was not the worst of it either, for far more
-distress was in my mind at the reflection that I travelled with a man who
-was in my secret. At first I was afraid to go near him once our ropes were
-off the pawls, and I, as it were, was altogether his, but to my surprise
-there could be no pleasanter man than Risk when he had the wash of water
-under his rotten barque. He was not only a better-mannered man to myself,
-but he became, in half an hour of the Firth breeze, as sober as a judge.
-But for the roving gleed eye, and what I had seen of him on shore, Captain
-Dan Risk might have passed for a model of all the virtues. He called me
-Mr. Greig and once or twice (but I stopped that) Young Hazel Den, with no
-irony in the appellation, and he was at pains to make his mate see that I
-was one to be treated with some respect, proffering me at our first meal
-together (for I was to eat in the cuddy,) the first of everything on the
-table, and even making some excuses for the roughness of the viands. And I
-could see that whatever his qualities of heart might be, he was a good
-seaman, a thing to be told in ten minutes by a skipper's step on a deck
-and his grip of the rail, and his word of command. Those drunken barnacles
-of his seemed to be men with the stuff of manly deeds in them, when at his
-word they dashed aloft among the canvas canopy to fist the bulging sail
-and haul on clew or gasket, or when they clung on greasy ropes and at a
-gesture of his hand heaved cheerily with that “yo-ho” that is the chant of
-all the oceans where keels run.
-</p>
-<p>
-Murchison was a saturnine, silent man, from whom little was to be got of
-edification. The crew numbered eight men, one of them a black deaf mute,
-with the name of Antonio Ferdinando, who cooked in a galley little larger
-than the Hazel Den kennel. It was apparent that no two of them had ever
-met before, such a career of flux and change is the seaman's, and except
-one of them, a fellow Horn, who was foremast man, a more villainous gang I
-never set eyes on before or since. If Risk had raked the ports of Scotland
-with a fine bone comb for vermin, he could not have brought together a
-more unpleasant-looking crew. No more than two of them brought a bag on
-board, and so ragged was their appearance that I felt ashamed to air my
-own good clothes on the same deck with them.
-</p>
-<p>
-Fortunately it seemed I had nothing to do with them nor they with me; all
-that was ordered for the eking out of my passage, as Risk had said, was to
-copy the manifest, and I had no sooner set to that than I discerned it was
-a gowk's job just given me to keep me in employ in the cabin. Whatever his
-reason, the man did not want me about his deck. I saw that in an interlude
-in my writing, when I came up from his airless den to learn what progress
-old rotten-beams made under all her canvas.
-</p>
-<p>
-It had declined to a mere handful of wind, and the vessel scarcely moved,
-seemed indeed steadfast among the sea-birds that swooped and wheeled and
-cried around her. I saw the sun just drop among blood-red clouds over
-Stirling, and on the shore of Fife its pleasant glow. The sea swung flat
-and oily, running to its ebb, and lapping discernibly upon a recluse
-promontory of land with a stronghold on it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What do you call yon, Horn?” I said to the seaman I have before
-mentioned, who leaned upon the taffrail and watched the vessel's greasy
-wake, and I pointed to the gloomy buildings on the shore.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Blackness Castle,” said he, and he had time to tell no more, for the
-skipper bawled upon him for a shirking dog, and ordered the flemishing of
-some ropes loose upon the forward deck. Nor was I exempt from his zeal for
-the industry of other folks for he came up to me with a suspicious look,
-as if he feared I had been hearing news from his foremast man, and “How
-goes the manifest, Mr. Greig?” says he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, brawly, brawly!” said I, determined to begin with Captain Daniel Risk
-as I meant to end.
-</p>
-<p>
-He grew purple, but restrained himself with an effort. “This is not an Ayr
-sloop, Mr. Greig,” said he; “and when orders go on the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-I like to see them implemented. You must understand that there's a
-pressing need for your clerking, or I would not be so soon putting you at
-it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“At this rate of sailing,” says I, “I'll have time to copy some hundred
-manifests between here and Nova Scotia.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Perhaps you'll permit me to be the best judge of that,” he replied in the
-English he ever assumed with his dignity, and seeing there was no more for
-it, I went back to my quill.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was little wonder, in all the circumstances, that I fell asleep over my
-task with my head upon the cabin table whereon I wrote, and it was still
-early in the night when I crawled into the narrow bunk that the skipper
-had earlier indicated as mine.
-</p>
-<p>
-Weariness mastered my body, but my mind still roamed; the bunk became a
-coffin quicklimed, and the murderer of David Borland lying in it; the
-laverock cried across Earn Water and the moors of Renfrew with the voice
-of Daniel Risk. And yet the strange thing was that I knew I slept and
-dreamed, and more than once I made effort, and dragged myself into
-wakefulness from the horrors of my nightmare. At these times there was
-nothing to hear but the plop of little waves against the side of the ship,
-a tread on deck, and the call of the watch.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had fallen into a sleep more profound than any that had yet blessed my
-hard couch, when I was suddenly wakened by a busy clatter on the deck, the
-shriek of ill-greased davits, the squeak of blocks, and the fall of a
-small-boat into the water. Another odd sound puzzled me: but for the
-probability that we were out over Bass I could have sworn it was the
-murmur of a stream running upon a gravelled shore. A stream—heavens!
-There could be no doubt about it now; we were somewhere close in shore,
-and the <i>Seven Sisters</i> was lying to. The brigantine stopped in her
-voyage where no stoppage should be; a small boat plying to land in the
-middle of the night; come! here was something out of the ordinary, surely,
-on a vessel seaward bound. I had dreamt of the gallows and of Dan Risk as
-an informer. Was it a wonder that there should flash into my mind the
-conviction of my betrayal? What was more likely than that the skipper,
-secure of my brace of guineas, was selling me to the garrison of
-Blackness?
-</p>
-<p>
-I clad myself hurriedly and crept cautiously up the companion ladder, and
-found myself in overwhelming darkness, only made the more appalling and
-strange because the vessel's lights were all extinguished. Silence large
-and brooding lay upon the <i>Seven Sisters</i> as she lay in that
-obscuring haar that had fallen again; she might be Charon's craft pausing
-mid-way on the cursed stream, and waiting for the ferry cry upon the shore
-of Time. We were still in the estuary or firth, to judge by the bickering
-burn and the odors off-shore, above all the odour of rotting brake; and we
-rode at anchor, for her bows were up-water to the wind and tide, and above
-me, in the darkness, I could hear the idle sails faintly flapping in the
-breeze and the reef-points all tap-tapping. I seemed to have the deck
-alone, but for one figure at the stern; I went back, and found that it was
-Horn.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where are we?” I asked, relieved to find there the only man I could trust
-on board the ship.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A little below Blackness,” said he shortly with a dissatisfied tone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I did not know we were to stop here,” said I, wondering if he knew that I
-was doomed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Neither did I,” said he, peering into the void of night. “And whit's
-mair, I wish I could guess the reason o' oor stopping. The skipper's been
-ashore mair nor ance wi' the lang-boat forward there, and I'm sent back
-here to keep an e'e on lord kens what except it be yersel'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Are ye indeed?” said I, exceedingly vexed. “Then I ken too well, Horn,
-the reason for the stoppage. You are to keep your eye on a man who's being
-bargained for with the hangman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I would rather ken naithin' about that,” said he, “and onyway I think
-ye're mistaken. Here they're comin' back again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Two or three small boats were coming down on us out of the darkness; not
-that I could see them, but that I heard their oars in muffled rowlocks.
-</p>
-<p>
-“If they want me,” said I sorrowfully, “they can find me down below,” and
-back I went and sat me in the cabin, prepared for the manacles.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER X
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE STRUGGLE IN THE CABIN, AND AN EERIE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he place stank with bilge and the odour of an ill-trimmed lamp smoking
-from a beam; the fragments of the skipper's supper were on the table, with
-a broken quadrant; rats scurried and squealed in the bulkheads, and one
-stared at me from an open locker, where lay a rum-bottle, while beetles
-and slaters travelled along the timbers. But these things compelled my
-attention less than the skylights that were masked internally by pieces of
-canvas nailed roughly on them. They were not so earlier in the evening; it
-must have been done after I had gone to sleep, and what could be the
-object? That puzzled me extremely, for it must have been the same hand
-that had extinguished all the deck and mast lights, and though black was
-my crime darkness was unnecessary to my betrayal.
-</p>
-<p>
-I waited with a heart like lead.
-</p>
-<p>
-I heard the boats swung up on the davits, the squeak of the falls, the
-tread of the seamen, the voice of Risk in an unusually low tone. In the
-bows in a little I heard the windlass click and the chains rasp in the
-hawse-holes; we were lifting the anchor.
-</p>
-<p>
-For a moment hope possessed me. If we were weighing anchor then my arrest
-was not imminent at least; but that consolation lasted briefly when I
-thought of the numerous alternatives to imprisonment in Blackness.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were under weigh again; there was a heel to port, and a more rapid plop
-of the waters along the carvel planks. And then Risk and his mate came
-down.
-</p>
-<p>
-I have seldom seen a man more dashed than the skipper when he saw me
-sitting waiting on him, clothed and silent. His face grew livid; round he
-turned to Murchison and hurried him with oaths to come and clap eyes on
-this sea-clerk. I looked for the officer behind them, but they were alone,
-and at that I thought more cheerfully I might have been mistaken about the
-night's curious proceedings.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Anything wrang?” said Risk, affecting nonchalance now that his spate of
-oaths was by, and he pulled the rum out of the locker and helped himself
-and his mate to a swingeing caulker.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, nothing at all,” said I, “at least nothing that I know of, Captain
-Risk. And are we—are we—at Halifax already?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What do you mean?” said he. And then he looked at me closely, put out the
-hand unoccupied by his glass and ran an insolent dirty finger over my
-new-clipped mole. “Greig, Greig,” said he, “Greig to a hair! I would have
-the wee shears to that again, for its growin'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You're a very noticing man,” said I, striking down his hand no way
-gently, and remembering that he had seen my scissors when I emerged from
-the Borrowstouness close after my own barbering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm all that,” he replied, with a laugh, and all the time Murchison, the
-mate, sat mopping his greasy face with a rag, as one after hard work, and
-looked on us with wonder at what we meant. “I'm all that,” he replied,
-“the hair aff the mole and the horse-hair on your creased breeches wad hae
-tauld ony ane that ye had ridden in a hurry and clipped in a fricht o'
-discovery.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, oh!” I cried, “and that's what goes to the makin' o' a Mahoun!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Jist that,” said he, throwing himself on a seat with an easy indifference
-meant to conceal his vanity. “Jist observation and a knack o' puttin' twa
-and twa thegether. Did ye think the skipper o' the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-was fleein' over Scotland at the tail o' your horse?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Greig mole's weel kent, surely,” said I, astonished and chagrined. “I
-jalouse it's notorious through my Uncle Andy?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Risk laughed at that. “Oh, ay!” said he, “when Andy Greig girned at ye it
-was ill to miss seein' his mole. Man, ye might as well wear your name on
-the front o' your hat as gae aboot wi' a mole like that—and—and
-that pair o' shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The blood ran to my face at this further revelation of his astuteness. It
-seemed, then, I carried my identity head and foot, and it was no wonder a
-halfeyed man like Risk should so easily discover me. I looked down at my
-feet, and sure enough, when I thought of it now, it would have been a
-stupid man who, having seen these kenspeckle shoes once, would ever forget
-them.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My uncle seems to have given me good introductions,” said I. “They struck
-mysel' as rather dandy for a ship,” broke in the mate, at last coming on
-something he could understand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And did <i>you</i> know Andy Greig, too?” said I. “Andy Greig,” he
-replied. “Not me!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then, by God, ye hinna sailed muckle aboot the warld!” said the skipper.
-“I hae seen thae shoes in the four quarters and aye in a good
-companionship.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“They appear yet to retain that virtue,” said I, unable to resist the
-irony. “And, by the way, Captain Risk, now that we have discussed the
-shoes and my mole, what have we been waiting for at Blackness?”
- </p>
-<p>
-His face grew black with annoyance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What's that to you?” he cried.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I don't know,” I answered indifferently. “I thought that now ye had
-got the best part o' your passage money ye might hae been thinking to do
-something for your country again. They tell me it's a jail in there, and
-it might suggest itself to you as providing a good opportunity for getting
-rid of a very indifferent purser.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It is one thing I can remember to the man's credit that this innuendo of
-treachery seemed to make him frantic. He dashed the rum-glass at his feet
-and struck at me with a fist like a jigot of mutton, and I had barely time
-to step back and counter. He threw himself at me as he had been a cat; I
-closed and flung my arms about him with a wrestler's grip, and bent him
-back upon the table edge, where I might have broken his spine but for
-Murchison's interference. The mate called loudly for assistance; footsteps
-pounded on the cuddy-stair, and down came Horn. Between them they drew us
-apart, and while Murchison clung to his captain, and plied him into
-quietness with a fresh glass of grog, Horn thrust me not unkindly out into
-the night, and with no unwillingness on my part.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/091.jpg" alt="091" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-It was the hour of dawn, and the haar was gone.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was something in that chill grey monotone of sky and sea that filled
-me with a very passion of melancholy. The wind had risen, and the billows
-ran frothing from the east; enormous clouds hung over the land behind us,
-so that it seemed to roll with smoke from the eternal fires. Out from that
-reeking pit of my remorse—that lost Scotland where now perhaps there
-still lay lying among the rushes, with the pees-weep's cry above it, the
-thing from which I flew, our ship went fast, blown upon the frothy
-billows, like a ponderous bird, leaving a wake of hissing bubbling brine,
-flying, as it seemed, to a world of less imminent danger, yet unalluring
-still.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked aloft at the straining spars; they seemed to prick the clouds
-between the swelling sails; the ropes and shrouds stretched infinitely
-into a region very grey and chill. Oh, the pallor! oh, the cold and
-heartless spirit of the sea in that first dawning morn!
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's like to be a good day,” said Horn, breaking in upon my silence, and
-turning to him I saw his face exceeding hollow and wan. The watch lay
-forward, all but a lad who seemed half-dozing at the helm; Risk and his
-mate had lapsed to silence in the cuddy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're no frien', seemingly, o' the pair below!” said Horn again,
-whispering, and with a glance across his shoulder at the helm.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It did not look as if I were, a minute or two ago,” said I. “Yon's a
-scoundrel, and yet I did him an injustice when I thought he meant to sell
-me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I never sailed with a more cheat-the-widdy crew since I followed the
-sea,” said Horn, “and whether it's the one way or the other, sold ye are.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Eh?” said I, uncomprehending.
-</p>
-<p>
-He looked again at the helm, and moved over to a water-breaker further
-forward, obviously meaning that I should follow. He drew a drink of water
-for himself, drank slowly, but seemed not to be much in the need for it
-from the little he took, but he had got out of ear-shot of the man
-steering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You and me's the gulls this time, Mr. Greig,” said he, whispering. “This
-is a doomed ship.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I thought as much from her rotten spars,” I answered. “So long as she
-takes me to Nova Scotia I care little what happens to her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a long way to Halifax,” said he. “I wish I could be sure we were
-likely even to have Land's End on our starboard before waur happens. Will
-ye step this way, Mr. Greig?” and he cautiously led the way forward. There
-was a look-out humming a stave of song somewhere in the bows, and two men
-stretched among the chains, otherwise that part of the ship was all our
-own. We went down the fo'c'sle scuttle quietly, and I found myself among
-the carpenter's stores, in darkness, divided by a bulkhead door from the
-quarters of the sleeping men. Rats were scurrying among the timbers and
-squealing till Horn stamped lightly with his feet and secured stillness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Listen!” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of a seaman within, and the
-wash of water against the ship's sides.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well?” I queried, wondering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Put your lug here,” said he, indicating a beam that was dimly revealed by
-the light from the lamp swinging in the fo'c'sle. I did so, and heard
-water running as from a pipe somewhere in the bowels of the vessel.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What's that?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's all,” said he and led me aft again.
-</p>
-<p>
-The dawn by now had spread over half the heavens; behind us the mouth of
-the Firth gulped enormous clouds, and the fringe of Fife was as flat as a
-bannock; before us the sea spread chill, leaden, all unlovely. “My
-sorrow!” says I, “if this is travelling, give me the high-roads and the
-hot noon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Horn's face seemed more hollow and dark than ever in the wan morning. I
-waited his explanation. “I think ye said Halifax, Mr. Greig?” said he. “I
-signed on, mysel', for the same port, but you and me's perhaps the only
-ones on this ship that ever hoped to get there. God give me grace to get
-foot on shore and Dan Risk will swing for this!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Somebody sneezed behind us as Horn thus rashly expressed himself; we both
-turned suddenly on the rail we had been leaning against, expecting that
-this was the skipper, and though it was not Risk, it was one whose black
-visage and gleaming teeth and rolling eyes gave me momentarily something
-of a turn.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the cook Ferdinando. He had come up behind on his bare feet, and
-out upon the sea he gazed with that odd eerie look of the deaf and dumb,
-heedless of us, it seemed, as we had been dead portions of the ship's
-fabric, seeing but the salt wave, the rim of rising sun, blood-red upon
-the horizon, communing with an old familiar.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A cauld momin', cook,” said Horn, like one who tests a humbug pretending
-to be dumb, but Ferdinando heard him not.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It might have been a man wi' all his faculties,” said the seaman
-whispering, “and it's time we werena seen thegether. I'll tell ye later
-on.”
- </p>
-<p>
-With that we separated, he to some trivial duty of his office, I, with a
-mind all disturbed, back to my berth to lie awake, tossing and speculating
-on the meaning of Horn's mystery.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE SCUTTLED SHIP
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen I went on deck next morning there was something great ado. We were
-out of sight of land, sailing large, as the old phrase went, on a brisk
-quarter breeze with top-sails atrip, and the sky a vast fine open blue.
-The crew were gathered at the poop, the pump was clanking in the midst of
-them, and I saw they were taking spells at the cruellest labour a seaman
-knows.
-</p>
-<p>
-At first I was noway troubled at the spectacle; a leak was to be expected
-in old rotten-beams, and I went forward with the heart of me not a pulse
-the faster.
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk was leaning over the poop-rail, humped up and his beard on his hands;
-Murchison, a little apart, swept the horizon with a prospect-glass, and
-the pump sent a great spate of bilge-water upon the deck. But for a man at
-the tiller who kept the ship from yawing in the swell that swung below her
-counter the <i>Seven Sisters</i> sailed at her sweet will; all the
-interest of her company was in this stream of stinking water that she
-retched into the scuppers. And yet I could not but be struck by the
-half-hearted manner in which the seamen wrought; they were visibly
-shirking; I saw it in the slack muscles, in the heedless eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk rose and looked sourly at me as I went up. “Are ye for a job?” said
-he. “It's more in your line perhaps than clerkin'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What, at the pumps? Is the old randy geyzing already?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Like a washing-boyne,” said he. “Bear a hand like a good lad! we maun
-keep her afloat at least till some other vessel heaves in sight.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In the tone and look of the man there was something extraordinary. His
-words were meant to suggest imminent peril, and yet his voice was shallow
-as that of a burgh bellman crying an auction sale, and his eyes had more
-interest in the horizon that his mate still searched with the
-prospect-glass than in the spate of bilge that gulped upon the deck.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bilge did I say? Heavens! it was bilge no more, but the pure sea-green
-that answered to the clanking pump. It was no time for idle wonder at the
-complacence of the skipper; I flew to the break and threw my strength into
-the seaman's task. “Clank-click, clank-click”—the instrument worked
-reluctantly as if the sucker moved in slime, and in a little the sweat
-poured from me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How is she now, Campbell?” asked Risk, as the carpenter came on deck.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Three feet in the hold,” said Campbell airily, like one that had an easy
-conscience.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good lord, a foot already!” cried Risk, and then in a tone of sarcasm,
-“Hearty, lads, hearty there! A little more Renfrewshire beef into it, Mr.
-Greig, if you please.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that I ceased my exertion, stood back straight and looked at the faces
-about me. There was only one man in the company who did not seem to be
-amused at me, and that was Horn, who stood with folded arms, moodily eying
-the open sea.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You seem mighty joco about it,” I said to Risk, and I wonder to this day
-at my blindness that never read the whole tale in these hurried events.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I can afford to be,” he said quickly; “if I gang I gang wi' clean hands,”
- and he spat into the seawater streaming from the pump where the port-watch
-now were working with as much listlessness as the men they superseded.
-</p>
-<p>
-To the taunt I made no reply, but moved after Horn who had gone forward
-with his hands in his pockets.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What does this mean, Horn?” I asked him. “Is the vessel in great danger?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I suppose she is,” said he bitterly, “but I have had nae experience o'
-scuttled ships afore.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Scuttled!” cried I, astounded, only half grasping his meaning.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Jist that,” said he. “The job's begun. It began last night in the run of
-the vessel as I showed ye when ye put your ear to the beam. After I left
-ye, I foun' half a dizen cords fastened to the pump stanchels; ane of them
-I pulled and got a plug at the end of it; the ithers hae been comin' oot
-since as it suited Dan Risk best, and the <i>Seven Ststers</i> is doomed
-to die o' a dropsy this very day. Wasn't I the cursed idiot that ever
-lipped drink in Clerihew's coffin-room!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If it was that,” said I, “why did you not cut the cords and spoil the
-plot?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Cut the cords! Ye mean cut my ain throat; that's what wad happen if the
-skipper guessed my knowledge o' his deevilry. And dae ye think a gallows
-job o' this kind depends a'thegither on twa or three bits o' twine? Na,
-na, this is a very business-like transaction, Mr. Greig, and I'll warrant
-there has been naethin' left to chance. I wondered at them bein' sae
-pernicketty about the sma' boats afore we sailed when the timbers o' the
-ship hersel' were fair ganting. That big new boat and sails frae Kirkcaldy
-was a gey odd thing in itsel' if I had been sober enough to think o't. I
-suppose ye paid your passage, Mr. Greig? I can fancy a purser on the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i> upon nae ither footin' and that made me dubious o' ye when I
-first learned o' this hell's caper for Jamieson o' the Grange. If ye hadna
-fought wi' the skipper I would hae coonted ye in wi' the rest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He has two pounds of my money,” I answered; “at least I've saved the
-other two if we fail to reach Halifax.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that he laughed softly again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It might be as well wi' Risk as wi' the conger,” said he, meaningly. “I'm
-no' sae sure that you and me's meant to come oot o' this; that's what I
-might tak' frae their leaving only the twa o' us aft when they were
-puttin' the cargo aff there back at Blackness.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The cargo!” I repeated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course,” said Horn. “Ye fancied they were goin' to get rid o' ye
-there, did ye? I'll alloo I thought that but a pretence on your pairt, and
-no' very neatly done at that. Well, the smallest pairt but the maist
-valuable o' the cargo shipped at Borrowstouness is still in Scotland; and
-the underwriters 'll be to pay through the nose for what has never run sea
-risks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that a great light came to me. This was the reason for the masked cuddy
-skylights, the utter darkness of the <i>Seven Sisters</i> while her boats
-were plying to the shore; for this was I so closely kept at her ridiculous
-manifest; the lists of lace and plate I had been fatuously copying were
-lists of stuff no longer on the ship at all, but back in the possession of
-the owner of the brigantine.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You are an experienced seaman—?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have had a vessel of my own,” broke in Horn, some vanity as well as
-shame upon his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, you are the more likely to know the best way out of this trap we
-are in,” I went on. “For a certain reason I am not at all keen on it to go
-back to Scotland, but I would sooner risk that than run in leash with a
-scoundrel like this who's sinking his command, not to speak of hazarding
-my unworthy life with a villainous gang. Is there any way out of it,
-Horn?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The seaman pondered, a dark frown upon his tanned forehead, where the
-veins stood out in knots, betraying his perturbation. The wind whistled
-faintly in the tops, the <i>Seven Sisters</i> plainly went by the head;
-she had a slow response to her helm, and moved sluggishly. Still the pump
-was clanking and we could hear the water streaming through the scupper
-holes. Risk had joined his mate and was casting anxious eyes over the
-waters.
-</p>
-<p>
-“If we play the safty here, Mr. Greig,” said Horn, “there's a chance o' a
-thwart for us when the <i>Seven Ststers</i> comes to her labour. That's
-oor only prospect. At least they daurna murder us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what about the crew?” I asked. “Do you tell me there is not enough
-honesty among them all to prevent a blackguardly scheme like this?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We're the only twa on this ship this morning wi' oor necks ootside tow,
-for they're all men o' the free trade, and broken men at that,” said Horn
-resolutely, and even in the midst of this looming disaster my private
-horror rose within me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” said I, helpless to check the revelation, “speak for yourself, Mr.
-Horn; it's the hangman I'm here fleeing from.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He looked at me with quite a new countenance, clearly losing relish for
-his company.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Anything by-ordinar dirty?” he asked, and in my humility I did not have
-the spirit to resent what that tone and query implied.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Dirty enough,” said I, “the man's dead,” and Horn's face cleared.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, faith! is that all?” quo' he, “I was thinkin' it might be coinin'—beggin'
-your pardon, Mr. Greig, or somethin' in the fancy way. But a gentleman's
-quarrel ower the cartes or a wench—that's a different tale. I hate
-homicide mysel' to tell the truth, but whiles I've had it in my heart, and
-in a way o' speakin* Dan Risk this meenute has my gully-knife in his
-ribs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-As he spoke the vessel, mishandled, or a traitor to her helm, now that she
-was all awash internally with water, yawed and staggered in the wind. The
-sails shivered, the yards swung violently, appalling noises came from the
-hold. At once the pumping ceased, and Risk's voice roared in the
-confusion, ordering the launch of the Kirkcaldy boat.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MAKES PLAIN THE DEEPEST VILLAINY OF RISK AND SETS ME ON A FRENCHMAN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen I come to write these affairs down after the lapse of years, I find
-my memory but poorly retains the details of that terrific period between
-the cry of Risk and the moment when Horn and I, abandoned on the doomed
-vessel, watched the evening fall upon the long Kirkcaldy boat, her mast
-stepped, but her sails down, hovering near us for the guarantee of our
-eternal silence regarding the crime the men on her were there and then
-committing. There is a space—it must have been brief, but I lived a
-lifetime in it—whose impressions rest with me, blurred, but with the
-general hue of agony. I can see the sun again sailing overhead in the
-arching sky of blue; the enormous ocean, cruel, cold, spread out to the
-line of the horizon; the flapping sails and drumming reef-points, the
-streaming halliards and clew-garnets, the spray buffeting upon our hull
-and spitting in our faces like an enemy; I hear the tumult of the seamen
-hurrying vulgarly to save their wretched lives, the gluck of waters in the
-bowels of the ship, the thud of cargo loose and drifting under decks.
-</p>
-<p>
-But I see and hear it all as in a dream or play, and myself someway
-standing only a spectator.
-</p>
-<p>
-It seemed that Risk and his men put all their dependence on the long-boat
-out of Kirkcaldy. She was partly decked at the bows like a Ballantrae
-herring-skiff, beamy and commodious. They clustered round her like ants;
-swung her out, and over she went, and the whole hellish plot lay revealed
-in the fact that she was all found with equipment and provisions.
-</p>
-<p>
-Horn and I made an effort to assist at her preparation; we were shoved
-aside with frantic curses; we were beaten back by her oars when we sought
-to enter her, and when she pushed off from the side of the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i>, Dan Risk was so much the monster that he could jeer at our
-perplexity. He sat at the tiller of her without a hat, his long hair, that
-was turning lyart, blown by the wind about his black and mocking eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Head her for Halifax, Horn,” said he, “and ye'll get there by-and-by.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Did I ever do ye any harm, skipper?” cried the poor seaman, standing on
-the gunwale, hanging to the shrouds, and his aspect hungry for life.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ye never got the chance, Port Glesca,” cried back Risk, hugging the
-tiller of the Kirkcaldy boat under his arm. “I'll gie ye a guess—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Come-a-riddle, come-a-riddle, come-a-rote-tote-tote—
-</pre>
-<p>
-Oh to bleezes! I canna put a rhyme till't, but this is the sense o't—a
-darkie's never deaf and dumb till he's deid. Eh! Antonio, ye rascal!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He looked forward as he spoke and exchanged a villainous laugh with the
-cook, his instrument, who had overheard us and betrayed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ye would mak' me swing for it, would ye, John Horn, when ye get ashore?
-That's what I would expect frae a keelie oot o' Clyde.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It is hard to credit that man could be so vile as this, but of such stuff
-was Daniel Risk. He was a fiend in the glory of his revenge upon the
-seaman who had threatened him with the gallows; uplifted like a madman's,
-his face, that was naturally sallow, burned lamp-red at his high
-cheek-bones, his hale eye gloated, his free hand flourished as in an
-exultation. His mate sat silent beside him on the stern-thwart, clearing
-the sheets: the crew, who had out the sweeps to keep the boat's bows in
-the wind, made an effort to laugh at his jocosities, but clearly longed to
-be away from this tragedy. And all the time, I think, I stood beside the
-weather bulwark, surrendered to the certainty of a speedy death, with the
-lines of a ballad coming back again and again to my mind:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-An' he shall lie in fathoms deep,
-The star-fish ower his een shall creep.
-An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep
-In the hall o' Monaltrie.
-</pre>
-<p>
-I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in spite
-of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea that
-beat about my feet.
-</p>
-<p>
-My silence—my seeming indifference—would seem to have touched
-the heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn.
-At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm saying, Greig,” he cried, “noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy was
-no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole that—astern,
-lads, and tak' the purser aboard.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick
-me off the doomed ship.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a second—praise
-God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never released the cleat
-by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still upon the lower shrouds
-and saw hope upon his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not if he offered a thousand pounds,” cried Risk, “in ye come!” and
-Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump among
-them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as with a
-spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, bleeding
-profusely and half insensible.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You are a foul dog!” I cried to his assailant. “And I'll settle with you
-for that!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!” cried Risk impatient.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let us look oot for oorselves, that's whit I say,” cried Murchison angry
-at my threat, and prepared cheerfully to see me perish. “What for should
-we risk oor necks with either o' them?” and he pushed off slightly with
-his boat-hook.
-</p>
-<p>
-The skipper turned, struck down the hook, and snarled upon him. “Shut up,
-Murchison!” he cried. “I'm still the captain, if ye please, and I ken as
-much about the clerk here as will keep his gab shut on any trifle we hae
-dune.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I looked upon the clean sea, and then at that huddle of scoundrels in the
-Kirkcaldy boat, and then upon the seaman Horn coming back again to the
-full consciousness of his impending fate. He gazed upon me with eyes
-alarmed and pitiful, and at that I formed my resolution.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I stick by Horn,” said I. “If he gets too, I'll go; if not I'll bide and
-be drowned with an honest man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bide and be damned then! Ye've had your chance,” shouted Risk, letting
-his boat fall off. “It's time we werena here.” And the halliards of his
-main-sail were running in the blocks as soon as he said it. The boat swept
-away rapidly, but not before I gave him a final touch of my irony. From my
-pocket I took out my purse and threw it upon his lap.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There's the ither twa, Risk,” I cried; “it's no' like the thing at all to
-murder a harmless lad for less than what ye bargained for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He bawled back some reply I could not hear, and I turned about, to see
-Horn making for the small boat on the starboard chocks. I followed with a
-hope again wakened, only to share his lamentation when he found that two
-of her planks had been wantonly sprung from their clinkers, rendering her
-utterly useless. The two other boats were in a similar condition; Risk and
-his confederates had been determined that no chance should be left of our
-escape from the <i>Seven Sisters</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was late in the afternoon. The wind had softened somewhat; in the west
-there were rising billowy clouds of silver and red, and half a mile away
-the Kirkcaldy boat, impatient doubtless for the end of us, that final
-assurance of safety, plied to windward with only her foresail set. We had
-gone below in a despairing mind on the chance that the leakage might be
-checked, but the holes were under water in the after peak, and in other
-parts we could not come near. An inch-and-a-half auger, and a large
-bung-borer, a gouge and chisel in the captain's private locker, told us
-how the crime had been committed whereof we were the victims.
-</p>
-<p>
-We had come on deck again, the pair of us, without the vaguest notion of
-what was next to do, and—speaking for myself—convinced that
-nothing could avert our hurrying fate. Horn told me later that he proposed
-full half a score of plans for at least a prolongation of our time, but
-that I paid no heed to them. That may be, for I know the ballad stanza
-went in my head like a dirge, as I sat on a hatch with the last few days
-of my history rolling out before my eyes. The dusk began to fall like a
-veil, the wind declined still further. Horn feverishly hammered and
-caulked at the largest of the boats, now and then throwing the tools from
-him as in momentary realisations of the hopelessness of his toil that
-finally left him in despair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's no use, Mr. Greig,” he cried then, “they did the job ower weel,” and
-he shook his fist at the Kirkcaldy boat. He checked the gesture suddenly
-and gave an astonished cry.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They're gone, Greig,” said he, now frantic. “They're gone. O God! they're
-gone! I was sure they couldna hae the heart to leave us at the last,” and
-as he spoke I chanced to look astern, and behold! a ship with all her
-canvas full was swiftly bearing down the wind upon us. We had been so
-intent upon our fate that we had never seen her!
-</p>
-<p>
-I clambered up the shrouds of the main-mast, and cried upon the coming
-vessel with some mad notion that she might fancy the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-derelict. But indeed that was not necessary. In a little she went round
-into the wind, a long-boat filled with men came towards us, and twenty
-minutes later we were on the deck of the <i>Roi Rouge</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN APPEARS A GENTLEMANLY CORSAIR AND A FRENCH-IRISH LORD
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile it may be that the actual crisis of my manhood came to me on the day
-I first put on my Uncle Andrew's shoes, the sense of it was mine only when
-I met with Captain Thurot. I had put the past for ever behind me (as I
-fancied) when I tore the verses of a moon-struck boy and cast them out
-upon the washing-green at Hazel Den, but I was bound to foregather with
-men like Thurot and his friends ere the scope and fashion of a man's world
-were apparent to me. Whether his influence on my destiny in the long run
-was good or bad I would be the last to say; he brought me into danger, but—in
-a manner—he brought me good, though that perhaps was never in his
-mind.
-</p>
-<p>
-You must fancy this Thurot a great tall man, nearly half a foot exceeding
-myself in stature, peak-bearded, straight as a lance, with plum-black eyes
-and hair, polished in dress and manner to the rarest degree and with a
-good humour that never failed. He sat under a swinging lamp in his cabin
-when Horn and I were brought before him, and asked my name first in an
-accent of English that was if anything somewhat better than my own.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Greig,” said I; “Paul Greig,” and he started as if I had pricked him with
-a knife.
-</p>
-<p>
-A little table stood between us, on which there lay a book he had been
-reading when we were brought below, some hours after the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-had gone down, and the search for the Kirkcaldy boat had been abandoned.
-He took the lamp off its hook, came round the table and held the light so
-that he could see my face the clearer. At any time his aspect was manly
-and pleasant; most of all was it so when he smiled, and I was singularly
-encouraged when he smiled at me, with a rapid survey of my person that
-included the Hazel Den mole and my Uncle Andrew's shoes.
-</p>
-<p>
-A seaman stood behind us; to him he spoke a message I could not
-comprehend, as it was in French, of which I had but little. The seaman
-retired; we were offered a seat, and in a minute the seaman came back with
-a gentleman—a landsman by his dress.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon, my lord,” said the captain to his visitor, “but I thought that
-here was a case—speaking of miracles—you would be interested
-in. Our friends here”—he indicated myself particularly with a
-gracious gesture—“are not, as you know, dropped from heaven, but
-come from that unfortunate ship we saw go under a while ago. May I ask
-your lordship to tell us—you will see the joke in a moment—whom
-we were talking of at the moment our watch first announced the sight of
-that vessel?”
- </p>
-<p>
-His lordship rubbed his chin and smilingly peered at the captain.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gad!” he said. “You are the deuce and all, Thurot. What are you in the
-mood for now? Why, we talked of Greig—Andrew Greig, the best player
-of <i>passe-passe</i> and the cheerfullest loser that ever cut a pack.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot turned to me, triumphant.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Behold,” said he, “how ridiculously small the world is. <i>Ma foi!</i> I
-wonder how I manage so well to elude my creditors, even when I sail the
-high seas. Lord Clancarty, permit me to have the distinguished honour to
-introduce another Greig, who I hope has many more of his charming uncle's
-qualities than his handsome eyes and red shoes. I assume it is a nephew,
-because poor Monsieur Andrew was not of the marrying kind. Anyhow, 'tis a
-Greig of the blood, or Antoine Thurot is a bat! And—Monsieur Greig,
-it is my felicity to bid you know one of your uncle's best friends and
-heartiest admirers—Lord Clancarty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Lord Clancarty!” I cried, incredulous. “Why he figured in my uncle's
-log-book a dozen years ago.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A dozen, no less!” cried his lordship, with a grimace. “We need not be so
-particular about the period. I trust he set me down there a decently good
-companion; I could hardly hope to figure in a faithful scribe's tablets as
-an example otherwise,” said his lordship, laughing and taking me cordially
-by the hand. “Gad! one has but to look at you to see Andrew Greig in every
-line. I loved your uncle, lad. He had a rugged, manly nature, and just
-sufficient folly, bravado, and sinfulness to keep a poor Irishman in
-countenance. Thurot, one must apologise for taking from your very lips the
-suggestion I see hesitating there, but sure 'tis an Occasion this; it must
-be a bottle—the best bottle on your adorable but somewhat ill-found
-vessel. Why 'tis Andy Greig come young again. Poor Andy! I heard of his
-death no later than a month ago, and have ordered a score of masses for
-him—which by the way are still unpaid for to good Father Hamilton. I
-could not sleep happily of an evening—of a forenoon rather—if
-I thought of our Andy suffering aught that a few candles and such-like
-could modify.” And his lordship with great condescension tapped and passed
-me his jewelled box of maccabaw.
-</p>
-<p>
-You can fancy a raw lad, untutored and untravelled, fresh from the
-plough-tail, as it were, was vastly tickled at this introduction to the
-genteel world. I was no longer the shivering outlaw, the victim of a Risk.
-I was honoured more or less for the sake of my uncle (whose esteem in this
-quarter my father surely would have been surprised at), and it seemed as
-though my new life in a new country were opening better than I had planned
-myself. I blessed my shoes—the Shoes of Sorrow—and for the
-time forgot the tragedy from which I was escaping.
-</p>
-<p>
-They birled the bottle between them, Clancarty and Thurot, myself
-virtually avoiding it, but clinking now and then, and laughing with them
-at the numerous exploits they recalled of him that was the bond between
-us; Horn elsewhere found himself well treated also; and listening to these
-two gentlemen of the world, their allusions, off-hand, to the great, their
-indications of adventure, travel, intrigue, enterprise, gaiety, I saw my
-horizon expand until it was no longer a cabin on the sea I sat in, with
-the lamplight swinging over me, but a spacious world of castles, palaces,
-forests, streets, churches, casernes, harbours, masquerades, routs,
-operas, love, laughter, and song. Perhaps they saw my elation and fully
-understood, and smiled within them at my efforts to figure as a little man
-of the world too—as boys will—but they never showed me other
-than the finest sympathy and attention.
-</p>
-<p>
-I found them fascinating at night; I found them much the same at morning,
-which is the test of the thing in youth, and straightway made a hero of
-the foreigner Thurot. Clancarty was well enough, but without any method in
-his life, beyond a principle of keeping his character ever trim and
-presentable like his cravat. Thurot carried on his strenuous career as
-soldier, sailor, spy, politician, with a plausible enough theory that thus
-he got the very juice and pang of life, that at the most, as he would aye
-be telling me, was brief to an absurdity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your Scots,” he would say to me, “as a rule, are too phlegmatic—is
-it not, Lord Clancarty?—but your uncle gave me, on my word, a regard
-for your whole nation. He had aplomb—Monsieur Andrew; he had luck
-too, and if he cracked a nut anywhere there was always a good kernel in
-it.” And the shoes see how I took the allusion to King George, and that
-gave me a flood of light upon my new position.
-</p>
-<p>
-I remembered that in my uncle's log-book the greater part of the narrative
-of his adventures in France had to do with politics and the intrigues of
-the Jacobite party. He was not, himself, apparently, “out,” as we call it,
-in the affair of the 'Forty-five, because he did not believe the occasion
-suitable, and thought the Prince precipitous, but before and after that
-untoward event for poor Scotland, he had been active with such men as
-Clancarty, Lord Clare, the Murrays, the Mareschal, and such-like, which
-was not to be wondered at, perhaps, for our family had consistently been
-Jacobite, a fact that helped to its latter undoing, though my father as
-nominal head of the house had taken no interest in politics; and my own
-sympathies had ever been with the Chevalier, whom I as a boy had seen ride
-through the city of Glasgow, wishing myself old enough to be his follower
-in such a glittering escapade as he was then embarked on.
-</p>
-<p>
-But though I thought all this in a flash as it were, I betrayed nothing to
-Captain Thurot, who seemed somewhat dashed at my silence. There must have
-been something in my face, however, to show that I fully realised what he
-was feeling at, and was not too complacent, for Clancarty laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sure, 'tis a good boy, Thurot,” said he, “and loves his King George
-properly, like a true patriot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I won't believe it of a Greig,” said Captain Thurot. “A pestilent, dull
-thing, loyalty in England; the other thing came much more readily, I
-remember, to the genius of Andrew Greig. Come! Monsieur Paul, to be quite
-frank about it, have you no instincts of friendliness to the exiled house?
-M. Tête-de-fer has a great need at this particular moment for English
-friends. Once he could count on your uncle to the last ditch; can he count
-on the nephew?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“M. Tête-de-fer?” I repeated, somewhat bewildered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“M. Tête-de-mouche, rather,” cried my lord, testily, and then hurried to
-correct himself. “He alluded, Monsieur Greig, to Prince Charles Edward. We
-are all, I may confess, his Royal Highness's most humble servants; some of
-us, however—as our good friend, Captain Thurot—more actively
-than others. For myself I begin to weary of a cause that has been dormant
-for eight years, but no matter; sure one must have a recreation!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I looked at his lordship to see if he was joking. He was the relic of a
-handsome man, though still, I daresay, less than fifty years of age, with
-a clever face and gentle, just tinged by the tracery of small surface
-veins to a redness that accused him of too many late nights; his mouth and
-eyes, that at one time must have been fascinating, had the ultimate
-irresolution that comes to one who finds no fingerposts at life's
-cross-roads and thinks one road just as good's another. He was born at
-Atena, near Hamburg (so much I had remembered from my uncle's memoir), but
-he was, even in his accent, as Irish as Kerry. Someway I liked and yet
-doubted him, in spite of all the praise of him that I had read in a dead
-man's diurnal.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Fi donc! vous devriez avoir honte, milord</i>,” cried Thurot, somewhat
-disturbed, I saw, at this reckless levity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ashamed!” said his lordship, laughing; “why, 'tis for his Royal Highness
-who has taken a diligence to the devil, and left us poor dependants to pay
-the bill at the inn. But no matter, Master Greig, I'll be cursed if I say
-a single word more to spoil a charming picture of royalty under a cloud.”
- And so saying he lounged away from us, a strange exquisite for shipboard,
-laced up to the nines, as the saying goes, parading the deck as it had
-been the Rue St. Honoré, with merry words for every sailorman who tapped a
-forehead to him.
-</p>
-<p>
-Captain Thurot looked at him, smiling, and shrugged his shoulders.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Tête-de-mouche!</i> There it is for you, M. Paul—the head of a
-butterfly. Now you—” he commanded my eyes most masterfully—“now
-<i>you</i> have a Scotsman's earnestness; I should like to see you on the
-right side. <i>Mon Dieu</i>, you owe us your life, no less; 'tis no more
-King George's, for one of his subjects has morally sent you to the bottom
-of the sea in a scuttled ship. I wish we had laid hands on your Risk and
-his augers.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But I was learning my world; I was cautious; I said neither yea nor nay.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-IN DUNKERQUE—A LADY SPEAKS TO ME IN SCOTS AND A FAT PRIEST SEEMS TO
-HAVE SOMETHING ON HIS MIND
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo days after, the <i>Roi Rouge</i> came to Dunkerque; Horn the seaman
-went home to Scotland in a vessel out of Leith with a letter in his pocket
-for my people at Hazel Den, and I did my best for the next fortnight to
-forget by day the remorse that was my nightmare. To this Captain Thurot
-and Lord Clancarty, without guessing 'twas a homicide they favoured,
-zealously helped me.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then Dunkerque at the moment was sparkling with attractions. Something
-was in its air to distract every waking hour, the pulse of drums, the
-sound of trumpets calling along the shores, troops manoeuvring, elation
-apparent in every countenance. I was Thurot's guest in a lodging over a <i>boulangerie</i>
-upon the sea front, and at daybreak I would look out from the little
-window to see regiments of horse and foot go by on their way to an
-enormous camp beside the old fort of Risebank. Later in the morning I
-would see the soldiers toiling at the grand sluice for deepening the
-harbour or repairing the basin, or on the dunes near Graveline manoeuvring
-under the command of the Prince de Soubise and Count St. Germain. All day
-the paving thundered with the roll of tumbrels, with the noise of plunging
-horse; all night the front of the <i>boulangerie</i> was clamorous with
-carriages bearing cannon, timber, fascines, gabions, and other military
-stores.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot, with his ship in harbour, became a man of the town, with ruffled
-neck- and wrist-bands, the most extravagant of waistcoats, hats laced with
-point d'Espagne, and up and down Dunkerque he went with a restless foot as
-if the conduct of the world depended on him. He sent an old person, a
-reduced gentleman, to me to teach me French that I laboured with as if my
-life depended on it from a desire to be as soon as possible out of his
-reverence, for, to come to the point and be done with it, he was my
-benefactor to the depth of my purse.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sometimes Lord Clancarty asked me out to a <i>déjeuner</i>. He moved in a
-society where I met many fellow countrymen—Captain Foley, of Rooth's
-regiment; Lord Roscommon and his brother young Dillon; Lochgarry,
-Lieutenant-Colonel of Ogilvie's Corps, among others, and by-and-by I
-became known favourably in what, if it was not actually the select society
-of Dunkerque, was so at least in the eyes of a very ignorant young
-gentleman from the moors of Mearns.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was so strange a thing as to be almost incredible, but my Uncle Andy's
-shoes seemed to have some magic quality that brought them for ever on
-tracks they had taken before, and if my cast of countenance did not
-proclaim me a Greig wherever I went, the shoes did so. They were a
-passport to the favour of folks the most divergent in social state—to
-a poor Swiss who kept the door and attended on the table at Clancarty's
-(my uncle, it appeared, had once saved his life), and to Soubise himself,
-who counted my uncle the bravest man and the best mimic he had ever met,
-and on that consideration alone pledged his influence to find me a post.
-</p>
-<p>
-You may be sure I did not wear such tell-tale shoes too often. I began to
-have a freit about them as he had to whom they first belonged, and to
-fancy them somehow bound up with my fortune.
-</p>
-<p>
-I put them on only when curiosity prompted me to test what new
-acquaintances they might make me, and one day I remember I donned them for
-a party of blades at Lord Clancarty's, the very day indeed upon which the
-poor Swiss, weeping, told me what he owed to the old rogue with the
-scarred brow now lying dead in the divots of home.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a new addition to the company that afternoon—a priest who
-passed with the name of Father Hamilton, though, as I learned later, he
-was formerly Vliegh, a Fleming, born at Ostend, and had been educated
-partly at the College Major of Louvain and partly in London. He was or had
-been parish priest of Dixmunde near Ostend, and his most decent memory of
-my uncle, whom he, too, knew, was a challenge to a drinking-bout in which
-the thin man of Meams had been several bottles more thirsty than the fat
-priest of Dixmunde.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was corpulent beyond belief, with a dewlap like an ox; great limbs, a
-Gargantuan appetite, and a laugh like thunder that at its loudest created
-such convulsions of his being as compelled him to unbutton the neck of his
-<i>soutane</i>, else he had died of a seizure.
-</p>
-<p>
-His friends at Lord Clancarty's played upon him a little joke wherein I
-took an unconscious part. It seemed they had told him Mr. Andrew Greig was
-not really dead, but back in France and possessed of an elixir of youth
-which could make the ancient and furrowed hills themselves look like
-yesterday's creations.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! M. Andrew!” he had cried. “An elixir of grease were more in the
-fellow's line; I have never seen a man's viands give so scurvy a return
-for the attention he paid them. 'Tis a pole—this M. Andrew—but
-what a head—what a head!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! but 'tis true of the elixir,” they protested; “and he looks thirty
-years younger; here he comes!”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was then that I stepped in with the servant bawling my name, and the
-priest surged to his feet with his face all quivering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! M. Andrew!” he cried; “fattened and five-and-twenty. Holy Mother!
-It is, then, that miracles are possible? I shall have a hogshead, master,
-of thine infernal essence and drink away this paunch, and skip anon like
-to the goats of—of-”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then his friends burst into peals of laughter as much at my
-bewilderment as at his credulity, and he saw that it was all a pleasantry.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mon Dieu!” he said, sighing like a November forest. “There was never more
-pestilent gleek played upon a wretched man. Oh! oh! oh! I had an angelic
-dream for that moment of your entrance, for I saw me again a stripling—a
-stripling—and the girl's name was—never mind. God rest her!
-she is under grass in Louvain.”
- </p>
-<p>
-All the rest of the day—at Clancarty's, at the Café de la Poste, in
-our walk along the dunes where cannon were being fired at marks well out
-at sea, this obese cleric scarcely let his eyes off me. He seemed to envy
-and admire, and then again he would appear to muse upon my countenance,
-debating with himself as one who stands at a shop window pondering a
-purchase that may be on the verge of his means.
-</p>
-<p>
-Captain Thurot observed his interest, and took an occasion to whisper to
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Have a care, M. Greig,” said he playfully; “this priest schemes
-something; that's ever the worst of your Jesuits, and you may swear 'tis
-not your eternal salvation.”
- </p>
-<p>
-'Twas that afternoon we went all together to the curious lodging in the
-Rue de la Boucherie. I remember as it had been yesterday how sunny was the
-weather, and how odd it seemed to me that there should be a country-woman
-of my own there.
-</p>
-<p>
-She was not, as it seems to me now, lovely, though where her features
-failed of perfection it would beat me to disclose, but there was something
-inexpressibly fascinating in her—in the mild, kind, melting eyes,
-and the faint sad innuendo of her smile. She sat at a spinet playing, and
-for the sake of this poor exile, sang some of the songs we are acquainted
-with at home. Upon my word, the performance touched me to the core! I felt
-sick for home: my mother's state, the girl at Kirkillstane, the dead lad
-on the moor, sounds of Earn Water, clouds and heather on the hill of
-Ballageich—those mingled matters swept through my thoughts as I sat
-with these blithe gentlemen, hearkening to a simple Doric tune, and my
-eyes filled irrestrainably with tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-Miss Walkinshaw—for so her name was—saw what effect her music
-had produced; reddened, ceased her playing, took me to the window while
-the others discussed French poetry, and bade me tell her, as we looked out
-upon the street, all about myself and of my home. She was, perhaps, ten
-years my senior, and I ran on like a child.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The Mearns!” said she. “Oh dear, oh dear! And you come frae the Meams!”
- She dropped into her Scots that showed her heart was true, and told me she
-had often had her May milk in my native parish.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you maybe know,” said she, flushing, “the toun of Glasgow, and the
-house of Walkinshaw, my—my father, there?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I knew the house very well, but no more of it than that it existed.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was in her eyes the tears were now, talking of her native place, but
-she quickly changed the topic ere I could learn much about her, and she
-guessed—with a smile coming through her tears, like a sun through
-mist—that I must have been in love and wandered in its fever, to be
-so far from home at my age.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There was a girl,” I said, my face hot, my heart rapping at the
-recollection, and someway she knew all about Isobel Fortune in five
-minutes, while the others in the room debated on so trivial a thing as the
-songs of the troubadours.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Isobel Fortune!” she said (and I never thought the name so beautiful as
-it sounded on her lips, where it lingered like a sweet); “Isobel Fortune;
-why, it's an omen, Master Greig, and it must be a good fortune. I am wae
-for the poor lassie that her big foolish lad”—she smiled with
-bewitching sympathy at me under long lashes—“should be so far away
-frae her side. You must go back as quick as you can; but stay now, is it
-true you love her still?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The woman would get the feeling and the truth from a heart of stone; I
-only sighed for answer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Then you'll go back,” said she briskly, “and it will be Earn-side again
-and trysts at Ballageich—oh! the name is like a bagpipe air to me!—and
-you will be happy, and be married and settle down—and—and poor
-Clemie Walkinshaw will be friendless far away from her dear Scotland, but
-not forgetting you and your wife.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I cannot go back there at all,” I said, with a long face, bitter enough,
-you may be sure, at the knowledge I had thrown away all that she depicted,
-and her countenance fell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What for no'?” she asked softly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Because I fought a duel with the man that Isobel preferred, and—and—killed
-him!”
- </p>
-<p>
-She shuddered with a little sucking in of air at her teeth and drew up her
-shoulders as if chilled with cold.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah, then,” said she, “the best thing's to forget. Are you a Jacobite,
-Master Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-She had set aside my love affair and taken to politics with no more than a
-sigh of sympathy, whether for the victim of my jealousy, or Isobel
-Fortune, or for me, I could not say.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm neither one thing nor another,” said I. “My father is a staunch
-enough royalist, and so, I daresay, I would be too if I had not got a
-gliff of bonnie Prince Charlie at the Tontine of Glasgow ten years ago.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ten years ago!” she repeated, staring abstracted out at the window. “Ten
-years ago! So it was; I thought it was a lifetime since. And what did you
-think of him?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Whatever my answer might have been it never got the air, for here
-Clancarty, who had had a message come to the door for him, joined us at
-the window, and she turned to him with some phrase about the trampling of
-troops that passed along the streets.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” he said, “the affair marches quickly. Have you heard that England
-has declared war? And our counter declaration is already on its way
-across. <i>Pardieu!</i> there shall be matters toward in a month or two
-and the Fox will squeal. Braddock's affair in America has been the best
-thing that has happened us in many years.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thus he went on with singular elation that did not escape me, though my
-wits were also occupied by some curious calculations as to what disturbed
-the minds of Hamilton and of the lady. I felt that I was in the presence
-of some machinating influences probably at variance, for while Clancarty
-and Roscommon and Thurot were elate, the priest made only a pretence at
-it, and was looking all abstracted as if weightier matters occupied his
-mind, his large fat hand, heavy-ringed, buttressing his dewlap, and Miss
-Walkinshaw was stealing glances of inquiry at him—glances of inquiry
-and also of distrust. All this I saw in a mirror over the mantelpiece of
-the room.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sure there's but one thing to regret in it,” cried Clancarty suddenly,
-stopping and turning to me, “it must mean that we lose Monsieur des
-Souliers Rouges. <i>Peste!</i> There is always something to worry one
-about a war!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Comment?</i>” said Thurot.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The deportment,” answered his lordship. “Every English subject has been
-ordered out of France. We are going to lose not only your company, Father
-Hamilton, because of your confounded hare-brained scheme for covering all
-Europe in a glass coach, but our M. Greig must put the Sleeve between him
-and those best qualified to estimate and esteem his thousand virtues of
-head and heart For a <i>louis</i> or two I'd take ship with him and fight
-on the other side. Gad! it would always be fighting anyway, and one would
-be by one's friend.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The priest's jaw fell as if my going was a blow to his inmost affections;
-he turned his face rapidly into shadow; Miss Walkinshaw lost no movement
-of his; she was watching him as he had been a snake.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! but it is not necessary that we lose my compatriot so fast as that,”
- she said. “There are such things as permits, excepting English friends of
-ours from deportment,—and—and—I fancy I could get one
-for Mr. Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In my heart I thanked her for her ready comprehension of my inability to
-go back to Britain with an easy mind; and I bowed my recognition of her
-goodness.
-</p>
-<p>
-She was paying no heed to my politeness; she had again an eye on the
-priest, who was obviously cheered marvellously by the prospect.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then we took a dish of tea with her, the lords and Thurot loudly
-cheerful, Hamilton ruminant and thundering alternately, Miss Walkinshaw
-showing a score of graces as hostess, myself stimulated to some unusual
-warmth of spirit as I sat beside her, well-nigh fairly loving her because
-she was my country-woman and felt so fond about my native Mearns.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN A SITUATION OFFERS AND I ENGAGE TO GO TRAVELLING WITH THE PRIEST
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> week passed with no further incident particularly affecting this
-history. With my reduced and antique mentor I studied <i>la belle langue</i>,
-sedulous by day, at night pacing the front of the sea, giving words to its
-passion as it broke angry on the bar or thundered on the beach—the
-sea that still haunts me and invites, whose absence makes often lonely the
-moorland country where is my home, where are my people's graves. It called
-me then, in the dripping weather of those nights in France—it called
-me temptingly to try again my Shoes of Fortune (as now I named them to
-myself), and learn whereto they might lead.
-</p>
-<p>
-But in truth I was now a prisoner to that inviting sea. The last English
-vessel had gone; the Channel was a moat about my native isle, and I was a
-tee'd ball with a passport that was no more and no less than a warder's
-warrant in my pouch. It had come to me under cover of Thurot two days
-after Miss Walkinshaw's promise; it commanded <i>tous les gouverneurs et
-tous les lieutenants-généraux de nos provinces et de nos armées,
-gouverneurs particuliers et commandants de nos villes, places et troupes</i>
-to permit and pass the Sieur Greig anywhere in the country, <i>sans lui
-donner aucun empêchement</i>, and was signed for the king by the Duc de
-Choiseuil.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went round to make my devoirs to the lady to whom I owed the favour, and
-this time I was alone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where's your shoon, laddie?” said she at the first go-off. “Losh! do ye
-no' ken that they're the very makin' o' ye? If it hadna been for them
-Clementina Walkinshaw wad maybe never hae lookit the gait ye were on.
-Ye'll be to put them on again!” She thrust forth a <i>bottine</i> like a
-doll's for size and trod upon my toes, laughing the while with her curious
-suggestion of unpractised merriment at my first solemn acceptance of her
-humour as earnest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Am I never to get quit o' thae shoes?” I cried; “the very deil maun be in
-them.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was the very deil,” said she, “was in them when it was your Uncle
-Andrew.” And she stopped and sighed. “O Andy Greig, Andy Greig! had I been
-a wise woman and ta'en a guid-hearted though throughither Mearns man's
-advice—toots! laddie, I micht be a rudas auld wife by my preachin'.
-Oh, gie's a sang, or I'll dee.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then she flew to the spinet (a handsome instrument singularly out of
-keeping with the rest of the plenishing in that odd lodging in the Rue de
-la Boucherie of Dunkerque), and touched a prelude and broke into an air.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-To-day they call that woman lost and wicked; I have seen it said in
-books: God's pity on her! she was not bad; she was the very football of
-fate, and a heart of the yellow gold. If I was warlock or otherwise had
-charms, I would put back the dial two score years and wrench her from
-her chains.
-
-O waly, waly up the bank,
-O waly, waly doon the brae.
-And waly, waly yon burn-side,
-Where I and my love wont to gae.
-I leaned my back unto an aik,
-I thocht it was a trusty tree,
-But first it bowed and syne it brak,
-Sae my true love did lichtly me.
-</pre>
-<p>
-They have their own sorrow even in script those ballad words of an exile
-like herself, but to hear Miss Walkinshaw sing them was one of the saddest
-things I can recall in a lifetime that has known many sorrows. And still,
-though sad, not wanting in a sort of brave defiance of calumny, a hope,
-and an unchanging affection. She had a voice as sweet as a bird in the
-thicket at home; she had an eye full and melting; her lips, at the
-sentiment, sometimes faintly broke.
-</p>
-<p>
-I turned my head away that I might not spy upon her feeling, for here, it
-was plain, was a tragedy laid bare. She stopped her song mid-way with a
-laugh, dashed a hand across her eyes, and threw herself into a chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, fie! Mr. Greig, to be backing up a daft woman, old enough to know
-better, in her vapours. You must be fancying I am a begrutten bairn to be
-snackin' my daidlie in this lamentable fashion, but it's just you and your
-Mearns, and your Ballageich, and your douce Scots face and tongue that
-have fair bewitched me. O Scotland! Scotland! Let us look oot at this
-France o' theirs, Mr. Greig.” She came to the window (her movements were
-ever impetuous, like the flight of a butterfly), and “Do I no' wish that
-was the Gallowgate,” said she, “and Glasgow merchants were in the shops
-and Christian signs abin the doors, like 'MacWhannal' and 'Mackay,' and
-'Robin Oliphant'? If that was Bailie John Walkinshaw, wi' his rattan, and
-yon was the piazza o' Tontine, would no' his dochter be the happy woman?
-Look! look! ye Mearns man, look! look! at the bairn playing pal-al in the
-close. 'Tis my little sister Jeanie that's married on the great Doctor
-Doig—him wi' the mant i' the Tron kirk—and bairns o' her ain,
-I'm tell't, and they'll never hear their Aunt Clemie named but in a
-whisper. And yon auld body wi' the mob cap, that's the baxter's widow, and
-there's carvie in her scones that you'll can buy for a bawbee apiece.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The maddest thing!—but here was the woman smiling through her tears,
-and something tremulous in her as though her heart was leaping at her
-breast. Suddenly her manner changed, as if she saw a sobering sight, and I
-looked out again, and there was Father Hamilton heaving round the corner
-of a lane, his face as red as the moon in a fog of frost.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “here's France, sure enough, Mr. Greig. We
-must put by our sentiments, and be just witty or as witty as we can be. If
-you're no' witty here, my poor Mr. Greig, you might as well be dumb. A
-heart doesna maitter much; but, oh! be witty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The priest was making for the house. She dried her tears before me, a
-frankness that flattered my vanity; “and let us noo to our English, Mr.
-Greig,” said she as the knock came to the door. “It need be nae honest
-Scots when France is chappin'. Would you like to travel for a season?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The question took me by surprise; it had so little relevance to what had
-gone before.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Travel?” I repeated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Travel,” said she again quickly. “In a glass coach with a companion who
-has plenty of money—wherever it comes from—and see all Europe,
-and maybe—for you are Scots like myself—make money. The fat
-priest wants a secretary; that's the long and the short of it, for there's
-his foot on the stairs, and if you'll say yes, I fancy I can get you the
-situation.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I did not hesitate a second.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why, then yes, to be sure,” said I, “and thank you kindly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Thank <i>you</i>, Paul Greig,” said she softly, for now the Swiss had
-opened the door, and she squeezed my wrist.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Benedicite!</i>” cried his reverence and came in, puffing hugely after
-his climb, his face now purple almost to strangulation. “May the devil fly
-away with turnpike stairs, Madame!—puff-puff—I curse them
-whether they be wood or marble;—puff-puff—I curse them
-Dunkerque; in Ostend, Paris, all Europe itself, ay even unto the two
-Americas. I curse their designers, artisans, owners, and defenders in
-their waking and sleeping! Madame, kindly consider your stairs anathema!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You need all your wind to cool your porridge, as we say in Scotland,
-Father Hamilton,” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “and a bonny-like thing it is to
-have you coming here blackguarding my honest stairs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He laughed enormously and fell into a chair, shaking the house as if the
-world itself had quaked. “Pardon, my dear Miss Walkinshaw,” said he when
-his breath was restored, “but, by the Mass, you must confess 'tis the
-deuce and all for a man—a real man that loves his viands, and sleeps
-well o' nights, and has a contented mind and grows flesh accordingly, to
-trip up to Paradise—” here he bowed, his neck swelling in massive
-folds—“to trip up to Paradise, where the angels are, as easily as a
-ballet-dancer—bless her!—skips to the other place where, by my
-faith! I should like to pay a brief visit myself, if 'twere only to see
-old friends of the Opéra Comique. Madame, I give you good-day. Sir,
-Monsieur Greig—'shalt never be a man like thine Uncle Andrew for all
-thy confounded elixir. I favour not your virtuous early rising in the
-young. There! thine uncle would a-been abed at this hour an' he were alive
-and in Dunkerque; thou must be a confoundedly industrious and sober Greig
-to be dangling at a petticoat-tail—Pardon, Madame, 'tis the dearest
-tail, anyway!—before the hour meridian.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And this is France,” thought I. “Here's your papistical gospeller at
-home!” I minded of the Rev. Scipio Walker in the kirk of Mearns, an image
-ever of austerity, waling his words as they had come from Solomon,
-groaning even-on for man's eternal doom.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest quickly comprehended my surprise at his humour, and laughed the
-more at that till a fit of coughing choked him. “<i>Mon Dieu</i>” said he;
-“our Andy reincarnate is an Andy most pestilent dull, or I'm a cockle, a
-convoluted cockle, and uncooked at that. Why, man! cheer up, thou <i>croque
-mort</i>, thou lanthorn-jaw, thou veal-eye, thou melancholious eater of
-oaten-meal!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a humblin' sicht!” said I. The impertinence was no sooner uttered
-than I felt degraded that I should have given it voice, for here was a
-priest of God, however odd to my thinking, and, what was more, a man who
-might in years have been my father.
-</p>
-<p>
-But luckily it could never then, or at any other time, be said of Father
-Hamilton that he was thin-skinned. He only laughed the more at me.
-“Touche!” he cried. “I knew I could prick the old Andy somewhere. Still,
-Master Paul, thine uncle was not so young as thou, my cockerel. Had seen
-his world and knew that Scotland and its—what do you call them?—its
-manses, did not provide the universal ensample of true piety.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I do not think, Father Hamilton,” said I, “that piety troubled him very
-much, or his shoes had not been so well known in Dunkerque.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Miss Walkinshaw laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There you are, Father Hamilton!” said she. “You'll come little speed with
-a man from the Mearns moors unless you take him a little more seriously.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton pursed his lips and rubbed down his thighs, an image of
-the gross man that would have turned my father's stomach, who always liked
-his men lean, clean, and active. He was bantering me, this fat priest of
-Dixmunde, but all the time it was with a friendly eye. Thinks I, here's
-another legacy of goodwill from my extraordinary uncle!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Hast got thy pass yet, Master Dull?” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not so dull, Master Minister, but what I resent the wrong word even in a
-joke,” I replied, rising to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot's voice was on the stair now, and Clan-carty's. If they were not to
-find their <i>protégé</i> in an undignified war of words with the priest
-of Dixmunde, it was time I was taking my feet from there, as the saying
-went.
-</p>
-<p>
-But Miss Walkinshaw would not hear of it. “No, no,” she protested, “we
-have some business before you go to your ridiculous French—weary be
-on the language that ever I heard <i>Je t'aime</i> in it!—and how
-does the same march with you, Mr. Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know enough of it to thank my good friends in,” said I, “but that must
-be for another occasion.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Father Hamilton,” said she, “here's your secretary.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A curious flash came to those eyes pitted in rolls of flabby flesh, I
-thought of an eagle old and moulting, languid upon a mountain cliff in
-misty weather, catching the first glimpse of sun and turned thereby to
-ancient memories. He said nothing; there was at the moment no opportunity,
-for the visitors had entered, noisily polite and posturing as was their
-manner, somewhat touched by wine, I fancied, and for that reason scarcely
-welcomed by the mistress of the house.
-</p>
-<p>
-There could be no more eloquent evidence of my innocence in these days
-than was in the fact that I never wondered at the footing upon which these
-noisy men of the world were with a countrywoman of mine. The cause they
-often spoke of covered many mysteries; between the Rue de Paris and the
-Rue de la Boucherie I could have picked out a score of Scots in exile for
-their political faiths, and why should not Miss Walkinshaw be one of the
-company? But sometimes there was just the faintest hint of over-much
-freedom in their manner to her, and that I liked as little as she seemed
-to do, for when her face flushed and her mouth firmed, and she became
-studiously deaf, I felt ashamed of my sex, and could have retorted had not
-prudence dictated silence as the wisest policy.
-</p>
-<p>
-As for her, she was never but the minted metal, ringing true and decent,
-compelling order by a glance, gentle yet secure in her own strength,
-tolerant, but in bounds.
-</p>
-<p>
-They were that day full of the project for invading England. It had gone
-so far that soldiers at Calais and Boulogne were being practised in
-embarkation. I supposed she must have a certain favour for a step that was
-designed to benefit the cause wherefor I judged her an exile, but she
-laughed at the idea of Britain falling, as she said, to a parcel of <i>crapauds</i>.
-“Treason!” treason!” cried Thurot laughingly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Under the circumstances, Madame——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“—Under the circumstances, Captain Thurot,” she interrupted quickly,
-“I need not pretend at a lie. This is not in the Prince's interest, this
-invasion, and it is a blow at a land I love. Mr. Greig here has just put
-it into my mind how good are the hearts there, how pleasant the tongue,
-and how much I love the very name of Scotland. I would be sorry to think
-of its end come to pleasure the women in Versailles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bravo! bravo! <i>vive la bagatelle!</i>” cried my Lord Clancarty. “Gad! I
-sometimes feel the right old pathriot myself. Sure I have a good mind—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then 'tis not your own, my lord,” she cried quickly, displeasure in her
-expression, and Clancarty only bowed, not a whit abashed at the sarcasm.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton drew me aside from these cheerful contentions, and plunged
-into the matter that was manifestly occupying all his thoughts since Miss
-Walkinshaw had mooted me as his secretary.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Monsieur Greig,” he said, placing his great carcase between me and the
-others in the room, “I declare that women are the seven plagues, and yet
-here we come chasing them from <i>petit lever</i> till—till—well,
-till as late as the darlings will let us. By the Mass and Father Hamilton
-knows their value, and when a man talks to me about a woman and the love
-he bears her, I think 'tis a maniac shouting the praise of the snake that
-has crept to his breast to sting him. Women—chut!—now tell me
-what the mischief is a woman an' thou canst.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I fancy, Father Hamilton,” said I, “you could be convinced of the merits
-of woman if your heart was ever attacked by one—your heart, that
-does not believe anything in that matter that emanates from your head.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Again the eagle's gleam from the pitted eyes; and, upon my word, a sigh!
-It was a queer man this priest of Dixmunde.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah, young cockerel,” said he, “thou knowest nothing at all about it, and
-as for me—well, I dare not; but once—once—once there
-were dews in the woods, and now it is very dry weather, Master Greig. How
-about thine honour's secretaryship? Gripp'st at the opportunity, young
-fellow? Eh? Has the lady said sooth? Come now, I like the look of my old
-Andrew's—my old Merry Andrew's nephew, and could willingly tolerate
-his <i>croque-mort</i> countenance, his odour of the sanctuary, if he
-could weather it with a plethoric good liver that takes the world as he
-finds it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was positively eager to have me. It was obvious from his voice. He took
-me by the button of my lapel as if I were about to run away from his
-offer, but I was in no humour to run away. Here was the very office I
-should have chosen if a thousand offered. The man was a fatted sow to look
-on, and by no means engaging in his manner to myself, but what was I and
-what my state that I should be too particular? Here was a chance to see
-the world—and to forget. Seeing the world might have been of most
-importance some months ago in the mind of a clean-handed young lad in the
-parish of Mearns in Scotland, but now it was of vastly more importance
-that I should forget.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We start in a week,” said the priest, pressing me closely lest I should
-change my mind, and making the prospects as picturesque as he could. “Why
-should a man of flesh and blood vex his good stomach with all this
-babblement of king's wars? and a pox on their flat-bottomed boats! I have
-seen my last Mass in Dixmunde; say not a word on that to our friends nor
-to Madame; and I suffer from a very jaundice of gold. Is't a pact, friend
-Scotland?”
- </p>
-<p>
-A pact it was; I went out from Miss Walkinshaw's lodging that afternoon
-travelling secretary to the fat priest.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XVI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-RELATES HOW I INDULGED MY CURIOSITY AND HOW LITTLE CAME OF IT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>unkerque in these days (it may be so no longer) was a place for a man to
-go through with his nose in his fingers. Garbage stewed and festered in
-the gutters of the street so that the women were bound to walk
-high-kilted, and the sea-breeze at its briskest scarcely sufficed to stir
-the stagnant, stenching atmosphere of the town, now villainously
-over-populated by the soldiery with whom it was France's pleasant delusion
-she should whelm our isle.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardieu!</i>” cried Father Hamilton, as we emerged in this malodorous
-open, “'twere a fairy godfather's deed to clear thee out of this feculent
-cloaca. Think on't, boy; of you and me a week hence riding through the
-sweet woods of Somme or Oise, and after that Paris! Paris! my lad of
-tragedy; Paris, where the world moves and folk live. And then, perhaps,
-Tours, and Bordeaux, and Flanders, and Sweden, Seville, St. Petersburg
-itself, but at least the woods of Somme, where the roads are among
-gossamer and dew and enchantment in the early morning—if we cared to
-rise early enough to see them, which I promise thee we shall not.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His lips were thick and trembling: he gloated as he pictured me this mad
-itinerary, leaning heavily on my arm—Silenus on an ash sapling—half-trotting
-beside me, looking up every now and then to satisfy himself I appreciated
-the prospect. It was pleasant enough, though in a measure incredible, but
-at the moment I was thinking of Miss Walkinshaw, and wondering much to
-myself that this exposition of foreign travel should seem barely
-attractive because it meant a severance from her. Her sad smile, her brave
-demeanour, her kind heart, her beauty had touched me sensibly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Master Scrivener!” cried the priest, panting at my side, “art
-dumb?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I fancy, sir, it is scarcely the weather for woods,” said I. “I hope we
-are not to put off our journey till the first of April a twelvemonth.” A
-suspicion unworthy of me had flashed into my mind that I might, after all,
-be no more than the butt of a practical joke. But that was merely for a
-moment; the priest was plainly too eager on his scheme to be play-acting
-it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am very grateful to the lady,” I hastened to add, “who gave me the
-chance of listing in your service. Had it not been for her you might have
-found a better secretary, and I might have remained long enough in the
-evil smells of Dunkerque that I'll like all the same in spite of that,
-because I have so good a friend as Miss Walkinshaw in it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la!” cried out Father Hamilton, squeezing my arm. “Here's our
-young cockerel trailing wing already! May I never eat fish again if
-'tisn't a fever in this woman that she must infect every man under three
-score. For me I am within a month of the period immune, and only feel a
-malaise in her company. Boy, perpend! Have I not told thee every woman,
-except the ugliest, is an agent of the devil? I am the first to discover
-that his majesty is married and his wife keeps shop when he is travelling—among
-Jesuits and Jacobites and such busy fuel for the future fires. His wife
-keeps shop, lad, and does a little business among her own sex, using the
-handsomest for her purposes. Satan comes back to the <i>boutique</i>.
-'What!' he cries, and counts the till, 'these have been busy days, good
-wife.' And she, Madame Dusky, chuckles with a 'Ha! Jack, old man, hast a
-good wife or not? Shalt never know how to herd in souls like sheep till
-thou hast a quicker eye for what's below a Capuchin hood.' This—this
-is a sweet woman, this Walkinshaw, Paul, but a dangerous. 'Ware hawk, lad,
-'ware hawk!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I suppose my face reddened at that; at least he looked at me again and
-pinched, and “Smitten to the marrow; may I drink water and grow thin else.
-<i>Sacré nom de nom!</i> 'tis time thou wert on the highways of Europe.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How does it happen that a countrywoman of mine is here alone?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll be shot if thou art not the rascalliest young innocent in France.
-Aye! or out of Scotland,” cried Father Hamilton, holding his sides for
-laughter.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is thy infernal climate of fogs and rains so pleasant that a woman of
-spirit should abide there for ever an' she have the notion to travel
-otherwheres? La! la! la! Master Scrivener, and thou must come to an honest
-pious priest for news of the world. But, boy, I'm deaf and dumb; mine eyes
-on occasion are without vision. Let us say the lady has been an
-over-ardent Jacobite; 'twill suffice in the meantime. And now has't ever
-set eyes on Charles Edward?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I told him I had never had any hand in the Jacobite affairs, if that was
-what he meant.
-</p>
-<p>
-His countenance fell at that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he cried, losing his Roman manner, “do you tell me you have never
-seen him?”
- </p>
-<p>
-But once, I explained, when he marched into Glasgow city with his wild
-Highlanders and bullied the burgesses into providing shoes for his ragged
-army.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said he with a clearing visage, “that will suffice. Must point him
-out to me. Dixmunde parish was a poor place for seeing the great; 'tis why
-I go wandering now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton's hint at politics confirmed my guess about Miss
-Walkinshaw, but I suppose I must have been in a craze to speak of her on
-any pretence, for later in the day I was at Thurot's lodging, and there
-must precognosce again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Oh, mon Dieu, quelle espièglerie!</i>” cried out the captain. “And
-this a Greig too! Well, I do not wonder that your poor uncle stayed so
-long away from home; faith, he'd have died of an <i>ennui</i> else. Miss
-Walkinshaw is—Miss Walkinshaw; a countryman of her own should know
-better than I all that is to be known about her. But 'tis not our affair,
-Mr. Greig. For sure 'tis enough that we find her smiling, gentle,
-tolerant, what you call the 'perfect lady'—<i>n'est ce pas?</i>And
-of all the virtues, upon my word, kindness is the best and rarest, and
-that she has to a miracle.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'm thinking that is not a corsair's creed, Captain Thurot,” said I,
-smiling at the gentleman's eagerness. He was standing over me like a
-lighthouse, with his eyes on fire, gesturing with his arms as they had
-been windmill sails.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, faith! but 'tis a man's, Master Greig, and I have been happy with it.
-Touching our fair friend, I may say that, much as I admire her, I agree
-with some others that ours were a luckier cause without her. Gad! the best
-thing you could do, Mr. Greig, would be to marry her yourself and take her
-back with you to Scotland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What! byway of Paris in Father Hamilton's glass coach,” I said, bantering
-to conceal my confusion at such a notion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“H'm,” said he. “Father Hamilton and the lady are a pair.” He walked a
-little up and down the room as if he were in a quandary. “A pair,” he
-resumed. “I fancied I could see to the very centre of the Sphinx itself,
-for all men are in ourselves if we only knew it, till I came upon this
-Scotswoman and this infernal Flemish-English priest of Dix-munde. Somehow,
-for them Antoine Thurot has not the key in himself yet. Still, 'twill
-arrive, 'twill arrive! I like the lady—and yet I wish she were a
-thousand miles away; I like the man too, but a Jesuit is too many men at
-once to be sure of; and, Gad! I can scarcely sleep at nights for wondering
-what he may be plotting. This grand tour of his-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stop, stop!” I cried, in a fear that he might compromise himself in an
-ignorance of my share in the tour in question; “I must tell you that I am
-going with Father Hamilton as his secretary, although it bothers me to
-know what scrivening is to be accomplished in a glass coach. Like enough I
-am to be no more, in truth, than the gentleman's companion or courier, and
-it is no matter so long as I am moving.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and is it so?” cried Captain Thurot, stopping as if he had been
-shot. “And how happens it that this priest is willing to take you, that
-are wholly a foreigner and a stranger to the country?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Miss Walkinshaw recommended me,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh!” he cried, “you have not been long of getting into your excellent
-countrywoman's kind favour. Is it that Tony Thurot has been doing the
-handsome by an ingrate? No, no, Monsieur, that were a monstrous innuendo,
-for the honour has been all mine. But that Miss Walkinshaw should be on
-such good terms with the priest as to trouble with the provision of his
-secretary is opposed to all I had expected of her. Why, she dislikes the
-man, or I'm a stuffed fish.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Anyhow, she has done a handsome thing by me,” said I. “It is no wonder
-that so good a heart as hers should smother its repugnances (and the
-priest is a fat sow, there is no denying) for the sake of a poor lad from
-its own country. You are but making it the plainer that I owe her more
-than at first I gave her credit for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bless me, here's gratitude!” cried the captain, laughing at my warmth.
-“Mademoiselle Walkinshaw has her own plans; till now, I fancied them
-somewhat different from Hamilton's, but more fool I to fancy they were
-what they seemed! All that, my dear lad, need not prevent your enjoying
-your grand tour with the priest, who has plenty of money and the
-disposition to spend it like a gentleman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Finally I went to my Lord Clancarty, for it will be observed that I had
-still no hint as to the origin of the lady who was so good a friend of
-mine. Though the last thing in the world I should have done was to pry
-into her affairs for the indulgence of an idle curiosity, I would know the
-best of her before the time came to say farewell, and leave of her with me
-no more than a memory.
-</p>
-<p>
-The earl was at the Café du Soleil d'Or, eating mussels on the terrace and
-tossing the empty shells into the gutter what time he ogled passing women
-and exchanged levitous repartee with some other frequenters of the place.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Egad, Paul,” he cried, meeting me with effusion, “'tis said there is one
-pearl to be found for every million mussels; but here's a pearl come to me
-in the midst of a single score. An Occasion, lad; I sat at the dice last
-night till a preposterous hour this morning, and now I have a headache
-like the deuce and a thirst to take the Baltic. I must have the tiniest
-drop, and on an Occasion too. <i>Voilà! Gaspard, une autre bouteille.</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had his bottle, that I merely made pretence to help him empty, and I
-had my precognition.
-</p>
-<p>
-But it came to little in the long run. Oh yes, he understood my interest
-in the lady (with rakish winking); 'twas a delicious creature for all its
-<i>hauteur</i> when one ventured a gallantry, but somehow no particular
-friend to the Earl of Clancarty, who, if she only knew it, was come of as
-noble a stock as any rotten Scot ever went unbreeched; not but what (this
-with a return of the naturally polite man) there were admirable and
-high-bred people of that race, as instance my Uncle Andrew and myself. But
-was there any reason why such a man as Charlie Stuart should be King of
-Ireland? “I say, Greig, blister the old Chevalier and his two sons! There
-is not a greater fumbler on earth than this sotted person, who has drunk
-the Cause to degradation and would not stir a hand to serve me and my
-likes, that are, begad! the fellow's betters.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But all this,” said I, “has little to do with Miss Walkinshaw. I have
-nothing to say of the Prince, who may be all you say, though that is not
-the repute he has in Scotland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bravo, Mr. Greig!” cried his lordship. “That is the tone if you would
-keep in the lady's favour. Heaven knows she has little reason to listen to
-praise of such a creature, but, then, women are blind. She loves not
-Clancarty, as I have said; but, no matter, I forgive her that; 'tis well
-known 'tis because I cannot stomach her prince.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And yet,” said I, “you must interest yourself in these Jacobite affairs
-and mix with all that are here of that party.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Faith and I do,” he confessed heartily. “What! am I to be a mole and stay
-underground? A man must have his diversion, and though I detest the Prince
-I love his foolish followers. Do you know what, Mr. Greig? 'Tis the
-infernal irony of things in this absurd world that the good fellows, the
-bloods, the men of sensibilities must for ever be wrapped up in poor mad
-escapades and emprises. And a Clancarty is ever of such a heart that the
-more madcap the scheme the more will he dote on it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A woman passing in a chair at this moment looked in his direction;
-fortunately, otherwise I was condemned to a treatise on life and pleasure.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Egad!” he cried, “there's a face that's like a line of song,” and he
-smiled at her with unpardonable boldness as it seemed to me, a pleasant
-pucker about his eyes, a hint of the good comrade in his mouth.
-</p>
-<p>
-She flushed like wine and tried to keep from smiling, but could not
-resist, and smiling she was borne away.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do you know her, my lord?” I could not forbear asking.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is it know her?” said he. “Devil a know, but 'tis a woman anyhow, and a
-heart at that. Now who the deuce can she be?” And he proceeded, like a
-true buck, to fumble with the Mechlin of his fall and dust his stockings
-in an airy foppish manner so graceful that I swear no other could have
-done the same so well.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now this Miss Walkinshaw—” I went on, determined to have some
-satisfaction from my interview.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Confound your Miss Walkinshaw, by your leave, Mr. Greig,” he interrupted.
-“Can you speak of Miss Walkinshaw when the glory of the comet is still
-trailing in the heavens? And—hum!—I mind me of a certain
-engagement, Mr. Greig,” he went on hurriedly, drawing a horologe from his
-fob and consulting it with a frowning brow. “In the charm of your
-conversation I had nigh forgot, so <i>adieu, adieu, mon ami!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-He gave me the tips of his fingers, and a second later he was gone,
-stepping down the street with a touch of the minuet, tapping his legs with
-his cane, his sword skewering his coat-skirts, all the world giving him
-the cleanest portion of the thoroughfare and looking back after him with
-envy and admiration.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XVII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WITNESSES THE LAST OF A BLATE YOUNG MAN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd all this time it may well be wondered where was my remorse for a shot
-fired on the moor of Mearns, for two wretched homes created by my passion
-and my folly. And where, in that shifting mind of mine, was the place of
-Isobel Fortune, whose brief days of favour for myself (if that, indeed,
-was not imagination on my part) had been the cause of these my wanderings?
-There is one beside me as I write, ready to make allowance for youth and
-ignorance, the untutored affection, the distraught mind, if not for the
-dubiety as to her feelings for myself when I was outlawed for a deed of
-blood and had taken, as the Highland phrase goes, the world for my pillow.
-</p>
-<p>
-I did not forget the girl of Kirkillstane; many a time in the inward
-visions of the night, and of the day too, I saw her go about that far-off
-solitary house in the hollow of the hills. Oddly enough, 'twas ever in
-sunshine I saw her, with her sun-bonnet swinging from its ribbons and her
-hand above her eyes, shading them that she might look across the fields
-that lay about her home, or on a tryst of fancy by the side of Earn,
-hearing the cushats mourn in a magic harmony with her melancholy thoughts.
-As for the killing of young Borland, that I kept, waking at least, from my
-thoughts, or if the same intruded, I found it easier, as time passed, to
-excuse myself for a fatality that had been in the experience of nearly
-every man I now knew—of Clancarty and Thurot, of the very baker in
-whose house I lodged and who kneaded the dough for his little bread not a
-whit the less cheerily because his hands had been imbrued.
-</p>
-<p>
-The late Earl of Clare, in France called the Maréchal Comte de Thomond,
-had come to Dunkerque in the quality of Inspector-General of the Armies of
-France, to review the troops in garrison and along that menacing coast.
-The day after my engagement with Father Hamilton I finished my French
-lesson early and went to see his lordship and his army on the dunes to the
-east of the town. Cannon thundered, practising at marks far out in the
-sea; there was infinite manoeuvring of horse and foot; the noon was noisy
-with drums and the turf shook below the hoofs of galloping chargers. I
-fancy it was a holiday; at least, as I recall the thing, Dunkerque was all
-<i>en fête</i>, and a happy and gay populace gathered in the rear of the
-maréchales flag. Who should be there among the rest, or rather a little
-apart from the crowd, but Miss Walkinshaw! She had come in a chair; her
-dainty hand beckoned me to her side almost as soon as I arrived.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now, that's what I must allow is very considerate,” said she, eyeing my
-red shoes, which were put on that day from some notion of proper
-splendour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well considered?” I repeated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Just well considered,” said she. “You know how much it would please me to
-see you in your red shoes, and so you must put them on.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was young in these days, and, like the ass I was, I quickly set about
-disabusing her mind of a misapprehension that injured her nor me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, Miss Walkinshaw,” said I, “how could I do that when I did not
-know you were to be here? You are the last I should have expected to see
-here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” she exclaimed, growing very red. “Does Mr. Greig trouble himself
-so much about the <i>convenances?</i> And why should I not be here if I
-have the whim? Tell me that, my fastidious compatriot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Here was an accountable flurry over a thoughtless phrase!
-</p>
-<p>
-“No reason in the world that I know of,” said I gawkily, as red as
-herself, wondering what it was my foot was in.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That you know of,” she repeated, as confused as ever. “It seems to me,
-Mr. Greig, that the old gentleman who is tutoring you in the French
-language would be doing a good turn to throw in a little of the manners of
-the same. Let me tell you that I am as much surprised as you can be to
-find myself here, and now that you are so good as to put me in mind of the—of
-the—of the <i>convenances</i>, I will go straight away home. It was
-not the priest, nor was it Captain Thurot that got your ear, for they are
-by the way of being gentlemen; it could only have been this Irishman
-Clancarty—the quality of that country have none of the scrupulosity
-that distinguishes our own. You can tell his lordship, next time you see
-him, that Miss Walkinshaw will see day about with him for this.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She ordered her chairmen to take her home, and then—burst into
-tears!
-</p>
-<p>
-I followed at her side, in a stew at my indiscoverable blundering, my <i>chapeau-de-bras</i>
-in my hand, and myself like to greet too for sympathy and vexation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “Heaven
-knows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your good
-opinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Go away!” she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, that
-was now being borne towards the town.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for the
-freedom,” I said, “for here's some monstrous misconception, and I must
-clear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed to me. Feeling
-like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walk deliberately by her
-side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. She dismissed the chair and
-was for going into the house without letting an eye light on young
-persistency.
-</p>
-<p>
-“One word, Miss Walkinshaw,” I pleaded. “We are a Scottish man and a
-Scottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in this
-street, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she will not
-give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and an affection, a
-chance to know wherein he may have blundered.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Respect and affection,” she said, her profile turned to me, her foot on
-the steps, visibly hesitating.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Respect and affection,” I repeated, flushing at my own boldness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?” she said, biting her nether lip and
-still manifestly close on tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How?” said I, bewildered. “His lordship gave me no tales that I know of.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And why,” said she, “be at such pains to tell me you wondered I should be
-there?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I got very red at that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig,” she said bitterly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, then,” I ventured boldly, “what I should have said was that I
-feared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. And I
-have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with me and
-would not let me explain myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” she cried, quite radiant, “and, after all, the red shoon were not
-without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tell you the
-truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only making believe to
-be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither you can see me to
-my parlour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, Bernard,” she said to the Swiss as we entered, “any news?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He informed her there was none.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! no one called?” said she with manifest disappointment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Personne, Madame</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No letters?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Nor were there any letters, he replied.
-</p>
-<p>
-She sighed, paused irresolute a moment with her foot on the stair, one
-hand at her heart, the other at the fastening of her coat, and looked at
-me with a face almost tragic in its trouble. I cannot but think she was on
-the brink of a confidence, but ere it came she changed her mind and dashed
-up the stair with a tra-la-la of a song meant to indicate her
-indifference, leaving me a while in her parlour while she changed her
-dress. She came back to me in a little, attired in a pale
-primrose-coloured paduasoy, the cuffs and throat embroidered in a pattern
-of roses and leaves, her hair unpowdered and glossy, wantoning in and out
-of a neck beyond description. The first thing she did on entrance was odd
-enough, for it was to stand over me where I lounged on her settee, staring
-down into my eyes until I felt a monstrous embarrassment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am wonderin',” said she, “if ye are the man I tak' ye for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Her eyes were moist; I saw she had been crying in her toilet room.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm just the man you see,” I said, “but for some unco' troubles that are
-inside me and are not for airing to my friends on a fine day in
-Dunkerque.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Perhaps, like the lave of folks, ye dinna ken yoursel',” she went on,
-speaking with no sprightly humour though in the Scots she was given to
-fall to in her moments of fun. “All men, Mr. Greig, mean well, but most of
-them fall short of their own ideals; they're like the women in that, no
-doubt, but in the men the consequence is more disastrous.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“When I was a girl in a place you know,” she went on even more soberly, “I
-fancied all men were on the model of honest John Walkinshaw—better
-within than without. He was stern to austerity, demanding the last
-particle of duty from his children, and to some he might seem hard, but I
-have never met the man yet with a kinder heart, a pleasanter mind, a more
-pious disposition than John Walkin-shaw's. It has taken ten years, and
-acquaintance with some gentry not of Scotland, to make it plain that all
-men are not on his model.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I could fancy not, to judge from his daughter,” I said, blushing at my
-first compliment that was none the less bold because it was sincere.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that she put on a little mouth and shrugged her shoulders with a shiver
-that made the snaps in her ears tremble.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My good young man,” said she, “there you go! If there's to be any
-friendship between you and Clementina Walkinshaw, understand there must be
-a different key from that. You are not only learning your French, but you
-are learning, it would seem, the manners of the nation. It was that made
-me wonder if you could be the man I took you for the first day you were in
-this room and I found I could make you greet with a Scots sang, and tell
-me honestly about a lass you had a notion of and her no' me. That last's
-the great stroke of honesty in any man, and let me tell you there are some
-women who would not relish it. But you are in a company here so ready with
-the tongue of flattery that I doubt each word they utter, and that's droll
-enough in me that loves my fellow creatures, and used to think the very
-best of every one of them. If I doubt them now I doubt them with a sore
-enough heart, I'll warrant you. Oh! am I not sorry that my man of Mearns
-should be put in the reverence of such creatures as Clancarty and Thurot,
-and all that gang of worldlings? I do not suppose I could make you
-understand it, Mr. Paul Greig, but I feel motherly to you, and to see my
-son—this great giant fellow who kens the town of Glasgow and dwelt
-in Mearns where I had May milk, and speaks wi' the fine Scots tongue like
-mysel' when his heart is true—to see him the boon comrade with folks
-perhaps good enough for Clementina Walkinshaw but lacking a particle of
-principle, is a sight to sorrow me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And is it for that you seek to get me away with the priest?” I asked,
-surprised at all this, and a little resenting the suggestion of youth
-implied in her feeling like a mother to me. Her face was lit, her movement
-free and beautiful; something in her fascinated me.
-</p>
-<p>
-She dropped in a chair and pushed the hair from her ears with a hand like
-milk, and laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now how could you guess?” said she. “Am I no' the careful mother of you
-to put you in the hands o' the clergy? I doubt this play-acting
-rhetorician of a man from Dixmunde is no great improvement on the rest of
-your company when all's said and done, but you'll be none the worse for
-seeing the world at his costs, and being in other company than Clancarty's
-and Thurot's and Roscommon's. He told me to-day you were going with him,
-and I was glad that I had been of that little service to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then it seems you think so little of my company as to be willing enough
-to be rid of me at the earliest opportunity,” I said, honestly somewhat
-piqued at her readiness to clear me out of Dunkerque.
-</p>
-<p>
-She looked at me oddly. “Havers, Mr. Greig!” said she, “just havers!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was thanking her for her offices, but she checked me. “You are well
-off,” she said, “to be away from here while these foolish manouvrings are
-on foot. Poor me! I must bide and see them plan the breaking down of my
-native country. It's a mercy I know in what a fiasco it will end, this
-planning. Hearken! Do you hear the bugles? That's Soubise going back to
-the caserne. He and his little men are going back to eat another dinner
-destined to assist in the destruction of an island where you and I should
-be this day if we were wiser than we are. Fancy them destroying Britain,
-Mr. Greig!—Britain, where honest John Walkinshaw is, that never said
-an ill word in his life, nor owed any man a penny: where the folks are
-guid and true, and fear God and want nothing but to be left to their
-crofts and herds. If it was England—if it was the palace of Saint
-James—no, but it's Scotland, too, and the men you saw marching up
-and down to-day are to be marching over the moor o' Mearns when the
-heather's red. Can you think of it?” She stamped her foot. “Where the wee
-thack hooses are at the foot o' the braes, and the bairns playing under
-the rowan trees; where the peat is smelling, and the burns are singing in
-the glens, and the kirk-bells are ringing. Poor Mr. Greig! Are ye no' wae
-for Scotland? Do ye think Providence will let a man like Thomond ye saw
-to-day cursing on horseback—do ye think Providence will let him lead
-a French army among the roads you and I ken so well, affronting the people
-we ken too, who may be a thought dull in the matter of repartee, but are
-for ever decent, who may be hard-visaged, but are so brave?”
- </p>
-<p>
-She laughed, herself, half bitterly, half contemptuously, at the picture
-she drew. Outside, in the sunny air of the afternoon, the bugles of
-Soubise filled the street with brazen cries, and nearer came the roar of
-pounding drums. I thought I heard them menacing the sleep of evening
-valleys far away, shattering the calm of the hearth of Hazel Den.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The cause for which—for which so many are exile here,” I said,
-looking on this Jacobite so strangely inconsistent, “has no reason to
-regret that France should plan an attack on Georgius Rex.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She shook her head impatiently. “The cause has nothing to do with it, Mr.
-Greig,” said she. “The cause will suffer from this madness more than ever
-it did, but in any case 'tis the most miserable of lost causes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Prince Charlie-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Once it was the cause with me, now I would sooner have it Scotland,” she
-went on, heedless of my interruption. “Scotland! Scotland! Oh, how the
-name of her is like a dirge to me, and my heart is sore for her! Where is
-your heart, Mr. Greig, that it does not feel alarm at the prospect of
-these <i>crapauds</i> making a single night's sleep uneasy for the folks
-you know? Where is your heart, I'm asking?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I wish I knew,” said I impulsively, staring at her, completely bewitched
-by her manner so variable and intense, and the straying tendrils of her
-hair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do you not?” said she. “Then I will tell you. It is where it ought to be—with
-a girl of the name of Isobel Fortune. Oh, the dear name! oh, the sweet
-name! And when you are on your travels with this priest do not be
-forgetting her. Oh, yes! I know you will tell me again that all is over
-between the pair of you, and that she loved another—but I am not
-believing a word of that, Mr. Greig, when I look at you—(and will ye
-say 'thank ye' for the compliment that's there?)—you will just go on
-thinking her the same, and you will be the better man for it. There's
-something tells me she is thinking of you though I never saw her, the
-dear! Let me see, this is what sort of girl she will be.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She drew her chair closer to the settee and leaned forward in front of me,
-and, fixing her eyes on mine, drew a picture of the girl of Kirkillstane
-as she imagined her.
-</p>
-<p>
-“She will be about my own height, and with the same colour of hair-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How do you know that? I never said a word of that to you,” I cried,
-astonished at the nearness of her first guess.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I'm a witch,” she cried triumphantly, “a fair witch. Hoots! do I no'
-ken ye wadna hae looked the side o' the street I was on if I hadna put ye
-in mind o' her? Well, she's my height and colour—but, alack-a-day,
-no' my years. She 'll have a voice like the mavis for sweetness, and 'll
-sing to perfection. She'll be shy and forward in turns, accordin' as you
-are forward and shy; she 'll can break your heart in ten minutes wi' a
-pout o' her lips or mak' ye fair dizzy with delight at a smile. And then”—here
-Miss Walkinshaw seemed carried away herself by her fancy portrait, for she
-bent her brows studiously as she thought, and seemed to speak in an
-abstraction—“and then she'll be a managing woman. She'll be the sort
-of woman that the Bible tells of whose value is over rubies; knowing your
-needs as you battle with the world, and cheerful when you come in to the
-hearthstone from the turmoil outside. A witty woman and a judge of things,
-calm but full of fire in your interests. A household where the wife's a
-doll is a cart with one wheel, and your Isobel will be the perfect woman.
-I think she must have travelled some, too, and seen how poor is the wide
-world compared with what is to be found at your own fire-end; I think she
-must have had trials and learned to be brave.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She stopped suddenly, looked at me and got very red in the face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A fine picture, Miss Walkinshaw!” said I, with something drumming at my
-heart. “It is not just altogether like Isobel Fortune, who has long syne
-forgot but to detest me, but I fancy I know who it is like.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And who might that be?” she asked in a low voice and with a somewhat
-guilty look.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Will I tell you?” I asked, myself alarmed at my boldness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No! no! never mind,” she cried. “I was just making a picture of a girl I
-once knew—poor lass! and of what she might have been. But she's dead—dead
-and buried. I hope, after all, your Isobel is a nobler woman than the one
-I was thinking on and a happier destiny awaiting her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That cannot matter much to me now,” I said, “for, as I told you, there is
-nothing any more between us—except—except a corp upon the
-heather.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She shuddered as she did the first time I told her of my tragedy, and
-sucked in the air again through her clenched teeth.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poor lad! poor lad!” said she. “And you have quite lost her. If so, and
-the thing must be, then this glass coach of Father Hamilton's must take
-you to the country of forgetfulness. I wish I could drive there myself
-this minute, but wae's me, there's no chariot at the <i>remise</i> that'll
-do that business for John Walkinshaw's girl.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Something inexpressively moving was in her mien, all her heart was in her
-face as it seemed; a flash of fancy came to me that she was alone in the
-world with nothing of affection to hap her round from its abrasions, and
-that her soul was crying out for love. Sweet beyond expression was this
-woman and I was young; up to my feet I rose, and turned on her a face that
-must have plainly revealed my boyish passion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Miss Walkinshaw,” I said, “you may put me out of this door for ever, but
-I'm bound to say I'm going travelling in no glass coach; Dunkerque will be
-doing very well for me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Her lips trembled; her cheek turned pale; she placed a hand upon her
-breast, and there was I contrite before her anger!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is this—is this your respect and your esteem, Mr. Greig?” she asked
-brokenly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They were never greater than at this moment,” I replied.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And how are they to be manifested by your waiting on in Dunkerque?” she
-asked, recovering her colour and some of her ordinary manner.
-</p>
-<p>
-How indeed? She had no need to ask me the question, for it was already
-ringing through my being. That the Spoiled Horn from Mearns, an outlaw
-with blood on his hands and borrowed money in his pocket, should have the
-presumption to feel any ardour for this creature seemed preposterous to
-myself, and I flushed in an excess of shame and confusion.
-</p>
-<p>
-This seemed completely to reassure her. “Oh, Mr. Greig—Mr. Greig,
-was I not right to ask if ye were the man ye seemed? Here's a nice display
-o' gallantry from my giant son! I believe you are just makin' fun o' this
-auld wife; and if no' I hae just one word for you, Paul Greig, and it's
-this that I said afore—jist havers!”
- </p>
-<p>
-She went to her spinet and ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a
-song—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Oh, what ails the laddie, new twined frae his mither?
-The laddie gallantin' roun' Tibbie and me?—
-</pre>
-<p>
-with glances coquettish yet repelling round her shoulder at me as I stood
-turning my <i>chapeau-de-bras</i> in my hand as a boy turns his bonnet in
-presence of laird or dominie. The street was shaking now with the sound of
-marching soldiers, whose platoons were passing in a momentary silence of
-trumpet or drum. All at once the trumpets blared forth just in front of
-the house, broke upon her song, and gave a heavensent diversion to our
-comedy or tragedy or whatever it was in the parlour.
-</p>
-<p>
-We both stood looking out at the window for a while in silence, watching
-the passing troops, and when the last file had gone, she turned with a
-change of topic “If these men had been in England ten years ago,” she
-said, “when brisk affairs were doing there with Highland claymores, your
-Uncle Andrew would have been there, too, and it would not perhaps be your
-father who was Laird of Hazel Den. But that's all by with now. And when do
-you set out with Father Hamilton?”
- </p>
-<p>
-She had a face as serene as fate; my heart ached to tell her that I loved
-her, but her manner made me hold my tongue on that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“In three days,” I said, still turning my hat and wishing myself
-elsewhere, though her presence intoxicated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“In three days!” she said, as one astonished. “I had thought it had been a
-week at the earliest. Will I tell you what you might do? You are my great
-blate bold son, you know, from the moors of Mearns, and I will be wae,
-wae, to think of you travelling all round Europe without a friend of your
-own country to exchange a word with. Write to me; will you?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed and I will, and that gaily,” I cried, delighted at the prospect.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and what
-you have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, and
-be sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel, I
-daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league upon the
-map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to be here at
-noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will write to you—but
-oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would I have him know
-that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. That is bad.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, but the
-problem was beyond me, and she sighed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course his reverence need not know anything about it,” she said then.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Certainly,” I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. “I will never
-mention to him anything about it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without his
-suspecting something?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, but he cannot suspect.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this Father
-Hamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves so
-innocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way that I
-shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way. But
-never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honour for
-that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over the
-bannister and cried after me:
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mr. Greig,” said she, “ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoes when
-ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to be thinkin'
-of you as traivellin' in them a' the time.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I looked up and saw her smiling saucily at me over the rail.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Would you indeed?” said I. “Then I'll never put them aff till I see ye
-again, when I come back to Dunkerque.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is kind,” she answered, laughing outright, “but fair reediculous. To
-wear them to bed would be against your character for sobriety.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XIX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A RAP IN THE EARLY MORNING AWAKENS ME AND I START IN A GLASS COACH UPON
-THE ODDEST OF JOURNEYS
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the last, for many months, I was to see of my countrywoman. Before
-the crow of the cock next morning I was on the unending roads, trundling
-in a noisy vehicle through pitch darkness, my companion snoring stertorous
-at my side, his huge head falling every now and then upon my shoulder,
-myself peering to catch some revelation of what manner of country-side we
-went through as the light from the swinging lanthorn lit up briefly
-passing banks of frosted hedge or sleeping hamlets on whose pave the hoofs
-of our horses hammered as they had been the very war-steeds of Bellona.
-</p>
-<p>
-But how came I there? How but by my master's whim, that made him
-anticipate his departure by three days and drag me from my bed incontinent
-to set out upon his trip over Europe.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had been sleeping soundly, dreaming I heard the hopper of the mill of
-Driepps at home banging to make Jock Alexander's fortune, when I awakened,
-or rather half-wakened, to discover that 'twas no hopper but a nieve at my
-door, rapping with a vigour to waken the dead.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come out! Sir Secretary, come out! or I shall pull thy domicile about
-thine ears,” cried the voice of Father Hamilton.
-</p>
-<p>
-He stood at the door when I opened, wrapped over the chin in a muffler of
-multitudinous folds, and covered by a roquelaure.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pax!</i>” he cried, thrusting a purple face into the room, “and on
-with thy boots like a good lad. We must be off and over the dunes before
-the bell of St. Eloi knocks another nail in the coffin of time.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” I said, dumbfoundered, “are we to start on our journey to-day?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Even so, my sluggardly Scot; faith! before the day even, for the day will
-be in a deuce of a hurry an' it catch up on us before we reach
-Pont-Opoise. Sop a crust in a jug of wine—I've had no better <i>petit
-déjeuner</i> myself—put a clean cravat and a pair of hose in thy
-sack, and in all emulate the judicious flea that wastes no time in idle
-rumination, but transacts its affairs in a succession of leaps.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And no time to say good-bye to anyone?” I asked, struggling into my
-toilet.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la! the flea never takes a <i>congé</i> that I've heard on,
-Master Punctilio. Not so much as a kiss o' the hand for you; I have had
-news, and 'tis now or never.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Twenty minutes later, Thurot's landlord (for Thurot himself was from home)
-lit me to the courtyard, and the priest bundled me and my sack into the
-bowels of an enormous chariot waiting there.
-</p>
-<p>
-The clocks began to strike the hour of five; before the last stroke had
-ceased to shiver the darkness we were thundering along the sea front and
-my master was already composed to sleep in his corner, without vouchsafing
-me a sentence of explanation for so hurried a departure. Be sure my heart
-was sore! I felt the blackest of ingrates to be thus speeding without a
-sign of farewell from a place where I had met with so much of friendship.
-</p>
-<p>
-Out at the window of the coach I gazed, to see nothing but the cavernous
-night on one side, on the other, lit by the lanthorn, the flashing past of
-houses all shuttered and asleep.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was dry and pleasant weather, with a sting of frost in the air, and the
-propinquity of the sea manifest not in its plangent voice alone but in the
-odour of it that at that hour dominated the natural smells of the
-faubourgs. Only one glimpse I had of fellow creatures; as we passed the
-fort, the flare of flambeaux showed an enormous body of soldiers working
-upon the walls of Risebank; it but added to the poignance of my melancholy
-to reflect that here were my country's enemies unsleeping, and I made a
-sharp mental contrast of this most dauntening spectacle with a picture of
-the house of Hazel Den dreaming among its trees, and only crying lambs
-perhaps upon the moor to indicate that any life was there. Melancholy! oh,
-it was eerie beyond expression for me that morning! Outside, the driver
-talked to his horses and to some one with him on the boot; it must have
-been cheerier for him than for me as I sat in that sombre and close
-interior, jolted by my neighbour, and unable to refrain from
-rehabilitating all the past. Especially did I think of my dark home-coming
-with a silent father on the day I left the college to go back to the
-Mearns. And by a natural correlation, that was bound to lead to all that
-followed—even to the event for which I was now so miserably remote
-from my people.
-</p>
-<p>
-Once or twice his reverence woke, to thrust his head out at the window and
-ask where we were. Wherever we were when he did so, *twas certain never to
-be far enough for his fancy, and he condemned the driver for a snail until
-the whip cracked wickedly and the horses laboured more strenuously than
-ever, so that our vehicle swung upon its springs till it might well seem
-we were upon a ship at sea.
-</p>
-<p>
-For me he had but the one comment—“I wonder what's for <i>déjeuner.</i>”
- He said it each time solemnly as it were his matins, and then slid into
-his swinish sleep again.
-</p>
-<p>
-The night seemed interminable, but by-and-by the day broke. I watched it
-with eagerness as it gradually paled the east, and broke up the black bulk
-of the surrounding land into fields, orchards, gardens, woods. And the
-birds awoke—God bless the little birds!—they woke, and started
-twittering and singing in the haze, surely the sweetest, the least sinless
-of created things, the tiny angels of the woods, from whom, walking in
-summer fields in the mornings of my age as of my youth, I have borrowed
-hope and cheer.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton wakened too, and heard the birds; indeed, they filled the
-ear of the dawn with melodies. A smile singularly pleasant came upon his
-countenance as he listened.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardieu!</i>” said he, “how they go on! Has't the woodland soul, <i>Sieur
-Croque-mort</i>? Likely enough not; I never knew another but myself and
-thine uncle that had it, and 'tis the mischief that words will not explain
-the same. 'Tis a gift of the fairies”—here he crossed himself
-devoutly and mumbled a Romish incantation—“that, having the said
-woodland spirit—in its nature a Pagan thing perchance, but <i>n'importe!</i>—thou
-hast in the song of the tiny beings choiring there something to make the
-inward tremor that others find in a fiddle and a glass of wine. No! no!
-not that, 'tis a million times more precious; 'tis—'tis the pang of
-the devotee, 'tis the ultimate thrill of things. Myself, I could expire
-upon the ecstasy of the thrush, or climb to heaven upon the lark's May
-rapture. And there they go! the loves! and they have the same ditty I
-heard from them first in Louvain. There are but three clean things in this
-world, my lad of Scotland—a bird, a flower, and a child's laughter.
-I have been confessor long enough to know all else is filth. But what's
-the luck in waiting for us at Azincourt? and what's the <i>pot-au-feu</i>
-to-day?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He listened a little longer to the birds, and fell asleep smiling, his fat
-face for once not amiss, and I was left again alone as it were to receive
-the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-We had long left the dunes and the side of the sea, though sometimes on
-puffs of wind I heard its distant rumour. Now the land was wooded with the
-apple tree; we rose high on the side of a glen, full of a rolling fog that
-streamed off as the day grew. A tolerable land enough; perhaps more lush
-than my own, with scarce a rood uncultivated, and dotted far and wide by
-the strangest farm steadings and pendicles, but such steadings and
-pendicles as these eyes never before beheld, with enormous eaves of thatch
-reaching almost to the ground, and ridiculous windows of no shape; with
-the yokings of the cattle, the boynes, stoups, carts, and ploughs about
-the places altogether different from our own. We passed troops marching,
-peasants slouching with baskets of poultry to market towns, now and then a
-horseman, now and then a caleche. And there were numerous hamlets, and at
-least two middling-sized towns, and finally we came, at the hour of
-eleven, upon the place appointed for our <i>déjeuner</i>. It was a small
-inn on the banks of the only rivulet I had seen in all the journey. I
-forget its name, but I remember there was a patch of heather on the side
-of it, and that I wished ardently the season had been autumn that I might
-have looked upon the purple bells.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Tis a long lane that has no tavern,” said his reverence, and oozed out of
-his side of the coach with groanings. The innkeeper ran forth, louted, and
-kissed his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Jour, m'sieu jour!</i>” said Father Hamilton hurriedly. “And now, what
-have you here that is worth while?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The innkeeper respectfully intimated that the church of
-Saint-Jean-en-Grève was generally considered worth notice. Its vestments,
-relics, and windows were of merit, and the view from the tower—
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mort de ma vie!</i>” cried the priest angrily, “do I look like a
-traveller who trots up belfrys in strange villages at the hour of <i>déjeuner?</i>
-A plague on Saint-Jean-en-Grève! I said nothing at all of churches; I
-spoke of <i>déjeuner</i>, my good fellow. What's for <i>déjeuner?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-The innkeeper recounted a series of dishes. Father Hamilton hummed and
-hawed, reflected, condemned, approved, all with an eagerness beyond
-description. And when the meal was being dished up, he went frantically to
-the kitchen and lifted pot-lids, and swung a salad for himself, and
-confounding the ordinary wine for the vilest piquette ordered a special
-variety from the cellar. It was a spectacle of gourmandise not without its
-humour; I was so vastly engaged in watching him that I scarce glanced at
-the men who had travelled on the outside of the coach since morning.
-</p>
-<p>
-What was my amazement when I did so to see that the servant or valet (as
-he turned out to be) was no other than the Swiss, Bernard, who had been in
-the service of Miss Walkinshaw no later than yesterday morning!
-</p>
-<p>
-I commented on the fact to Father Hamilton when we sat down to eat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why, yes!” he said, gobbling at his vivers with a voracity I learned not
-to wonder at later when I knew him more. “The same man. A good man, too,
-or I'm a Turk. I've envied Miss Walkinshaw this lusty, trusty, secret
-rogue for a good twelvemonth, and just on the eve of my leaving Dunkerque,
-by a very providence, the fellow gets drunk and finds himself dismissed.
-He came to me with a flush and a hiccough last night to ask a
-recommendation, and overlooking the peccadillo that is not of a nature
-confined to servants, Master Greig, let me tell thee, I gave him a place
-in my <i>entourage</i>. Madame will not like it, but no matter! she'll
-have time to forget it ere I see her again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I felt a mild satisfaction to have the Swiss with us just because I had
-heard him called “Bernard” so often by his late employer.
-</p>
-<p>
-We rested for some hours after <i>déjeuner</i>, seated under a tree by the
-brink of the rivulet, and in the good humour of a man satisfied in nature
-the priest condescended to let me into some of his plans.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were bound for Paris in the first place. “Zounds!” he cried, “I am all
-impatience to clap eyes again on Lutetia, the sweet rogue, and eat decent
-bread and behold a noble gown and hear a right cadenza. And though thou
-hast lost thy Lyrnessides—la! la! la! I have thee there!—thou
-canst console thyself with the Haemonian lyre. Paris! oh, lad, I'd give
-all to have thy years and a winter or two in it. Still, we shall make
-shift—oh, yes! I warrant thee we shall make shift. We shall be
-there, at my closest reckoning, on the second day of Holy Week, and my
-health being so poorly we shall not wait to commence <i>de faire les
-Pâques</i> an hour after. What's in a <i>soutane</i>, anyhow, that it
-should be permitted to mortify an honest priest's oesophagus?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I sighed in spite of myself, for he had made me think of our throwing of
-Easter eggs on the green at Hazel Den.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he cried. “Does my frugal Scot fancy we have not enough trinkgeld
-for enjoyment. Why, look here!—and here!—and here!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth numerous rouleaux—so
-many that I thought his corpulence might well be a plethora of coin.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There!” said he, squeezing a rouleau till it burst and spreading out the
-gold upon the table before him. “Am I a poor parish priest or a very
-Croesus?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then he scooped in the coins with his fat hands and returned all to his
-bosom. “<i>Allons!</i>” he said shortly; we were on the road again!
-</p>
-<p>
-That night we put up at the Bon Accueil in a town whose name escapes my
-recollection.
-</p>
-<p>
-He had gone to bed; through the wall from his chamber came the noise of
-his sleep, while I was at the writing of my first letter to Miss
-Walkinshaw, making the same as free and almost affectionate as I had been
-her lover, for as I know it now, I was but seeking in her for the face of
-the love of the first woman and the last my heart was given to.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had scarcely concluded when the Swiss came knocking softly to my door,
-and handed me a letter from the very woman whose name was still in wet ink
-upon my folded page. I tore it open eagerly, to find a score of pleasant
-remembrances. She had learned the night before that the priest was to set
-out in the morning: “I have kept my word,” she went on. “Your best friend
-is Bernard, so I let you have him, and let us exchange our billets through
-him. It will be the most Discreet method. And I am, with every
-consideration, Ye Ken Wha.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-LEADS ME TO THE FRONT OF A COFFEE-HOUSE WHERE I AM STARTLED TO SEE A FACE
-I KNOW
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he occasion for this precaution in our correspondence was beyond my
-comprehension; nevertheless I was too proud to have the patronage of so
-fine a woman to cavil at what system she should devise for its discreet
-conduct, and the Swiss that night got my first letter to frank and
-despatch. He got one next evening also, and the evening after that; in
-short, I made a diurnal of each stage in our journey and Bernard was my
-postman—so to name it—on every occasion that I forwarded the
-same to Miss Walkinshaw. He assured me that he was in circumstances to
-secure the more prompt forwardation of my epistles than if I trusted in
-the common runner, and it was a proof of this that when we got, after some
-days, into Versailles, he should bring to me a letter from the lady
-herself informing me how much of pleasure she had got from the receipt of
-the first communication I had sent her.
-</p>
-<p>
-Perhaps it is a sign of the injudicious mind that I should not be very
-mightily pleased with this same Versailles. We had come into it of a sunny
-afternoon and quartered at the Cerf d'Or Inn, and went out in the evening
-for the air. Somehow the place gave me an antagonism; its dipt trees all
-in rows upon the wayside like a guard of soldiers; its trim gardens and
-bits of plots; its fountains crying, as it seemed, for attention—these
-things hurt me as a liberty taken with nature. Here, thought I, is the
-fitting place for the raff in ruffles and the scented wanton; it should be
-the artificial man and the insincere woman should be condemned to walk for
-ever in these alleys and drink in these <i>bosquets;</i> I would not give
-a fir planting black against the evening sky at home for all this pompous
-play-acting at landscape, nor a yard of the brown heather of the hills for
-all these well-drilled flower parterres.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Eh! M. Croque-mort,” said the priest, delighted visibly with all he saw
-about him; “what think'st thou of Le Notre's gardening?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A good deal, sir,” I said, “that need never be mentioned. I feel a pity
-for the poor trees as I did for yon dipt poodle dog at Griepon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la! <i>sots raissonable</i>, Monsieur,” cried the priest. “We
-cannot have the tastes of our Dubarrys and Pompadours and Maintenons so
-called in question by an untravelled Scot that knows but the rude mountain
-and stunted oaks dying in a murrain of climate. 'Art too ingenuous, youth.
-And yet—and yet”—here he paused and tapped his temple and
-smiled whimsically—“between ourselves, I prefer the woods of Somme
-where the birds sang together so jocund t'other day. But there now—ah,
-<i>quelle gloire!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-We had come upon the front of the palace, and its huge far-reaching
-masonry, that I learned later to regard as cold, formal, and wanting in a
-soul, vastly discomposed me. I do not know why it should be so, but as I
-gazed at this—the greatest palace I had ever beheld—I felt
-tears rush irrestrainably to my eyes. Maybe it was the poor little poet in
-MacGibbon's law chamber in Lanark town that used to tenant every ancient
-dwelling with spirits of the past, cropped up for the moment in Father
-Hamilton's secretary, and made me, in a flash, people the place with kings—and
-realise something of the wrench it must have been and still would be to
-each and all of them to say adieu at the long last to this place of noisy
-grandeur where they had had their time of gaiety and splendour. Anyhow, I
-well-nigh wept, and the priest was quick to see it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Fore God!” he cried, “here's Andrew Greig again! 'Twas the wickedest
-rogue ever threw dice, and yet the man must rain at the eyes like a very
-woman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And yet he was pleased, I thought, to see me touched. A band was playing
-somewhere in a garden unseen; he tapped time to its music with his finger
-tips against each other and smiled beatifically and hummed. He seemed at
-peace with the world and himself at that moment, yet a second later he was
-the picture of distress and apprehension.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were going towards the Place d'Armes; he had, as was customary, his arm
-through mine, leaning on me more than was comfortable, for he was the
-poorest judge imaginable of his own corpulence. Of a sudden I felt him
-jolt as if he had been startled, and then he gripped my arm with a nervous
-grasp. All that was to account for his perturbation was that among the few
-pedestrians passing us on the road was one in a uniform who cast a rapid
-glance at us. It was not wonderful that he should do so, for indeed we
-were a singularly ill-assorted pair, but there was a recognition of the
-priest in the glance the man in the uniform threw at him in passing.
-Nothing was said; the man went on his way and we on ours, but looking at
-Father Hamilton I saw his face had lost its colour and grown blotched in
-patches. His hand trembled; for the rest of the walk he was silent, and he
-could not too soon hurry us back to the Cerf d'Or.
-</p>
-<p>
-Next day was Sunday, and Father Hamilton went to Mass leaving me to my own
-affairs, that were not of that complexion perhaps most becoming on that
-day to a lad from Scotland. He came back anon and dressed most
-scrupulously in a suit of lay clothing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come out, Master Greig,” said he, “and use thine eyes for a poor priest
-that has ruined his own in studying the Fathers and seeking for honesty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is not in the nature of a compliment to myself, that,” I said, a
-little tired of his sour sentiments regarding humanity, and not afraid in
-the least to tell him so.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Eh!” said he. “I spoke not of thee, thou savage. A plague on thy curt
-temper; 'twas ever the weakness of the Greigs. Come, and I shall show thee
-a house where thy uncle and I had many a game of dominoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We went to a coffee-house and watched the fashionable world go by. It was
-a sight monstrously fine. Because it was the Easter Sunday the women had
-on their gayest apparel, the men their most belaced <i>jabots</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now look you well, Friend Scotland,” said Father Hamilton, as we sat at a
-little table and watched the stream of quality pass, “look you well and
-watch particularly every gentleman that passes to the right, and when you
-see one you know tell me quickly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had dropped his Roman manner as if in too sober a mood to act.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is it a game?” I asked. “Who can I ken in the town of Versailles that
-never saw me here before?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Never mind,” said he, “do as I tell you. A sharp eye, and-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why,” I cried, “there's a man I have seen before!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Where? where?” said Father Hamilton, with the utmost interest lighting
-his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yonder, to the left of the man with the velvet breeches. He will pass us
-in a minute or two.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The person I meant would have been kenspeckle in any company by the
-splendour of his clothing, but beyond his clothing there was a haughtiness
-in his carriage that singled him out even among the fashionables of
-Versailles, who were themselves obviously interested in his personality,
-to judge by the looks that they gave him as closely as breeding permitted.
-He came sauntering along the pavement swinging a cane by its tassel, his
-chin in the air, his eyes anywhere but on the crowds that parted to give
-him room. As he came closer I saw it was a handsome face enough that thus
-was cocked in haughtiness to the heavens, not unlike Clancarty's in that
-it showed the same signs of dissipation, yet with more of native nobility
-in it than was in the good enough countenance of the French-Irish
-nobleman. Where had I seen that face before?
-</p>
-<p>
-It must have been in Scotland; it must have been when I was a boy; it was
-never in the Mearns. This was a hat with a Dettingen cock; when I saw that
-forehead last it was under a Highland bonnet.
-</p>
-<p>
-A Highland bonnet—why! yes, and five thousand Highland bonnets were
-in its company—whom had I here but Prince Charles Edward!
-</p>
-<p>
-The recognition set my heart dirling in my breast, for there was enough of
-the rebel in me to feel a romantic glow at seeing him who set Scotland in
-a blaze, and was now the stuff of songs our women sang in milking folds
-among the hills; that heads had fallen for, and the Hebrides had been
-searched for in vain for weary seasons. The man was never a hero of mine
-so long as I had the cooling influence of my father to tell me how
-lamentable for Scotland had been his success had God permitted the same,
-yet I was proud to-day to see him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is it he?” asked the priest, dividing his attention between me and the
-approaching nobleman.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's no other,” said I. “I would know Prince Charles in ten thousand,
-though I saw him but the once in a rabble of caterans coming up the
-Gallow-gate of Glasgow.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said the priest, with a curious sighing sound. “They said he passed
-here at the hour. And that's our gentleman, is it? I expected he would
-have been—would have been different.” When the Prince was opposite
-the café where we sat he let his glance come to earth, and it fell upon
-myself. His aspect changed; there was something of recognition in it;
-though he never slackened his pace and was gazing the next moment down the
-vista of the street, I knew that his glance had taken me in from head to
-heel, and that I was still the object of his thoughts.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You see! you see!” cried the priest, “I was right, and he knew the Greig.
-Why, lad, shalt have an Easter egg for this—the best horologe in
-Versailles upon Monday morning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why, how could he know me?” I asked. “It is an impossibility, for when he
-and I were in the same street last he rode a horse high above an army and
-I was only a raw laddie standing at a close-mouth in Duff's Land in the
-Gallowgate.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But all the same I felt the priest was right, and that there was some sort
-of recognition in the Prince's glance at me in passing.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton poured himself a generous glass and drank thirstily.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la!” said he, resuming his customary manner of address. “I
-daresay his Royal Highness has never clapt eyes on thy <i>croque-mori</i>
-countenance before, but he has seen its like—ay, and had a regard
-for it, too! Thine Uncle Andrew has done the thing for thee again; the
-mole, the hair, the face, the shoes—sure they advertise the Greig as
-by a drum tuck! and Charles Edward knew thy uncle pretty well so I
-supposed he would know thee. And this is my gentleman, is it? Well, well!
-No, not at all well; mighty ill indeed. Not the sort of fellow I had
-looked for at all. Seems a harmless man enough, and has tossed many a
-goblet in the way of company. If he had been a sour whey-face now—”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton applied himself most industriously to the bottle that
-afternoon, and it was not long till the last of my respect for him was
-gone. Something troubled him. He was moody and hilarious by turns, but
-neither very long, and completed my distrust of him when he intimated that
-there was some possibility of our trip across Europe never coming into
-effect. But all the same, I was to be assured of his patronage, I was to
-continue in his service as secretary, if, as was possible, he should take
-up his residence for a time in Paris. And money—why, look again! he
-had a ship's load of it, and 'twould never be said of Father Hamilton that
-he could not share with a friend. And there he thrust some rouleaux upon
-me and clapped my shoulder and was so affected at his own love for Andrew
-Greig's nephew that he must even weep.
-</p>
-<p>
-Weeping indeed was the priest's odd foible for the week we remained at
-Versailles. He that had been so jocular before was now filled with morose
-moods, and would ruminate over his bottle by the hour at a time.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was none the better for the company he met during our stay at the Cerf
-d'Or—all priests, and to the number of half a dozen, one of them an
-abbé with a most noble and reverent countenance. They used to come to him
-late at night, confer with him secretly in his room, and when they were
-gone I found him each time drenched in a perspiration and feverishly
-gulping spirits.
-</p>
-<p>
-Every day we went to the café where we had seen the Prince first, and
-every day at the same hour we saw his Royal Highness, who, it appeared,
-was not known to the world as such, though known to me. The sight of him
-seemed to trouble Father Hamilton amazingly, and yet 'twas the grand
-object of the day—its only diversion; when we had seen the Prince we
-went back straight to the inn every afternoon.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Cerf d'Or had a courtyard, cobbled with rough stones, in which there
-was a great and noisy traffic. In the midst of the court there was a
-little clump of evergreen trees and bushes in tubs, round which were
-gathered a few tables and chairs whereat—now that the weather was
-mild—the world sat in the afternoon. The walls about were covered
-with dusty ivy where sparrows had begun to busy themselves with love and
-housekeeping; lilacs sprouted into green, and the porter of the house was
-for ever scratching at the hard earth about the plants, and tying up twigs
-and watering the pots. It was here I used to write my letters to Miss
-Walkinshaw at a little table separate from the rest, and I think it was on
-Friday I was at this pleasant occupation when I looked up to see the man
-with the uniform gazing at me from the other side of the bushes as if he
-were waiting to have the letter when I was done with it.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went in and asked Father Hamilton who this man was.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he cried in a great disturbance, “the same as we met near the
-Trianon! O Lord! Paul, there is something wrong, for that was Buhot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And this Buhot?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want you
-to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into the
-hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that he passes
-the café at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest thing in the
-world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's to be done by
-you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by the
-Swiss?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is my affair,” cried the priest testily. “The Prince knows you—that
-is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have the Swiss
-with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he should have
-this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis a letter from
-his Royal Highness's most intimate friend.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address was
-in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the bosom of
-my coat!
-</p>
-<p>
-What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be
-conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must
-carry it!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very well,” I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince.
-</p>
-<p>
-The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer
-clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour
-more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my
-hat in my hand. “I beg your Royal Highness's pardon,” I said in English,
-“but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes, and
-took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction, reddened,
-and bit his lip.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the
-honour?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Greig,” I answered. “Paul Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” he cried, “of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family. <i>Charmé,
-Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance</i>. M. Andrew Greig-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of
-irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M.
-Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a—what was
-it now?—a gomeral.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness,” I said. “But I
-know that he loved you and your cause.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did,” said the Prince, flushing,
-and with a show of pleasure at my speech. “I have learned of late that the
-fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it all I liked M.
-Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur Greig's
-nephew soon again. <i>Au plaisir de vous revoir!</i>” And off he went,
-putting the letter, unread, into his pocket.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed,
-he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd now I come to an affair of which there have been many accounts
-written, some of them within a mile or two of the truth, the most but
-sheer romantics. I have in my mind notably the account of the officer
-Buhot printed two years after the events in question, in which he makes
-the most fabulous statement as to the valiancy of Father Hamilton's stand
-in the private house in the Rue des Reservoirs, and maintains that myself—<i>le
-fier Eccossais</i>, as he is flattering enough to designate me—drew
-my sword upon himself and threatened to run him through for his
-proposition that I should confess to a complicity in the attempt upon his
-Royal Highness. I have seen his statement reproduced with some extra
-ornament in the <i>Edinburgh Courant</i>, and the result of all this is
-that till this day my neighbours give me credit, of which I am loth to
-advantage myself, for having felled two or three of the French officers
-before I was overcome at the hinder-end.
-</p>
-<p>
-The matter is, in truth, more prosaic as it happened, and if these
-memorials of mine leave the shadow of a doubt in the minds of any
-interested in an old story that created some stir in its time, I pray them
-see the archives of M. Bertin, the late Lieut.-General of the police.
-Bertin was no particular friend of mine, that had been the unconscious
-cause of great trouble and annoyance to him, but he has the truth in the
-deposition I made and signed prior to my appointment to a company of the
-d'Auvergne regiment.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, to take matters in their right order, it was the evening of the day
-I had given the letter to the Prince that Father Hamilton expressed his
-intention of passing that night in the house of a friend.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked at him with manifest surprise, for he had been at the bottle most
-of the afternoon, and was by now more in a state for his bed than for
-going among friends.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well,” he cried peevishly, observing my dubiety. “Do you think me too
-drunk for the society of a parcel of priests? <i>Ma foi!</i> it is a
-pretty thing that I cannot budge from my ordinary habitude of things
-without a stuck owl setting up a silent protest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-To a speech so wanting in dignity I felt it better there should be no
-reply, and instead I helped him into his great-coat. As I did so, he made
-an awkward lurching movement due to his corpulence, and what jumped out of
-an inner pocket but a pistol? Which of us was the more confused at that it
-would be hard to say. For my part, the weapon—that I had never seen
-in his possession before—was a fillip to my sleeping conscience; I
-picked it up with a distaste, and he took it from me with trembling
-fingers and an averted look.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A dangerous place, Versailles, after dark,” he explained feebly. “One
-never knows, one never knows,” and into his pocket hurriedly with it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I shall be back for breakfast,” he went on. “Unless—unless—oh,
-I certainly shall be back.” And off he set.
-</p>
-<p>
-The incident of the pistol disturbed me for a while. I made a score of
-speculations as to why a fat priest should burden himself with such an
-article, and finally concluded that it was as he suggested, to defend
-himself from night birds if danger offered; though that at the time had
-been the last thing I myself would have looked for in the well-ordered
-town of Versailles. I sat in the common-room or <i>salle</i> of the inn
-for a while after he had gone, and thereafter retired to my own
-bedchamber, meaning to read or write for an hour or two before going to
-bed. In the priest's room—which was on the same landing and next to
-my own—I heard the whistle of Bernard the Swiss, but I had no
-letters for him that evening, and we did not meet each other. I was at
-first uncommon dull, feeling more than usually the hame-wae that must have
-been greatly wanting in the experience of my Uncle Andrew to make him for
-so long a wanderer on the face of the earth. But there is no condition of
-life so miserable but what one finds in it remissions, diversions, nay,
-and delights also, and soon I was—of all things in the world to be
-doing when what followed came to pass!—inditing a song to a lady, my
-quill scratching across the paper in spurts and dashes, and baffled pauses
-where the matter would not attend close enough on the mood, stopping
-altogether at a stanza's end to hum the stuff over to myself with great
-satisfaction. I was, as I say, in the midst of this; the Swiss had gone
-downstairs; all in my part of the house was still, though vehicles moved
-about in the courtyard, when unusually noisy footsteps sounded on the
-stair, with what seemed like the tap of scabbards on the treads.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was a sound so strange that my hand flew by instinct to the small sword
-I was now in the habit of wearing and had learned some of the use of from
-Thurot.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was no knock for entrance; the door was boldly opened and four
-officers with Buhot at their head were immediately in the room.
-</p>
-<p>
-Buhot intimated in French that I was to consider myself under arrest, and
-repeated the same in indifferent English that there might be no mistake
-about a fact as patent as that the sword was in his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-For a moment I thought the consequence of my crime had followed me abroad,
-and that this squat, dark officer, watching me with the scrutiny of a
-forest animal, partly in a dread that my superior bulk should endanger
-himself, was in league with the law of my own country. That I should after
-all be dragged back in chains to a Scots gallows was a prospect
-unendurable; I put up the ridiculous small sword and dared him to lay a
-hand on me. But I had no sooner done so than its folly was apparent, and I
-laid the weapon down.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Tant mieux!</i>” said he, much relieved, and then an assurance that he
-knew I was a gentleman of discretion and would not make unnecessary
-trouble. “Indeed,” he went on, “<i>Voyez!</i> I take these men away; I
-have the infinite trust in Monsieur; Monsieur and I shall settle this
-little affair between us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And he sent his friends to the foot of the stair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Monsieur may compose himself,” he assured me with a profound inclination.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am very much obliged to you,” I said, seating myself on the corner of
-the table and crushing my poor verses into my pocket as I did so, “I am
-very much obliged to you, but I'm at a loss to understand to what I owe
-the honour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed!” he said, also seating himself on the table to show, I supposed,
-that he was on terms of confidence with his prisoner. “Monsieur is Father
-Hamilton's secretary?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So I believe,” I said; “at least I engaged for the office that's
-something of a sinecure, to tell the truth.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then Buhot told me a strange story.
-</p>
-<p>
-He told me that Father Hamilton was now a prisoner, and on his way to the
-prison of Bicêtre. He was—this Buhot—something of the artist
-and loved to make his effects most telling (which accounts, no doubt, for
-the romantical nature of the accounts aforesaid), and sitting upon the
-table-edge he embarked upon a narrative of the most crowded two hours that
-had perhaps been in Father Hamilton's lifetime.
-</p>
-<p>
-It seemed that when the priest had left the Cerf d'Or, he had gone to a
-place till recently called the Bureau des Carrosses pour la Rochelle, and
-now unoccupied save by a concierge, and the property of some person or
-persons unknown. There he had ensconced himself in the only habitable room
-and waited for a visitor regarding whom the concierge had his
-instructions.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You must imagine him,” said the officer, always with the fastidiousness
-of an artist for his effects, “you must imagine him, Monsieur, sitting in
-this room, all alone, breathing hard, with a pistol before him on the
-table, and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What! a pistol!” I cried, astounded and alarmed. “<i>Certainement</i>”
- said Buhot, charmed with the effect his dramatic narrative was creating.
-“Your friend, <i>mon ami</i>, would be little good, I fancy, with a
-rapier. Anyway, 'twas a pistol. A carriage drives up to the door; the
-priest rises to his feet with the pistol in his hand; there is the rap at
-the door. '<i>Entrez!</i>' cries the priest, cocking the pistol, and no
-sooner was his visitor within than he pulled the trigger; the explosion
-rang through the dwelling; the chamber was full of smoke.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good heavens!” I cried in horror, “and who was the unhappy wretch?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Buhot shrugged his shoulders, made a French gesture with his hands, and
-pursed his mouth.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Whom did you invite to the room at the hour of ten, M. Greig?” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Invite!” I cried. “It's your humour to deal in parables. I declare to you
-I invited no one.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And yet, my good sir, you are Hamilton's secretary and you are Hamilton's
-envoy. 'Twas you handed to the Prince the <i>poulet</i> that was designed
-to bring him to his fate.”
- </p>
-<p>
-My instinct grasped the situation in a second; I had been the ignorant
-tool of a madman; the whole events of the past week made the fact plain,
-and I was for the moment stunned.
-</p>
-<p>
-Buhot watched me closely, and not unkindly, I can well believe, from what
-I can recall of our interview and all that followed after it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you tell me he killed the Prince?” I cried at last.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, Monsieur,” said Buhot; “I am happy to say he did not. The Prince was
-better advised than to accept the invitation you sent to him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Still,” I cried with remorse, “there's a man dead, and 'tis as much as
-happens when princes themselves are clay.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Parfaitement</i>, Monsieur, though it is indiscreet to shout it here.
-Luckily there is no one at all dead in this case, otherwise it had been
-myself, for I was the man who entered to the priest and received his
-pistol fire. It was not the merriest of duties either,” he went on, always
-determined I should lose no iota of the drama, “for the priest might have
-discovered before I got there that the balls of his pistol had been
-abstracted.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then Father Hamilton has been under watch?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Since ever you set foot in Versailles last Friday,” said Buhot
-complacently. “The Damiens affair has sharpened our wits, I warrant you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, sir,” I said, “let me protest that I have been till this moment in
-utter darkness about Hamilton's character or plans. I took him for what he
-seemed—a genial buffoon of a kind with more gear than guidance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We cannot, with infinite regret, assume that, Monsieur, but personally I
-would venture a suggestion,” said Buhot, coming closer on the table and
-assuming an affable air. “In this business, Hamilton is a tool—no
-more; and a poor one at that, badly wanting the grindstone. To break him—phew!—'twere
-as easy as to break a glass, but he is one of a great movement and the man
-we seek is his master—one Father Fleuriau of the Jesuits. Hamilton's
-travels were but part of a great scheme that has sent half a dozen of his
-kind chasing the Prince in the past year or two from Paris to Amsterdam,
-from Amsterdam to Orleans, from Orleans to Hamburg, Seville, Lisbon, Rome,
-Brussels, Potsdam, Nuremburg, Berlin. The same hand that extracted his
-bullets tapped the priest's portfolio and found the wretch was in promise
-of a bishopric and a great sum of money. You see, M. Greig, I am curiously
-frank with my prisoner.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And no doubt you have your reasons,” said I, but beat, myself, to imagine
-what they could be save that he might have proofs of my innocence.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very well,” said M. Buhot. “To come to the point, it is this, that we
-desire to have the scheme of the Jesuits for the Prince's assassination,
-and other atrocities shocking to all that revere the divinity of princes,
-crumbled up. Father Hamilton is at the very roots of the secret; if, say,
-a gentleman so much in his confidence as yourself—now, if such a one
-were, say, to share a cell with this regicide for a night or two, and
-pursue judicious inquiries——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stop! stop!” I cried, my blood hammering in my head, and the words like
-to choke me. “Am I to understand that you would make me your spy and
-informer upon this miserable old madman that has led me such a gowk's
-errand?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Buhot slid back off the table edge and on to his feet. “Oh,” said he, “the
-terms are not happily chosen: 'spy'—'informer'—come, Monsieur
-Greig; this man is in all but the actual accomplishment of his purpose an
-assassin. 'Tis the duty of every honest man to help in discovering the
-band of murderers whose tool he has been.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then I'm no honest man, M. Buhot,” said I bitterly, “for I've no stomach
-for a duty so dirty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Think of it for a moment,” he pressed, with evident surprise at my
-decision. “Bicêtre is an unwholesome hostelry, I give you my word.
-Consider that your choice is between a night or two there and—who
-knows?—a lifetime of Galbanon that is infinitely worse.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then let it be Galbanon!” I said, and lifted my sword and slapped it
-furiously, sheathed as it was, like a switch upon the table.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/198.jpg" alt="198" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-Buhot leaped back in a fear that I was to attack him, and cried his men
-from the stair foot.
-</p>
-<p>
-“This force is not needed at all,” I said. “I am innocent enough to be
-prepared to go quietly.”
- </p>
-
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-OF A NIGHT JOURNEY AND BLACK BICETRE AT THE END OF IT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>was a long journey to the prison of Bicêtre, which is two miles to the
-south of the city of Paris, a great building that had once (they say) been
-a palace, but now in the time of my experience was little better than a
-vestibule of hell. I was driven to it through a black loud night of rain,
-a plunging troop of horse on either hand the coach as if I were a
-traveller of state, and Buhot in front of me as silent as the priest had
-been the day we left Dunkerque, though wakeful, and the tip of his
-scabbard leaning on my boot to make sure that in the darkness no movement
-of mine should go unobserved.
-</p>
-<p>
-The trees swung and roared in the wind; the glass lozens of the carriage
-pattered to the pelting showers; sometimes we lurched horribly in the ruts
-of the highway, and were released but after monstrous efforts on the part
-of the cavaliers. Once, as we came close upon a loop of a brawling river,
-I wished with all fervency that we might fall in, and so end for ever this
-pitiful coil of trials whereto fate had obviously condemned poor Paul
-Greig. To die among strangers (as is widely known) is counted the saddest
-of deaths by our country people, and so, nowadays, it would seem to
-myself, but there and then it appeared an enviable conclusion to the
-Spoiled Horn that had blundered from folly to folly. To die there and then
-would be to leave no more than a regret and an everlasting wonder in the
-folks at home; to die otherwise, as seemed my weird, upon a block or
-gallows, would be to foul the name of my family for generations, and I
-realised in my own person the agony of my father when he got the news, and
-I bowed my shoulders in the coach below the shame that he would feel as in
-solemn blacks he walked through the Sabbath kirkyard in summers to come in
-Mearns, with the knowledge that though neighbours looked not at him but
-with kindness, their inmost thoughts were on the crimson chapter of his
-son.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, we came at the long last to Bicêtre, and I was bade alight in the
-flare of torches. A strange, a memorable scene; it will never leave me.
-Often I remit me there in dreams. When I came out of the conveyance the
-lights dazzled me, and Buhot put his hands upon my shoulders and turned me
-without a word in the direction he wished me to take. It was through a
-vast and frowning doorway that led into a courtyard so great that the
-windows on the other side seemed to be the distance of a field. The
-windows were innumerable, and though the hour was late they were lit in
-stretching corridors. Fires flamed in corners of the yard—great
-leaping fires round which warders (as I guessed them) gathered to dry
-themselves or get warmth against the chill of the early April morning.
-Their scabbards or their muskets glittered now and then in the light of
-the flames; their voices—restrained by the presence of Buhot—sounded
-deep and dreadful to me that knew not the sum of his iniquity yet could
-shudder at the sense of what portended.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/203.jpg" alt="203" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-It were vain for me to try and give expression to my feeling as I went
-past these fires across the stony yard, and entered between a guard or two
-at the other side. At the root of my horror was the sentiment that all was
-foreign, that I was no more to these midnight monsters round their
-torturing flames than a creature of the wood, less, perhaps, for were they
-not at sworn war with my countrymen, and had not I a share at least of the
-repute of regicide? And when, still led by the silent officer, I entered
-the building itself and walked through an unending corridor broken at
-intervals by black doors and little barred borrowed lights, and heard
-sometimes a moan within, or a shriek far off in another part of the
-building, I experienced something of that long swound that is insanity.
-Then I was doomed for the rest of my brief days to be among these unhappy
-wretches—the victims of the law or political vengeance, the <i>forçat</i>
-who had thieved, or poisoned, perjured himself, or taken human blood!
-</p>
-<p>
-At last we came to a door, where Buhot stopped me and spoke, for the first
-time, almost, since we had left Versailles. He put his hand out to check a
-warder who was going to open the cell for my entrance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am not a hard man, M. Greig,” said he, in a stumbling English, “and
-though this is far beyond my duties, and, indeed, contrary to the same, I
-would give you another chance. We shall have, look you, our friend the
-priest in any case, and to get the others is but a matter of time. 'Tis a
-good citizen helps the law always; you must have that respect for the law
-that you should feel bound to circumvent those who would go counter to it
-with your cognisance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My good man,” I said, as quietly as I could, and yet internally with
-feelings like to break me, “I have already said my say. If the tow was
-round my thrapple I would say no more than that I am innocent of any plot
-against a man by whose family mine have lost, and that I myself, for all
-my loyalty to my country, would do much to serve as a private individual.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Consider,” he pleaded. “After all, this Hamilton may be a madman with
-nothing at all to tell that will help us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But the bargain is to be that I must pry and I must listen,” said I, “and
-be the tale-pyat whose work may lead to this poor old buffoon's and many
-another's slaughtering. Not I, M. Buhot, and thank ye kindly! It's no'
-work for one of the Greigs of Hazel Den.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I fear you do not consider all,” he said patiently—so patiently
-indeed that I wondered at him. “I will show you to what you are condemned
-even before your trial, before you make up your mind irrevocably to refuse
-this very reasonable request of ours,” and he made a gesture that caused
-the warder to open the door so that I could see within.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was no light of its own in the cell, but it borrowed wanly a little
-of the radiance of the corridor, and I could see that it was bare to the
-penury of a mausoleum, with a stone floor, a wooden palliasse, and no
-window other than a barred hole above the door. There was not even a stool
-to sit on. But I did not quail.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have been in more comfortable quarters, M. Buhot,” I said, “but in none
-that I could occupy with a better conscience.” Assuming with that a sort
-of bravado, I stepped in before he asked me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very good,” he cried; “but I cannot make you my felicitations on your
-decision, M. Greig,” and without more ado he had the door shut on me.
-</p>
-<p>
-I sat on the woollen palliasse for a while, with my head on my hands,
-surrendered all to melancholy; and then, though the thing may seem beyond
-belief, I stretched myself and slept till morning. It was not the most
-refreshing of sleep, but still 'twas wonderful that I should sleep at all
-in such circumstances, and I take it that a moorland life had been a
-proper preparation for just such trials.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I wakened in the morning the prison seemed full of eerie noises—of
-distant shrieks as in a bedlam, and commanding voices, and of ringing
-metals, the clank of fetters, or the thud of musket-butts upon the stones.
-A great beating of feet was in the yard, as if soldiers were manoeuvring,
-and it mastered me to guess what all this might mean, until a warder
-opened my door and ordered me out for an airing.
-</p>
-<p>
-I mind always of a parrot at a window.
-</p>
-<p>
-This window was one that looked into the yard from some official's
-dwelling in that dreadful place, and the bird occupied a great cage that
-was suspended from a nail outside.
-</p>
-<p>
-The bird, high above the rabble of rogues in livery, seemed to have a
-devilish joy in the spectacle of the misery tramping round and round
-beneath, for it clung upon the bars and thrust out its head to whistle, as
-if in irony, or taunt us with a foul song. There was one air it had,
-expressed so clearly that I picked up air and words with little
-difficulty, and the latter ran something like this:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Ah! ah! Pierrot, Pierrot!
-Fais ta toilette,
-Voila le barbier! oh! oh!
-Et sa charrette—
-</pre>
-<p>
-all in the most lugubrious key.
-</p>
-<p>
-And who were we that heard that reference to the axe? We were the scum,
-the <i>sordes</i>, the rot of France. There was, doubtless, no crime
-before the law of the land, no outrage against God and man, that had not
-here its representative. We were not men, but beasts, cut off from every
-pleasant—every clean and decent association, the visions of sin
-always behind the peering eyes, the dreams of vice and crime for ever
-fermenting in the low brows. I felt 'twas the forests we should be
-frequenting—the forests of old, the club our weapon, the cave our
-habitation; no song ours, nor poem, no children to infect with fondness,
-no women to smile at in the light of evening lamps. The forest—the
-cave—the animal! What were we but children of the outer dark,
-condemned from the start of time, our faces ground hard against the
-flints, our feet bogged in hag and mire?
-</p>
-<p>
-There must have been several hundreds of the convicts in the yard, and yet
-I was told later that it was not a fourth of the misery that Bicêtre held,
-and that scores were leaving weekly for the <i>bagnes</i>—the hulks
-at Toulon and at Brest—while others took their places.
-</p>
-<p>
-Every man wore a uniform—a coarse brown jacket, vast wide breeches
-of the same hue, a high sugar-loaf cap and wooden shoes—all except
-some privileged, whereof I was one—and we were divided into gangs,
-each gang with its warders—tall grenadiers with their muskets ready.
-</p>
-<p>
-Round and round and across and across we marched in the great quadrangle,
-every man treading the rogues' measure with leg-weary reluctance, many
-cursing their warders under breath, most scowling, all hopeless and all
-lost.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Twas the exercise of the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-As we slouched through that mad ceremony in the mud of the yard, with rain
-still drizzling on us, the parrot in its cage had a voice loud and shrill
-above the commands of the grenadiers and officers; sang its taunting song,
-or whistled like a street boy, a beast so free, so careless and remote,
-that I had a fancy it had the only soul in the place.
-</p>
-<p>
-As I say, we were divided into gangs, each gang taking its own course back
-and forward in the yard as its commander ordered. The gang I was with
-marched a little apart from the rest. We were none of us in this gang in
-the ugly livery of the prison, but in our own clothing, and we were, it
-appeared, allowed that privilege because we were yet to try. I knew no
-reason for the distinction at the time, nor did I prize it very much, for
-looking all about the yard—at the officers, the grenadiers, and
-other functionaries of the prison, I failed to see a single face I knew.
-What could I conclude but that Buhot was gone and that I was doomed to be
-forgotten here?
-</p>
-<p>
-It would have been a comfort even to have got a glimpse of Father
-Hamilton, the man whose machinations were the cause of my imprisonment,
-but Father Hamilton, if he had been taken here as Buhot had suggested, was
-not, at all events, in view.
-</p>
-<p>
-After the morning's exercise we that were the privileged were taken to
-what was called the <i>salle dépreuve</i>, and with three or four to each
-<i>gamelle</i> or mess-tub, ate a scurvy meal of a thin soup and black
-bread and onions. To a man who had been living for a month at heck and
-manger, as we say, this might naturally seem unpalatable fare, but truth
-to tell I ate it with a relish that had been all the greater had it been
-permitted me to speak to any of my fellow sufferers. But speech was
-strictly interdict and so our meal was supped in silence.
-</p>
-<p>
-When it was over I was to be fated for the pleasantest of surprises!
-</p>
-<p>
-There came to me a sous-officer of the grenadiers.
-</p>
-<p>
-In French he asked if I was Monsieur Greig. I said as best I could in the
-same tongue that I was that unhappy person at his service. Then, said he,
-“Come with me.” He led me into a hall about a hundred feet long that had
-beds or mattresses for about three hundred people. The room was empty, as
-those who occupied it were, he said, at Mass. Its open windows in front
-looked into another courtyard from that in which we had been exercising,
-while the windows at the rear looked into a garden where already lilac was
-in bloom and daffodillies endowed the soil of a few mounds with the colour
-of the gold. On the other side of the court first named there was a huge
-building. “Galbanon,” said my guide, pointing to it, and then made me
-understand that the same was worse by far than the Bastille, and at the
-moment full of Marquises, Counts, Jesuits, and other clergymen, many of
-them in irons for abusing or writing against the Marchioness de Pompadour.
-</p>
-<p>
-I listened respectfully and waited Monsieur's explanation. It was manifest
-I had not been brought into this hall for the good of my education, and
-naturally I concluded the name of Galbanon, that I had heard already from
-Buhot, with its villainous reputation, was meant to terrify me into a
-submission to what had been proposed. The moment after a hearty meal—even
-of <i>soup maigre</i>—was not, however, the happiest of times to
-work upon a Greig's feelings of fear or apprehension, and so I waited,
-very dour within upon my resolution though outwardly in the most
-complacent spirit.
-</p>
-<p>
-The hall was empty when we entered as I have said, but we had not been
-many minutes in it when the tramp of men returning to it might be heard,
-and this hurried my friend the officer to his real business.
-</p>
-<p>
-He whipped a letter from his pocket and put it in my hand with a sign to
-compel secrecy on my part. It may be readily believed I was quick enough
-to conceal the missive. He had no cause to complain of the face I turned
-upon another officer who came up to us, for 'twas a visage of clownish
-vacuity.
-</p>
-<p>
-The duty of the second officer, it appeared, was to take me to a new cell
-that had been in preparation for me, and when I got there it was with
-satisfaction I discovered it more than tolerable, with a sufficiency of
-air and space, a good light from the quadrangle, a few books, paper, and a
-writing standish.
-</p>
-<p>
-When the door had been shut upon me, I turned to open my letter and found
-there was in fact a couple of them—a few lines from her ladyship in
-Dunkerque expressing her continued interest in my welfare and adventures,
-and another from the Swiss through whom the first had come. He was still—said
-the honest Bernard—at my service, having eluded the vigilance of
-Buhot, who doubtless thought a lackey scarce worth his hunting, and he was
-still in a position to post my letters, thanks to the goodwill of the
-sous-officer who was a relative. Furthermore, he was in hopes that Miss
-Walkinshaw, who was on terms of intimacy with the great world and
-something of an <i>intriguante</i>, would speedily take steps to secure my
-freedom. “Be tranquil, dear Monsieur!” concluded the brave fellow, and I
-was so exceedingly comforted and inspired by these matters that I
-straightway sat down to the continuation of my journal for Miss
-Walkinshaw's behoof. I had scarce dipped the pen, when my cell door opened
-and gave entrance to the man who was the cause of my incarceration.
-</p>
-<p>
-The door shut and locked behind him; it was Father Hamilton!
-</p>
-<p>
-It was indeed Father Hamilton, by all appearance none the worse in body
-for his violent escapade, so weighty with the most fatal possibilities for
-himself, for he advanced to me almost gaily, his hand extended and his
-face red and smiling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Scotland! to my heart!” cries he in the French, and throws his arms about
-me before I could resist, and kisses me on the cheeks after the amusing
-fashion of his nation. “La! la! la! Paul,” he cried, “I'd have wanted
-three breakfasts sooner than miss this meeting with my good secretary lad
-that is the lovablest rogue never dipped a pen in his master's service.
-Might have been dead for all I knew, and run through by a brutal rapier,
-victim of mine own innocence. But here's my Paul, <i>pardieu!</i> I would
-as soon have my <i>croque-mort</i> now as that jolly dog his uncle, that
-never waked till midnight or slept till the dull, uninteresting noon in
-the years when we went roving. What! Paul! Paul Greig! my <i>croque-mort!</i>
-my Don Dolorous!—oh, Lord, my child, I am the most miserable of
-wretches!”
- </p>
-<p>
-And there he let me go, and threw himself upon a chair, and gave his vast
-body to a convulsion of arid sobs. The man was in hysterics, compounding
-smiles and sobs a score to the minute, but at the end 'twas the natural
-man won the bout, else he had taken a stroke. I stood by him in perplexity
-of opinions whether to laugh or storm, whether to give myself to the
-righteous horror a good man ought to feel in the presence of a murtherer,
-or shrug my shoulders tolerantly at the imbecile.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There!” said he, recovering his natural manner, “I have made a mortal
-enemy of Andrew Greig's nephew. Yes, yes, master, glower at Misery, fat
-Misery—and the devil take it!—old Misery, without a penny in
-'ts pocket, and its next trip upon wheels a trip to the block to nuzzle at
-the dirty end in damp sawdust a nose that has appreciated the bouquet of
-the rarest wines. Paul, my boy, has't a pinch of snuff? A brutal bird out
-there sings a stave of the <i>Chanson de la Veuve</i> so like the
-confounded thing that I heard my own foolish old head drop into the
-basket, and there! I swear to you the smell of the sawdust is in my
-nostrils now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I handed him my box; 'twas a mull my Uncle Andy gave me before he died,
-made of the horn of a young bullock, with a blazon of the house on the
-silver lid. He took it eagerly and drenched himself with the contents.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, la! la!” he cried; “I give thanks. My head was like yeast. I wish it
-were Christmas last, and a man called Hamilton was back in Dixmunde
-parish. But there! that is enough, I have made my bed and I must lie on't,
-with a blight on all militant jesuitry! When last I had this box in my
-fingers they were as steady as Mont St. Michel, now look—they are
-trembling like aspen, <i>n'est-ce pas?</i> And all that's different is
-that I have eaten one or two better dinners and cracked a few pipkins of
-better wine, and—and—well-nigh killed a police officer. Did'st
-ever hear of one Hamilton, M. Greig? 'Twas a cheery old fellow in Dixmunde
-whose name was the same as mine, and had a garden and bee-hives, and I am
-on the rack for my sins.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He might be on the rack—and, indeed, I daresay the man was in a
-passion of feelings so that he knew not what he was havering about, but
-what impressed me most of all about him was that he seemed to have some
-momentary gleams of satisfaction in his situation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have every ground of complaint against you, sir,” I said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he interrupted. “Would'st plague an old man with complaints when
-M. de Paris is tapping him on the shoulder to come away and smell the
-sawdust of his own coffin? Oh, 'tis not in this wise thy uncle had done,
-but no matter!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have no wish, Father Hamilton, to revile you for what you have brought
-me,” I hastened to tell him. “That is far from my thoughts, though now
-that you put me in mind of it, there is some ground for my blaming you if
-blaming was in my intention. But I shall blame you for this, that you are
-a priest of the Church and a Frenchman, and yet did draw a murderous hand
-upon a prince of your own country.”
- </p>
-<p>
-This took him somewhat aback. He helped himself to another voluminous
-pinch of my snuff to give him time for a rejoinder and then—“Regicide,
-M. Greig, is sometimes to be defended when——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Regicide!” I cried, losing all patience, “give us the plain English of
-it, Father Hamilton, and call it murder. To call it by a Latin name makes
-it none the more respectable a crime against the courts of heaven where
-the curse of Babel has an end. But for an accident, or the cunning of
-others, you had a corpse upon your conscience this day, and your name had
-been abhorred throughout the whole of Europe.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He put his shoulders up till his dew-laps fell in massive folds.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Fore God!” said he, “here's a treatise in black letter from Andrew
-Greig's nephew. It comes indifferently well, I assure thee, from Andrew's
-nephew. Those who live in glass houses, <i>cher ami</i>,—those who
-live in glass houses——”
- </p>
-<p>
-He tapped me upon the breast with his fat finger and paused, with a
-significant look upon his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, ye can out with it, Father Hamilton!” I cried, certain I knew his
-meaning.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Those who live in glass houses,” said he, “should have some pity for a
-poor old devil out in the weather without a shelter of any sort.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You were about to taunt me with my own unhappy affair,” I said, little
-relishing his consideration.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Was I, M. Greig?” he said softly. “Faith! a glass residence seems to
-breed an ungenerous disposition! If thou can'st credit me I know nothing
-of thine affair beyond what I may have suspected from a Greig travelling
-hurriedly and in red shoes. I make you my compliments, Monsieur, of your
-morality that must be horror-struck at my foolish play with a pistol, yet
-thinks me capable of a retort so vile as that you indicate. My dear lad, I
-but spoke of what we have spoken of together before in our happy chariot
-in the woods of Somme—thine uncle's fate, and all I expected was,
-that remembering the same, thou his nephew would'st have enough tolerance
-for an old fool to leave his punishment in the hands of the constitute
-authority. <i>Voilà!</i> I wish to heaven they had given me another cell,
-after all, that I might have imagined thy pity for one that did thee no
-harm, or at least meant to do none, which is the main thing with all our
-acts else Purgatory's more crowded than I fancy.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He went wearily over to the fire and spread his trembling hands to the
-blaze; I looked after him perplexed in my mind, but not without an
-overpowering pity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have come, like thyself, doubtless,” he said after a little, “over vile
-roads in a common cart, and lay awake last night in a dungeon—a
-pretty conclusion to my excursion! And yet I am vastly more happy to-day
-than I was this time yesterday morning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But then you were free,” I said, “you had all you need wish for—money,
-a conveyance, servants, leisure——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And M' Croque-mort's company,” he added with a poor smile. “True, true!
-But the thing was then to do,” and he shuddered. “Now my part is done,
-'twas by God's grace a failure, and I could sing for content like one of
-the little birds we heard the other day in Somme.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He could not but see my bewilderment in my face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You wonder at that,” said he, relinquishing the Roman manner as he always
-did when most in earnest. “Does Monsieur fancy a poor old priest can take
-to the ancient art of assassination with an easy mind? <i>Nom de nom!</i>
-I could skip to the block like a ballet-dancer if 'twere either that or
-live the past two days over again and fifty years after. I have none of
-the right stomach for murder; that's flat! 'tis a business that keeps you
-awake too much at night, and disturbs the gastric essence; calls, too, for
-a confounded agility that must be lacking in a person of my handsome and
-plenteous bulk. I had rather go fishing any day in the week than imbrue.
-When Buhot entered the room where I waited for a less worthy man and I
-fired honestly for my money and missed, I could have died of sheer
-rapture. Instead I threw myself upon his breast and embraced him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He said none of that to me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Like enough not, but 'tis true none the less, though he may keep so
-favourable a fact out of his records. A good soul enough, Buhot! We knew
-him, your uncle and I, in the old days when I was thinner and played a
-good game of chess at three in the morning. Fancy Ned Hamilton cutting
-short the glorious career of old Buhot! I'd sooner pick a pocket.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Or kill a prince!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Felicitations on your wit, M. Greig! Heaven help the elderly when the new
-wit is toward! <i>N'importe!</i> Perhaps 'twere better to kill some
-princes than to pick a pocket. Is it not better, or less wicked, let us
-say, to take the life of a man villainously abusing it than the purse of a
-poor wretch making the most of his scanty <i>livres?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then the priest set out upon his defence. It is too long here to
-reproduce in his own words, even if I recalled them, and too specious in
-its terms for the patience of the honest world of our time. With his hands
-behind his back he marched up and down the room for the space of a
-half-hour at the least, recounting all that led to his crime. The tale was
-like a wild romance, but yet, as we know now, true in every particular. He
-was of the Society of Jesus, had lived a stormy youth, and fallen in later
-years into a disrepute in his own parish, and there the heads of his
-Society discovered him a very likely tool for their purposes. They had
-only half convinced him that the death of Charles Edward was for the glory
-of God and the good of the Church when they sent him marching with a
-pistol and £500 in bills of exchange and letters of credit upon a chase
-that covered a great part of three or four countries, and ended at Lisbon,
-when a German Jesuit in the secret gave him ten crusadoes to bring him
-home with his task unaccomplished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have what amounts almost to a genius for losing the opportunities of
-which I do not desire to avail myself,” said Father Hamilton with a
-whimsical smile.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then he had lain in disgrace with the Jesuits for a number of years
-until it became manifest (as he confessed with shame) that his experience
-of leisure, wealth, and travel had enough corrupted him to make the
-prospect of a second adventure of a similar kind pleasing. At that time
-Charles, lost to the sight of Europe, and only discovered at brief and
-tantalising intervals by the Jesuit agents, scarce slept two nights in the
-same town, but went from country to country <i>incognito</i>, so that
-'twas no trivial task Father Hamilton undertook to run him to earth.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The difficulty of it—indeed the small likelihood there was of my
-ever seeing him,” he said, “was what mainly induced me to accept the
-office, though in truth it was compelled. I was doing very well at
-Dunkerque,” he went on, “and very happy if I had never heard more of
-prince or priesthood, when Father Fleuriau sent me a hurried intimation
-that my victim was due at Versailles on Easter and ordered my instant
-departure there.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The name of Fleuriau recalled me to my senses. “Stop, stop, Father
-Hamilton!” I cried, “I must hear no more.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” said he, bitterly, “is't too good a young gentleman to listen to
-the confession of a happy murderer that has failed at his trade?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have no feeling left but pity,” said I, almost like to weep at this,
-“but you have been put into this cell along with me for a purpose.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what might that be, M. Greig?” he asked, looking round about him, and
-seeing for the first time, I swear, the sort of place he was in. “Faith!
-it is comfort, at any rate; I scarce noticed that, in my pleasure at
-seeing Paul Greig again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You must not tell me any more of your Jesuit plot, nor name any of those
-involved in the same, for Buhot has been at me to cock an ear to
-everything you may say in that direction, and betray you and your friends.
-It is for that he has put us together into this cell.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardieu!</i> am not I betrayed enough already?” cried the priest,
-throwing up his hands. “I'll never deny my guilt.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” I said, “but they want the names of your fellow conspirators, and
-Buhot says they never expect them directly from you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He does, does he?” said the priest, smiling. “Faith, M. Buhot has a good
-memory for his friend's characteristics. No, M. Greig, if they put this
-comfortable carcase to the rack itself. And was that all thy concern?
-Well, as I was saying—let us speak low lest some one be listening—this
-Father Fleuriau-”
- </p>
-<p>
-Again I stopped him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You put me into a hard position, Father Hamilton,” I said. “My freedom—my
-life, perhaps—depends on whether I can tell them your secret or not,
-and here you throw it in my face.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And why not?” he asked, simply. “I merely wish to show myself largely the
-creature of circumstances, and so secure a decent Scot's most favourable
-opinion of me before the end.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But I might be tempted to betray you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The old eagle looked again out at his eyes. He gently slapped my cheek
-with a curious touch of fondness almost womanly, and gave a low, contented
-laugh.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Farceur!</i>” he said. “As if I did not know my Don Dolorous, my merry
-Andrew's nephew!” His confidence hugely moved me, and, lest he should
-think I feared to trust myself with his secrets, I listened to the
-remainder of his story, which I shall not here set down, as it bears but
-slightly on my own narrative, and may even yet be revealed only at cost of
-great distress among good families, not only on the Continent but in
-London itself.
-</p>
-<p>
-When he had done, he thanked me for listening so attentively to a matter
-that was so much on his mind that it gave him relief to share it with some
-one. “And not only for that, M. Greig,” said he, “are my thanks due, for
-you saved the life that might have been the prince's instead of my old
-gossip, Buhot's. To take the bullet out of my pistol was the device your
-uncle himself would have followed in the like circumstances.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But I did not do that!” I protested.
-</p>
-<p>
-He looked incredulous.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Buhot said as much,” said he; “he let it out unwittingly that I had had
-my claws clipped by my own household.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then assuredly not by me, Father Hamilton.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So!” said he, half incredulous, and a look of speculation came upon his
-countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-PHILOSOPHY IN A FELON'S CELL
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t seemed for a while as if we were fated to lie forgotten in Bicêtre till
-the crack of doom; not that we were many days there when all was done, but
-that in our natural hourly expectation at first of being called forth for
-trial the hours passed so sluggishly that Time seemed finally to sleep,
-and a week, to our fancy—to mine at all events—seemed a month
-at the most modest computation.
-</p>
-<p>
-I should have lost my reason but for the company of the priest, who, for
-considerations best known to others and to me monstrously inadequate, was
-permitted all the time to share my cell. In his singular society there was
-a recreation that kept me from too feverishly brooding on my wrongs, and
-his character every day presented fresh features of interest and
-admiration. He had become quite cheerful again, and as content in the
-confine of his cell as he had been when the glass coach was jolting over
-the early stages of what had been intended for a gay procession round the
-courts of Europe. Once more he affected the Roman manner that was due to
-his devotion to Shakespeare and L'Estrange's Seneca, and “Clarissa
-Harlowe,” a knowledge of which, next to the Scriptures, he counted the
-first essentials for a polite education. I protest he grew fatter every
-day, and for ease his corpulence was at last saved the restraint of
-buttons, which was an indolent indulgence so much to his liking that of
-itself it would have reconciled him to spend the remainder of his time in
-prison.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Tiens!</i> Paul,” he would say, “here's an old fool has blundered
-through the greater part of his life without guessing till now how easy a
-thing content is to come by. Why, 'tis no more than a loose waistcoat and
-a chemise unbuttoned at the neck. I dared not be happy thus in Dixmunde,
-where the folks were plaguily particular that their priest should be
-point-devise, as if mortal man had time to tend his soul and keep a
-constant eye on the lace of his fall.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And he would stretch himself—a very mountain of sloth—in his
-chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-With me 'twas different. Even in a gaol I felt sure a day begun untidily
-was a day ill-done by. If I had no engagements with the fastidious
-fashionable world I had engagements with myself; moreover, I shared my
-father's sentiment, that a good day's darg of work with any thinking in it
-was never done in a pair of slippers down at the heel. Thus I was as
-peijink (as we say) in Bicêtre as I would have been at large in the
-genteel world.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not,” he would admit, “but that I love to see thee in a decent habit, and
-so constant plucking at thy hose, for I have been young myself, and had
-some right foppish follies, too. But now, my good man Dandiprat, my <i>petit-maître</i>,
-I am old—oh, so old!—and know so much of wisdom, and have seen
-such a confusion of matters, that I count comfort the greatest of
-blessings. The devil fly away with buttons and laces! say I, that have
-been parish priest of Dixmunde—and happily have not killed a man nor
-harmed a flea, though like enough to get killed myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The weather was genial, yet he sat constantly hugging the fire, and I at
-the window, which happily gave a prospect of the yard between our building
-and that of Galbanon. I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining for
-freedom, while he went prating on upon the scurviest philosophy surely
-ever man gave air to.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/226.jpg" alt="226" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-“Behold, my scrivener, how little man wants for happiness! My constant
-fear in Dixmunde was that I would become so useless for all but eating and
-sleeping, when I was old, that no one would guarantee me either; poverty
-took that place at my table the skull took among the Romans—the
-thought on't kept me in a perpetual apprehension. <i>Nom de chien!</i> and
-this was what I feared—this, a hard lodging, coarse viands, and sour
-wine! What was the fellow's name?—Demetrius, upon the taking of
-Megara, asked Monsieur Un-tel the Philosopher what he had lost. 'Nothing
-at all,' said he, 'for I have all that I could call my own about me,' and
-yet 'twas no more than the skin he stood in. A cell in Bicêtre would have
-been paradise to such a gallant fellow. Oh, Paul, I fear thou may'st be
-ungrateful—I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining for
-freedom,” he went prating on, “to this good Buhot, who has given us such a
-fine lodging, and saved us the care of providing for ourselves.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis all very well, father,” I said, leaning on the sill of the window,
-and looking at a gang of prisoners being removed from one part of Galbanon
-to another—“'tis all very well, but I mind a priest that thought
-jaunting round the country in a chariot the pinnacle of bliss. And that
-was no further gone than a fortnight ago.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah!” said he, and stretched his fat fingers to the fire; “he that cannot
-live happily anywhere will live happily nowhere at all. What avails
-travel, if Care waits like a hostler to unyoke the horses at every stage?
-I tell thee, my boy, I never know what a fine fellow is Father Hamilton
-till I have him by himself at a fireside; 'tis by firesides all the wisest
-notions come to one.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I wish there came a better dinner than to-day's,” said I, for we had
-agreed an hour ago that smoked soup was not very palatable.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la! there goes Sir Gourmet!” cried his reverence. “Have I
-infected this poor Scot that ate naught but oats ere he saw France, with
-mine own fever for fine feeding from which, praise <i>le bon Dieu!</i> I
-have recovered? 'Tis a brutal entertainment, and unworthy of man, to place
-his felicity in the service of his senses. I maintain that even smoked
-soup is pleasant enough on the palate of a man with an easy conscience,
-and a mind purged of vulgar cares.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And you can be happy here, Father Hamilton?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I asked, astonished at such sentiments from a man before so ill to please.
-</p>
-<p>
-He heaved like a mountain in travail, and brought forth a peal of laughter
-out of all keeping with our melancholy situation. “Happy!” said he, “I
-have never been happy for twenty years till Buhot clapped claw upon my
-wrist. Thou may'st have seen a sort of mask of happiness, a false face of
-jollity in Dunkerque parlours, and heard a well-simulated laughter now and
-then as we drank by wayside inns, but may I be called coxcomb if the
-miserable wretch who playacted then was half so light of heart as this
-that sits here at ease, and has only one regret—that he should have
-dragged Andrew Greig's nephew into trouble with him. What man can be
-perfectly happy that runs the risk of disappointment—which is the
-case of every man that fears or hopes for anything? Here am I, too old for
-the flame of love or the ardour of ambition; all that knew me and
-understood me best and liked me most are dead long since. I have a state
-palace prepared for me free; a domestic in livery to serve my meals;
-parishioners do not vex me with their trifling little hackneyed sins, and
-my conclusion seems like to come some morning after an omelet and a glass
-of wine.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could not withhold a shudder.
-</p>
-<p>
-“But to die that way, Father!” I said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>C'est égal!</i>” said he, and crossed himself. “We must all die
-somehow, and I had ever a dread of a stone. Come, come, M. Croque-mort,
-enough of thy confounded dolours! I'll be hanged if thou did'st not steal
-these shoes, and art after all but an impersonator of a Greig. The lusty
-spirit thou call'st thine uncle would have used his teeth ere now to gnaw
-his way through the walls of Bicêtre, and here thou must stop to converse
-cursedly on death to the fatted ox that smells the blood of the abattoir—oh
-lad, give's thy snuff-box, sawdust again!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thus by the hour went on the poor wretch, resigned most obviously to
-whatever was in store for him, not so much from a native courage, I fear,
-as from a plethora of flesh that smothered every instinct of
-self-preservation. As for me I kept up hope for three days that Buhot
-would surely come to test my constancy again, and when that seemed
-unlikely, when day after day brought the same routine, the same cell with
-Hamilton, the same brief exercise in the yard, the same vulgar struggle at
-the <i>gamelle</i> in the <i>salle d'épreuve</i>—I could have
-welcomed Galbanon itself as a change, even if it meant all the horror that
-had been associated with it by Buhot and my friend the sous-officer.
-</p>
-<p>
-Galbanon! I hope it has long been levelled with the dust, and even then I
-know the ghosts of those there tortured in their lives will habitate the
-same in whirling eddies, for a constant cry for generations has gone up to
-heaven from that foul spot. It must have been a devilish ingenuity, an
-invention of all the impish courts below, that placed me at a window where
-Galbanon faced me every hour of the day or night, its horror all revealed.
-I have seen in the pool of Earn in autumn weather, when the river was in
-spate, dead leaves and broken branches borne down dizzily upon the water
-to toss madly in the linn at the foot of the fall; no less helpless, no
-less seared by sin and sorrow, or broken by the storms of circumstance,
-were the wretches that came in droves to Galbanon. The stream of crime or
-tyranny bore them down (some from very high places), cast them into this
-boiling pool, and there they eddied in a circle of degraded tasks from
-which it seemed the fate of many of them never to escape, though their
-luckier fellows went in twos or threes every other day in a cart to their
-doom appointed.
-</p>
-<p>
-Be sure it was not pleasant each day for me to hear the hiss of the lash
-and the moans of the bastinadoed wretch, to see the blood spurt, and
-witness the anguish of the men who dragged enormous bilboes on their
-galled ankles.
-</p>
-<p>
-At last I felt I could stand it no longer, and one day intimated to Father
-Hamilton that I was determined on an escape.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good lad!” he cried, his eye brightening. “The most sensible thing thou
-hast said in twenty-four hours. 'Twill be a recreation for myself to
-help,” and he buttoned his waistcoat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We can surely devise some means of breaking out if——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We!” he repeated, shaking his head. “No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky a
-task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by thyself
-and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows when he is
-well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's charming and
-commodious inn until the bill is presented.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while I
-took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day at
-least I abandoned the project.
-</p>
-<p>
-Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned
-before him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Monsieur,” he said, “is it that we have here a more discerning
-young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Just the very same, M. Buhot,” said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of his
-pen and shrugged his shoulders.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come, come, M. Greig,” he went on, “this is a <i>bêtise</i> of the most
-ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself
-whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool
-of others or himself a genius of mischief.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but
-that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man!
-he has not got the energy to kick a dog.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And—and—” said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of
-revelation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And that's all, M. Buhot,” said I, with a carriage he could not mistake.
-</p>
-<p>
-He shrugged his shoulders again, wrote something in a book on the desk
-before him with great deliberation and then asked me how I liked my
-quarters in Bicêtre.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Tolerably well,” I said. “I've been in better, but I might be in waur.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He laughed a little at the Scotticism that seemed to recall something—perhaps
-a pleasantry of my uncle's—to him, and then said he, “I'm sorry they
-cannot be yours very much longer, M. Greig. We calculated that a week or
-two of this priest's company would have been enough to inspire a distaste
-and secure his confession, but apparently we were mistaken. You shall be
-taken to other quarters on Saturday.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I hope, M. Buhot,” said I, “they are to be no worse than those I occupy
-now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His face reddened a little at this—I felt always there was some vein
-of special kindness to me in this man's nature—and he said
-hesitatingly, “Well, the truth is, 'tis Galbanon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Before a trial?” I asked, incredulous.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The trial will come in good time,” he said, rising to conclude the
-parley, and he turned his back on me as I was conducted out of the room
-and back to the cell, where Father Hamilton waited with unwonted agitation
-for my tidings.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, lad,” he cried, whenever we were alone, “what stirs? I warrant they
-have not a jot of evidence against thee,” but in a second he saw from my
-face the news was not so happy, and his own face fell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We are to be separated on Saturday,” I told him.
-</p>
-<p>
-Tears came to his eyes at that—a most feeling old rogue!
-</p>
-<p>
-“And where is't for thee, Paul?” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where is't for yourself ought to be of more importance to you, Father
-Hamilton.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, no,” he cried, “it matters little about me, but surely for you it
-cannot be Galbanon?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and it is no less.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then, Paul,” he said firmly, “we must break out, and that without loss of
-time.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Is it in the plural this time?” I asked him.
-</p>
-<p>
-He affected an indifference, but at the last consented to share the whole
-of the enterprise.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WE ATTEMPT AN ESCAPE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ather Hamilton was not aware of the extent of it, but he knew I was in a
-correspondence with the sous-officer. More than once he had seen us in the
-<i>salle dépreuve</i> in a manifest understanding of each other, though he
-had no suspicion that the gentleman was a Mercury for Miss Walkinshaw,
-whose name seldom, if ever, entered into our conversation in the cell.
-From her I had got but one other letter—a brief acknowledgment of
-some of my fullest budgets, but 'twas enough to keep me at my diurnal on
-every occasion almost on which the priest slept. I sent her (with the
-strictest injunction to secrecy upon so important a matter) a great deal
-of the tale the priest had told me—not so much for her entertainment
-as for the purpose of moving in the poor man's interests. Especially was I
-anxious that she should use her influence to have some one communicate to
-Father Fleuriau, who was at the time in Bruges, how hazardous was the
-position of his unhappy cat's-paw, whose state I pictured in the most
-moving colours I could command. There was, it must be allowed, a risk in
-entrusting a document so damnatory to any one in Bicêtre, but that the
-packet was duly forwarded to its destination I had every satisfaction of
-from the sous-officer, who brought me an acknowledgment to that effect
-from Bernard the Swiss.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest knew, then, as I say, that I was on certain terms with this
-sous-officer, and so it was with no hesitation I informed him that,
-through the favour of the latter, I had a very fair conception of the
-character and plan of this building of Bicêtre in which we were interned.
-What I had learned of most importance to us was that the block of which
-our cell was a part had a face to the main road of Paris, from which
-thoroughfare it was separated by a spacious court and a long range of iron
-palisades. If ever we were to make our way out of the place it must be in
-this direction, for on two sides of our building we were overlooked by
-buildings vastly more throng than our own, and bordered by yards in which
-were constant sentinels. Our block jutted out at an angle from one very
-much longer, but lower by two storeys, and the disposition of both made it
-clear that to enter into this larger edifice, and towards the gable end of
-it that overlooked the palisades of the Paris road, was our most feasible
-method of essay.
-</p>
-<p>
-I drew a plan of the prison and grounds on paper, estimating as best I
-might all the possible checks we were like to meet with, and leaving a
-balance of chances in our favour that we could effect our purpose in a
-night.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest leaned his chin upon his arms as he lolled over the table on
-which I eagerly explained my diagram, and sighed at one or two of the
-feats of agility it assumed. There was, for example, a roof to walk upon—the
-roof of the building we occupied—though how we were to get there in
-the first place was still to be decided. Also there was a descent from
-that roof on to the lower building at right angles, though where the
-ladder or rope for this was to come from I must meanwhile airily leave to
-fortune. Finally, there was—assuming we got into the larger
-building, and in some unforeseeable way along its roof and clear to the
-gable end—a part of the yard to cross, and the palisade to escalade.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, lad! thou takest me for a bird,” cried his reverence, aghast at all
-this. “Is thy poor fellow prisoner a sparrow? A little after this I might
-do't with my own wings—the saints guide me!—but figure you
-that at present I am not Philetas, the dwarf, who had to wear leaden shoes
-lest the wind should blow him away. 'Twould take a wind indeed to stir
-this amplitude of good humours, this sepulchre of twenty thousand good
-dinners and incomputible tuns of liquid merriment. Pray, Paul, make an
-account of my physical infirmities, and mitigate thy transport of
-vaultings and soarings and leapings and divings, unless, indeed, thou
-meditatest sewing me up in a sheet, and dragging me through the realms of
-space.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We shall manage! we shall manage!” I insisted, now quite uplifted in a
-fanciful occupation that was all to my tastes, even if nothing came of it,
-and I plunged more boldly into my plans. They were favoured by several
-circumstances—the first, namely, that we were not in the uniform of
-the prison, and, once outside the prison, could mingle with the world
-without attracting attention. Furthermore, by postponing the attempt till
-the morrow night I could communicate with the Swiss, and secure his
-cooperation outside in the matter of a horse or a vehicle, if the same
-were called for. I did not, however, say so much as that to his reverence,
-whom I did not wish as yet to know of my correspondence with Bernard.
-Finally, we had an auspicious fact at the outset of our attempt, inasmuch
-as the cell we were in was in the corridor next to that of which the
-sous-officer had some surveillance, and I knew his mind well enough now to
-feel sure he would help in anything that did not directly involve his own
-position and duties. In other words, he was to procure a copy of the key
-of our cell, and find a means of leaving it unlocked when the occasion
-arose.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A copy of the key, Paul!” said Father Hamilton; “sure there are no bounds
-to thy cheerful mad expectancy! But go on! go on! art sure he could not be
-prevailed on—this fairy godfather—to give us an escort of
-cavalry and trumpeters?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“This is not much of a backing-up, Father Hamilton,” I said, annoyed at
-his skeptic comments upon an affair that involved so much and agitated
-myself so profoundly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon! Paul,” he said hastily, confused and vexed himself at the
-reproof. “Art quite right, I'm no more than a croaker, and for penance I
-shall compel myself to do the wildest feat thou proposest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We determined to put off the attempt at escape till I had communicated
-with the sous-officer (in truth, though Father Hamilton did not know it,
-till I had communicated with Bernard the Swiss), and it was the following
-afternoon I had not only an assurance of the unlocked door, but in my hand
-a more trustworthy plan of the prison than my own, and the promise that
-the Swiss would be waiting with a carriage outside the palisades when we
-broke through, any time between midnight and five in the morning.
-</p>
-<p>
-Next day, then, we were in a considerable agitation; to that extent indeed
-that I clean forgot that we had no aid to our descent of twenty or thirty
-feet (as the sous-sergeant's diagram made it) from the roof of our block
-on to that of the one adjoining. We had had our minds so much on bolted
-doors and armed sentinels that this detail had quite escaped us until
-almost on the eve of setting out at midnight, the priest began again to
-sigh about his bulk and swear no rope short of a ship's cable would serve
-to bear him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Rope!” I cried, in a tremendous chagrin at my stupidity. “Lord! if I have
-not quite forgot it. We have none.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” he said, “perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps my heart is so light
-at parting with my <i>croque-mort</i> that I can drop upon the tiles like
-a pigeon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Parting,” I repeated, eyeing him suspiciously, for I thought perhaps he
-had changed his mind again. “Who thinks of parting?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not I indeed,” says he, “unless the rope do when thou hast got it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was no rope, however, and I cursed my own folly that I had not asked
-one from the sous-officer whose complaisance might have gone the length of
-a fathom or two, though it did not, as the priest suggested, go so far as
-an armed convoy and a brace of trumpeters. It was too late now to repair
-the overlook, and to the making of rope the two of us had there and then
-to apply ourselves, finding the sheets and blankets-of our beds scanty
-enough for our purpose, and by no means of an assuring elegance or
-strength when finished. But we had thirty feet of some sort of cord at the
-last, and whether it was elegant or not it had to do for our purpose.
-</p>
-<p>
-Luckily the night was dark as pitch and a high wind roared in the
-chimneys, and in the numerous corners of the prison. There was a sting in
-the air that drew many of the sentinels round the braziers flaming in the
-larger yard between the main entrance and the buildings, and that further
-helped our prospects; so that it was with some hope, in spite of a heart
-that beat like a flail in my breast, I unlocked the door and crept out
-into the dimly-lighted corridor with the priest close behind me.
-</p>
-<p>
-Midway down this gallery there was a stair of which our plan apprised us,
-leading to another gallery—the highest of the block—from which
-a few steps led to a cock-loft where the sous-officer told us there was
-one chance in a score of finding a blind window leading to the roof.
-</p>
-<p>
-No one, luckily, appeared as we hurried down the long gallery. I darted
-like a fawn up the stair to the next flat, Father Hamilton grievously
-puffing behind me, and we had just got into the shadow of the steps
-leading to the cock-loft when a warder's step and the clank of his chained
-keys came sounding down the corridor. He passed within three feet of us
-and I felt the blood of all my body chill with fear!
-</p>
-<p>
-“I told thee, lad,” whispered the priest, mopping the sweat from his face,
-“I told thee 'twas an error to burden thyself with such a useless carcase.
-Another moment or two—a gasp for the wind that seems so cursed ill
-to come by at my years, and I had brought thee into trouble.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I paid no heed to him, but crept up the steps and into the cock-loft that
-smelt villainously of bats.
-</p>
-<p>
-The window was unfastened! I stuck out my head upon the tiles and sniffed
-the fine fresh air of freedom as it had been a rare perfume.
-</p>
-<p>
-Luckily the window was scarcely any height, and it proved easy to aid his
-reverence into the open air. Luckily, further, it was too dark for him to
-realise the jeopardies of his situation for whether his precarious
-gropings along the tiles were ten feet or thirty from the yard below was
-indiscoverable in the darkness. He slid his weighty body along with an
-honest effort that was wholly due to his regard for my interests, because
-'twas done with groans and whispered protestations that 'twas the maddest
-thing for a man to leave a place where he was happy and risk his neck in
-an effort to discover misery. A rime of frost was on the tiles, and they
-were bitter cold to the touch. One fell, too, below me as I slid along,
-and rattled loudly over its fellows and plunged into the yard.
-</p>
-<p>
-Naturally we stopped dead and listened breathless, a foolish action for
-one reason because in any case we had been moving silently at a great
-height above the place where the tile should fall so that there was no
-risk of our being heard or seen, but our listening discovered so great an
-interval between the loosening of the tile and its dull shattering on the
-stones below that the height on which we were perched in the darkness was
-made more plain—more dreadful to the instincts than if we could
-actually measure it with the eye. I confess I felt a touch of nausea, but
-nothing compared with the priest, whose teeth began to chitter in an ague
-of horror.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good Lord, Paul!” he whispered to me, clutching my leg as I moved in
-front of him, “it is the bottomless pit.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not unless we drop,” said I. And to cheer him up I made some foolish
-joke.
-</p>
-<p>
-If the falling tile attracted any attention in the yard it was not
-apparent to us, and five minutes later we had to brace ourselves to a
-matter that sent the tile out of our minds.
-</p>
-<p>
-For we were come to the end of the high building, and twenty feet below
-us, at right angles, we could plainly see the glow of several skylights in
-the long prison to which it was attached. It was now the moment for our
-descent on the extemporised rope.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXVI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A RIMEY NIGHT ON ROOF-TOPS, AND A NEW USE FOR AN OLD KIRK BELL
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> fastened the rope about a chimney-head with some misgivings that by the
-width and breadth of the same I was reducing our chance of ever getting
-down to the lower building, as the knotted sheets from the outset had been
-dubious measure for the thirty feet of which my sous-officer had given the
-estimate. But I said never a word to the priest of my fears on that score,
-and determined for once to let what was left of honesty go before
-well-fattened age and test the matter first myself. If the cord was too
-brief for its purpose, or (what was just as likely) on the frail side, I
-could pull myself back in the one case as the priest was certainly unfit
-to do, and in the other my weight would put less strain upon it than that
-of Father Hamilton.
-</p>
-<p>
-I can hear him yet in my imagination after forty years, as he clung to the
-ridge of the roof like a seal on a rock, chittering in the cold night
-wind, enviously eyeing some fires that blazed in another yard and groaning
-melancholiously.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A garden,” said he, “and six beehives—no, 'faith! 'twas seven last
-summer, and a roomful of books. Oh, Paul, Paul! Now I know how God cast
-out Satan. He took him from his warm fireside, and his books before they
-were all read, and his pantoufles, and set him straddling upon a frozen
-house-top to ponder through eternal night upon the happy past. Alas, poor
-being! How could he know what joys were in the simplicity of a room of
-books half-read and a pair of warm old slippers?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was fair rambling in his fears, my poor priest, and I declare scarcely
-knew the half of what he uttered, indeed he spoke out so loudly that I had
-to check him lest he should attract attention from below.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Father Hamilton,” said I, when my cord was fastened, “with your
-permission I'll try it first. I want to make it sure that my seamanship on
-the sloop <i>Sarah</i>, of Ayr, has not deserted me to the extent that I
-cannot come down a rope without a ratline or tie a bowling knot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Certainly, Paul, certainly,” said he, quite eagerly, so that I was
-tempted for a second to think he gladly postponed his own descent from
-sheer terror.
-</p>
-<p>
-I threw over the free end of the cord and crouched upon the beak of the
-gable to lower myself.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Paul,” said his reverence in a broken voice. “Let us say 'good-bye'
-in case aught should happen ere we are on the same level again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh!” said I, impatient, “that's the true <i>croque-mort</i> spirit
-indeed! Why, Father, it isn't—it isn't—” I was going to say it
-was not a gallows I was venturing on, but the word stuck in my throat, for
-a certain thought that sprung to me of how nearly in my own case it had
-been to the very gallows, and his reverence doubtless saw some delicacy,
-for he came promptly to my help.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not a priest's promise—made to be broken, you would say, good
-Paul,” said he. “I promised the merriest of jaunts over Europe in a coach,
-and here my scrivener is hanging in the reins! Pardon, dear Scotland, <i>milles
-pardons</i> and good-bye and good luck.” And at that he made to embrace
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's a French ceremony just about nothing at all,” I thought, and began
-my descent. The priest lay on his stomach upon the ridge. As I sank, with
-my eyes turned upwards, I could see his hair blown by the wind against a
-little patch of stars, that was the only break in the Ethiopia of the sky.
-He seemed to follow my progress breathlessly, and when I gained the other
-roof and shook the cord to tell him so he responded by a faint clapping of
-his hands.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Art all right, lad?” he whispered down to me, and I bade him follow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good-night, Paul, good-bye, and God bless you!” he whispered. “Get out of
-this as quick as you can; 'tis more than behemoth could do in a month of
-dark nights, and so I cut my share of the adventure. One will do't when
-two (and one of them a hogshead) will die in trying to do't.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Here was a pretty pickle! The man's ridiculous regard for my safety
-outweighed his natural inclinations, though his prospects in the prison of
-Bicêtre were blacker than my own, having nothing less dreadful than an
-execution at the end of them. He had been merely humouring me so far—and
-such a brave humouring in one whose flesh was in a quaking of alarms all
-the time he slid along the roof!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are you not coming?” I whispered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“On the contrary, I'm going, dear Paul,” said he with a pretence at
-levity. “Going back to my comfortable cell and my uniformed servant and M.
-Buhot, the charmingest of hostellers, and I declare my feet are like ice.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then,” said I firmly, “I go back too. I'll be eternally cursed if I give
-up my situation as scrivener at this point. I must e'en climb up again.”
- And with that I prepared to start the ascent.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stop! stop!” said he without a second's pause, “stop where you are and
-I'll go down. Though 'tis the most stupendous folly,” he added with a
-sigh, and in a moment later I saw his vast bulk laboriously heaving over
-the side of the roof. Fortunately the knots in the cord where the
-fragments of sheet and blanket were joined made his task not so difficult
-as it had otherwise been, and almost as speedily as I had done it myself
-he reached the roof of the lower building, though in such a state he
-quivered like a jelly, and was dumb with fear or with exertion when the
-thing was done.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” he said at last, when he had recovered himself. “Art a fool to be so
-particular about an old carcase accursed of easy humours and accused of
-regicide. Take another thought on't, Paul. What have you to do with this
-wretch of a priest that brought about the whole trouble in your ignorance?
-And think of Galbanon!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Think of the devil! Father Hamilton,” I snapped at him, “every minute we
-waste havering away here adds to the chances against any of us getting
-free, and I am sure that is not your desire. The long and the short of it
-is that I'll not stir a step out of Bicêtre—no, not if the doors
-themselves were open—unless you consent to come with me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ventre Dieu!</i>” said he, “'tis just such a mulish folly as I might
-have looked for from the nephew of Andrew Greig. But lead on, good
-imbecile, lead on, and blame not poor Father Hamilton if the thing ends in
-a fiasco!”
- </p>
-<p>
-We now crawled along a roof no whit more easily traversed than that we had
-already commanded. Again and again I had to stop to permit my companion to
-come up on me, for the pitch of the tiles was steep, and he in a peril
-from his own lubricity, and it was necessary even to put a hand under his
-arm at times when he suffered a vertigo through seeing the lights in the
-yard deep down as points of flame.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Egad! boy,” he said, and his perspiring hand clutching mine at one of our
-pauses, “I thrill at the very entrails. I'd liefer have my nose in the
-sawdust any day than thrash through thin air on to a paving-stone.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A minute or two more and we are there,” I answered him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where?” said he, starting; “in purgatory?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Look up, man!” I told him. “There's a window beaming ten yards off.” And
-again I pushed on.
-</p>
-<p>
-In very truth there was no window, though I prayed as fervently for one as
-it had been a glimpse of paradise, but I was bound to cozen the old man
-into effort for his own life and for mine. What I had from the higher
-building taken for the glow of skylights had been really the light of
-windows on the top flat of the other prison block, and its roof was wholly
-unbroken. At least I had made up my mind to that with a despair benumbing
-when I touched wood. My fingers went over it in the dark with frantic
-eagerness. It was a trap such as we had come out of at the other block,
-but it was shut. Before the priest could come up to me and suffer the
-fresh horror of disappointment I put my weight upon it, and had the good
-fortune to throw it in. The flap fell with a shriek of hinges and showed
-gaping darkness. We stretched upon the tiles as close as limpets and as
-silent. Nothing stirred within.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A garden,” said he in a little, “as sweet as ever bean grew in, with the
-rarest plum-tree; and now I am so cold.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I could be doing with some of your complaint,” said I; “as for me, I'm on
-fire. Please heaven, you'll be back in the garden again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I lowered myself within, followed by the priest, and found we were upon
-the rafters. A good bit off there was a beam of light that led us,
-groping, and in an imminent danger of going through the plaster, to an
-air-hole over a little gallery whose floor was within stretch as I lowered
-myself again.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton squeezed after me; we both looked over the edge of the
-gallery, and found it was a chapel we were in!
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Sacré nom!</i>” said the priest and crossed himself, with a
-genuflexion to the side of the altar.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Lord! Paul,” he said, whispering, “if 'twere the Middle Ages, and
-this were indeed a sanctuary, how happy was a poor undeserving son of
-Mother Church! Even Dagobert's hounds drew back from the stag in St.
-Denys.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was a mean interior, as befitted the worship of the <i>misérables</i>
-who at times would meet there. A solemn quiet held the place, that seemed
-wholly deserted; the dim light that had shown through the air-hole and
-guided us came from some candles dripping before a shrine.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Heaven help us!” said the priest. “I know just such another.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was nobody in the church so far as we could observe from the little
-gallery in which we found ourselves, but when we had gone down a flight of
-steps into the body of the same, and made to cross towards the door, we
-were suddenly confronted by a priest in a white cope. My heart jumped to
-my mouth; I felt a prinkling in the roots of my hair, and stopped dumb,
-with all my faculties basely deserted from me. Luckily Father Hamilton
-kept his presence of mind. As he told me later, he remembered of a sudden
-the Latin proverb that in battles the eye is first overcome, and he fixed
-the man in the stole with a glance that was bold and disconcerting. As it
-happened, however, the other priest was almost as blind as a bat, and saw
-but two civil worshippers in his chapel. He did not even notice that it
-was a <i>soutane</i>; he passed peeringly, with a bow to our inclinations,
-and it was almost incredulous of our good fortune I darted out of the
-chapel into the darkness of a courtyard of equal extent with that I had
-crossed on the night of my first arrival at Bicêtre. At its distant end
-there were the same flaming braziers with figures around them, and the
-same glitter of arms.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now this Bicêtre is set upon a hill and commands a prospect of the city of
-Paris, of the Seine and its environs. For that reason we could see to our
-right the innumerable lights of a great plain twinkling in the darkness,
-and it seemed as if we had only to proceed in that direction to secure
-freedom by the mere effort of walking. As we stood in the shadow of the
-chapel, Father Hamilton eyed the distant prospect of the lighted town with
-a singular rapture.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Paris!” said he. “Oh, Dieu! and I thought never to clap an eye on't
-again. Paris, my Paul! Behold the lights of it—<i>la ville lumière</i>
-that is so fine I could spend eternity in it. Hearts are there, lad, kind
-and jocund-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And meditating a descent on unhappy Britain,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good neighbourly hearts, or I'm a gourd else,” he went on, unheeding my
-interruption. “The stars in heaven are not so good, are no more notably
-the expression of a glowing and fraternal spirit. There is laughter in the
-streets of her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not at this hour, Father Hamilton,” said I, and the both of us always
-whispering. “I've never seen the place by day nor put a foot in it, but it
-will be droll indeed if there is laughter in its streets at two o'clock in
-the morning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah, Paul, shall we ever get there?” said he longingly. “We can but try,
-anyway. I certainly did not come all this way, Father Hamilton, just to
-look on the lowe of Paris.”
- </p>
-<p>
-What had kept us shrinking in the shadow of the chapel wall had been the
-sound of footsteps between us and the palisades that were to be
-distinguished a great deal higher than I had expected, on our right. On
-the other side of the rails was freedom, as well as Paris that so greatly
-interested my companion, but the getting clear of them seemed like to be a
-more difficult task than any we had yet overcome, and all the more
-hazardous because the footsteps obviously suggested a sentinel. Whether it
-was the rawness of the night that tempted him to a relaxation, or whether
-he was not strictly on duty, I know not, but, while we stood in the most
-wretched of quandaries, the man who was in our path very soon ceased his
-perambulation along the palisades, and went over to one of the distant
-fires, passing within a few yards of us as we crouched in the darkness.
-When he had gone sufficiently out of the way we ran for it. So plain were
-the lights of the valley, so flimsy a thing had seemed to part us from the
-high-road there, that never a doubt intruded on my mind that now we were
-as good as free, and when I came to the rails I beat my head with my hands
-when the nature of our folly dawned upon me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We may just go back,” I said to the priest in a stricken voice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Comment?</i>” said he, wiping his brow and gloating on the spectacle
-of the lighted town.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Look,” I said, indicating the railings that were nearly three times my
-own height, “there are no convenient trap-doors here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But the cord—” said he simply.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Exactly,” I said; “the cord's where we left it snugly tied with a bowling
-knot to the chimney of our block, and I'm an ass.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, poor Paul!” said the priest in a prostration at this divulgence of
-our error. “I'm the millstone on your neck, for had I not parleyed at the
-other end of the cord when you had descended, the necessity for it would
-never have escaped your mind. I gave you fair warning, lad, 'twas a
-quixotic imbecility to burden yourself with me. And are we really at a
-stand? God! look at Paris. Had I not seen these lights I had not cared for
-myself a straw, but, oh lord! lad, they are so pleasant and so close! Why
-will the world sleep when two unhappy wretches die for want of a little
-bit of hemp?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You are not to blame,” said I, “one rope was little use to us in any
-case. But anyhow I do not desire to die of a little bit of hemp if I can
-arrange it better.” And I began hurriedly to scour up and down the
-palisade like a trapped mouse. It extended for about a hundred yards,
-ending at one side against the walls of a gate-house or lodge; on the
-other side it concluded at the wall of the chapel. It had no break in all
-its expanse, and so there was nothing left for us to do but to go back the
-way we had come, obliterate the signs of our attempt and find our cells
-again. We went, be sure, with heavy hearts, again ventured into the
-chapel, climbed the stairs, went through the ceiling, and stopped a little
-among the rafters to rest his reverence who was finding these manoeuvres
-too much for his weighty body. While he sat regaining sufficient strength
-to resume his crawling on rimey tiles I made a search of the loft we were
-in and found it extended to the gable end of the chapel, but nothing more
-for my trouble beyond part of a hanging chain that came through the roof
-and passed through the ceiling. I had almost missed it in the darkness,
-and even when I touched it my first thought was to leave it alone. But I
-took a second thought and tried the lower end, which came up as I hauled,
-yard upon yard, until I had the end of it, finished with a bell-ringer's
-hempen grip, in my hands. Here was a discovery if bell-pulls had been made
-of rope throughout in Bicêtre prison! But a chain with an end to a bell
-was not a thing to be easily borrowed.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went back to where Father Hamilton was seated on the rafters, and told
-him my discovery.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A bell,” said he. “Faith! I never liked them. Pestilent inventions of the
-enemy, that suggested duties to be done and the fleeting hours. But a
-bell-rope implies a belfry on the roof and a bell in it, and the chain
-that may reach the ground within the building may reach the same desirable
-place without the same.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That's very true,” said I, struck with the thing. And straight got
-through the trap and out upon the roof again. Father Hamilton puffed after
-me and in a little we came upon a structure like a dovecot at the very
-gable-end. “The right time to harry a nest is at night,” said I, “for then
-you get all that's in it.” And I started to pull up the chain that was
-fastened to the bell.
-</p>
-<p>
-I lowered behemoth with infinite exertion till he reached the ground
-outside the prison grounds in safety, wrapped the clapper of the bell in
-my waistcoat, and descended hand over hand after him.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were on the side of a broad road that dipped down the hill into a
-little village. Between us and the village street, across which hung a
-swinging lamp, there mounted slowly a carriage with a pair of horses.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bernard!” I cried, running up to it, and found it was the Swiss in the
-very article of waiting for us, and he speedily drove us into Paris.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXVII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WE ENTER PARIS AND FIND A SANCTUARY THERE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>f the town of Paris that is so lamentably notable in these days I have
-but the recollection that one takes away from a new scene witnessed under
-stress of mind due to matters more immediately affecting him than the
-colour, shape, and properties of things seen, and the thought I had in
-certain parts of it is more clear to me to-day than the vision of the
-place itself. It is, in my mind, like a fog that the bridges thundered as
-our coach drove over them with our wretched fortunes on that early morning
-of our escape from Bicêtre, but as clear as when it sprung to me from the
-uproar of the wheels comes back the dread that the whole of this community
-would be at their windows looking out to see what folks untimeously
-disturbed their rest. We were delayed briefly at a gate upon the walls; I
-can scarcely mind what manner of men they were that stopped us and thrust
-a lantern in our faces, and what they asked eludes me altogether, but I
-mind distinctly how I gasped relief when we were permitted to roll on.
-Blurred, too—no better than the surplusage of dreams, is my first
-picture of the river and its isles in the dawn, but, like a favourite
-song, I mind the gluck of waters on the quays and that they made me think
-of Earn and Cart and Clyde.
-</p>
-<p>
-We stopped in the place of the Notre Dame at the corner of a street; the
-coach drove off to a <i>remise</i> whence it had come, and we went to an
-hospital called the Hôtel Dieu, in the neighbourhood, where Hamilton had a
-Jesuit friend in one of the heads, and where we were accommodated in a
-room that was generally set aside for clergymen. It was a place of the
-most wonderful surroundings, this Hôtel Dieu, choked, as it were, among
-towers, the greatest of them those of Our Lady itself that were in the
-Gothic taste, regarding which Father Hamilton used to say, “<i>Dire
-gothique, c'est dire mauvais gout</i>,” though, to tell the truth, I
-thought the building pretty braw myself. Alleys and wynds were round about
-us, and so narrow that the sky one saw between them was but a ribbon by
-day, while at night they seemed no better than ravines.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Twas at night I saw most of the city, for only in the darkness did I dare
-to venture out of the Hôtel Dieu. Daundering my lone along the cobbles, I
-took a pleasure in the exercise of tenanting these towering lands with
-people having histories little different from the histories of the folks
-far off in my Scottish home—their daughters marrying, their sons
-going throughither (as we say), their bairns wakening and crying in their
-naked beds, and grannies sitting by the ingle-neuk cheerfully cracking
-upon ancient days. Many a time in the by-going I looked up their pend
-closes seeking the eternal lovers of our own burgh towns and never finding
-them, for I take it that in love the foreign character is coyer than our
-own. But no matter how eagerly I went forth upon my nightly airing in a <i>roquelaure</i>
-borrowed from Father Hamilton's friend, the adventure always ended, for
-me, in a sort of eerie terror of those close-hemming walls, those tangled
-lanes where slouched the outcast and the ne'er-do-weel, and not even the
-glitter of the moon upon the river between its laden isles would comfort
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la!” would Father Hamilton cry at me when I got home with a face
-like a fiddle. “Art the most ridiculous rustic ever ate a cabbage or set
-foot in Arcady. Why, man! the woman must be wooed—this Mademoiselle
-Lutetia. Must take her front and rear, walk round her, ogling bravely.
-Call her dull! call her dreadful! <i>Ciel!</i> Has the child never an eye
-in his mutton head? I avow she is the queen of the earth this Paris. If I
-were young and wealthy I'd buy the glittering stars in constellations and
-turn them into necklets for her. With thy plaguey gift of the sonnet I'd
-deave her with ecstasies and spill oceans of ink upon leagues of paper to
-tell her about her eyes. Go to! Scotland, go to! Ghosts! ghosts! devil the
-thing else but ghosts in thy rustic skull, for to take a fear of Lutetia
-when her black hair is down of an evening and thou canst not get a glimpse
-of that beautiful neck that is rounded like the same in the Psyche of
-Praxiteles. Could I pare off a portion of this rotundity and go out in a
-masque as Apollo I'd show thee things.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And all he saw of Paris himself was from the windows of the hospital,
-where he and I would stand by the hour looking out into the square. For
-the air itself he had to take it in a little garden at the back,
-surrounded by a high wall, and affording a seclusion that even the priest
-could avail himself of without the hazard of discovery. He used to sit in
-an arbour there in the warmth of the day, and it was there I saw another
-trait of his character that helped me much to forget his shortcomings.
-</p>
-<p>
-Over his head, within the doorway of the bower, he hung a box and placed
-therein the beginnings of a bird's nest. The thing was not many hours done
-when a pair of birds came boldly into his presence as he sat silent and
-motionless in the bower, and began to avail themselves of so excellent a
-start in householding. In a few days there were eggs in the nest, and
-'twas the most marvellous of spectacles to witness the hen sit content
-upon them over the head of the fat man underneath, and the cock, without
-concern, fly in and out attentive on his mate.
-</p>
-<p>
-But, indeed, the man was the friend of all helpless things, and few of the
-same came his way without an instinct that told them it was so. Not the
-birds in the nest alone were at ease in his society; he had but to walk
-along the garden paths whistling and chirping, and there came flights of
-birds about his head and shoulders, and some would even perch upon his
-hand. I have never seen him more like his office than when he talked with
-the creatures of the air, unless it was on another occasion when two
-bairns, the offspring of an inmate in the hospital, ventured into the
-garden, finding there another child, though monstrous, who had not lost
-the key to the fields where blossom the flowers of infancy, and frolic is
-a prayer.
-</p>
-<p>
-But he dare not set a foot outside the walls of our retreat, for it was as
-useless to hide Ballageich under a Kilmarnock bonnet as to seek a disguise
-for his reverence in any suit of clothes. Bernard would come to us rarely
-under cover of night, but alas! there were no letters for me now, and mine
-that were sent through him were fewer than before. And there was once an
-odd thing happened that put an end to these intromissions; a thing that
-baffled me to understand at the time, and indeed for many a day
-thereafter, but was made plain to me later on in a manner that proved how
-contrary in his character was this mad priest, that was at once assassin
-and the noblest friend.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton was not without money, though all had been taken from him
-at Bicêtre. It was an evidence of the width and power of the Jesuit
-movement that even in the Hôtel Dieu he could command what sums he needed,
-and Bernard was habituated to come to him for moneys that might pay for
-himself and the coachman and the horses at the <i>remise</i>. On the last
-of these occasions I took the chance to slip a letter for Miss Walkinshaw
-into his hand. Instead of putting it in his pocket he laid it down a
-moment on a table, and he and I were busy packing linen for the wash when
-a curious cry from Father Hamilton made us turn to see him with the letter
-in his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was gazing with astonishment on the direction.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” said he, “and so my Achilles is not consoling himself exclusively
-with the Haemonian lyre, but has taken to that far more dangerous
-instrument the pen. The pen, my child, is the curse of youth. When we are
-young we use it for our undoing, and for the facture of regrets for after
-years—even if it be no more than the reading of our wives' letters
-that I'm told are a bitter revelation to the married man. And so—and
-so, Monsieur Croque-mort keeps up a correspondence with the lady. H'm!” He
-looked so curiously and inquiringly at me that I felt compelled to make an
-explanation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is quite true, Father Hamilton,” said I. “After all, you gave me so
-little clerkly work that I was bound to employ my pen somehow, and how
-better than with my countrywoman?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis none of my affair—perhaps,” he said, laying down the letter.
-“And yet I have a curiosity. Have we here the essential Mercury?” and he
-indicated Bernard who seemed to me to have a greater confusion than the discovery
-gave a cause for.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bernard has been good enough,” said I. “You discover two Scots, Father
-Hamilton, in a somewhat sentimental situation. The lady did me the honour
-to be interested in my little travels, and I did my best to keep her
-informed.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He turned away as he had been shot, hiding his face, but I saw from his
-neck that he had grown as white as parchment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What in the world have I done?” thinks I, and concluded that he was angry
-for my taking the liberty to use the dismissed servant as a go-between. In
-a moment or two he turned about again, eying me closely, and at last he
-put his hand upon my shoulder as a schoolmaster might do upon a boy's.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My good Paul,” said he, “how old are you?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Twenty-one come Martinmas,” I said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Expiscate! elucidate! 'Come Martinmas,'” says he, “and what does that
-mean? But no matter—twenty-one says my barbarian; sure 'tis a right
-young age, a very baby of an age, an age in frocks if one that has it has
-lived the best of his life with sheep and bullocks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sir,” I said, indignant, “I was in very honest company among the same
-sheep and bullocks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Hush!” said he, and put up his hand, eying me with compassion and
-kindness. “If thou only knew it, lad, thou art due me a civil attention at
-the very least. Sure there is no harm in my mentioning that thou art
-mighty ingenuous for thy years. 'Tis the quality I would be the last to
-find fault with, but sometimes it has its inconveniences. And Bernard”—he
-turned to the Swiss who was still greatly disturbed—“Bernard is a
-somewhat older gentleman. Perhaps he will say—our good Bernard—if
-he was the person I have to thank for taking the sting out of the wasp,
-for extracting the bullet from my pistol? Ah! I see he is the veritable
-person. Adorable Bernard, let that stand to his credit!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then Bernard fell trembling like a saugh tree, and protested he did but
-what he was told.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And a good thing, too,” said the priest, still very pale but with no
-displeasure. “And a good thing too, else poor Buhot, that I have seen an
-infinity of headachy dawns with, had been beyond any interest in cards or
-prisoners. For that I shall forgive you the rest that I can guess at. Take
-Monsieur Grog's letter where you have taken the rest, and be gone.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Swiss went out much crestfallen from an interview that was beyond my
-comprehension.
-</p>
-<p>
-When he was gone Father Hamilton fell into a profound meditation, walking
-up and down his room muttering to himself.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Faith, I never had such a problem presented to me before,” said he,
-stopping his walk; “I know not whether to laugh or swear. I feel that I
-have been made a fool of, and yet nothing better could have happened. And
-so my Croque-mort, my good Monsieur Propriety, has been writing the lady?
-I should not wonder if he thought she loved him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nothing so bold,” I cried. “You might without impropriety have seen every
-one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A seaman's log!” said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin;
-“nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! And
-I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear was
-what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she not
-caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made
-the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she
-should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest laughed consumedly at this.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Interest in her countryman!” said he. “Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me
-for thy unexpected spots of innocence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And as to that,” I said, “you must have had a sort of correspondence with
-her yourself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I!” said he. “<i>Comment!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“To be quite frank with you,” said I, “it has been the cause of some
-vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was
-directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, it
-was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate in the
-Rue des Reservoirs.” Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any time the
-terrible affair was mentioned.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is true, Paul, quite true,” said he, “but the letter was a forgery.
-I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have
-troubled me for a while back.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said he, “and your perplexities and mine are not over even now, poor
-Paul. This Bernard is like to be the ruin of me yet. For you, however, I
-have no fear, but it is another matter with the poor old fool from
-Dixmunde.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His voice broke, he displayed thus and otherwise so troubled a mind and so
-great a reluctance to let me know the cause of it that I thought it well
-to leave him for a while and let him recover his old manner.
-</p>
-<p>
-To that end I put on my coat and hat and went out rather earlier than
-usual for my evening walk.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXVIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE MAN WITH THE TARTAN WAISTCOAT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the first of May. But for Father Hamilton's birds, and some scanty
-signs of it in the small garden, the lengthened day and the kindlier air
-of the evenings, I might never have known what season it was out of the
-almanac, for all seasons were much the same, no doubt, in the Isle of the
-City where the priest and I sequestered. 'Twas ever the shade of the
-tenements there; the towers of the churches never greened nor budded; I
-would have waited long, in truth, for the scent of the lilac and the
-chatter of the rook among these melancholy temples.
-</p>
-<p>
-Till that night I had never ventured farther from the gloomy vicinity of
-the hospital than I thought I could safely retrace without the necessity
-of asking any one the way; but this night, more courageous, or perhaps
-more careless than usual, I crossed the bridge of Notre Dame and found
-myself in something like the Paris of the priest's rhapsodies and the same
-all thrilling with the passion of the summer. It was not flower nor tree,
-though these were not wanting, but the spirit in the air—young girls
-laughing in the by-going with merriest eyes, windows wide open letting out
-the sounds of songs, the pavements like a river with zesty life of
-Highland hills when the frosts above are broken and the overhanging boughs
-have been flattering it all the way in the valleys.
-</p>
-<p>
-I was fair infected. My step, that had been unco' dull and heavy, I fear,
-and going to the time of dirges on the Isle, went to a different tune; my
-being rhymed and sang. I had got the length of the Rue de Richelieu and
-humming to myself in the friendliest key, with the good-natured people
-pressing about me, when of a sudden it began to rain. There was no close
-in the neighbourhood where I could shelter from the elements, but in front
-of me was the door of a tavern called the Tête du Duc de Burgoyne shining
-with invitation, and in I went.
-</p>
-<p>
-A fat wife sat at a counter; a pot-boy, with a cry of “V'ià!” that was
-like a sheep's complaining, served two ancient citizens in skull-caps that
-played the game of dominoes, and he came to me with my humble order of a
-litre of ordinary and a piece of bread for the good of the house.
-</p>
-<p>
-Outside the rain pelted, and the folks upon the pavement ran, and
-by-and-by the tavern-room filled up with shelterers like myself and kept
-the pot-boy busy. Among the last to enter was a group of five that took a
-seat at another corner of the room than that where I sat my lone at a
-little table. At first I scarcely noticed them until I heard a word of
-Scots. I think the man that used it spoke of “gully-knives,” but at least
-the phrase was the broadest lallands, and went about my heart.
-</p>
-<p>
-I put down my piece of bread and looked across the room in wonder to see
-that three of the men were gazing intently at myself. The fourth was hid
-by those in front of him; the fifth that had spoken had a tartan waistcoat
-and eyes that were like a gled's, though they were not on me. In spite of
-that, 'twas plain that of me he spoke, and that I was the object of some
-speculation among them.
-</p>
-<p>
-No one that has not been lonely in a foreign town, and hungered for
-communion with those that know his native tongue, can guess how much I
-longed for speech with this compatriot that in dress and eye and accent
-brought back the place of my nativity in one wild surge of memory. Every
-bawbee in my pocket would not have been too much to pay for such a
-privilege, but it might not be unless the overtures came from the persons
-in the corner.
-</p>
-<p>
-Very deliberately, though all in a commotion within, I ate my piece and
-drank my wine before the stare of the three men, and at last, on the
-whisper of one of them, another produced a box of dice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no!” said the man with the tartan waistcoat hurriedly, with a glance
-from the tail of his eye at me, but they persisted in their purpose and
-began to throw. My countryman in tartan got the last chance, of which he
-seemed reluctant to avail himself till the one unseen said: “<i>Vous avez
-le de''</i>, Kilbride.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Kilbride! the name was the call of whaups at home upon the moors!
-</p>
-<p>
-He laughed, shook, and tossed carelessly, and then the laugh was all with
-them, for whatever they had played for he had seemingly lost and the dice
-were now put by.
-</p>
-<p>
-He rose somewhat confused, looked dubiously across at me with a reddening
-face, and then came over with his hat in his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon, Monsieur,” he began; then checked the French, and said: “Have I a
-countryman here?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is like enough,” said I, with a bow and looking at his tartan. “I am
-from Scotland myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He smiled at that with a look of some relief and took a vacant chair on
-the other side of my small table.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have come better speed with my impudence,” said he in the Hielan'
-accent, “than I expected or deserved. My name's Kilbride—MacKellar
-of Kilbride—and I am here with another Highland gentleman of the
-name of Grant and two or three French friends we picked up at the door of
-the play-house. Are you come off the Highlands, if I make take the
-liberty?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My name is lowland,” said I, “and I hail from the shire of Renfrew.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said he, with a vanity that was laughable. “What a pity! I wish you
-had been Gaelic, but of course you cannot help it being otherwise, and
-indeed there are many estimable persons in the lowlands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And a great wheen of Highland gentlemen very glad to join them there
-too,” said I, resenting the implication.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course, of course,” said he heartily. “There is no occasion for
-offence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Confound the offence, Mr. MacKellar!” said I. “Do you not think I am just
-too glad at this minute to hear a Scottish tongue and see a tartan
-waistcoat? Heilan' or Lowlan', we are all the same” when our feet are off
-the heather.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not exactly,” he corrected, “but still and on we understand each other.
-You must be thinking it gey droll, sir, that a band of strangers in a
-common tavern would have the boldness to stare at you like my friends
-there, and toss a dice about you in front of your face, but that is the
-difference between us. If I had been in your place I would have thrown the
-jug across at them, but here I am not better nor the rest, because the
-dice fell to me, and I was one that must decide the wadger.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, and was I the object of a wadger?” said I, wondering what we were
-coming to.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and that you were,” said he shamefacedly, “and I'm affronted to
-tell it. But when Grant saw you first he swore you were a countryman, and
-there was some difference of opinion.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what, may I ask, did Kilbride side with?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh,” said he promptly, “I had never a doubt about that. I knew you were
-Scots, but what beat me was to say whether you were Hielan' or Lowlan'.”
- “And how, if it's a fair question, did you come to the conclusion that I
-was a countryman of any sort?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-He laughed softly, and “Man,” said he, “I could never make any mistake
-about that, whatever of it. There's many a bird that's like the woodcock,
-but the woodcock will aye be kennin' which is which, as the other man
-said. Thae bones were never built on bread and wine. It's a French coat
-you have there, and a cockit hat (by your leave), but to my view you were
-as plainly from Scotland as if you had a blue bonnet on your head and a
-sprig of heather in your lapels. And here am I giving you the strange
-cow's welcome (as the other man said), and that is all inquiry and no
-information. You must just be excusing our bit foolish wadger, and if the
-proposal would come favourably from myself, that is of a notable family,
-though at present under a sort of cloud, as the other fellow said, I would
-be proud to have you share in the bottle of wine that was dependent upon
-Grant's impudent wadger. I can pass my word for my friends there that they
-are all gentry like ourselves—of the very best, in troth, though not
-over-nice in putting this task on myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I would have liked brawly to spend an hour out any company than my own,
-but the indulgence was manifestly one involving the danger of discovery;
-it was, as I told myself, the greatest folly to be sitting in a tavern at
-all, so MacKellar's manner immediately grew cold when he saw a swithering
-in my countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course,” said he, reddening and rising, “of course, every gentleman
-has his own affairs, and I would be the last to make a song of it if you
-have any dubiety about my friends and me. I'll allow the thing looks very
-like a gambler's contrivance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, no, Mr. MacKellar,” said I hurriedly, unwilling to let us part like
-that, “I'm swithering here just because I'm like yoursel' of it and under
-a cloud of my own.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Dod! Is that so?” said he quite cheerfully again, and clapping down,
-“then I'm all the better pleased that the thing that made the roebuck swim
-the loch—and that's necessity—as the other man said, should
-have driven me over here to precognosce you. But when you say you are
-under a cloud, that is to make another way of it altogether, and I will
-not be asking you over, for there is a gentleman there among the five of
-us who might be making trouble of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Have you a brother in Glasgow College?” says I suddenly, putting a
-question that had been in my mind ever since he had mentioned his name.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I have that,” said he quickly, “but now he is following the
-law in Edinburgh, where I am in the hopes it will be paying him better
-than ever it paid me that has lost two fine old castles and the best part
-of a parish by the same. You'll not be sitting there and telling me surely
-that you know my young brother Alasdair?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Man! him and me lodged together in Lucky Grant's, in Crombie's Land in
-the High Street, for two Sessions,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” said MacKellar. “And you'll be the lad that snow-balled the bylie,
-and your name will be Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-As he said it he bent to look under the table, then drew up suddenly with
-a startled face and a whisper of a whistle on his lips.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My goodness!” said he, in a cautious tone, “and that beats all. You'll be
-the lad that broke jyle with the priest that shot at Buhot, and there you
-are, you <i>amadain</i>, like a gull with your red brogues on you, crying
-'come and catch me' in two languages. I'm telling you to keep thae feet of
-yours under this table till we're out of here, if it should be the morn's
-morning. No—that's too long, for by the morn's morning Buhot's men
-will be at the Hôtel Dieu, and the end of the story will be little talk
-and the sound of blows, as the other man said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Every now and then as he spoke he would look over his shoulder with a
-quick glance at his friends—a very anxious man, but no more anxious
-than Paul Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mercy on us!” said I, “do you tell me you ken all that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I ken a lot more than that,” said he, “but that's the latest of my
-budget, and I'm giving it to you for the sake of the shoes and my brother
-Alasdair, that is a writer in Edinburgh. There's not two Scotchmen
-drinking a bowl in Paris town this night that does not ken your
-description, and it's kent by them at the other table there—where
-better?—but because you have that coat on you that was surely made
-for you when you were in better health, as the other man said, and because
-your long trams of legs and red shoes are under the table there's none of
-them suspects you. And now that I'm thinking of it, I would not go near
-the hospital place again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! but the priest's there,” said I, “and it would never do for me to be
-leaving him there without a warning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A warning!” said MacKellar with contempt. “I'm astonished to hear you,
-Mr. Greig. The filthy brock that he is!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If you're one of the Prince's party,” said I, “and it has every look of
-it, or, indeed, whether you are or not, I'll allow you have some cause to
-blame Father Hamilton, but as for me, I'm bound to him because we have
-been in some troubles together.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What's all this about 'bound to him'?” said MacKellar with a kind of
-sneer. “The dog that's tethered with a black pudding needs no pity, as the
-other man said, and I would leave this fellow to shift for himself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Thank you,” said I, “but I'll not be doing that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, well,” said he, “it's your business, and let me tell you that
-you're nothing but a fool to be tangled up with the creature. That's
-Kilbride's advice to you. Let me tell you this more of it, that they're
-not troubling themselves much about you at all now that you have given
-them the information.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Information!” I said with a start. “What do you mean by that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He prepared to join his friends, with a smile of some slyness, and gave me
-no satisfaction on the point.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You'll maybe ken best yourself,” said he, “and I'm thinking your name
-will have to be Robertson and yourself a decent Englishman for my friends
-on the other side of the room there. Between here and yonder I'll have to
-be making up a bonny lie or two that will put them off the scent of you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A bonny lie or two seemed to serve the purpose, for their interest in me
-appeared to go no further, and by-and-by, when it was obvious that there
-would be no remission of the rain, they rose to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-The last that went out of the door turned on the threshold and looked at
-me with a smile of recognition and amusement.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was Buhot!
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXIX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN THE PRIEST LEAVES ME, AND I MAKE AN INLAND VOYAGE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hat this marvel betokened was altogether beyond my comprehension, but the
-five men were no sooner gone than I clapped on my hat and drew up the
-collar of my coat and ran like fury through the plashing streets for the
-place that was our temporary home. It must have been an intuition of the
-raised that guided me; my way was made without reflection on it, at pure
-hazard, and yet I landed through a multitude of winding and bewildering
-streets upon the Isle of the City and in front of the Hôtel Dieu in a much
-shorter time than it had taken me to get from there to the Duke of
-Burgundy's Head.
-</p>
-<p>
-I banged past the doorkeeper, jumped upstairs to the clergyman's quarters,
-threw open the door and—found Father Hamilton was gone!
-</p>
-<p>
-About the matter there could be no manner of dubiety, for he had left a
-letter directed to myself upon the drawers-head.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My Good Paul (said the epistle, that I have kept till now as a memorial
-of my adventure): When you return you will discover from this that I have
-taken leave <i>a l'anglaise</i>, and I fancy I can see my secretary
-looking like the arms of Bourges (though that is an unkind imputation).
-'Tis fated, seemingly, that there shall be no rest for the sole of the
-foot of poor Father Hamilton. I had no sooner got to like a loose collar,
-and an unbuttoned vest, and the seclusion of a cell, than I must be
-plucked out; and now when my birds—the darlings!—are on the
-very point of hatching I must make adieux. <i>Oh! la belle équipée!</i> M.
-Buhot knows where I am—that's certain, so I must remove myself, and
-this time I do not propose to burden M. Paul Greig with my company, for it
-will be a miracle if they fail to find me. As for my dear Croque-mort, he
-can have the glass coach and Jacques and Bernard, and doubtless the best
-he can do with them is to take all to Dunkerque and leave them there. I
-myself, I go <i>sans trompette</i>, and no inquiries will discover to him
-where I go.”
- </p>
-<p>
-As a postscript he added, “And 'twas only a sailor's log, dear lad! My
-poor young Paul!” When I read the letter I was puzzled tremendously, and
-at first I felt inclined to blame the priest for a scurvy flitting to rid
-himself of my society, but a little deliberation convinced me that no such
-ignoble consideration was at the bottom of his flight. If I read his
-epistle aright the step he took was in my own interest, though how it
-could be so there was no surmising. In any case he was gone; his friend in
-the hospital told me he had set out behind myself, and taken a candle with
-him and given a farewell visit to his birds, and almost cried about them
-and about myself, and then departed for good to conceal himself, in some
-other part of the city, probably, but exactly where his friend had no way
-of guessing. And it was a further evidence of the priest's good feeling to
-myself (if such were needed) that he had left a sum of a hundred livres
-for me towards the costs of my future movements.
-</p>
-<p>
-I left the Hôtel Dieu at midnight to wander very melancholy about the
-streets for a time, and finally came out upon the river's bank, where some
-small vessels hung at a wooden quay. I saw them in moonlight (for now the
-rain was gone), and there rose in me such a feeling as I had often
-experienced as a lad in another parish than the Mearns, to see the road
-that led from strangeness past my mother's door. The river seemed a
-pathway out of mystery and discontent to the open sea, and the open sea
-was the same that beat about the shores of Britain, and my thought took
-flight there and then to Britain, but stopped for a space, like a wearied
-bird, upon the town Dunkerque. There is one who reads this who will judge
-kindly, and pardon when I say that I felt a sort of tenderness for the
-lady there, who was not only my one friend in France, so far as I could
-guess, but, next to my mother, the only woman who knew my shame and still
-retained regard for me. And thinking about Scotland and about Dunkerque,
-and seeing that watery highway to them both, I was seized with a great
-repugnance for the city I stood in, and felt that I must take my feet from
-there at once. Father Hamilton was lost to me: that was certain. I could
-no more have found him in this tanglement of streets and strange faces
-than I could have found a needle in a haystack, and I felt disinclined to
-make the trial. Nor was I prepared to avail myself of his offer of the
-coach and horses, for to go travelling again in them would be to court
-Bicêtre anew.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a group of busses or barges at the quay, as I have said, all
-huddled together as it were animals seeking warmth, with their bows
-nuzzling each other, and on one of them there were preparations being made
-for her departure. A cargo of empty casks was piled up in her, lights were
-being hung up at her bow and stern, and one of her crew was ashore in the
-very act of casting off her ropes. At a flash it occurred to me that I had
-here the safest and the speediest means of flight.
-</p>
-<p>
-I ran at once to the edge of the quay and clumsily propounded a question
-as to where the barge was bound for.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Rouen or thereabouts,” said the master.
-</p>
-<p>
-I asked if I could have a passage, and chinked my money in my pocket.
-</p>
-<p>
-My French might have been but middling, but Lewis d'Or talks in a language
-all can understand.
-</p>
-<p>
-Ten minutes later we were in the fairway of the river running down through
-the city which, in that last look I was ever fated to have of it, seemed
-to brood on either hand of us like bordering hills, and at morning we were
-at a place by name Triel.
-</p>
-<p>
-Of all the rivers I have seen I must think the Seine the finest. It runs
-in loops like my native Forth, sometimes in great, wide stretches that
-have the semblance of moorland lochs. In that fine weather, with a sun
-that was most genial, the country round about us basked and smiled. We
-moved upon the fairest waters, by magic gardens, and the borders of
-enchanted little towns. Now it would be a meadow sloping backward from the
-bank, where reeds were nodding, to the horizon; now an orchard standing
-upon grass that was the rarest green, then a village with rusty roofs and
-spires and the continual chime of bells, with women washing upon stones or
-men silent upon wherries fishing. Every link of the river opened up a
-fresher wonder; if not some poplared isle that had the invitation to a
-childish escapade, 'twould be another town, or the garden of a château,
-maybe, with ladies walking stately on the lawns, perhaps alone, perhaps
-with cavaliers about them as if they moved in some odd woodland minuet. I
-can mind of songs that came from open windows, sung in women's voices; of
-girls that stood drawing water and smiled on us as we passed, at home in
-our craft of fortune, and still the lucky roamers seeing the world so
-pleasantly without the trouble of moving a step from our galley fire.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sometimes in the middle of the days we would stop at a red-faced, ancient
-inn, with bowers whose tables almost had their feet dipped in the river,
-and there would eat a meal and linger on a pot of wine while our barge
-fell asleep at her tether and dreamt of the open sea. About us in these
-inns came the kind country-people and talked of trivial things for the
-mere sake of talking, because the weather was sweet and God so gracious;
-homely sounds would waft from the byres and from the barns—the laugh
-of bairns, the whistle of boys, the low of cattle.
-</p>
-<p>
-At night we moored wherever we might be, and once I mind of a place called
-Andelys, selvedged with chalky cliffs and lorded over by a castle called
-Gaillard, that had in every aspect of it something of the clash of weapons
-and of trumpet-cry. The sky shone blue through its gaping gables and its
-crumbling windows like so many eyes; the birds that wheeled all round it
-seemed to taunt it for its inability. The old wars over, the deep fosse
-silent, the strong men gone—and there at its foot the thriving town
-so loud with sounds of peaceful trade! Whoever has been young, and has the
-eye for what is beautiful and great and stately, must have felt in such a
-scene that craving for companionship that tickles like a laugh within the
-heart—that longing for some one to feel with him, and understand,
-and look upon with silence. In my case 'twas two women I would have there
-with me just to look upon this Gaillard and the town below it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Then the bending, gliding river again, the willow and the aspen edges, the
-hazy orchards and the emerald swards; hamlets, towns, farm-steadings,
-châteaux, kirks, and mills; the flying mallard, the leaping perch, the
-silver dawns, the starry nights, the ripple of the water in my dreams, and
-at last the city of Rouen. My ship of fortune went no further on.
-</p>
-<p>
-I slept a night in an inn upon the quay, and early the next morning,
-having bought a pair of boots to save my red shoes, I took the road over a
-hill that left Rouen and all its steeples, reeking at the bottom of a
-bowl. I walked all day, through woods and meadows and trim small towns and
-orchards, and late in the gloaming came upon the port of Havre de Grace.
-</p>
-<p>
-The sea was sounding there, and the smell of it was like a salutation. I
-went out at night from my inn, and fairly joyed in its propinquity, and
-was so keen on it that I was at the quay before it was well daylight. The
-harbour was full of vessels. It was not long ere I got word of one that
-was in trim for Dunkerque, to which I took a passage, and by favour of
-congenial weather came upon the afternoon of the second day.
-</p>
-<p>
-Dunkerque was more busy with soldiers than ever, all the arms of France
-seemed to be collected there, and ships of war and flat-bottomed boats
-innumerable were in the harbour.
-</p>
-<p>
-At the first go-off I made for the lodgings I had parted from so
-unceremoniously on the morning of that noisy glass coach.
-</p>
-<p>
-The house, as I have said before, was over a baker's shop, and was reached
-by a common outer stair that rose from a court-yard behind. Though
-internally the domicile was well enough, indeed had a sort of
-old-fashioned gentility, and was kept by a woman whose man had been a
-colonel of dragoons, but now was a tippling pensioner upon the king, and
-his own wife's labours, it was, externally, somewhat mean, the place a
-solid merchant of our own country might inhabit, but scarce the place
-wherein to look for royal blood. What was my astonishment, then, when, as
-I climbed the stair, I came face to face with the Prince!
-</p>
-<p>
-I felt the stair swing off below me and half distrusted my senses, but I
-had the presence of mind to take my hat off.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Bon jour, Monsieur</i>, said he, with a slight hiccough, and I saw
-that he was flushed and meant to pass with an evasion. There and then a
-daft notion to explain myself and my relations with the priest who had
-planned his assassination came to me, and I stopped and spoke.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your Royal Highness—-” I began, and at that he grew purple.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Cest un drôle de corps!</i>” said he, and, always speaking in French,
-said he again:
-</p>
-<p>
-“You make an error, Monsieur; I have not the honour of Monsieur's
-acquaintance,” and looked at me with a bold eye and a disconcerting.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Greig,” I blurted, a perfect lout, and surely as blind as a mole that
-never saw his desire, “I had the honour to meet your Royal Highness at
-Versailles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My Royal Highness!” said he, this time in English. “I think Monsieur
-mistakes himself.” And then, when he saw how crestfallen I was, he smiled
-and hiccoughed again. “You are going to call on our good Clancarty,” said
-he. “In that case please tell him to translate to you the proverb, <i>Oui
-phis sait plus se tait</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There is no necessity, Monsieur,” I answered promptly. “Now that I look
-closer I see I was mistaken. The person I did you the honour to take you
-for was one in whose opinion (if he took the trouble to think of me at
-all) I should have liked to re-establish myself, that was all.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In spite of his dissipation there was something noble in his manner—a
-style of the shoulders and the hands, a poise of the head that I might
-practise for years and come no closer on than any nowt upon my father's
-fields. It was that which I remember best of our engagement on the stair,
-and that at the last of it he put out his hand to bid me good-day.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My name,” says he, “is Monsieur Albany so long as I am in Dunkerque. <i>À
-bon entendeur salut!</i> I hope we may meet again, Monsieur Greig.” He
-looked down at the black boots I had bought me in Rouen. “If I might take
-the liberty to suggest it,” said he, smiling, “I should abide by the
-others. I have never seen their wearer wanting wit, <i>esprit</i>, and
-prudence—which are qualities that at this moment I desire above all
-in those that count themselves my friends.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And with that he was gone. I watched him descend the remainder of the
-stair with much deliberation, and did not move a step myself until the tip
-of his scabbard had gone round the corner of the close.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A GUID CONCEIT OF MYSELF LEADS ME FAR ASTRAY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>lancarty and Thurot were playing cards, so intent upon that recreation
-that I was in the middle of the floor before they realised who it was the
-servant had ushered in.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec! Il n'y a pas de petit chez soi!</i>”
- cried Thurot, dropping his hand, and they jumped to their feet to greet
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll be hanged if you want assurance, child,” said Clancarty, surveying
-me from head to foot as if I were some curiosity. “Here's your exploits
-ringing about the world, and not wholly to your credit, and you must walk
-into the very place where they will find the smallest admiration.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not meaning the lodging of Captain Thurot,” said I. “Whatever my
-reputation may be with the world, I make bold to think he and you will
-believe me better than I may seem at the first glance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The first glance!” cried his lordship. “Gad, the first glance suggests
-that Bicêtre agreed with our Scotsman. Sure, they must have fed you on
-oatmeal. I'd give a hatful of louis d'or to see Father Hamilton, for if he
-throve so marvellously in the flesh as his secretary he must look like the
-side of St. Eloi. One obviously grows fat on regicide—fatter than a
-few poor devils I know do upon devotion to princes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot's face assured me that I was as welcome there as ever I had been.
-He chid Clancarty for his badinage, and told me he was certain all along
-that the first place I should make for after my flight from Bicêtre (of
-which all the world knew) would be Dunkerque. “And a good thing too, M.
-Greig,” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not so good,” says I, “but what I must meet on your stair the very man-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stop!” he cried, and put his finger on his lip. “In these parts we know
-only a certain M. Albany, who is, my faith! a good friend of your own if
-you only knew it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I scarcely see how that can be,” said I. “If any man has a cause to
-dislike me it is his Roy—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“M. Albany,” corrected Thurot.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is M. Albany, for whom, it seems, I was the decoy in a business that
-makes me sick to think on. I would expect no more than that he had gone
-out there to send the officers upon my heels, and for me to be sitting
-here may be simple suicide.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Clancarty laughed. “Tis the way of youth,” said he, “to attach far too
-much importance to itself. Take our word for it, M. Greig, all France is
-not scurrying round looking for the nephew of Andrew Greig. Faith, and I
-wonder at you, my dear Thurot, that has an Occasion here—a veritable
-Occasion—and never so much as says bottle. Stap me if I have a
-friend come to me from a dungeon without wishing him joy in a glass of
-burgundy!”
- </p>
-<p>
-The burgundy was forthcoming, and his lordship made the most of it, while
-Captain Thurot was at pains to assure me that my position was by no means
-so bad as I considered it. In truth, he said, the police had their own
-reasons for congratulating themselves on my going out of their way. They
-knew very well, as M. Albany did, that I had been the catspaw of the
-priest, who was himself no better than that same, and for that reason as
-likely to escape further molestation as I was myself.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot spoke with authority, and hinted that he had the word of M. Albany
-himself for what he said. I scarcely knew which pleased me best—that
-I should be free myself or that the priest should have a certain security
-in his concealment.
-</p>
-<p>
-I told them of Buhot, and how oddly he had shown his complacence to his
-escaped prisoner in the tavern of the Duke of Burgundy's Head. At that
-they laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Buhot!” cried his lordship. “My faith! Ned must have been tickled to see
-his escaped prisoner in such a cosy <i>cachette</i> as the Duke's Head,
-where he and I, and Andy Greig—ay! and this same priest—tossed
-many a glass, <i>Ciel!</i> the affair runs like a play. All it wants to
-make this the most delightful of farces is that you should have Father
-Hamilton outside the door to come in at a whistle. Art sure the fat old
-man is not in your waistcoat pocket? Anyhow, here's his good health....”
- </p>
-<h3>
-=== MISSING PAGES (274-288) ===
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXI.
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE BARD OF LOVE WHO WROTE WITH OLD MATERIALS
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXII.
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE DUEL IN THE AUBERGE GARDEN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hoever it was that moved at the instigation of Madame on my behalf, he
-put speed into the business, for the very next day I was told my
-sous-lieutenancy was waiting at the headquarters of the regiment. A
-severance that seemed almost impossible to me before I learned from the
-lady's own lips that her heart was elsewhere engaged was now a thing to
-long for eagerly, and I felt that the sooner I was out of Dunkerque and
-employed about something more important than the tying of my hair and the
-teasing of my heart with thinking, the better for myself. Teasing my
-heart, I say, because Miss Walkinshaw had her own reasons for refusing to
-see me any more, and do what I might I could never manage to come face to
-face with her. Perhaps on the whole it was as well, for what in the world
-I was to say to the lady, supposing I were privileged, it beats me now to
-fancy. Anyhow, the opportunity never came my way, though, for the few days
-that elapsed before I departed from Dunkerque, I spent hours in the Rue de
-la Boucherie sipping sirops on the terrace of the Café Coignet opposite
-her lodging, or at night on the old game of humming ancient love-songs to
-her high and distant window. All I got for my pains were brief and
-tantalising glimpses of her shadow on the curtains; an attenuate kind of
-bliss it must be owned, and yet counted by Master Red-Shoes (who suffered
-from nostalgia, not from love, if he had had the sense to know it) a very
-delirium of delight.
-</p>
-<p>
-One night there was an odd thing came to pass. But, first of all, I must
-tell that more than once of an evening, as I would be in the street and
-staring across at Miss Walkinshaw's windows, I saw his Royal Highness in
-the neighbourhood. His cloak might be voluminous, his hat dragged down
-upon the very nose of him, but still the step was unmistakable. If there
-had been the smallest doubt of it, there came one evening when he passed
-me so close in the light of an oil lamp that I saw the very blotches on
-his countenance. What was more, he saw and recognised me, though he passed
-without any other sign than the flash of an eye and a halfstep of
-hesitation.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/304.jpg" alt="304" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-“H'm,” thinks I, “here's Monsieur Albany looking as if he might, like
-myself, be trying to content himself with the mere shadows of things.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He saw me more than once, and at last there came a night when a fellow in
-drink came staving down the street on the side I was on and jostled me in
-the by-going without a word of apology.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardonnez, Monsieur!</i>” said I in irony, with my hat off to give him
-a hint at his manners.
-</p>
-<p>
-He lurched a second time against me and put up his hand to catch my chin,
-as if I were a wench, “<i>Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec</i>, 'tis time you
-were home,” said he in French, and stuttered some ribaldry that made me
-smack his face with an open hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I saw his Royal Highness in the neighbourhood—”
- </p>
-<p>
-At once he sobered with suspicious suddenness if I had had the sense to
-reflect upon it, and gave me his name and direction as one George Bonnat,
-of the Marine. “Monsieur will do me the honour of a meeting behind the
-Auberge Cassard after <i>petit dejeuner</i> to-morrow,” said he, and named
-a friend. It was the first time I was ever challenged. It should have rung
-in the skull of me like an alarm, but I cannot recall at this date that my
-heart beat a stroke the faster, or that the invitation vexed me more than
-if it had been one to the share of a bottle of wine. “It seems a pretty
-ceremony about a cursed impertinence on the part of a man in liquor,” I
-said, “but I'm ready to meet you either before or after petit déjeuner, as
-it best suits you, and my name's Greig, by your leave.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Very well, Monsieur Greig,” said he; “except that you stupidly impede the
-pavement and talk French like a Spanish cow (<i>comme une vache espagnole</i>),
-you seem a gentleman of much accommodation. Eight o'clock then, behind the
-<i>auberge</i>,” and off went Sir Ruffler, singularly straight and
-business-like, with a profound <i>congé</i> for the unfortunate wretch he
-planned to thrust a spit through in the morning.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went home at once, to find Thurot and Clancarty at lansquenet. They were
-as elate at my story as if I had been asked to dine with Louis.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gad, 'tis an Occasion!” cried my lord, and helped himself, as usual, with
-a charming sentiment: “<i>A demain les affaires sérieuses</i>; to-night
-we'll pledge our friend!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot evinced a flattering certainty of my ability to break down M.
-Bonnat's guard in little or no time. “A crab, this Bonnat,” said he. “Why
-he should pick a quarrel with you I cannot conceive, for 'tis well known
-the man is M. Albany's creature. But, no matter, we shall tickle his ribs,
-M. Paul. <i>Ma foi!</i> here's better gaming than your pestilent cards.
-I'd have every man in the kingdom find an affair for himself once a month
-to keep his spleen in order.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“This one's like to put mine very much out of order with his iron,” I
-said, a little ruefully recalling my last affair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” cried Thurot, “after all my lessons! And this Bonnat a crab too!
-Fie! M. Paul. And what an he pricks a little? a man's the better for some
-iron in his system now and then. Come, come, pass down these foils, my
-lord, and I shall supple the arms of our Paul.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We had a little exercise, and then I went to bed. The two sat in my room,
-and smoked and talked till late in the night, while I pretended to be fast
-asleep. But so far from sleep was I, that I could hear their watches
-ticking in their fobs. Some savagery, some fearful want of soul in them,
-as evidenced by their conversation, horrified me. It was no great matter
-that I was to risk my life upon a drunkard's folly, but for the first time
-since I had come into the port of Dunkerque, and knew these men beside my
-bed, there intruded a fiery sense of alienation. It seemed a dream—a
-dreadful dream, that I should be lying in a foreign land, upon the eve,
-perhaps, of my own death or of another manslaughter, and in a
-correspondence with two such worldly men as those that sat there recalling
-combats innumerable with never a thought of the ultimate fearful
-retribution. Compared with this close room, where fumed the wine and weed,
-and men with never a tie domestic were paying away their lives in the
-small change of trivial pleasures, how noble and august seemed our old
-life upon the moors!
-</p>
-<p>
-When they were gone I fell asleep and slept without a break till Thurot's
-fingers drummed reveille on my door. I jumped into the sunshine of a
-lovely day that streamed into the room, soused my head in water and in a
-little stood upon the street with my companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Bon matin</i>, Paul!” he cried cheerfully. “Faith, you sleep sur <i>les
-deux oreilles</i>, and we must be marching briskly to be at M. Bonnat's
-rendezvous at eight o'clock.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We went through the town and out upon its edge at the Calais road. The sky
-was blue like another sea; the sea itself was all unvexed by wave; a
-sweeter day for slaughtering would pass the wit of man to fancy. Thurot
-hummed an air as he walked along the street, but I was busy thinking of
-another morning in Scotland, when I got a bitter lesson I now seemed
-scandalously soon to have forgotten. By-and-by we came to the inn. It
-stood by itself upon the roadside, with a couple of workmen sitting on a
-bench in front dipping their morning crusts in a common jug of wine.
-Thurot entered and made some inquiry; came out radiant. “Monsieur is not
-going to disappoint us, as I feared,” said he; and led me quickly behind
-the <i>auberge</i>. We passed through the yard, where a servant-girl
-scoured pots and pans and sang the while as if the world were wholly
-pleasant in that sunshine; we crossed a tiny rivulet upon a rotten plank
-and found ourselves in an orchard. Great old trees stood silent in the
-finest foggy grass, their boughs all bursting out into blossom, and the
-air scent-thick-ened; everywhere the birds were busy; it seemed a world of
-piping song. I thought to myself there could be no more incongruous place
-nor season for our duelling, and it was with half a gladness I looked
-around the orchard, finding no one there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bah! our good Bonnat's gone!” cried Thurot, vastly chagrined and tugging
-at his watch. “That comes of being five minutes too late, and I cannot, by
-my faith, compliment the gentleman upon his eagerness to meet you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was mistaken but for a second; then I spied my fiery friend of the
-previous evening lying on his back beneath the oldest of the trees, his
-hat tilted over his eyes, as if he had meant to snatch a little sleep in
-spite of the dazzling sunshine. He rose to his feet on our approach, swept
-off his hat courteously, and hailed Thurot by name.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What, you, Antoine! I am ravished! For, look you, the devil's in all my
-friends that I can get none of them to move a step at this hour of the
-morning, and I have had to come to M. Greig without a second. Had I known
-his friend was Captain Thurot I should not have vexed myself. Doubtless M.
-Greig has no objection to my entrusting my interests as well as his own in
-the hands of M. le Capitaine?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I bowed my assent. Captain Thurot cast a somewhat cold and unsatisfied eye
-upon the ruffler, protesting the thing was unusual.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bonnat smiled and shrugged his shoulders, put off his coat with much
-deliberation, and took up his place upon the sward, where I soon followed
-him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Remember, it is no fool, this crab,” whispered Captain Thurot as he took
-my coat from me. “And 'tis two to one on him who prefers the parry to the
-attack.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I had been reading Molière's “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” the previous morning,
-and as I faced my assailant I had the fencing-master's words as well as
-Captain Thurot's running in my ears: “To give and not receive is the
-secret of the sword.” It may appear incredible, but it seemed physically a
-trivial affair I was engaged upon until I saw the man Bonnat's eye. He
-wore a smile, but his eye had the steely glint of murder! It was as
-unmistakable as if his tongue confessed it, and for a second I trembled at
-the possibilities of the situation. He looked an unhealthy dog; sallow
-exceedingly on the neck, which had the sinews so tight they might have
-twanged like wire, and on his cheeks, that he seemed to suck in with a
-gluttonous exultation such as a gross man shows in front of a fine meal.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said Thurot; and we nodded. “Then in guard!”
- said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-We saluted, fell into position and thrust simultaneously in tierce,
-parrying alike, then opened more seriously.
-</p>
-<p>
-In Thurot's teaching of me there was one lesson he most unweariedly
-insisted on, whose object was to keep my point in a straight line and
-parry in the smallest possible circles. I had every mind of it now, but
-the cursed thing was that this Bonnat knew it too. He fenced, like an
-Italian, wholly from the wrist, and, crouched upon his knees, husbanded
-every ounce of energy by the infrequency and the brevity of his thrusts.
-His lips drew back from his teeth, giving him a most villainous aspect,
-and he began to press in the lower lines.
-</p>
-<p>
-In a side-glance hazarded I saw the anxiety of Thurot's eye and realised
-his apprehension. I broke ground, and still, I think, was the bravo's
-match but for the alarm of Thurot's eye. It confused me so much that I
-parried widely and gave an opening for a thrust that caught me slightly on
-the arm, and dyed my shirt-sleeve crimson in a moment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Halt!” cried Thurot, and put up his arm.
-</p>
-<p>
-I lowered my weapon, thinking the bout over, and again saw murder in
-Bonnat's eye. He lunged furiously at my chest, missing by a miracle.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Scélérat!</i>” cried Thurot, and, in an uncontrollable fury at the
-action, threw himself upon Bonnat and disarmed him.
-</p>
-<p>
-They glared at each other for a minute, and Thurot finally cast the
-other's weapon over a hedge. “So much for M. Bonnat!” said he. “This is
-our valiant gentleman, is it? To stab like an assassin!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Oh, malédiction!</i>” said the other, little abashed, and shrugging
-his shoulders as he lifted his coat to put it on. “Talking of
-assassination, I but did the duty of the executioner in his absence, and
-proposed to kill the man who meditated the same upon the Prince.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Prince!” cried Thurot. “Why 'tis the Prince's friend, and saved his
-life!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know nothing about that,” said Bonnat; “but do you think I'd be out
-here at such a cursed early hour fencing if any other than M. Albany had
-sent me? <i>Pardieu!</i> the whole of you are in the farce, but I always
-counted you the Prince's friend, and here you must meddle when I do as I
-am told to do!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And you tell me, Jean Bonnat, that you take out my friend to murder him
-by M. Albany's command?” cried Thurot incredulous.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What the devil else?” replied the bravo. “'Tis true M. Albany only
-mentioned that M. des Souliers Rouges was an obstruction in the Rue de la
-Boucherie and asked me to clear him out of Dunkerque, but 'twere a tidier
-job to clear him altogether. And here is a great pother about an English
-hog!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was too busily stanching my wound, that was scarce so serious as it
-appeared, to join in this dispute, but the allusion to the Prince and the
-Rue de la Boucherie extremely puzzled me. I turned to Bonnat with a cry
-for an explanation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” I says, “does his Royal Highness claim any prerogative to the Rue
-de la Boucherie? I'm unconscious that I ever did either you or him the
-smallest harm, and if my service—innocent enough as it was—with
-the priest Hamilton was something to resent, his Highness has already
-condoned the offence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“For the sake of my old friend M. le Capitaine here I shall give you one
-word of advice,” said Bonnat, “and that is, to evacuate Dunkerque as
-sharply as you may. M. Albany may owe you some obligement, as I've heard
-him hint himself, but nevertheless your steps will be safer elsewhere than
-in the Rue de la Boucherie.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There is far too much of the Rue de la Boucherie about this,” I said,
-“and I hope no insult is intended to certain friends I have or had there.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At this they looked at one another. The bravo (for so I think I may at
-this time call him) whistled curiously and winked at the other, and, in
-spite of himself, Captain Thurot was bound to laugh.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?” said he.
-“That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. 'Tis, <i>ma foi!</i>
-to expect too much of M. Albany's complaisance. After that there is
-nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian
-work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine,” said Bonnat
-brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. “M. Blanc-bec there
-handles <i>arme blanche</i> rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the
-gallant commander of the <i>Roi Rouge</i>, but if he has a mother let me
-suggest the wisdom of his going back to her.” And with that and a <i>congé</i>
-he left us to enter the <i>auberge</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, ruminating
-upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better than I could,
-yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I pled with him
-vainly for an explanation of the Prince's objection to my person. “I
-thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the Hamilton affair,” I
-said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And so he had,” said Thurot. “I have his own assurances.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure
-me into a duel.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My dear boy,” said Thurot, “you owe him all—your escape from
-Bicêtre, which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of
-the lieutenancy in the Regiment d'Auvergne.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What! he has a hand in this?” I cried.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who else?” said he. “'Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled
-Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. It
-seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not uncommon
-with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one reason, and for
-the other he would cut your throat. M. Tête-de-fer is my eternal puzzle.
-And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, the same reason
-for favouring and hating you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what might that be?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who, rather?” said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la
-Boucherie. “Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under
-your very nose, 'tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the
-machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she were
-anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with Hamilton,
-and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and now—though
-she may not have attempted it—she has gained you the same person's
-enmity.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I stopped in the street and turned to him. “All this is confused enough to
-madden me,” I said, “and rather than be longer in the mist I shall brave
-her displeasure, compel an audience, and ask her for an explanation.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Please yourself,” said Thurot, and seeing I meant what I said he left me.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle's
-stairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!)
-responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the same
-had been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barren
-comfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiled at
-first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at the
-unresponse of mine.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is more truth
-in a menial eye than in most others, and this man's fashionable falsehood
-extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he was acting upon
-instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable for him, he saw
-that I saw.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhood till
-she returns,” I said, and leaned against the railing. This frightened him
-somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did not know when she might
-return.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It does not matter,” I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my courage
-much higher in the circumstances than I had expected. “If it's midnight
-she shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance upon
-which to consult her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon the
-door-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions had not
-gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how he was
-further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unable to get
-a glance of recognition from me, and resenting further the inconvenience
-to which I was subjecting him, he rose to an impertinence—the first
-(to do him justice) I had ever found in him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Will Monsieur,” said he, “tell me who I shall say called?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and “My good rogue,”
- said I, “if the circumstances were more favourable I should have the
-felicity of giving you an honest drubbing.” He got very red. “Come,
-Bernard,” I said, adopting another tone, “I think you owe me some
-consideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to give you
-all the information you required some time ago for your employers, tell me
-the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was saved an answer by the lady herself.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! Mr. Greig!” she cried, coming to the door and putting forth a
-welcoming hand. “My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he should
-except my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors.” So
-much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, “My dear man
-of Mearns, you are as dour as—as dour as—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“As a donkey,” I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. “And I
-feel very much like that humble beast at this moment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I do not wonder at it,” said she, throwing herself in a chair. “To thrust
-yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am the ass—I have been the ass—it would appear, in other
-respects as well.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back her hair,
-that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caught her rather
-early in the morning; she had not even the preparation of a <i>petit lever</i>;
-and because of a certain chagrin at being discovered scarcely looking her
-best her first remarks were somewhat chilly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, at least you have persistency, I'll say that of it,” she went on,
-with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. “And for what am I
-indebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you for
-your offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d'Auvergne is
-settled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself, for it
-looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting my
-distinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month,
-and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper I
-should come in my own person to thank you for your good offices.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Do not mention it,” she said hurriedly. “I am only too glad that I could
-be of the smallest service to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I cannot think,” I went on, “what I can have done to warrant your
-displeasure with me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Displeasure!” she replied. “Who said I was displeased?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing you
-for this past week.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig,” she said, trifling with her rings.
-“Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itself
-as a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig's ordinary intuitions.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to,” I said.
-“And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arises now, and
-how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No matter,” said she, and paused. “And so you are going to the frontier,
-and are come to say good-bye to me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Now that you remind me that is exactly my object,” I said, rising to go.
-She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, as if she
-felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet I noticed
-a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And so you go, Mr. Greig?” she said. “There's but the one thing I would
-like to say to my friend, and that's that I should like him not to think
-unkindly of one that values his good opinion—if she were worthy to
-have it. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and now
-that I'm to lose them I feel like to greet.” She was indeed inclined to
-tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of my
-annoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “You
-found me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it's a man
-that's leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than it would
-otherwise have been, and this last kindness—that forces me away from
-you—is one more I have to thank you for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or the reverse,
-and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I owed all the little I could do to my countryman,” said she.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And I hope I have been useful,” I blurted out, determined to show her I
-was going with open eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. “I hope you will forgive
-that, Mr. Greig,” she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to my
-meaning.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There is nothing to forgive,” I said shortly. “I am proud that I was of
-service, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose house some
-more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint is that the
-person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the little share I
-had unconsciously in preserving his life.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am sure he is very grateful,” she cried hastily, and perplexed. “I may
-tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in the regiment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So I have been told,” I said, and she looked a little startled. “So I
-have been told. It may be that I'll be more grateful by-and-by, when I see
-what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitude greatly
-hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the—in the person's actings
-towards myself!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Inconsistency!” she repeated bitterly. “That need not surprise you! But I
-do not understand.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is simply that—perhaps to hasten me to my duties—his Royal
-Highness this morning sent a ruffian to fight me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have never seen a face so suddenly change as hers did when she heard
-this; for ordinary she had a look of considerable amiability, a soft, kind
-eye, a ready smile that had the hint (as I have elsewhere said) of
-melancholy, a voice that, especially in the Scots, was singularly
-attractive. A temper was the last thing I would have charged her with, yet
-now she fairly flamed, “What is this you are telling me, Paul Greig?” she
-cried, her eyes stormy, her bosom beginning to heave. “Oh, just that M.
-Albany (as he calls himself) has some grudge against me, for he sent a man—Bonnat—to
-pick a quarrel with me, and by Bonnat's own confession the duel that was
-to ensue was to be <i>à outrance</i>. But for the intervention of a
-friend, half an hour ago, there would have been a vacancy already in the
-Regiment d'Auvergne.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good heavens!” she cried. “You must be mistaken. What object in the wide
-world could his Royal Highness have in doing you any harm? You were an
-instrument in the preservation of his life.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I bowed extremely low, with a touch of the courts I had not when I landed
-first in Dunkerque.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have had the distinguished honour, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “And I
-should have thought that enough to counterbalance my unfortunate and
-ignorant engagement with his enemies.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But why, in Heaven's name, should he have a shred of resentment against
-you?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It seems,” I said, “that it has something to do with my boldness in using
-the Rue de la Boucherie for an occasional promenade.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She put her two hands up to her face for a moment, but I could see the
-wine-spill in between, and her very neck was in a flame.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, the shame! the shame!” she cried, and began to walk up and down the
-room like one demented. “Am I to suffer these insults for ever in spite of
-all that I may do to prove—to prove——”
- </p>
-<p>
-She pulled herself up short, put down her hands from a face exceedingly
-distressed, and looked closely at me. “What must you think of me, Mr.
-Greig?” she asked suddenly in quite a new key.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What do I think of myself to so disturb you?” I replied. “I do not know
-in what way I have vexed you, but to do so was not at all in my intention.
-I must tell you that I am not a politician, and that since I came here
-these affairs of the Prince and all the rest of it are quite beyond my
-understanding. If the cause of the white cockade brought you to France,
-Miss Walkinshaw, as seems apparent, I cannot think you are very happy in
-it nowadays, but that is no affair of mine.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She stared at me. “I hope,” said she, “you are not mocking me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Heaven forbid!” I said. “It would be the last thing I should presume to
-do, even if I had a reason. I owe you, after all, nothing but the deepest
-gratitude.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Beyond the parlour we stood in was a lesser room that was the lady's
-boudoir. We stood with our backs to it, and I know not how much of our
-conversation had been overheard when I suddenly turned at the sound of a
-man's voice, and saw his Royal Highness standing in the door!
-</p>
-<p>
-I could have rubbed my eyes out of sheer incredulity, for that he should
-be in that position was as if I had come upon a ghost. He stood with a
-face flushed and frowning, rubbing his eyes, and there was something in
-his manner that suggested he was not wholly sober.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll be cursed,” said he, “if I haven't been asleep. Deuce take
-Clancarty! He kept me at cards till dawn this morning, and I feel as if I
-had been all night on heather. <i>Pardieu</i>——!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He pulled himself up short and stared, seeing me for the first time. His
-face grew purple with annoyance. “A thousand pardons!” he cried with
-sarcasm, and making a deep bow. “I was not aware that I intruded on
-affairs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Miss Walkinshaw turned to him sharply.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There is no intrusion,” said she, “but honesty, in the person of my dear
-countryman, who has come to strange quarters with it. Your Royal Highness
-has now the opportunity of thanking this gentleman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I' faith,” said he, “I seem to be kept pretty constantly in mind of the
-little I owe to this gentleman in spite of himself. Harkee, my good
-Monsieur, I got you a post; I thought you had been out of Dunkerque by
-now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The post waits, M. Albany,” said I, “and I am going to take it up
-forthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owe the
-post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should be
-addressed.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us owe her
-everything, and—egad!—are not grateful enough,” and with that
-he looked for the first time at her with his frown gone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, yes,” she cried; “we may put off the compliments till another
-occasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me that
-this gentleman, who has done so much for me—I speak for myself, your
-Royal Highness will observe—should be so poorly requited.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Requited!” cried he. “How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied.” His
-face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at his
-unshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child of
-kings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myself
-upon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergne
-office, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah!” cried he. “Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that does
-aught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none of
-your gratitude, Monsieur Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis just as well, M. Albany,” I cried, “for what there was of it is
-mortgaged.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Comment?</i>” he asked, uneasily.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that calls
-himself your servant,” I replied, always very careful to take his own word
-for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. “He informed
-me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing the same street
-with you, and had given him his instructions.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bonnat,” cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples. “I'll
-be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!—stay—let
-me think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner, but—but——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“After dinner! Then surely it should have been in a more favourable mood
-to myself, that has done M. Albany no harm,” I said. “I do not wonder that
-M. Albany has lost so many of his friends if he settles their destinies
-after dinner.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At first he frowned at this and then he laughed outright.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ma foi!</i>” he cried, “here's another Greig to call me gomeral to my
-face,” and he lounged to a chair where he sunk in inextinguishable
-laughter.
-</p>
-<p>
-But if I had brought laughter from him I had precipitated anger elsewhere.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's a pretty way to speak to his Royal Highness,” cried Miss
-Walkinshaw, her face like thunder. “The manners of the Mearns shine very
-poorly here. You forget that you speak to one that is your prince, in
-faith your king!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Neither prince nor king of mine, Miss Walkinshaw,” I cried, and turned to
-go. “No, if a hundred thousand swords were at his back. I had once a
-notion of a prince that rode along the Gallowgate, but I was then a boy,
-and now I am a man—which you yourself have made me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-With that I bowed low and left them. They neither of them said a word. It
-was the last I was to see of Clementina Walkinshaw and the last of Charles
-Edward.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-OF MY WINTER CAMPAIGN IN PRUSSIA, AND ANOTHER MEETING WITH MACKELLAR OF
-KILBRIDE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> have no intention here of narrating at large what happened in my short
-career as a soldier of the French Army, curious though some of the things
-that befell me chanced to be. They may stand for another occasion, while I
-hurriedly and briefly chronicle what led to my second meeting with
-MacKellar of Kilbride, and through that same to the restoration of the
-company of Father Hamilton, the sometime priest of Dixmunde.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Regiment d'Auvergne was far from its native hills when first I joined
-it, being indeed on the frontier of Austria. 'Twas a corps not long
-embodied, composed of a preposterous number of mere lads as soft as kail,
-yet driven to miracles of exertion by drafted veteran officers of other
-regiments who stiffened their command with the flat of the sword. As for
-my lieutenancy it was nothing to be proud of in such a battalion, for I
-herded in a mess of foul-mouthed scoundrels and learned little of the
-trade of soldiering that I was supposed to be taught in the interval
-between our departure from the frontier and our engagement on the field as
-allies with the Austrians. Of the Scots that had been in the regiment at
-one time there was only one left—a major named MacKay, that came
-somewhere out of the Reay country in the shire of Sutherland, and was
-reputed the drunkenest officer among the allies, yet comported himself, on
-the strength of his Hielan' extraction, towards myself, his Lowland
-countryman, with such a ludicrous haughtiness I could not bear the man—no,
-not from the first moment I set eyes on him!
-</p>
-<p>
-He was a pompous little person with legs bowed through years of riding
-horse, and naturally he was the first of my new comrades I introduced
-myself to when I joined the colours. I mind he sat upon a keg of bullets,
-looking like a vision of Bacchus, somewhat soiled and pimply, when I
-entered to him and addressed him, with a certain gladness, in our tongue.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Humph!” was what he said. “Another of his Royal Highness's Sassenach
-friends! Here's a wheen of the lousiest French privates ever shook in
-their breeks in front of a cannon, wanting smeddum and courage drummed
-into them with a scabbard, and they send me Sassenachs to do the business
-with when the whole hearty North of Scotland is crawling with the stuff I
-want particularly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Anyway, here I am, major,” said I, slightly taken aback at this, “and
-you'll have to make the best of me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Pshaw!” cried he vulgarly and cracked his thumb. “I have small stomach
-for his Royal Highness's recommendations; I have found in the past that he
-sends to Austria—him and his friends—only the stuff he has no
-use for nearer the English Channel, where it's I would like to be this
-day. They're talking of an invasion, I hear; wouldn't I like to be among
-the first to have a slap again at Geordie?”
- </p>
-<p>
-My birse rose at this, which I regarded as a rank treason in any man that
-spoke my own language even with a tartan accent.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A slap at Geordie!” I cried. “You made a bonny-like job o't when you had
-the chance!”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was my first and last confabulation of a private nature with Major
-Dugald MacKay. Thereafter he seldom looked the road I was on beyond to
-give an order or pick a fault, and, luckily, though a pleasant footing
-with my neighbours has ever been my one desire in life, I was not much put
-up or down by the ill-will of such a creature.
-</p>
-<p>
-Like a break in a dream, a space of all unfriended travelling, which is
-the worst travelling of all, appears my time of marching with the Regiment
-d'Auvergne. I was lost among aliens—aliens in tongue and sentiment,
-and engaged, to tell the truth, upon an enterprise that never enlisted the
-faintest of my sympathy. All I wished was to forget the past (and that, be
-sure, was the one impossible thing), and make a living of some sort. The
-latter could not well be more scanty, for my pay was a beggar's, and
-infrequent at that, and finally it wholly ceased.
-</p>
-<p>
-I saw the world, so much of it as lies in Prussia, and may be witnessed
-from the ranks of a marching regiment of the line; I saw life—the
-life of the tent and the bivouac, and the unforgettable thing of it was
-death—death in the stricken field among the grinding hoofs of
-horses, below the flying wheels of the artillery.
-</p>
-<p>
-And yet if I had had love there—some friend to talk to when the
-splendour of things filled me; the consciousness of a kind eye to share
-the pleasure of a sunshine or to light at a common memory; or if I had had
-hope, the prospect of brighter days and a restitution of my self-respect,
-they might have been much happier these marching days that I am now only
-too willing to forget. For we trod in many pleasant places even when
-weary, by summer fields jocund with flowers, and by autumn's laden
-orchards. Stars shone on our wearied columns as we rested in the meadows
-or on the verge of woods, half satisfied with a gangrel's supper and
-sometimes joining in a song. I used to feel then that here was a better
-society after all than some I had of late been habituated with upon the
-coast. And there were towns we passed through: 'twas sweet exceedingly to
-hear the echo of our own loud drums, the tarantara of trumpets. I liked to
-see the folks come out although they scarce were friendly, and feel that
-priceless zest that is the guerdon of the corps, the crowd, the mob—that
-I was something in a vastly moving thing even if it was no more than the
-regiment of raw lads called d'Auvergne.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were, for long in our progress, no part of the main army, some strategy
-of which we could not guess the reasoning, making it necessary that we
-should move alone through the country; and to the interest of our progress
-through these foreign scenes was added the ofttimes apprehension that we
-might some day suffer an alarm from the regiments of the great Frederick.
-Twice we were surprised by night and our pickets broken in, once a native
-guided us to a <i>guet-apens</i>—an ambuscade—where, to do him
-justice, the major fought like a lion, and by his spirit released his
-corps from the utmost danger. A war is like a harvest; you cannot aye be
-leading in, though the common notion is that in a campaign men are
-fighting even-on. In the cornfield the work depends upon the weather; in
-the field of war (at least with us 'twas so) the actual strife must often
-depend upon the enemy, and for weeks on end we saw them neither tail nor
-horn, as the saying goes. Sometimes it seemed as if the war had quite
-forgotten us, and was waging somewhere else upon the planet far away from
-Prussia.
-</p>
-<p>
-We got one good from the marching and the waiting; it put vigour in our
-men. Day by day they seemed to swell and strengthen, thin faces grew
-well-filled and ruddy, slouching steps grew confident and firm. And thus
-the Regiment d'Au-vergne was not so badly figured when we fought the fight
-of Rosbach that ended my career of glory.
-</p>
-<p>
-Rosbach!—its name to me can still create a tremor. We fought it in
-November month in a storm of driving snow. Our corps lay out upon the
-right of Frederick among fields that were new-ploughed for wheat and
-broken up by ditches. The d'Auvergnes charged with all the fire of
-veterans; they were smashed by horse, but rose and fell and rose again
-though death swept across them like breath from a furnace, scorching and
-shrivelling all before it. The Prussian and the Austrian guns went
-rat-a-pat like some gigantic drum upon the braes, and nearer the musketry
-volleys mingled with the plunge of horse and shouting of commanders so
-that each sound individually was indistinguishable, but all was blended in
-one unceasing melancholy hum.
-</p>
-<p>
-That drumming on the braes and that long melancholy hum are what most
-vividly remains to me of Rosbach, for I fell early in the engagement,
-struck in the charge by the sabre of a Prussian horseman that cleft me to
-the skull in a slanting stroke and left me incapable, but not unconscious,
-on the field.
-</p>
-<p>
-I lay for hours with other wounded in the snow The battle changed ground;
-the noises came from the distance: we seemed to be forgotten. I pitied
-myself exceedingly. Finally I swounded.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I came to myself it was night and men with lanterns were moving about
-the fields gathering us in like blackcock where we lay. Two Frenchmen came
-up and spoke to me, but what they said was all beyond me for I had clean
-forgotten every word of their language though that morning I had known it
-scarcely less fully than my own. I tried to speak in French, it seems, and
-thought I did so, but in spite of me the words were the broadest lallands
-Scots such as I had not used since I had run, a bare-legged boy, about the
-braes of, home. And otherwise my faculties were singularly acute, for I
-remember how keenly I noticed the pitying eye of the younger of the two
-men.
-</p>
-<p>
-What they did was to stanch my wound and go away. I feared I was deserted,
-but by-and-by they returned with another man who held the lantern close to
-my face as he knelt beside me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By the black stones of Baillinish!” said he in an unmistakable Hielan'
-accent, “and what have I here the night but the boy that harmed the bylie?
-You were not in your mother's bosom when you got that stroke!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I saw his smile in the light of his lanthom, 'twas no other than MacKellar
-of Kilbride!
-</p>
-<p>
-He was a surgeon in one of the corps; had been busy at his trade in
-another part of the field when the two Frenchmen who had recognised me for
-a Scot had called him away to look to a compatriot.
-</p>
-<p>
-Under charge of Kilbride (as, in our country fashion, I called him) I was
-taken in a waggon with several other wounded soldiers over the frontier
-into Holland, that was, perhaps, the one unvexed part of all the Continent
-of Europe in these stirring days.
-</p>
-<p>
-I mended rapidly, and cheery enough were these days of travel in a cart,
-so cheery that I never considered what the end of them might be, but was
-content to sit in the sunshine blithely conversing with this odd surgeon
-of the French army who had been roving the world for twenty years like my
-own Uncle Andrew, and had seen service in every army in Europe, but yet
-hankered to get back to the glens of his nativity, where he hoped his
-connection with the affair of Tearlach and the Forty-five would be
-forgotten.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's just this way of it, Hazel Den,” he would say to me, “there's them
-that has got enough out of Tearlach to make it worth their while to stick
-by him and them that has not. I am of the latter. I have been hanging
-about Paris yonder for a twelvemonth on the promise of the body that I
-should have a post that suited with my talents, and what does he do but
-get me clapped into a scurvy regiment that goes trudging through Silesia
-since Whitsunday, with never a sign of the paymaster except the once and
-then no more than a tenth of what was due to me. It is, maybe, glory, as
-the other man said; but my sorrow, it is not the kind that makes a
-clinking in your pouches.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had a comfortable deal of money to have so poor an account of his
-paymaster, and at that I hinted.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! Allow me for that!” he cried with great amusement at my wonder. “Fast
-hand at a feast and fast feet at a foray is what the other man said, and
-I'm thinking it is a very good observation, too. Where would I be if I was
-lippening on the paymaster?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Man! you surely have not been stealing?” said I, with such great
-innocency that he laughed like to end.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stealing!” he cried. “It's no theft to lift a purse in an enemy's
-country.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But these were no enemies of yours?” I protested, “though you happen to
-be doctoring in their midst.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Tuts! tuts, man!” said he shortly. “When the conies quarrel the quirky
-one (and that's Sir Fox if ye like to ken) will get his own. There seems
-far too much delicacy about you, my friend, to be a sporran-soldier
-fighting for the best terms an army will give you. And what for need you
-grumble at my having found a purse in an empty house when it's by virtue
-of the same we're at this moment making our way to the sea?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could make no answer to that, for indeed I had had, like the other three
-wounded men in the cart with me, the full benefit of his purse, wherever
-he had found it, and but for that we had doubtless been mouldering in a
-Prussian prison.
-</p>
-<p>
-It will be observed that MacKellar spoke of our making for the sea, and
-here it behoves that I should tell how that project arose.
-</p>
-<p>
-When we had crossed the frontier the first time it was simply because it
-seemed the easiest way out of trouble, though it led us away from the
-remnants of the army. I had commented upon this the first night we stopped
-within the Netherlands, and the surgeon bluntly gave me his mind on the
-matter. The truth was, he said, that he was sick of his post and meant to
-make this the opportunity of getting quit of it.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went as close as I dared upon a hint that the thing looked woundily like
-a desertion. He picked me up quick enough and counselled me to follow his
-example, and say farewell to so scurvy a service as that I had embarked
-on. His advices might have weighed less with me (though in truth I was
-sick enough of the Regiment d'Auvergne and a succession of defeats) if he
-had not told me that there was a certain man at Helvoetsluys he knew I
-should like to see.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And who might that be?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who but his reverence himself?” said Kilbride, who dearly loved an
-effect. “Yon night I met you in the Paris change-house it was planned by
-them I was with, one of them being Buhot himself of the police, that the
-old man must be driven out of his nest in the Hôtel Dieu, seeing they had
-got all the information they wanted from him, and I was one of the parties
-who was to carry this into effect. At the time I fancied Buhot was as keen
-upon yourself as upon the priest, and I thought I was doing a wonderfully
-clever thing to spy your red shoes and give you a warning to quit the
-priest, but all the time Buhot was only laughing at me, and saw you and
-recognised you himself in the change-house. Well, to make the long tale
-short, when we went to the hospital the birds were both of them gone,
-which was more than we bargained for, because some sort of trial was due
-to the priest though there was no great feeling against him. Where he had
-taken wing to we could not guess, but you will not hinder him to come on a
-night of nights (as we say) to the lodging I was tenanting at the time in
-the Rue Espade, and throw himself upon my mercy. The muckle hash! I'll
-allow the insolency of the thing tickled me greatly. The man was a fair
-object, too; had not tasted food for two days, and captured my fancy by a
-tale I suppose there is no trusting, that he had given you the last few <i>livres</i>
-he had in the world.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That was true enough about the <i>livres</i>,” I said with gratitude.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Was it, faith?” cried Kilbride. “Then I'm glad I did him the little
-service that lay in my power, which was to give him enough money to pay
-for posting to Helvoetsluys, where he is now, and grateful enough so far
-as I could gather from the last letters I had from him, and also mighty
-anxious to learn what became of his secretary.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I would give the last plack in my pocket to see the creature,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Would you indeed?” said Kilbride. “Then here's the road for you, and it
-must be a long furlough whatever of it from the brigade of Marshal
-Clermont.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-BRINGS ME TO HELVOETSLUYS IN WINTER WEATHER
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ilbride and I parted company with the others once we had got within the
-lines of Holland; the cateran (as I would sometimes be calling him in a
-joke) giving them as much money as might take them leisuredly to the south
-they meant to make for, and he and I proceeded on our way across the
-country towards the mouth of the River Maas.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was never my lot before nor since to travel with a more cheerful
-companion. Not the priest himself had greater humour in his composition,
-and what was more it was a jollity I was able the better to understand,
-for while much of Hamilton's <i>esprit</i> missed the spark with me
-because it had a foreign savour, the pawkiness of Kilbride was just the
-marrow of that I had seen in folks at home. And still the man was strange,
-for often he had melancholies. Put him in a day of rain and wind and you
-would hear him singing like a laverock the daftest songs in Erse; or give
-him a tickle task at haggling in the language of signs with a
-broad-bottomed bargeman, or the driver of a rattel-van, and the fun would
-froth in him like froth on boiling milk.
-</p>
-<p>
-Indeed, and I should say like cream, for this Mac-Kellar man had, what is
-common enough among the clans in spite of our miscalling, a heart of jeel
-for the tender moment and a heart of iron for the hard. But black, black,
-were his vapours when the sun shone, which is surely the poorest of
-excuses for dolours. I think he hated the flatness of the land we
-travelled in. To me it was none amiss, for though it was winter I could
-fancy how rich would be the grass of July in the polders compared with our
-poor stunted crops at home, and that has ever a cheerful influence on any
-man that has been bred in Lowland fields. But he (if I did not misread his
-eye) looked all ungratefully on the stretching leagues that ever opened
-before us as we sailed on waterways or jolted on the roads.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I do not ken how it may be with you, Mr. Greig,” he said one day as,
-somewhere in Brabant, our sluggish vessel opened up a view of canal that
-seemed to stretch so far it pricked the eye of the setting sun, and the
-windmills whirled on either hand ridiculous like the games of children—“I
-do not ken how it may be with you, but I'm sick of this country. It's no
-better nor a bannock, and me so fond of Badenoch!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed and there's a sameness about every part of it,” I confessed, “and
-yet it has its qualities. See the sun on yonder island—'tis pleasant
-enough to my notion, and as for the folk, they are not the cut of our own,
-but still they have very much in common with folks I've seen in Ayr.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He frowned at that unbelievingly, and cast a sour eye upon some women that
-stood upon a bridge. “Troth!” said he, “you would not compare these
-limmers with our own. I have not seen a light foot and a right dark eye
-since ever I put the back of me to the town of Inverness in the year of
-'Fifty-six.'”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nor I since I left the Mearns,” I cried, suddenly thinking of Isobel and
-forgetting all that lay between that lass and me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! oh!” cried Kilbride. “And that's the way of it? Therms more than
-Clemie Walkinshaw, is there? I was ill to convince that a nephew of Andy
-Greig's began the game at the age of twenty-odd with a lady that might
-have been his mother.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I felt very much ashamed that he should have any knowledge of this part of
-my history, and seeing it he took to bantering me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come, come!” said he, “you must save my reputation with myself for
-penetration, for I aye argued with Buhot that your tanglement with madame
-was something short of innocency for all your mim look, and he was for
-swearing the lady had found a fool.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am beat to understand how my affairs came to be the topic of dispute
-with you and Buhot?” said I, astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And what for no'?” said he. “Wasn't the man's business to find out
-things, and would you have me with no interest in a ploy when it turned
-up? There were but the two ways of it—you were all the gomeral in
-love that Buhot thought you, or you were Andy Greig's nephew and willing
-to win the woman's favour (for all her antiquity) by keeping Buhot in the
-news of Hamilton's movements.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good God!” I cried, “that was a horrible alternative!” even then failing
-to grasp all that he implied.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Maybe,” he said pawkily; “but you cannot deny you kept them very well
-informed upon your master's movements, otherwise it had gone very hard
-perhaps with his Royal Highness.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Me!” I cried. “I would have as soon informed upon my father. And who was
-there to inform?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Kilbride looked at me curiously as if he half doubted my innocence. “It is
-seldom I have found the man Buhot in a lie of the sort,” said he, “but he
-led me to understand that what information he had of the movements of the
-priest came from yourself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I jumped to my feet, and almost choked in denying it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, very well, very well!” said Kilbride coolly. “There is no need to
-make a <i>fracas</i> about the matter. I am just telling you what Buhot
-told me. And troth! it was a circumstantial story he had of it; for he
-said that the Marshal Duke de Bellisle, and Monsieur Florentin, and
-Monsieur Berrier, and all the others of the Cabinet, had Fleuriau's name
-and direction from yourself, and found the plot had some connection with
-the affair of Damiens. George Kelly, the Prince's secretary, was another
-man that told me.” He gazed along the deck of the scow we sat in, as if
-thinking hard, and then turned to me with a hesitating suggestion.
-“Perhaps,” said he, “you are forgetting. Perhaps you wrote the woman and
-told her innocently enough, and that would come to the same thing.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was overwhelmed with confusion at the idea, though the possibility of my
-letters being used had once before occurred to me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, if you must know, it is true I wrote some letters to Miss
-Walkinshaw,” I confessed shamefacedly. “But they were very carefully
-transmitted by Bernard the Swiss to her, for I got her answers back.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He burst out laughing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“For simplicity you beat all!” cried he. “You sent your news through the
-Swiss, that was in Buhot's pay, and took the charge from Hamilton's
-pistols, and did his part in helping you to escape from jyle with a great
-degree of humour as those of us who knew what was afoot had to agree, and
-you think the man would swither about peeping into a letter you entrusted
-to him, particularly if it was directed to hersel'! The sleep-bag was
-under your head sure enough, as the other man said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And I was the unconscious wretch that betrayed our hiding in the Hôtel
-Dieu!” I cried with much chagrin, seeing at a flash what all this meant.
-“If I had Bernard here I could thraw his neck.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed,” said he, “and what for should it be Bernard? The man but did
-what he was told, and there, by my troth! when I think of it, I'm no' so
-sure that he was any different from yourself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What do you mean?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, just that hersel' told you to keep her informed of your movements and
-you did so. In Bernard and you she had a pair of spies instead of only the
-one had she trusted in either.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what in all the world would she be doing that for?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What but for her lover the prince?” said he with a sickening promptness
-that some way left me without a doubt he spoke with knowledge. “Foul fa'
-the day he ever clapt eyes on her! for she has the cunning of the fox,
-though by all accounts a pleasant person. They say she has a sister that's
-in the service of the queen at St. James's, and who kens but for all her
-pretended affection for Tearlach she may be playing all the time into the
-hands of his enemies? She made you and this Bernard the means of putting
-an end to the Jesuit plot upon his Royal Highness by discovering the
-source of it, and now the Jesuits, as I'm told, are to be driven furth the
-country and putten to the horn.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was stunned by this revelation of what a tool I had been in the hands of
-one I fancied briefly that I was in love with. For long I sat silent
-pondering on it, and at last unable to make up my mind whether I should
-laugh or swear. Kilbride, while affecting to pay no heed to me, was keen
-enough to see my perturbation, and had, I think, a sort of pride that he
-had been able to display such an astuteness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm afraid,” said I at last, “there is too much probability in all that
-you have said and thought. I am a stupendous ass, Mr. MacKellar, and you
-are a very clever man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not at all, not at all!” he protested hurriedly. “I have just some
-natural Hielan' interest in affairs of intrigue, and you have not (by your
-leave) had my advantages of the world, for I have seen much of the evil as
-well as the good of it, and never saw a woman's hand in aught yet but I
-wondered what mischief she was planning. There's much, I'm telling you, to
-be learned about a place like Fontainebleau or Versailles, and I
-advantaged myself so well of my opportunities there that you could not
-drive a hole but I would put a nail in it, as the other man said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well,” said I, “my hope is that I may never meet the woman again, and
-that's without a single angry feeling to her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You need not fear about that,” said he. “The thing that does not lie in
-your road will never break your leg, as the other man said, and I'll be
-surprised if she puts herself in your way again now that her need for you
-is done. A score of your friends in Dunkerque could have told you that she
-was daft about him. I might be vexed for you if I did not know from your
-own mouth of the other one in Mearns.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We'll say nothing about that,” I says, “for that's a tale that's by wi'.
-She's lost to me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He gave a little chuckle and had that turn in the eye that showed he had a
-curious thought.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What are you laughing at?” I asked. “Oh, just an old word we have in the
-Language, that with a two-deer stag-hound it will be happening often that
-a stag's amissing.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There's another thing I would like you to tell me out of your
-experience,” I said, “and that is the reason for the Prince's doing me a
-good turn with the one hand and a bad one with the other; using his
-efforts to get me the lieutenancy and at the same time putting a man on my
-track to quarrel with me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's as plain as the nose on your face,” he cried. “It was no great
-situation he got you when it was in the Regiment d'Auvergne, as you have
-discovered, but it would be got I'll warrant on the pressure of the
-Walkinshaw one. Just because she had that interest in you to press him for
-the post, and you were in the trim to keep up a correspondence with her
-(though in his own interest, as he must know, so far as she was
-concerned), he would want you out of the road. Love is like lairdship,
-Hazel Den, and it puts up very poorly with fellowship, as the other man
-said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I thought of the occasions when his Royal Highness had seen me at night in
-front of a certain window in the Rue de la Boucherie, and concluded that
-Kilbride in this too had probably hit the mark.
-</p>
-<p>
-And so we passed through Holland in many changes of weather that finally
-turned to a black frost, which covered the canals with ice whereon skated
-the Dutch folks very pleasantly, but we were the losers, as the rest of
-our journey had to be made by post.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was well on in the winter when we got to Helvoetsluys.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXVI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-FATHER HAMILTON IS THREATENED BY THE JESUITS AND WE ARE FORCED TO FLY
-AGAIN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he priest, poor man! aged a dozen years by his anxieties since I had seen
-him last, was dubious of his senses when I entered where he lodged, and he
-wept like a bairn to see my face again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Scotland! Scotland! beshrew me, child, and I'd liefer have this than ten
-good dinners at Verray's!” cried he, and put his arms about my shoulders
-and buried his face in my waistcoat to hide his uncontrollable tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was quartered upon a pilot of the Schelde and Hollands Deep, whose only
-child he made a shift to tutor in part payment of his costs, and the very
-moment that we had come in upon him he was full of a matter that had
-puzzled him for weeks before we came to Helvoetsluys. 'Twas a thing that
-partly hurt his pride, though that may seem incredible, and partly gave
-him pleasure, and 'twas merely that when he had at last found his
-concealment day and night in the pilot's house unendurable, and ventured a
-stroll or two upon the dunes in broad sunshine, no one paid any attention
-to him. There were soldiers and sailors that must have some suspicions of
-his identity, and he had himself read his own story and description in one
-of the gazettes, yet never a hand was raised to capture him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ma foi!</i> Paul,” he cried to me in a perplexity. “I am the most
-marvellous priest unfrocked, invisible to the world as if I had Mambrino's
-helmet. Sure it cannot be that I am too stale quarry for their hunting! My
-<i>amour propre</i> baulks at such conclusion. I that have—heaven
-help me!—loaded pistols against the Lord's anointed, might as well
-have gone shooting sparrows for all the infamy it has gained me. But
-yesterday I passed an officer of the peace that cried '<i>Bon jour</i>,
-father,' in villainous French with a smile so sly I could swear he knew my
-history from the first breeching. I avow that my hair stirred under my hat
-when he said it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-MacKellar stood by contemptuous of the priest's raptures over his restored
-secretary.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Goodness be about us!” he said, “what a pity the brock should be hiding
-when there's nobody hunting him! The first squirt of the haggis is always
-the hottest, as the other man said. If they were keen on your track at the
-start of it—and it's myself has the doubt of that same—you may
-warrant they are slack on it now. It's Buhot himself would be greatly put
-about if you went to the jail and put out your hands for the manacles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton looked bewildered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Expiscate, good Monsieur MacKellar,” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Kilbride just means,” said I, “that you are in the same case as myself,
-and that orders have gone out that no one is to trouble you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He believed it, and still he was less cheerful than I looked for. “Indeed,
-'tis like enough,” he sighed. “I have put my fat on a trap for a fortnight
-back to catch my captors and never a rat of them will come near me, but
-pass with sniffing noses. And yet on my word I have little to rejoice for.
-My friends have changed coats with my enemies because they swear I
-betrayed poor Fleuriau. I'd sooner die on the rack——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Father Hamilton!” I could not help crying, with remorse upon my
-countenance. He must have read the story in a single glance at me, for he
-stammered and took my hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! there too, Scotland!” he said. “I forswear the company of innocence
-after this. No matter, 'tis never again old Dixmunde parish for poor
-Father Hamilton that loved his flock well enough and believed the best of
-everybody and hated the confessional because it made the world so wicked.
-My honey-bees will hum next summer among another's flowers, and my darling
-blackbirds will be all starving in this pestilent winter weather. Paul,
-Paul, hear an old man's wisdom—be frugal in food, and raiment, and
-pleasure, and let thy ambitions flutter, but never fly too high to come
-down at a whistle. But here am I, old Pater Dull, prating on foolish
-little affairs, and thou and our honest friend here new back from the
-sounding of the guns. Art a brave fighter, lad? I heard of thee in the
-grenadier company of d'Auvergne.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We did the best part of our fighting with our shanks, as the other man
-said,” cried Kilbride. “But Mr. Greig came by a clout that affected his
-mind and made him clean forget the number of his regiment, and that is
-what for the lowlands of Holland is a very pleasant country just now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Wounded!” cried the priest, disturbed at this intelligence. “Had I known
-on't I should have prayed for thy deliverance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have little doubt he did that for himself,” said Kilbride. “When I came
-on him after Rosbach he was behind a dyke, that is not a bad alternative
-for prayer when the lead is in the air.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We made up our minds to remain for a while at Helvoet, but we had not
-determined what our next step should be, when in came the priest one day
-with his face like clay and his limbs trembling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah, Paul!” he cried, and fell into a chair; “here's Nemesis, daughter of
-Nox, a scurvy Italian, and wears a monkish cowl. I fancied it were too
-good to be true that I should be free from further trials.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Surely Buhot has not taken it into his head to move again,” I cried.
-“That would be very hirpling justice after so long an interval. And in any
-case they could scarcely hale you out of the Netherlands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, lad, not Buhot,” said he, perspiring with his apprehensions, “but the
-Society. There's one Gordoletti, a pretended Lutheran that hails from
-Jena, that has been agent between the Society and myself before now, and
-when I was out there he followed me upon the street with the eyes of a
-viper. I'll swear the fellow has a poignard and means the letting of
-blood. I know how 'twill be—a watch set upon this building,
-Gordoletti upon the steps some evening; a jostle, a thrust, and a speeding
-shade. A right stout shade too! if spirits are in any relation of measure
-to the corporeal clay. Oh, lad, what do I say? my sinner's wit must be
-evincing in the front of doom itself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I thought he simply havered, but found there was too real cause for his
-distress. That afternoon the monk walked up and down the street without
-letting his eyes lose a moment's sight of the entrance to the pilot's
-house where Father Hamilton abode. I could watch him all the better
-because I shared a room with Kilbride on the same side of the street, and
-even to me there was something eerie in the sight of this long thin
-stooping figure in its monkish garment, slouching on the stones or hanging
-over the parapet of the bridge, his eyes, lambent black and darting, over
-his narrow chafts. Perhaps it was but fancy, yet I thought I saw in the
-side of his gown the unmistakable bulge of a dagger. He paced the street
-for hours or leaned over the parapet affecting an interest in the barges,
-and all the time the priest sat fascinated within, counting his sentence
-come.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, by my faith and it is not so bad as that,” I protested on returning
-to find him in this piteous condition. “Surely there are two swords here
-that at the worst of it can be depended on to protect you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He shook his head dolefully. “It is no use, Paul,” he cried. “The poignard
-or the phial—'tis all the same to them or Gordoletti, and hereafter
-I dare not touch a drop of wine or indulge in a meagre soup.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But surely,” I said, “there may be a mistake, and this Gordoletti may
-have nothing to do with you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The man wears a cowl—a monkish cowl—and that is enough for
-me. A Jesuit out of his customary <i>soutane</i> is like the devil in
-dancing shoes—be sure his lordship means mischief. Oh! Paul, I would
-I were back in Bicêtre and like to die there cleaner than on the banks of
-a Dutch canal. I protest I hate to think of dying by a canal.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Still I was incredulous that harm was meant to him, and he proceeded to
-tell me the Society of Jesus was upon the brink of dissolution, and
-desperate accordingly. The discovery of Fleuriau's plot against the Prince
-had determined the authorities upon the demolition and extinction of the
-Jesuits throughout the whole of the King's dominion. Their riches and
-effects and churches were to be seized to the profit and emolument of the
-Crown; the reverend Fathers were to be banished furth of France for ever.
-Designs so formidable had to be conducted cautiously, and so far the only
-evidence of a scheme against the Society was to be seen in the Court
-itself, where the number of priests of the order was being rapidly
-diminished.
-</p>
-<p>
-I thought no step of the civil power too harsh against the band of whom
-the stalking man in the cowl outside was representative, and indeed the
-priest at last half-infected myself with his terrors. We sat well back
-from the window looking out upon the street till it was dusk. There was
-never a moment when the assassin (as I still must think him) was not
-there, his interest solely in the house we sat in. And when it was wholly
-dark, and a single lamp of oil swinging on a cord across the thoroughfare
-lit the passage of the few pedestrians that went along the street,
-Gordoletti was still close beneath it, silent, meditating, and alert.
-</p>
-<p>
-MacKellar came in from his coffee-house. We sat in darkness, except for
-the flicker of a fire of peat. He must have thought the spectacle curious.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My goodness!” cried he, “candles must be unco dear in this shire when the
-pair of you cannot afford one between you to see each other yawning. I'm
-of a family myself that must be burning a dozen at a time and at both ends
-to make matters cheery, for it's a gey glum world at the best of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He stumbled over to the mantel-shelf where there was customarily a candle;
-found and lit it, and held it up to see if there was any visible reason
-for our silence.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest's woebegone countenance set him into a shout of laughter. His
-amusement scarcely lessened when he heard of the ominous gentleman in the
-cowl.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let me see!” he said, and speedily devised a plan to test the occasion of
-Father Hamilton's terrors. He arranged that he should dress himself in the
-priest's garments, and as well as no inconsiderable difference in their
-bulk might let him, simulate the priest by lolling into the street.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A brave plan verily,” quo' the priest, “but am I a bowelless rogue to let
-another have my own particular poignard? No, no, Messieurs, let me pay for
-my own <i>pots cassés</i> and run my own risks in my own <i>soutane</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-With that he rose to his feet and was bold enough to offer a trial that
-was attended by considerable hazard.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was determined, however, that I should follow close upon the heels of
-Kilbride in his disguise, prepared to help him in the case of too serious
-a surprise.
-</p>
-<p>
-The night was still. There were few people in the street, which was one of
-several that led down to the quays. The sky had but a few wan stars. When
-MacKellar stepped forth in the priest's hat and cloak, he walked slowly
-towards the harbour, ludicrously imitating the rolling gait of his
-reverence, while I stayed for a little in the shelter of the door.
-Gordoletti left his post upon the bridge and stealthily followed Kilbride.
-I gave him some yards of law and followed Gordoletti.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our footsteps sounded on the stones; 'twas all that broke the evening
-stillness except the song of a roysterer who staggered upon the quays. The
-moment was fateful in its way and yet it ended farcically, for ere he had
-gained the foot of the street Kilbride turned and walked back to meet the
-man that stalked him. We closed upon the Italian to find him baffled and
-confused.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Take that for your attentions!” cried Kilbride, and buffeted the fellow
-on the ear, a blow so secular and telling from a man in a frock that
-Gordoletti must have thought himself bewitched, for he gave a howl and
-took to his heels. Kilbride attempted to stop him, but the cassock escaped
-his hands and his own unwonted costume made a chase hopeless. As for me, I
-was content to let matters remain as they were now that Father Hamilton's
-suspicions seemed too well founded.
-</p>
-<p>
-It did not surprise me that on learning of our experience the priest
-should determine on an immediate departure from Helvoetsluys. But where he
-was to go was more than he could readily decide. He proposed and rejected
-a score of places—Bordeaux, Flanders, the Hague, Katwyk farther up
-the coast, and many others—weighing the advantages of each,
-enumerating his acquaintances in each, discovering on further thought that
-each and every one of them had some feature unfavourable to his
-concealment from the Jesuits.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You would be as long tuning your pipes as another would be playing a
-tune,” said Kilbride at last. “There's one thing sure of it, that you
-cannot be going anywhere the now without Mr. Greig and myself, and what
-ails you at Dunkerque in which we have all of us acquaintances?”
- </p>
-<p>
-A season ago the suggestion would have set my heart in flame; but now it
-left me cold. Yet I backed up the proposal, for I reflected that (keeping
-away from the Rue de la Boucherie) we might there be among a good many
-friends. Nor was his reverence ill to influence in favour of the proposal.
-</p>
-<p>
-The next morning saw us, then, upon a hoy that sailed for Calais and was
-bargained to drop us at Dunkerque.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXVII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I OVERHEAR THE PLAN OF BRITAIN'S INVASION
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> began these chronicles with a homily upon the pregnancy of chance that
-gives the simplest of our acts ofttimes far-reaching and appalling
-consequences. It is clear that I had never become the Spoiled Horn and
-vexed my parents' lives had not a widow woman burned her batch of scones,
-and though perhaps the pair of shoes in the chest bequeathed to me by my
-Uncle Andrew were without the magic influence he and I gave credit for, it
-is probable that I had made a different flight from Scotland had they not
-led me in the way of Daniel Risk.
-</p>
-<p>
-And even now their influence was not ended. During the months I had spent
-at soldiering the red shoes reposed among my baggage; even when I had
-changed from the uniform of the Regiment d'Auvergne upon the frontier of
-Holland, and made myself again a common citizen of Europe, I had some
-freit (as we say of a superstition) against resuming the shoes that had
-led me previously into divers perils. But the day we left Helvoet in the
-Hollands Deep hoy, I was so hurried in my departure that the red shoes
-were the only ones I could lay hands on. As luck would have it, when I
-entered Dunkerque for the last time in my history some days after, I was
-wearing the same leather as on the first day of my arrival there, and the
-fact led, by a singularity of circumstances, to my final severance from
-many of those: companions—some of them pleasant and unforgetable—I
-had made acquaintance with in France.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was thus that the thing happened.
-</p>
-<p>
-When we entered Dunkerque, the priest, Kilbride, and I went to an inn upon
-the sea front. Having breakfasted I was deputed to go forth and call upon
-Thurot, explain our circumstances, take his counsel, and return to the hoy
-where my two friends would return to wait for me. He was out when I
-reached his lodging, but his Swiss—a different one from what he had
-before when I was there—informed me that his master was expected
-back at any moment, and invited me to step in and wait for him. I availed
-myself of the opportunity.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our voyage along the coast had been delayed by contrary winds, so that now
-it was the Sabbath; the town was by-ordinary still (though indeed Sabbath
-nor Saturday made much difference, as a rule, on the gaiety of Dunkerque),
-and wearied by the sea travel that had just concluded I fell fast asleep
-in Captain Thurot's chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-I was wakened by a loud knocking at the outer door, not the first, as it
-may be remembered, that called me forth from dreams to new twists of
-fortune, and I started to my feet to meet my host.
-</p>
-<p>
-What was my chagrin to hear the Prince's voice in converse with him on the
-stair!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here is a pretty pickle!” I told myself. “M. Albany is the last man on
-earth I would choose to meet at this moment,” and without another
-reflection I darted into the adjoining room and shut the door. It was
-Thurot's bed-chamber, with a window that looked out upon the court where
-fowls were cackling. I was no sooner in than I somewhat rued my
-precipitation, for the manlier course indubitably had been to bide where I
-was. But now there was no retreating, so I sat with what patience I could
-command to wait my discovery by the tenant of the place after his royal
-visitor was gone.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the Sabbath day as I have said, and the chimes of St. Eloi were
-going briskly upon some papist canticle, but not so loud that I could not
-hear, in spite of myself, all that went on in the next room.
-</p>
-<p>
-At first I paid no heed, for the situation was unworthy enough of itself
-without any attempt on my part to be an eavesdropper. But by-and-bye,
-through the banging of the bells of St. Eloi, I heard M. Albany (still to
-give the man his by-name) mention the name Ecosse.
-</p>
-<p>
-Scotland! The name of her went through me like a pang!
-</p>
-<p>
-They spoke in French of course; I think I could have understood them had
-it been Chinese. For they discussed some details of the intended invasion
-that still hung fire, and from the first of M. Albany's sentences I
-learned that the descent was determined upon Scotland. 'Twas that which
-angered me and made me listen for the rest with every sense of the spy and
-deterred by never a scruple. At first I had fancied Thurot would learn
-from his servant I was in the house, and leave me alone till his royal
-guest's departure from an intuition that I desired no meeting, but it was
-obvious now that no such consideration would have induced him to let me
-hear the vast secret they discussed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Twenty thousand men are between Brest and Vannes,” said M. Albany. “We
-shall have them in frigates in a fortnight from to-day, and then, <i>mon
-Capitaine</i>, affairs shall move briskly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still,” said Thurot, who had some odd tone of dissatisfaction in his
-voice, “I had preferred it had been the South of England. Dumont has given
-us every anchorage and sounding on the coast between Beachy Head and
-Arundel, and from there we could all the sooner have thrust at the heart
-of England. This Scotland—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah! Captain Thurot,” cried his Royal Highness impatiently, “you talk
-like a fool. At the heart, indeed! With all habitable England like a fat
-about it, rich with forts and troops and no more friendship for us than
-for the Mameluke! No, no, Thurot, I cry Scotland; all the chances are
-among the rocks, and I am glad it has been so decided on.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still, with infinite deference, your Royal Highness, this same West
-of Scotland never brought but the most abominable luck to you and yours,”
- continued Thurot. “Now, Arundel Bay——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! to the devil with Arundel Bay!” cried M. Albany; “'tis settled
-otherwise, and you must take it as you find it. Conflans and his men shall
-land upon the West—<i>mon Dieu!</i> I trust they may escape its
-fangs; and measures will be there taken with more precaution and I hope
-with more success than in Seventeen Forty-five. Thence they will march to
-England, sweeping the whole country before them, and not leaving behind
-them a man or boy who can carry a musket. Thus they must raise the army to
-fifty or sixty thousand men, strike a terror into England, and carry all
-with a high hand. I swear 'tis a fatted hog this England: with fewer than
-ten thousand Highlanders I have made her thrill at the very vitals.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot hummed. Plainly there was much in the project that failed to meet
-his favour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And Conflans?” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-His Royal Highness laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ha! Captain,” said he, “I know, I know. 'Twould suit you better if a
-certain Tony Thurot had command.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“At least,” said Thurot, “I am in my prime, while the Marshal is beyond
-his grand climacteric.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still, by your leave, with the reputation of being yet the best—
-well, let us say among the best—of the sea officers of France. Come,
-come, Captain, there must be no half-hearts in this venture; would to
-Heaven I were permitted to enjoy a share in it! And on you, my friend,
-depends a good half of the emprise and the <i>gloire</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Gloire!</i>” cried Thurot. “With every deference to your Royal
-Highness I must consider myself abominably ill-used in this matter. That I
-should be sent off to Norway and hound-in wretched Swedes with a personage
-like Flaubert! Oh, I protest, 'tis beyond all reason! Is it for that I
-have been superseded by a man like Conflans that totters on the edge of
-the grave?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I hope 'tis England's grave,” retorted M. Albany with unfailing good
-humour, and I heard the gluck of wine as he helped himself to another
-glass. “I repeat <i>gloire</i>, with every apology to the experience of M.
-le Corsair. 'Tis your duty to advance with your French and your Swedes
-upon the North of England, and make the diversion in these parts that
-shall inconvenience the English army front or rear.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, curse your diversions!” cried Thurot. “If I have a talent at all 'tis
-for the main attack. And this Conflans——”
- </p>
-<p>
-The remainder of the discussion, so far as I remained to hear it, gave no
-enlargement upon the plan thus laid bare. But in any case my whole desire
-now was to escape from the house without discovery, for I had news that
-made my return to Britain imperative.
-</p>
-<p>
-I opened the window quietly and slipped out. The drop to the court was
-less than my own height. Into the street I turned with the sober step of
-leisure, yet my feet tingled to run hard and my heart was stormy. The
-bells of St. Eloi went on ringing; the streets were growing busy with
-holiday-makers and the soldiers who were destined to over-run my country.
-I took there and then the most dreadful hatred of them, and scowled so
-black that some of the soldiers cried after me with a jeer.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest and Kilbride I found were not at the inn where I had left them,
-having gone back to the vessel, so I hurried down to the quay after them.
-The hoy had been moved since morning, and in the throng of other vessels
-that were in the harbour at the time I lost well-nigh an hour in seeking
-her. Whether that was well for me or ill would be folly now to guess, but
-when I had no more than set a foot upon the gunwale of a small boat that
-was to take me out to her I was clapped upon the shoulder.
-</p>
-<p>
-I turned, to see Thurot and two officers of marine!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon, M. Greig, a moment,” said Thurot, with not the kindest of tones.
-“Surely you would not hurry out of Dunkerque without a <i>congé</i> for
-old friends?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I stammered some sentences that were meant to reassure him. He interrupted
-me, and—not with any roughness, but with a pressure there was no
-mistaking and I was not fool enough to resist—led me from the side
-of the quay.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ma foi!</i>” said he, “'Tis the most ridiculous thing! I had nearly
-missed you and could never have forgiven myself. My Swiss has just
-informed me that you were in the house an hour ago while I was there
-myself. I fear we must have bored you, M. Albany and I, with our dull
-affairs. At least there was no other excuse for your unceremonious
-departure through my back window.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was never well-equipped to conceal my feelings, and it was plain in my
-face that I knew all.
-</p>
-<p>
-He sighed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, lad,” said he, rather sorrowfully, “I'd give a good many <i>louis
-d'or</i> that you had come visiting at another hour of the day, and now
-there's but one thing left me. My Swiss did not know you, but he has—praise
-<i>le bon Dieu!</i>—a pair of eyes in his head, and he remembered
-that my visitor wore red shoes. Red shoes and a Scotsman!—the
-conjunction was unmistakable, and here we are, M. Greig. There are a score
-of men looking all over Dunkerque at this moment for these same shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Confound the red shoes!” I cried, unable to conceal my vexation that they
-should once more have brought me into trouble.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By no means, M. Greig,” said Thurot. “But for them we should never have
-identified our visitor, and a somewhat startling tale was over the Channel
-a little earlier than we intended. And now all that I may do for old
-friendship to yourself and the original wearer of the shoes is to give you
-a free trip to England in my own vessel. 'Tis not the <i>Roi Rouge</i>
-this time—worse luck!—but a frigate, and we can be happy
-enough if you are not a fool.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXVIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THUROT'S PRISONER. MY FRIEND THE WATCH
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was plain from the first that my overhearing of the plot must compel
-Thurot to the step he took. He was not unkind, but so much depended on the
-absolute secrecy of the things he had talked to the Prince, that, even at
-the unpleasant cost of trepanning me, he must keep me from carrying my
-new-got information elsewhere. For that reason he refused to accede to my
-request for a few minutes' conversation with the priest or my
-fellow-countrymen. The most ordinary prudence, he insisted, demanded that
-he should keep me in a sort of isolation until it was too late to convey a
-warning across the Channel.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was for these reasons I was taken that Sabbath afternoon to the frigate
-that was destined to be in a humble sense his flagship, and was lying in
-the harbour with none of her crew as yet on board. I was given a cabin;
-books were furnished to cheer my incarceration, for it was no less. I was
-to all intents and purposes a prisoner, though enjoying again some of the
-privileges of the <i>salle d'épreuves</i> for the sake of old
-acquaintance.
-</p>
-<p>
-All that day I planned escape. Thurot came to the cabin and smoked and
-conversed pleasantly, but found me so abstracted that he could scarcely
-fail to think I meant a counter-sap.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Be tranquil, my Paul,” he advised; “Clancarty and I will make your life
-on ship-board as little irksome as possible, but it is your own cursed
-luck that you must make up your mind to a fortnight of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But that was considerably longer than I was ready to think of with
-equanimity. What I wished for was an immediate freedom and a ship to
-England, and while he talked I reviewed a dozen methods of escape. Here
-was I with a secret worth a vast deal to the British Government; if I
-could do my country that service of putting her into possession of it in
-time to prevent catastrophe, might I not, without presumption, expect some
-clemency from her laws for the crime I had committed in the hot blood of
-ignorant and untutored youth? I saw the most cheerful possibilities rise
-out of that accident that had made me an eavesdropper in Thurot's lodging—freedom,
-my family perhaps restored to me, my name partly re-established; but the
-red shoes that set me on wrong roads to start with still kept me on them.
-Thurot was an amiable enough gaoler, but not his best wine nor his
-wittiest stories might make me forget by how trivial a chance I had lost
-my opportunity.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were joined in the afternoon by Lord Clancarty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What, lad!” cried his lordship, pomaded and scented beyond words; fresh,
-as he told us, from the pursuit of a lady whose wealth was shortly to
-patch up his broken fortunes. “What, lad! Here's a pretty matter! Pressed,
-egad! A renegade against his will! 'Tis the most cursed luck, Captain
-Thurot, and wilt compel the poor young gentleman to cut the throats of his
-own countrymen?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I? Faith, not I!” said Thurot. “I press none but filthy Swedes. M. Greig
-has my word for it that twelve hours before we weigh anchor he may take
-his leave of us. <i>Je le veux bien</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah! 'Tis an impolite corsair this. As for me I should be inconsolable to
-lose M. Greig to such a dull country as this England. Here's an Occasion,
-M. le Capitaine, for pledging his health in a bottle, and wishing him well
-out of his troubles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You do not stand sufficiently on your dignity, Clancarty,” laughed
-Thurot. “Here's the enemy—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Dignity! pooh!” said his lordship. “To stand on that I should need a
-year's practice first on the tight-rope. There's that about an Irish
-gentleman that makes the posturings and proprieties and pretences of the
-fashionable world unnecessary. Sure, race will show in his face and action
-if he stood alone in his shirt-sleeves on a village common juggling balls.
-I am of the oldest blood that springs in Irish kings. 'Tis that knowledge
-keeps my heart up when circumstances make the world look rotten like a
-cheese. But the curst thing is one cannot for ever be drinking and dining
-off a pedigree, and here I am deserted by M. Tête-de-mouche——”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot put up his hand to check one of these disloyalties to the Pretender
-that I had long since learned were common with Lord Clancarty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bah!” cried his lordship. “I love you, Tony, and all the other boys, but
-your Prince is a madman—a sotted madman tied to the petticoat tails
-of a trollope. This Walkinshaw—saving your presence, Paul Greig, for
-she's your countrywoman and by way of being your friend, I hear—has
-ruined Charles and the Cause. We have done what we could to make him send
-madame back to the place she came from, but he'll do nothing of the kind.
-'She has stuck by me through thick and thin, and lost all for me, and now
-I shall stick by her,' says foolish Master Sentiment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bravo!” cried Thurot. “'Tis these things make us love the Prince and have
-faith in his ultimate success.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You were ever the hopeful ass, Tony,” said his lordship coolly. “<i>Il
-riest pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre</i>, and you must shut
-your ears against a tale that all the world is shouting at the pitch of
-its voice. Who knows better than Tony Thurot how his Royal Highness has
-declined? Why! 'tis manifest in the fellow's nose; I declare he drinks
-like a fish—another vice he brought back from your mountain land, M.
-Greig, along with Miss Walkinshaw——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There is far too much of Miss Walkinshaw about your lordship's remarks,”
- I cried in an uncontrollable heat that the lady should be the subject of
-implications so unkind.
-</p>
-<p>
-He stared, and then kissed his hand to me with laughter and a bow, “Ha!”
- he cried, “here's another young gentleman of sentiment. Stap me if I say a
-word against the lady for your sake, Andy Greig's nephew.” And back he
-went to his bottle.
-</p>
-<p>
-In this light fashion we spent a day that by rights should have been more
-profitably and soberly occupied. The frigate lay well out from the quays
-from which Thurot had conveyed me with none of the indignities that might
-be expected by a prisoner. There was, as I have said, none of her crew on
-board save a watch of two men. Beside her quarter there hung a small
-smuggling cutter that had been captured some days previously. As I sat in
-the cabin, yawning at the hinder-end over Clancarty's sallies, I could
-hear now and then the soft thudding of the smuggler's craft against the
-fenders as the sea rocked us lightly, and it put a mad fancy into my head.
-</p>
-<p>
-How good it would be, I thought, to be free on board such a vessel and
-speeding before a light wind to Britain! Was it wholly impossible? The
-notion so possessed me that I took an occasion to go on deck and see how
-things lay.
-</p>
-<p>
-The smuggler's boat had her mast stepped, but no sails in her. Over the
-bulwark of the frigate leaned one of the watch idly looking at sea-gulls
-that cried like bairns upon the smuggler's thwarts and gunnels. He was a
-tarry Dutchman (by his build and colour); I fancy that at the time he
-never suspected I was a prisoner, for he saluted me with deference.
-</p>
-<p>
-The harbour was emptier than usual of shipping. Dusk was falling on the
-town; some lights were twinkling wanly and bells rang in the cordage of
-the quays. I asked the seaman if he knew where the hoy <i>Vrijster</i> of
-Helvoetsluys lay.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that his face brightened and he promptly pointed to her yellow hull on
-the opposite side of the harbour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Did my honour know Captain Breuer?” he asked, in crabbed French.
-</p>
-<p>
-My honour was very pleased to confess that he did, though in truth my
-acquaintance with the skipper who had taken us round from Helvoetsluys
-went scarcely further than sufficed me to recall his name.
-</p>
-<p>
-The best sailor ever canted ship! my Dutchman assured me with enthusiasm.
-How often have I heard the self-same sentiment from mariners? for there is
-something jovial and kind in the seaman's manner that makes him ever fond
-of the free, the brave and competent of his own calling, and ready to cry
-their merits round the rolling world.
-</p>
-<p>
-A good seaman certainly!—I agreed heartily, though the man might
-have been merely middling for all I knew of him.
-</p>
-<p>
-He would like nothing better than to have an hour with Captain Breuer,
-said Mynheer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And I, too,” said I quickly. “But for Captain Thurot's pressing desire
-that I should spend the evening here I should be in Breuer's cabin now.
-Next to being with him there I would reckon the privilege of having him
-here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There might be very little difficulty about that if my honour was willing,
-said Mynheer. They were old shipmates; had sailed the Zuyder Sea together,
-and drunken in a score of ports. Dearly indeed would he love to have some
-discourse with Breuer. But to take leave from the frigate and cross to the
-hoy—no! Captain Thurot would not care for him to do that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why not have Breuer come to the frigate?” I asked, with my heart beating
-fast.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why, indeed?” repeated Mynheer with a laugh. “A hail across the harbour
-would not fetch him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then go for him,” said I, my heart beating faster than ever lest he
-should have some suspicion of my condition and desires.
-</p>
-<p>
-He reminded me that he had no excuse to leave the frigate, though to take
-the small boat at the stern and row over to the hoy would mean but a
-minute or two.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, as for excuses,” said I, “that's easily arranged, for I can give
-you one to carry a note to the care of the captain, and you may take it at
-your leisure.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At his leisure! He would take it at once and thankfully while we gentlemen
-were drinking below, for there was no pleasure under heaven he could
-compare with half an hour of good Jan Breuer's company.
-</p>
-<p>
-Without betraying my eagerness to avail myself of such an unlooked-for
-opportunity, I deliberately wrote a note in English intimating that I was
-a prisoner on the frigate and in pressing humour to get out of her at the
-earliest moment. I addressed it to Kilbride, judging the Highlander more
-likely than Father Hamilton to take rational steps for my release if that
-were within the bounds of possibility.
-</p>
-<p>
-I assured the seaman that if he lost no time in taking it over I would
-engage his absence would never be noticed, and he agreed to indicate to me
-by a whistle when he returned.
-</p>
-<p>
-With a cheerful assurance that he would have Jan Breuer on this deck in
-less than twenty minutes the seaman loosed the painter of the small boat
-and set forth upon his errand, while I returned to the cabin where Thurot
-and Clancarty still talked the most contrary and absurd politics over
-their wine. The vast and tangled scheme of French intrigue was set before
-me; at another time it might have been of the most fascinating interest,
-but on this particular occasion I could not subdue my mind to matters so
-comparatively trivial, while I kept my hearing strained for the evidence
-that the Dutchman had accomplished his mission and got back.
-</p>
-<p>
-The moments passed; the interest flagged; Clancarty began to yawn and
-Thurot grew silent. It was manifest that the sooner my Dutchman was back
-to his ship the better for my plan. Then it was I showed the brightest
-interest in affairs that an hour earlier failed to engage a second of my
-attention, and I discovered for the entertainment of my gaoler and his
-friend a hitherto unsuspected store of reminiscence about my Uncle Andrew
-and a fund of joke and anecdote whereof neither of them probably had
-thought me capable.
-</p>
-<p>
-But all was useless. The signal that the Dutchman had returned was not
-made when Lord Clancarty rose to his feet and intimated his intention
-there and then of going ashore, though his manner suggested that it would
-have been easy to induce him to wait longer. We went on deck with him. The
-night was banked with clouds though a full moon was due; only a few stars
-shone in the spaces of the zenith; our vessel was in darkness except where
-a lamp swung at the bow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mon Dieu!</i> Tony, what a pitchy night! I'd liefer be safe ashore
-than risking my life getting there in your cockle-shell,” said Clancarty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Art all right, Lord Clancarty,” said Thurot. “Here's a man will row you
-to the quay in two breaths, and you'll be snug in bed before M. Greig and
-I have finished our prayers.” Then he cried along the deck for the seaman.
-</p>
-<p>
-I felt that all was lost now the fellow's absence was to be discovered.
-</p>
-<p>
-What was my astonishment to hear an answering call, and see the Dutchman's
-figure a blotch upon the blackness of the after-deck.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bring round the small boat and take Lord Clancarty ashore,” said the
-captain, and the seaman hastened to do so. He sprang into the small boat,
-released her rope, and brought her round.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>A demain</i>, dear Paul,” cried his lordship with a hiccough. “It's
-curst unkind of Tony Thurot not to let you ashore on parole or permit me
-to wait with you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The boat dropped off into the darkness of the harbour, her oars thudding
-on the thole-pins.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There goes a decent fellow though something of a fool,” said Thurot.
-“'Tis his kind have made so many enterprises like our own have an
-ineffectual end. And now you must excuse me, M. Greig, if I lock you into
-your cabin. There are too few of us on board to let you have the run of
-the vessel.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He put a friendly hand upon the shoulder I shrugged with chagrin at this
-conclusion to an unfortunate day.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sorry, M. Greig, sorry,” he said humorously. “<i>Qui commence mal finit
-mal</i>, and I wish to heaven you had begun the day by finding Antoine
-Thurot at home, in which case we had been in a happier relationship
-to-night.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXIX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-DISCLOSES THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE AND HOW WE SET SAIL FOR ALBION
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hurot turned the key on me with a pleasantry that was in no accordance
-with my mood, and himself retired to the round house on deck where his
-berth was situated. I sat on a form for a little, surrendered all to
-melancholy, then sought to remove it by reading, as sleep in my present
-humour was out of the question. My reading, though it lasted for an hour
-or two, was scarcely worth the name, for my mind continually wandered from
-the page. I wondered if my note to Kilbride had been delivered, and if any
-step on his part was to be expected therefrom; the hope that rose with
-that reflection died at once upon the certainty that as the Dutch seaman
-had not signalled as he had promised he had somehow learned the true
-nature of my condition in the frigate. Had he told Thurot? If he had told
-Thurot—which was like enough—that I had communicated with any
-one outside the vessel there was little doubt that the latter would take
-adequate steps to prevent interference by Kilbride or any one else.
-</p>
-<p>
-We are compact of memories, a mere bundle of bygone days, childish
-recollections, ancient impressions, and so an older experience came to me,
-too, of the night I sat in the filthy cabin of Dan Risk's doomed vessel
-hearing the splash of illegitimate oars, anticipating with a mind scarcely
-more disturbed than I had just now the step of the officer from the prison
-at Blackness and the clutch of the chilly fetters.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a faint but rising nor'-east wind. It sighed among the shrouds
-of the frigate. I could hear it even in the cabin, pensive like the call
-of the curfew at a great distance. The waves washed against the timbers in
-curious short gluckings and hissings. On the vessel herself not a sound
-was to be heard, until of a sudden there came a scratching at my cabin
-door!
-</p>
-<p>
-It was incredible! I had heard no footstep on the companion, and I had
-ceased to hope for anything from the Dutchman!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who's there?” I asked softly, and at that the key outside was turned and
-I was fronted by Kilbride!
-</p>
-<p>
-He wore the most ridiculous travesty of the Dutchman's tarry breeks and
-tarpaulin hat and coarse wide jumper, and in the light of my candle there
-was a humorous twinkle on his face as he entered, closed the door softly
-after him, and sat down beside me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My goodness!” he whispered, “you have a face on you as if you were in a
-graveyard watching ghosts. It's time you were steeping the withies to go
-away as we say in the Language, and you may be telling me all the story of
-it elsewhere.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Where's the Dutchman that took my letter?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where,” said Kilbride, “but in the place that well befits him—at
-the lug of an anker of Rotterdam gin taking his honest night's rest. I'm
-here guizing in his tarry clothes, and if I were Paul Greig of the Hazel
-Den I would be clapping on my hat gey quick and getting out of here
-without any more parley.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You left him in the hoy!” said I astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Faith, there was nothing better for it!” said he coolly. “Breuer gave him
-so much of the juniper for old acquaintance that when I left he was so
-full of it that he had lost the power of his legs and you might as well
-try to keep a string of fish standing.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And it was you took Clancarty ashore?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Who else? And I don't think it's a great conceit of myself to believe I
-play-acted the Dutch tarry-breeks so very well, though I was in something
-of a tremble in case the skipper here would make me out below my guizard's
-clothes. You may thank your stars the moon was as late of rising this
-night as a man would be that was at a funeral yesterday.” “And where's the
-other man who was on this vessel?” I asked, preparing to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come on deck and I'll show you,” said Kilbride, checking a chuckle of
-amusement at something.
-</p>
-<p>
-We crept softly on deck into the night now slightly lit by a moon veiled
-by watery clouds. The ship seemed all our own and we were free to leave
-her when we chose for the small boat hung at her stern.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You were asking for the other one,” said Kilbride. “There he is,” and he
-pointed to a huddled figure bound upon the waist. “When I came on board
-after landing Clancarty this stupid fellow discovered I was a stranger and
-nearly made an outcry; but I hit him on the lug with the loom of an oar.
-He'll not be observing very much for a while yet, but I was bound all the
-same to put a rope on him to prevent him disturbing Captain Thurot's sleep
-too soon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We spoke in whispers for the night seemed all ear and I was for ever
-haunted by the reflection that Thurot was divided from us by little more
-than an inch or two of teak-wood. Now and then the moon peeped through a
-rift of cloud and lit a golden roadway over the sea, enticing me
-irresistibly home.
-</p>
-<p>
-“O God, I wish I was in Scotland!” I said passionately.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Less luck than that will have to be doing us,” said Kilbride, fumbling at
-the painter of the boat. “The hoy sets sail for Calais in an hour or two,
-and it's plain from your letter we'll be best to be taking her round that
-length.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, not Calais,” said I. “It's too serious a business with me for that.
-I'm wanting England, and wanting it unco fast.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Oh, Dhe!</i>” said my countryman, “here's a fellow with the appetite
-of Prince Charlie and as likely to gratify it. What for must it be
-England, <i>loachain?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I can only hint at that,” I answered hastily, “and that in a minute. Are
-ye loyal?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“To a fine fellow called MacKellar first and to my king and country
-after?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Stuarts?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-He cracked his thumb. “It's all by with that,” said he quickly and not
-without a tone of bitterness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The breed of them has never been loyal to me, and if I could wipe out of
-my life six months of the cursedest folly in Forty-five I would go back to
-Scotland with the first chance and throw my bonnet for Geordie ever after
-like the greasiest burgess ever sold a wab of cloth or a cargo of Virginia
-in Glasgow.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then,” I said, “you and me's bound for England this night, for I have
-that in my knowledge should buy the safety of the pair of us,” and I
-briefly conveyed my secret.
-</p>
-<p>
-He softly whistled with astonishment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Man! it's a gey taking idea,” he confessed. “But the bit is to get over
-the Channel.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have thought of that,” said I. “Here's a smuggler wanting no more than
-a rag of sail in this wind to make the passage in a couple of days.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“By the Holy Iron it's the very thing!” he interrupted, slapping his leg.
-</p>
-<p>
-It takes a time to tell all this in writing, but in actual fact our whole
-conversation together in the cabin and on the deck occupied less than five
-minutes. We were both of us too well aware of the value of time to have
-had it otherwise and waste moments in useless conversation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What is to be done is this,” I suggested, casting a rapid glance along
-the decks and upwards to the spars. “I will rig up a sail of some sort
-here and you will hasten over again in the small-boat to the hoy and give
-Father Hamilton the option of coming with us. He may or he may not care to
-run the risks involved in the exploit, but at least we owe him the offer.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But when I'm across at the hoy there, here's you with this dovering body
-and Captain Thurot. Another knock might settle the one, but you would
-scarcely care to have knocks going in the case of an old friend like Tony
-Thurot, who's only doing his duty in keeping you here with such a secret
-in your charge.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have thought of that, too,” I replied quickly, “and I will hazard
-Thurot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Kilbride lowered himself into the small-boat, pushed off from the side of
-the frigate, and in silence half-drifted in the direction of the Dutch
-vessel. My plans were as clear in my head as if they had been printed on
-paper. First of all I took such provender as I could get from my cabin and
-placed it along with a breaker of water and a lamp in the cutter. Then I
-climbed the shrouds of the frigate, and cut away a small sail that I
-guessed would serve my purpose, letting it fall into the cutter. I made a
-shift at sheets and halyards and found that with a little contrivance I
-could spread enough canvas to take the cutter in that weather at a fair
-speed before the wind that had a blessed disposition towards the coast of
-England. I worked so fast it was a miracle, dreading at every rustle of
-the stolen sail—at every creak of the cutter on the fenders, that
-either the captain or his unconscious seaman would awake.
-</p>
-<p>
-My work was scarcely done when the small-boat came off again from the hoy,
-and as she drew cautiously near I saw that MacKellar had with him the
-bulky figure of the priest. He climbed ponderously, at my signal, into the
-cutter, and MacKellar joined me for a moment on the deck of the frigate.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He goes with us then?” I asked, indicating the priest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“To the Indies if need be,” said Kilbride. “But the truth is that this
-accident is a perfect God-send to him, for England's the one place below
-the firmament he would choose for a refuge at this moment. Is all ready?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If my sail-making's to be relied on she's in the best of trim,” I
-answered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And—what do ye call it?—all found?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A water breaker, a bottle of brandy, a bag of bread—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Enough for a foray of fifty men!” he said heartily. “Give me meal and
-water in the heel of my shoe and I would count it very good vivers for a
-fortnight.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He went into the cutter; I released the ropes that bound her to the
-frigate and followed him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mon Dieu</i> dear lad, 'tis a world of most fantastic happenings,” was
-all the poor old priest said, shivering in the cold night air.
-</p>
-<p>
-We had to use the oars of the frigate's small-boat for a stroke or two so
-as to get the cutter round before the wind; she drifted quickly from the
-large ship's side almost like a living thing with a crave for freedom at
-last realised; up speedily ran her sail, unhandsome yet sufficient, the
-friendly air filled out the rustling folds and drove her through the night
-into the open sea.
-</p>
-<p>
-There is something in a moonlit night at sea that must touch in the most
-cloddish heart a spring of fancy. It is friendlier than the dawn that at
-its most glorious carries a hint of sorrow, or than the bravest sunset
-that reminds us life is a brief day at the best of it, and the one thing
-sempiternal yet will be the darkness. We sat in the well of the cutter—three
-odd adventurers, myself the most silent because I had the double share of
-dubiety about the enterprise, for who could tell how soon the doomster's
-hand would be on me once my feet were again on British soil? Yet now when
-I think of it—of the moonlit sea, the swelling sail above us, the
-wake behind that shone with fire—I must count it one of the happiest
-experiences of my life.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest looked back at the low land of France receding behind us, with
-its scattered lights on the harbour and the shore, mere subjects to the
-queenly moon. “There goes poor Father Hamilton,” said he whimsically,
-“happy schoolboy, foolish lover in Louvain that had never but moonlit
-eves, parish priest of Dixmunde working two gardens, human and divine,
-understanding best the human where his bees roved, but loving all men good
-and ill. There goes the spoiled page, the botched effort, and here's a fat
-old man at the start of a new life, and never to see his darling France
-again. Ah! the good mother; <i>Dieu te bénisse!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XL
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MY INTERVIEW WITH PITT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>f our voyage across the Channel there need be no more said than that it
-was dull to the very verge of monotony, for the wind, though favourable,
-was often in a faint where our poor sail shook idly at the mast. Two days
-later we were in London, and stopped at the Queen's Head above Craig's
-Court in Charing Cross.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now I had to make the speediest possible arrangement for a meeting
-with those who could make the most immediate and profitable use of the
-tidings I was in a position to lay before them, by no means an easy matter
-to decide upon for a person who had as little knowledge of London as he
-had of the Cities of the Plain.
-</p>
-<p>
-MacKellar—ever the impetuous Gael—was for nothing less than a
-personal approach to his Majesty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The man that is on the top of the hill will always be seeing furthest,”
- he said. “I have come in contact with the best in Europe on that under
-standing, but it calls for a kind of Hielan' tact that—that—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That you cannot credit to a poor Lowlander like myself,” said I, amused
-at his vanity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I'm meaning no offence, just no offence at all,” he responded
-quickly, and flushing at his <i>faux pas</i>. “You have as much talent of
-the kind as the best of us I'm not denying, and I have just the one
-advantage, that I was brought up in a language that has delicacies of
-address beyond the expression of the English, or the French that is, in
-some measure, like it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well,” said I, “the spirit of it is obviously not to be translated into
-English, judging from the way you go on crying up your countrymen at the
-expense of my own.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is true enough,” he conceded, “and a very just observe; but no
-matter, what I would be at is that your news is worth too much to be
-wasted on any poor lackey hanging about his Majesty's back door, who might
-either sell it or you on his own behoof, or otherwise make a mull of the
-matter with the very best intentions. If you would take my way of it,
-there would be but Geordie himself for you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What have you to say to that?” I asked the priest, whose knowledge of the
-world struck me as in most respects more trustworthy than that of this
-impetuous Highland chirurgeon.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A plague of your kings! say I; sure I know nothing about them, for my
-luck has rubbed me against the gabardine and none of your ermined cloaks.
-There must be others who know his Majesty's affairs better than his
-Majesty himself, otherwise what advantage were there in being a king?”
- </p>
-<p>
-In fine his decision was for one of the Ministers, and at last the
-Secretary of State was decided on.
-</p>
-<p>
-How I came to meet with Mr. Pitt need not here be recorded; 'twas indeed
-more a matter of good luck than of good guidance, and had there been no
-Scots House of Argyll perhaps I had never got rid of my weighty secret
-after all. I had expected to meet a person magnificent in robes of state;
-instead of which 'twas a man in a blue coat with yellow metal buttons,
-full round bob wig, a large hat, and no sword-bag nor ruffles that met me—more
-like a country coachman or a waggoner than a personage of importance.
-</p>
-<p>
-He scanned over again the letter that had introduced me and received me
-cordially enough. In a few words I indicated that I was newly come from
-France, whence I had escaped in a smuggler's boat, and that I had news of
-the first importance which I counted it my duty to my country to convey to
-him with all possible expedition.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that his face changed and he showed singularly little eagerness to hear
-any more.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There will be—there will be the—the usual bargain, I presume,
-Mr. Greig?” he said, half-smiling. “What are the conditions on which I am
-to have this vastly important intelligence?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I never dreamt of making any, sir,” I answered, promptly, with some
-natural chagrin, and yet mixed with a little confusion that I should in
-truth be expecting something in the long run for my story.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon my stupid pleasantry, Mr. Greig,” he said, reddening slightly. “I
-have been so long one of his Majesty's Ministers, and of late have seen so
-many urgent couriers from France with prime news to be bargained for, that
-I have grown something of a cynic. You are the first that has come with a
-secret not for sale. Believe me, your story will have all the more
-attention because it is offered disinterestedly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In twenty minutes I had put him into possession of all I knew of the plans
-for invasion. He walked up and down the room, with his hands behind his
-back, intently listening, now and then uttering an exclamation incredulous
-or astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You are sure of all this?” he asked at last sharply, looking in my face
-with embarrassing scrutiny.
-</p>
-<p>
-“As sure as any mortal man may be with the gift of all his senses,” I
-replied firmly. “At this moment Thurot's vessel is, I doubt not, taking in
-her stores; the embarkation of troops is being practised daily, troops are
-assembled all along the coast from Brest to Vannes, and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! on these points we are, naturally, not wholly dark,” said the
-Minister. “We have known for a year of this somewhat theatrical display on
-the part of the French, but the lines of the threatened invasion are not
-such as your remarkable narrative suggests. You have been good enough to
-honour me with your confidence, Mr. Greig; let me reciprocate by telling
-you that we have our—our good friends in France, and that for six
-months back I have been in possession of the Chevalier D'Arcy's
-instructions to Dumont to reconnoitre the English coast, and of Dumont's
-report, with the chart of the harbours and towns where he proposed that
-the descent should be made.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “The gentleman who
-gave us the information,” he went on, “stipulated for twenty thousand
-pounds and a pension of two thousand a year as the just reward for his
-loving service to his country in her hour of peril. He was not to get his
-twenty thousand, I need scarcely say, but he was to get something in the
-event of his intelligence proving to be accurate, and if it were for no
-more than to get the better of such a dubious patriot I should wish his
-tale wholly disproved, though we have hitherto acted on the assumption
-that it might be trustworthy. There cannot be alternative plans of
-invasion; our informant—another Scotsman, I may say—is either
-lying or has merely the plan of a feint.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You are most kind, sir,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh,” he said, “I take your story first, and as probably the most correct,
-simply because it comes from one that loves his country and makes no
-bagman's bargains for the sale of secrets vital to her existence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am much honoured, sir,” said I, with a bow.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then he stopped his walk abruptly and faced me again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You have told me, Mr. Greig,” he went on, “that Conflans is to descend in
-a week or two on the coast of Scotland, and that Thurot is to create a
-diversion elsewhere with the aid of the Swedes, I have, from the most
-delicate considerations, refrained from asking you how you know all this?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I heard it from the lips of Thurot himself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Thurot! impossible!” he murmured.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of Thurot himself, sir.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You must be much in that pirate's confidence,” said Mr. Pitt, for the
-first time with suspicion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not to that extent that he would tell me of his plans for invading my
-country,” I answered, “and I learned these things by the merest accident.
-I overheard him speak last Sunday in Dunkerque with the Young Pretender—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Pretender!” cried the Minister, shrugging his shoulders, and looking
-at me with more suspicion than ever. “You apparently move in the most
-select and interesting society, Mr. Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“In this case, sir, it was none of my choosing,” I replied, and went on
-briefly to explain how I had got into Thurot's chamber unknown to him, and
-unwittingly overhead the Prince and him discuss the plan.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very good, very good, and still—you will pardon me—I cannot
-see how so devout a patriot as Mr. Greig should be in the intimacy of men
-like Thurot?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A most natural remark under the circumstances,” I replied. “Thurot saved
-my life from a sinking British vessel, and it is no more than his due to
-say he proved a very good friend to me many a time since. But I was to
-know nothing of his plans of invasion, for he knew very well I had no
-sympathy with them nor with Charles Edward, and, as I have told you, he
-made me his prisoner on his ship so that I might not betray what I had
-overheard.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Minister made hurried notes of what I had told him, and concluded the
-interview by asking where I could be communicated with during the next few
-days.
-</p>
-<p>
-I gave him my direction at the Queen's Head, but added that I had it in my
-mind to go shortly to Edinburgh, where my address would be best known to
-the Lord Advocate.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The Lord Advocate!” said Mr. Pitt, raising his eyebrows.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I may as well make a clean breast of it, sir,” I proceeded hurriedly,
-“and say that I left Scotland under circumstances peculiarly distressing.
-Thurot saved me from a ship called the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, that had been
-scuttled and abandoned with only myself and a seaman on board of her in
-mid-channel, by a man named Daniel Risk.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bless me!” cried Mr. Pitt, “the scoundrel Risk was tried in Edinburgh a
-month or two ago on several charges, including the one you mention, and he
-has either been hanged, or is waiting to be hanged at this moment, in the
-jail at Edinburgh.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I was nominally purser on the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, but in actual fact I
-was fleeing from justice.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Minister hemmed, and fumbled with his papers.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It was owing to a duelling affair, in which I had the misfortune to—to—kill
-my opponent. I desire, sir, above all, to be thoroughly honest, and I am
-bound to tell you it was my first intention to make the conveyance of this
-plan of Thurot's a lever to secure my pardon for the crime of manslaughter
-which lies at my charge. I would wish now that my loyalty to my country
-was really disinterested, and I have, in the last half-hour, made up my
-mind to surrender myself to the law of Scotland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is for yourself to decide on,” said the Minister more gravely, “but
-I should advise the postponement of your departure to Edinburgh until you
-hear further from me. I shall expect to find you at the inn at Charing
-Cross during the next week; thereafter——”
- </p>
-<p>
-He paused for a moment. “Well—thereafter we shall see,” he added.
-</p>
-<p>
-After a few more words of the kindest nature the Minister shook hands with
-the confessed manslayer (it flashed on me as a curious circumstance), and
-I went back to join the priest and my fellow countryman.
-</p>
-<p>
-They were waiting full of impatience.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Hast the King's pardon in thy pocket, friend Scotland?” cried Father
-Hamilton; then his face sank in sympathy with the sobriety of my own that
-was due to my determination on a surrender to justice once my business
-with the Government was over.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have no more in my pocket than I went out with in the morning,” said I.
-“But my object, so far, has been served. Mr. Pitt knows my story and is
-like to take such steps as maybe needful. As for my own affair I have
-mentioned it, but it has gone no further than that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You're not telling me you did not make a bargain of it before saying a
-word about the bit plan?” cried MacKellar in surprise, and could scarcely
-find words strong enough to condemn me for what he described as my
-stupidity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Many a man will sow the seed that will never eat the syboe,” was his
-comment; “and was I not right yonder when I said yon about the tact? If it
-had been me now I would have gone very canny to the King himself and said:
-'Your Majesty, I'm a man that has made a slip in a little affair as
-between gentlemen, and had to put off abroad until the thing blew by. I
-can save the lives of many thousand Englishmen, and perhaps the country
-itself, by intelligence that came to my knowledge when I was abroad; if I
-prove it, will your Majesty pardon the thing that lies at my charge?'”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And would have his Majesty's signature to the promise as 'twere a deed of
-sale!” laughed the priest convulsively. “La! la! la! Paul, here's our
-Celtic Solon with tact—the tact of the foot-pad. Stand and deliver!
-My pardon, sire, or your life! <i>Mon Dieu!</i> there runs much of the old
-original cateran in thy methods of diplomacy, good Master MacKellar. Too
-much for royal courts, I reckon.” MacKellar pshawed impatiently. “I'm
-asking you what is the Secretary's name, Mr. Greig?” said he. “Fox or Pitt
-it is all the same—the one is sly and the other is deep, and it is
-the natures of their names. I'll warrant Mr. Pitt has forgotten already
-the name of the man who gave him the secret, and the wisest thing Paul
-Greig could do now would be to go into hiding as fast as he can.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But I expressed my determination to wait in the Queen's Head a week
-longer, as I had promised, and thereafter (if nothing happened to prevent
-it) to submit myself at Edinburgh. Though I tried to make as little of
-that as possible to myself, and indeed would make myself believe I was
-going to act with a rare bravery, I must confess now that my determination
-was strengthened greatly by the reflection that my service to the country
-would perhaps annul or greatly modify my sentence.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-TREATS OF FATHER HAMILTON'S DEATH
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a gay place, London, in the days I write of, however it may be now,
-though Father Hamilton was prone occasionally to compare it unfavourably
-with the Paris of his fancy, the which he held a sample-piece of paradise.
-The fogs and rains depressed him; he had an eye altogether unfriendly for
-the signs of striving commerce in the streets and the greedy haste of
-clerks and merchants into whose days of unremitting industry so few joys
-(as he fancied) seemed to enter.
-</p>
-<p>
-MacKellar soon found company in it among silken bucks that held noisy
-sederunts in the evenings at a place called White's and another called (if
-my memory does not fail me) the Cocoa Nut Tree. 'Twas marvellous the
-number of old friends and fellow countrymen that, by his own account, he
-found there. And what open hands they had! But for him that was
-privileged, for old acquaintance sake, to borrow from them, we had found
-our week or two in London singularly hungry because (to tell the truth of
-it) our money was come very nearly to an end. But MacKellar, who had
-foraged so well in Silesia, was equally good at it in the city of London.
-From these night escapades he seldom failed to return richer than he went,
-and it was he who paid the piper with so much of an air of thinking it a
-privilege, that we had not the heart, even if we had the inclination, to
-protest.
-</p>
-<p>
-If I had known then, as I know now, or at least suspect, that the money
-that fed and boarded us was won through his skill at dice and cards, I
-daresay I had shifted sooner from London than I did at the last.
-</p>
-<p>
-Day after day passed, and no word from Mr. Pitt. I dared scarcely leave my
-inn for an hour's airing lest I should be asked for in my absence. There
-was, for a while, a hope that though I had refused to make any bargain
-about the pardon, something—I could not so much as guess what—might
-happen to avert the scandal of a trial at Edinburgh, and the disgrace that
-same might bring upon my family. But day after day passed, as I have said,
-and there came no hint of how matters stood.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then there came a day when I was to consider it mattered very little
-whether I heard from Pitt or not; when even my country was forgotten and I
-was to suffer a loss whose bitterness abides with me yet. It was the death
-of Father Hamilton, whom I had grown to like exceedingly. Birds have built
-and sung for many generations since then; children play in the garden
-still; there is essence at the table, there is sparkle in the wine, and he
-will never enjoy them any more. Fortune has come to me since then, so that
-I might have the wherewithal, if I had the wish, to take the road again
-with him in honesty, and see it even better than when Sin paid the bill
-for us, but it cannot be with him.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was a December day of the whitest, the city smothered in snow, its
-tumult hushed. I had been tempted to wander in the forenoon a good way
-from our lodging. Coming home in the afternoon I met Kilbride, distracted,
-setting out to seek for me. He had a face like the clay, and his hands,
-that grasped my lapels as if I meant to fly from him, were trembling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul,” said he. “Here's the worst of all,” and I declare his cheeks
-were wet with tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What is it?” I cried in great alarm.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The priest, the priest,” said he. “He's lying yonder at the ebb, and I'm
-no more use to him than if I were a bairn. I've seen the death-thraws a
-thousand times, but never to vex me just like this before. He could make
-two or three of us in bulk, and yet his heart was like a wean's, and there
-he's crying on you even-on till I was near demented and must run about the
-streets to seek for you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But still you give me no clue!” I cried, hurrying home with him.
-</p>
-<p>
-He gave me the story by the way. It seemed his reverence had had a notion
-to see Eastcheap, round which the writer Shakespeare had thrown a glamour
-for him. He had gone there shortly after I had gone out in the forenoon,
-and after a space of walking about it had found himself in a mean street
-where a blackguard was beating a child. 'Twas the man's own child,
-doubtless, and so he had, I make no doubt, the law of it on his own side,
-but the drunken wretch outdid all reasonable chastisement, and thrashed
-her till the blood flowed.
-</p>
-<p>
-Up ran the priest and took her in his arms, shielding her from the blows
-of the father's cudgel with his arm. The child nuzzled to his breast,
-shrieking, and the father tried to pull her away. Between them she fell;
-the priest stood over her, keeping back the beast that threatened. The man
-struck at him with his stick; Father Hamilton wrenched it from him, threw
-it down that he might have no unfair advantage, and flung himself upon the
-wretch. He could have crushed him into jelly, but the man was armed, and
-suddenly drew a knife. He thrust suddenly between the priest's shoulders,
-released himself from the tottering body, and disappeared with his child
-apparently beyond all chance of identification or discovery.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton was carried home upon a litter.
-</p>
-<p>
-“O God! Kilbride, and must he die?” I cried in horror.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He will travel in less than an hour,” said the Highlander, vastly moved.
-“And since he came here his whole cry has been for you and Father Joyce.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We went into the room that seemed unnaturally white and sunny. He lay upon
-the bed-clothes. The bed was drawn towards the window, through which the
-domes and towers and roofs of London could be seen, with their accustomed
-greyness gone below the curtain of the snow. A blotch of blood was on his
-shirt-front as he lay upon his side. I thought at first it was his own
-life oozing, but learned a little later that the stricken child had had
-her face there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Paul! Paul!” he said, “I thought thou wouldst blame me for deserting thee
-again, and this time without so much as a letter of farewell.”
- </p>
-<p>
-What could I do but take his hand, and fall upon my knees beside his bed?
-He had blue eyes that never aged nor grossened—the eyes of a boy,
-clear, clean, and brave, and round about them wrinkles played in a sad,
-sweet smile.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What, Paul!” he said, “all this for behemoth! for the old man of the sea
-that has stuck on thy shoulders for a twelvemonth, and spurred thee to
-infinite follies and perils! I am no more worth a tear of thine than is
-the ivied ash that falls untimely and decayed, eaten out of essence by the
-sins he sheltered. And the poor child, Paul!—the poor child with her
-arms round my neck, her tears brine—sure I have them on my lips—the
-true <i>viaticum!</i> The brute! the brute! Ah no! ah no! poor sinner, we
-do not know.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, father!” I cried, “and must we never go into the woods and towns any
-more?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He smiled again and stroked my hair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not in these fields, boy,” said he, “but perhaps in more spacious, less
-perplexed. Be good, be simple, be kind! Tis all I know.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We heard the steps of Father Joyce upon the stairs.
-</p>
-<p>
-“All I know!” repeated the priest. “Fifty years to learn it, and I might
-have found it in my mother's lap. <i>Chère ange</i>—the little
-mother—'twas a good world! And Fanchon that is dead below the snow
-in Louvain—oh, the sweet world! And the sunny gardens of bees and
-children—”
- </p>
-<p>
-His eyes were dull. A pallor was on his countenance. He breathed with
-difficulty. Kilbride, who stood by, silent, put a finger on his pulse. At
-that he opened his eyes again, once more smiling, and Father Joyce was at
-the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Kiss me, Paul,” said the dying man, “I hear them singing prime.”
- </p>
-<p>
-When Father Joyce was gone I came into the room again where the priest lay
-smiling still, great in figure, in the simplicity and sweetness of his
-countenance like a child.
-</p>
-<p>
-Kilbride and I stood silent for a little by the bed, and the Highlander
-was the first to speak. “I have seen worse,” said he, “than Father
-Hamilton.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It may seem a grudging testimony, but not to me that heard it.
-</p>
-<p>
-On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news
-which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, “Have you
-heard the latest?” he cried. “It is just what I expected,” he went on.
-“They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the
-tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove him
-back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of the
-Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The invasion
-is at an end.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is gallant news!” I cried, warm with satisfaction.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Maybe,” said he indifferently, “but the main thing is that Paul Greig,
-who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in cheap
-lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. Indeed,
-perhaps he's worse off than ever he was.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How is that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, they ken where you are, for one thing, and you put yourself in
-their power. I am one that has small faith in Governments. What will
-hinder them to clap you in jail and save another reward like the first one
-Pitt told you about? I would never put it past a Sassenach of the name.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then I told him it had been in my mind ever since I had seen the Minister
-to go to Edinburgh and give myself up to the authorities.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are ye daft?” he cried, astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could only shrug my shoulders at that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Perhaps you fancy this business of the invasion will help you to get your
-neck out of the loop? I would not lippen on a Government for ten minutes.
-You have saved the country—that's the long and the short of it; now
-you must just be saving your own hide. There's nothing for us but the
-Continent again, and whether you're in the key for that or not, here's a
-fellow will sleep uneasy till he has Europe under his head.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Even at the cost of parting with Kilbride I determined to carry out my
-intention of going to Edinburgh. With the priest gone, no prospect of Mr.
-Pitt taking the first step, and Kilbride in the humour for a retreat, I
-decided that the sooner I brought matters to a head the better.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a mail coach that went north weekly. It took a considerable deal
-of money and a fortnight of time to make the journey between the two
-capitals, but MacKellar, free-handed to the last, lent me the money (which
-I sent him six months later to Holland), and I set out one Saturday from
-the “Bull and Whistle” in a genteel two-end spring machine that made a
-brisk passage—the weather considered—as far as York on our way
-into Scotland.
-</p>
-<p>
-I left on a night of jubilation for the close of the war and the overthrow
-of Conflans. Bonfires blazed on the river-side and the eminences round the
-city; candles were in every window, the people were huzzaing in the
-streets where I left behind me only the one kent face—that of
-MacKellar of Kilbride who came to the coach to see the last of me. And
-everywhere was the snow—deep, silent, apparently enduring.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I DEPART IN THE MIDST OF ILLUMINATION AND COME TO A JAIL, BAD NEWS, AND AN
-OLD ENEMY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e carried this elation all through England with us. Whatever town we
-stopped at flags were flying, and the oldest resident must be tipsy on the
-green for the glory of the British Isles. The seven passengers who
-occupied the coach with me found in these rejoicings, and in the great
-event which gave rise to them, subjects of unending discourse as we
-dragged through the country in the wake of steaming horses. There was with
-us a maker of perukes that had found trade dull in Town (as they call it),
-and planned to start business in York; a widow woman who had buried her
-second husband and was returning to her parents in Northumberland with a
-sprightliness that told she was ready to try a third if he offered; and a
-squire (as they call a laird) of Morpeth.
-</p>
-<p>
-But for the common interest in the rejoicings it might have been a week
-before the company thawed to each other enough to start a conversation.
-The first mile of the journey, however, found us in the briskest clebate
-on Hawke and his doings. I say us, but in truth my own share in the
-conversation was very small as I had more serious reflections.
-</p>
-<p>
-The perruquier, as was natural to his trade, knew everything and itched to
-prove it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have it on the very best authority,” he would say, “indeed”—with
-a whisper for all the passengers as if he feared the toiling horses
-outside might hear him—“indeed between ourselves I do not mind
-telling that it was from Sir Patrick Dall's man—that the French
-would have been on top of us had not one of themselves sold the plot for a
-hatful of guineas.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is not what I heard at all,” broke in the squire. “I fancy you are
-mistaken, sir. The truth, as I have every reason to believe, is that one
-of the spies of the Government—a Scotsman, by all accounts—discovered
-Conflans' plans, and came over to London with them. A good business too,
-egad! otherwise we'd soon have nothing to eat at Morpeth George Inn on
-market days but frogs, and would find the parley-voos overrunning the
-country by next Lent with their masses and mistresses, and so on. A good
-business for merry old England that this spy had his English ears open.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It may be you are right, sir,” conceded the perruquier deferentially.
-“Now that I remember, Sir Patrick's gentleman said something of the same
-kind, and that it was one of them Scotsmen brought the news. Like enough
-the fellow found it worth his while. It will be a pretty penny in his
-pocket, I'll wager. He'll be able to give up spying and start an inn.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have little doubt the ideal nature of retirement to an inn came to the
-mind of the peruke maker from the fact that at the moment we were drawing
-up before “The Crown” at Bawtry. Reek rose in clouds from the horses, as
-could be seen from the light of the doors that showed the narrow street
-knee-deep in snow; a pleasant smell of cooking supper and warm cordials
-came out to us, welcome enough it may be guessed after our long day's
-stage. The widow clung just a trifle too long on my arm as I gallantly
-helped her out of the coach; perhaps she thought my silence and my
-abstracted gaze at her for the last hour or two betrayed a tender
-interest, but I was thinking how close the squire and the wig-maker had
-come upon the truth, and yet made one mistake in that part of their tale
-that most closely affected their silent fellow passenger.
-</p>
-<p>
-The sea-fight and the war lasted us for a topic all through England, but
-when we had got into Scotland on the seventh day after my departure from
-London, the hostlers at the various change-houses yoked fresh horses to
-the tune of “Daniel Risk.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We travelled in the most tempestuous weather. Snow fell incessantly, and
-was cast in drifts along the road; sometimes it looked as if we were bound
-for days, but we carried the mails, and with gigantic toil the driver
-pushed us through.
-</p>
-<p>
-The nearer we got to Edinburgh the more we learned of the notorious Daniel
-Risk, whom no one knew better than myself. The charge of losing his ship
-wilfully was, it appeared, among the oldest and least heinous of his
-crimes. Smuggling had engaged his talent since then, and he had murdered a
-cabin-boy under the most revolting circumstances. He had almost escaped
-the charge of scuttling the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, for it was not till he
-had been in the dock for the murder that evidence of that transaction came
-from the seaman Horn, who had been wrecked twice, it appeared, and far in
-other parts of the world between the time he was abandoned in the scuttled
-ship and returned to his native land, to tell how the ruffian had left two
-innocent men to perish.
-</p>
-<p>
-Even in these days of wild happenings the fame of Risk exceeded that of
-every malefactor that season, and when we got to Edinburgh the street
-singers were chanting doleful ballads about him.
-</p>
-<p>
-I would have given the wretch no thought, or very little, for my own
-affairs were heavy enough, had not the very day I landed in Edinburgh seen
-a broad-sheet published with “The Last Words and Warning” of Risk. The
-last words were in an extraordinarily devout spirit; the homily breathed
-what seemed a real repentance for a very black life. It would have moved
-me less if I could have learned then, as I did later, that the whole thing
-was the invention of some drunken lawyer's clerk in the Canongate, who had
-probably devised scores of such fictions for the entertainment of the
-world that likes to read of scaffold repentances and of wicked lives. The
-condition of the wretch touched me, and I made up my mind to see the
-condemned man who, by the accounts of the journals, was being visited
-daily by folks interested in his forlorn case.
-</p>
-<p>
-With some manoeuvring I got outside the bars of his cell.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was little change in him. The same wild aspect was there though he
-pretended a humility. The skellie eye still roved with little of the love
-of God or man in it; his iron-grey hair hung tawted about his temples.
-Only his face was changed and had the jail-white of the cells, for he had
-been nearly two months in confinement. When I entered he did not know me;
-indeed, he scarce looked the road I was on at first, but applied himself
-zealously to the study of a book wherein he pretended to be rapturously
-engrossed.
-</p>
-<p>
-The fact that the Bible (for so it was) happened to be upside down in his
-hands somewhat staggered my faith in the repentance of Daniel Risk, who, I
-remembered, had never numbered reading among his arts.
-</p>
-<p>
-I addressed him as Captain.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am no Captain,” said he in a whine, “but plain Dan Risk, the blackest
-sinner under the cope and canopy of heaven.” And he applied himself to his
-volume as before.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do you know me?” I asked, and he must have found the voice familiar, for
-he rose from his stool, approached the bars of his cage, and examined me.
-“Andy Greigs nephew!” he cried. “It's you; I hope you're a guid man?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I might be the best of men—and that's a dead one—so far as
-you are concerned,” I replied, stung a little by the impertinence of him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The hand of Providence saved me that last item in my bloody list o'
-crimes,” said he, with a singular mixture of the whine for his sins and of
-pride in their number. “Your life was spared, I mak' nae doubt, that ye
-micht repent o' your past, and I'm sorry to see ye in sic fallals o'
-dress, betokenin' a licht mind and a surrender to the vanities.”
- </p>
-<p>
-My dress was scantily different from what it had been on the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i>, except for some lace, my tied hair, and a sword.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I am in anything but a light frame of mind, Captain Risk,” I
-said. “There are reasons for that, apart from seeing you in this condition
-which I honestly deplore in spite of all the wrong you did me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I thank God that has been forgiven me,” he said, with a hypocritical cock
-of his hale eye. “I was lost in sin, a child o' the deevil, but noo I am
-made clean,” and much more of the same sort that it is unnecessary herp to
-repeat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You can count on my forgiveness, so far as that goes,” I said, disgusted
-with his manner.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm greatly obleeged,” said he, “but man's forgiveness doesna coont sae
-muckle as a preen, and I would ask ye to see hoo it stands wi' yersel',
-Daniel Risk has made his peace wi' his Maker, but what way is it wi' the
-nephew o' Andrew Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It ill becomes a man in a condemned cell to be preacher to those outside
-of it,” I told him in some exasperation at his presumption.
-</p>
-<p>
-He threw up his hands and glowered at me with his gleed eye looking seven
-ways for sixpence as the saying goes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Dinna craw ower crouse, young man,” he said. “Whit brings ye here I canna
-guess, but I ken that you that's there should be in here where I am, for
-there's blood on your hands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had me there! Oh, yes, he had me there! Every vein in my body told me
-so. But I was not in the humour to make an admission of that kind to this
-creature.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have no conceit of myself in any respect whatever, Daniel Risk,” I said
-slowly. “I came here from France but yesterday after experiences there
-that paid pretty well for my boy's crime, for I have heard from neither
-kith nor kin since you cozened me on the boards of the <i>Seven Sisters</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He put his hands upon the bars and looked at me. He wore a prison garb of
-the most horrible colour, and there were round him the foul stenches of
-the cell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ay!” said he. “New back! And they havena nabbed ye yet! Weel, they'll no'
-be lang, maybe, o' doin' that, for I'll warrant ye've been advertised
-plenty aboot the country; ony man that has read a gazette or clattered in
-a public-hoose kens your description and the blackness o' the deed you're
-chairged wi'. All I did was to sink a bit ship that was rotten onyway,
-mak' free trade wi' a few ankers o' brandy that wad hae been drunk by the
-best i' the land includin' the very lords that tried me, and accidentally
-kill a lad that sair needed a beltin' to gar him dae his honest wark. But
-you shot a man deliberate and his blood is crying frae the grund. If ye
-hurry ye'll maybe dance on naethin' sooner nor mysel'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was so much impotent venom in what he said that I lost my anger with
-the wretch drawing near his end, and looked on him with pity. It seemed to
-annoy him more than if I had reviled him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm a white soul.” says he, clasping his hands—the most arrant
-blasphemy of a gesture from one whose deeds were desperately wicked! “I'm
-a white soul, praise God! and value not your opinions a docken leaf. Ye
-micht hae come here to this melancholy place to slip a bit guinea into my
-hand for some few extra comforts, instead o' which it's jist to anger me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He glued his cheek against the bars and stared at me from head to foot,
-catching at the last a glance of my fateful shoes. He pointed at them with
-a rigid finger.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/407.jpg" alt="407" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-“Man! man!” he cried, “there's the sign and token o' the lot o' ye—the
-bloody shoon. They may weel be red for him and you that wore them. Red
-shoon! red shoon!” He stopped suddenly. “After a',” said he, “I bear ye
-nae ill-will, though I hae but to pass the word to the warder on the ither
-side o' the rails. And oh! abin a' repent——” He was off again
-into one of his blasphemies, for at my elbow now was an old lady who was
-doubtless come to confirm the conversion of Daniel Risk. I turned to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-He cast his unaffected eye piously heavenward, and coolly offered up a
-brief prayer for “this erring young brother determined on the ways of vice
-and folly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It may be scarce credible that I went forth from the condemned cell with
-the most shaken mind I had had since the day I fled from the moor of
-Mearns. The streets were thronged with citizens; the castle ramparts rose
-up white and fine, the bastions touched by sunset fires, a window blazing
-like a star. Above the muffled valley, clear, silvery, proud, rang a
-trumpet on the walls, reminding me of many a morning rouse in far Silesia.
-Was I not better there? Why should I be the sentimental fool and run my
-head into a noose? Risk, whom I had gone to see in pity, paid me with a
-vengeance! He had put into the blunt language of the world all the horror
-I had never heard in words before, though it had often been in my mind. I
-saw myself for the first time the hunted outlaw, captured at last. “You
-that's out there should be in where I am!” It was true! But to sit for
-weeks in that foul hole within the iron rail, waiting on doom, reflecting
-on my folks disgraced—I could not bear it!
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk cured me of my intention to hazard all on the flimsy chance of a
-Government's gratitude, and I made up my mind to seek safety and
-forgetfulness again in flight to another country.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-BACK TO THE MOORLAND
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> had seen yon remnant of a man in the Tolbooth cell, and an immediate
-death upon the gallows seemed less dreadful than the degradation and the
-doubt he must suffer waiting weary months behind bars. But gallows or cell
-was become impossible for the new poltroon of Dan Risk's making to
-contemplate with any equanimity, and I made up my mind that America was a
-country which would benefit greatly by my presence, if I could get a
-passage there by working for it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Perhaps I would not have made so prompt a decision upon America had not
-America implied a Clyde ship, and the Clyde as naturally implied a flying
-visit to my home in Mearns. Since ever I had set foot on Scotland, and saw
-Scots reek rise from Scots lums, and blue bonnets on Scots heads, and
-heard the twang of the true North and kindly from the people about me, I
-had been wondering about my folk. It was plain they had never got the
-letter I had sent by Horn, or got it only recently, for he himself had
-only late got home.
-</p>
-<p>
-To see the house among the trees, then, to get a reassuring sight of its
-smoke and learn about my parents, was actually of more importance in my
-mind than my projected trip to America, though I did not care to confess
-so much to myself.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went to Glasgow on the following day; the snow was on the roofs; the
-students were noisily battling; the bells were cheerfully ringing as on
-the day with whose description I open this history. I put up at the
-“Saracen Head,” and next morning engaged a horse to ride to Mearns. In the
-night there had come a change in the weather; I splashed through slush of
-melted snow, and soaked in a constant rain, but objected none at all
-because it gave me an excuse to keep up the collar of my cloak, and pull
-the brim of my hat well forward on my face and so minimise the risk of
-identification.
-</p>
-<p>
-There is the lichened root of an ancient fallen saugh tree by the side of
-Earn Water between Kirkillstane and Driepps that I cannot till this day
-look on without a deep emotion. Walter's bairns have seen me sitting there
-more than once, and unco solemn so that they have wondered, the cause
-beyond their comprehension. It was there I drew up my horse to see the
-house of Kirkillstane from the very spot where I had rambled with my
-shabby stanzas, and felt the first throb of passion for a woman.
-</p>
-<p>
-The country was about me familiar in every dyke and tree and eminence;
-where the water sobbed in the pool it had the accent it had in my dreams;
-there was a broken branch of ash that trailed above the fall, where I
-myself had dragged it once in climbing. The smell of moss and rotten
-leafage in the dripping rain, the eerie aspect of the moorland in the
-mist, the call of lapwings—all was as I had left it. There was not
-the most infinite difference to suggest that I had seen another world, and
-lived another life, and become another than the boy that wandered here.
-</p>
-<p>
-I rode along the river to find the smoke rising from my father's house—thank
-God! but what the better was the outlaw son for that? Dare he darken again
-the door he had disgraced, and disturb anew the hearts he had made sore?
-</p>
-<p>
-I pray my worst enemy may never feel torn by warring dictates of the
-spirit as I was that dreary afternoon by the side of Earn; I pray he may
-never know the pang with which I decided that old events were best let
-lie, and that I must be content with that brief glimpse of home before
-setting forth again upon the roads of dubious fortune. Fortune! Did I not
-wear just now the very Shoes of Fortune? They had come I knew not whence,
-from what magic part and artisan of heathendom I could not even guess, to
-my father's brother; they had covered the unresting foot of him; to me
-they had brought their curse of discontent, and so in wearing them I
-seemed doomed to be the unhappy rover, too.
-</p>
-<p>
-The afternoon grew loud with wind as I sat my horse beside the increasing
-water; I felt desolate beyond expression.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, there must be an end of it some way!” I said bitterly, and I turned
-to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-The storm opposed me as I cantered over Whig-gitlaw, and won by Brooms,
-and Bishops Offerance, and Kilree. Shepherds sheltered in the lee of
-dykes, and women hurried out and shuttered windows. I saw sheep hastening
-into the angles of the fields, and the wild white sea-gull beating across
-the sky. The tempest thrashed on me as though it could not have me go too
-soon from the country of my shame; I broke the horse to gallop, and fields
-and dykes flew by like things demented.
-</p>
-<p>
-Then of a sudden the beast grew lame; I searched for a stone or a cast
-shoe, but neither ailed him, and plainly the ride to town that night was
-impossible. Where the beast failed was within half a mile of Newton, and
-at all hazards I decided I must make for the inn there. I felt there were
-risks of recognition, but I must run them. I led the horse by a side path,
-and reached the inn no sooner than the darkness that fell that night with
-unusual suddenness. Lights were in the house, and the sound of rural
-merriment in the kitchen, where farm lads drank twopenny ale, and sang.
-</p>
-<p>
-A man—he proved to be the innkeeper—came to my summons with a
-lantern in his hand, and held it up to see what wayfarer was this in such
-a night. He saw as little of me as my hat and cloak could reveal, and I
-saw, what greatly relieved me, that he was not John Warnock, who had
-tenanted the inn when I left the country, but a new tenant and one unknown
-to me. He helped me to unsaddle the horse, discovered with me that the
-lameness would probably succumb to a night in the stall, and unburdened
-himself to the questions every unknown traveller in the shire of Renfrew
-may expect.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You'll be frae Ayr, maybe, or Irvine?”
- </p>
-<p>
-No, I was from neither; I was from Glasgow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Say ye sae, noo! Dod! it's nae nicht for travelling and nae wonder your
-horse is lamed. Ye'll be for ower Fenwick way, noo, i' the mornin'?” Nor
-was I for over Fenwick way in the morning. I was for Glasgow again.
-</p>
-<p>
-He looked from the corners of his eyes at this oddity who travelled like a
-shuttle in such weather. I was drenched with rain, and my spatter-dashes,
-with which I had thought to make up in some degree for the inadequate
-foot-wear of red shoes on horseback, were foul with clay. He presumed I
-was for supper?
-</p>
-<p>
-“No,” I answered; “I'm more in the humour for bed, and I will be obliged
-if you send to my room for my clothes in a little so that they may be dry
-by the time I start in the morning, and I shall set out at seven if by
-that time my horse is recovered.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I drank a tankard of ale for the good of the house, as we say, during a
-few minutes in the parlour, making my dripping clothes and a headache the
-excuse for refusing the proffered hospitality of the kitchen where the
-ploughboys sang, and then went to the little cam-ceiled room where a hasty
-bed had been made for me.
-</p>
-<p>
-The world outside was full of warring winds and plashing rains, into which
-the yokels went at last reluctantly, and when they were gone I fell
-asleep, wakening once only for a moment when my wet clothes were being
-taken from the room.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN THE SHOES OF FORTUNE BRING ME HOME
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> came down from my cam-ceiled room to a breakfast by candle-light in a
-morning that was yet stormy. The landlord himself waited on me ('twas no
-other than Ralph Craig that's now retired at the Whinnell), and he had a
-score of apologies for his servant lass that had slept in too long, as he
-clumsily set a table with his own hand, bringing in its equipment in
-single pieces.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a nervousness in his manner that escaped me for a little in the
-candle-light, but I saw it finally with some wonder, rueing I had agreed
-to have breakfast here at all, and had not taken my horse, now recovered
-of his lameness, and pushed on out of a neighbourhood where I had no right
-in common sense to be.
-</p>
-<p>
-If the meal was slow of coming it was hearty enough, though the host
-embarrassed me too much with his attentions. He was clearly interested in
-my personality.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's not the first time ye've been in the 'Red Lion,'” said he with an
-assurance that made me stare.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And what way should you be thinking that?” I asked, beginning to feel
-more anxious about my position.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, jist a surmise o' my ain,” he answered. “Ye kent your way to the
-stable in the dark, and then—and then there's whiles a twang o' the
-Mearns in your speech.”
- </p>
-<p>
-This was certainly coming too close! I hastened through my breakfast, paid
-my lawing, and ordered out my horse. That took so long that I surmised the
-man was wilfully detaining me. “This fellow has certainly some project to
-my detriment,” I told myself, and as speedily as I might got into the
-saddle. Then he said what left no doubt:
-</p>
-<p>
-“They'll be gey glad to see ye at the Hazel Den, Mr. Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I felt a stound of anguish at the words that might in other circumstances
-have been true but now were so remote from it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You seem to have a very gleg eye in your head,” I said, “and to have a
-great interest in my own affairs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No offence, Mr. Paul, no offence!” said he civilly, and indeed abashed.
-“There's a lassie in the kitchen that was ance your mither's servant and
-she kent your shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I hope then you'll say nothing about my being here to any one—for
-the sake of the servant's old mistress—that was my mother.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That <i>was</i> your mither!” he repeated. “And what for no' yet? She'll
-be prood to see ye hame.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Is it well with them up there?” I eagerly asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-I rode like fury home. The day was come before I reached the dykes of
-Hazel Den. Smoke was rising from its chimneys; there was a homely sound of
-lowing cattle, and a horse was saddling for my father who was preparing to
-ride over to the inn at Newton to capture his errant son. He stood before
-the door, a little more grey, a little more bent, a little more shrunken
-than when I had seen him last. When I drew up before him with my hat in my
-hand and leaped out of the saddle, he scarcely grasped at first the fact
-that here was his son.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Father! Father!” I cried to him, and he put his arms about my shoulders.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're there, Paul!” said he at last. “Come your ways in; your dear
-mother is making your breakfast.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could not have had it otherwise—'twas the welcome I would have
-chosen!
-</p>
-<p>
-His eyes were brimming over; his voice was full of sobs and laughter as he
-cried “Katrine! Katrine!” and my mother came to throw herself into my
-arms.
-</p>
-<p>
-My Shoes of Fortune had done me their one good office; they had brought me
-home.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now, my dear David, and Quentin, and Jean, my tale is ended, leaving
-some folks who figured therein a space with their ultimate fortunes
-unexplained. There is a tomb in Rome that marks the end of Prince Charles
-Edward's wanderings and exploits, ambitions, follies, and passions. Of him
-and of my countrywoman, Clementina Walkinshaw, you will by-and-by read
-with understanding in your history-books. She died unhappy and disgraced,
-yet I can never think of her but as young, beautiful, kind, the fool of
-her affections, the plaything of Circumstance. Clancarty's after career I
-never learned, but Thurot, not long after I escaped from him in Dunkerque,
-plundered the town of Carrickfergus, in Ireland, and was overtaken by
-three frigates when he was on his way back to France. His ships were
-captured and he himself was killed. You have seen Dr. MacKellar here on a
-visit from his native Badenoch; his pardon from the Government was all I
-got, or all I wished for, from Mr. Pitt. “And where is Isobel Fortune?”
- you will ask. You know her best as your grandmother, my wife. My Shoes of
-Fortune, she will sometimes say, laughing, brought me first and last Miss
-Fortune; indeed they did! I love them for it, but I love you, too, and
-hope to keep you from the Greig's temptation, so they are to the fore no
-longer.
-</p>
-<h3>
-THE END
-</h3>
-<div style="height: 6em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE ***
-
-***** This file should be named 43732-h.htm or 43732-h.zip *****
-This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
-http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/3/43732/
-
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diff --git a/old/43732-h.zip b/old/43732-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index cc45a3e..0000000 --- a/old/43732-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/43732-h/43732-h.htm b/old/43732-h/43732-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index bd6ab3d..0000000 --- a/old/43732-h/43732-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12868 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> -<!DOCTYPE html -PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> -<head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> -<title> -The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - <!-- - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 100%; font-style:normal; - margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; - text-align: right;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - --> -</style> -</head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Shoes of Fortune - -Author: Neil Munro - -Illustrator: A. S. Boyd - -Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43732] -Last Updated: March 8, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger - - - - - -</pre> - -<div style="height: 8em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h1> -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE -</h1> -<h5> -HOW THEY BROUGHT TO MANHOOD LOVE ADVENTURE AND CONTENT AS ALSO INTO DIVERS -PERILS ON LAND AND SEA IN FOREIGN PARTS AND IN AN ALIEN ARMY PAUL GREIG OF -THE HAZEL DEN IN SCOTLAND ONE TIME PURSER OF 'THE SEVEN SISTERS' -BRIGANTINE OF HULL AND LATE LIEUTENANT IN THE REGIMENT D'AUVERGNE ALL AS -WRIT BY HIM AND NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME SET FORTH -</h5> -<p> -<br /> -</p> -<h2> -By Neil Munro -</h2> -<p> -<br /> -</p> -<h3> -Illustrated by A. S. Boyd -</h3> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage (97K)" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="frontispiece (135K)" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<p> -<b>CONTENTS</b> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE SHOES OF FORTUNE</b> </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XIX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XXI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXIX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XL </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XLI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XLII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLIV </a> -</p> - -<p> -<a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE -</h2> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER I -</h2> -<h3> -NARRATES HOW I CAME TO QUIT THE STUDY OF LATIN AND THE LIKE, AND TAKE TO -HARD WORK IN A MOORLAND COUNTRY -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t is an odd thing, chance—the one element to baffle the logician -and make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the -sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the -incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this -day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase and -sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate overlooked, -sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh—a moody soured man with a -jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment to office. I -might have been that, or less, if it had not been for so trifling a -circumstance as the burning of an elderly woman's batch of scones. Had -Mistress Grant a more attentive eye to her Culross griddle, what time the -scones for her lodgers, breakfast were a-baking forty years ago, I would -never have fled furth my native land in a mortal terror of the gallows: -had her griddle, say, been higher on the swee-chain by a link or two, Paul -Greig would never have foregathered with Dan Risk, the blackguard skipper -of a notorious craft; nor pined in a foreign jail; nor connived, -unwitting, at a prince's murder; nor marched the weary leagues of France -and fought there on a beggar's wage. And this is not all that hung that -long-gone day upon a woman's stair-head gossip to the neglect of her <i>cuisine</i>, -for had this woman been more diligent at her baking I had probably never -seen my Isobel with a lover's eye. -</p> -<p> -Well, here's one who can rarely regret the past except that it is gone. It -was hard, it was cruel often; dangers the most curious and unexpected -beset me, and I got an insight to deep villainies whereof man may be -capable; yet on my word, if I had the parcelling out of a second life for -myself, I think I would have it not greatly differing from the first, that -seems in God's providence like to end in the parish where it started, -among kent and friendly folk. I would not swear to it, yet I fancy I would -have Lucky Grant again gossiping on her stair-head and her scones burned -black, that Mackellar, my fellow-lodger, might make me once more, as he -used to do, the instrument of his malcontent. -</p> -<p> -I mind, as it were yesterday, his gloomy look at the platter that morn's -morning. “Here they are again!” cried he, “fired to a cinder; it's always -that with the old wife, or else a heart of dough. For a bawbee I would -throw them in her face.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, not so much as that.” said I, “though it is mighty provoking.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, always glooming at the platter with -his dark, wild Hielan' eye. “I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, “but -it's something by way of an insult to you, that had to complain of -Sunday's haddocks.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, as to them,” quo' I, “they did brawly for me; 'twas you put your -share in your pocket and threw it away on the Green. Besides the scones -are not so bad as they look”—I broke one and ate; “they're owre good -at least for a hungry man like me to send back where they came from.” - </p> -<p> -His face got red. “What's that rubbish about the haddocks and the Green?” - said he. “You left me at my breakfast when you went to the Ram's Horn -Kirk.” - </p> -<p> -“And that's true, Jock,” said I; “but I think I have made no' so bad a -guess. You were feared to affront the landlady by leaving her ancient fish -on the ashet, and you egged me on to do the grumbling.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, it's as sure as death, Paul,” said he shamefacedly, “I hate to vex -a woman. And you're a thought wrong in your guess”—he laughed at his -own humour as he said it—“for when you were gone to your kirk I -transferred my share of the stinking fish to your empty plate.” - </p> -<p> -He jouked his head, but scarcely quick enough, for my Sallust caught him -on the ear. He replied with a volume of Buchanan the historian, the man I -like because he skelped the Lord's anointed, James the First, and for a -time there was war in Lucky Grant's parlour room, till I threw him into -the recess bed snibbed the door, and went abroad into the street leaving -my room-fellow for once to utter his own complaints. -</p> -<p> -I went out with the itch of battle on me, and that was the consequence of -a woman's havering while scones burned, and likewise my undoing, for the -High Street when I came to it was in the yeasty ferment of encountering -hosts, their cries calling poor foolish Paul Greig like a trumpet. -</p> -<p> -It had been a night and morning of snow, though I and Mackellar, so high -in Lucky Grant's chamber in Crombie's Land, had not suspected it. The dull -drab streets, with their crazy, corbelled gable-ends, had been transformed -by a silent miracle of heaven into something new and clean; where noisome -gutters were wont to brim with slops there was the napkin of the Lord. -</p> -<p> -For ordinary I hated this town of my banishment; hated its tun-bellied -Virginian merchants, so constantly airing themselves upon the Tontine -piazza and seeming to suffer from prosperity as from a disease; and felt -no great love of its women—always so much the madame to a -drab-coated lad from the moorlands; suffered from its greed and stifled -with the stinks of it. “Gardyloo! Gardyloo! Gardyloo!” Faith! I hear that -evening slogan yet, and see the daunderers on the Rottenrow skurry like -rats into the closes to escape the cascades from the attic windows. And -while I think I loved learning (when it was not too ill to come by), and -was doing not so bad in my Humanities, the carven gateway of the college -in my two sessions of a scholar's fare never but scowled upon me as I -entered. -</p> -<p> -But the snow that morning made of the city a place wherein it was good to -be young, warm-clad, and hardy. It silenced the customary traffic of the -street, it gave the morning bells a song of fairydom and the valleys of -dream; up by-ordinary tall and clean-cut rose the crow-stepped walls, the -chimney heads, and steeples, and I clean forgot my constant fancy for the -hill of Ballageich and the heather all about it. And war raged. The -students faced 'prentice lads and the journeymen of the crafts with -volleys of snowballs; the merchants in the little booths ran out tremulous -and vainly cried the watch. Charge was made and counter-charge; the air -was thick with missiles, and close at hand the silver bells had their -merry sweet chime high over the city of my banishment drowned by the -voices taunting and defiant. -</p> -<p> -Merry was that day, but doleful was the end of it, for in the fight I -smote with a snowball one of the bailies of the burgh, who had come waving -his three-cocked hat with the pomp and confidence of an elected man and -ordering an instant stoppage of our war: he made more ado about the -dignity of his office than the breakage of his spectacles, and I was haled -before my masters, where I fear I was not so penitent as prudence would -advise. -</p> -<p> -Two days later my father came in upon Dawson's cart to convoy me home. He -saw the Principal, he saw the regents of the college, and up, somewhat -clashed and melancholy, he climbed to my lodging. Mackellar fled before -his face as it had been the face of the Medusa. -</p> -<p> -“Well, Paul,” said my father, “it seems we made a mistake about your -birthday.” - </p> -<p> -“Did you?” said I, without meaning, for I knew he was ironical. -</p> -<p> -“It would seem so, at any rate,” said he, not looking my airt at all, but -sideways to the window and a tremor in his voice. “When your mother packed -your washing last Wednesday and slipped the siller I was not supposed to -see into a stocking-foot, she said, 'Now he's twenty and the worst of it -over.' Poor woman! she was sadly out of her reckoning. I'm thinking I have -here but a bairn of ten. You should still be at the dominie's.” - </p> -<p> -“I was not altogether to blame, father,” I cried. “The thing was an -accident.” - </p> -<p> -“Of course, of course,” said he soothingly. “Was't ever otherwise when the -devil joggled an elbow? Whatever it was, accident or design, it's a -session lost. Pack up, Paul, my very young boy, and we'll e'en make our -way quietly from this place where they may ken us.” - </p> -<p> -He paid the landlady her lawing, with sixpence over for her motherliness, -whereat she was ready to greet, and he took an end of my blue kist down -the stairs with me, and over with it like a common porter to the carrier's -stance. -</p> -<p> -A raw, raining day, and the rough highways over the hoof with slush of -melted snow, we were a chittering pair as we drove under the tilt of the -cart that came to the Mearns to meet us, and it was a dumb and solemn -home-coming for me. -</p> -<p> -Not that I cared much myself, for my lawyership thus cracked in the shell, -as it were I had been often seized with the notion that six feet of a -moor-lander, in a lustre gown and a horse-hair wig and a blue shalloon bag -for the fees, was a wastry of good material. But it was the dad and her at -home I thought of, and could put my neck below the cartwheel for -distressing. I knew what he thought of as he sat in the cart corner, for -many a time he had told me his plans; and now they were sadly marred. I -was to get as much as I could from the prelections of Professor Reid, work -my way through the furrows of Van Eck, Van Muyden, and the Pandects, then -go to Utrecht or Groningen for the final baking, and come back to the desk -of Coghill and Sproat, Writers to the Signet, in Spreull's Land of -Edinburgh; run errands between that dusty hole and the taverns of -Salamander Land, where old Sproat (that was my father's doer) held long -sederunts with his clients, to write a thesis finally, and graduate at the -art of making black look—not altogether white perhaps, but a kind of -dirty grey. I had been even privileged to try a sampling of the lawyer's -life before I went to college, in the chambers of MacGibbon of Lanark -town, where I spent a summer (that had been more profitably passed in my -father's fields), backing letters, fair-copying drafts of lease and -process, and indexing the letter-book. The last I hated least of all, for -I could have a half-sheet of foolscap between the pages, and under -MacGibbon's very nose try my hand at something sombre in the manner of the -old ancient ballads of the Border. Doing that same once, I gave a wild cry -and up with my inky hand and shook it. “Eh! eh!” cried MacGibbon, thinking -I had gone mad. “What ails ye?” “He struck me with his sword!” said I like -a fool, not altogether out of my frenzy; and then the snuffy old body came -round the corner of the desk, keeked into the letter-book where I should -have been doing his work, and saw that I was wasting good paper with -clinking trash. “Oh, sirs! sirs! I never misused a minute of my youth in -the like of that!” said he, sneering, and the sneer hurt. “No, I daresay -not,” I answered him. “Perhaps ye never had the inclination—nor the -art.” - </p> -<p> -I have gone through the world bound always to say what was in me, and that -has been my sore loss more than once; but to speak thus to an old man, who -had done me no ill beyond demonstrating the general world's attitude to -poetry and men of sentiment, was the blackest insolence. He was well -advised to send me home for a leathering at my father's hands. And I got -the leathering, too, though it was three months after. I had been off in -the interim upon a sloop ship out of Ayr. -</p> -<p> -But here I am havering, and the tilted cart with my father and me in it -toiling on the mucky way through the Meams; and it has escaped couping -into the Earn at the ford, and it has landed us at the gate of home; and -in all that weary journey never a word, good or ill, from the man that -loved me and my mother before all else in a world he was well content -with. -</p> -<p> -Mother was at the door; that daunted me. -</p> -<p> -“Ye must be fair starving, Paul,” quoth she softly with her hand on my -arm, and I daresay my face was blae with cold and chagrin. But my father -was not to let a disgrace well merited blow over just like that. -</p> -<p> -“Here's our little Paul, Katrine,” said he, and me towering a head or two -above the pair of them and a black down already on my face. “Here's our -little Paul. I hope you have not put by his bibs and daidlies, for the wee -man's not able to sup the good things of this life clean yet.” - </p> -<p> -And that was the last word of reproof I heard for my folly from my father -Quentin Greig. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER II -</h2> -<h3> -MISS FORTUNE'S TRYST BY WATER OF EARN, AND HOW I MARRED THE SAME -UNWITTINGLY -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or the most part of a year I toiled and moiled like any crofter's son on -my father's poor estate, and dreary was the weird I had to dree, for my -being there at all was an advertisement to the countryside of what a fool -was young Paul Greig. “The Spoiled Horn” was what they called me in the -neighbourhood (I learned it in the taunt of a drunken packman), for I had -failed at being the spoon I was once designed for, and there was not a -ne'er-do-weel peasant nor a bankrupt portioner came craving some benefit -to my father's door but made up for his deference to the laird by his free -manner with the laird's son. The extra tenderness of my mother (if that -were possible) only served to swell my rebel heart, for I knew she was but -seeking to put me in a better conceit of myself, and I found a place -whereof I had before been fond exceedingly assume a new complexion. The -rain seemed to fall constantly that year, and the earth in spring was -sodden and sour. Hazel Den House appeared sunk in the rotten leafage of -the winter long after the lambs came home and the snipe went drumming on -the marsh, and the rookery in the holm plantation was busy with scolding -parents tutoring their young. A solemn house at its best—it is so -yet, sometimes I think, when my wife is on a jaunt at her sister's and -Walter's bairns are bedded—it was solemn beyond all description that -spring, and little the better for the coming of summer weather. For then -the trees about it, that gave it over long billows of untimbered -countryside an aspect of dark importance, by the same token robbed it (as -I thought then) of its few amenities. How it got the name of Hazel Den I -cannot tell, for autumn never browned a nut there. It was wych elm and ash -that screened Hazel Den House; the elms monstrous and grotesque with -knotty growths: when they were in their full leaf behind the house they -hid the valley of the Clyde and the Highland hills, that at bleaker -seasons gave us a sense of companionship with the wide world beyond our -infield of stunted crops. The ash towered to the number of two score and -three towards the south, shutting us off from the view there, and working -muckle harm to our kitchen-garden. Many a time my father was for cutting -them down, but mother forbade it, though her syboes suffered from the -shade and her roses grew leggy and unblooming. “That,” said she, “is the -want of constant love: flowers are like bairns; ye must be aye thinking of -them kindly to make them thrive.” And indeed there might be something in -the notion, for her apple-ringie and Dutch Admiral, jonquils, -gillyflowers, and peony-roses throve marvellously, better then they did -anywhere in the shire of Renfrew while she lived and tended them and have -never been quite the same since she died, even with a paid gardener to -look after them. -</p> -<p> -A winter loud with storm, a spring with rain-rot in the fallen leaf, a -summer whose foliage but made our home more solitary than ever, a short -autumn of stifling heats—that was the year the Spoiled Horn tasted -the bitterness of life, the bitterness that comes from the want of an aim -(that is better than the best inheritance in kind) and from a -consciousness that the world mistrusts your ability. And to cap all, there -was no word about my returning to the prelections of Professor Reid, for a -reason which I could only guess at then, but learned later was simply the -want of money. -</p> -<p> -My father comported himself to me as if I were doomed to fall into a -decline, as we say, demanding my avoidance of night airs, preaching the -Horatian virtues of a calm life in the fields, checking with a reddened -face and a half-frightened accent every turn of the conversation that gave -any alluring colour to travel or adventure. Notably he was dumb, and so -was my mother, upon the history of his family. He had had four brothers: -three of them I knew were dead and their tombs not in Mearns kirkyard; one -of them, Andrew, the youngest, still lived: I feared it might be in a -bedlam, by the avoidance they made of all reference to him. I was fated, -then, for Bedlam or a galloping consumption—so I apprehended -dolefully from the mystery of my folk; and the notion sent me often -rambling solitary over the autumn moors, cultivating a not unpleasing -melancholy and often stringing stanzas of a solemn complexion that I -cannot recall nowadays but with a laugh at my folly. -</p> -<p> -A favourite walk of mine in these moods was along the Water of Earn, where -the river chattered and sang over rocks and shallows or plunged thundering -in its linn as it did ere I was born and shall do when I and my story are -forgotten. A pleasant place, and yet I nearly always had it to myself -alone. -</p> -<p> -I should have had it always to myself but for one person—Isobel -Fortune from the Kirkillstane. She seemed as little pleased to meet me -there as I was to meet her, though we had been brought up in the same -school together; and when I would come suddenly round a bend of the road -and she appeared a hundred yards off, I noticed that she half stopped and -seemed, as it were, to swither whether she should not turn and avoid me. -It would not have surprised me had she done so, for, to tell the truth, I -was no very cheery object to contemplate upon a pleasant highway, with the -bawbee frown of a poetic gloom upon my countenance and the most curt of -salutations as I passed. What she did there all her lone so often mildly -puzzled me, till I concluded she was on a tryst with some young gentleman -of the neighbourhood; but as I never saw sign of him, I did not think -myself so much the marplot as to feel bound to take another road for my -rambling. I was all the surer 'twas a lover she was out to meet, because -she reddened guiltily each time that we encountered (a fine and sudden -charm to a countenance very striking and beautiful, as I could not but -observe even then when weightier affairs engaged me); but it seemed I was -all in error, for long after she maintained she was, like myself, -indulging a sentimental humour that she found go very well in tune with -the noise of Earn Water. -</p> -<p> -As it was her habit to be busily reading when we thus met, I had little -doubt as to the ownership of a book that one afternoon I found on the road -not long after passing her. It was—of all things in the world!—Hervey's -“Meditations.” - </p> -<p> -“It's an odd graveyard taste for a lass of that stamp,” thought I, -hastening back after her to restore the book, and when I came up to her -she was—not red this time, but wan to the very lips, and otherwise -in such confusion that she seemed to tremble upon her legs, “I think this -is yours, Isobel,” says I: we were too well acquaint from childhood for -any address more formal. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, thank you, Paul,” said she hastily. “How stupid of me to lose it!” - She took it from me; her eye fell (for the first time, I felt sure) upon -the title of the volume, and she bit her lip in a vexation. I was all the -more convinced that her book was but a blind in her rambles, and that -there was a lover somewhere; and I think I must have relaxed my silly -black frown a little, and my proud melancholy permitted a faint smile of -amusement. The flag came to her face then. -</p> -<p> -“Thank you,” said she very dryly, and she left me in the middle of the -road, like a stirk. If it had been no more than that, I should have -thought it a girl's tantrum; but the wonder was to come, for before I had -taken three steps on my resumed way I heard her run after me. I stopped, -and she stopped, and the notion struck me like a rhyme of song that there -was something inexpressibly pleasant in her panting breath and her heaving -bosom, where a pebble brooch of shining red gleamed like an eye between -her breasts. -</p> -<p> -“I'm not going to tell you a lie about it, Master Paul,” she said, almost -like to cry; “I let the book fall on purpose.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, I could have guessed as much as that, Isobel,” said I, wondering who -in all the world the fellow was. Her sun-bonnet had fallen from her head -in her running, and hung at her back on its pink ribbons, and a curl or -two of her hair played truant upon her cheek and temple. It seemed to me -the young gentleman she was willing to let a book drop for as a signal of -her whereabouts was lucky enough. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! you could have guessed!” she repeated, with a tone in which were -dumbfounderment and annoyance; “then I might have saved myself the -trouble.” And off she went again, leaving me more the stirk than ever and -greatly struck at her remorse of conscience over a little sophistry very -pardonable in a lass caught gallivanting. When she was gone and her frock -was fluttering pink at the turn of the road, I was seized for the first -time with a notion that a girl like that some way set off, as we say, or -suited with, a fine landscape. -</p> -<p> -Not five minutes later I met young David Borland of the Driepps, and there—I -told myself—the lover was revealed! He let on he was taking a short -cut for Polnoon, so I said neither buff nor sty as to Mistress Isobel. -</p> -<p> -The cool superiority of the gentleman, who had, to tell the truth, as -little in his head as I had in the heel of my shoe, somewhat galled me, -for it cried “Spoiled Horn!” as loud as if the taunt were bawled, so my -talk with him was short. There was but one topic in it to interest me. -</p> -<p> -“Has the man with the scarred brow come yet?” he asked curiously. -</p> -<p> -I did not understand. -</p> -<p> -“Then he's not your length yet,” said he, with the manifest gratification -of one who has the hanselling of great news. “Oh! I came on him this -morning outside a tavern in the Gorbals, bargaining loudly about a saddle -horse for Hazel Den. I'll warrant Hazel Den will get a start when it sees -him.” - </p> -<p> -I did not care to show young Borland much curiosity in his story, and so -it was just in the few words he gave it to me that I brought it home to -our supper-table. -</p> -<p> -My father and mother looked at each other as if I had told them a tragedy. -The supper ended abruptly. The evening worship passed unusually fast, my -father reading the Book as one in a dream, and we went to our beds nigh an -hour before the customary time. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER III -</h2> -<h3> -OF THE COMING OF UNCLE ANDREW WITH A SCARRED FOREHEAD AND A BRASS-BOUND -CHEST, AND HOW I TOOK AN INFECTION -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a night—as often happens in the uplands of our shire in -autumn weather—of vast and brooding darkness: the world seemed to -swound in a breathless oven, and I had scarcely come to my chamber when -thunder broke wild upon the world and torrential rain began to fall. I did -not go to bed, but sat with my candle extinguished and watched the -lightning show the landscape as if it had been flooded by the gleam of -moon and star. -</p> -<p> -Between the roar of the thunder and the blatter of the rain there were -intervals of an astounding stillness of an ominous suspense, and it seemed -oddly to me, as I sat in my room, that more than I was awake in Hazel Den -House. I felt sure my father and mother sat in their room, still clad and -whispering; it was but the illusion of a moment—something felt by -the instinct and not by reason—and then a louder, nearer peal of -thunder dispelled the notion, and I made to go to bed. -</p> -<p> -I stopped like one shot, with my waistcoat half undone. -</p> -<p> -There was a sound of a horse's hoofs coming up the loan, with the beat of -them in mire sounding soft enough to make me shiver at the notion of the -rider's discomfort in that appalling night, and every now and then the -metal click of shoes, showing the animal over-reached himself in the trot. -</p> -<p> -The rider drew up at the front; a flash of the lightning and the wildest -thunder-peal of the night seemed to meet among our outhouses, and when the -roll of the thunder ceased I heard a violent rapping at the outer door. -</p> -<p> -The servants would be long ere they let this late visitor out of the -storm, I fancied, and I hurried down; but my father was there in the hall -before me, all dressed, as my curious intuition had informed me, and his -face strange and inscrutable in the light of a shaded candle. He was -making to open the door. My appearance seemed to startle him. He paused, -dubious and a trifle confused. -</p> -<p> -“I thought you had been in bed long ago,” said he, “and—” - </p> -<p> -His sentence was not finished, for the horseman broke in upon it with a -masterful rataplan upon the oak, seemingly with a whip-head or a pistol -butt, and a cry, new to my ear and uncanny, rose through the beating rain. -</p> -<p> -With a sigh the most distressing I can mind of, my father seemed to -reconcile himself to some fate he would have warded off if he could. He -unbolted and threw back the door. -</p> -<p> -Our visitor threw himself in upon us as if we held the keys of paradise—a -man like a rake for lankiness, as was manifest even through the dripping -wrap-rascal that he wore; bearded cheek and chin in a fashion that must -seem fiendish in our shaven country; with a wild and angry eye, the Greig -mole black on his temple, and an old scar livid across his sunburned brow. -He threw a three-cocked hat upon the floor with a gesture of indolent -possession. -</p> -<p> -“Well, I'm damned!” cried he, “but this is a black welcome to one's poor -brother Andy,” and scarcely looked upon my father standing with the shaded -candle in the wind. “What's to drink? Drink, do you hear that Quentin? -Drink—drink—d-r-i-n-k. A long strong drink too, and that's -telling you, and none of the whey that I'm hearing's running through the -Greigs now, that once was a reputable family of three bottles and a rummer -to top all.” - </p> -<p> -“Whist, whist, man!” pleaded father tremulously, all the man out of him as -he stood before this drunken apparition. -</p> -<p> -“Whist I quo' he. Well stap me! do you no' ken the lean pup of the -litter?” hiccoughed our visitor, with a sort of sneer that made the blood -run to my head, and for the first time I felt the great, the splendid joy -of a good cause to fight for. -</p> -<p> -“You're Andrew,” said my father simply, putting his hand upon the man's -coat sleeve in a sympathy for his drenchen clothes. -</p> -<p> -That kindly hand was jerked off rudely, an act as insolent as if he had -smitten his host upon the mouth: my heart leaped, and my fingers went at -his throat. I could have spread him out against the wall, though I knew -him now my uncle; I could have given him the rogue's quittance with a -black face and a protruding tongue. The candle fell from my father's hand; -the glass shade shattered; the hall of Hazel Den House was plunged in -darkness, and the rain drave in through the open door upon us three -struggling. -</p> -<p> -“Let him go, Paul,” whispered my father, who I knew was in terror of -frightening his wife, and he wrestled mightily with an arm of each of us. -</p> -<p> -Yet I could not let my uncle go, for with the other arm he held a knife, -and he would perhaps have died for it had not another light come on the -stair and my mother's voice risen in a pitiful cry. -</p> -<p> -We fell asunder on a common impulse, and the drunken wanderer was the -first to speak. -</p> -<p> -“Katrine,” said he; “it's always the old tale with Andy, you see; they -must be misunderstanding me,” and he bowed with a surprising -gentlemanliness that could have made me almost think him not the man who -had fouled our house with oaths and drawn a knife upon us in the darkness. -The blade of the same, by a trick of legerdemain, had gone up the sleeve -of his dripping coat. He seemed all at once sobered. He took my good -mother by the hand as she stood trembling and never to know clearly upon -what elements of murder she had come. -</p> -<p> -“It is you, Andrew,” said she, bravely smiling. “What a night to come home -in after twenty years! I'm wae to see you in such a plight. And your -horse?” said she again, lifting her candle and peering into the darkness -of the night. “I must cry up Sandy to stable your horse.” - </p> -<p> -I'll give my uncle the credit of a confusion at his own forgetfulness. -</p> -<p> -“Good Lord! Katrine,” said he, “if I did not clean forget the brute, a -fiddle-faced, spavined, spatter-dasher of a Gorbals mare, no' worth her -corn; but there's my bit kistie on her hump.” - </p> -<p> -The servant was round soon at the stabling of the mare, and my mother was -brewing something of what the gentleman had had too much already, though -she could not guess that; and out of the dripping night he dragged in none -of a rider's customary holsters but a little brass-bound chest. -</p> -<p> -“Yon night I set out for my fortune, Quentin,” said he, “I did not think I -would come back with it a bulk so small as this; did you? It was the sight -of the quiet house and the thought of all it contained that made me act -like an idiot as I came in. Still, we must just take the world as we get -it, Quentin; and I knew I was sure of a warm welcome in the old house, -from one side of it if not from the other, for the sake of lang syne. And -this is your son, is it?” he went on, looking at my six feet of -indignation not yet dead “Split me if there's whey in that piece! You near -jammed my hawze that time! Your Uncle Andrew's hawze, boy. Are you not -ashamed of yourself?” - </p> -<p> -“Not a bit,” said I between my teeth; “I leave that to you.” - </p> -<p> -He smiled till his teeth shone white in his black beard, and “Lord!” cried -he, “I'm that glad I came. It was but the toss of a bawbee, when I came to -Leith last week, whether I should have a try at the old doocot, or up Blue -Peter again and off to the Indies. I hate ceiled rooms—they mind me -of the tomb; I'm out of practice at sitting doing nothing in a parlour and -saying grace before meat, and—I give you warning, Quentin—I'll -be damned if I drink milk for supper. It was the notion of milk for supper -and all that means that kept me from calling on Katrine—and you—any -sooner. But I'm glad I came to meet a lad of spirit like young Andy here.” - </p> -<p> -“Not Andy,” said my father. “Paul is his name.” - </p> -<p> -My uncle laughed. -</p> -<p> -“That was ill done of you, Quentin,” said he; “I think it was as little as -Katrine and you could do to have kept up the family name. I suppose you -reckoned to change the family fate when you made him Paul. H'm! You must -have forgotten that Paul the Apostle wandered most, and many ways fared -worst of all the rest. I haven't forgotten my Bible, you see, Quentin.” - </p> -<p> -We were now in the parlour room; a servant lass was puffing up a -new-lighted fire; my uncle, with his head in the shade, had his greatcoat -off, and stood revealed in shabby garments that had once been most -genteel; and his brass-bound fortune, that he seemed averse from parting -with a moment, was at his feet. Getting no answer to what he had said of -the disciples, he looked from one to the other of us and laughed slyly. -</p> -<p> -“Take off your boots, Andy,” said my father. -</p> -<p> -“And where have you been since—since—the Plantations?” - </p> -<p> -“Stow that, Quentin!” cried my uncle, with an oath and his eye on me. -“What Plantations are you blethering about? And where have I been? Ask me -rather where have I not been. It makes me dizzy even to think of it: with -rotten Jesuits and Pagan gentlemen; with France and Spain, and with filthy -Lascars, lying Greeks, Eboe slaves, stinking niggers, and slit-eyed -Chinese! Oh! I tell you I've seen things in twenty years. And places, too: -this Scotland, with its infernal rain and its grey fields and its rags, -looks like a nightmare to me yet. You may be sure I'll be out of it pretty -fast again.” - </p> -<p> -“Poor Scotland!” said father ambiguously. -</p> -<p> -There must be people in the world who are oddly affected by the names of -places, peoples, things that have never come within their own experience. -Till this day the name of Barbadoes influences me like a story of -adventure; and when my Uncle Andrew—lank, bearded, drenched with -storm, stood in our parlour glibly hinting at illimitable travel, I lost -my anger with the tipsy wretch and felt a curious glow go through my -being. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER IV -</h2> -<h3> -I COME UPON THE RED SHOES -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">U</span>ncle Andrew settled for the remainder of his time into our domestic world -at Hazel Den as if his place had been kept warm for him since ever he went -away. For the remainder of his time, I say, because he was to be in the -clods of Mearns kirkyard before the hips and haws were off the hedges; and -I think I someway saw his doom in his ghastly countenance the first -morning he sat at our breakfast table, contrite over his folly of the -night before, as you could see, but carrying off the situation with -worldly <i>sang froid</i>, and even showing signs of some affection for my -father. -</p> -<p> -His character may be put in two words—he was a lovable rogue; his -tipsy bitterness to the goodman his brother may be explained almost as -briefly: he had had a notion of Katrine Oliver, and had courted her before -ever she met my father, and he had lost her affection through his own -folly. Judging from what I would have felt myself in the like -circumstances, his bitterest punishment for a life ill spent must have -been to see Katrine Oliver's pitying kindness to him now, and the sight of -that douce and loving couple finding their happiness in each other must -have been a constant sermon to him upon repentance. -</p> -<p> -Yet, to tell the truth, I fear my Uncle Andrew was not constituted for -repentance or remorse. He had slain a man honestly once, and had suffered -the Plantations, but beyond that (and even that included, as he must ever -insist) he had been guilty of no mean act in all his roving career. -Follies—vices—extremes—ay, a thousand of them; but for -most his conscience never pricked him. On the contrary, he would narrate -with gusto the manifold jeopardies his own follies brought him into; his -wan face, nigh the colour of a shroud, would flush, and his eyes dance -humorously as he shocked the table when we sat at meals, our spoons -suspended in the agitation created by his wonderful histories. -</p> -<p> -Kept to a moderation with the bottle, and with the constant influence of -my mother, who used to feed the rogue on vegetables and, unknown to him, -load his broth with simples as a cure for his craving, Uncle Andrew was, -all things considered, an acquisition to Hazel Den House. Speaking for -myself, he brought the element of the unusual and the unexpected to a -place where routine had made me sick of my own society; and though the man -in his sober senses knew he was dying on his feet, he was the cheeriest -person of our company sequestered so remote in the moors. It was a lesson -in resignation to see yon merry eyes loweing like lamps over his tombstone -cheeks, and hear him crack a joke in the flushed and heaving interludes of -his cough. -</p> -<p> -It was to me he ever directed the most sensational of his extraordinary -memorials. My father did not like it; I saw it in his eye. It was apparent -to me that a remonstrance often hung on the tip of his tongue. He would -invent ridiculous and unnecessary tasks to keep me out of reach of that -alluring <i>raconteur</i>, and nobody saw it plainer than Uncle Andrew, -who but laughed with the mischievousness of a boy. -</p> -<p> -Well, the long and short of it was just what Quentin Greig feared—the -Spoiled Horn finally smit with a hunger for the road of the Greigs. For -three hundred years—we could go no further back, because of a bend -sinister—nine out of ten of that family had travelled that road, -that leads so often to a kistful of sailor's shells and a death with boots -on. It was a fate in the blood, like the black hair of us, the mole on the -temple, and the trick of irony. It was that ailment my father had feared -for me; it was that kept the household silent upon missing brothers (they -were dead, my uncle told me, in Trincomalee, and in Jamaica, and a yard in -the Borough of London); it was that inspired the notion of a lawyer's life -for Paul Greig. -</p> -<p> -Just when I was in the deepmost confidence of Uncle Andrew, who was by -then confined to his bed and suffering the treatment of Doctor Clews, his -stories stopped abruptly and he began to lament the wastry of his life. If -the thing had been better acted I might have been impressed, for our -follies never look just like what they are till we are finally on the -broad of our backs and the Fell Sergeant's step is at the door. But it was -not well acted; and when the wicked Uncle Andrew groaned over the very -ploys he had a week ago exulted in, I recognised some of my mother's -commonest sentiments in his sideways sermon. She had got her quondam Andy, -for lang syne's sake, to help her keep her son at home; and he was doing -his best, poor man, but a trifle late in the day. -</p> -<p> -“Uncle Andrew,” said I, never heeding his homily, “tell me what came of -the pock-marked tobacco planter when you and the negro lay in the swamp -for him?” - </p> -<p> -He groaned hopelessly. -</p> -<p> -“A rotten tale, Paul, my lad,” said he, never looking me in the face; “I -rue the day I was mixed up in that affair.” - </p> -<p> -“But it was a good story so far as it went, no further gone than Wednesday -last,” I protested. -</p> -<p> -He laughed at that, and for half an hour he put off the new man of my -mother's bidding, and we were on the old naughty footing again. He -concluded by bequeathing to me for the twentieth time the brass-bound -chest, and its contents that we had never seen nor could guess the nature -of. But now for the first time he let me know what I might expect there. -</p> -<p> -“It's not what Quentin might consider much,” said he, “for there's not a -guelder of money in it, no, nor so little as a groat, for as the world's -divided ye can't have both the money and the dance, and I was aye the -fellow for the dance. There's scarcely anything in it, Paul, but the trash—ahem!—that -is the very fitting reward of a life like mine.” - </p> -<p> -“And still and on, uncle,” said I, “it is a very good tale about the -pock-marked man.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah! You're there, Greig!” cried the rogue, laughing till his hoast came -to nigh choke him. “Well, the kist's yours, anyway, such as it is; and -there's but one thing in it—to be strict, a pair—that I set -any store by as worth leaving to my nephew.” - </p> -<p> -“It ought to be spurs,” said I, “to drive me out of this lamentable -countryside and to where a fellow might be doing something worth while.” - </p> -<p> -“Eh!” he cried, “you're no' so far off it, for it's a pair of shoes.” - </p> -<p> -“A pair of shoes!” I repeated, half inclined to think that Uncle Andrew -was doited at last. -</p> -<p> -“A pair of shoes, and perhaps in some need of the cobbler, for I have worn -them a good deal since I got them in Madras. They were not new when I got -them, but by the look of them they're not a day older now. They have got -me out of some unco' plights in different parts of the world, for all that -the man who sold them to me at a bonny penny called them the Shoes of -Sorrow; and so far as I ken, the virtue's in them yet.” - </p> -<p> -“A doomed man's whim,” thought I, and professed myself vastly gratified by -his gift. -</p> -<p> -He died next morning. It was Candlemas Day. He went out at last like a -crusie wanting oil. In the morning he had sat up in bed to sup porridge -that, following a practice I had made before his reminiscences concluded, -I had taken in to him myself. Tremendous long and lean the upper part of -him looked, and the cicatrice upon his brow made his ghastliness the more -appalling. When he sat against the bolsters he could see through the -window into the holm field, and, as it happened, what was there but a wild -young roe-deer driven down from some higher part of the country by stress -of winter weather, and a couple of mongrel dogs keeping him at bay in an -angle of the fail dyke. -</p> -<p> -I have seldom seen a man more vastly moved than Uncle Andrew looking upon -this tragedy of the wilds. He gasped as though his chest would crack, a -sweat burst on his face. -</p> -<p> -“That's—that's the end o't, Paul, my lad!” said he. “Yonder's your -roving uncle, and the tykes have got him cornered at last. No more the -heather and the brae; no more—no more—no more—” - </p> -<p> -Such a change came on him that I ran and cried my mother ben, and she and -father were soon at his bedside. -</p> -<p> -It was to her he turned his eyes, that had seen so much of the spacious -world of men and women and all their multifarious interests, great and -little. They shone with a light of memory and affection, so that I got -there and then a glimpse of the Uncle Andrew of innocence and the Uncle -Andrew who might have been if fate had had it otherwise. -</p> -<p> -He put out his hand and took hers, and said goodbye. -</p> -<p> -“The hounds have me, Katrine,” said he. “I'm at the fail dyke corner.” - </p> -<p> -“I'll go out and whistle them off, uncle,” said I, fancying it all a -doited man's illusion, though the look of death was on him; but I stood -rebuked in the frank gaze he gave me of a fuller comprehension than mine, -though he answered me not. -</p> -<p> -And then he took my father's hand in his other, and to him too he said -farewell. -</p> -<p> -“You're there, Quentin!” said he; “and Katrine—Katrine—Katrine -chose by far the better man. God be merciful to poor Andy Greig, a -sinner.” And these were his last words. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER V -</h2> -<h3> -A SPOILED TRYST, AND OTHER THINGS THAT FOLLOWED ON THE OPENING OF THE -CHEST -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he funeral was over before I cared to examine my bequest, and then I went -to it with some reluctance, for if a pair of shoes was the chief contents -of the brass-bound chest, there was like to be little else except the -melancholy relics of a botched life. It lay where he left it on the night -he came—under the foot of his bed—and when I lifted the lid I -felt as if I was spying upon a man through a keyhole. Yet, when I came -more minutely to examine the contents, I was disappointed that at the -first reflection nothing was there half so pregnant as his own most casual -tale to rouse in me the pleasant excitation of romance. -</p> -<p> -A bairn's caul—that sailor's trophy that has kept many a mariner -from drowning only that he might die a less pleasant death; a broken -handcuff, whose meaning I cared not to guess at; a pop or pistol; a -chap-book of country ballads, that possibly solaced his exile from the -land they were mostly written about; the batters of a Bible, with nothing -between them but his name in his mother's hand on the inside of the board; -a traveller's log or itinerary, covering a period of fifteen years, -extremely minute in its detail and well written; a broken sixpence and the -pair of shoes. -</p> -<p> -The broken sixpence moved my mother to tears, for she had had the other -half twenty years ago, before Andrew Greig grew ne'er-do-weel; the shoes -failed to rouse in her or in my father any interest whatever. If they -could have guessed it, they would have taken them there and then and sunk -them in the deepest linn of Earn. -</p> -<p> -There was little kenspeckle about them saving their colour, which was a -dull dark red. They were of the most excellent material, with a great deal -of fine sewing thrown away upon them in parts where it seems to me their -endurance was in no wise benefited, and an odd pair of silver buckles gave -at your second glance a foreign look to them. -</p> -<p> -I put them on at the first opportunity: they fitted me as if my feet had -been moulded to them, and I sat down to the study of the log-book. The -afternoon passed, the dusk came. I lit a candle, and at midnight, when I -reached the year of my uncle's escape from the Jesuits of Spain, I came to -myself gasping, to find the house in an alarm, and that lanthorns were out -about Earn Water looking for me, while all the time I was <i>perdu</i> in -the dead uncle's chamber in the baron's wing, as we called it, of Hazel -Den House. I pretended I had fallen asleep; it was the first and the last -time I lied to my mother, and something told me she knew I was deceiving -her. She looked at the red shoes on my feet. -</p> -<p> -“Ugly brogues!” said she; “it's a wonder to me you would put them on your -feet. You don't know who has worn them.” - </p> -<p> -“They were Uncle Andy's,” said I, complacently looking at them, for they -fitted like a glove; the colour was hardly noticeable in the evening, and -the buckles were most becoming. -</p> -<p> -“Ay! and many a one before him, I'm sure,” said she, with distaste in her -tone, “I don't think them nice at all, Paul,” and she shuddered a little. -</p> -<p> -“That's but a freit,” said I; “but it's not likely I'll wear much of such -a legacy.” I went up and left them in the chest, and took the diary into -my own room and read Uncle Andrew's marvellous adventures in the trade of -rover till it was broad daylight. -</p> -<p> -When I had come to the conclusion it seemed as if I had been in the -delirium of a fever, so tempestuous and unreal was that memoir of a wild -loose life. The sea was there, buffeting among the pages in rollers and -breakers; there were the chronicles of a hundred ports, with boozing kens -and raving lazarettos in them; far out isles and cays in nameless oceans, -and dozing lagoons below tropic skies; a great clash of weapons and a -bewildering deal of political intrigue in every part of the Continent from -Calais to Constantinople. My uncle's narrative in life had not hinted at -one half the marvel of his career, and I read his pages with a rapture, as -one hears a noble piece of music, fascinated to the uttermost, and finding -no moral at the end beyond that the world we most of us live in with -innocence and ignorance is a crust over tremendous depths. And then I -burned the book. It went up in a grey smoke on the top of the fire that I -had kept going all night for its perusal; and the thing was no sooner done -than I regretted it, though the act was dictated by the seemly enough idea -that its contents would only distress my parents if they came to their -knowledge. -</p> -<p> -For days—for weeks—for a season—I went about, my head -humming with Uncle Andy's voice recounting the most stirring of his -adventures as narrated in the log-book. I had been infected by almost his -first words the night he came to Hazel Den House, and made a magic chant -of the mere names of foreign peoples; now I was fevered indeed; and when I -put on the red shoes (as I did of an evening, impelled by some dandyism -foreign to my nature hitherto), they were like the seven-league boots for -magic, as they set my imagination into every harbour Uncle Andy had -frequented and made me a guest at every inn where he had met his boon -companions. -</p> -<p> -I was wearing them the next time I went on my excursion to Earn side and -there met Isobel Fortune, who had kept away from the place since I had -smiled at my discovery of her tryst with Hervey's “Meditations.” She came -upon me unexpectedly, when the gentility of my shoes and the recollection -of all that they had borne of manliness was making me walk along the road -with a very high head and an unusually jaunty step. -</p> -<p> -She seemed struck as she came near, with her face displaying her -confusion, and it seemed to me she was a new woman altogether—at -least, not the Isobel I had been at school with and seen with an -indifferent eye grow up like myself from pinafores. It seemed suddenly -scandalous that the like of her should have any correspondence with so -ill-suited a lover as David Borland of the Dreipps. -</p> -<p> -For the first time (except for the unhappy introduction of Hervey's -“Meditations”) we stopped to speak to each other. She was the most -bewitching mixture of smiles and blushes, and stammering now and then, and -vastly eager to be pleasant to me, and thinks I, “My lass, you're keen on -trysting when it's with Borland.” - </p> -<p> -The very thought of the fellow in that connection made me angry in her -interest; and with a mischievous intention of spoiling his sport if he -hovered, as I fancied, in the neighbourhood, or at least of delaying his -happiness as long as I could, I kept the conversation going very blithe -indeed. -</p> -<p> -She had a laugh, low and brief, and above all sincere, which is the great -thing in laughter, that was more pleasant to hear than the sound of Earn -in its tinkling hollow among the ferns: it surprised me that she should -favour my studied and stupid jocosities with it so frequently. Here was -appreciation! I took, in twenty minutes, a better conceit of myself, than -the folks at home could have given me in the twelve months since I left -the college, and I'll swear to this date 'twas the consciousness of my -fancy shoes that put me in such good key. -</p> -<p> -She saw my glance to them at last complacently, and pretended herself to -notice them for the first time. -</p> -<p> -She smiled—little hollows came near the corners of her lips; of a -sudden I minded having once kissed Mistress Grant's niece in a stair-head -frolic in Glasgow High Street, and the experience had been pleasant -enough. -</p> -<p> -“They're very nice,” said Isobel. -</p> -<p> -“They're all that,” said I, gazing boldly at her dimples. She flushed and -drew in her lips. -</p> -<p> -“No, no!” I cried, ”'twas not them I was thinking of; but their neighbours. -I never saw you had dimples before.” - </p> -<p> -At that she was redder than ever. -</p> -<p> -“I could not help that, Paul,” said she; “they have been always there, and -you are getting very audacious. I was thinking of your new shoes.” - </p> -<p> -“How do you know they're new?” - </p> -<p> -“I could tell,” said she, “by the sound of your footstep before you came -in sight.” - </p> -<p> -“It might not have been my footstep,” said I, and at that she was taken -back. -</p> -<p> -“That is true,” said she, hasty to correct herself. “I only thought it -might be your footstep, as you are often this way.” - </p> -<p> -“It might as readily have been David Borland's. I have seen him about -here.” I watched her as closely as I dared: had her face changed, I would -have felt it like a blow. -</p> -<p> -“Anyway, they're very nice, your new shoes,” said she, with a marvellous -composure that betrayed nothing. -</p> -<p> -“They were uncle's legacy,” I explained, “and had travelled far in many -ways about the world; far—and fast.” - </p> -<p> -“And still they don't seem to be in such a hurry as your old ones,” said -she, with a mischievous air. Then she hastened to cover what might seem a -rudeness. “Indeed, they're very handsome, Paul, and become you very much, -and—and—and—” - </p> -<p> -“They're called the Shoes of Sorrow; that's the name my uncle had for -them,” said I, to help her to her own relief. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, and I hope it may be no more than a by-name,” she said gravely. -</p> -<p> -The day had the first rumour of spring: green shoots thrust among the bare -bushes on the river side, and the smell of new turned soil came from a -field where a plough had been feiring; above us the sky was blue, in the -north the land was pleasantly curved against silver clouds. -</p> -<p> -And one small bird began to pipe in a clump of willows, that showered a -dust of gold upon us when the little breeze came among the branches. I -looked at all and I looked at Isobel Fortune, so trim and bonny, and it -seemed there and then good to be a man and my fortunes all to try. -</p> -<p> -“Sorrow here or sorrow there, Isobel,” I said, “they are the shoes to take -me away sooner or later from Hazel Den.” - </p> -<p> -She caught my meaning with astounding quickness. -</p> -<p> -“Are you in earnest?” she asked soberly, and I thought she could not have -been more vexed had it been David Borland. -</p> -<p> -“Another year of this.” said I, looking at the vacant land, “would break -my heart.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, Paul, and I thought Earn-side was never so sweet as now,” said -she, vexed like, as if she was defending a companion. -</p> -<p> -“That is true, too,” said I, smiling into the very depths of her large -dark eyes, where I saw a pair of Spoiled Horns as plainly as if I looked -in sunny weather into Linn of Earn. “That is true, too. I have never been -better pleased with it than to-day. But what in the world's to keep me? -It's all bye with the college—at which I'm but middling well -pleased; it's all bye with the law—for which thanks to Heaven! and, -though they seem to think otherwise at Hazel Den House, I don't believe -I've the cut of a man to spend his life among rowting cattle and dour clay -land.” - </p> -<p> -“I daresay not; it's true,” said she stammeringly, with one fast glance -that saw me from the buckles of my red shoes to the underlids of my eyes. -For some reason or other she refused to look higher, and the distant -landscape seemed to have charmed her after that. She drummed with a toe -upon the path; she bit her nether lip; upon my word, the lass had tears at -her eyes! I had, plainly, kept her long enough from her lover. “Well, it's -a fine evening; I must be going,” said I stupidly, making a show at -parting, and an ugly sense of annoyance with David Borland stirring in my -heart. “But it will rain before morning,” said she, making to go too, but -always looking to the hump of Dungoyne that bars the way to the Hielands. -“I think, after all, Master Paul, I liked the old shoon better than the -new ones.” - </p> -<p> -“Do you say so?” I asked, astonished at the irrelevance that came rapidly -from her lips, as if she must cry it out or choke. “And how comes that?” - </p> -<p> -“Just because—” said she, and never a word more, like a woman, nor -fair good-e'en nor fair good-day to ye, but off she went, and I was the -stirk again. -</p> -<p> -I looked after her till she went out of sight, wondering what had been the -cause of her tirravee. She fair ran at the last, as if eager to get out of -my sight; and when she disappeared over the brae that rose from the -river-side there was a sense of deprivation within me. I was clean gone in -love and over the lugs in it with Isobel Fortune. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER VI -</h2> -<h3> -MY DEED ON THE MOOR OF MEARNS -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext day I shot David Borland of the Driepps. -</p> -<p> -It was the seventh of March, the first day I heard the laverock that -season, and it sang like to burst its heart above the spot where the lad -fell with a cry among the rushes. It rose from somewhere in our -neighbourhood, aspiring to the heavens, but chained to earth by its own -song; and even yet I can recall the eerie influence of that strange -conjunction of sin and song as I stood knee-deep in the tangle of the moor -with the pistol smoking in my hand. -</p> -<p> -To go up to the victim of my jealousy as he lay ungainly on the ground, -his writhing over, was an ordeal I could not face. -</p> -<p> -“Davie, Davie!” I cried to him over the thirty paces; but I got no reply -from yon among the rushes. I tried to wet my cracking lips with a tongue -like a cork, and “Davie, oh, Davie, are ye badly hurt?” I cried, in a -voice I must have borrowed from ancient time when my forefathers fought -with the forest terrors. -</p> -<p> -I listened and I better listened, but Borland still lay there at last, a -thing insensate like a gangrel's pack, and in all the dreary land there -was nothing living but the laverock and me. -</p> -<p> -The bird was high—a spot upon the blue; his song, I am sure, was the -song of his kind, that has charmed lovers in summer fields from old time—a -melody rapturous, a message like the message of the evening star that God -no more fondly loves than that small warbler in desert places—and -yet there and then it deaved me like a cry from hell. No heavenly message -had the lark for me: he flew aloft there into the invisible, to tell of -this deed of mine among the rushes. Not God alone would hear him tell his -story: they might hear it, I knew, in shepherds' cots; they might hear it -in an old house bowered dark among trees; the solitary witness of my crime -might spread the hue and cry about the shire; already the law might be on -the road for young Paul Greig. -</p> -<p> -I seemed to listen a thousand years to that telltale in the air; for a -thousand years I scanned the blue for him in vain, yet when I looked at my -pistol again the barrel was still warm. -</p> -<p> -It was the first time I had handled such a weapon. -</p> -<p> -A senseless tool it seemed, and yet the crooking of a finger made it the -confederate of hate; though it, with its duty done, relapsed into a -heedless silence, I, that owned it for my instrument, must be wailing in -my breast, torn head to foot with thunders of remorse. -</p> -<p> -I raised the hammer, ran a thumb along the flint, seeing something -fiendish in the jaws that held it; I lifted up the prime-cap, and it -seemed some miracle of Satan that the dust I had put there in the peace of -my room that morning in Hazel Den should have disappeared. “Truefitt” on -the lock; a silver shield and an initial graven on it; a butt with a -dragon's grin that had seemed ridiculous before, and now seemed to cry -“Cain!” Lord! that an instrument like this in an unpractised hand should -cut off all young Borland's earthly task, end his toil with plough and -harrow, his laugh and story. -</p> -<p> -I looked again at the shapeless thing at thirty paces. “It cannot be,” I -told myself; and I cried again, in the Scots that must make him cease his -joke, “I ken ye're only lettin' on, Davie. Get up oot o' that and we'll -cry quits.” - </p> -<p> -But there was no movement; there was no sound; the tell-tale had the -heavens to himself. -</p> -<p> -All the poltroon in me came a-top and dragged my better man round about, -let fall the pistol from my nerveless fingers and drove me away from that -place. It was not the gallows I thought of (though that too was sometimes -in my mind), but of the frightful responsibility I had made my burden, to -send a human man before his Maker without a preparation, and my bullet -hole upon his brow or breast, to tell for ever through the roaring ring of -all eternity that this was the work of Paul Greig. The rushes of the moor -hissed me as I ran blindly through them; the tufts of heather over Whiggit -Knowe caught at me to stop me; the laverock seemed to follow overhead, a -sergeant of provost determined on his victim. -</p> -<p> -My feet took me, not home to the home that was mine no more, but to -Earn-side, where I felt the water crying in its linn would drown the sound -of the noisy laverock; and the familiar scene would blot for a space the -ugly sight from my eyes. I leant at the side to lave my brow, and could -scarce believe that this haggard countenance I saw look up at me from the -innocent waters was the Spoiled Horn who had been reflected in Isobel's -eyes. Over and over again I wet my lips and bathed my temples; I washed my -hands, and there was on the right forefinger a mark I bear to this day -where the trigger guard of the pistol in the moments of my agony had cut -me to the bone without my knowing it. -</p> -<p> -When my face looked less like clay and my plans were clear, I rose and -went home. -</p> -<p> -My father and mother were just sitting to supper, and I joined them. They -talked of a cousin to be married in Drymen at Michaelmas, of an income in -the leg of our mare, of Sabbath's sermon, of things that were as far from -me as I from heaven, and I heard them as one in a dream, far-off. What I -was hearing most of the time was the laverock setting the hue and cry of -Paul Greig's crime around the world and up to the Throne itself, and what -I was seeing was the vacant moor, now in the dusk, and a lad's remains -awaiting their discovery. The victuals choked me as I pretended to eat; my -father noticed nothing, my mother gave a glance, and a fright was in her -face. -</p> -<p> -I went up to my room and searched a desk for some verses that had been -gathering there in my twelve months' degradation, and particularly for one -no more than a day old with Isobel Fortune for its theme. It was all bye -with that! I was bound to be glancing at some of the lines as I furiously -tore them up and threw them out of the window into the bleaching-green; -and oh! but the black sorrows and glooms that were there recorded seemed a -mockery in the light of this my terrible experience. They went by the -window, every scrap: then I felt cut off from every innocent day of my -youth, the past clean gone from me for ever. -</p> -<p> -The evening worship came. -</p> -<p> -<i>“If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost ends of -the sea.”</i> -</p> -<p> -My father, peering close at the Book through his spectacles, gave out the -words as if he stood upon a pulpit, deliberate—too deliberate for -Cain his son, that sat with his back to the window shading his face from a -mother's eyes. They were always on me, her eyes, throughout that last -service; they searched me like a torch in a pit, and wae, wae was her -face! -</p> -<p> -When we came to pray and knelt upon the floor, I felt as through my shut -eyes that hers were on me even then, exceeding sad and troubled. They -followed me like that when I went up, as they were to think, to my bed, -and I was sitting at my window in the dark half an hour later when she -came up after me. She had never done the like before since I was a child. -</p> -<p> -“Are ye bedded, Paul?” she whispered in the dark. -</p> -<p> -I could not answer her in words, but I stood to my feet and lit a candle, -and she saw that I was dressed. -</p> -<p> -“What ails ye to-night?” she asked trembling. “I'm going away, mother,” I -answered. “There's something wrong?” she queried in great distress. -</p> -<p> -“There's all that!” I confessed. “It'll be time for you to ken about that -in the morning, but I must be off this night.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, Paul, Paul!” she cried, “I did not like to see you going out in these -shoes this afternoon, and I ken't that something ailed ye.” - </p> -<p> -“The road to hell suits one shoe as well's another,” said I bitterly; -“where the sorrow lies is that ye never saw me go out with a different -heart. Mother, mother, the worst ye can guess is no' so bad as the worst -ye've yet to hear of your son.” - </p> -<p> -I was in a storm of roaring emotions, yet her next words startled me. -</p> -<p> -“It's Isobel Fortune of the Kirkillstane,” she said, trying hard to smile -with a wan face in the candle light. -</p> -<p> -“It <i>was</i>—poor dear! Am I not in torment when I think that she -must know it?” - </p> -<p> -“I thought it was that that ailed ye, Paul,” said she, as if she were -relieved. “Look; I got this a little ago on the bleaching-green—this -scrap of paper in your write and her name upon it. Maybe I should not have -read it.” And she handed me part of that ardent ballad I had torn less -than an hour ago. -</p> -<p> -I held it in the flame of her candle till it was gone, our hands all -trembling, and “That's the end appointed for Paul Greig,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Paul, Paul, it cannot be so unco'!” she cried in terror, and clutched -me at the arm. -</p> -<p> -“It is—it is the worst.” - </p> -<p> -“And yet—and yet—you're my son, Paul. Tell me.” - </p> -<p> -She looked so like a reed in the winter wind, so frail and little and -shivering in my room, that I dared not tell her there and then. I said it -was better that both father and she should hear my tale together, and we -went into the room where already he was bedded but not asleep. He sat up -staring at our entry, a night-cowl tassel dangling on his brow. -</p> -<p> -“There's a man dead—” I began, when he checked me with a shout. -</p> -<p> -“Stop, stop!” he cried, and put my mother in a chair. “I have heard the -tale before with my brother Andy, and the end was not for women's ears.” - </p> -<p> -“I must know, Quentin,” said his wife, blanched to the lip but determined, -and then he put his arm about her waist. It seemed like a second murder to -wrench those tender hearts that loved me, but the thing was bound to do. -</p> -<p> -I poured out my tale at one breath and in one sentence, and when it ended -my mother was in her swound. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Paul!” cried the poor man, his face like a clout; “black was the day -she gave you birth!” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER VII -</h2> -<h3> -QUENTIN GREIG LOSES A SON, AND I SET OUT WITH A HORSE AS ALL MY FORTUNE -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e pushed me from the chamber as I had been a stranger intruding, and I -went to the trance door and looked out at the stretching moorlands lit by -an enormous moon that rose over Cathkin Braes, and an immensity of stars. -For the first time in all my life I realised the heedlessness of nature in -human affairs the most momentous. For the moon swung up serene beyond -expression; the stars winked merrily: a late bird glid among the bushes -and perched momentarily on a bough of ash to pipe briefly almost with the -passion of the spring. But not the heedlessness of nature influenced me so -much as the barren prospect of the world that the moon and stars revealed. -There was no one out there in those deep spaces of darkness I could claim -as friend or familiar. Where was I to go? What was I to do? Only the -beginnings of schemes came to me—schemes of concealment and -disguise, of surrender even—but the last to be dismissed as soon as -it occurred to me, for how could I leave this house the bitter bequest of -a memory of the gallows-tree? -</p> -<p> -Only the beginnings, I say, for every scheme ran tilt against the obvious -truth that I was not only without affection or regard out there, but -without as much as a crown of money to purchase the semblance of either. -</p> -<p> -I could not have stood very long there when my father came out, his face -like clay, and aged miraculously, and beckoned me to the parlour. -</p> -<p> -“Your mother—my wife,” said he, “is very ill, and I am sending for -the doctor. The horse is yoking. There is another woman in Driepps who—God -help her!—will be no better this night, but I wish in truth her case -was ours, and that it was you who lay among the heather.” - </p> -<p> -He began pacing up and down the floor, his eyes bent, his hands -continually wringing, his heart bursting, as it were, with sighs and the -dry sobs of the utmost wretchedness. As for me, I must have been clean -gyte (as the saying goes), for my attention was mostly taken up with the -tassel of his nightcap that bobbed grotesquely on his brow. I had not seen -it since, as a child, I used to share his room. -</p> -<p> -“What! what!” he cried at last piteously, “have ye never a word to say? -Are ye dumb?” He ran at me and caught me by the collar of the coat and -tried to shake me in an anger, but I felt it no more than I had been a -stone. -</p> -<p> -“What did ye do it for? What in heaven's name did ye quarrel on?” - </p> -<p> -“It was—it was about a girl,” I said, reddening even at that -momentous hour to speak of such a thing to him. -</p> -<p> -“A girl!” he repeated, tossing up his hands. “Keep us! Hoo lang are ye oot -o' daidlies? Well! well!” he went on, subduing himself and prepared to -listen. I wished the tassel had been any other colour than crimson, and -hung fairer on the middle of his forehead; it seemed to fascinate me. And -he, belike, forgot that I was there, for he thought, I knew, continually -of his wife, and he would stop his feverish pacing on the floor, and -hearken for a sound from the room where she was quartered with the maid. I -made no answer. -</p> -<p> -“Well, well!” he cried again fiercely, turning upon me. “Out with it; out -with the whole hellish transaction, man!” - </p> -<p> -And then I told him in detail what before my mother I had told in a brief -abstract. -</p> -<p> -How that I had met young Borland coming down the breast of the brae at -Kirkillstane last night and— -</p> -<p> -“Last night!” he cried. “Are ye havering? I saw ye go to your bed at ten, -and your boots were in the kitchen.” - </p> -<p> -It was so, I confessed. I had gone to my room but not to bed, and had -slipped out by the window when the house was still, with Uncle Andrew's -shoes. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, lad!” he cried, “it's Andy's shoes you stand in sure enough, for I -have seen him twenty years syne in the plight that you are in this night. -Merciful heaven! what dark blotch is in the history of this family of ours -that it must ever be embroiled in crimes of passion and come continually -to broken ends of fortune? I have lived stark honest and humble, fearing -the Lord; the covenants have I kept, and still and on it seems I must -beget a child of the Evil One!” - </p> -<p> -And how, going out thus under cover of night, I had meant to indulge a -boyish fancy by seeing the light of Isobel Fortune's window. And how, -coming to the Kirkillstane, I met David Borland leaving the house, -whistling cheerfully. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Paul, Paul!” cried my father, “I mind of you an infant on her knees -that's ben there, and it might have been but yesterday your greeting in -the night wakened me to mourn and ponder on your fate.” And how Borland, -divining my object there, and himself new out triumphant from that -cheerful house of many daughters, made his contempt for the Spoiled Horn -too apparent. -</p> -<p> -“You walked to the trough-stane when you were a twelvemonth old,” said my -father with the irrelevance of great grief, as if he recalled a dead son's -infancy. -</p> -<p> -And how, maddened by some irony of mine, he had struck a blow upon my -chest, and so brought my challenge to something more serious and -gentlemanly than a squalid brawl with fists upon the highway. -</p> -<p> -I stopped my story; it seemed useless to be telling it to one so much -preoccupied with the thought of the woman he loved. His lips were open, -his eyes were constant on the door. -</p> -<p> -But “Well! Well!” he cried again eagerly, and I resumed. -</p> -<p> -Of how I had come home, and crept into my guilty chamber and lay the long -night through, torn by grief and anger, jealousy and distress. And how -evading the others of the household as best I could that day, I had in the -afternoon at the hour appointed gone out with Uncle Andrew's pistol. -</p> -<p> -My father moaned—a waefu' sound! -</p> -<p> -And found young Borland up on the moor before me with such another weapon, -his face red byordinary, his hands and voice trembling with passion. -</p> -<p> -“Poor lad, poor lad!” my father cried blurting the sentiment as he had -been a bairn. -</p> -<p> -How we tossed a coin to decide which should be the first to fire, and -Borland had won the toss, and gone to the other end of our twenty paces -with vulgar menaces and “Spoiled Horn” the sweetest of his epithets. -</p> -<p> -“Poor lad! he but tried to bluster down the inward voice that told him the -folly o't,” said father. -</p> -<p> -And how Borland had fired first. The air was damp. The sound was like a -slamming door. -</p> -<p> -“The door of hope shut up for him, poor dear,” cried father. -</p> -<p> -And how he missed me in his trepidation that made his hand that held the -pistol so tremble that I saw the muzzle quiver even at twenty paces. -</p> -<p> -“And then you shot him deliberately I M cried my father. -</p> -<p> -“No, no,” I cried at that, indignant. “I aimed without a glance along the -barrel: the flint flashed; the prime missed fire, and I was not sorry, but -Borland cried 'Spoiled Horn' braggingly, and I cocked again as fast as I -could, and blindly jerked the trigger. I never thought of striking him. He -fell with one loud cry among the rushes.” - </p> -<p> -“Murder, by God!” cried my father, and he relapsed into a chair, his body -all convulsed with horror. -</p> -<p> -I had told him all this as if I had been in a delirium, or as if it were a -tale out of a book, and it was only when I saw him writhing in his chair -and the tassel shaking over his eyes, I minded that the murderer was me. I -made for the door; up rose my father quickly and asked me what I meant to -do. -</p> -<p> -I confessed I neither knew nor cared. -</p> -<p> -“You must thole your assize,” said he, and just as he said it the clatter -of the mare's hoofs sounded on the causey of the yard, and he must have -minded suddenly for what object she was saddled there. -</p> -<p> -“No, no,” said he, “you must flee the country. What right have you to make -it any worse for her?” - </p> -<p> -“I have not a crown in my pocket,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“And I have less,” he answered quickly. “Where are you going? No, no, -don't tell me that; I'm not to know. There's the mare saddled, I meant -Sandy to send the doctor from the Mearns, but you can do that. Bid him -come here as fast as he can.” - </p> -<p> -“And must I come back with the mare?” I asked, reckless what he might say -to that, though my life depended on it. -</p> -<p> -“For the sake of your mother,” he answered, “I would rather never set eyes -on you or the beast again; she's the last transaction between us, Paul -Greig.” And then he burst in tears, with his arms about my neck. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/067.jpg" alt="067 (146K)" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -Ten minutes later I was on the mare, and galloping, for all her ailing -leg, from Hazel Den as if it were my own loweing conscience. I roused Dr. -Clews at the Mearns, and gave him my father's message. “Man,” said he, -holding his chamber light up to my face, “man, ye're as gash as a ghaist -yersel'.” - </p> -<p> -“I may well be that,” said I, and off I set, with some of Uncle Andy's old -experience in my mind, upon a ride across broad Scotland. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER VIII -</h2> -<h3> -I RIDE BY NIGHT ACROSS SCOTLAND, AND MEET A MARINER WITH A GLEED EYE -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat night was like the day, with a full moon shining. The next afternoon -I rode into Borrowstounness, my horse done out and myself sore from head -to heel; and never in all my life have I seen a place with a more -unwelcome aspect, for the streets were over the hoof in mud; the natives -directed me in an accent like a tinker's whine; the Firth of Forth was -wrapped in a haar or fog that too closely put me in mind of my prospects. -But I had no right to be too particular, and in the course of an hour I -had sold the mare for five pounds to a man of much Christian profession, -who would not give a farthing more on the plea that she was likely stolen. -</p> -<p> -The five pounds and the clothes I stood in were my fortune: it did not -seem very much, if it was to take me out of the reach of the long arm of -the doomster; and thinking of the doomster I minded of the mole upon my -brow, that was the most kenspeckle thing about me in the event of a -description going about the country, so the first thing I bought with my -fortune was a pair of scissors. Going into a pend close in one of the -vennels beside the quay, I clipped off the hair upon the mole and felt a -little safer. I was coming out of the close, pouching the scissors, when a -man of sea-going aspect, with high boots and a tarpaulin hat, stumbled -against me and damned my awkwardness. -</p> -<p> -“You filthy hog,” said I, exasperated at such manners, for he was himself -to blame for the encounter; “how dare you speak to me like that?” He was a -man of the middle height, sturdy on his bowed legs in spite of the drink -obvious in his face and speech, and he had a roving gleed black eye. I had -never clapped gaze on him in all my life before. -</p> -<p> -“Is that the way ye speak to Dan Risk, ye swab?” said he, ludicrously -affecting a dignity that ill suited with his hiccough. “What's the good of -me being a skipper if every linen-draper out of Fife can cut into my -quarter on my own deck?” - </p> -<p> -“This is no' your quarter-deck, man, if ye were sober enough to ken it,” - said I; “and I'm no linen-draper from Fife or anywhere else.” - </p> -<p> -And then the brute, with his hands thrust to the depth of his pockets, -staggered me as if he had done it with a blow of his fist. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said he, with a very cunning tone, “ye're no linen-draper perhaps, -but—ye're maybe no sae decent a man, young Greig.” - </p> -<p> -It was impossible for me to conceal even from this tipsy rogue my -astonishment and alarm at this. It seemed to me the devil himself must be -leagued against me in the cause of justice. A cold sweat came on my face -and the palms of my hands. I opened my mouth and meant to give him the lie -but I found I dare not do so in the presence of what seemed a miracle of -heaven. -</p> -<p> -“How do you ken my name's Greig?” I asked at the last. -</p> -<p> -“Fine that,” he made answer, with a grin; “and there's mony an odd thing -else I ken.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, it's no matter,” said I, preparing to quit him, but in great fear -of what the upshot might be; “I'm for off, anyway.” - </p> -<p> -By this time it was obvious that he was not so drunk as I thought him at -first, and that in temper and tact he was my match even with the glass in -him. “Do ye ken what I would be doing if I was you?” said he seemingly -determined not to let me depart like that, for he took a step or two after -me. -</p> -<p> -I made no reply, but quickened my pace and after me he came, lurching and -catching at my arm; and I mind to this day the roll of him gave me the -impression of a crab. -</p> -<p> -“If it's money ye want-” I said at the end of my patience. -</p> -<p> -“Curse your money!” he cried, pretending to spit the insult from his -mouth. “Curse your money; but if I was you, and a weel-kent skipper like -Dan Risk—like Dan Risk of the <i>Seven Sisters</i>—made up to -me out of a redeeculous good nature and nothing else, I would gladly go -and splice the rope with him in the nearest ken.” - </p> -<p> -“Go and drink with yourself, man,” I cried; “there's the money for a -chappin of ate, and I'll forego my share of it.” - </p> -<p> -I could have done nothing better calculated to infuriate him. As I held -out the coin on the palm of my hand he struck it up with an oath and it -rolled into the syver. His face flamed till the neck of him seemed a round -of seasoned beef. -</p> -<p> -“By the Rock o' Bass!” he roared, “I would clap ye in jyle for less than -your lousy groat.” - </p> -<p> -Ah, then, it was in vain I had put the breadth of Scotland between me and -that corpse among the rushes: my heart struggled a moment, and sank as if -it had been drowned in bilge. I turned on the man what must have been a -gallows face, and he laughed, and, gaining his drunken good nature again -he hooked me by the arm, and before my senses were my own again he was -leading me down the street and to the harbour. I had never a word to say. -</p> -<p> -The port, as I tell, was swathed in the haar of the east, out of which -tall masts rose dim like phantom spears; the clumsy tarred bulwarks loomed -like walls along the quay, and the neighbourhood was noisy with voices -that seemed unnatural coming out of the haze. Mariners were hanging about -the sheds, and a low tavern belched others out to keep them company. Risk -made for the tavern, and at that I baulked. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, come on!” said he. “If I'm no' mistaken Dan Risk's the very man ye're -in the need of. You're wanting out of Scotland, are ye no'?” - </p> -<p> -“More than that; I'm wanting out of myself,” said I, but that seemed -beyond him. -</p> -<p> -“Come in anyway, and we'll talk it over.” - </p> -<p> -That he might help me out of the country seemed possible if he was not, as -I feared at first, some agent of the law and merely playing with me, so I -entered the tavern with him. -</p> -<p> -“Two gills to the coffin-room, Mrs. Clerihew,” he cried to the woman in -the kitchen. “And slippy aboot it, if ye please, for my mate here's been -drinking buttermilk all his life, and ye can tell't in his face.” - </p> -<p> -“I would rather have some meat,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Humph!” quo' he, looking at my breeches. “A lang ride!” He ordered the -food at my mentioning, and made no fuss about drinking my share of the -spirits as well as his own, while I ate with a hunger that was soon -appeased, for my eye, as the saying goes, was iller to satisfy than my -appetite. -</p> -<p> -He sat on the other side of the table in the little room that doubtless -fairly deserved the name it got of coffin, for many a man, I'm thinking, -was buried there in his evil habits; and I wondered what was to be next. -</p> -<p> -“To come to the bit,” said the at last, looking hard into the bottom of -his tankard in a way that was a plain invitation to buy more for him. “To -come to the bit, you're wanting out of the country?” - </p> -<p> -“It's true,” said I; “but how do you know? And how do you know my name, -for I never saw you to my knowledge in all my life before?” - </p> -<p> -“So much the worse for you; I'm rale weel liked by them that kens me. What -would ye give for a passage to Nova Scotia?” - </p> -<p> -“It's a long way,” said I, beginning to see a little clearer. -</p> -<p> -“Ay,” said he, “but I've seen a gey lang rope too, and a man danglin' at -the end of it.” - </p> -<p> -Again my face betrayed me. I made no answer. -</p> -<p> -“I ken all aboot it,” he went on. “Your name's Greig; ye're from a place -called the Hazel Den at the other side o' the country; ye've been sailing -wi' a stiff breeze on the quarter all night, and the clime o' auld -Scotland's one that doesna suit your health, eh? What's the amount?” said -he, and he looked towards my pocket “Could we no' mak' it halfers?” - </p> -<p> -“Five pounds,” said I, and at that he looked strangely dashed. -</p> -<p> -“Five pounds,” he repeated incredulously. “It seems to have been hardly -worth the while.” And then his face changed, as if a new thought had -struck him. He leaned over the table and whispered with the infernal tone -of a confederate, “Doused his glim, eh?” winking with his hale eye, so -that I could not but shiver at him, as at the touch of slime. -</p> -<p> -“I don't understand,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Do ye no'?” said he, with a sneer; “for a Greig ye're mighty slow in the -uptak'. The plain English o' that, then, is that ye've killed a man. A -trifle like that ance happened to a Greig afore.” - </p> -<p> -“What's your name?” I demanded. -</p> -<p> -“Am I no tellin' ye?” said he shortly. “It's just Daniel Risk; and where -could you get a better? Perhaps ye were thinkin' aboot swappin' names wi' -me; and by the Bass, it's Dan's family name would suit very weel your -present position,” and the scoundrel laughed at his own humour. -</p> -<p> -“I asked because I was frightened it might be Mahoun,” said I. “It seems -gey hard to have ridden through mire for a night and a day, and land where -ye started from at the beginning. And how do ye ken all that?” - </p> -<p> -“Oh!” he said, “kennin's my trade, if ye want to know. And whatever way I -ken, ye needna think I'm the fellow to make much of a sang aboot it. Still -and on, the thing's frowned doon on in this country, though in places I've -been it would be coonted to your credit. I'll take anither gill; and if ye -ask me, I would drench the butter-milk wi' something o' the same, for the -look o' ye sittin' there's enough to gie me the waterbrash. Mrs. Clerihew—here!” - He rapped loudly on the table, and the drink coming in I was compelled -again to see him soak himself at my expense. He reverted to my passage -from the country, and “Five pounds is little enough for it,” said he; “but -ye might be eking it oot by partly working your passage.” - </p> -<p> -“I didn't say I was going either to Nova Scotia or with you,” said I, “and -I think I could make a better bargain elsewhere.” - </p> -<p> -“So could I, maybe,” said he, fuming of spirits till I felt sick. “And -it's time I was doin' something for the good of my country.” With that he -rose to his feet with a look of great moral resolution, and made as if for -the door, but by this time I understood him better. -</p> -<p> -“Sit down, ye muckle hash!” said I, and I stood over him with a most -threatening aspect. -</p> -<p> -“By the Lord!” said he, “that's a Greig anyway!” - </p> -<p> -“Ay!” said I. “ye seem to ken the breed. Can I get another vessel abroad -besides yours?” - </p> -<p> -“Ye can not,” said he, with a promptness I expected, “unless ye wait on -the <i>Sea Pyat</i>. She leaves for Jamaica next Thursday; and there's no' -a spark of the Christian in the skipper o' her, one Macallum from -Greenock.” - </p> -<p> -For the space of ten minutes I pondered over the situation. Undoubtedly I -was in a hole. This brute had me in his power so long as my feet were on -Scottish land, and he knew it. At sea he might have me in his power too, -but against that there was one precaution I could take, and I made up my -mind. -</p> -<p> -“I'll give you four pounds—half at leaving the quay and the other -half when ye land me.” - </p> -<p> -“My conscience wadna' aloo me,” protested the rogue; but the greed was in -his face, and at last he struck my thumb on the bargain, and when he did -that I think I felt as much remorse at the transaction as at the crime -from whose punishment I fled. -</p> -<p> -“Now,” said I, “tell me how you knew me and heard about—about—” - </p> -<p> -“About what?” said he, with an affected surprise. “Let me tell ye this, -Mr. Greig, or whatever your name may be, that Dan Risk is too much of the -gentleman to have any recollection of any unpleasantness ye may mention, -now that he has made the bargain wi' ye. I ken naethin' aboot ye, if ye -please: whether your name's Greig or Mackay or Habbie Henderson, it's new -to me, only ye're a likely lad for a purser's berth in the <i>Seven -Sisters.</i>” And refusing to say another word on the topic that so -interested me, he took me down to the ship's side, where I found the <i>Seven -Sisters</i> was a brigantine out of Hull, sadly in the want of tar upon -her timbers and her mainmast so decayed and worm-eaten that it sounded -boss when I struck it with my knuckles in the by-going. -</p> -<p> -Risk saw me doing it. He gave an ugly smile. -</p> -<p> -“What do ye think o' her? said he, showing me down the companion. -</p> -<p> -“Mighty little,” I told him straight. “I'm from the moors,” said I, “but -I've had my feet on a sloop of Ayr before now; and by the look of this -craft I would say she has been beeking in the sun idle till she rotted -down to the garboard strake.” - </p> -<p> -He gave his gleed eye a turn and vented some appalling oaths, and wound up -with the insult I might expect—namely, that drowning was not my -portion. -</p> -<p> -“There was some brag a little ago of your being a gentleman,” said I, -convinced that this blackguard was to be treated to his own fare if he was -to be got on with at all. “There's not much of a gentleman in the like of -that.” - </p> -<p> -At this he was taken aback. “Well,” said he, “don't you cross my temper; -if my temper's crossed it's gey hard to keep up gentility. The ship's -sound enough, or she wouldn't be half a dizen times round the Horn and as -weel kent in Halifax as one o' their ain dories. She's guid enough for -your—for our business, if ye please, Mr. Greig; and here's my mate -Murchison.” - </p> -<p> -Another tarry-breeks of no more attractive aspect came down the companion. -</p> -<p> -“Here's a new hand for ye,” said the skipper humorously. -</p> -<p> -The mate looked me up and down with some contempt from his own height of -little more than five feet four, and peeled an oilskin coat off him. I was -clad myself in a good green coat and breeches with fine wool rig-and-fur -hose, and the buckled red shoon and the cock of my hat I daresay gave me -the look of some importance in tarry-breeks' eyes. At any rate, he did not -take Risk's word for my identity, but at last touched his hat with awkward -fingers after relinquishing his look of contempt. -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Jamieson?” said he questioningly, and the skipper by this time was -searching in a locker for a bottle of rum he said he had there for the -signing of agreements. “Mr. Jamieson,” said the mate, “I'm glad to see ye. -The money's no; enough for the job, and that's letting ye know. It's all -right for Dan here wi' neither wife nor family, but—” - </p> -<p> -“What's that, ye idiot?” cried Risk turning about in alarm. “Do ye tak' -this callan for the owner? I tell't ye he was a new hand.” - </p> -<p> -“A hand!” repeated Murchison, aback and dubious. -</p> -<p> -“Jist that; he's the purser.” - </p> -<p> -Murchison laughed. “That's a new ornament on the auld randy; he'll be to -keep his keekers on the manifest, like?” said he as one who cracks a good -joke. But still and on he scanned me with a suspicious eye, and it was not -till Risk had taken him aside later in the day and seemingly explained, -that he was ready to meet me with equanimity. By that time I had paid the -skipper his two guineas, for the last of his crew was on board, every man -Jack of them as full as the Baltic, and staggering at the coamings of the -hatches not yet down, until I thought half of them would finally land in -the hold. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER IX -</h2> -<h3> -WHEREIN THE “SEVEN SISTERS” ACTS STRANGELY, AND I SIT WAITING FOR THE -MANACLES -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>n air of westerly wind had risen after meridian and the haar was gone, so -that when I stood at the break of the poop as the brigantine crept into -the channel and flung out billows of canvas while her drunken seamen -quarrelled and bawled high on the spars, I saw, as I imagined, the last of -Scotland in a pleasant evening glow. My heart sank. It was not a departure -like this I had many a time anticipated when I listened to Uncle Andys -tales; here was I with blood on my hands and a guinea to start my life in -a foreign country; that was not the worst of it either, for far more -distress was in my mind at the reflection that I travelled with a man who -was in my secret. At first I was afraid to go near him once our ropes were -off the pawls, and I, as it were, was altogether his, but to my surprise -there could be no pleasanter man than Risk when he had the wash of water -under his rotten barque. He was not only a better-mannered man to myself, -but he became, in half an hour of the Firth breeze, as sober as a judge. -But for the roving gleed eye, and what I had seen of him on shore, Captain -Dan Risk might have passed for a model of all the virtues. He called me -Mr. Greig and once or twice (but I stopped that) Young Hazel Den, with no -irony in the appellation, and he was at pains to make his mate see that I -was one to be treated with some respect, proffering me at our first meal -together (for I was to eat in the cuddy,) the first of everything on the -table, and even making some excuses for the roughness of the viands. And I -could see that whatever his qualities of heart might be, he was a good -seaman, a thing to be told in ten minutes by a skipper's step on a deck -and his grip of the rail, and his word of command. Those drunken barnacles -of his seemed to be men with the stuff of manly deeds in them, when at his -word they dashed aloft among the canvas canopy to fist the bulging sail -and haul on clew or gasket, or when they clung on greasy ropes and at a -gesture of his hand heaved cheerily with that “yo-ho” that is the chant of -all the oceans where keels run. -</p> -<p> -Murchison was a saturnine, silent man, from whom little was to be got of -edification. The crew numbered eight men, one of them a black deaf mute, -with the name of Antonio Ferdinando, who cooked in a galley little larger -than the Hazel Den kennel. It was apparent that no two of them had ever -met before, such a career of flux and change is the seaman's, and except -one of them, a fellow Horn, who was foremast man, a more villainous gang I -never set eyes on before or since. If Risk had raked the ports of Scotland -with a fine bone comb for vermin, he could not have brought together a -more unpleasant-looking crew. No more than two of them brought a bag on -board, and so ragged was their appearance that I felt ashamed to air my -own good clothes on the same deck with them. -</p> -<p> -Fortunately it seemed I had nothing to do with them nor they with me; all -that was ordered for the eking out of my passage, as Risk had said, was to -copy the manifest, and I had no sooner set to that than I discerned it was -a gowk's job just given me to keep me in employ in the cabin. Whatever his -reason, the man did not want me about his deck. I saw that in an interlude -in my writing, when I came up from his airless den to learn what progress -old rotten-beams made under all her canvas. -</p> -<p> -It had declined to a mere handful of wind, and the vessel scarcely moved, -seemed indeed steadfast among the sea-birds that swooped and wheeled and -cried around her. I saw the sun just drop among blood-red clouds over -Stirling, and on the shore of Fife its pleasant glow. The sea swung flat -and oily, running to its ebb, and lapping discernibly upon a recluse -promontory of land with a stronghold on it. -</p> -<p> -“What do you call yon, Horn?” I said to the seaman I have before -mentioned, who leaned upon the taffrail and watched the vessel's greasy -wake, and I pointed to the gloomy buildings on the shore. -</p> -<p> -“Blackness Castle,” said he, and he had time to tell no more, for the -skipper bawled upon him for a shirking dog, and ordered the flemishing of -some ropes loose upon the forward deck. Nor was I exempt from his zeal for -the industry of other folks for he came up to me with a suspicious look, -as if he feared I had been hearing news from his foremast man, and “How -goes the manifest, Mr. Greig?” says he. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, brawly, brawly!” said I, determined to begin with Captain Daniel Risk -as I meant to end. -</p> -<p> -He grew purple, but restrained himself with an effort. “This is not an Ayr -sloop, Mr. Greig,” said he; “and when orders go on the <i>Seven Sisters</i> -I like to see them implemented. You must understand that there's a -pressing need for your clerking, or I would not be so soon putting you at -it.” - </p> -<p> -“At this rate of sailing,” says I, “I'll have time to copy some hundred -manifests between here and Nova Scotia.” - </p> -<p> -“Perhaps you'll permit me to be the best judge of that,” he replied in the -English he ever assumed with his dignity, and seeing there was no more for -it, I went back to my quill. -</p> -<p> -It was little wonder, in all the circumstances, that I fell asleep over my -task with my head upon the cabin table whereon I wrote, and it was still -early in the night when I crawled into the narrow bunk that the skipper -had earlier indicated as mine. -</p> -<p> -Weariness mastered my body, but my mind still roamed; the bunk became a -coffin quicklimed, and the murderer of David Borland lying in it; the -laverock cried across Earn Water and the moors of Renfrew with the voice -of Daniel Risk. And yet the strange thing was that I knew I slept and -dreamed, and more than once I made effort, and dragged myself into -wakefulness from the horrors of my nightmare. At these times there was -nothing to hear but the plop of little waves against the side of the ship, -a tread on deck, and the call of the watch. -</p> -<p> -I had fallen into a sleep more profound than any that had yet blessed my -hard couch, when I was suddenly wakened by a busy clatter on the deck, the -shriek of ill-greased davits, the squeak of blocks, and the fall of a -small-boat into the water. Another odd sound puzzled me: but for the -probability that we were out over Bass I could have sworn it was the -murmur of a stream running upon a gravelled shore. A stream—heavens! -There could be no doubt about it now; we were somewhere close in shore, -and the <i>Seven Sisters</i> was lying to. The brigantine stopped in her -voyage where no stoppage should be; a small boat plying to land in the -middle of the night; come! here was something out of the ordinary, surely, -on a vessel seaward bound. I had dreamt of the gallows and of Dan Risk as -an informer. Was it a wonder that there should flash into my mind the -conviction of my betrayal? What was more likely than that the skipper, -secure of my brace of guineas, was selling me to the garrison of -Blackness? -</p> -<p> -I clad myself hurriedly and crept cautiously up the companion ladder, and -found myself in overwhelming darkness, only made the more appalling and -strange because the vessel's lights were all extinguished. Silence large -and brooding lay upon the <i>Seven Sisters</i> as she lay in that -obscuring haar that had fallen again; she might be Charon's craft pausing -mid-way on the cursed stream, and waiting for the ferry cry upon the shore -of Time. We were still in the estuary or firth, to judge by the bickering -burn and the odors off-shore, above all the odour of rotting brake; and we -rode at anchor, for her bows were up-water to the wind and tide, and above -me, in the darkness, I could hear the idle sails faintly flapping in the -breeze and the reef-points all tap-tapping. I seemed to have the deck -alone, but for one figure at the stern; I went back, and found that it was -Horn. -</p> -<p> -“Where are we?” I asked, relieved to find there the only man I could trust -on board the ship. -</p> -<p> -“A little below Blackness,” said he shortly with a dissatisfied tone. -</p> -<p> -“I did not know we were to stop here,” said I, wondering if he knew that I -was doomed. -</p> -<p> -“Neither did I,” said he, peering into the void of night. “And whit's -mair, I wish I could guess the reason o' oor stopping. The skipper's been -ashore mair nor ance wi' the lang-boat forward there, and I'm sent back -here to keep an e'e on lord kens what except it be yersel'.” - </p> -<p> -“Are ye indeed?” said I, exceedingly vexed. “Then I ken too well, Horn, -the reason for the stoppage. You are to keep your eye on a man who's being -bargained for with the hangman.” - </p> -<p> -“I would rather ken naithin' about that,” said he, “and onyway I think -ye're mistaken. Here they're comin' back again.” - </p> -<p> -Two or three small boats were coming down on us out of the darkness; not -that I could see them, but that I heard their oars in muffled rowlocks. -</p> -<p> -“If they want me,” said I sorrowfully, “they can find me down below,” and -back I went and sat me in the cabin, prepared for the manacles. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER X -</h2> -<h3> -THE STRUGGLE IN THE CABIN, AND AN EERIE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he place stank with bilge and the odour of an ill-trimmed lamp smoking -from a beam; the fragments of the skipper's supper were on the table, with -a broken quadrant; rats scurried and squealed in the bulkheads, and one -stared at me from an open locker, where lay a rum-bottle, while beetles -and slaters travelled along the timbers. But these things compelled my -attention less than the skylights that were masked internally by pieces of -canvas nailed roughly on them. They were not so earlier in the evening; it -must have been done after I had gone to sleep, and what could be the -object? That puzzled me extremely, for it must have been the same hand -that had extinguished all the deck and mast lights, and though black was -my crime darkness was unnecessary to my betrayal. -</p> -<p> -I waited with a heart like lead. -</p> -<p> -I heard the boats swung up on the davits, the squeak of the falls, the -tread of the seamen, the voice of Risk in an unusually low tone. In the -bows in a little I heard the windlass click and the chains rasp in the -hawse-holes; we were lifting the anchor. -</p> -<p> -For a moment hope possessed me. If we were weighing anchor then my arrest -was not imminent at least; but that consolation lasted briefly when I -thought of the numerous alternatives to imprisonment in Blackness. -</p> -<p> -We were under weigh again; there was a heel to port, and a more rapid plop -of the waters along the carvel planks. And then Risk and his mate came -down. -</p> -<p> -I have seldom seen a man more dashed than the skipper when he saw me -sitting waiting on him, clothed and silent. His face grew livid; round he -turned to Murchison and hurried him with oaths to come and clap eyes on -this sea-clerk. I looked for the officer behind them, but they were alone, -and at that I thought more cheerfully I might have been mistaken about the -night's curious proceedings. -</p> -<p> -“Anything wrang?” said Risk, affecting nonchalance now that his spate of -oaths was by, and he pulled the rum out of the locker and helped himself -and his mate to a swingeing caulker. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, nothing at all,” said I, “at least nothing that I know of, Captain -Risk. And are we—are we—at Halifax already?” - </p> -<p> -“What do you mean?” said he. And then he looked at me closely, put out the -hand unoccupied by his glass and ran an insolent dirty finger over my -new-clipped mole. “Greig, Greig,” said he, “Greig to a hair! I would have -the wee shears to that again, for its growin'.” - </p> -<p> -“You're a very noticing man,” said I, striking down his hand no way -gently, and remembering that he had seen my scissors when I emerged from -the Borrowstouness close after my own barbering. -</p> -<p> -“I'm all that,” he replied, with a laugh, and all the time Murchison, the -mate, sat mopping his greasy face with a rag, as one after hard work, and -looked on us with wonder at what we meant. “I'm all that,” he replied, -“the hair aff the mole and the horse-hair on your creased breeches wad hae -tauld ony ane that ye had ridden in a hurry and clipped in a fricht o' -discovery.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, oh!” I cried, “and that's what goes to the makin' o' a Mahoun!” - </p> -<p> -“Jist that,” said he, throwing himself on a seat with an easy indifference -meant to conceal his vanity. “Jist observation and a knack o' puttin' twa -and twa thegether. Did ye think the skipper o' the <i>Seven Sisters</i> -was fleein' over Scotland at the tail o' your horse?” - </p> -<p> -“The Greig mole's weel kent, surely,” said I, astonished and chagrined. “I -jalouse it's notorious through my Uncle Andy?” - </p> -<p> -Risk laughed at that. “Oh, ay!” said he, “when Andy Greig girned at ye it -was ill to miss seein' his mole. Man, ye might as well wear your name on -the front o' your hat as gae aboot wi' a mole like that—and—and -that pair o' shoes.” - </p> -<p> -The blood ran to my face at this further revelation of his astuteness. It -seemed, then, I carried my identity head and foot, and it was no wonder a -halfeyed man like Risk should so easily discover me. I looked down at my -feet, and sure enough, when I thought of it now, it would have been a -stupid man who, having seen these kenspeckle shoes once, would ever forget -them. -</p> -<p> -“My uncle seems to have given me good introductions,” said I. “They struck -mysel' as rather dandy for a ship,” broke in the mate, at last coming on -something he could understand. -</p> -<p> -“And did <i>you</i> know Andy Greig, too?” said I. “Andy Greig,” he -replied. “Not me!” - </p> -<p> -“Then, by God, ye hinna sailed muckle aboot the warld!” said the skipper. -“I hae seen thae shoes in the four quarters and aye in a good -companionship.” - </p> -<p> -“They appear yet to retain that virtue,” said I, unable to resist the -irony. “And, by the way, Captain Risk, now that we have discussed the -shoes and my mole, what have we been waiting for at Blackness?” - </p> -<p> -His face grew black with annoyance. -</p> -<p> -“What's that to you?” he cried. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I don't know,” I answered indifferently. “I thought that now ye had -got the best part o' your passage money ye might hae been thinking to do -something for your country again. They tell me it's a jail in there, and -it might suggest itself to you as providing a good opportunity for getting -rid of a very indifferent purser.” - </p> -<p> -It is one thing I can remember to the man's credit that this innuendo of -treachery seemed to make him frantic. He dashed the rum-glass at his feet -and struck at me with a fist like a jigot of mutton, and I had barely time -to step back and counter. He threw himself at me as he had been a cat; I -closed and flung my arms about him with a wrestler's grip, and bent him -back upon the table edge, where I might have broken his spine but for -Murchison's interference. The mate called loudly for assistance; footsteps -pounded on the cuddy-stair, and down came Horn. Between them they drew us -apart, and while Murchison clung to his captain, and plied him into -quietness with a fresh glass of grog, Horn thrust me not unkindly out into -the night, and with no unwillingness on my part. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/091.jpg" alt="091" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -It was the hour of dawn, and the haar was gone. -</p> -<p> -There was something in that chill grey monotone of sky and sea that filled -me with a very passion of melancholy. The wind had risen, and the billows -ran frothing from the east; enormous clouds hung over the land behind us, -so that it seemed to roll with smoke from the eternal fires. Out from that -reeking pit of my remorse—that lost Scotland where now perhaps there -still lay lying among the rushes, with the pees-weep's cry above it, the -thing from which I flew, our ship went fast, blown upon the frothy -billows, like a ponderous bird, leaving a wake of hissing bubbling brine, -flying, as it seemed, to a world of less imminent danger, yet unalluring -still. -</p> -<p> -I looked aloft at the straining spars; they seemed to prick the clouds -between the swelling sails; the ropes and shrouds stretched infinitely -into a region very grey and chill. Oh, the pallor! oh, the cold and -heartless spirit of the sea in that first dawning morn! -</p> -<p> -“It's like to be a good day,” said Horn, breaking in upon my silence, and -turning to him I saw his face exceeding hollow and wan. The watch lay -forward, all but a lad who seemed half-dozing at the helm; Risk and his -mate had lapsed to silence in the cuddy. -</p> -<p> -“You're no frien', seemingly, o' the pair below!” said Horn again, -whispering, and with a glance across his shoulder at the helm. -</p> -<p> -“It did not look as if I were, a minute or two ago,” said I. “Yon's a -scoundrel, and yet I did him an injustice when I thought he meant to sell -me.” - </p> -<p> -“I never sailed with a more cheat-the-widdy crew since I followed the -sea,” said Horn, “and whether it's the one way or the other, sold ye are.” - </p> -<p> -“Eh?” said I, uncomprehending. -</p> -<p> -He looked again at the helm, and moved over to a water-breaker further -forward, obviously meaning that I should follow. He drew a drink of water -for himself, drank slowly, but seemed not to be much in the need for it -from the little he took, but he had got out of ear-shot of the man -steering. -</p> -<p> -“You and me's the gulls this time, Mr. Greig,” said he, whispering. “This -is a doomed ship.” - </p> -<p> -“I thought as much from her rotten spars,” I answered. “So long as she -takes me to Nova Scotia I care little what happens to her.” - </p> -<p> -“It's a long way to Halifax,” said he. “I wish I could be sure we were -likely even to have Land's End on our starboard before waur happens. Will -ye step this way, Mr. Greig?” and he cautiously led the way forward. There -was a look-out humming a stave of song somewhere in the bows, and two men -stretched among the chains, otherwise that part of the ship was all our -own. We went down the fo'c'sle scuttle quietly, and I found myself among -the carpenter's stores, in darkness, divided by a bulkhead door from the -quarters of the sleeping men. Rats were scurrying among the timbers and -squealing till Horn stamped lightly with his feet and secured stillness. -</p> -<p> -“Listen!” said he. -</p> -<p> -I could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of a seaman within, and the -wash of water against the ship's sides. -</p> -<p> -“Well?” I queried, wondering. -</p> -<p> -“Put your lug here,” said he, indicating a beam that was dimly revealed by -the light from the lamp swinging in the fo'c'sle. I did so, and heard -water running as from a pipe somewhere in the bowels of the vessel. -</p> -<p> -“What's that?” I asked. -</p> -<p> -“That's all,” said he and led me aft again. -</p> -<p> -The dawn by now had spread over half the heavens; behind us the mouth of -the Firth gulped enormous clouds, and the fringe of Fife was as flat as a -bannock; before us the sea spread chill, leaden, all unlovely. “My -sorrow!” says I, “if this is travelling, give me the high-roads and the -hot noon.” - </p> -<p> -Horn's face seemed more hollow and dark than ever in the wan morning. I -waited his explanation. “I think ye said Halifax, Mr. Greig?” said he. “I -signed on, mysel', for the same port, but you and me's perhaps the only -ones on this ship that ever hoped to get there. God give me grace to get -foot on shore and Dan Risk will swing for this!” - </p> -<p> -Somebody sneezed behind us as Horn thus rashly expressed himself; we both -turned suddenly on the rail we had been leaning against, expecting that -this was the skipper, and though it was not Risk, it was one whose black -visage and gleaming teeth and rolling eyes gave me momentarily something -of a turn. -</p> -<p> -It was the cook Ferdinando. He had come up behind on his bare feet, and -out upon the sea he gazed with that odd eerie look of the deaf and dumb, -heedless of us, it seemed, as we had been dead portions of the ship's -fabric, seeing but the salt wave, the rim of rising sun, blood-red upon -the horizon, communing with an old familiar. -</p> -<p> -“A cauld momin', cook,” said Horn, like one who tests a humbug pretending -to be dumb, but Ferdinando heard him not. -</p> -<p> -“It might have been a man wi' all his faculties,” said the seaman -whispering, “and it's time we werena seen thegether. I'll tell ye later -on.” - </p> -<p> -With that we separated, he to some trivial duty of his office, I, with a -mind all disturbed, back to my berth to lie awake, tossing and speculating -on the meaning of Horn's mystery. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XI -</h2> -<h3> -THE SCUTTLED SHIP -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen I went on deck next morning there was something great ado. We were -out of sight of land, sailing large, as the old phrase went, on a brisk -quarter breeze with top-sails atrip, and the sky a vast fine open blue. -The crew were gathered at the poop, the pump was clanking in the midst of -them, and I saw they were taking spells at the cruellest labour a seaman -knows. -</p> -<p> -At first I was noway troubled at the spectacle; a leak was to be expected -in old rotten-beams, and I went forward with the heart of me not a pulse -the faster. -</p> -<p> -Risk was leaning over the poop-rail, humped up and his beard on his hands; -Murchison, a little apart, swept the horizon with a prospect-glass, and -the pump sent a great spate of bilge-water upon the deck. But for a man at -the tiller who kept the ship from yawing in the swell that swung below her -counter the <i>Seven Sisters</i> sailed at her sweet will; all the -interest of her company was in this stream of stinking water that she -retched into the scuppers. And yet I could not but be struck by the -half-hearted manner in which the seamen wrought; they were visibly -shirking; I saw it in the slack muscles, in the heedless eyes. -</p> -<p> -Risk rose and looked sourly at me as I went up. “Are ye for a job?” said -he. “It's more in your line perhaps than clerkin'.” - </p> -<p> -“What, at the pumps? Is the old randy geyzing already?” - </p> -<p> -“Like a washing-boyne,” said he. “Bear a hand like a good lad! we maun -keep her afloat at least till some other vessel heaves in sight.” - </p> -<p> -In the tone and look of the man there was something extraordinary. His -words were meant to suggest imminent peril, and yet his voice was shallow -as that of a burgh bellman crying an auction sale, and his eyes had more -interest in the horizon that his mate still searched with the -prospect-glass than in the spate of bilge that gulped upon the deck. -</p> -<p> -Bilge did I say? Heavens! it was bilge no more, but the pure sea-green -that answered to the clanking pump. It was no time for idle wonder at the -complacence of the skipper; I flew to the break and threw my strength into -the seaman's task. “Clank-click, clank-click”—the instrument worked -reluctantly as if the sucker moved in slime, and in a little the sweat -poured from me. -</p> -<p> -“How is she now, Campbell?” asked Risk, as the carpenter came on deck. -</p> -<p> -“Three feet in the hold,” said Campbell airily, like one that had an easy -conscience. -</p> -<p> -“Good lord, a foot already!” cried Risk, and then in a tone of sarcasm, -“Hearty, lads, hearty there! A little more Renfrewshire beef into it, Mr. -Greig, if you please.” - </p> -<p> -At that I ceased my exertion, stood back straight and looked at the faces -about me. There was only one man in the company who did not seem to be -amused at me, and that was Horn, who stood with folded arms, moodily eying -the open sea. -</p> -<p> -“You seem mighty joco about it,” I said to Risk, and I wonder to this day -at my blindness that never read the whole tale in these hurried events. -</p> -<p> -“I can afford to be,” he said quickly; “if I gang I gang wi' clean hands,” - and he spat into the seawater streaming from the pump where the port-watch -now were working with as much listlessness as the men they superseded. -</p> -<p> -To the taunt I made no reply, but moved after Horn who had gone forward -with his hands in his pockets. -</p> -<p> -“What does this mean, Horn?” I asked him. “Is the vessel in great danger?” - </p> -<p> -“I suppose she is,” said he bitterly, “but I have had nae experience o' -scuttled ships afore.” - </p> -<p> -“Scuttled!” cried I, astounded, only half grasping his meaning. -</p> -<p> -“Jist that,” said he. “The job's begun. It began last night in the run of -the vessel as I showed ye when ye put your ear to the beam. After I left -ye, I foun' half a dizen cords fastened to the pump stanchels; ane of them -I pulled and got a plug at the end of it; the ithers hae been comin' oot -since as it suited Dan Risk best, and the <i>Seven Ststers</i> is doomed -to die o' a dropsy this very day. Wasn't I the cursed idiot that ever -lipped drink in Clerihew's coffin-room!” - </p> -<p> -“If it was that,” said I, “why did you not cut the cords and spoil the -plot?” - </p> -<p> -“Cut the cords! Ye mean cut my ain throat; that's what wad happen if the -skipper guessed my knowledge o' his deevilry. And dae ye think a gallows -job o' this kind depends a'thegither on twa or three bits o' twine? Na, -na, this is a very business-like transaction, Mr. Greig, and I'll warrant -there has been naethin' left to chance. I wondered at them bein' sae -pernicketty about the sma' boats afore we sailed when the timbers o' the -ship hersel' were fair ganting. That big new boat and sails frae Kirkcaldy -was a gey odd thing in itsel' if I had been sober enough to think o't. I -suppose ye paid your passage, Mr. Greig? I can fancy a purser on the <i>Seven -Sisters</i> upon nae ither footin' and that made me dubious o' ye when I -first learned o' this hell's caper for Jamieson o' the Grange. If ye hadna -fought wi' the skipper I would hae coonted ye in wi' the rest.” - </p> -<p> -“He has two pounds of my money,” I answered; “at least I've saved the -other two if we fail to reach Halifax.” - </p> -<p> -At that he laughed softly again. -</p> -<p> -“It might be as well wi' Risk as wi' the conger,” said he, meaningly. “I'm -no' sae sure that you and me's meant to come oot o' this; that's what I -might tak' frae their leaving only the twa o' us aft when they were -puttin' the cargo aff there back at Blackness.” - </p> -<p> -“The cargo!” I repeated. -</p> -<p> -“Of course,” said Horn. “Ye fancied they were goin' to get rid o' ye -there, did ye? I'll alloo I thought that but a pretence on your pairt, and -no' very neatly done at that. Well, the smallest pairt but the maist -valuable o' the cargo shipped at Borrowstouness is still in Scotland; and -the underwriters 'll be to pay through the nose for what has never run sea -risks.” - </p> -<p> -At that a great light came to me. This was the reason for the masked cuddy -skylights, the utter darkness of the <i>Seven Sisters</i> while her boats -were plying to the shore; for this was I so closely kept at her ridiculous -manifest; the lists of lace and plate I had been fatuously copying were -lists of stuff no longer on the ship at all, but back in the possession of -the owner of the brigantine. -</p> -<p> -“You are an experienced seaman—?” - </p> -<p> -“I have had a vessel of my own,” broke in Horn, some vanity as well as -shame upon his countenance. -</p> -<p> -“Well, you are the more likely to know the best way out of this trap we -are in,” I went on. “For a certain reason I am not at all keen on it to go -back to Scotland, but I would sooner risk that than run in leash with a -scoundrel like this who's sinking his command, not to speak of hazarding -my unworthy life with a villainous gang. Is there any way out of it, -Horn?” - </p> -<p> -The seaman pondered, a dark frown upon his tanned forehead, where the -veins stood out in knots, betraying his perturbation. The wind whistled -faintly in the tops, the <i>Seven Sisters</i> plainly went by the head; -she had a slow response to her helm, and moved sluggishly. Still the pump -was clanking and we could hear the water streaming through the scupper -holes. Risk had joined his mate and was casting anxious eyes over the -waters. -</p> -<p> -“If we play the safty here, Mr. Greig,” said Horn, “there's a chance o' a -thwart for us when the <i>Seven Ststers</i> comes to her labour. That's -oor only prospect. At least they daurna murder us.” - </p> -<p> -“And what about the crew?” I asked. “Do you tell me there is not enough -honesty among them all to prevent a blackguardly scheme like this?” - </p> -<p> -“We're the only twa on this ship this morning wi' oor necks ootside tow, -for they're all men o' the free trade, and broken men at that,” said Horn -resolutely, and even in the midst of this looming disaster my private -horror rose within me. -</p> -<p> -“Ah!” said I, helpless to check the revelation, “speak for yourself, Mr. -Horn; it's the hangman I'm here fleeing from.” - </p> -<p> -He looked at me with quite a new countenance, clearly losing relish for -his company. -</p> -<p> -“Anything by-ordinar dirty?” he asked, and in my humility I did not have -the spirit to resent what that tone and query implied. -</p> -<p> -“Dirty enough,” said I, “the man's dead,” and Horn's face cleared. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, faith! is that all?” quo' he, “I was thinkin' it might be coinin'—beggin' -your pardon, Mr. Greig, or somethin' in the fancy way. But a gentleman's -quarrel ower the cartes or a wench—that's a different tale. I hate -homicide mysel' to tell the truth, but whiles I've had it in my heart, and -in a way o' speakin* Dan Risk this meenute has my gully-knife in his -ribs.” - </p> -<p> -As he spoke the vessel, mishandled, or a traitor to her helm, now that she -was all awash internally with water, yawed and staggered in the wind. The -sails shivered, the yards swung violently, appalling noises came from the -hold. At once the pumping ceased, and Risk's voice roared in the -confusion, ordering the launch of the Kirkcaldy boat. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XII -</h2> -<h3> -MAKES PLAIN THE DEEPEST VILLAINY OF RISK AND SETS ME ON A FRENCHMAN -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen I come to write these affairs down after the lapse of years, I find -my memory but poorly retains the details of that terrific period between -the cry of Risk and the moment when Horn and I, abandoned on the doomed -vessel, watched the evening fall upon the long Kirkcaldy boat, her mast -stepped, but her sails down, hovering near us for the guarantee of our -eternal silence regarding the crime the men on her were there and then -committing. There is a space—it must have been brief, but I lived a -lifetime in it—whose impressions rest with me, blurred, but with the -general hue of agony. I can see the sun again sailing overhead in the -arching sky of blue; the enormous ocean, cruel, cold, spread out to the -line of the horizon; the flapping sails and drumming reef-points, the -streaming halliards and clew-garnets, the spray buffeting upon our hull -and spitting in our faces like an enemy; I hear the tumult of the seamen -hurrying vulgarly to save their wretched lives, the gluck of waters in the -bowels of the ship, the thud of cargo loose and drifting under decks. -</p> -<p> -But I see and hear it all as in a dream or play, and myself someway -standing only a spectator. -</p> -<p> -It seemed that Risk and his men put all their dependence on the long-boat -out of Kirkcaldy. She was partly decked at the bows like a Ballantrae -herring-skiff, beamy and commodious. They clustered round her like ants; -swung her out, and over she went, and the whole hellish plot lay revealed -in the fact that she was all found with equipment and provisions. -</p> -<p> -Horn and I made an effort to assist at her preparation; we were shoved -aside with frantic curses; we were beaten back by her oars when we sought -to enter her, and when she pushed off from the side of the <i>Seven -Sisters</i>, Dan Risk was so much the monster that he could jeer at our -perplexity. He sat at the tiller of her without a hat, his long hair, that -was turning lyart, blown by the wind about his black and mocking eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Head her for Halifax, Horn,” said he, “and ye'll get there by-and-by.” - </p> -<p> -“Did I ever do ye any harm, skipper?” cried the poor seaman, standing on -the gunwale, hanging to the shrouds, and his aspect hungry for life. -</p> -<p> -“Ye never got the chance, Port Glesca,” cried back Risk, hugging the -tiller of the Kirkcaldy boat under his arm. “I'll gie ye a guess— -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -Come-a-riddle, come-a-riddle, come-a-rote-tote-tote— -</pre> -<p> -Oh to bleezes! I canna put a rhyme till't, but this is the sense o't—a -darkie's never deaf and dumb till he's deid. Eh! Antonio, ye rascal!” - </p> -<p> -He looked forward as he spoke and exchanged a villainous laugh with the -cook, his instrument, who had overheard us and betrayed. -</p> -<p> -“Ye would mak' me swing for it, would ye, John Horn, when ye get ashore? -That's what I would expect frae a keelie oot o' Clyde.” - </p> -<p> -It is hard to credit that man could be so vile as this, but of such stuff -was Daniel Risk. He was a fiend in the glory of his revenge upon the -seaman who had threatened him with the gallows; uplifted like a madman's, -his face, that was naturally sallow, burned lamp-red at his high -cheek-bones, his hale eye gloated, his free hand flourished as in an -exultation. His mate sat silent beside him on the stern-thwart, clearing -the sheets: the crew, who had out the sweeps to keep the boat's bows in -the wind, made an effort to laugh at his jocosities, but clearly longed to -be away from this tragedy. And all the time, I think, I stood beside the -weather bulwark, surrendered to the certainty of a speedy death, with the -lines of a ballad coming back again and again to my mind: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -An' he shall lie in fathoms deep, -The star-fish ower his een shall creep. -An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep -In the hall o' Monaltrie. -</pre> -<p> -I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in spite -of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea that -beat about my feet. -</p> -<p> -My silence—my seeming indifference—would seem to have touched -the heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn. -At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on -me. -</p> -<p> -“I'm saying, Greig,” he cried, “noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy was -no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole that—astern, -lads, and tak' the purser aboard.” - </p> -<p> -The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick -me off the doomed ship. -</p> -<p> -At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a second—praise -God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never released the cleat -by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still upon the lower shrouds -and saw hope upon his countenance. -</p> -<p> -“Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Not if he offered a thousand pounds,” cried Risk, “in ye come!” and -Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump among -them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as with a -spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, bleeding -profusely and half insensible. -</p> -<p> -“You are a foul dog!” I cried to his assailant. “And I'll settle with you -for that!” - </p> -<p> -“Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!” cried Risk impatient. -</p> -<p> -“Let us look oot for oorselves, that's whit I say,” cried Murchison angry -at my threat, and prepared cheerfully to see me perish. “What for should -we risk oor necks with either o' them?” and he pushed off slightly with -his boat-hook. -</p> -<p> -The skipper turned, struck down the hook, and snarled upon him. “Shut up, -Murchison!” he cried. “I'm still the captain, if ye please, and I ken as -much about the clerk here as will keep his gab shut on any trifle we hae -dune.” - </p> -<p> -I looked upon the clean sea, and then at that huddle of scoundrels in the -Kirkcaldy boat, and then upon the seaman Horn coming back again to the -full consciousness of his impending fate. He gazed upon me with eyes -alarmed and pitiful, and at that I formed my resolution. -</p> -<p> -“I stick by Horn,” said I. “If he gets too, I'll go; if not I'll bide and -be drowned with an honest man.” - </p> -<p> -“Bide and be damned then! Ye've had your chance,” shouted Risk, letting -his boat fall off. “It's time we werena here.” And the halliards of his -main-sail were running in the blocks as soon as he said it. The boat swept -away rapidly, but not before I gave him a final touch of my irony. From my -pocket I took out my purse and threw it upon his lap. -</p> -<p> -“There's the ither twa, Risk,” I cried; “it's no' like the thing at all to -murder a harmless lad for less than what ye bargained for.” - </p> -<p> -He bawled back some reply I could not hear, and I turned about, to see -Horn making for the small boat on the starboard chocks. I followed with a -hope again wakened, only to share his lamentation when he found that two -of her planks had been wantonly sprung from their clinkers, rendering her -utterly useless. The two other boats were in a similar condition; Risk and -his confederates had been determined that no chance should be left of our -escape from the <i>Seven Sisters</i>. -</p> -<p> -It was late in the afternoon. The wind had softened somewhat; in the west -there were rising billowy clouds of silver and red, and half a mile away -the Kirkcaldy boat, impatient doubtless for the end of us, that final -assurance of safety, plied to windward with only her foresail set. We had -gone below in a despairing mind on the chance that the leakage might be -checked, but the holes were under water in the after peak, and in other -parts we could not come near. An inch-and-a-half auger, and a large -bung-borer, a gouge and chisel in the captain's private locker, told us -how the crime had been committed whereof we were the victims. -</p> -<p> -We had come on deck again, the pair of us, without the vaguest notion of -what was next to do, and—speaking for myself—convinced that -nothing could avert our hurrying fate. Horn told me later that he proposed -full half a score of plans for at least a prolongation of our time, but -that I paid no heed to them. That may be, for I know the ballad stanza -went in my head like a dirge, as I sat on a hatch with the last few days -of my history rolling out before my eyes. The dusk began to fall like a -veil, the wind declined still further. Horn feverishly hammered and -caulked at the largest of the boats, now and then throwing the tools from -him as in momentary realisations of the hopelessness of his toil that -finally left him in despair. -</p> -<p> -“It's no use, Mr. Greig,” he cried then, “they did the job ower weel,” and -he shook his fist at the Kirkcaldy boat. He checked the gesture suddenly -and gave an astonished cry. -</p> -<p> -“They're gone, Greig,” said he, now frantic. “They're gone. O God! they're -gone! I was sure they couldna hae the heart to leave us at the last,” and -as he spoke I chanced to look astern, and behold! a ship with all her -canvas full was swiftly bearing down the wind upon us. We had been so -intent upon our fate that we had never seen her! -</p> -<p> -I clambered up the shrouds of the main-mast, and cried upon the coming -vessel with some mad notion that she might fancy the <i>Seven Sisters</i> -derelict. But indeed that was not necessary. In a little she went round -into the wind, a long-boat filled with men came towards us, and twenty -minutes later we were on the deck of the <i>Roi Rouge</i>. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIII -</h2> -<h3> -WHEREIN APPEARS A GENTLEMANLY CORSAIR AND A FRENCH-IRISH LORD -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile it may be that the actual crisis of my manhood came to me on the day -I first put on my Uncle Andrew's shoes, the sense of it was mine only when -I met with Captain Thurot. I had put the past for ever behind me (as I -fancied) when I tore the verses of a moon-struck boy and cast them out -upon the washing-green at Hazel Den, but I was bound to foregather with -men like Thurot and his friends ere the scope and fashion of a man's world -were apparent to me. Whether his influence on my destiny in the long run -was good or bad I would be the last to say; he brought me into danger, but—in -a manner—he brought me good, though that perhaps was never in his -mind. -</p> -<p> -You must fancy this Thurot a great tall man, nearly half a foot exceeding -myself in stature, peak-bearded, straight as a lance, with plum-black eyes -and hair, polished in dress and manner to the rarest degree and with a -good humour that never failed. He sat under a swinging lamp in his cabin -when Horn and I were brought before him, and asked my name first in an -accent of English that was if anything somewhat better than my own. -</p> -<p> -“Greig,” said I; “Paul Greig,” and he started as if I had pricked him with -a knife. -</p> -<p> -A little table stood between us, on which there lay a book he had been -reading when we were brought below, some hours after the <i>Seven Sisters</i> -had gone down, and the search for the Kirkcaldy boat had been abandoned. -He took the lamp off its hook, came round the table and held the light so -that he could see my face the clearer. At any time his aspect was manly -and pleasant; most of all was it so when he smiled, and I was singularly -encouraged when he smiled at me, with a rapid survey of my person that -included the Hazel Den mole and my Uncle Andrew's shoes. -</p> -<p> -A seaman stood behind us; to him he spoke a message I could not -comprehend, as it was in French, of which I had but little. The seaman -retired; we were offered a seat, and in a minute the seaman came back with -a gentleman—a landsman by his dress. -</p> -<p> -“Pardon, my lord,” said the captain to his visitor, “but I thought that -here was a case—speaking of miracles—you would be interested -in. Our friends here”—he indicated myself particularly with a -gracious gesture—“are not, as you know, dropped from heaven, but -come from that unfortunate ship we saw go under a while ago. May I ask -your lordship to tell us—you will see the joke in a moment—whom -we were talking of at the moment our watch first announced the sight of -that vessel?” - </p> -<p> -His lordship rubbed his chin and smilingly peered at the captain. -</p> -<p> -“Gad!” he said. “You are the deuce and all, Thurot. What are you in the -mood for now? Why, we talked of Greig—Andrew Greig, the best player -of <i>passe-passe</i> and the cheerfullest loser that ever cut a pack.” - </p> -<p> -Thurot turned to me, triumphant. -</p> -<p> -“Behold,” said he, “how ridiculously small the world is. <i>Ma foi!</i> I -wonder how I manage so well to elude my creditors, even when I sail the -high seas. Lord Clancarty, permit me to have the distinguished honour to -introduce another Greig, who I hope has many more of his charming uncle's -qualities than his handsome eyes and red shoes. I assume it is a nephew, -because poor Monsieur Andrew was not of the marrying kind. Anyhow, 'tis a -Greig of the blood, or Antoine Thurot is a bat! And—Monsieur Greig, -it is my felicity to bid you know one of your uncle's best friends and -heartiest admirers—Lord Clancarty.” - </p> -<p> -“Lord Clancarty!” I cried, incredulous. “Why he figured in my uncle's -log-book a dozen years ago.” - </p> -<p> -“A dozen, no less!” cried his lordship, with a grimace. “We need not be so -particular about the period. I trust he set me down there a decently good -companion; I could hardly hope to figure in a faithful scribe's tablets as -an example otherwise,” said his lordship, laughing and taking me cordially -by the hand. “Gad! one has but to look at you to see Andrew Greig in every -line. I loved your uncle, lad. He had a rugged, manly nature, and just -sufficient folly, bravado, and sinfulness to keep a poor Irishman in -countenance. Thurot, one must apologise for taking from your very lips the -suggestion I see hesitating there, but sure 'tis an Occasion this; it must -be a bottle—the best bottle on your adorable but somewhat ill-found -vessel. Why 'tis Andy Greig come young again. Poor Andy! I heard of his -death no later than a month ago, and have ordered a score of masses for -him—which by the way are still unpaid for to good Father Hamilton. I -could not sleep happily of an evening—of a forenoon rather—if -I thought of our Andy suffering aught that a few candles and such-like -could modify.” And his lordship with great condescension tapped and passed -me his jewelled box of maccabaw. -</p> -<p> -You can fancy a raw lad, untutored and untravelled, fresh from the -plough-tail, as it were, was vastly tickled at this introduction to the -genteel world. I was no longer the shivering outlaw, the victim of a Risk. -I was honoured more or less for the sake of my uncle (whose esteem in this -quarter my father surely would have been surprised at), and it seemed as -though my new life in a new country were opening better than I had planned -myself. I blessed my shoes—the Shoes of Sorrow—and for the -time forgot the tragedy from which I was escaping. -</p> -<p> -They birled the bottle between them, Clancarty and Thurot, myself -virtually avoiding it, but clinking now and then, and laughing with them -at the numerous exploits they recalled of him that was the bond between -us; Horn elsewhere found himself well treated also; and listening to these -two gentlemen of the world, their allusions, off-hand, to the great, their -indications of adventure, travel, intrigue, enterprise, gaiety, I saw my -horizon expand until it was no longer a cabin on the sea I sat in, with -the lamplight swinging over me, but a spacious world of castles, palaces, -forests, streets, churches, casernes, harbours, masquerades, routs, -operas, love, laughter, and song. Perhaps they saw my elation and fully -understood, and smiled within them at my efforts to figure as a little man -of the world too—as boys will—but they never showed me other -than the finest sympathy and attention. -</p> -<p> -I found them fascinating at night; I found them much the same at morning, -which is the test of the thing in youth, and straightway made a hero of -the foreigner Thurot. Clancarty was well enough, but without any method in -his life, beyond a principle of keeping his character ever trim and -presentable like his cravat. Thurot carried on his strenuous career as -soldier, sailor, spy, politician, with a plausible enough theory that thus -he got the very juice and pang of life, that at the most, as he would aye -be telling me, was brief to an absurdity. -</p> -<p> -“Your Scots,” he would say to me, “as a rule, are too phlegmatic—is -it not, Lord Clancarty?—but your uncle gave me, on my word, a regard -for your whole nation. He had aplomb—Monsieur Andrew; he had luck -too, and if he cracked a nut anywhere there was always a good kernel in -it.” And the shoes see how I took the allusion to King George, and that -gave me a flood of light upon my new position. -</p> -<p> -I remembered that in my uncle's log-book the greater part of the narrative -of his adventures in France had to do with politics and the intrigues of -the Jacobite party. He was not, himself, apparently, “out,” as we call it, -in the affair of the 'Forty-five, because he did not believe the occasion -suitable, and thought the Prince precipitous, but before and after that -untoward event for poor Scotland, he had been active with such men as -Clancarty, Lord Clare, the Murrays, the Mareschal, and such-like, which -was not to be wondered at, perhaps, for our family had consistently been -Jacobite, a fact that helped to its latter undoing, though my father as -nominal head of the house had taken no interest in politics; and my own -sympathies had ever been with the Chevalier, whom I as a boy had seen ride -through the city of Glasgow, wishing myself old enough to be his follower -in such a glittering escapade as he was then embarked on. -</p> -<p> -But though I thought all this in a flash as it were, I betrayed nothing to -Captain Thurot, who seemed somewhat dashed at my silence. There must have -been something in my face, however, to show that I fully realised what he -was feeling at, and was not too complacent, for Clancarty laughed. -</p> -<p> -“Sure, 'tis a good boy, Thurot,” said he, “and loves his King George -properly, like a true patriot.” - </p> -<p> -“I won't believe it of a Greig,” said Captain Thurot. “A pestilent, dull -thing, loyalty in England; the other thing came much more readily, I -remember, to the genius of Andrew Greig. Come! Monsieur Paul, to be quite -frank about it, have you no instincts of friendliness to the exiled house? -M. Tête-de-fer has a great need at this particular moment for English -friends. Once he could count on your uncle to the last ditch; can he count -on the nephew?” - </p> -<p> -“M. Tête-de-fer?” I repeated, somewhat bewildered. -</p> -<p> -“M. Tête-de-mouche, rather,” cried my lord, testily, and then hurried to -correct himself. “He alluded, Monsieur Greig, to Prince Charles Edward. We -are all, I may confess, his Royal Highness's most humble servants; some of -us, however—as our good friend, Captain Thurot—more actively -than others. For myself I begin to weary of a cause that has been dormant -for eight years, but no matter; sure one must have a recreation!” - </p> -<p> -I looked at his lordship to see if he was joking. He was the relic of a -handsome man, though still, I daresay, less than fifty years of age, with -a clever face and gentle, just tinged by the tracery of small surface -veins to a redness that accused him of too many late nights; his mouth and -eyes, that at one time must have been fascinating, had the ultimate -irresolution that comes to one who finds no fingerposts at life's -cross-roads and thinks one road just as good's another. He was born at -Atena, near Hamburg (so much I had remembered from my uncle's memoir), but -he was, even in his accent, as Irish as Kerry. Someway I liked and yet -doubted him, in spite of all the praise of him that I had read in a dead -man's diurnal. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Fi donc! vous devriez avoir honte, milord</i>,” cried Thurot, somewhat -disturbed, I saw, at this reckless levity. -</p> -<p> -“Ashamed!” said his lordship, laughing; “why, 'tis for his Royal Highness -who has taken a diligence to the devil, and left us poor dependants to pay -the bill at the inn. But no matter, Master Greig, I'll be cursed if I say -a single word more to spoil a charming picture of royalty under a cloud.” - And so saying he lounged away from us, a strange exquisite for shipboard, -laced up to the nines, as the saying goes, parading the deck as it had -been the Rue St. Honoré, with merry words for every sailorman who tapped a -forehead to him. -</p> -<p> -Captain Thurot looked at him, smiling, and shrugged his shoulders. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Tête-de-mouche!</i> There it is for you, M. Paul—the head of a -butterfly. Now you—” he commanded my eyes most masterfully—“now -<i>you</i> have a Scotsman's earnestness; I should like to see you on the -right side. <i>Mon Dieu</i>, you owe us your life, no less; 'tis no more -King George's, for one of his subjects has morally sent you to the bottom -of the sea in a scuttled ship. I wish we had laid hands on your Risk and -his augers.” - </p> -<p> -But I was learning my world; I was cautious; I said neither yea nor nay. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIV -</h2> -<h3> -IN DUNKERQUE—A LADY SPEAKS TO ME IN SCOTS AND A FAT PRIEST SEEMS TO -HAVE SOMETHING ON HIS MIND -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo days after, the <i>Roi Rouge</i> came to Dunkerque; Horn the seaman -went home to Scotland in a vessel out of Leith with a letter in his pocket -for my people at Hazel Den, and I did my best for the next fortnight to -forget by day the remorse that was my nightmare. To this Captain Thurot -and Lord Clancarty, without guessing 'twas a homicide they favoured, -zealously helped me. -</p> -<p> -And then Dunkerque at the moment was sparkling with attractions. Something -was in its air to distract every waking hour, the pulse of drums, the -sound of trumpets calling along the shores, troops manoeuvring, elation -apparent in every countenance. I was Thurot's guest in a lodging over a <i>boulangerie</i> -upon the sea front, and at daybreak I would look out from the little -window to see regiments of horse and foot go by on their way to an -enormous camp beside the old fort of Risebank. Later in the morning I -would see the soldiers toiling at the grand sluice for deepening the -harbour or repairing the basin, or on the dunes near Graveline manoeuvring -under the command of the Prince de Soubise and Count St. Germain. All day -the paving thundered with the roll of tumbrels, with the noise of plunging -horse; all night the front of the <i>boulangerie</i> was clamorous with -carriages bearing cannon, timber, fascines, gabions, and other military -stores. -</p> -<p> -Thurot, with his ship in harbour, became a man of the town, with ruffled -neck- and wrist-bands, the most extravagant of waistcoats, hats laced with -point d'Espagne, and up and down Dunkerque he went with a restless foot as -if the conduct of the world depended on him. He sent an old person, a -reduced gentleman, to me to teach me French that I laboured with as if my -life depended on it from a desire to be as soon as possible out of his -reverence, for, to come to the point and be done with it, he was my -benefactor to the depth of my purse. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes Lord Clancarty asked me out to a <i>déjeuner</i>. He moved in a -society where I met many fellow countrymen—Captain Foley, of Rooth's -regiment; Lord Roscommon and his brother young Dillon; Lochgarry, -Lieutenant-Colonel of Ogilvie's Corps, among others, and by-and-by I -became known favourably in what, if it was not actually the select society -of Dunkerque, was so at least in the eyes of a very ignorant young -gentleman from the moors of Mearns. -</p> -<p> -It was so strange a thing as to be almost incredible, but my Uncle Andy's -shoes seemed to have some magic quality that brought them for ever on -tracks they had taken before, and if my cast of countenance did not -proclaim me a Greig wherever I went, the shoes did so. They were a -passport to the favour of folks the most divergent in social state—to -a poor Swiss who kept the door and attended on the table at Clancarty's -(my uncle, it appeared, had once saved his life), and to Soubise himself, -who counted my uncle the bravest man and the best mimic he had ever met, -and on that consideration alone pledged his influence to find me a post. -</p> -<p> -You may be sure I did not wear such tell-tale shoes too often. I began to -have a freit about them as he had to whom they first belonged, and to -fancy them somehow bound up with my fortune. -</p> -<p> -I put them on only when curiosity prompted me to test what new -acquaintances they might make me, and one day I remember I donned them for -a party of blades at Lord Clancarty's, the very day indeed upon which the -poor Swiss, weeping, told me what he owed to the old rogue with the -scarred brow now lying dead in the divots of home. -</p> -<p> -There was a new addition to the company that afternoon—a priest who -passed with the name of Father Hamilton, though, as I learned later, he -was formerly Vliegh, a Fleming, born at Ostend, and had been educated -partly at the College Major of Louvain and partly in London. He was or had -been parish priest of Dixmunde near Ostend, and his most decent memory of -my uncle, whom he, too, knew, was a challenge to a drinking-bout in which -the thin man of Meams had been several bottles more thirsty than the fat -priest of Dixmunde. -</p> -<p> -He was corpulent beyond belief, with a dewlap like an ox; great limbs, a -Gargantuan appetite, and a laugh like thunder that at its loudest created -such convulsions of his being as compelled him to unbutton the neck of his -<i>soutane</i>, else he had died of a seizure. -</p> -<p> -His friends at Lord Clancarty's played upon him a little joke wherein I -took an unconscious part. It seemed they had told him Mr. Andrew Greig was -not really dead, but back in France and possessed of an elixir of youth -which could make the ancient and furrowed hills themselves look like -yesterday's creations. -</p> -<p> -“What! M. Andrew!” he had cried. “An elixir of grease were more in the -fellow's line; I have never seen a man's viands give so scurvy a return -for the attention he paid them. 'Tis a pole—this M. Andrew—but -what a head—what a head!” - </p> -<p> -“Oh! but 'tis true of the elixir,” they protested; “and he looks thirty -years younger; here he comes!” - </p> -<p> -It was then that I stepped in with the servant bawling my name, and the -priest surged to his feet with his face all quivering. -</p> -<p> -“What! M. Andrew!” he cried; “fattened and five-and-twenty. Holy Mother! -It is, then, that miracles are possible? I shall have a hogshead, master, -of thine infernal essence and drink away this paunch, and skip anon like -to the goats of—of-” - </p> -<p> -And then his friends burst into peals of laughter as much at my -bewilderment as at his credulity, and he saw that it was all a pleasantry. -</p> -<p> -“Mon Dieu!” he said, sighing like a November forest. “There was never more -pestilent gleek played upon a wretched man. Oh! oh! oh! I had an angelic -dream for that moment of your entrance, for I saw me again a stripling—a -stripling—and the girl's name was—never mind. God rest her! -she is under grass in Louvain.” - </p> -<p> -All the rest of the day—at Clancarty's, at the Café de la Poste, in -our walk along the dunes where cannon were being fired at marks well out -at sea, this obese cleric scarcely let his eyes off me. He seemed to envy -and admire, and then again he would appear to muse upon my countenance, -debating with himself as one who stands at a shop window pondering a -purchase that may be on the verge of his means. -</p> -<p> -Captain Thurot observed his interest, and took an occasion to whisper to -me. -</p> -<p> -“Have a care, M. Greig,” said he playfully; “this priest schemes -something; that's ever the worst of your Jesuits, and you may swear 'tis -not your eternal salvation.” - </p> -<p> -'Twas that afternoon we went all together to the curious lodging in the -Rue de la Boucherie. I remember as it had been yesterday how sunny was the -weather, and how odd it seemed to me that there should be a country-woman -of my own there. -</p> -<p> -She was not, as it seems to me now, lovely, though where her features -failed of perfection it would beat me to disclose, but there was something -inexpressibly fascinating in her—in the mild, kind, melting eyes, -and the faint sad innuendo of her smile. She sat at a spinet playing, and -for the sake of this poor exile, sang some of the songs we are acquainted -with at home. Upon my word, the performance touched me to the core! I felt -sick for home: my mother's state, the girl at Kirkillstane, the dead lad -on the moor, sounds of Earn Water, clouds and heather on the hill of -Ballageich—those mingled matters swept through my thoughts as I sat -with these blithe gentlemen, hearkening to a simple Doric tune, and my -eyes filled irrestrainably with tears. -</p> -<p> -Miss Walkinshaw—for so her name was—saw what effect her music -had produced; reddened, ceased her playing, took me to the window while -the others discussed French poetry, and bade me tell her, as we looked out -upon the street, all about myself and of my home. She was, perhaps, ten -years my senior, and I ran on like a child. -</p> -<p> -“The Mearns!” said she. “Oh dear, oh dear! And you come frae the Meams!” - She dropped into her Scots that showed her heart was true, and told me she -had often had her May milk in my native parish. -</p> -<p> -“And you maybe know,” said she, flushing, “the toun of Glasgow, and the -house of Walkinshaw, my—my father, there?” - </p> -<p> -I knew the house very well, but no more of it than that it existed. -</p> -<p> -It was in her eyes the tears were now, talking of her native place, but -she quickly changed the topic ere I could learn much about her, and she -guessed—with a smile coming through her tears, like a sun through -mist—that I must have been in love and wandered in its fever, to be -so far from home at my age. -</p> -<p> -“There was a girl,” I said, my face hot, my heart rapping at the -recollection, and someway she knew all about Isobel Fortune in five -minutes, while the others in the room debated on so trivial a thing as the -songs of the troubadours. -</p> -<p> -“Isobel Fortune!” she said (and I never thought the name so beautiful as -it sounded on her lips, where it lingered like a sweet); “Isobel Fortune; -why, it's an omen, Master Greig, and it must be a good fortune. I am wae -for the poor lassie that her big foolish lad”—she smiled with -bewitching sympathy at me under long lashes—“should be so far away -frae her side. You must go back as quick as you can; but stay now, is it -true you love her still?” - </p> -<p> -The woman would get the feeling and the truth from a heart of stone; I -only sighed for answer. -</p> -<p> -“Then you'll go back,” said she briskly, “and it will be Earn-side again -and trysts at Ballageich—oh! the name is like a bagpipe air to me!—and -you will be happy, and be married and settle down—and—and poor -Clemie Walkinshaw will be friendless far away from her dear Scotland, but -not forgetting you and your wife.” - </p> -<p> -“I cannot go back there at all,” I said, with a long face, bitter enough, -you may be sure, at the knowledge I had thrown away all that she depicted, -and her countenance fell. -</p> -<p> -“What for no'?” she asked softly. -</p> -<p> -“Because I fought a duel with the man that Isobel preferred, and—and—killed -him!” - </p> -<p> -She shuddered with a little sucking in of air at her teeth and drew up her -shoulders as if chilled with cold. -</p> -<p> -“Ah, then,” said she, “the best thing's to forget. Are you a Jacobite, -Master Greig?” - </p> -<p> -She had set aside my love affair and taken to politics with no more than a -sigh of sympathy, whether for the victim of my jealousy, or Isobel -Fortune, or for me, I could not say. -</p> -<p> -“I'm neither one thing nor another,” said I. “My father is a staunch -enough royalist, and so, I daresay, I would be too if I had not got a -gliff of bonnie Prince Charlie at the Tontine of Glasgow ten years ago.” - </p> -<p> -“Ten years ago!” she repeated, staring abstracted out at the window. “Ten -years ago! So it was; I thought it was a lifetime since. And what did you -think of him?” - </p> -<p> -Whatever my answer might have been it never got the air, for here -Clancarty, who had had a message come to the door for him, joined us at -the window, and she turned to him with some phrase about the trampling of -troops that passed along the streets. -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” he said, “the affair marches quickly. Have you heard that England -has declared war? And our counter declaration is already on its way -across. <i>Pardieu!</i> there shall be matters toward in a month or two -and the Fox will squeal. Braddock's affair in America has been the best -thing that has happened us in many years.” - </p> -<p> -Thus he went on with singular elation that did not escape me, though my -wits were also occupied by some curious calculations as to what disturbed -the minds of Hamilton and of the lady. I felt that I was in the presence -of some machinating influences probably at variance, for while Clancarty -and Roscommon and Thurot were elate, the priest made only a pretence at -it, and was looking all abstracted as if weightier matters occupied his -mind, his large fat hand, heavy-ringed, buttressing his dewlap, and Miss -Walkinshaw was stealing glances of inquiry at him—glances of inquiry -and also of distrust. All this I saw in a mirror over the mantelpiece of -the room. -</p> -<p> -“Sure there's but one thing to regret in it,” cried Clancarty suddenly, -stopping and turning to me, “it must mean that we lose Monsieur des -Souliers Rouges. <i>Peste!</i> There is always something to worry one -about a war!” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Comment?</i>” said Thurot. -</p> -<p> -“The deportment,” answered his lordship. “Every English subject has been -ordered out of France. We are going to lose not only your company, Father -Hamilton, because of your confounded hare-brained scheme for covering all -Europe in a glass coach, but our M. Greig must put the Sleeve between him -and those best qualified to estimate and esteem his thousand virtues of -head and heart For a <i>louis</i> or two I'd take ship with him and fight -on the other side. Gad! it would always be fighting anyway, and one would -be by one's friend.” - </p> -<p> -The priest's jaw fell as if my going was a blow to his inmost affections; -he turned his face rapidly into shadow; Miss Walkinshaw lost no movement -of his; she was watching him as he had been a snake. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! but it is not necessary that we lose my compatriot so fast as that,” - she said. “There are such things as permits, excepting English friends of -ours from deportment,—and—and—I fancy I could get one -for Mr. Greig.” - </p> -<p> -In my heart I thanked her for her ready comprehension of my inability to -go back to Britain with an easy mind; and I bowed my recognition of her -goodness. -</p> -<p> -She was paying no heed to my politeness; she had again an eye on the -priest, who was obviously cheered marvellously by the prospect. -</p> -<p> -And then we took a dish of tea with her, the lords and Thurot loudly -cheerful, Hamilton ruminant and thundering alternately, Miss Walkinshaw -showing a score of graces as hostess, myself stimulated to some unusual -warmth of spirit as I sat beside her, well-nigh fairly loving her because -she was my country-woman and felt so fond about my native Mearns. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XV -</h2> -<h3> -WHEREIN A SITUATION OFFERS AND I ENGAGE TO GO TRAVELLING WITH THE PRIEST -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> week passed with no further incident particularly affecting this -history. With my reduced and antique mentor I studied <i>la belle langue</i>, -sedulous by day, at night pacing the front of the sea, giving words to its -passion as it broke angry on the bar or thundered on the beach—the -sea that still haunts me and invites, whose absence makes often lonely the -moorland country where is my home, where are my people's graves. It called -me then, in the dripping weather of those nights in France—it called -me temptingly to try again my Shoes of Fortune (as now I named them to -myself), and learn whereto they might lead. -</p> -<p> -But in truth I was now a prisoner to that inviting sea. The last English -vessel had gone; the Channel was a moat about my native isle, and I was a -tee'd ball with a passport that was no more and no less than a warder's -warrant in my pouch. It had come to me under cover of Thurot two days -after Miss Walkinshaw's promise; it commanded <i>tous les gouverneurs et -tous les lieutenants-généraux de nos provinces et de nos armées, -gouverneurs particuliers et commandants de nos villes, places et troupes</i> -to permit and pass the Sieur Greig anywhere in the country, <i>sans lui -donner aucun empêchement</i>, and was signed for the king by the Duc de -Choiseuil. -</p> -<p> -I went round to make my devoirs to the lady to whom I owed the favour, and -this time I was alone. -</p> -<p> -“Where's your shoon, laddie?” said she at the first go-off. “Losh! do ye -no' ken that they're the very makin' o' ye? If it hadna been for them -Clementina Walkinshaw wad maybe never hae lookit the gait ye were on. -Ye'll be to put them on again!” She thrust forth a <i>bottine</i> like a -doll's for size and trod upon my toes, laughing the while with her curious -suggestion of unpractised merriment at my first solemn acceptance of her -humour as earnest. -</p> -<p> -“Am I never to get quit o' thae shoes?” I cried; “the very deil maun be in -them.” - </p> -<p> -“It was the very deil,” said she, “was in them when it was your Uncle -Andrew.” And she stopped and sighed. “O Andy Greig, Andy Greig! had I been -a wise woman and ta'en a guid-hearted though throughither Mearns man's -advice—toots! laddie, I micht be a rudas auld wife by my preachin'. -Oh, gie's a sang, or I'll dee.” - </p> -<p> -And then she flew to the spinet (a handsome instrument singularly out of -keeping with the rest of the plenishing in that odd lodging in the Rue de -la Boucherie of Dunkerque), and touched a prelude and broke into an air. -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -To-day they call that woman lost and wicked; I have seen it said in -books: God's pity on her! she was not bad; she was the very football of -fate, and a heart of the yellow gold. If I was warlock or otherwise had -charms, I would put back the dial two score years and wrench her from -her chains. - -O waly, waly up the bank, -O waly, waly doon the brae. -And waly, waly yon burn-side, -Where I and my love wont to gae. -I leaned my back unto an aik, -I thocht it was a trusty tree, -But first it bowed and syne it brak, -Sae my true love did lichtly me. -</pre> -<p> -They have their own sorrow even in script those ballad words of an exile -like herself, but to hear Miss Walkinshaw sing them was one of the saddest -things I can recall in a lifetime that has known many sorrows. And still, -though sad, not wanting in a sort of brave defiance of calumny, a hope, -and an unchanging affection. She had a voice as sweet as a bird in the -thicket at home; she had an eye full and melting; her lips, at the -sentiment, sometimes faintly broke. -</p> -<p> -I turned my head away that I might not spy upon her feeling, for here, it -was plain, was a tragedy laid bare. She stopped her song mid-way with a -laugh, dashed a hand across her eyes, and threw herself into a chair. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, fie! Mr. Greig, to be backing up a daft woman, old enough to know -better, in her vapours. You must be fancying I am a begrutten bairn to be -snackin' my daidlie in this lamentable fashion, but it's just you and your -Mearns, and your Ballageich, and your douce Scots face and tongue that -have fair bewitched me. O Scotland! Scotland! Let us look oot at this -France o' theirs, Mr. Greig.” She came to the window (her movements were -ever impetuous, like the flight of a butterfly), and “Do I no' wish that -was the Gallowgate,” said she, “and Glasgow merchants were in the shops -and Christian signs abin the doors, like 'MacWhannal' and 'Mackay,' and -'Robin Oliphant'? If that was Bailie John Walkinshaw, wi' his rattan, and -yon was the piazza o' Tontine, would no' his dochter be the happy woman? -Look! look! ye Mearns man, look! look! at the bairn playing pal-al in the -close. 'Tis my little sister Jeanie that's married on the great Doctor -Doig—him wi' the mant i' the Tron kirk—and bairns o' her ain, -I'm tell't, and they'll never hear their Aunt Clemie named but in a -whisper. And yon auld body wi' the mob cap, that's the baxter's widow, and -there's carvie in her scones that you'll can buy for a bawbee apiece.” - </p> -<p> -The maddest thing!—but here was the woman smiling through her tears, -and something tremulous in her as though her heart was leaping at her -breast. Suddenly her manner changed, as if she saw a sobering sight, and I -looked out again, and there was Father Hamilton heaving round the corner -of a lane, his face as red as the moon in a fog of frost. -</p> -<p> -“Ah!” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “here's France, sure enough, Mr. Greig. We -must put by our sentiments, and be just witty or as witty as we can be. If -you're no' witty here, my poor Mr. Greig, you might as well be dumb. A -heart doesna maitter much; but, oh! be witty.” - </p> -<p> -The priest was making for the house. She dried her tears before me, a -frankness that flattered my vanity; “and let us noo to our English, Mr. -Greig,” said she as the knock came to the door. “It need be nae honest -Scots when France is chappin'. Would you like to travel for a season?” - </p> -<p> -The question took me by surprise; it had so little relevance to what had -gone before. -</p> -<p> -“Travel?” I repeated. -</p> -<p> -“Travel,” said she again quickly. “In a glass coach with a companion who -has plenty of money—wherever it comes from—and see all Europe, -and maybe—for you are Scots like myself—make money. The fat -priest wants a secretary; that's the long and the short of it, for there's -his foot on the stairs, and if you'll say yes, I fancy I can get you the -situation.” - </p> -<p> -I did not hesitate a second. -</p> -<p> -“Why, then yes, to be sure,” said I, “and thank you kindly.” - </p> -<p> -“Thank <i>you</i>, Paul Greig,” said she softly, for now the Swiss had -opened the door, and she squeezed my wrist. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Benedicite!</i>” cried his reverence and came in, puffing hugely after -his climb, his face now purple almost to strangulation. “May the devil fly -away with turnpike stairs, Madame!—puff-puff—I curse them -whether they be wood or marble;—puff-puff—I curse them -Dunkerque; in Ostend, Paris, all Europe itself, ay even unto the two -Americas. I curse their designers, artisans, owners, and defenders in -their waking and sleeping! Madame, kindly consider your stairs anathema!” - </p> -<p> -“You need all your wind to cool your porridge, as we say in Scotland, -Father Hamilton,” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “and a bonny-like thing it is to -have you coming here blackguarding my honest stairs.” - </p> -<p> -He laughed enormously and fell into a chair, shaking the house as if the -world itself had quaked. “Pardon, my dear Miss Walkinshaw,” said he when -his breath was restored, “but, by the Mass, you must confess 'tis the -deuce and all for a man—a real man that loves his viands, and sleeps -well o' nights, and has a contented mind and grows flesh accordingly, to -trip up to Paradise—” here he bowed, his neck swelling in massive -folds—“to trip up to Paradise, where the angels are, as easily as a -ballet-dancer—bless her!—skips to the other place where, by my -faith! I should like to pay a brief visit myself, if 'twere only to see -old friends of the Opéra Comique. Madame, I give you good-day. Sir, -Monsieur Greig—'shalt never be a man like thine Uncle Andrew for all -thy confounded elixir. I favour not your virtuous early rising in the -young. There! thine uncle would a-been abed at this hour an' he were alive -and in Dunkerque; thou must be a confoundedly industrious and sober Greig -to be dangling at a petticoat-tail—Pardon, Madame, 'tis the dearest -tail, anyway!—before the hour meridian.” - </p> -<p> -“And this is France,” thought I. “Here's your papistical gospeller at -home!” I minded of the Rev. Scipio Walker in the kirk of Mearns, an image -ever of austerity, waling his words as they had come from Solomon, -groaning even-on for man's eternal doom. -</p> -<p> -The priest quickly comprehended my surprise at his humour, and laughed the -more at that till a fit of coughing choked him. “<i>Mon Dieu</i>” said he; -“our Andy reincarnate is an Andy most pestilent dull, or I'm a cockle, a -convoluted cockle, and uncooked at that. Why, man! cheer up, thou <i>croque -mort</i>, thou lanthorn-jaw, thou veal-eye, thou melancholious eater of -oaten-meal!” - </p> -<p> -“It's a humblin' sicht!” said I. The impertinence was no sooner uttered -than I felt degraded that I should have given it voice, for here was a -priest of God, however odd to my thinking, and, what was more, a man who -might in years have been my father. -</p> -<p> -But luckily it could never then, or at any other time, be said of Father -Hamilton that he was thin-skinned. He only laughed the more at me. -“Touche!” he cried. “I knew I could prick the old Andy somewhere. Still, -Master Paul, thine uncle was not so young as thou, my cockerel. Had seen -his world and knew that Scotland and its—what do you call them?—its -manses, did not provide the universal ensample of true piety.” - </p> -<p> -“I do not think, Father Hamilton,” said I, “that piety troubled him very -much, or his shoes had not been so well known in Dunkerque.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Walkinshaw laughed. -</p> -<p> -“There you are, Father Hamilton!” said she. “You'll come little speed with -a man from the Mearns moors unless you take him a little more seriously.” - </p> -<p> -Father Hamilton pursed his lips and rubbed down his thighs, an image of -the gross man that would have turned my father's stomach, who always liked -his men lean, clean, and active. He was bantering me, this fat priest of -Dixmunde, but all the time it was with a friendly eye. Thinks I, here's -another legacy of goodwill from my extraordinary uncle! -</p> -<p> -“Hast got thy pass yet, Master Dull?” said he. -</p> -<p> -“Not so dull, Master Minister, but what I resent the wrong word even in a -joke,” I replied, rising to go. -</p> -<p> -Thurot's voice was on the stair now, and Clan-carty's. If they were not to -find their <i>protégé</i> in an undignified war of words with the priest -of Dixmunde, it was time I was taking my feet from there, as the saying -went. -</p> -<p> -But Miss Walkinshaw would not hear of it. “No, no,” she protested, “we -have some business before you go to your ridiculous French—weary be -on the language that ever I heard <i>Je t'aime</i> in it!—and how -does the same march with you, Mr. Greig?” - </p> -<p> -“I know enough of it to thank my good friends in,” said I, “but that must -be for another occasion.” - </p> -<p> -“Father Hamilton,” said she, “here's your secretary.” - </p> -<p> -A curious flash came to those eyes pitted in rolls of flabby flesh, I -thought of an eagle old and moulting, languid upon a mountain cliff in -misty weather, catching the first glimpse of sun and turned thereby to -ancient memories. He said nothing; there was at the moment no opportunity, -for the visitors had entered, noisily polite and posturing as was their -manner, somewhat touched by wine, I fancied, and for that reason scarcely -welcomed by the mistress of the house. -</p> -<p> -There could be no more eloquent evidence of my innocence in these days -than was in the fact that I never wondered at the footing upon which these -noisy men of the world were with a countrywoman of mine. The cause they -often spoke of covered many mysteries; between the Rue de Paris and the -Rue de la Boucherie I could have picked out a score of Scots in exile for -their political faiths, and why should not Miss Walkinshaw be one of the -company? But sometimes there was just the faintest hint of over-much -freedom in their manner to her, and that I liked as little as she seemed -to do, for when her face flushed and her mouth firmed, and she became -studiously deaf, I felt ashamed of my sex, and could have retorted had not -prudence dictated silence as the wisest policy. -</p> -<p> -As for her, she was never but the minted metal, ringing true and decent, -compelling order by a glance, gentle yet secure in her own strength, -tolerant, but in bounds. -</p> -<p> -They were that day full of the project for invading England. It had gone -so far that soldiers at Calais and Boulogne were being practised in -embarkation. I supposed she must have a certain favour for a step that was -designed to benefit the cause wherefor I judged her an exile, but she -laughed at the idea of Britain falling, as she said, to a parcel of <i>crapauds</i>. -“Treason!” treason!” cried Thurot laughingly. -</p> -<p> -“Under the circumstances, Madame——” - </p> -<p> -“—Under the circumstances, Captain Thurot,” she interrupted quickly, -“I need not pretend at a lie. This is not in the Prince's interest, this -invasion, and it is a blow at a land I love. Mr. Greig here has just put -it into my mind how good are the hearts there, how pleasant the tongue, -and how much I love the very name of Scotland. I would be sorry to think -of its end come to pleasure the women in Versailles.” - </p> -<p> -“Bravo! bravo! <i>vive la bagatelle!</i>” cried my Lord Clancarty. “Gad! I -sometimes feel the right old pathriot myself. Sure I have a good mind—” - </p> -<p> -“Then 'tis not your own, my lord,” she cried quickly, displeasure in her -expression, and Clancarty only bowed, not a whit abashed at the sarcasm. -</p> -<p> -Father Hamilton drew me aside from these cheerful contentions, and plunged -into the matter that was manifestly occupying all his thoughts since Miss -Walkinshaw had mooted me as his secretary. -</p> -<p> -“Monsieur Greig,” he said, placing his great carcase between me and the -others in the room, “I declare that women are the seven plagues, and yet -here we come chasing them from <i>petit lever</i> till—till—well, -till as late as the darlings will let us. By the Mass and Father Hamilton -knows their value, and when a man talks to me about a woman and the love -he bears her, I think 'tis a maniac shouting the praise of the snake that -has crept to his breast to sting him. Women—chut!—now tell me -what the mischief is a woman an' thou canst.” - </p> -<p> -“I fancy, Father Hamilton,” said I, “you could be convinced of the merits -of woman if your heart was ever attacked by one—your heart, that -does not believe anything in that matter that emanates from your head.” - </p> -<p> -Again the eagle's gleam from the pitted eyes; and, upon my word, a sigh! -It was a queer man this priest of Dixmunde. -</p> -<p> -“Ah, young cockerel,” said he, “thou knowest nothing at all about it, and -as for me—well, I dare not; but once—once—once there -were dews in the woods, and now it is very dry weather, Master Greig. How -about thine honour's secretaryship? Gripp'st at the opportunity, young -fellow? Eh? Has the lady said sooth? Come now, I like the look of my old -Andrew's—my old Merry Andrew's nephew, and could willingly tolerate -his <i>croque-mort</i> countenance, his odour of the sanctuary, if he -could weather it with a plethoric good liver that takes the world as he -finds it.” - </p> -<p> -He was positively eager to have me. It was obvious from his voice. He took -me by the button of my lapel as if I were about to run away from his -offer, but I was in no humour to run away. Here was the very office I -should have chosen if a thousand offered. The man was a fatted sow to look -on, and by no means engaging in his manner to myself, but what was I and -what my state that I should be too particular? Here was a chance to see -the world—and to forget. Seeing the world might have been of most -importance some months ago in the mind of a clean-handed young lad in the -parish of Mearns in Scotland, but now it was of vastly more importance -that I should forget. -</p> -<p> -“We start in a week,” said the priest, pressing me closely lest I should -change my mind, and making the prospects as picturesque as he could. “Why -should a man of flesh and blood vex his good stomach with all this -babblement of king's wars? and a pox on their flat-bottomed boats! I have -seen my last Mass in Dixmunde; say not a word on that to our friends nor -to Madame; and I suffer from a very jaundice of gold. Is't a pact, friend -Scotland?” - </p> -<p> -A pact it was; I went out from Miss Walkinshaw's lodging that afternoon -travelling secretary to the fat priest. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVI -</h2> -<h3> -RELATES HOW I INDULGED MY CURIOSITY AND HOW LITTLE CAME OF IT -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>unkerque in these days (it may be so no longer) was a place for a man to -go through with his nose in his fingers. Garbage stewed and festered in -the gutters of the street so that the women were bound to walk -high-kilted, and the sea-breeze at its briskest scarcely sufficed to stir -the stagnant, stenching atmosphere of the town, now villainously -over-populated by the soldiery with whom it was France's pleasant delusion -she should whelm our isle. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Pardieu!</i>” cried Father Hamilton, as we emerged in this malodorous -open, “'twere a fairy godfather's deed to clear thee out of this feculent -cloaca. Think on't, boy; of you and me a week hence riding through the -sweet woods of Somme or Oise, and after that Paris! Paris! my lad of -tragedy; Paris, where the world moves and folk live. And then, perhaps, -Tours, and Bordeaux, and Flanders, and Sweden, Seville, St. Petersburg -itself, but at least the woods of Somme, where the roads are among -gossamer and dew and enchantment in the early morning—if we cared to -rise early enough to see them, which I promise thee we shall not.” - </p> -<p> -His lips were thick and trembling: he gloated as he pictured me this mad -itinerary, leaning heavily on my arm—Silenus on an ash sapling—half-trotting -beside me, looking up every now and then to satisfy himself I appreciated -the prospect. It was pleasant enough, though in a measure incredible, but -at the moment I was thinking of Miss Walkinshaw, and wondering much to -myself that this exposition of foreign travel should seem barely -attractive because it meant a severance from her. Her sad smile, her brave -demeanour, her kind heart, her beauty had touched me sensibly. -</p> -<p> -“Well, Master Scrivener!” cried the priest, panting at my side, “art -dumb?” - </p> -<p> -“I fancy, sir, it is scarcely the weather for woods,” said I. “I hope we -are not to put off our journey till the first of April a twelvemonth.” A -suspicion unworthy of me had flashed into my mind that I might, after all, -be no more than the butt of a practical joke. But that was merely for a -moment; the priest was plainly too eager on his scheme to be play-acting -it. -</p> -<p> -“I am very grateful to the lady,” I hastened to add, “who gave me the -chance of listing in your service. Had it not been for her you might have -found a better secretary, and I might have remained long enough in the -evil smells of Dunkerque that I'll like all the same in spite of that, -because I have so good a friend as Miss Walkinshaw in it.” - </p> -<p> -“La! la! la!” cried out Father Hamilton, squeezing my arm. “Here's our -young cockerel trailing wing already! May I never eat fish again if -'tisn't a fever in this woman that she must infect every man under three -score. For me I am within a month of the period immune, and only feel a -malaise in her company. Boy, perpend! Have I not told thee every woman, -except the ugliest, is an agent of the devil? I am the first to discover -that his majesty is married and his wife keeps shop when he is travelling—among -Jesuits and Jacobites and such busy fuel for the future fires. His wife -keeps shop, lad, and does a little business among her own sex, using the -handsomest for her purposes. Satan comes back to the <i>boutique</i>. -'What!' he cries, and counts the till, 'these have been busy days, good -wife.' And she, Madame Dusky, chuckles with a 'Ha! Jack, old man, hast a -good wife or not? Shalt never know how to herd in souls like sheep till -thou hast a quicker eye for what's below a Capuchin hood.' This—this -is a sweet woman, this Walkinshaw, Paul, but a dangerous. 'Ware hawk, lad, -'ware hawk!” - </p> -<p> -I suppose my face reddened at that; at least he looked at me again and -pinched, and “Smitten to the marrow; may I drink water and grow thin else. -<i>Sacré nom de nom!</i> 'tis time thou wert on the highways of Europe.” - </p> -<p> -“How does it happen that a countrywoman of mine is here alone?” I asked. -</p> -<p> -“I'll be shot if thou art not the rascalliest young innocent in France. -Aye! or out of Scotland,” cried Father Hamilton, holding his sides for -laughter. -</p> -<p> -“Is thy infernal climate of fogs and rains so pleasant that a woman of -spirit should abide there for ever an' she have the notion to travel -otherwheres? La! la! la! Master Scrivener, and thou must come to an honest -pious priest for news of the world. But, boy, I'm deaf and dumb; mine eyes -on occasion are without vision. Let us say the lady has been an -over-ardent Jacobite; 'twill suffice in the meantime. And now has't ever -set eyes on Charles Edward?” - </p> -<p> -I told him I had never had any hand in the Jacobite affairs, if that was -what he meant. -</p> -<p> -His countenance fell at that. -</p> -<p> -“What!” he cried, losing his Roman manner, “do you tell me you have never -seen him?” - </p> -<p> -But once, I explained, when he marched into Glasgow city with his wild -Highlanders and bullied the burgesses into providing shoes for his ragged -army. -</p> -<p> -“Ah,” said he with a clearing visage, “that will suffice. Must point him -out to me. Dixmunde parish was a poor place for seeing the great; 'tis why -I go wandering now.” - </p> -<p> -Father Hamilton's hint at politics confirmed my guess about Miss -Walkinshaw, but I suppose I must have been in a craze to speak of her on -any pretence, for later in the day I was at Thurot's lodging, and there -must precognosce again. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Oh, mon Dieu, quelle espièglerie!</i>” cried out the captain. “And -this a Greig too! Well, I do not wonder that your poor uncle stayed so -long away from home; faith, he'd have died of an <i>ennui</i> else. Miss -Walkinshaw is—Miss Walkinshaw; a countryman of her own should know -better than I all that is to be known about her. But 'tis not our affair, -Mr. Greig. For sure 'tis enough that we find her smiling, gentle, -tolerant, what you call the 'perfect lady'—<i>n'est ce pas?</i>And -of all the virtues, upon my word, kindness is the best and rarest, and -that she has to a miracle.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm thinking that is not a corsair's creed, Captain Thurot,” said I, -smiling at the gentleman's eagerness. He was standing over me like a -lighthouse, with his eyes on fire, gesturing with his arms as they had -been windmill sails. -</p> -<p> -“No, faith! but 'tis a man's, Master Greig, and I have been happy with it. -Touching our fair friend, I may say that, much as I admire her, I agree -with some others that ours were a luckier cause without her. Gad! the best -thing you could do, Mr. Greig, would be to marry her yourself and take her -back with you to Scotland.” - </p> -<p> -“What! byway of Paris in Father Hamilton's glass coach,” I said, bantering -to conceal my confusion at such a notion. -</p> -<p> -“H'm,” said he. “Father Hamilton and the lady are a pair.” He walked a -little up and down the room as if he were in a quandary. “A pair,” he -resumed. “I fancied I could see to the very centre of the Sphinx itself, -for all men are in ourselves if we only knew it, till I came upon this -Scotswoman and this infernal Flemish-English priest of Dix-munde. Somehow, -for them Antoine Thurot has not the key in himself yet. Still, 'twill -arrive, 'twill arrive! I like the lady—and yet I wish she were a -thousand miles away; I like the man too, but a Jesuit is too many men at -once to be sure of; and, Gad! I can scarcely sleep at nights for wondering -what he may be plotting. This grand tour of his-” - </p> -<p> -“Stop, stop!” I cried, in a fear that he might compromise himself in an -ignorance of my share in the tour in question; “I must tell you that I am -going with Father Hamilton as his secretary, although it bothers me to -know what scrivening is to be accomplished in a glass coach. Like enough I -am to be no more, in truth, than the gentleman's companion or courier, and -it is no matter so long as I am moving.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, and is it so?” cried Captain Thurot, stopping as if he had been -shot. “And how happens it that this priest is willing to take you, that -are wholly a foreigner and a stranger to the country?” - </p> -<p> -“Miss Walkinshaw recommended me,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Oh!” he cried, “you have not been long of getting into your excellent -countrywoman's kind favour. Is it that Tony Thurot has been doing the -handsome by an ingrate? No, no, Monsieur, that were a monstrous innuendo, -for the honour has been all mine. But that Miss Walkinshaw should be on -such good terms with the priest as to trouble with the provision of his -secretary is opposed to all I had expected of her. Why, she dislikes the -man, or I'm a stuffed fish.” - </p> -<p> -“Anyhow, she has done a handsome thing by me,” said I. “It is no wonder -that so good a heart as hers should smother its repugnances (and the -priest is a fat sow, there is no denying) for the sake of a poor lad from -its own country. You are but making it the plainer that I owe her more -than at first I gave her credit for.” - </p> -<p> -“Bless me, here's gratitude!” cried the captain, laughing at my warmth. -“Mademoiselle Walkinshaw has her own plans; till now, I fancied them -somewhat different from Hamilton's, but more fool I to fancy they were -what they seemed! All that, my dear lad, need not prevent your enjoying -your grand tour with the priest, who has plenty of money and the -disposition to spend it like a gentleman.” - </p> -<p> -Finally I went to my Lord Clancarty, for it will be observed that I had -still no hint as to the origin of the lady who was so good a friend of -mine. Though the last thing in the world I should have done was to pry -into her affairs for the indulgence of an idle curiosity, I would know the -best of her before the time came to say farewell, and leave of her with me -no more than a memory. -</p> -<p> -The earl was at the Café du Soleil d'Or, eating mussels on the terrace and -tossing the empty shells into the gutter what time he ogled passing women -and exchanged levitous repartee with some other frequenters of the place. -</p> -<p> -“Egad, Paul,” he cried, meeting me with effusion, “'tis said there is one -pearl to be found for every million mussels; but here's a pearl come to me -in the midst of a single score. An Occasion, lad; I sat at the dice last -night till a preposterous hour this morning, and now I have a headache -like the deuce and a thirst to take the Baltic. I must have the tiniest -drop, and on an Occasion too. <i>Voilà! Gaspard, une autre bouteille.</i>” - </p> -<p> -He had his bottle, that I merely made pretence to help him empty, and I -had my precognition. -</p> -<p> -But it came to little in the long run. Oh yes, he understood my interest -in the lady (with rakish winking); 'twas a delicious creature for all its -<i>hauteur</i> when one ventured a gallantry, but somehow no particular -friend to the Earl of Clancarty, who, if she only knew it, was come of as -noble a stock as any rotten Scot ever went unbreeched; not but what (this -with a return of the naturally polite man) there were admirable and -high-bred people of that race, as instance my Uncle Andrew and myself. But -was there any reason why such a man as Charlie Stuart should be King of -Ireland? “I say, Greig, blister the old Chevalier and his two sons! There -is not a greater fumbler on earth than this sotted person, who has drunk -the Cause to degradation and would not stir a hand to serve me and my -likes, that are, begad! the fellow's betters.” - </p> -<p> -“But all this,” said I, “has little to do with Miss Walkinshaw. I have -nothing to say of the Prince, who may be all you say, though that is not -the repute he has in Scotland.” - </p> -<p> -“Bravo, Mr. Greig!” cried his lordship. “That is the tone if you would -keep in the lady's favour. Heaven knows she has little reason to listen to -praise of such a creature, but, then, women are blind. She loves not -Clancarty, as I have said; but, no matter, I forgive her that; 'tis well -known 'tis because I cannot stomach her prince.” - </p> -<p> -“And yet,” said I, “you must interest yourself in these Jacobite affairs -and mix with all that are here of that party.” - </p> -<p> -“Faith and I do,” he confessed heartily. “What! am I to be a mole and stay -underground? A man must have his diversion, and though I detest the Prince -I love his foolish followers. Do you know what, Mr. Greig? 'Tis the -infernal irony of things in this absurd world that the good fellows, the -bloods, the men of sensibilities must for ever be wrapped up in poor mad -escapades and emprises. And a Clancarty is ever of such a heart that the -more madcap the scheme the more will he dote on it.” - </p> -<p> -A woman passing in a chair at this moment looked in his direction; -fortunately, otherwise I was condemned to a treatise on life and pleasure. -</p> -<p> -“Egad!” he cried, “there's a face that's like a line of song,” and he -smiled at her with unpardonable boldness as it seemed to me, a pleasant -pucker about his eyes, a hint of the good comrade in his mouth. -</p> -<p> -She flushed like wine and tried to keep from smiling, but could not -resist, and smiling she was borne away. -</p> -<p> -“Do you know her, my lord?” I could not forbear asking. -</p> -<p> -“Is it know her?” said he. “Devil a know, but 'tis a woman anyhow, and a -heart at that. Now who the deuce can she be?” And he proceeded, like a -true buck, to fumble with the Mechlin of his fall and dust his stockings -in an airy foppish manner so graceful that I swear no other could have -done the same so well. -</p> -<p> -“Now this Miss Walkinshaw—” I went on, determined to have some -satisfaction from my interview. -</p> -<p> -“Confound your Miss Walkinshaw, by your leave, Mr. Greig,” he interrupted. -“Can you speak of Miss Walkinshaw when the glory of the comet is still -trailing in the heavens? And—hum!—I mind me of a certain -engagement, Mr. Greig,” he went on hurriedly, drawing a horologe from his -fob and consulting it with a frowning brow. “In the charm of your -conversation I had nigh forgot, so <i>adieu, adieu, mon ami!</i>” - </p> -<p> -He gave me the tips of his fingers, and a second later he was gone, -stepping down the street with a touch of the minuet, tapping his legs with -his cane, his sword skewering his coat-skirts, all the world giving him -the cleanest portion of the thoroughfare and looking back after him with -envy and admiration. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVII -</h2> -<h3> -WITNESSES THE LAST OF A BLATE YOUNG MAN -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd all this time it may well be wondered where was my remorse for a shot -fired on the moor of Mearns, for two wretched homes created by my passion -and my folly. And where, in that shifting mind of mine, was the place of -Isobel Fortune, whose brief days of favour for myself (if that, indeed, -was not imagination on my part) had been the cause of these my wanderings? -There is one beside me as I write, ready to make allowance for youth and -ignorance, the untutored affection, the distraught mind, if not for the -dubiety as to her feelings for myself when I was outlawed for a deed of -blood and had taken, as the Highland phrase goes, the world for my pillow. -</p> -<p> -I did not forget the girl of Kirkillstane; many a time in the inward -visions of the night, and of the day too, I saw her go about that far-off -solitary house in the hollow of the hills. Oddly enough, 'twas ever in -sunshine I saw her, with her sun-bonnet swinging from its ribbons and her -hand above her eyes, shading them that she might look across the fields -that lay about her home, or on a tryst of fancy by the side of Earn, -hearing the cushats mourn in a magic harmony with her melancholy thoughts. -As for the killing of young Borland, that I kept, waking at least, from my -thoughts, or if the same intruded, I found it easier, as time passed, to -excuse myself for a fatality that had been in the experience of nearly -every man I now knew—of Clancarty and Thurot, of the very baker in -whose house I lodged and who kneaded the dough for his little bread not a -whit the less cheerily because his hands had been imbrued. -</p> -<p> -The late Earl of Clare, in France called the Maréchal Comte de Thomond, -had come to Dunkerque in the quality of Inspector-General of the Armies of -France, to review the troops in garrison and along that menacing coast. -The day after my engagement with Father Hamilton I finished my French -lesson early and went to see his lordship and his army on the dunes to the -east of the town. Cannon thundered, practising at marks far out in the -sea; there was infinite manoeuvring of horse and foot; the noon was noisy -with drums and the turf shook below the hoofs of galloping chargers. I -fancy it was a holiday; at least, as I recall the thing, Dunkerque was all -<i>en fête</i>, and a happy and gay populace gathered in the rear of the -maréchales flag. Who should be there among the rest, or rather a little -apart from the crowd, but Miss Walkinshaw! She had come in a chair; her -dainty hand beckoned me to her side almost as soon as I arrived. -</p> -<p> -“Now, that's what I must allow is very considerate,” said she, eyeing my -red shoes, which were put on that day from some notion of proper -splendour. -</p> -<p> -“Well considered?” I repeated. -</p> -<p> -“Just well considered,” said she. “You know how much it would please me to -see you in your red shoes, and so you must put them on.” - </p> -<p> -I was young in these days, and, like the ass I was, I quickly set about -disabusing her mind of a misapprehension that injured her nor me. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, Miss Walkinshaw,” said I, “how could I do that when I did not -know you were to be here? You are the last I should have expected to see -here.” - </p> -<p> -“What!” she exclaimed, growing very red. “Does Mr. Greig trouble himself -so much about the <i>convenances?</i> And why should I not be here if I -have the whim? Tell me that, my fastidious compatriot.” - </p> -<p> -Here was an accountable flurry over a thoughtless phrase! -</p> -<p> -“No reason in the world that I know of,” said I gawkily, as red as -herself, wondering what it was my foot was in. -</p> -<p> -“That you know of,” she repeated, as confused as ever. “It seems to me, -Mr. Greig, that the old gentleman who is tutoring you in the French -language would be doing a good turn to throw in a little of the manners of -the same. Let me tell you that I am as much surprised as you can be to -find myself here, and now that you are so good as to put me in mind of the—of -the—of the <i>convenances</i>, I will go straight away home. It was -not the priest, nor was it Captain Thurot that got your ear, for they are -by the way of being gentlemen; it could only have been this Irishman -Clancarty—the quality of that country have none of the scrupulosity -that distinguishes our own. You can tell his lordship, next time you see -him, that Miss Walkinshaw will see day about with him for this.” - </p> -<p> -She ordered her chairmen to take her home, and then—burst into -tears! -</p> -<p> -I followed at her side, in a stew at my indiscoverable blundering, my <i>chapeau-de-bras</i> -in my hand, and myself like to greet too for sympathy and vexation. -</p> -<p> -“You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “Heaven -knows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your good -opinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant.” - </p> -<p> -“Go away!” she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, that -was now being borne towards the town. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for the -freedom,” I said, “for here's some monstrous misconception, and I must -clear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever.” - </p> -<p> -She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed to me. Feeling -like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walk deliberately by her -side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. She dismissed the chair and -was for going into the house without letting an eye light on young -persistency. -</p> -<p> -“One word, Miss Walkinshaw,” I pleaded. “We are a Scottish man and a -Scottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in this -street, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she will not -give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and an affection, a -chance to know wherein he may have blundered.” - </p> -<p> -“Respect and affection,” she said, her profile turned to me, her foot on -the steps, visibly hesitating. -</p> -<p> -“Respect and affection,” I repeated, flushing at my own boldness. -</p> -<p> -“In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?” she said, biting her nether lip and -still manifestly close on tears. -</p> -<p> -“How?” said I, bewildered. “His lordship gave me no tales that I know of.” - </p> -<p> -“And why,” said she, “be at such pains to tell me you wondered I should be -there?” - </p> -<p> -I got very red at that. -</p> -<p> -“You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig,” she said bitterly. -</p> -<p> -“Well, then,” I ventured boldly, “what I should have said was that I -feared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. And I -have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with me and -would not let me explain myself.” - </p> -<p> -“What!” she cried, quite radiant, “and, after all, the red shoon were not -without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tell you the -truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only making believe to -be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither you can see me to -my parlour.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, Bernard,” she said to the Swiss as we entered, “any news?” - </p> -<p> -He informed her there was none. -</p> -<p> -“What! no one called?” said she with manifest disappointment. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Personne, Madame</i>.” - </p> -<p> -“No letters?” - </p> -<p> -Nor were there any letters, he replied. -</p> -<p> -She sighed, paused irresolute a moment with her foot on the stair, one -hand at her heart, the other at the fastening of her coat, and looked at -me with a face almost tragic in its trouble. I cannot but think she was on -the brink of a confidence, but ere it came she changed her mind and dashed -up the stair with a tra-la-la of a song meant to indicate her -indifference, leaving me a while in her parlour while she changed her -dress. She came back to me in a little, attired in a pale -primrose-coloured paduasoy, the cuffs and throat embroidered in a pattern -of roses and leaves, her hair unpowdered and glossy, wantoning in and out -of a neck beyond description. The first thing she did on entrance was odd -enough, for it was to stand over me where I lounged on her settee, staring -down into my eyes until I felt a monstrous embarrassment. -</p> -<p> -“I am wonderin',” said she, “if ye are the man I tak' ye for.” - </p> -<p> -Her eyes were moist; I saw she had been crying in her toilet room. -</p> -<p> -“I'm just the man you see,” I said, “but for some unco' troubles that are -inside me and are not for airing to my friends on a fine day in -Dunkerque.” - </p> -<p> -“Perhaps, like the lave of folks, ye dinna ken yoursel',” she went on, -speaking with no sprightly humour though in the Scots she was given to -fall to in her moments of fun. “All men, Mr. Greig, mean well, but most of -them fall short of their own ideals; they're like the women in that, no -doubt, but in the men the consequence is more disastrous.” - </p> -<p> -“When I was a girl in a place you know,” she went on even more soberly, “I -fancied all men were on the model of honest John Walkinshaw—better -within than without. He was stern to austerity, demanding the last -particle of duty from his children, and to some he might seem hard, but I -have never met the man yet with a kinder heart, a pleasanter mind, a more -pious disposition than John Walkin-shaw's. It has taken ten years, and -acquaintance with some gentry not of Scotland, to make it plain that all -men are not on his model.” - </p> -<p> -“I could fancy not, to judge from his daughter,” I said, blushing at my -first compliment that was none the less bold because it was sincere. -</p> -<p> -At that she put on a little mouth and shrugged her shoulders with a shiver -that made the snaps in her ears tremble. -</p> -<p> -“My good young man,” said she, “there you go! If there's to be any -friendship between you and Clementina Walkinshaw, understand there must be -a different key from that. You are not only learning your French, but you -are learning, it would seem, the manners of the nation. It was that made -me wonder if you could be the man I took you for the first day you were in -this room and I found I could make you greet with a Scots sang, and tell -me honestly about a lass you had a notion of and her no' me. That last's -the great stroke of honesty in any man, and let me tell you there are some -women who would not relish it. But you are in a company here so ready with -the tongue of flattery that I doubt each word they utter, and that's droll -enough in me that loves my fellow creatures, and used to think the very -best of every one of them. If I doubt them now I doubt them with a sore -enough heart, I'll warrant you. Oh! am I not sorry that my man of Mearns -should be put in the reverence of such creatures as Clancarty and Thurot, -and all that gang of worldlings? I do not suppose I could make you -understand it, Mr. Paul Greig, but I feel motherly to you, and to see my -son—this great giant fellow who kens the town of Glasgow and dwelt -in Mearns where I had May milk, and speaks wi' the fine Scots tongue like -mysel' when his heart is true—to see him the boon comrade with folks -perhaps good enough for Clementina Walkinshaw but lacking a particle of -principle, is a sight to sorrow me.” - </p> -<p> -“And is it for that you seek to get me away with the priest?” I asked, -surprised at all this, and a little resenting the suggestion of youth -implied in her feeling like a mother to me. Her face was lit, her movement -free and beautiful; something in her fascinated me. -</p> -<p> -She dropped in a chair and pushed the hair from her ears with a hand like -milk, and laughed. -</p> -<p> -“Now how could you guess?” said she. “Am I no' the careful mother of you -to put you in the hands o' the clergy? I doubt this play-acting -rhetorician of a man from Dixmunde is no great improvement on the rest of -your company when all's said and done, but you'll be none the worse for -seeing the world at his costs, and being in other company than Clancarty's -and Thurot's and Roscommon's. He told me to-day you were going with him, -and I was glad that I had been of that little service to you.” - </p> -<p> -“Then it seems you think so little of my company as to be willing enough -to be rid of me at the earliest opportunity,” I said, honestly somewhat -piqued at her readiness to clear me out of Dunkerque. -</p> -<p> -She looked at me oddly. “Havers, Mr. Greig!” said she, “just havers!” - </p> -<p> -I was thanking her for her offices, but she checked me. “You are well -off,” she said, “to be away from here while these foolish manouvrings are -on foot. Poor me! I must bide and see them plan the breaking down of my -native country. It's a mercy I know in what a fiasco it will end, this -planning. Hearken! Do you hear the bugles? That's Soubise going back to -the caserne. He and his little men are going back to eat another dinner -destined to assist in the destruction of an island where you and I should -be this day if we were wiser than we are. Fancy them destroying Britain, -Mr. Greig!—Britain, where honest John Walkinshaw is, that never said -an ill word in his life, nor owed any man a penny: where the folks are -guid and true, and fear God and want nothing but to be left to their -crofts and herds. If it was England—if it was the palace of Saint -James—no, but it's Scotland, too, and the men you saw marching up -and down to-day are to be marching over the moor o' Mearns when the -heather's red. Can you think of it?” She stamped her foot. “Where the wee -thack hooses are at the foot o' the braes, and the bairns playing under -the rowan trees; where the peat is smelling, and the burns are singing in -the glens, and the kirk-bells are ringing. Poor Mr. Greig! Are ye no' wae -for Scotland? Do ye think Providence will let a man like Thomond ye saw -to-day cursing on horseback—do ye think Providence will let him lead -a French army among the roads you and I ken so well, affronting the people -we ken too, who may be a thought dull in the matter of repartee, but are -for ever decent, who may be hard-visaged, but are so brave?” - </p> -<p> -She laughed, herself, half bitterly, half contemptuously, at the picture -she drew. Outside, in the sunny air of the afternoon, the bugles of -Soubise filled the street with brazen cries, and nearer came the roar of -pounding drums. I thought I heard them menacing the sleep of evening -valleys far away, shattering the calm of the hearth of Hazel Den. -</p> -<p> -“The cause for which—for which so many are exile here,” I said, -looking on this Jacobite so strangely inconsistent, “has no reason to -regret that France should plan an attack on Georgius Rex.” - </p> -<p> -She shook her head impatiently. “The cause has nothing to do with it, Mr. -Greig,” said she. “The cause will suffer from this madness more than ever -it did, but in any case 'tis the most miserable of lost causes.” - </p> -<p> -“Prince Charlie-” - </p> -<p> -“Once it was the cause with me, now I would sooner have it Scotland,” she -went on, heedless of my interruption. “Scotland! Scotland! Oh, how the -name of her is like a dirge to me, and my heart is sore for her! Where is -your heart, Mr. Greig, that it does not feel alarm at the prospect of -these <i>crapauds</i> making a single night's sleep uneasy for the folks -you know? Where is your heart, I'm asking?” - </p> -<p> -“I wish I knew,” said I impulsively, staring at her, completely bewitched -by her manner so variable and intense, and the straying tendrils of her -hair. -</p> -<p> -“Do you not?” said she. “Then I will tell you. It is where it ought to be—with -a girl of the name of Isobel Fortune. Oh, the dear name! oh, the sweet -name! And when you are on your travels with this priest do not be -forgetting her. Oh, yes! I know you will tell me again that all is over -between the pair of you, and that she loved another—but I am not -believing a word of that, Mr. Greig, when I look at you—(and will ye -say 'thank ye' for the compliment that's there?)—you will just go on -thinking her the same, and you will be the better man for it. There's -something tells me she is thinking of you though I never saw her, the -dear! Let me see, this is what sort of girl she will be.” - </p> -<p> -She drew her chair closer to the settee and leaned forward in front of me, -and, fixing her eyes on mine, drew a picture of the girl of Kirkillstane -as she imagined her. -</p> -<p> -“She will be about my own height, and with the same colour of hair-” - </p> -<p> -“How do you know that? I never said a word of that to you,” I cried, -astonished at the nearness of her first guess. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I'm a witch,” she cried triumphantly, “a fair witch. Hoots! do I no' -ken ye wadna hae looked the side o' the street I was on if I hadna put ye -in mind o' her? Well, she's my height and colour—but, alack-a-day, -no' my years. She 'll have a voice like the mavis for sweetness, and 'll -sing to perfection. She'll be shy and forward in turns, accordin' as you -are forward and shy; she 'll can break your heart in ten minutes wi' a -pout o' her lips or mak' ye fair dizzy with delight at a smile. And then”—here -Miss Walkinshaw seemed carried away herself by her fancy portrait, for she -bent her brows studiously as she thought, and seemed to speak in an -abstraction—“and then she'll be a managing woman. She'll be the sort -of woman that the Bible tells of whose value is over rubies; knowing your -needs as you battle with the world, and cheerful when you come in to the -hearthstone from the turmoil outside. A witty woman and a judge of things, -calm but full of fire in your interests. A household where the wife's a -doll is a cart with one wheel, and your Isobel will be the perfect woman. -I think she must have travelled some, too, and seen how poor is the wide -world compared with what is to be found at your own fire-end; I think she -must have had trials and learned to be brave.” - </p> -<p> -She stopped suddenly, looked at me and got very red in the face. -</p> -<p> -“A fine picture, Miss Walkinshaw!” said I, with something drumming at my -heart. “It is not just altogether like Isobel Fortune, who has long syne -forgot but to detest me, but I fancy I know who it is like.” - </p> -<p> -“And who might that be?” she asked in a low voice and with a somewhat -guilty look. -</p> -<p> -“Will I tell you?” I asked, myself alarmed at my boldness. -</p> -<p> -“No! no! never mind,” she cried. “I was just making a picture of a girl I -once knew—poor lass! and of what she might have been. But she's dead—dead -and buried. I hope, after all, your Isobel is a nobler woman than the one -I was thinking on and a happier destiny awaiting her.” - </p> -<p> -“That cannot matter much to me now,” I said, “for, as I told you, there is -nothing any more between us—except—except a corp upon the -heather.” - </p> -<p> -She shuddered as she did the first time I told her of my tragedy, and -sucked in the air again through her clenched teeth. -</p> -<p> -“Poor lad! poor lad!” said she. “And you have quite lost her. If so, and -the thing must be, then this glass coach of Father Hamilton's must take -you to the country of forgetfulness. I wish I could drive there myself -this minute, but wae's me, there's no chariot at the <i>remise</i> that'll -do that business for John Walkinshaw's girl.” - </p> -<p> -Something inexpressively moving was in her mien, all her heart was in her -face as it seemed; a flash of fancy came to me that she was alone in the -world with nothing of affection to hap her round from its abrasions, and -that her soul was crying out for love. Sweet beyond expression was this -woman and I was young; up to my feet I rose, and turned on her a face that -must have plainly revealed my boyish passion. -</p> -<p> -“Miss Walkinshaw,” I said, “you may put me out of this door for ever, but -I'm bound to say I'm going travelling in no glass coach; Dunkerque will be -doing very well for me.” - </p> -<p> -Her lips trembled; her cheek turned pale; she placed a hand upon her -breast, and there was I contrite before her anger! -</p> -<p> -“Is this—is this your respect and your esteem, Mr. Greig?” she asked -brokenly. -</p> -<p> -“They were never greater than at this moment,” I replied. -</p> -<p> -“And how are they to be manifested by your waiting on in Dunkerque?” she -asked, recovering her colour and some of her ordinary manner. -</p> -<p> -How indeed? She had no need to ask me the question, for it was already -ringing through my being. That the Spoiled Horn from Mearns, an outlaw -with blood on his hands and borrowed money in his pocket, should have the -presumption to feel any ardour for this creature seemed preposterous to -myself, and I flushed in an excess of shame and confusion. -</p> -<p> -This seemed completely to reassure her. “Oh, Mr. Greig—Mr. Greig, -was I not right to ask if ye were the man ye seemed? Here's a nice display -o' gallantry from my giant son! I believe you are just makin' fun o' this -auld wife; and if no' I hae just one word for you, Paul Greig, and it's -this that I said afore—jist havers!” - </p> -<p> -She went to her spinet and ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a -song— -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -Oh, what ails the laddie, new twined frae his mither? -The laddie gallantin' roun' Tibbie and me?— -</pre> -<p> -with glances coquettish yet repelling round her shoulder at me as I stood -turning my <i>chapeau-de-bras</i> in my hand as a boy turns his bonnet in -presence of laird or dominie. The street was shaking now with the sound of -marching soldiers, whose platoons were passing in a momentary silence of -trumpet or drum. All at once the trumpets blared forth just in front of -the house, broke upon her song, and gave a heavensent diversion to our -comedy or tragedy or whatever it was in the parlour. -</p> -<p> -We both stood looking out at the window for a while in silence, watching -the passing troops, and when the last file had gone, she turned with a -change of topic “If these men had been in England ten years ago,” she -said, “when brisk affairs were doing there with Highland claymores, your -Uncle Andrew would have been there, too, and it would not perhaps be your -father who was Laird of Hazel Den. But that's all by with now. And when do -you set out with Father Hamilton?” - </p> -<p> -She had a face as serene as fate; my heart ached to tell her that I loved -her, but her manner made me hold my tongue on that. -</p> -<p> -“In three days,” I said, still turning my hat and wishing myself -elsewhere, though her presence intoxicated. -</p> -<p> -“In three days!” she said, as one astonished. “I had thought it had been a -week at the earliest. Will I tell you what you might do? You are my great -blate bold son, you know, from the moors of Mearns, and I will be wae, -wae, to think of you travelling all round Europe without a friend of your -own country to exchange a word with. Write to me; will you?” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed and I will, and that gaily,” I cried, delighted at the prospect. -</p> -<p> -“And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and what -you have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, and -be sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel, I -daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league upon the -map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to be here at -noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will write to you—but -oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would I have him know -that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. That is bad.” - </p> -<p> -She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, but the -problem was beyond me, and she sighed. -</p> -<p> -“Of course his reverence need not know anything about it,” she said then. -</p> -<p> -“Certainly,” I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. “I will never -mention to him anything about it.” - </p> -<p> -“But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without his -suspecting something?” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, but he cannot suspect.” - </p> -<p> -“What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this Father -Hamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves so -innocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way that I -shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way. But -never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honour for -that.” - </p> -<p> -As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over the -bannister and cried after me: -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Greig,” said she, “ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoes when -ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to be thinkin' -of you as traivellin' in them a' the time.” - </p> -<p> -I looked up and saw her smiling saucily at me over the rail. -</p> -<p> -“Would you indeed?” said I. “Then I'll never put them aff till I see ye -again, when I come back to Dunkerque.” - </p> -<p> -“That is kind,” she answered, laughing outright, “but fair reediculous. To -wear them to bed would be against your character for sobriety.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIX -</h2> -<h3> -A RAP IN THE EARLY MORNING AWAKENS ME AND I START IN A GLASS COACH UPON -THE ODDEST OF JOURNEYS -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the last, for many months, I was to see of my countrywoman. Before -the crow of the cock next morning I was on the unending roads, trundling -in a noisy vehicle through pitch darkness, my companion snoring stertorous -at my side, his huge head falling every now and then upon my shoulder, -myself peering to catch some revelation of what manner of country-side we -went through as the light from the swinging lanthorn lit up briefly -passing banks of frosted hedge or sleeping hamlets on whose pave the hoofs -of our horses hammered as they had been the very war-steeds of Bellona. -</p> -<p> -But how came I there? How but by my master's whim, that made him -anticipate his departure by three days and drag me from my bed incontinent -to set out upon his trip over Europe. -</p> -<p> -I had been sleeping soundly, dreaming I heard the hopper of the mill of -Driepps at home banging to make Jock Alexander's fortune, when I awakened, -or rather half-wakened, to discover that 'twas no hopper but a nieve at my -door, rapping with a vigour to waken the dead. -</p> -<p> -“Come out! Sir Secretary, come out! or I shall pull thy domicile about -thine ears,” cried the voice of Father Hamilton. -</p> -<p> -He stood at the door when I opened, wrapped over the chin in a muffler of -multitudinous folds, and covered by a roquelaure. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Pax!</i>” he cried, thrusting a purple face into the room, “and on -with thy boots like a good lad. We must be off and over the dunes before -the bell of St. Eloi knocks another nail in the coffin of time.” - </p> -<p> -“What!” I said, dumbfoundered, “are we to start on our journey to-day?” - </p> -<p> -“Even so, my sluggardly Scot; faith! before the day even, for the day will -be in a deuce of a hurry an' it catch up on us before we reach -Pont-Opoise. Sop a crust in a jug of wine—I've had no better <i>petit -déjeuner</i> myself—put a clean cravat and a pair of hose in thy -sack, and in all emulate the judicious flea that wastes no time in idle -rumination, but transacts its affairs in a succession of leaps.” - </p> -<p> -“And no time to say good-bye to anyone?” I asked, struggling into my -toilet. -</p> -<p> -“La! la! la! the flea never takes a <i>congé</i> that I've heard on, -Master Punctilio. Not so much as a kiss o' the hand for you; I have had -news, and 'tis now or never.” - </p> -<p> -Twenty minutes later, Thurot's landlord (for Thurot himself was from home) -lit me to the courtyard, and the priest bundled me and my sack into the -bowels of an enormous chariot waiting there. -</p> -<p> -The clocks began to strike the hour of five; before the last stroke had -ceased to shiver the darkness we were thundering along the sea front and -my master was already composed to sleep in his corner, without vouchsafing -me a sentence of explanation for so hurried a departure. Be sure my heart -was sore! I felt the blackest of ingrates to be thus speeding without a -sign of farewell from a place where I had met with so much of friendship. -</p> -<p> -Out at the window of the coach I gazed, to see nothing but the cavernous -night on one side, on the other, lit by the lanthorn, the flashing past of -houses all shuttered and asleep. -</p> -<p> -It was dry and pleasant weather, with a sting of frost in the air, and the -propinquity of the sea manifest not in its plangent voice alone but in the -odour of it that at that hour dominated the natural smells of the -faubourgs. Only one glimpse I had of fellow creatures; as we passed the -fort, the flare of flambeaux showed an enormous body of soldiers working -upon the walls of Risebank; it but added to the poignance of my melancholy -to reflect that here were my country's enemies unsleeping, and I made a -sharp mental contrast of this most dauntening spectacle with a picture of -the house of Hazel Den dreaming among its trees, and only crying lambs -perhaps upon the moor to indicate that any life was there. Melancholy! oh, -it was eerie beyond expression for me that morning! Outside, the driver -talked to his horses and to some one with him on the boot; it must have -been cheerier for him than for me as I sat in that sombre and close -interior, jolted by my neighbour, and unable to refrain from -rehabilitating all the past. Especially did I think of my dark home-coming -with a silent father on the day I left the college to go back to the -Mearns. And by a natural correlation, that was bound to lead to all that -followed—even to the event for which I was now so miserably remote -from my people. -</p> -<p> -Once or twice his reverence woke, to thrust his head out at the window and -ask where we were. Wherever we were when he did so, *twas certain never to -be far enough for his fancy, and he condemned the driver for a snail until -the whip cracked wickedly and the horses laboured more strenuously than -ever, so that our vehicle swung upon its springs till it might well seem -we were upon a ship at sea. -</p> -<p> -For me he had but the one comment—“I wonder what's for <i>déjeuner.</i>” - He said it each time solemnly as it were his matins, and then slid into -his swinish sleep again. -</p> -<p> -The night seemed interminable, but by-and-by the day broke. I watched it -with eagerness as it gradually paled the east, and broke up the black bulk -of the surrounding land into fields, orchards, gardens, woods. And the -birds awoke—God bless the little birds!—they woke, and started -twittering and singing in the haze, surely the sweetest, the least sinless -of created things, the tiny angels of the woods, from whom, walking in -summer fields in the mornings of my age as of my youth, I have borrowed -hope and cheer. -</p> -<p> -Father Hamilton wakened too, and heard the birds; indeed, they filled the -ear of the dawn with melodies. A smile singularly pleasant came upon his -countenance as he listened. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Pardieu!</i>” said he, “how they go on! Has't the woodland soul, <i>Sieur -Croque-mort</i>? Likely enough not; I never knew another but myself and -thine uncle that had it, and 'tis the mischief that words will not explain -the same. 'Tis a gift of the fairies”—here he crossed himself -devoutly and mumbled a Romish incantation—“that, having the said -woodland spirit—in its nature a Pagan thing perchance, but <i>n'importe!</i>—thou -hast in the song of the tiny beings choiring there something to make the -inward tremor that others find in a fiddle and a glass of wine. No! no! -not that, 'tis a million times more precious; 'tis—'tis the pang of -the devotee, 'tis the ultimate thrill of things. Myself, I could expire -upon the ecstasy of the thrush, or climb to heaven upon the lark's May -rapture. And there they go! the loves! and they have the same ditty I -heard from them first in Louvain. There are but three clean things in this -world, my lad of Scotland—a bird, a flower, and a child's laughter. -I have been confessor long enough to know all else is filth. But what's -the luck in waiting for us at Azincourt? and what's the <i>pot-au-feu</i> -to-day?” - </p> -<p> -He listened a little longer to the birds, and fell asleep smiling, his fat -face for once not amiss, and I was left again alone as it were to receive -the day. -</p> -<p> -We had long left the dunes and the side of the sea, though sometimes on -puffs of wind I heard its distant rumour. Now the land was wooded with the -apple tree; we rose high on the side of a glen, full of a rolling fog that -streamed off as the day grew. A tolerable land enough; perhaps more lush -than my own, with scarce a rood uncultivated, and dotted far and wide by -the strangest farm steadings and pendicles, but such steadings and -pendicles as these eyes never before beheld, with enormous eaves of thatch -reaching almost to the ground, and ridiculous windows of no shape; with -the yokings of the cattle, the boynes, stoups, carts, and ploughs about -the places altogether different from our own. We passed troops marching, -peasants slouching with baskets of poultry to market towns, now and then a -horseman, now and then a caleche. And there were numerous hamlets, and at -least two middling-sized towns, and finally we came, at the hour of -eleven, upon the place appointed for our <i>déjeuner</i>. It was a small -inn on the banks of the only rivulet I had seen in all the journey. I -forget its name, but I remember there was a patch of heather on the side -of it, and that I wished ardently the season had been autumn that I might -have looked upon the purple bells. -</p> -<p> -“Tis a long lane that has no tavern,” said his reverence, and oozed out of -his side of the coach with groanings. The innkeeper ran forth, louted, and -kissed his hand. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Jour, m'sieu jour!</i>” said Father Hamilton hurriedly. “And now, what -have you here that is worth while?” - </p> -<p> -The innkeeper respectfully intimated that the church of -Saint-Jean-en-Grève was generally considered worth notice. Its vestments, -relics, and windows were of merit, and the view from the tower— -</p> -<p> -“<i>Mort de ma vie!</i>” cried the priest angrily, “do I look like a -traveller who trots up belfrys in strange villages at the hour of <i>déjeuner?</i> -A plague on Saint-Jean-en-Grève! I said nothing at all of churches; I -spoke of <i>déjeuner</i>, my good fellow. What's for <i>déjeuner?</i>” - </p> -<p> -The innkeeper recounted a series of dishes. Father Hamilton hummed and -hawed, reflected, condemned, approved, all with an eagerness beyond -description. And when the meal was being dished up, he went frantically to -the kitchen and lifted pot-lids, and swung a salad for himself, and -confounding the ordinary wine for the vilest piquette ordered a special -variety from the cellar. It was a spectacle of gourmandise not without its -humour; I was so vastly engaged in watching him that I scarce glanced at -the men who had travelled on the outside of the coach since morning. -</p> -<p> -What was my amazement when I did so to see that the servant or valet (as -he turned out to be) was no other than the Swiss, Bernard, who had been in -the service of Miss Walkinshaw no later than yesterday morning! -</p> -<p> -I commented on the fact to Father Hamilton when we sat down to eat. -</p> -<p> -“Why, yes!” he said, gobbling at his vivers with a voracity I learned not -to wonder at later when I knew him more. “The same man. A good man, too, -or I'm a Turk. I've envied Miss Walkinshaw this lusty, trusty, secret -rogue for a good twelvemonth, and just on the eve of my leaving Dunkerque, -by a very providence, the fellow gets drunk and finds himself dismissed. -He came to me with a flush and a hiccough last night to ask a -recommendation, and overlooking the peccadillo that is not of a nature -confined to servants, Master Greig, let me tell thee, I gave him a place -in my <i>entourage</i>. Madame will not like it, but no matter! she'll -have time to forget it ere I see her again.” - </p> -<p> -I felt a mild satisfaction to have the Swiss with us just because I had -heard him called “Bernard” so often by his late employer. -</p> -<p> -We rested for some hours after <i>déjeuner</i>, seated under a tree by the -brink of the rivulet, and in the good humour of a man satisfied in nature -the priest condescended to let me into some of his plans. -</p> -<p> -We were bound for Paris in the first place. “Zounds!” he cried, “I am all -impatience to clap eyes again on Lutetia, the sweet rogue, and eat decent -bread and behold a noble gown and hear a right cadenza. And though thou -hast lost thy Lyrnessides—la! la! la! I have thee there!—thou -canst console thyself with the Haemonian lyre. Paris! oh, lad, I'd give -all to have thy years and a winter or two in it. Still, we shall make -shift—oh, yes! I warrant thee we shall make shift. We shall be -there, at my closest reckoning, on the second day of Holy Week, and my -health being so poorly we shall not wait to commence <i>de faire les -Pâques</i> an hour after. What's in a <i>soutane</i>, anyhow, that it -should be permitted to mortify an honest priest's oesophagus?” - </p> -<p> -I sighed in spite of myself, for he had made me think of our throwing of -Easter eggs on the green at Hazel Den. -</p> -<p> -“What!” he cried. “Does my frugal Scot fancy we have not enough trinkgeld -for enjoyment. Why, look here!—and here!—and here!” - </p> -<p> -He thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth numerous rouleaux—so -many that I thought his corpulence might well be a plethora of coin. -</p> -<p> -“There!” said he, squeezing a rouleau till it burst and spreading out the -gold upon the table before him. “Am I a poor parish priest or a very -Croesus?” - </p> -<p> -Then he scooped in the coins with his fat hands and returned all to his -bosom. “<i>Allons!</i>” he said shortly; we were on the road again! -</p> -<p> -That night we put up at the Bon Accueil in a town whose name escapes my -recollection. -</p> -<p> -He had gone to bed; through the wall from his chamber came the noise of -his sleep, while I was at the writing of my first letter to Miss -Walkinshaw, making the same as free and almost affectionate as I had been -her lover, for as I know it now, I was but seeking in her for the face of -the love of the first woman and the last my heart was given to. -</p> -<p> -I had scarcely concluded when the Swiss came knocking softly to my door, -and handed me a letter from the very woman whose name was still in wet ink -upon my folded page. I tore it open eagerly, to find a score of pleasant -remembrances. She had learned the night before that the priest was to set -out in the morning: “I have kept my word,” she went on. “Your best friend -is Bernard, so I let you have him, and let us exchange our billets through -him. It will be the most Discreet method. And I am, with every -consideration, Ye Ken Wha.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XX -</h2> -<h3> -LEADS ME TO THE FRONT OF A COFFEE-HOUSE WHERE I AM STARTLED TO SEE A FACE -I KNOW -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he occasion for this precaution in our correspondence was beyond my -comprehension; nevertheless I was too proud to have the patronage of so -fine a woman to cavil at what system she should devise for its discreet -conduct, and the Swiss that night got my first letter to frank and -despatch. He got one next evening also, and the evening after that; in -short, I made a diurnal of each stage in our journey and Bernard was my -postman—so to name it—on every occasion that I forwarded the -same to Miss Walkinshaw. He assured me that he was in circumstances to -secure the more prompt forwardation of my epistles than if I trusted in -the common runner, and it was a proof of this that when we got, after some -days, into Versailles, he should bring to me a letter from the lady -herself informing me how much of pleasure she had got from the receipt of -the first communication I had sent her. -</p> -<p> -Perhaps it is a sign of the injudicious mind that I should not be very -mightily pleased with this same Versailles. We had come into it of a sunny -afternoon and quartered at the Cerf d'Or Inn, and went out in the evening -for the air. Somehow the place gave me an antagonism; its dipt trees all -in rows upon the wayside like a guard of soldiers; its trim gardens and -bits of plots; its fountains crying, as it seemed, for attention—these -things hurt me as a liberty taken with nature. Here, thought I, is the -fitting place for the raff in ruffles and the scented wanton; it should be -the artificial man and the insincere woman should be condemned to walk for -ever in these alleys and drink in these <i>bosquets;</i> I would not give -a fir planting black against the evening sky at home for all this pompous -play-acting at landscape, nor a yard of the brown heather of the hills for -all these well-drilled flower parterres. -</p> -<p> -“Eh! M. Croque-mort,” said the priest, delighted visibly with all he saw -about him; “what think'st thou of Le Notre's gardening?” - </p> -<p> -“A good deal, sir,” I said, “that need never be mentioned. I feel a pity -for the poor trees as I did for yon dipt poodle dog at Griepon.” - </p> -<p> -“La! la! la! <i>sots raissonable</i>, Monsieur,” cried the priest. “We -cannot have the tastes of our Dubarrys and Pompadours and Maintenons so -called in question by an untravelled Scot that knows but the rude mountain -and stunted oaks dying in a murrain of climate. 'Art too ingenuous, youth. -And yet—and yet”—here he paused and tapped his temple and -smiled whimsically—“between ourselves, I prefer the woods of Somme -where the birds sang together so jocund t'other day. But there now—ah, -<i>quelle gloire!</i>” - </p> -<p> -We had come upon the front of the palace, and its huge far-reaching -masonry, that I learned later to regard as cold, formal, and wanting in a -soul, vastly discomposed me. I do not know why it should be so, but as I -gazed at this—the greatest palace I had ever beheld—I felt -tears rush irrestrainably to my eyes. Maybe it was the poor little poet in -MacGibbon's law chamber in Lanark town that used to tenant every ancient -dwelling with spirits of the past, cropped up for the moment in Father -Hamilton's secretary, and made me, in a flash, people the place with kings—and -realise something of the wrench it must have been and still would be to -each and all of them to say adieu at the long last to this place of noisy -grandeur where they had had their time of gaiety and splendour. Anyhow, I -well-nigh wept, and the priest was quick to see it. -</p> -<p> -“Fore God!” he cried, “here's Andrew Greig again! 'Twas the wickedest -rogue ever threw dice, and yet the man must rain at the eyes like a very -woman.” - </p> -<p> -And yet he was pleased, I thought, to see me touched. A band was playing -somewhere in a garden unseen; he tapped time to its music with his finger -tips against each other and smiled beatifically and hummed. He seemed at -peace with the world and himself at that moment, yet a second later he was -the picture of distress and apprehension. -</p> -<p> -We were going towards the Place d'Armes; he had, as was customary, his arm -through mine, leaning on me more than was comfortable, for he was the -poorest judge imaginable of his own corpulence. Of a sudden I felt him -jolt as if he had been startled, and then he gripped my arm with a nervous -grasp. All that was to account for his perturbation was that among the few -pedestrians passing us on the road was one in a uniform who cast a rapid -glance at us. It was not wonderful that he should do so, for indeed we -were a singularly ill-assorted pair, but there was a recognition of the -priest in the glance the man in the uniform threw at him in passing. -Nothing was said; the man went on his way and we on ours, but looking at -Father Hamilton I saw his face had lost its colour and grown blotched in -patches. His hand trembled; for the rest of the walk he was silent, and he -could not too soon hurry us back to the Cerf d'Or. -</p> -<p> -Next day was Sunday, and Father Hamilton went to Mass leaving me to my own -affairs, that were not of that complexion perhaps most becoming on that -day to a lad from Scotland. He came back anon and dressed most -scrupulously in a suit of lay clothing. -</p> -<p> -“Come out, Master Greig,” said he, “and use thine eyes for a poor priest -that has ruined his own in studying the Fathers and seeking for honesty.” - </p> -<p> -“It is not in the nature of a compliment to myself, that,” I said, a -little tired of his sour sentiments regarding humanity, and not afraid in -the least to tell him so. -</p> -<p> -“Eh!” said he. “I spoke not of thee, thou savage. A plague on thy curt -temper; 'twas ever the weakness of the Greigs. Come, and I shall show thee -a house where thy uncle and I had many a game of dominoes.” - </p> -<p> -We went to a coffee-house and watched the fashionable world go by. It was -a sight monstrously fine. Because it was the Easter Sunday the women had -on their gayest apparel, the men their most belaced <i>jabots</i>. -</p> -<p> -“Now look you well, Friend Scotland,” said Father Hamilton, as we sat at a -little table and watched the stream of quality pass, “look you well and -watch particularly every gentleman that passes to the right, and when you -see one you know tell me quickly.” - </p> -<p> -He had dropped his Roman manner as if in too sober a mood to act. -</p> -<p> -“Is it a game?” I asked. “Who can I ken in the town of Versailles that -never saw me here before?” - </p> -<p> -“Never mind,” said he, “do as I tell you. A sharp eye, and-” - </p> -<p> -“Why,” I cried, “there's a man I have seen before!” - </p> -<p> -“Where? where?” said Father Hamilton, with the utmost interest lighting -his countenance. -</p> -<p> -“Yonder, to the left of the man with the velvet breeches. He will pass us -in a minute or two.” - </p> -<p> -The person I meant would have been kenspeckle in any company by the -splendour of his clothing, but beyond his clothing there was a haughtiness -in his carriage that singled him out even among the fashionables of -Versailles, who were themselves obviously interested in his personality, -to judge by the looks that they gave him as closely as breeding permitted. -He came sauntering along the pavement swinging a cane by its tassel, his -chin in the air, his eyes anywhere but on the crowds that parted to give -him room. As he came closer I saw it was a handsome face enough that thus -was cocked in haughtiness to the heavens, not unlike Clancarty's in that -it showed the same signs of dissipation, yet with more of native nobility -in it than was in the good enough countenance of the French-Irish -nobleman. Where had I seen that face before? -</p> -<p> -It must have been in Scotland; it must have been when I was a boy; it was -never in the Mearns. This was a hat with a Dettingen cock; when I saw that -forehead last it was under a Highland bonnet. -</p> -<p> -A Highland bonnet—why! yes, and five thousand Highland bonnets were -in its company—whom had I here but Prince Charles Edward! -</p> -<p> -The recognition set my heart dirling in my breast, for there was enough of -the rebel in me to feel a romantic glow at seeing him who set Scotland in -a blaze, and was now the stuff of songs our women sang in milking folds -among the hills; that heads had fallen for, and the Hebrides had been -searched for in vain for weary seasons. The man was never a hero of mine -so long as I had the cooling influence of my father to tell me how -lamentable for Scotland had been his success had God permitted the same, -yet I was proud to-day to see him. -</p> -<p> -“Is it he?” asked the priest, dividing his attention between me and the -approaching nobleman. -</p> -<p> -“It's no other,” said I. “I would know Prince Charles in ten thousand, -though I saw him but the once in a rabble of caterans coming up the -Gallow-gate of Glasgow.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah,” said the priest, with a curious sighing sound. “They said he passed -here at the hour. And that's our gentleman, is it? I expected he would -have been—would have been different.” When the Prince was opposite -the café where we sat he let his glance come to earth, and it fell upon -myself. His aspect changed; there was something of recognition in it; -though he never slackened his pace and was gazing the next moment down the -vista of the street, I knew that his glance had taken me in from head to -heel, and that I was still the object of his thoughts. -</p> -<p> -“You see! you see!” cried the priest, “I was right, and he knew the Greig. -Why, lad, shalt have an Easter egg for this—the best horologe in -Versailles upon Monday morning.” - </p> -<p> -“Why, how could he know me?” I asked. “It is an impossibility, for when he -and I were in the same street last he rode a horse high above an army and -I was only a raw laddie standing at a close-mouth in Duff's Land in the -Gallowgate.” - </p> -<p> -But all the same I felt the priest was right, and that there was some sort -of recognition in the Prince's glance at me in passing. -</p> -<p> -Father Hamilton poured himself a generous glass and drank thirstily. -</p> -<p> -“La! la! la!” said he, resuming his customary manner of address. “I -daresay his Royal Highness has never clapt eyes on thy <i>croque-mori</i> -countenance before, but he has seen its like—ay, and had a regard -for it, too! Thine Uncle Andrew has done the thing for thee again; the -mole, the hair, the face, the shoes—sure they advertise the Greig as -by a drum tuck! and Charles Edward knew thy uncle pretty well so I -supposed he would know thee. And this is my gentleman, is it? Well, well! -No, not at all well; mighty ill indeed. Not the sort of fellow I had -looked for at all. Seems a harmless man enough, and has tossed many a -goblet in the way of company. If he had been a sour whey-face now—” - </p> -<p> -Father Hamilton applied himself most industriously to the bottle that -afternoon, and it was not long till the last of my respect for him was -gone. Something troubled him. He was moody and hilarious by turns, but -neither very long, and completed my distrust of him when he intimated that -there was some possibility of our trip across Europe never coming into -effect. But all the same, I was to be assured of his patronage, I was to -continue in his service as secretary, if, as was possible, he should take -up his residence for a time in Paris. And money—why, look again! he -had a ship's load of it, and 'twould never be said of Father Hamilton that -he could not share with a friend. And there he thrust some rouleaux upon -me and clapped my shoulder and was so affected at his own love for Andrew -Greig's nephew that he must even weep. -</p> -<p> -Weeping indeed was the priest's odd foible for the week we remained at -Versailles. He that had been so jocular before was now filled with morose -moods, and would ruminate over his bottle by the hour at a time. -</p> -<p> -He was none the better for the company he met during our stay at the Cerf -d'Or—all priests, and to the number of half a dozen, one of them an -abbé with a most noble and reverent countenance. They used to come to him -late at night, confer with him secretly in his room, and when they were -gone I found him each time drenched in a perspiration and feverishly -gulping spirits. -</p> -<p> -Every day we went to the café where we had seen the Prince first, and -every day at the same hour we saw his Royal Highness, who, it appeared, -was not known to the world as such, though known to me. The sight of him -seemed to trouble Father Hamilton amazingly, and yet 'twas the grand -object of the day—its only diversion; when we had seen the Prince we -went back straight to the inn every afternoon. -</p> -<p> -The Cerf d'Or had a courtyard, cobbled with rough stones, in which there -was a great and noisy traffic. In the midst of the court there was a -little clump of evergreen trees and bushes in tubs, round which were -gathered a few tables and chairs whereat—now that the weather was -mild—the world sat in the afternoon. The walls about were covered -with dusty ivy where sparrows had begun to busy themselves with love and -housekeeping; lilacs sprouted into green, and the porter of the house was -for ever scratching at the hard earth about the plants, and tying up twigs -and watering the pots. It was here I used to write my letters to Miss -Walkinshaw at a little table separate from the rest, and I think it was on -Friday I was at this pleasant occupation when I looked up to see the man -with the uniform gazing at me from the other side of the bushes as if he -were waiting to have the letter when I was done with it. -</p> -<p> -I went in and asked Father Hamilton who this man was. -</p> -<p> -“What!” he cried in a great disturbance, “the same as we met near the -Trianon! O Lord! Paul, there is something wrong, for that was Buhot.” - </p> -<p> -“And this Buhot?” I asked. -</p> -<p> -“A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want you -to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into the -hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that he passes -the café at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest thing in the -world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's to be done by -you.” - </p> -<p> -“But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by the -Swiss?” - </p> -<p> -“That is my affair,” cried the priest testily. “The Prince knows you—that -is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have the Swiss -with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he should have -this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis a letter from -his Royal Highness's most intimate friend.” - </p> -<p> -I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address was -in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the bosom of -my coat! -</p> -<p> -What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be -conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must -carry it! -</p> -<p> -“Very well,” I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince. -</p> -<p> -The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer -clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour -more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my -hat in my hand. “I beg your Royal Highness's pardon,” I said in English, -“but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you.” - </p> -<p> -He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes, and -took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction, reddened, -and bit his lip. -</p> -<p> -“Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the -honour?” - </p> -<p> -“Greig,” I answered. “Paul Greig.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah!” he cried, “of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family. <i>Charmé, -Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance</i>. M. Andrew Greig-” - </p> -<p> -“Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?” - </p> -<p> -“So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of -irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M. -Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a—what was -it now?—a gomeral.” - </p> -<p> -“It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness,” I said. “But I -know that he loved you and your cause.” - </p> -<p> -“I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did,” said the Prince, flushing, -and with a show of pleasure at my speech. “I have learned of late that the -fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it all I liked M. -Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur Greig's -nephew soon again. <i>Au plaisir de vous revoir!</i>” And off he went, -putting the letter, unread, into his pocket. -</p> -<p> -When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed, -he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXI -</h2> -<h3> -THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd now I come to an affair of which there have been many accounts -written, some of them within a mile or two of the truth, the most but -sheer romantics. I have in my mind notably the account of the officer -Buhot printed two years after the events in question, in which he makes -the most fabulous statement as to the valiancy of Father Hamilton's stand -in the private house in the Rue des Reservoirs, and maintains that myself—<i>le -fier Eccossais</i>, as he is flattering enough to designate me—drew -my sword upon himself and threatened to run him through for his -proposition that I should confess to a complicity in the attempt upon his -Royal Highness. I have seen his statement reproduced with some extra -ornament in the <i>Edinburgh Courant</i>, and the result of all this is -that till this day my neighbours give me credit, of which I am loth to -advantage myself, for having felled two or three of the French officers -before I was overcome at the hinder-end. -</p> -<p> -The matter is, in truth, more prosaic as it happened, and if these -memorials of mine leave the shadow of a doubt in the minds of any -interested in an old story that created some stir in its time, I pray them -see the archives of M. Bertin, the late Lieut.-General of the police. -Bertin was no particular friend of mine, that had been the unconscious -cause of great trouble and annoyance to him, but he has the truth in the -deposition I made and signed prior to my appointment to a company of the -d'Auvergne regiment. -</p> -<p> -Well, to take matters in their right order, it was the evening of the day -I had given the letter to the Prince that Father Hamilton expressed his -intention of passing that night in the house of a friend. -</p> -<p> -I looked at him with manifest surprise, for he had been at the bottle most -of the afternoon, and was by now more in a state for his bed than for -going among friends. -</p> -<p> -“Well,” he cried peevishly, observing my dubiety. “Do you think me too -drunk for the society of a parcel of priests? <i>Ma foi!</i> it is a -pretty thing that I cannot budge from my ordinary habitude of things -without a stuck owl setting up a silent protest.” - </p> -<p> -To a speech so wanting in dignity I felt it better there should be no -reply, and instead I helped him into his great-coat. As I did so, he made -an awkward lurching movement due to his corpulence, and what jumped out of -an inner pocket but a pistol? Which of us was the more confused at that it -would be hard to say. For my part, the weapon—that I had never seen -in his possession before—was a fillip to my sleeping conscience; I -picked it up with a distaste, and he took it from me with trembling -fingers and an averted look. -</p> -<p> -“A dangerous place, Versailles, after dark,” he explained feebly. “One -never knows, one never knows,” and into his pocket hurriedly with it. -</p> -<p> -“I shall be back for breakfast,” he went on. “Unless—unless—oh, -I certainly shall be back.” And off he set. -</p> -<p> -The incident of the pistol disturbed me for a while. I made a score of -speculations as to why a fat priest should burden himself with such an -article, and finally concluded that it was as he suggested, to defend -himself from night birds if danger offered; though that at the time had -been the last thing I myself would have looked for in the well-ordered -town of Versailles. I sat in the common-room or <i>salle</i> of the inn -for a while after he had gone, and thereafter retired to my own -bedchamber, meaning to read or write for an hour or two before going to -bed. In the priest's room—which was on the same landing and next to -my own—I heard the whistle of Bernard the Swiss, but I had no -letters for him that evening, and we did not meet each other. I was at -first uncommon dull, feeling more than usually the hame-wae that must have -been greatly wanting in the experience of my Uncle Andrew to make him for -so long a wanderer on the face of the earth. But there is no condition of -life so miserable but what one finds in it remissions, diversions, nay, -and delights also, and soon I was—of all things in the world to be -doing when what followed came to pass!—inditing a song to a lady, my -quill scratching across the paper in spurts and dashes, and baffled pauses -where the matter would not attend close enough on the mood, stopping -altogether at a stanza's end to hum the stuff over to myself with great -satisfaction. I was, as I say, in the midst of this; the Swiss had gone -downstairs; all in my part of the house was still, though vehicles moved -about in the courtyard, when unusually noisy footsteps sounded on the -stair, with what seemed like the tap of scabbards on the treads. -</p> -<p> -It was a sound so strange that my hand flew by instinct to the small sword -I was now in the habit of wearing and had learned some of the use of from -Thurot. -</p> -<p> -There was no knock for entrance; the door was boldly opened and four -officers with Buhot at their head were immediately in the room. -</p> -<p> -Buhot intimated in French that I was to consider myself under arrest, and -repeated the same in indifferent English that there might be no mistake -about a fact as patent as that the sword was in his hand. -</p> -<p> -For a moment I thought the consequence of my crime had followed me abroad, -and that this squat, dark officer, watching me with the scrutiny of a -forest animal, partly in a dread that my superior bulk should endanger -himself, was in league with the law of my own country. That I should after -all be dragged back in chains to a Scots gallows was a prospect -unendurable; I put up the ridiculous small sword and dared him to lay a -hand on me. But I had no sooner done so than its folly was apparent, and I -laid the weapon down. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Tant mieux!</i>” said he, much relieved, and then an assurance that he -knew I was a gentleman of discretion and would not make unnecessary -trouble. “Indeed,” he went on, “<i>Voyez!</i> I take these men away; I -have the infinite trust in Monsieur; Monsieur and I shall settle this -little affair between us.” - </p> -<p> -And he sent his friends to the foot of the stair. -</p> -<p> -“Monsieur may compose himself,” he assured me with a profound inclination. -</p> -<p> -“I am very much obliged to you,” I said, seating myself on the corner of -the table and crushing my poor verses into my pocket as I did so, “I am -very much obliged to you, but I'm at a loss to understand to what I owe -the honour.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed!” he said, also seating himself on the table to show, I supposed, -that he was on terms of confidence with his prisoner. “Monsieur is Father -Hamilton's secretary?” - </p> -<p> -“So I believe,” I said; “at least I engaged for the office that's -something of a sinecure, to tell the truth.” - </p> -<p> -And then Buhot told me a strange story. -</p> -<p> -He told me that Father Hamilton was now a prisoner, and on his way to the -prison of Bicêtre. He was—this Buhot—something of the artist -and loved to make his effects most telling (which accounts, no doubt, for -the romantical nature of the accounts aforesaid), and sitting upon the -table-edge he embarked upon a narrative of the most crowded two hours that -had perhaps been in Father Hamilton's lifetime. -</p> -<p> -It seemed that when the priest had left the Cerf d'Or, he had gone to a -place till recently called the Bureau des Carrosses pour la Rochelle, and -now unoccupied save by a concierge, and the property of some person or -persons unknown. There he had ensconced himself in the only habitable room -and waited for a visitor regarding whom the concierge had his -instructions. -</p> -<p> -“You must imagine him,” said the officer, always with the fastidiousness -of an artist for his effects, “you must imagine him, Monsieur, sitting in -this room, all alone, breathing hard, with a pistol before him on the -table, and—” - </p> -<p> -“What! a pistol!” I cried, astounded and alarmed. “<i>Certainement</i>” - said Buhot, charmed with the effect his dramatic narrative was creating. -“Your friend, <i>mon ami</i>, would be little good, I fancy, with a -rapier. Anyway, 'twas a pistol. A carriage drives up to the door; the -priest rises to his feet with the pistol in his hand; there is the rap at -the door. '<i>Entrez!</i>' cries the priest, cocking the pistol, and no -sooner was his visitor within than he pulled the trigger; the explosion -rang through the dwelling; the chamber was full of smoke.” - </p> -<p> -“Good heavens!” I cried in horror, “and who was the unhappy wretch?” - </p> -<p> -Buhot shrugged his shoulders, made a French gesture with his hands, and -pursed his mouth. -</p> -<p> -“Whom did you invite to the room at the hour of ten, M. Greig?” he asked. -</p> -<p> -“Invite!” I cried. “It's your humour to deal in parables. I declare to you -I invited no one.” - </p> -<p> -“And yet, my good sir, you are Hamilton's secretary and you are Hamilton's -envoy. 'Twas you handed to the Prince the <i>poulet</i> that was designed -to bring him to his fate.” - </p> -<p> -My instinct grasped the situation in a second; I had been the ignorant -tool of a madman; the whole events of the past week made the fact plain, -and I was for the moment stunned. -</p> -<p> -Buhot watched me closely, and not unkindly, I can well believe, from what -I can recall of our interview and all that followed after it. -</p> -<p> -“And you tell me he killed the Prince?” I cried at last. -</p> -<p> -“No, Monsieur,” said Buhot; “I am happy to say he did not. The Prince was -better advised than to accept the invitation you sent to him.” - </p> -<p> -“Still,” I cried with remorse, “there's a man dead, and 'tis as much as -happens when princes themselves are clay.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Parfaitement</i>, Monsieur, though it is indiscreet to shout it here. -Luckily there is no one at all dead in this case, otherwise it had been -myself, for I was the man who entered to the priest and received his -pistol fire. It was not the merriest of duties either,” he went on, always -determined I should lose no iota of the drama, “for the priest might have -discovered before I got there that the balls of his pistol had been -abstracted.” - </p> -<p> -“Then Father Hamilton has been under watch?” - </p> -<p> -“Since ever you set foot in Versailles last Friday,” said Buhot -complacently. “The Damiens affair has sharpened our wits, I warrant you.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, sir,” I said, “let me protest that I have been till this moment in -utter darkness about Hamilton's character or plans. I took him for what he -seemed—a genial buffoon of a kind with more gear than guidance.” - </p> -<p> -“We cannot, with infinite regret, assume that, Monsieur, but personally I -would venture a suggestion,” said Buhot, coming closer on the table and -assuming an affable air. “In this business, Hamilton is a tool—no -more; and a poor one at that, badly wanting the grindstone. To break him—phew!—'twere -as easy as to break a glass, but he is one of a great movement and the man -we seek is his master—one Father Fleuriau of the Jesuits. Hamilton's -travels were but part of a great scheme that has sent half a dozen of his -kind chasing the Prince in the past year or two from Paris to Amsterdam, -from Amsterdam to Orleans, from Orleans to Hamburg, Seville, Lisbon, Rome, -Brussels, Potsdam, Nuremburg, Berlin. The same hand that extracted his -bullets tapped the priest's portfolio and found the wretch was in promise -of a bishopric and a great sum of money. You see, M. Greig, I am curiously -frank with my prisoner.” - </p> -<p> -“And no doubt you have your reasons,” said I, but beat, myself, to imagine -what they could be save that he might have proofs of my innocence. -</p> -<p> -“Very well,” said M. Buhot. “To come to the point, it is this, that we -desire to have the scheme of the Jesuits for the Prince's assassination, -and other atrocities shocking to all that revere the divinity of princes, -crumbled up. Father Hamilton is at the very roots of the secret; if, say, -a gentleman so much in his confidence as yourself—now, if such a one -were, say, to share a cell with this regicide for a night or two, and -pursue judicious inquiries——” - </p> -<p> -“Stop! stop!” I cried, my blood hammering in my head, and the words like -to choke me. “Am I to understand that you would make me your spy and -informer upon this miserable old madman that has led me such a gowk's -errand?” - </p> -<p> -Buhot slid back off the table edge and on to his feet. “Oh,” said he, “the -terms are not happily chosen: 'spy'—'informer'—come, Monsieur -Greig; this man is in all but the actual accomplishment of his purpose an -assassin. 'Tis the duty of every honest man to help in discovering the -band of murderers whose tool he has been.” - </p> -<p> -“Then I'm no honest man, M. Buhot,” said I bitterly, “for I've no stomach -for a duty so dirty.” - </p> -<p> -“Think of it for a moment,” he pressed, with evident surprise at my -decision. “Bicêtre is an unwholesome hostelry, I give you my word. -Consider that your choice is between a night or two there and—who -knows?—a lifetime of Galbanon that is infinitely worse.” - </p> -<p> -“Then let it be Galbanon!” I said, and lifted my sword and slapped it -furiously, sheathed as it was, like a switch upon the table. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/198.jpg" alt="198" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -Buhot leaped back in a fear that I was to attack him, and cried his men -from the stair foot. -</p> -<p> -“This force is not needed at all,” I said. “I am innocent enough to be -prepared to go quietly.” - </p> - -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXII -</h2> -<h3> -OF A NIGHT JOURNEY AND BLACK BICETRE AT THE END OF IT -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>was a long journey to the prison of Bicêtre, which is two miles to the -south of the city of Paris, a great building that had once (they say) been -a palace, but now in the time of my experience was little better than a -vestibule of hell. I was driven to it through a black loud night of rain, -a plunging troop of horse on either hand the coach as if I were a -traveller of state, and Buhot in front of me as silent as the priest had -been the day we left Dunkerque, though wakeful, and the tip of his -scabbard leaning on my boot to make sure that in the darkness no movement -of mine should go unobserved. -</p> -<p> -The trees swung and roared in the wind; the glass lozens of the carriage -pattered to the pelting showers; sometimes we lurched horribly in the ruts -of the highway, and were released but after monstrous efforts on the part -of the cavaliers. Once, as we came close upon a loop of a brawling river, -I wished with all fervency that we might fall in, and so end for ever this -pitiful coil of trials whereto fate had obviously condemned poor Paul -Greig. To die among strangers (as is widely known) is counted the saddest -of deaths by our country people, and so, nowadays, it would seem to -myself, but there and then it appeared an enviable conclusion to the -Spoiled Horn that had blundered from folly to folly. To die there and then -would be to leave no more than a regret and an everlasting wonder in the -folks at home; to die otherwise, as seemed my weird, upon a block or -gallows, would be to foul the name of my family for generations, and I -realised in my own person the agony of my father when he got the news, and -I bowed my shoulders in the coach below the shame that he would feel as in -solemn blacks he walked through the Sabbath kirkyard in summers to come in -Mearns, with the knowledge that though neighbours looked not at him but -with kindness, their inmost thoughts were on the crimson chapter of his -son. -</p> -<p> -Well, we came at the long last to Bicêtre, and I was bade alight in the -flare of torches. A strange, a memorable scene; it will never leave me. -Often I remit me there in dreams. When I came out of the conveyance the -lights dazzled me, and Buhot put his hands upon my shoulders and turned me -without a word in the direction he wished me to take. It was through a -vast and frowning doorway that led into a courtyard so great that the -windows on the other side seemed to be the distance of a field. The -windows were innumerable, and though the hour was late they were lit in -stretching corridors. Fires flamed in corners of the yard—great -leaping fires round which warders (as I guessed them) gathered to dry -themselves or get warmth against the chill of the early April morning. -Their scabbards or their muskets glittered now and then in the light of -the flames; their voices—restrained by the presence of Buhot—sounded -deep and dreadful to me that knew not the sum of his iniquity yet could -shudder at the sense of what portended. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a> -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/203.jpg" alt="203" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -It were vain for me to try and give expression to my feeling as I went -past these fires across the stony yard, and entered between a guard or two -at the other side. At the root of my horror was the sentiment that all was -foreign, that I was no more to these midnight monsters round their -torturing flames than a creature of the wood, less, perhaps, for were they -not at sworn war with my countrymen, and had not I a share at least of the -repute of regicide? And when, still led by the silent officer, I entered -the building itself and walked through an unending corridor broken at -intervals by black doors and little barred borrowed lights, and heard -sometimes a moan within, or a shriek far off in another part of the -building, I experienced something of that long swound that is insanity. -Then I was doomed for the rest of my brief days to be among these unhappy -wretches—the victims of the law or political vengeance, the <i>forçat</i> -who had thieved, or poisoned, perjured himself, or taken human blood! -</p> -<p> -At last we came to a door, where Buhot stopped me and spoke, for the first -time, almost, since we had left Versailles. He put his hand out to check a -warder who was going to open the cell for my entrance. -</p> -<p> -“I am not a hard man, M. Greig,” said he, in a stumbling English, “and -though this is far beyond my duties, and, indeed, contrary to the same, I -would give you another chance. We shall have, look you, our friend the -priest in any case, and to get the others is but a matter of time. 'Tis a -good citizen helps the law always; you must have that respect for the law -that you should feel bound to circumvent those who would go counter to it -with your cognisance.” - </p> -<p> -“My good man,” I said, as quietly as I could, and yet internally with -feelings like to break me, “I have already said my say. If the tow was -round my thrapple I would say no more than that I am innocent of any plot -against a man by whose family mine have lost, and that I myself, for all -my loyalty to my country, would do much to serve as a private individual.” - </p> -<p> -“Consider,” he pleaded. “After all, this Hamilton may be a madman with -nothing at all to tell that will help us.” - </p> -<p> -“But the bargain is to be that I must pry and I must listen,” said I, “and -be the tale-pyat whose work may lead to this poor old buffoon's and many -another's slaughtering. Not I, M. Buhot, and thank ye kindly! It's no' -work for one of the Greigs of Hazel Den.” - </p> -<p> -“I fear you do not consider all,” he said patiently—so patiently -indeed that I wondered at him. “I will show you to what you are condemned -even before your trial, before you make up your mind irrevocably to refuse -this very reasonable request of ours,” and he made a gesture that caused -the warder to open the door so that I could see within. -</p> -<p> -There was no light of its own in the cell, but it borrowed wanly a little -of the radiance of the corridor, and I could see that it was bare to the -penury of a mausoleum, with a stone floor, a wooden palliasse, and no -window other than a barred hole above the door. There was not even a stool -to sit on. But I did not quail. -</p> -<p> -“I have been in more comfortable quarters, M. Buhot,” I said, “but in none -that I could occupy with a better conscience.” Assuming with that a sort -of bravado, I stepped in before he asked me. -</p> -<p> -“Very good,” he cried; “but I cannot make you my felicitations on your -decision, M. Greig,” and without more ado he had the door shut on me. -</p> -<p> -I sat on the woollen palliasse for a while, with my head on my hands, -surrendered all to melancholy; and then, though the thing may seem beyond -belief, I stretched myself and slept till morning. It was not the most -refreshing of sleep, but still 'twas wonderful that I should sleep at all -in such circumstances, and I take it that a moorland life had been a -proper preparation for just such trials. -</p> -<p> -When I wakened in the morning the prison seemed full of eerie noises—of -distant shrieks as in a bedlam, and commanding voices, and of ringing -metals, the clank of fetters, or the thud of musket-butts upon the stones. -A great beating of feet was in the yard, as if soldiers were manoeuvring, -and it mastered me to guess what all this might mean, until a warder -opened my door and ordered me out for an airing. -</p> -<p> -I mind always of a parrot at a window. -</p> -<p> -This window was one that looked into the yard from some official's -dwelling in that dreadful place, and the bird occupied a great cage that -was suspended from a nail outside. -</p> -<p> -The bird, high above the rabble of rogues in livery, seemed to have a -devilish joy in the spectacle of the misery tramping round and round -beneath, for it clung upon the bars and thrust out its head to whistle, as -if in irony, or taunt us with a foul song. There was one air it had, -expressed so clearly that I picked up air and words with little -difficulty, and the latter ran something like this: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -Ah! ah! Pierrot, Pierrot! -Fais ta toilette, -Voila le barbier! oh! oh! -Et sa charrette— -</pre> -<p> -all in the most lugubrious key. -</p> -<p> -And who were we that heard that reference to the axe? We were the scum, -the <i>sordes</i>, the rot of France. There was, doubtless, no crime -before the law of the land, no outrage against God and man, that had not -here its representative. We were not men, but beasts, cut off from every -pleasant—every clean and decent association, the visions of sin -always behind the peering eyes, the dreams of vice and crime for ever -fermenting in the low brows. I felt 'twas the forests we should be -frequenting—the forests of old, the club our weapon, the cave our -habitation; no song ours, nor poem, no children to infect with fondness, -no women to smile at in the light of evening lamps. The forest—the -cave—the animal! What were we but children of the outer dark, -condemned from the start of time, our faces ground hard against the -flints, our feet bogged in hag and mire? -</p> -<p> -There must have been several hundreds of the convicts in the yard, and yet -I was told later that it was not a fourth of the misery that Bicêtre held, -and that scores were leaving weekly for the <i>bagnes</i>—the hulks -at Toulon and at Brest—while others took their places. -</p> -<p> -Every man wore a uniform—a coarse brown jacket, vast wide breeches -of the same hue, a high sugar-loaf cap and wooden shoes—all except -some privileged, whereof I was one—and we were divided into gangs, -each gang with its warders—tall grenadiers with their muskets ready. -</p> -<p> -Round and round and across and across we marched in the great quadrangle, -every man treading the rogues' measure with leg-weary reluctance, many -cursing their warders under breath, most scowling, all hopeless and all -lost. -</p> -<p> -'Twas the exercise of the day. -</p> -<p> -As we slouched through that mad ceremony in the mud of the yard, with rain -still drizzling on us, the parrot in its cage had a voice loud and shrill -above the commands of the grenadiers and officers; sang its taunting song, -or whistled like a street boy, a beast so free, so careless and remote, -that I had a fancy it had the only soul in the place. -</p> -<p> -As I say, we were divided into gangs, each gang taking its own course back -and forward in the yard as its commander ordered. The gang I was with -marched a little apart from the rest. We were none of us in this gang in -the ugly livery of the prison, but in our own clothing, and we were, it -appeared, allowed that privilege because we were yet to try. I knew no -reason for the distinction at the time, nor did I prize it very much, for -looking all about the yard—at the officers, the grenadiers, and -other functionaries of the prison, I failed to see a single face I knew. -What could I conclude but that Buhot was gone and that I was doomed to be -forgotten here? -</p> -<p> -It would have been a comfort even to have got a glimpse of Father -Hamilton, the man whose machinations were the cause of my imprisonment, -but Father Hamilton, if he had been taken here as Buhot had suggested, was -not, at all events, in view. -</p> -<p> -After the morning's exercise we that were the privileged were taken to -what was called the <i>salle dépreuve</i>, and with three or four to each -<i>gamelle</i> or mess-tub, ate a scurvy meal of a thin soup and black -bread and onions. To a man who had been living for a month at heck and -manger, as we say, this might naturally seem unpalatable fare, but truth -to tell I ate it with a relish that had been all the greater had it been -permitted me to speak to any of my fellow sufferers. But speech was -strictly interdict and so our meal was supped in silence. -</p> -<p> -When it was over I was to be fated for the pleasantest of surprises! -</p> -<p> -There came to me a sous-officer of the grenadiers. -</p> -<p> -In French he asked if I was Monsieur Greig. I said as best I could in the -same tongue that I was that unhappy person at his service. Then, said he, -“Come with me.” He led me into a hall about a hundred feet long that had -beds or mattresses for about three hundred people. The room was empty, as -those who occupied it were, he said, at Mass. Its open windows in front -looked into another courtyard from that in which we had been exercising, -while the windows at the rear looked into a garden where already lilac was -in bloom and daffodillies endowed the soil of a few mounds with the colour -of the gold. On the other side of the court first named there was a huge -building. “Galbanon,” said my guide, pointing to it, and then made me -understand that the same was worse by far than the Bastille, and at the -moment full of Marquises, Counts, Jesuits, and other clergymen, many of -them in irons for abusing or writing against the Marchioness de Pompadour. -</p> -<p> -I listened respectfully and waited Monsieur's explanation. It was manifest -I had not been brought into this hall for the good of my education, and -naturally I concluded the name of Galbanon, that I had heard already from -Buhot, with its villainous reputation, was meant to terrify me into a -submission to what had been proposed. The moment after a hearty meal—even -of <i>soup maigre</i>—was not, however, the happiest of times to -work upon a Greig's feelings of fear or apprehension, and so I waited, -very dour within upon my resolution though outwardly in the most -complacent spirit. -</p> -<p> -The hall was empty when we entered as I have said, but we had not been -many minutes in it when the tramp of men returning to it might be heard, -and this hurried my friend the officer to his real business. -</p> -<p> -He whipped a letter from his pocket and put it in my hand with a sign to -compel secrecy on my part. It may be readily believed I was quick enough -to conceal the missive. He had no cause to complain of the face I turned -upon another officer who came up to us, for 'twas a visage of clownish -vacuity. -</p> -<p> -The duty of the second officer, it appeared, was to take me to a new cell -that had been in preparation for me, and when I got there it was with -satisfaction I discovered it more than tolerable, with a sufficiency of -air and space, a good light from the quadrangle, a few books, paper, and a -writing standish. -</p> -<p> -When the door had been shut upon me, I turned to open my letter and found -there was in fact a couple of them—a few lines from her ladyship in -Dunkerque expressing her continued interest in my welfare and adventures, -and another from the Swiss through whom the first had come. He was still—said -the honest Bernard—at my service, having eluded the vigilance of -Buhot, who doubtless thought a lackey scarce worth his hunting, and he was -still in a position to post my letters, thanks to the goodwill of the -sous-officer who was a relative. Furthermore, he was in hopes that Miss -Walkinshaw, who was on terms of intimacy with the great world and -something of an <i>intriguante</i>, would speedily take steps to secure my -freedom. “Be tranquil, dear Monsieur!” concluded the brave fellow, and I -was so exceedingly comforted and inspired by these matters that I -straightway sat down to the continuation of my journal for Miss -Walkinshaw's behoof. I had scarce dipped the pen, when my cell door opened -and gave entrance to the man who was the cause of my incarceration. -</p> -<p> -The door shut and locked behind him; it was Father Hamilton! -</p> -<p> -It was indeed Father Hamilton, by all appearance none the worse in body -for his violent escapade, so weighty with the most fatal possibilities for -himself, for he advanced to me almost gaily, his hand extended and his -face red and smiling. -</p> -<p> -“Scotland! to my heart!” cries he in the French, and throws his arms about -me before I could resist, and kisses me on the cheeks after the amusing -fashion of his nation. “La! la! la! Paul,” he cried, “I'd have wanted -three breakfasts sooner than miss this meeting with my good secretary lad -that is the lovablest rogue never dipped a pen in his master's service. -Might have been dead for all I knew, and run through by a brutal rapier, -victim of mine own innocence. But here's my Paul, <i>pardieu!</i> I would -as soon have my <i>croque-mort</i> now as that jolly dog his uncle, that -never waked till midnight or slept till the dull, uninteresting noon in -the years when we went roving. What! Paul! Paul Greig! my <i>croque-mort!</i> -my Don Dolorous!—oh, Lord, my child, I am the most miserable of -wretches!” - </p> -<p> -And there he let me go, and threw himself upon a chair, and gave his vast -body to a convulsion of arid sobs. The man was in hysterics, compounding -smiles and sobs a score to the minute, but at the end 'twas the natural -man won the bout, else he had taken a stroke. I stood by him in perplexity -of opinions whether to laugh or storm, whether to give myself to the -righteous horror a good man ought to feel in the presence of a murtherer, -or shrug my shoulders tolerantly at the imbecile. -</p> -<p> -“There!” said he, recovering his natural manner, “I have made a mortal -enemy of Andrew Greig's nephew. Yes, yes, master, glower at Misery, fat -Misery—and the devil take it!—old Misery, without a penny in -'ts pocket, and its next trip upon wheels a trip to the block to nuzzle at -the dirty end in damp sawdust a nose that has appreciated the bouquet of -the rarest wines. Paul, my boy, has't a pinch of snuff? A brutal bird out -there sings a stave of the <i>Chanson de la Veuve</i> so like the -confounded thing that I heard my own foolish old head drop into the -basket, and there! I swear to you the smell of the sawdust is in my -nostrils now.” - </p> -<p> -I handed him my box; 'twas a mull my Uncle Andy gave me before he died, -made of the horn of a young bullock, with a blazon of the house on the -silver lid. He took it eagerly and drenched himself with the contents. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, la! la!” he cried; “I give thanks. My head was like yeast. I wish it -were Christmas last, and a man called Hamilton was back in Dixmunde -parish. But there! that is enough, I have made my bed and I must lie on't, -with a blight on all militant jesuitry! When last I had this box in my -fingers they were as steady as Mont St. Michel, now look—they are -trembling like aspen, <i>n'est-ce pas?</i> And all that's different is -that I have eaten one or two better dinners and cracked a few pipkins of -better wine, and—and—well-nigh killed a police officer. Did'st -ever hear of one Hamilton, M. Greig? 'Twas a cheery old fellow in Dixmunde -whose name was the same as mine, and had a garden and bee-hives, and I am -on the rack for my sins.” - </p> -<p> -He might be on the rack—and, indeed, I daresay the man was in a -passion of feelings so that he knew not what he was havering about, but -what impressed me most of all about him was that he seemed to have some -momentary gleams of satisfaction in his situation. -</p> -<p> -“I have every ground of complaint against you, sir,” I said. -</p> -<p> -“What!” he interrupted. “Would'st plague an old man with complaints when -M. de Paris is tapping him on the shoulder to come away and smell the -sawdust of his own coffin? Oh, 'tis not in this wise thy uncle had done, -but no matter!” - </p> -<p> -“I have no wish, Father Hamilton, to revile you for what you have brought -me,” I hastened to tell him. “That is far from my thoughts, though now -that you put me in mind of it, there is some ground for my blaming you if -blaming was in my intention. But I shall blame you for this, that you are -a priest of the Church and a Frenchman, and yet did draw a murderous hand -upon a prince of your own country.” - </p> -<p> -This took him somewhat aback. He helped himself to another voluminous -pinch of my snuff to give him time for a rejoinder and then—“Regicide, -M. Greig, is sometimes to be defended when——” - </p> -<p> -“Regicide!” I cried, losing all patience, “give us the plain English of -it, Father Hamilton, and call it murder. To call it by a Latin name makes -it none the more respectable a crime against the courts of heaven where -the curse of Babel has an end. But for an accident, or the cunning of -others, you had a corpse upon your conscience this day, and your name had -been abhorred throughout the whole of Europe.” - </p> -<p> -He put his shoulders up till his dew-laps fell in massive folds. -</p> -<p> -“'Fore God!” said he, “here's a treatise in black letter from Andrew -Greig's nephew. It comes indifferently well, I assure thee, from Andrew's -nephew. Those who live in glass houses, <i>cher ami</i>,—those who -live in glass houses——” - </p> -<p> -He tapped me upon the breast with his fat finger and paused, with a -significant look upon his countenance. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, ye can out with it, Father Hamilton!” I cried, certain I knew his -meaning. -</p> -<p> -“Those who live in glass houses,” said he, “should have some pity for a -poor old devil out in the weather without a shelter of any sort.” - </p> -<p> -“You were about to taunt me with my own unhappy affair,” I said, little -relishing his consideration. -</p> -<p> -“Was I, M. Greig?” he said softly. “Faith! a glass residence seems to -breed an ungenerous disposition! If thou can'st credit me I know nothing -of thine affair beyond what I may have suspected from a Greig travelling -hurriedly and in red shoes. I make you my compliments, Monsieur, of your -morality that must be horror-struck at my foolish play with a pistol, yet -thinks me capable of a retort so vile as that you indicate. My dear lad, I -but spoke of what we have spoken of together before in our happy chariot -in the woods of Somme—thine uncle's fate, and all I expected was, -that remembering the same, thou his nephew would'st have enough tolerance -for an old fool to leave his punishment in the hands of the constitute -authority. <i>Voilà!</i> I wish to heaven they had given me another cell, -after all, that I might have imagined thy pity for one that did thee no -harm, or at least meant to do none, which is the main thing with all our -acts else Purgatory's more crowded than I fancy.” - </p> -<p> -He went wearily over to the fire and spread his trembling hands to the -blaze; I looked after him perplexed in my mind, but not without an -overpowering pity. -</p> -<p> -“I have come, like thyself, doubtless,” he said after a little, “over vile -roads in a common cart, and lay awake last night in a dungeon—a -pretty conclusion to my excursion! And yet I am vastly more happy to-day -than I was this time yesterday morning.” - </p> -<p> -“But then you were free,” I said, “you had all you need wish for—money, -a conveyance, servants, leisure——” - </p> -<p> -“And M' Croque-mort's company,” he added with a poor smile. “True, true! -But the thing was then to do,” and he shuddered. “Now my part is done, -'twas by God's grace a failure, and I could sing for content like one of -the little birds we heard the other day in Somme.” - </p> -<p> -He could not but see my bewilderment in my face. -</p> -<p> -“You wonder at that,” said he, relinquishing the Roman manner as he always -did when most in earnest. “Does Monsieur fancy a poor old priest can take -to the ancient art of assassination with an easy mind? <i>Nom de nom!</i> -I could skip to the block like a ballet-dancer if 'twere either that or -live the past two days over again and fifty years after. I have none of -the right stomach for murder; that's flat! 'tis a business that keeps you -awake too much at night, and disturbs the gastric essence; calls, too, for -a confounded agility that must be lacking in a person of my handsome and -plenteous bulk. I had rather go fishing any day in the week than imbrue. -When Buhot entered the room where I waited for a less worthy man and I -fired honestly for my money and missed, I could have died of sheer -rapture. Instead I threw myself upon his breast and embraced him.” - </p> -<p> -“He said none of that to me.” - </p> -<p> -“Like enough not, but 'tis true none the less, though he may keep so -favourable a fact out of his records. A good soul enough, Buhot! We knew -him, your uncle and I, in the old days when I was thinner and played a -good game of chess at three in the morning. Fancy Ned Hamilton cutting -short the glorious career of old Buhot! I'd sooner pick a pocket.” - </p> -<p> -“Or kill a prince!” - </p> -<p> -“Felicitations on your wit, M. Greig! Heaven help the elderly when the new -wit is toward! <i>N'importe!</i> Perhaps 'twere better to kill some -princes than to pick a pocket. Is it not better, or less wicked, let us -say, to take the life of a man villainously abusing it than the purse of a -poor wretch making the most of his scanty <i>livres?</i>” - </p> -<p> -And then the priest set out upon his defence. It is too long here to -reproduce in his own words, even if I recalled them, and too specious in -its terms for the patience of the honest world of our time. With his hands -behind his back he marched up and down the room for the space of a -half-hour at the least, recounting all that led to his crime. The tale was -like a wild romance, but yet, as we know now, true in every particular. He -was of the Society of Jesus, had lived a stormy youth, and fallen in later -years into a disrepute in his own parish, and there the heads of his -Society discovered him a very likely tool for their purposes. They had -only half convinced him that the death of Charles Edward was for the glory -of God and the good of the Church when they sent him marching with a -pistol and £500 in bills of exchange and letters of credit upon a chase -that covered a great part of three or four countries, and ended at Lisbon, -when a German Jesuit in the secret gave him ten crusadoes to bring him -home with his task unaccomplished. -</p> -<p> -“I have what amounts almost to a genius for losing the opportunities of -which I do not desire to avail myself,” said Father Hamilton with a -whimsical smile. -</p> -<p> -And then he had lain in disgrace with the Jesuits for a number of years -until it became manifest (as he confessed with shame) that his experience -of leisure, wealth, and travel had enough corrupted him to make the -prospect of a second adventure of a similar kind pleasing. At that time -Charles, lost to the sight of Europe, and only discovered at brief and -tantalising intervals by the Jesuit agents, scarce slept two nights in the -same town, but went from country to country <i>incognito</i>, so that -'twas no trivial task Father Hamilton undertook to run him to earth. -</p> -<p> -“The difficulty of it—indeed the small likelihood there was of my -ever seeing him,” he said, “was what mainly induced me to accept the -office, though in truth it was compelled. I was doing very well at -Dunkerque,” he went on, “and very happy if I had never heard more of -prince or priesthood, when Father Fleuriau sent me a hurried intimation -that my victim was due at Versailles on Easter and ordered my instant -departure there.” - </p> -<p> -The name of Fleuriau recalled me to my senses. “Stop, stop, Father -Hamilton!” I cried, “I must hear no more.” - </p> -<p> -“What!” said he, bitterly, “is't too good a young gentleman to listen to -the confession of a happy murderer that has failed at his trade?” - </p> -<p> -“I have no feeling left but pity,” said I, almost like to weep at this, -“but you have been put into this cell along with me for a purpose.” - </p> -<p> -“And what might that be, M. Greig?” he asked, looking round about him, and -seeing for the first time, I swear, the sort of place he was in. “Faith! -it is comfort, at any rate; I scarce noticed that, in my pleasure at -seeing Paul Greig again.” - </p> -<p> -“You must not tell me any more of your Jesuit plot, nor name any of those -involved in the same, for Buhot has been at me to cock an ear to -everything you may say in that direction, and betray you and your friends. -It is for that he has put us together into this cell.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Pardieu!</i> am not I betrayed enough already?” cried the priest, -throwing up his hands. “I'll never deny my guilt.” - </p> -<p> -“Yes,” I said, “but they want the names of your fellow conspirators, and -Buhot says they never expect them directly from you.” - </p> -<p> -“He does, does he?” said the priest, smiling. “Faith, M. Buhot has a good -memory for his friend's characteristics. No, M. Greig, if they put this -comfortable carcase to the rack itself. And was that all thy concern? -Well, as I was saying—let us speak low lest some one be listening—this -Father Fleuriau-” - </p> -<p> -Again I stopped him. -</p> -<p> -“You put me into a hard position, Father Hamilton,” I said. “My freedom—my -life, perhaps—depends on whether I can tell them your secret or not, -and here you throw it in my face.” - </p> -<p> -“And why not?” he asked, simply. “I merely wish to show myself largely the -creature of circumstances, and so secure a decent Scot's most favourable -opinion of me before the end.” - </p> -<p> -“But I might be tempted to betray you.” - </p> -<p> -The old eagle looked again out at his eyes. He gently slapped my cheek -with a curious touch of fondness almost womanly, and gave a low, contented -laugh. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Farceur!</i>” he said. “As if I did not know my Don Dolorous, my merry -Andrew's nephew!” His confidence hugely moved me, and, lest he should -think I feared to trust myself with his secrets, I listened to the -remainder of his story, which I shall not here set down, as it bears but -slightly on my own narrative, and may even yet be revealed only at cost of -great distress among good families, not only on the Continent but in -London itself. -</p> -<p> -When he had done, he thanked me for listening so attentively to a matter -that was so much on his mind that it gave him relief to share it with some -one. “And not only for that, M. Greig,” said he, “are my thanks due, for -you saved the life that might have been the prince's instead of my old -gossip, Buhot's. To take the bullet out of my pistol was the device your -uncle himself would have followed in the like circumstances.” - </p> -<p> -“But I did not do that!” I protested. -</p> -<p> -He looked incredulous. -</p> -<p> -“Buhot said as much,” said he; “he let it out unwittingly that I had had -my claws clipped by my own household.” - </p> -<p> -“Then assuredly not by me, Father Hamilton.” - </p> -<p> -“So!” said he, half incredulous, and a look of speculation came upon his -countenance. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIV -</h2> -<h3> -PHILOSOPHY IN A FELON'S CELL -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t seemed for a while as if we were fated to lie forgotten in Bicêtre till -the crack of doom; not that we were many days there when all was done, but -that in our natural hourly expectation at first of being called forth for -trial the hours passed so sluggishly that Time seemed finally to sleep, -and a week, to our fancy—to mine at all events—seemed a month -at the most modest computation. -</p> -<p> -I should have lost my reason but for the company of the priest, who, for -considerations best known to others and to me monstrously inadequate, was -permitted all the time to share my cell. In his singular society there was -a recreation that kept me from too feverishly brooding on my wrongs, and -his character every day presented fresh features of interest and -admiration. He had become quite cheerful again, and as content in the -confine of his cell as he had been when the glass coach was jolting over -the early stages of what had been intended for a gay procession round the -courts of Europe. Once more he affected the Roman manner that was due to -his devotion to Shakespeare and L'Estrange's Seneca, and “Clarissa -Harlowe,” a knowledge of which, next to the Scriptures, he counted the -first essentials for a polite education. I protest he grew fatter every -day, and for ease his corpulence was at last saved the restraint of -buttons, which was an indolent indulgence so much to his liking that of -itself it would have reconciled him to spend the remainder of his time in -prison. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Tiens!</i> Paul,” he would say, “here's an old fool has blundered -through the greater part of his life without guessing till now how easy a -thing content is to come by. Why, 'tis no more than a loose waistcoat and -a chemise unbuttoned at the neck. I dared not be happy thus in Dixmunde, -where the folks were plaguily particular that their priest should be -point-devise, as if mortal man had time to tend his soul and keep a -constant eye on the lace of his fall.” - </p> -<p> -And he would stretch himself—a very mountain of sloth—in his -chair. -</p> -<p> -With me 'twas different. Even in a gaol I felt sure a day begun untidily -was a day ill-done by. If I had no engagements with the fastidious -fashionable world I had engagements with myself; moreover, I shared my -father's sentiment, that a good day's darg of work with any thinking in it -was never done in a pair of slippers down at the heel. Thus I was as -peijink (as we say) in Bicêtre as I would have been at large in the -genteel world. -</p> -<p> -“Not,” he would admit, “but that I love to see thee in a decent habit, and -so constant plucking at thy hose, for I have been young myself, and had -some right foppish follies, too. But now, my good man Dandiprat, my <i>petit-maître</i>, -I am old—oh, so old!—and know so much of wisdom, and have seen -such a confusion of matters, that I count comfort the greatest of -blessings. The devil fly away with buttons and laces! say I, that have -been parish priest of Dixmunde—and happily have not killed a man nor -harmed a flea, though like enough to get killed myself.” - </p> -<p> -The weather was genial, yet he sat constantly hugging the fire, and I at -the window, which happily gave a prospect of the yard between our building -and that of Galbanon. I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining for -freedom, while he went prating on upon the scurviest philosophy surely -ever man gave air to. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a> -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/226.jpg" alt="226" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -“Behold, my scrivener, how little man wants for happiness! My constant -fear in Dixmunde was that I would become so useless for all but eating and -sleeping, when I was old, that no one would guarantee me either; poverty -took that place at my table the skull took among the Romans—the -thought on't kept me in a perpetual apprehension. <i>Nom de chien!</i> and -this was what I feared—this, a hard lodging, coarse viands, and sour -wine! What was the fellow's name?—Demetrius, upon the taking of -Megara, asked Monsieur Un-tel the Philosopher what he had lost. 'Nothing -at all,' said he, 'for I have all that I could call my own about me,' and -yet 'twas no more than the skin he stood in. A cell in Bicêtre would have -been paradise to such a gallant fellow. Oh, Paul, I fear thou may'st be -ungrateful—I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining for -freedom,” he went prating on, “to this good Buhot, who has given us such a -fine lodging, and saved us the care of providing for ourselves.” - </p> -<p> -“'Tis all very well, father,” I said, leaning on the sill of the window, -and looking at a gang of prisoners being removed from one part of Galbanon -to another—“'tis all very well, but I mind a priest that thought -jaunting round the country in a chariot the pinnacle of bliss. And that -was no further gone than a fortnight ago.” - </p> -<p> -“Bah!” said he, and stretched his fat fingers to the fire; “he that cannot -live happily anywhere will live happily nowhere at all. What avails -travel, if Care waits like a hostler to unyoke the horses at every stage? -I tell thee, my boy, I never know what a fine fellow is Father Hamilton -till I have him by himself at a fireside; 'tis by firesides all the wisest -notions come to one.” - </p> -<p> -“I wish there came a better dinner than to-day's,” said I, for we had -agreed an hour ago that smoked soup was not very palatable. -</p> -<p> -“La! la! la! there goes Sir Gourmet!” cried his reverence. “Have I -infected this poor Scot that ate naught but oats ere he saw France, with -mine own fever for fine feeding from which, praise <i>le bon Dieu!</i> I -have recovered? 'Tis a brutal entertainment, and unworthy of man, to place -his felicity in the service of his senses. I maintain that even smoked -soup is pleasant enough on the palate of a man with an easy conscience, -and a mind purged of vulgar cares.” - </p> -<p> -“And you can be happy here, Father Hamilton?” - </p> -<p> -I asked, astonished at such sentiments from a man before so ill to please. -</p> -<p> -He heaved like a mountain in travail, and brought forth a peal of laughter -out of all keeping with our melancholy situation. “Happy!” said he, “I -have never been happy for twenty years till Buhot clapped claw upon my -wrist. Thou may'st have seen a sort of mask of happiness, a false face of -jollity in Dunkerque parlours, and heard a well-simulated laughter now and -then as we drank by wayside inns, but may I be called coxcomb if the -miserable wretch who playacted then was half so light of heart as this -that sits here at ease, and has only one regret—that he should have -dragged Andrew Greig's nephew into trouble with him. What man can be -perfectly happy that runs the risk of disappointment—which is the -case of every man that fears or hopes for anything? Here am I, too old for -the flame of love or the ardour of ambition; all that knew me and -understood me best and liked me most are dead long since. I have a state -palace prepared for me free; a domestic in livery to serve my meals; -parishioners do not vex me with their trifling little hackneyed sins, and -my conclusion seems like to come some morning after an omelet and a glass -of wine.” - </p> -<p> -I could not withhold a shudder. -</p> -<p> -“But to die that way, Father!” I said. -</p> -<p> -“<i>C'est égal!</i>” said he, and crossed himself. “We must all die -somehow, and I had ever a dread of a stone. Come, come, M. Croque-mort, -enough of thy confounded dolours! I'll be hanged if thou did'st not steal -these shoes, and art after all but an impersonator of a Greig. The lusty -spirit thou call'st thine uncle would have used his teeth ere now to gnaw -his way through the walls of Bicêtre, and here thou must stop to converse -cursedly on death to the fatted ox that smells the blood of the abattoir—oh -lad, give's thy snuff-box, sawdust again!” - </p> -<p> -Thus by the hour went on the poor wretch, resigned most obviously to -whatever was in store for him, not so much from a native courage, I fear, -as from a plethora of flesh that smothered every instinct of -self-preservation. As for me I kept up hope for three days that Buhot -would surely come to test my constancy again, and when that seemed -unlikely, when day after day brought the same routine, the same cell with -Hamilton, the same brief exercise in the yard, the same vulgar struggle at -the <i>gamelle</i> in the <i>salle d'épreuve</i>—I could have -welcomed Galbanon itself as a change, even if it meant all the horror that -had been associated with it by Buhot and my friend the sous-officer. -</p> -<p> -Galbanon! I hope it has long been levelled with the dust, and even then I -know the ghosts of those there tortured in their lives will habitate the -same in whirling eddies, for a constant cry for generations has gone up to -heaven from that foul spot. It must have been a devilish ingenuity, an -invention of all the impish courts below, that placed me at a window where -Galbanon faced me every hour of the day or night, its horror all revealed. -I have seen in the pool of Earn in autumn weather, when the river was in -spate, dead leaves and broken branches borne down dizzily upon the water -to toss madly in the linn at the foot of the fall; no less helpless, no -less seared by sin and sorrow, or broken by the storms of circumstance, -were the wretches that came in droves to Galbanon. The stream of crime or -tyranny bore them down (some from very high places), cast them into this -boiling pool, and there they eddied in a circle of degraded tasks from -which it seemed the fate of many of them never to escape, though their -luckier fellows went in twos or threes every other day in a cart to their -doom appointed. -</p> -<p> -Be sure it was not pleasant each day for me to hear the hiss of the lash -and the moans of the bastinadoed wretch, to see the blood spurt, and -witness the anguish of the men who dragged enormous bilboes on their -galled ankles. -</p> -<p> -At last I felt I could stand it no longer, and one day intimated to Father -Hamilton that I was determined on an escape. -</p> -<p> -“Good lad!” he cried, his eye brightening. “The most sensible thing thou -hast said in twenty-four hours. 'Twill be a recreation for myself to -help,” and he buttoned his waistcoat. -</p> -<p> -“We can surely devise some means of breaking out if——” - </p> -<p> -“We!” he repeated, shaking his head. “No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky a -task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by thyself -and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows when he is -well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's charming and -commodious inn until the bill is presented.” - </p> -<p> -In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while I -took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day at -least I abandoned the project. -</p> -<p> -Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned -before him. -</p> -<p> -“Well, Monsieur,” he said, “is it that we have here a more discerning -young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?” - </p> -<p> -“Just the very same, M. Buhot,” said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of his -pen and shrugged his shoulders. -</p> -<p> -“Come, come, M. Greig,” he went on, “this is a <i>bêtise</i> of the most -ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself -whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool -of others or himself a genius of mischief.” - </p> -<p> -“The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but -that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man! -he has not got the energy to kick a dog.” - </p> -<p> -“And—and—” said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of -revelation. -</p> -<p> -“And that's all, M. Buhot,” said I, with a carriage he could not mistake. -</p> -<p> -He shrugged his shoulders again, wrote something in a book on the desk -before him with great deliberation and then asked me how I liked my -quarters in Bicêtre. -</p> -<p> -“Tolerably well,” I said. “I've been in better, but I might be in waur.” - </p> -<p> -He laughed a little at the Scotticism that seemed to recall something—perhaps -a pleasantry of my uncle's—to him, and then said he, “I'm sorry they -cannot be yours very much longer, M. Greig. We calculated that a week or -two of this priest's company would have been enough to inspire a distaste -and secure his confession, but apparently we were mistaken. You shall be -taken to other quarters on Saturday.” - </p> -<p> -“I hope, M. Buhot,” said I, “they are to be no worse than those I occupy -now.” - </p> -<p> -His face reddened a little at this—I felt always there was some vein -of special kindness to me in this man's nature—and he said -hesitatingly, “Well, the truth is, 'tis Galbanon.” - </p> -<p> -“Before a trial?” I asked, incredulous. -</p> -<p> -“The trial will come in good time,” he said, rising to conclude the -parley, and he turned his back on me as I was conducted out of the room -and back to the cell, where Father Hamilton waited with unwonted agitation -for my tidings. -</p> -<p> -“Well, lad,” he cried, whenever we were alone, “what stirs? I warrant they -have not a jot of evidence against thee,” but in a second he saw from my -face the news was not so happy, and his own face fell. -</p> -<p> -“We are to be separated on Saturday,” I told him. -</p> -<p> -Tears came to his eyes at that—a most feeling old rogue! -</p> -<p> -“And where is't for thee, Paul?” he asked. -</p> -<p> -“Where is't for yourself ought to be of more importance to you, Father -Hamilton.” - </p> -<p> -“No, no,” he cried, “it matters little about me, but surely for you it -cannot be Galbanon?” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, and it is no less.” - </p> -<p> -“Then, Paul,” he said firmly, “we must break out, and that without loss of -time.” - </p> -<p> -“Is it in the plural this time?” I asked him. -</p> -<p> -He affected an indifference, but at the last consented to share the whole -of the enterprise. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXV -</h2> -<h3> -WE ATTEMPT AN ESCAPE -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ather Hamilton was not aware of the extent of it, but he knew I was in a -correspondence with the sous-officer. More than once he had seen us in the -<i>salle dépreuve</i> in a manifest understanding of each other, though he -had no suspicion that the gentleman was a Mercury for Miss Walkinshaw, -whose name seldom, if ever, entered into our conversation in the cell. -From her I had got but one other letter—a brief acknowledgment of -some of my fullest budgets, but 'twas enough to keep me at my diurnal on -every occasion almost on which the priest slept. I sent her (with the -strictest injunction to secrecy upon so important a matter) a great deal -of the tale the priest had told me—not so much for her entertainment -as for the purpose of moving in the poor man's interests. Especially was I -anxious that she should use her influence to have some one communicate to -Father Fleuriau, who was at the time in Bruges, how hazardous was the -position of his unhappy cat's-paw, whose state I pictured in the most -moving colours I could command. There was, it must be allowed, a risk in -entrusting a document so damnatory to any one in Bicêtre, but that the -packet was duly forwarded to its destination I had every satisfaction of -from the sous-officer, who brought me an acknowledgment to that effect -from Bernard the Swiss. -</p> -<p> -The priest knew, then, as I say, that I was on certain terms with this -sous-officer, and so it was with no hesitation I informed him that, -through the favour of the latter, I had a very fair conception of the -character and plan of this building of Bicêtre in which we were interned. -What I had learned of most importance to us was that the block of which -our cell was a part had a face to the main road of Paris, from which -thoroughfare it was separated by a spacious court and a long range of iron -palisades. If ever we were to make our way out of the place it must be in -this direction, for on two sides of our building we were overlooked by -buildings vastly more throng than our own, and bordered by yards in which -were constant sentinels. Our block jutted out at an angle from one very -much longer, but lower by two storeys, and the disposition of both made it -clear that to enter into this larger edifice, and towards the gable end of -it that overlooked the palisades of the Paris road, was our most feasible -method of essay. -</p> -<p> -I drew a plan of the prison and grounds on paper, estimating as best I -might all the possible checks we were like to meet with, and leaving a -balance of chances in our favour that we could effect our purpose in a -night. -</p> -<p> -The priest leaned his chin upon his arms as he lolled over the table on -which I eagerly explained my diagram, and sighed at one or two of the -feats of agility it assumed. There was, for example, a roof to walk upon—the -roof of the building we occupied—though how we were to get there in -the first place was still to be decided. Also there was a descent from -that roof on to the lower building at right angles, though where the -ladder or rope for this was to come from I must meanwhile airily leave to -fortune. Finally, there was—assuming we got into the larger -building, and in some unforeseeable way along its roof and clear to the -gable end—a part of the yard to cross, and the palisade to escalade. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, lad! thou takest me for a bird,” cried his reverence, aghast at all -this. “Is thy poor fellow prisoner a sparrow? A little after this I might -do't with my own wings—the saints guide me!—but figure you -that at present I am not Philetas, the dwarf, who had to wear leaden shoes -lest the wind should blow him away. 'Twould take a wind indeed to stir -this amplitude of good humours, this sepulchre of twenty thousand good -dinners and incomputible tuns of liquid merriment. Pray, Paul, make an -account of my physical infirmities, and mitigate thy transport of -vaultings and soarings and leapings and divings, unless, indeed, thou -meditatest sewing me up in a sheet, and dragging me through the realms of -space.” - </p> -<p> -“We shall manage! we shall manage!” I insisted, now quite uplifted in a -fanciful occupation that was all to my tastes, even if nothing came of it, -and I plunged more boldly into my plans. They were favoured by several -circumstances—the first, namely, that we were not in the uniform of -the prison, and, once outside the prison, could mingle with the world -without attracting attention. Furthermore, by postponing the attempt till -the morrow night I could communicate with the Swiss, and secure his -cooperation outside in the matter of a horse or a vehicle, if the same -were called for. I did not, however, say so much as that to his reverence, -whom I did not wish as yet to know of my correspondence with Bernard. -Finally, we had an auspicious fact at the outset of our attempt, inasmuch -as the cell we were in was in the corridor next to that of which the -sous-officer had some surveillance, and I knew his mind well enough now to -feel sure he would help in anything that did not directly involve his own -position and duties. In other words, he was to procure a copy of the key -of our cell, and find a means of leaving it unlocked when the occasion -arose. -</p> -<p> -“A copy of the key, Paul!” said Father Hamilton; “sure there are no bounds -to thy cheerful mad expectancy! But go on! go on! art sure he could not be -prevailed on—this fairy godfather—to give us an escort of -cavalry and trumpeters?” - </p> -<p> -“This is not much of a backing-up, Father Hamilton,” I said, annoyed at -his skeptic comments upon an affair that involved so much and agitated -myself so profoundly. -</p> -<p> -“Pardon! Paul,” he said hastily, confused and vexed himself at the -reproof. “Art quite right, I'm no more than a croaker, and for penance I -shall compel myself to do the wildest feat thou proposest.” - </p> -<p> -We determined to put off the attempt at escape till I had communicated -with the sous-officer (in truth, though Father Hamilton did not know it, -till I had communicated with Bernard the Swiss), and it was the following -afternoon I had not only an assurance of the unlocked door, but in my hand -a more trustworthy plan of the prison than my own, and the promise that -the Swiss would be waiting with a carriage outside the palisades when we -broke through, any time between midnight and five in the morning. -</p> -<p> -Next day, then, we were in a considerable agitation; to that extent indeed -that I clean forgot that we had no aid to our descent of twenty or thirty -feet (as the sous-sergeant's diagram made it) from the roof of our block -on to that of the one adjoining. We had had our minds so much on bolted -doors and armed sentinels that this detail had quite escaped us until -almost on the eve of setting out at midnight, the priest began again to -sigh about his bulk and swear no rope short of a ship's cable would serve -to bear him. -</p> -<p> -“Rope!” I cried, in a tremendous chagrin at my stupidity. “Lord! if I have -not quite forgot it. We have none.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah!” he said, “perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps my heart is so light -at parting with my <i>croque-mort</i> that I can drop upon the tiles like -a pigeon.” - </p> -<p> -“Parting,” I repeated, eyeing him suspiciously, for I thought perhaps he -had changed his mind again. “Who thinks of parting?” - </p> -<p> -“Not I indeed,” says he, “unless the rope do when thou hast got it.” - </p> -<p> -There was no rope, however, and I cursed my own folly that I had not asked -one from the sous-officer whose complaisance might have gone the length of -a fathom or two, though it did not, as the priest suggested, go so far as -an armed convoy and a brace of trumpeters. It was too late now to repair -the overlook, and to the making of rope the two of us had there and then -to apply ourselves, finding the sheets and blankets-of our beds scanty -enough for our purpose, and by no means of an assuring elegance or -strength when finished. But we had thirty feet of some sort of cord at the -last, and whether it was elegant or not it had to do for our purpose. -</p> -<p> -Luckily the night was dark as pitch and a high wind roared in the -chimneys, and in the numerous corners of the prison. There was a sting in -the air that drew many of the sentinels round the braziers flaming in the -larger yard between the main entrance and the buildings, and that further -helped our prospects; so that it was with some hope, in spite of a heart -that beat like a flail in my breast, I unlocked the door and crept out -into the dimly-lighted corridor with the priest close behind me. -</p> -<p> -Midway down this gallery there was a stair of which our plan apprised us, -leading to another gallery—the highest of the block—from which -a few steps led to a cock-loft where the sous-officer told us there was -one chance in a score of finding a blind window leading to the roof. -</p> -<p> -No one, luckily, appeared as we hurried down the long gallery. I darted -like a fawn up the stair to the next flat, Father Hamilton grievously -puffing behind me, and we had just got into the shadow of the steps -leading to the cock-loft when a warder's step and the clank of his chained -keys came sounding down the corridor. He passed within three feet of us -and I felt the blood of all my body chill with fear! -</p> -<p> -“I told thee, lad,” whispered the priest, mopping the sweat from his face, -“I told thee 'twas an error to burden thyself with such a useless carcase. -Another moment or two—a gasp for the wind that seems so cursed ill -to come by at my years, and I had brought thee into trouble.” - </p> -<p> -I paid no heed to him, but crept up the steps and into the cock-loft that -smelt villainously of bats. -</p> -<p> -The window was unfastened! I stuck out my head upon the tiles and sniffed -the fine fresh air of freedom as it had been a rare perfume. -</p> -<p> -Luckily the window was scarcely any height, and it proved easy to aid his -reverence into the open air. Luckily, further, it was too dark for him to -realise the jeopardies of his situation for whether his precarious -gropings along the tiles were ten feet or thirty from the yard below was -indiscoverable in the darkness. He slid his weighty body along with an -honest effort that was wholly due to his regard for my interests, because -'twas done with groans and whispered protestations that 'twas the maddest -thing for a man to leave a place where he was happy and risk his neck in -an effort to discover misery. A rime of frost was on the tiles, and they -were bitter cold to the touch. One fell, too, below me as I slid along, -and rattled loudly over its fellows and plunged into the yard. -</p> -<p> -Naturally we stopped dead and listened breathless, a foolish action for -one reason because in any case we had been moving silently at a great -height above the place where the tile should fall so that there was no -risk of our being heard or seen, but our listening discovered so great an -interval between the loosening of the tile and its dull shattering on the -stones below that the height on which we were perched in the darkness was -made more plain—more dreadful to the instincts than if we could -actually measure it with the eye. I confess I felt a touch of nausea, but -nothing compared with the priest, whose teeth began to chitter in an ague -of horror. -</p> -<p> -“Good Lord, Paul!” he whispered to me, clutching my leg as I moved in -front of him, “it is the bottomless pit.” - </p> -<p> -“Not unless we drop,” said I. And to cheer him up I made some foolish -joke. -</p> -<p> -If the falling tile attracted any attention in the yard it was not -apparent to us, and five minutes later we had to brace ourselves to a -matter that sent the tile out of our minds. -</p> -<p> -For we were come to the end of the high building, and twenty feet below -us, at right angles, we could plainly see the glow of several skylights in -the long prison to which it was attached. It was now the moment for our -descent on the extemporised rope. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVI -</h2> -<h3> -A RIMEY NIGHT ON ROOF-TOPS, AND A NEW USE FOR AN OLD KIRK BELL -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> fastened the rope about a chimney-head with some misgivings that by the -width and breadth of the same I was reducing our chance of ever getting -down to the lower building, as the knotted sheets from the outset had been -dubious measure for the thirty feet of which my sous-officer had given the -estimate. But I said never a word to the priest of my fears on that score, -and determined for once to let what was left of honesty go before -well-fattened age and test the matter first myself. If the cord was too -brief for its purpose, or (what was just as likely) on the frail side, I -could pull myself back in the one case as the priest was certainly unfit -to do, and in the other my weight would put less strain upon it than that -of Father Hamilton. -</p> -<p> -I can hear him yet in my imagination after forty years, as he clung to the -ridge of the roof like a seal on a rock, chittering in the cold night -wind, enviously eyeing some fires that blazed in another yard and groaning -melancholiously. -</p> -<p> -“A garden,” said he, “and six beehives—no, 'faith! 'twas seven last -summer, and a roomful of books. Oh, Paul, Paul! Now I know how God cast -out Satan. He took him from his warm fireside, and his books before they -were all read, and his pantoufles, and set him straddling upon a frozen -house-top to ponder through eternal night upon the happy past. Alas, poor -being! How could he know what joys were in the simplicity of a room of -books half-read and a pair of warm old slippers?” - </p> -<p> -He was fair rambling in his fears, my poor priest, and I declare scarcely -knew the half of what he uttered, indeed he spoke out so loudly that I had -to check him lest he should attract attention from below. -</p> -<p> -“Father Hamilton,” said I, when my cord was fastened, “with your -permission I'll try it first. I want to make it sure that my seamanship on -the sloop <i>Sarah</i>, of Ayr, has not deserted me to the extent that I -cannot come down a rope without a ratline or tie a bowling knot.” - </p> -<p> -“Certainly, Paul, certainly,” said he, quite eagerly, so that I was -tempted for a second to think he gladly postponed his own descent from -sheer terror. -</p> -<p> -I threw over the free end of the cord and crouched upon the beak of the -gable to lower myself. -</p> -<p> -“Well, Paul,” said his reverence in a broken voice. “Let us say 'good-bye' -in case aught should happen ere we are on the same level again.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh!” said I, impatient, “that's the true <i>croque-mort</i> spirit -indeed! Why, Father, it isn't—it isn't—” I was going to say it -was not a gallows I was venturing on, but the word stuck in my throat, for -a certain thought that sprung to me of how nearly in my own case it had -been to the very gallows, and his reverence doubtless saw some delicacy, -for he came promptly to my help. -</p> -<p> -“Not a priest's promise—made to be broken, you would say, good -Paul,” said he. “I promised the merriest of jaunts over Europe in a coach, -and here my scrivener is hanging in the reins! Pardon, dear Scotland, <i>milles -pardons</i> and good-bye and good luck.” And at that he made to embrace -me. -</p> -<p> -“Here's a French ceremony just about nothing at all,” I thought, and began -my descent. The priest lay on his stomach upon the ridge. As I sank, with -my eyes turned upwards, I could see his hair blown by the wind against a -little patch of stars, that was the only break in the Ethiopia of the sky. -He seemed to follow my progress breathlessly, and when I gained the other -roof and shook the cord to tell him so he responded by a faint clapping of -his hands. -</p> -<p> -“Art all right, lad?” he whispered down to me, and I bade him follow. -</p> -<p> -“Good-night, Paul, good-bye, and God bless you!” he whispered. “Get out of -this as quick as you can; 'tis more than behemoth could do in a month of -dark nights, and so I cut my share of the adventure. One will do't when -two (and one of them a hogshead) will die in trying to do't.” - </p> -<p> -Here was a pretty pickle! The man's ridiculous regard for my safety -outweighed his natural inclinations, though his prospects in the prison of -Bicêtre were blacker than my own, having nothing less dreadful than an -execution at the end of them. He had been merely humouring me so far—and -such a brave humouring in one whose flesh was in a quaking of alarms all -the time he slid along the roof! -</p> -<p> -“Are you not coming?” I whispered. -</p> -<p> -“On the contrary, I'm going, dear Paul,” said he with a pretence at -levity. “Going back to my comfortable cell and my uniformed servant and M. -Buhot, the charmingest of hostellers, and I declare my feet are like ice.” - </p> -<p> -“Then,” said I firmly, “I go back too. I'll be eternally cursed if I give -up my situation as scrivener at this point. I must e'en climb up again.” - And with that I prepared to start the ascent. -</p> -<p> -“Stop! stop!” said he without a second's pause, “stop where you are and -I'll go down. Though 'tis the most stupendous folly,” he added with a -sigh, and in a moment later I saw his vast bulk laboriously heaving over -the side of the roof. Fortunately the knots in the cord where the -fragments of sheet and blanket were joined made his task not so difficult -as it had otherwise been, and almost as speedily as I had done it myself -he reached the roof of the lower building, though in such a state he -quivered like a jelly, and was dumb with fear or with exertion when the -thing was done. -</p> -<p> -“Ah!” he said at last, when he had recovered himself. “Art a fool to be so -particular about an old carcase accursed of easy humours and accused of -regicide. Take another thought on't, Paul. What have you to do with this -wretch of a priest that brought about the whole trouble in your ignorance? -And think of Galbanon!” - </p> -<p> -“Think of the devil! Father Hamilton,” I snapped at him, “every minute we -waste havering away here adds to the chances against any of us getting -free, and I am sure that is not your desire. The long and the short of it -is that I'll not stir a step out of Bicêtre—no, not if the doors -themselves were open—unless you consent to come with me.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Ventre Dieu!</i>” said he, “'tis just such a mulish folly as I might -have looked for from the nephew of Andrew Greig. But lead on, good -imbecile, lead on, and blame not poor Father Hamilton if the thing ends in -a fiasco!” - </p> -<p> -We now crawled along a roof no whit more easily traversed than that we had -already commanded. Again and again I had to stop to permit my companion to -come up on me, for the pitch of the tiles was steep, and he in a peril -from his own lubricity, and it was necessary even to put a hand under his -arm at times when he suffered a vertigo through seeing the lights in the -yard deep down as points of flame. -</p> -<p> -“Egad! boy,” he said, and his perspiring hand clutching mine at one of our -pauses, “I thrill at the very entrails. I'd liefer have my nose in the -sawdust any day than thrash through thin air on to a paving-stone.” - </p> -<p> -“A minute or two more and we are there,” I answered him. -</p> -<p> -“Where?” said he, starting; “in purgatory?” - </p> -<p> -“Look up, man!” I told him. “There's a window beaming ten yards off.” And -again I pushed on. -</p> -<p> -In very truth there was no window, though I prayed as fervently for one as -it had been a glimpse of paradise, but I was bound to cozen the old man -into effort for his own life and for mine. What I had from the higher -building taken for the glow of skylights had been really the light of -windows on the top flat of the other prison block, and its roof was wholly -unbroken. At least I had made up my mind to that with a despair benumbing -when I touched wood. My fingers went over it in the dark with frantic -eagerness. It was a trap such as we had come out of at the other block, -but it was shut. Before the priest could come up to me and suffer the -fresh horror of disappointment I put my weight upon it, and had the good -fortune to throw it in. The flap fell with a shriek of hinges and showed -gaping darkness. We stretched upon the tiles as close as limpets and as -silent. Nothing stirred within. -</p> -<p> -“A garden,” said he in a little, “as sweet as ever bean grew in, with the -rarest plum-tree; and now I am so cold.” - </p> -<p> -“I could be doing with some of your complaint,” said I; “as for me, I'm on -fire. Please heaven, you'll be back in the garden again.” - </p> -<p> -I lowered myself within, followed by the priest, and found we were upon -the rafters. A good bit off there was a beam of light that led us, -groping, and in an imminent danger of going through the plaster, to an -air-hole over a little gallery whose floor was within stretch as I lowered -myself again. -</p> -<p> -Father Hamilton squeezed after me; we both looked over the edge of the -gallery, and found it was a chapel we were in! -</p> -<p> -“<i>Sacré nom!</i>” said the priest and crossed himself, with a -genuflexion to the side of the altar. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Lord! Paul,” he said, whispering, “if 'twere the Middle Ages, and -this were indeed a sanctuary, how happy was a poor undeserving son of -Mother Church! Even Dagobert's hounds drew back from the stag in St. -Denys.” - </p> -<p> -It was a mean interior, as befitted the worship of the <i>misérables</i> -who at times would meet there. A solemn quiet held the place, that seemed -wholly deserted; the dim light that had shown through the air-hole and -guided us came from some candles dripping before a shrine. -</p> -<p> -“Heaven help us!” said the priest. “I know just such another.” - </p> -<p> -There was nobody in the church so far as we could observe from the little -gallery in which we found ourselves, but when we had gone down a flight of -steps into the body of the same, and made to cross towards the door, we -were suddenly confronted by a priest in a white cope. My heart jumped to -my mouth; I felt a prinkling in the roots of my hair, and stopped dumb, -with all my faculties basely deserted from me. Luckily Father Hamilton -kept his presence of mind. As he told me later, he remembered of a sudden -the Latin proverb that in battles the eye is first overcome, and he fixed -the man in the stole with a glance that was bold and disconcerting. As it -happened, however, the other priest was almost as blind as a bat, and saw -but two civil worshippers in his chapel. He did not even notice that it -was a <i>soutane</i>; he passed peeringly, with a bow to our inclinations, -and it was almost incredulous of our good fortune I darted out of the -chapel into the darkness of a courtyard of equal extent with that I had -crossed on the night of my first arrival at Bicêtre. At its distant end -there were the same flaming braziers with figures around them, and the -same glitter of arms. -</p> -<p> -Now this Bicêtre is set upon a hill and commands a prospect of the city of -Paris, of the Seine and its environs. For that reason we could see to our -right the innumerable lights of a great plain twinkling in the darkness, -and it seemed as if we had only to proceed in that direction to secure -freedom by the mere effort of walking. As we stood in the shadow of the -chapel, Father Hamilton eyed the distant prospect of the lighted town with -a singular rapture. -</p> -<p> -“Paris!” said he. “Oh, Dieu! and I thought never to clap an eye on't -again. Paris, my Paul! Behold the lights of it—<i>la ville lumière</i> -that is so fine I could spend eternity in it. Hearts are there, lad, kind -and jocund-” - </p> -<p> -“And meditating a descent on unhappy Britain,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Good neighbourly hearts, or I'm a gourd else,” he went on, unheeding my -interruption. “The stars in heaven are not so good, are no more notably -the expression of a glowing and fraternal spirit. There is laughter in the -streets of her.” - </p> -<p> -“Not at this hour, Father Hamilton,” said I, and the both of us always -whispering. “I've never seen the place by day nor put a foot in it, but it -will be droll indeed if there is laughter in its streets at two o'clock in -the morning.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah, Paul, shall we ever get there?” said he longingly. “We can but try, -anyway. I certainly did not come all this way, Father Hamilton, just to -look on the lowe of Paris.” - </p> -<p> -What had kept us shrinking in the shadow of the chapel wall had been the -sound of footsteps between us and the palisades that were to be -distinguished a great deal higher than I had expected, on our right. On -the other side of the rails was freedom, as well as Paris that so greatly -interested my companion, but the getting clear of them seemed like to be a -more difficult task than any we had yet overcome, and all the more -hazardous because the footsteps obviously suggested a sentinel. Whether it -was the rawness of the night that tempted him to a relaxation, or whether -he was not strictly on duty, I know not, but, while we stood in the most -wretched of quandaries, the man who was in our path very soon ceased his -perambulation along the palisades, and went over to one of the distant -fires, passing within a few yards of us as we crouched in the darkness. -When he had gone sufficiently out of the way we ran for it. So plain were -the lights of the valley, so flimsy a thing had seemed to part us from the -high-road there, that never a doubt intruded on my mind that now we were -as good as free, and when I came to the rails I beat my head with my hands -when the nature of our folly dawned upon me. -</p> -<p> -“We may just go back,” I said to the priest in a stricken voice. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Comment?</i>” said he, wiping his brow and gloating on the spectacle -of the lighted town. -</p> -<p> -“Look,” I said, indicating the railings that were nearly three times my -own height, “there are no convenient trap-doors here.” - </p> -<p> -“But the cord—” said he simply. -</p> -<p> -“Exactly,” I said; “the cord's where we left it snugly tied with a bowling -knot to the chimney of our block, and I'm an ass.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, poor Paul!” said the priest in a prostration at this divulgence of -our error. “I'm the millstone on your neck, for had I not parleyed at the -other end of the cord when you had descended, the necessity for it would -never have escaped your mind. I gave you fair warning, lad, 'twas a -quixotic imbecility to burden yourself with me. And are we really at a -stand? God! look at Paris. Had I not seen these lights I had not cared for -myself a straw, but, oh lord! lad, they are so pleasant and so close! Why -will the world sleep when two unhappy wretches die for want of a little -bit of hemp?” - </p> -<p> -“You are not to blame,” said I, “one rope was little use to us in any -case. But anyhow I do not desire to die of a little bit of hemp if I can -arrange it better.” And I began hurriedly to scour up and down the -palisade like a trapped mouse. It extended for about a hundred yards, -ending at one side against the walls of a gate-house or lodge; on the -other side it concluded at the wall of the chapel. It had no break in all -its expanse, and so there was nothing left for us to do but to go back the -way we had come, obliterate the signs of our attempt and find our cells -again. We went, be sure, with heavy hearts, again ventured into the -chapel, climbed the stairs, went through the ceiling, and stopped a little -among the rafters to rest his reverence who was finding these manoeuvres -too much for his weighty body. While he sat regaining sufficient strength -to resume his crawling on rimey tiles I made a search of the loft we were -in and found it extended to the gable end of the chapel, but nothing more -for my trouble beyond part of a hanging chain that came through the roof -and passed through the ceiling. I had almost missed it in the darkness, -and even when I touched it my first thought was to leave it alone. But I -took a second thought and tried the lower end, which came up as I hauled, -yard upon yard, until I had the end of it, finished with a bell-ringer's -hempen grip, in my hands. Here was a discovery if bell-pulls had been made -of rope throughout in Bicêtre prison! But a chain with an end to a bell -was not a thing to be easily borrowed. -</p> -<p> -I went back to where Father Hamilton was seated on the rafters, and told -him my discovery. -</p> -<p> -“A bell,” said he. “Faith! I never liked them. Pestilent inventions of the -enemy, that suggested duties to be done and the fleeting hours. But a -bell-rope implies a belfry on the roof and a bell in it, and the chain -that may reach the ground within the building may reach the same desirable -place without the same.” - </p> -<p> -“That's very true,” said I, struck with the thing. And straight got -through the trap and out upon the roof again. Father Hamilton puffed after -me and in a little we came upon a structure like a dovecot at the very -gable-end. “The right time to harry a nest is at night,” said I, “for then -you get all that's in it.” And I started to pull up the chain that was -fastened to the bell. -</p> -<p> -I lowered behemoth with infinite exertion till he reached the ground -outside the prison grounds in safety, wrapped the clapper of the bell in -my waistcoat, and descended hand over hand after him. -</p> -<p> -We were on the side of a broad road that dipped down the hill into a -little village. Between us and the village street, across which hung a -swinging lamp, there mounted slowly a carriage with a pair of horses. -</p> -<p> -“Bernard!” I cried, running up to it, and found it was the Swiss in the -very article of waiting for us, and he speedily drove us into Paris. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVII -</h2> -<h3> -WE ENTER PARIS AND FIND A SANCTUARY THERE -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>f the town of Paris that is so lamentably notable in these days I have -but the recollection that one takes away from a new scene witnessed under -stress of mind due to matters more immediately affecting him than the -colour, shape, and properties of things seen, and the thought I had in -certain parts of it is more clear to me to-day than the vision of the -place itself. It is, in my mind, like a fog that the bridges thundered as -our coach drove over them with our wretched fortunes on that early morning -of our escape from Bicêtre, but as clear as when it sprung to me from the -uproar of the wheels comes back the dread that the whole of this community -would be at their windows looking out to see what folks untimeously -disturbed their rest. We were delayed briefly at a gate upon the walls; I -can scarcely mind what manner of men they were that stopped us and thrust -a lantern in our faces, and what they asked eludes me altogether, but I -mind distinctly how I gasped relief when we were permitted to roll on. -Blurred, too—no better than the surplusage of dreams, is my first -picture of the river and its isles in the dawn, but, like a favourite -song, I mind the gluck of waters on the quays and that they made me think -of Earn and Cart and Clyde. -</p> -<p> -We stopped in the place of the Notre Dame at the corner of a street; the -coach drove off to a <i>remise</i> whence it had come, and we went to an -hospital called the Hôtel Dieu, in the neighbourhood, where Hamilton had a -Jesuit friend in one of the heads, and where we were accommodated in a -room that was generally set aside for clergymen. It was a place of the -most wonderful surroundings, this Hôtel Dieu, choked, as it were, among -towers, the greatest of them those of Our Lady itself that were in the -Gothic taste, regarding which Father Hamilton used to say, “<i>Dire -gothique, c'est dire mauvais gout</i>,” though, to tell the truth, I -thought the building pretty braw myself. Alleys and wynds were round about -us, and so narrow that the sky one saw between them was but a ribbon by -day, while at night they seemed no better than ravines. -</p> -<p> -'Twas at night I saw most of the city, for only in the darkness did I dare -to venture out of the Hôtel Dieu. Daundering my lone along the cobbles, I -took a pleasure in the exercise of tenanting these towering lands with -people having histories little different from the histories of the folks -far off in my Scottish home—their daughters marrying, their sons -going throughither (as we say), their bairns wakening and crying in their -naked beds, and grannies sitting by the ingle-neuk cheerfully cracking -upon ancient days. Many a time in the by-going I looked up their pend -closes seeking the eternal lovers of our own burgh towns and never finding -them, for I take it that in love the foreign character is coyer than our -own. But no matter how eagerly I went forth upon my nightly airing in a <i>roquelaure</i> -borrowed from Father Hamilton's friend, the adventure always ended, for -me, in a sort of eerie terror of those close-hemming walls, those tangled -lanes where slouched the outcast and the ne'er-do-weel, and not even the -glitter of the moon upon the river between its laden isles would comfort -me. -</p> -<p> -“La! la! la!” would Father Hamilton cry at me when I got home with a face -like a fiddle. “Art the most ridiculous rustic ever ate a cabbage or set -foot in Arcady. Why, man! the woman must be wooed—this Mademoiselle -Lutetia. Must take her front and rear, walk round her, ogling bravely. -Call her dull! call her dreadful! <i>Ciel!</i> Has the child never an eye -in his mutton head? I avow she is the queen of the earth this Paris. If I -were young and wealthy I'd buy the glittering stars in constellations and -turn them into necklets for her. With thy plaguey gift of the sonnet I'd -deave her with ecstasies and spill oceans of ink upon leagues of paper to -tell her about her eyes. Go to! Scotland, go to! Ghosts! ghosts! devil the -thing else but ghosts in thy rustic skull, for to take a fear of Lutetia -when her black hair is down of an evening and thou canst not get a glimpse -of that beautiful neck that is rounded like the same in the Psyche of -Praxiteles. Could I pare off a portion of this rotundity and go out in a -masque as Apollo I'd show thee things.” - </p> -<p> -And all he saw of Paris himself was from the windows of the hospital, -where he and I would stand by the hour looking out into the square. For -the air itself he had to take it in a little garden at the back, -surrounded by a high wall, and affording a seclusion that even the priest -could avail himself of without the hazard of discovery. He used to sit in -an arbour there in the warmth of the day, and it was there I saw another -trait of his character that helped me much to forget his shortcomings. -</p> -<p> -Over his head, within the doorway of the bower, he hung a box and placed -therein the beginnings of a bird's nest. The thing was not many hours done -when a pair of birds came boldly into his presence as he sat silent and -motionless in the bower, and began to avail themselves of so excellent a -start in householding. In a few days there were eggs in the nest, and -'twas the most marvellous of spectacles to witness the hen sit content -upon them over the head of the fat man underneath, and the cock, without -concern, fly in and out attentive on his mate. -</p> -<p> -But, indeed, the man was the friend of all helpless things, and few of the -same came his way without an instinct that told them it was so. Not the -birds in the nest alone were at ease in his society; he had but to walk -along the garden paths whistling and chirping, and there came flights of -birds about his head and shoulders, and some would even perch upon his -hand. I have never seen him more like his office than when he talked with -the creatures of the air, unless it was on another occasion when two -bairns, the offspring of an inmate in the hospital, ventured into the -garden, finding there another child, though monstrous, who had not lost -the key to the fields where blossom the flowers of infancy, and frolic is -a prayer. -</p> -<p> -But he dare not set a foot outside the walls of our retreat, for it was as -useless to hide Ballageich under a Kilmarnock bonnet as to seek a disguise -for his reverence in any suit of clothes. Bernard would come to us rarely -under cover of night, but alas! there were no letters for me now, and mine -that were sent through him were fewer than before. And there was once an -odd thing happened that put an end to these intromissions; a thing that -baffled me to understand at the time, and indeed for many a day -thereafter, but was made plain to me later on in a manner that proved how -contrary in his character was this mad priest, that was at once assassin -and the noblest friend. -</p> -<p> -Father Hamilton was not without money, though all had been taken from him -at Bicêtre. It was an evidence of the width and power of the Jesuit -movement that even in the Hôtel Dieu he could command what sums he needed, -and Bernard was habituated to come to him for moneys that might pay for -himself and the coachman and the horses at the <i>remise</i>. On the last -of these occasions I took the chance to slip a letter for Miss Walkinshaw -into his hand. Instead of putting it in his pocket he laid it down a -moment on a table, and he and I were busy packing linen for the wash when -a curious cry from Father Hamilton made us turn to see him with the letter -in his hand. -</p> -<p> -He was gazing with astonishment on the direction. -</p> -<p> -“Ah!” said he, “and so my Achilles is not consoling himself exclusively -with the Haemonian lyre, but has taken to that far more dangerous -instrument the pen. The pen, my child, is the curse of youth. When we are -young we use it for our undoing, and for the facture of regrets for after -years—even if it be no more than the reading of our wives' letters -that I'm told are a bitter revelation to the married man. And so—and -so, Monsieur Croque-mort keeps up a correspondence with the lady. H'm!” He -looked so curiously and inquiringly at me that I felt compelled to make an -explanation. -</p> -<p> -“It is quite true, Father Hamilton,” said I. “After all, you gave me so -little clerkly work that I was bound to employ my pen somehow, and how -better than with my countrywoman?” - </p> -<p> -“'Tis none of my affair—perhaps,” he said, laying down the letter. -“And yet I have a curiosity. Have we here the essential Mercury?” and he -indicated Bernard who seemed to me to have a greater confusion than the discovery -gave a cause for. -</p> -<p> -“Bernard has been good enough,” said I. “You discover two Scots, Father -Hamilton, in a somewhat sentimental situation. The lady did me the honour -to be interested in my little travels, and I did my best to keep her -informed.” - </p> -<p> -He turned away as he had been shot, hiding his face, but I saw from his -neck that he had grown as white as parchment. -</p> -<p> -“What in the world have I done?” thinks I, and concluded that he was angry -for my taking the liberty to use the dismissed servant as a go-between. In -a moment or two he turned about again, eying me closely, and at last he -put his hand upon my shoulder as a schoolmaster might do upon a boy's. -</p> -<p> -“My good Paul,” said he, “how old are you?” - </p> -<p> -“Twenty-one come Martinmas,” I said. -</p> -<p> -“Expiscate! elucidate! 'Come Martinmas,'” says he, “and what does that -mean? But no matter—twenty-one says my barbarian; sure 'tis a right -young age, a very baby of an age, an age in frocks if one that has it has -lived the best of his life with sheep and bullocks.” - </p> -<p> -“Sir,” I said, indignant, “I was in very honest company among the same -sheep and bullocks.” - </p> -<p> -“Hush!” said he, and put up his hand, eying me with compassion and -kindness. “If thou only knew it, lad, thou art due me a civil attention at -the very least. Sure there is no harm in my mentioning that thou art -mighty ingenuous for thy years. 'Tis the quality I would be the last to -find fault with, but sometimes it has its inconveniences. And Bernard”—he -turned to the Swiss who was still greatly disturbed—“Bernard is a -somewhat older gentleman. Perhaps he will say—our good Bernard—if -he was the person I have to thank for taking the sting out of the wasp, -for extracting the bullet from my pistol? Ah! I see he is the veritable -person. Adorable Bernard, let that stand to his credit!” - </p> -<p> -Then Bernard fell trembling like a saugh tree, and protested he did but -what he was told. -</p> -<p> -“And a good thing, too,” said the priest, still very pale but with no -displeasure. “And a good thing too, else poor Buhot, that I have seen an -infinity of headachy dawns with, had been beyond any interest in cards or -prisoners. For that I shall forgive you the rest that I can guess at. Take -Monsieur Grog's letter where you have taken the rest, and be gone.” - </p> -<p> -The Swiss went out much crestfallen from an interview that was beyond my -comprehension. -</p> -<p> -When he was gone Father Hamilton fell into a profound meditation, walking -up and down his room muttering to himself. -</p> -<p> -“Faith, I never had such a problem presented to me before,” said he, -stopping his walk; “I know not whether to laugh or swear. I feel that I -have been made a fool of, and yet nothing better could have happened. And -so my Croque-mort, my good Monsieur Propriety, has been writing the lady? -I should not wonder if he thought she loved him.” - </p> -<p> -“Nothing so bold,” I cried. “You might without impropriety have seen every -one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log.” - </p> -<p> -“A seaman's log!” said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin; -“nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! And -I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear was -what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she not -caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?” - </p> -<p> -I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made -the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she -should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman. -</p> -<p> -The priest laughed consumedly at this. -</p> -<p> -“Interest in her countryman!” said he. “Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me -for thy unexpected spots of innocence.” - </p> -<p> -“And as to that,” I said, “you must have had a sort of correspondence with -her yourself.” - </p> -<p> -“I!” said he. “<i>Comment!</i>” - </p> -<p> -“To be quite frank with you,” said I, “it has been the cause of some -vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was -directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, it -was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate in the -Rue des Reservoirs.” Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any time the -terrible affair was mentioned. -</p> -<p> -“It is true, Paul, quite true,” said he, “but the letter was a forgery. -I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it.” - </p> -<p> -“I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have -troubled me for a while back.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah,” said he, “and your perplexities and mine are not over even now, poor -Paul. This Bernard is like to be the ruin of me yet. For you, however, I -have no fear, but it is another matter with the poor old fool from -Dixmunde.” - </p> -<p> -His voice broke, he displayed thus and otherwise so troubled a mind and so -great a reluctance to let me know the cause of it that I thought it well -to leave him for a while and let him recover his old manner. -</p> -<p> -To that end I put on my coat and hat and went out rather earlier than -usual for my evening walk. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVIII -</h2> -<h3> -THE MAN WITH THE TARTAN WAISTCOAT -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the first of May. But for Father Hamilton's birds, and some scanty -signs of it in the small garden, the lengthened day and the kindlier air -of the evenings, I might never have known what season it was out of the -almanac, for all seasons were much the same, no doubt, in the Isle of the -City where the priest and I sequestered. 'Twas ever the shade of the -tenements there; the towers of the churches never greened nor budded; I -would have waited long, in truth, for the scent of the lilac and the -chatter of the rook among these melancholy temples. -</p> -<p> -Till that night I had never ventured farther from the gloomy vicinity of -the hospital than I thought I could safely retrace without the necessity -of asking any one the way; but this night, more courageous, or perhaps -more careless than usual, I crossed the bridge of Notre Dame and found -myself in something like the Paris of the priest's rhapsodies and the same -all thrilling with the passion of the summer. It was not flower nor tree, -though these were not wanting, but the spirit in the air—young girls -laughing in the by-going with merriest eyes, windows wide open letting out -the sounds of songs, the pavements like a river with zesty life of -Highland hills when the frosts above are broken and the overhanging boughs -have been flattering it all the way in the valleys. -</p> -<p> -I was fair infected. My step, that had been unco' dull and heavy, I fear, -and going to the time of dirges on the Isle, went to a different tune; my -being rhymed and sang. I had got the length of the Rue de Richelieu and -humming to myself in the friendliest key, with the good-natured people -pressing about me, when of a sudden it began to rain. There was no close -in the neighbourhood where I could shelter from the elements, but in front -of me was the door of a tavern called the Tête du Duc de Burgoyne shining -with invitation, and in I went. -</p> -<p> -A fat wife sat at a counter; a pot-boy, with a cry of “V'ià!” that was -like a sheep's complaining, served two ancient citizens in skull-caps that -played the game of dominoes, and he came to me with my humble order of a -litre of ordinary and a piece of bread for the good of the house. -</p> -<p> -Outside the rain pelted, and the folks upon the pavement ran, and -by-and-by the tavern-room filled up with shelterers like myself and kept -the pot-boy busy. Among the last to enter was a group of five that took a -seat at another corner of the room than that where I sat my lone at a -little table. At first I scarcely noticed them until I heard a word of -Scots. I think the man that used it spoke of “gully-knives,” but at least -the phrase was the broadest lallands, and went about my heart. -</p> -<p> -I put down my piece of bread and looked across the room in wonder to see -that three of the men were gazing intently at myself. The fourth was hid -by those in front of him; the fifth that had spoken had a tartan waistcoat -and eyes that were like a gled's, though they were not on me. In spite of -that, 'twas plain that of me he spoke, and that I was the object of some -speculation among them. -</p> -<p> -No one that has not been lonely in a foreign town, and hungered for -communion with those that know his native tongue, can guess how much I -longed for speech with this compatriot that in dress and eye and accent -brought back the place of my nativity in one wild surge of memory. Every -bawbee in my pocket would not have been too much to pay for such a -privilege, but it might not be unless the overtures came from the persons -in the corner. -</p> -<p> -Very deliberately, though all in a commotion within, I ate my piece and -drank my wine before the stare of the three men, and at last, on the -whisper of one of them, another produced a box of dice. -</p> -<p> -“No, no!” said the man with the tartan waistcoat hurriedly, with a glance -from the tail of his eye at me, but they persisted in their purpose and -began to throw. My countryman in tartan got the last chance, of which he -seemed reluctant to avail himself till the one unseen said: “<i>Vous avez -le de''</i>, Kilbride.” - </p> -<p> -Kilbride! the name was the call of whaups at home upon the moors! -</p> -<p> -He laughed, shook, and tossed carelessly, and then the laugh was all with -them, for whatever they had played for he had seemingly lost and the dice -were now put by. -</p> -<p> -He rose somewhat confused, looked dubiously across at me with a reddening -face, and then came over with his hat in his hand. -</p> -<p> -“Pardon, Monsieur,” he began; then checked the French, and said: “Have I a -countryman here?” - </p> -<p> -“It is like enough,” said I, with a bow and looking at his tartan. “I am -from Scotland myself.” - </p> -<p> -He smiled at that with a look of some relief and took a vacant chair on -the other side of my small table. -</p> -<p> -“I have come better speed with my impudence,” said he in the Hielan' -accent, “than I expected or deserved. My name's Kilbride—MacKellar -of Kilbride—and I am here with another Highland gentleman of the -name of Grant and two or three French friends we picked up at the door of -the play-house. Are you come off the Highlands, if I make take the -liberty?” - </p> -<p> -“My name is lowland,” said I, “and I hail from the shire of Renfrew.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah,” said he, with a vanity that was laughable. “What a pity! I wish you -had been Gaelic, but of course you cannot help it being otherwise, and -indeed there are many estimable persons in the lowlands.” - </p> -<p> -“And a great wheen of Highland gentlemen very glad to join them there -too,” said I, resenting the implication. -</p> -<p> -“Of course, of course,” said he heartily. “There is no occasion for -offence.” - </p> -<p> -“Confound the offence, Mr. MacKellar!” said I. “Do you not think I am just -too glad at this minute to hear a Scottish tongue and see a tartan -waistcoat? Heilan' or Lowlan', we are all the same” when our feet are off -the heather. -</p> -<p> -“Not exactly,” he corrected, “but still and on we understand each other. -You must be thinking it gey droll, sir, that a band of strangers in a -common tavern would have the boldness to stare at you like my friends -there, and toss a dice about you in front of your face, but that is the -difference between us. If I had been in your place I would have thrown the -jug across at them, but here I am not better nor the rest, because the -dice fell to me, and I was one that must decide the wadger.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, and was I the object of a wadger?” said I, wondering what we were -coming to. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, and that you were,” said he shamefacedly, “and I'm affronted to -tell it. But when Grant saw you first he swore you were a countryman, and -there was some difference of opinion.” - </p> -<p> -“And what, may I ask, did Kilbride side with?” - </p> -<p> -“Oh,” said he promptly, “I had never a doubt about that. I knew you were -Scots, but what beat me was to say whether you were Hielan' or Lowlan'.” - “And how, if it's a fair question, did you come to the conclusion that I -was a countryman of any sort?” said I. -</p> -<p> -He laughed softly, and “Man,” said he, “I could never make any mistake -about that, whatever of it. There's many a bird that's like the woodcock, -but the woodcock will aye be kennin' which is which, as the other man -said. Thae bones were never built on bread and wine. It's a French coat -you have there, and a cockit hat (by your leave), but to my view you were -as plainly from Scotland as if you had a blue bonnet on your head and a -sprig of heather in your lapels. And here am I giving you the strange -cow's welcome (as the other man said), and that is all inquiry and no -information. You must just be excusing our bit foolish wadger, and if the -proposal would come favourably from myself, that is of a notable family, -though at present under a sort of cloud, as the other fellow said, I would -be proud to have you share in the bottle of wine that was dependent upon -Grant's impudent wadger. I can pass my word for my friends there that they -are all gentry like ourselves—of the very best, in troth, though not -over-nice in putting this task on myself.” - </p> -<p> -I would have liked brawly to spend an hour out any company than my own, -but the indulgence was manifestly one involving the danger of discovery; -it was, as I told myself, the greatest folly to be sitting in a tavern at -all, so MacKellar's manner immediately grew cold when he saw a swithering -in my countenance. -</p> -<p> -“Of course,” said he, reddening and rising, “of course, every gentleman -has his own affairs, and I would be the last to make a song of it if you -have any dubiety about my friends and me. I'll allow the thing looks very -like a gambler's contrivance.” - </p> -<p> -“No, no, Mr. MacKellar,” said I hurriedly, unwilling to let us part like -that, “I'm swithering here just because I'm like yoursel' of it and under -a cloud of my own.” - </p> -<p> -“Dod! Is that so?” said he quite cheerfully again, and clapping down, -“then I'm all the better pleased that the thing that made the roebuck swim -the loch—and that's necessity—as the other man said, should -have driven me over here to precognosce you. But when you say you are -under a cloud, that is to make another way of it altogether, and I will -not be asking you over, for there is a gentleman there among the five of -us who might be making trouble of it.” - </p> -<p> -“Have you a brother in Glasgow College?” says I suddenly, putting a -question that had been in my mind ever since he had mentioned his name. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, and I have that,” said he quickly, “but now he is following the -law in Edinburgh, where I am in the hopes it will be paying him better -than ever it paid me that has lost two fine old castles and the best part -of a parish by the same. You'll not be sitting there and telling me surely -that you know my young brother Alasdair?” - </p> -<p> -“Man! him and me lodged together in Lucky Grant's, in Crombie's Land in -the High Street, for two Sessions,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“What!” said MacKellar. “And you'll be the lad that snow-balled the bylie, -and your name will be Greig?” - </p> -<p> -As he said it he bent to look under the table, then drew up suddenly with -a startled face and a whisper of a whistle on his lips. -</p> -<p> -“My goodness!” said he, in a cautious tone, “and that beats all. You'll be -the lad that broke jyle with the priest that shot at Buhot, and there you -are, you <i>amadain</i>, like a gull with your red brogues on you, crying -'come and catch me' in two languages. I'm telling you to keep thae feet of -yours under this table till we're out of here, if it should be the morn's -morning. No—that's too long, for by the morn's morning Buhot's men -will be at the Hôtel Dieu, and the end of the story will be little talk -and the sound of blows, as the other man said.” - </p> -<p> -Every now and then as he spoke he would look over his shoulder with a -quick glance at his friends—a very anxious man, but no more anxious -than Paul Greig. -</p> -<p> -“Mercy on us!” said I, “do you tell me you ken all that?” - </p> -<p> -“I ken a lot more than that,” said he, “but that's the latest of my -budget, and I'm giving it to you for the sake of the shoes and my brother -Alasdair, that is a writer in Edinburgh. There's not two Scotchmen -drinking a bowl in Paris town this night that does not ken your -description, and it's kent by them at the other table there—where -better?—but because you have that coat on you that was surely made -for you when you were in better health, as the other man said, and because -your long trams of legs and red shoes are under the table there's none of -them suspects you. And now that I'm thinking of it, I would not go near -the hospital place again.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh! but the priest's there,” said I, “and it would never do for me to be -leaving him there without a warning.” - </p> -<p> -“A warning!” said MacKellar with contempt. “I'm astonished to hear you, -Mr. Greig. The filthy brock that he is!” - </p> -<p> -“If you're one of the Prince's party,” said I, “and it has every look of -it, or, indeed, whether you are or not, I'll allow you have some cause to -blame Father Hamilton, but as for me, I'm bound to him because we have -been in some troubles together.” - </p> -<p> -“What's all this about 'bound to him'?” said MacKellar with a kind of -sneer. “The dog that's tethered with a black pudding needs no pity, as the -other man said, and I would leave this fellow to shift for himself.” - </p> -<p> -“Thank you,” said I, “but I'll not be doing that.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, well,” said he, “it's your business, and let me tell you that -you're nothing but a fool to be tangled up with the creature. That's -Kilbride's advice to you. Let me tell you this more of it, that they're -not troubling themselves much about you at all now that you have given -them the information.” - </p> -<p> -“Information!” I said with a start. “What do you mean by that?” - </p> -<p> -He prepared to join his friends, with a smile of some slyness, and gave me -no satisfaction on the point. -</p> -<p> -“You'll maybe ken best yourself,” said he, “and I'm thinking your name -will have to be Robertson and yourself a decent Englishman for my friends -on the other side of the room there. Between here and yonder I'll have to -be making up a bonny lie or two that will put them off the scent of you.” - </p> -<p> -A bonny lie or two seemed to serve the purpose, for their interest in me -appeared to go no further, and by-and-by, when it was obvious that there -would be no remission of the rain, they rose to go. -</p> -<p> -The last that went out of the door turned on the threshold and looked at -me with a smile of recognition and amusement. -</p> -<p> -It was Buhot! -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIX -</h2> -<h3> -WHEREIN THE PRIEST LEAVES ME, AND I MAKE AN INLAND VOYAGE -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hat this marvel betokened was altogether beyond my comprehension, but the -five men were no sooner gone than I clapped on my hat and drew up the -collar of my coat and ran like fury through the plashing streets for the -place that was our temporary home. It must have been an intuition of the -raised that guided me; my way was made without reflection on it, at pure -hazard, and yet I landed through a multitude of winding and bewildering -streets upon the Isle of the City and in front of the Hôtel Dieu in a much -shorter time than it had taken me to get from there to the Duke of -Burgundy's Head. -</p> -<p> -I banged past the doorkeeper, jumped upstairs to the clergyman's quarters, -threw open the door and—found Father Hamilton was gone! -</p> -<p> -About the matter there could be no manner of dubiety, for he had left a -letter directed to myself upon the drawers-head. -</p> -<p> -“My Good Paul (said the epistle, that I have kept till now as a memorial -of my adventure): When you return you will discover from this that I have -taken leave <i>a l'anglaise</i>, and I fancy I can see my secretary -looking like the arms of Bourges (though that is an unkind imputation). -'Tis fated, seemingly, that there shall be no rest for the sole of the -foot of poor Father Hamilton. I had no sooner got to like a loose collar, -and an unbuttoned vest, and the seclusion of a cell, than I must be -plucked out; and now when my birds—the darlings!—are on the -very point of hatching I must make adieux. <i>Oh! la belle équipée!</i> M. -Buhot knows where I am—that's certain, so I must remove myself, and -this time I do not propose to burden M. Paul Greig with my company, for it -will be a miracle if they fail to find me. As for my dear Croque-mort, he -can have the glass coach and Jacques and Bernard, and doubtless the best -he can do with them is to take all to Dunkerque and leave them there. I -myself, I go <i>sans trompette</i>, and no inquiries will discover to him -where I go.” - </p> -<p> -As a postscript he added, “And 'twas only a sailor's log, dear lad! My -poor young Paul!” When I read the letter I was puzzled tremendously, and -at first I felt inclined to blame the priest for a scurvy flitting to rid -himself of my society, but a little deliberation convinced me that no such -ignoble consideration was at the bottom of his flight. If I read his -epistle aright the step he took was in my own interest, though how it -could be so there was no surmising. In any case he was gone; his friend in -the hospital told me he had set out behind myself, and taken a candle with -him and given a farewell visit to his birds, and almost cried about them -and about myself, and then departed for good to conceal himself, in some -other part of the city, probably, but exactly where his friend had no way -of guessing. And it was a further evidence of the priest's good feeling to -myself (if such were needed) that he had left a sum of a hundred livres -for me towards the costs of my future movements. -</p> -<p> -I left the Hôtel Dieu at midnight to wander very melancholy about the -streets for a time, and finally came out upon the river's bank, where some -small vessels hung at a wooden quay. I saw them in moonlight (for now the -rain was gone), and there rose in me such a feeling as I had often -experienced as a lad in another parish than the Mearns, to see the road -that led from strangeness past my mother's door. The river seemed a -pathway out of mystery and discontent to the open sea, and the open sea -was the same that beat about the shores of Britain, and my thought took -flight there and then to Britain, but stopped for a space, like a wearied -bird, upon the town Dunkerque. There is one who reads this who will judge -kindly, and pardon when I say that I felt a sort of tenderness for the -lady there, who was not only my one friend in France, so far as I could -guess, but, next to my mother, the only woman who knew my shame and still -retained regard for me. And thinking about Scotland and about Dunkerque, -and seeing that watery highway to them both, I was seized with a great -repugnance for the city I stood in, and felt that I must take my feet from -there at once. Father Hamilton was lost to me: that was certain. I could -no more have found him in this tanglement of streets and strange faces -than I could have found a needle in a haystack, and I felt disinclined to -make the trial. Nor was I prepared to avail myself of his offer of the -coach and horses, for to go travelling again in them would be to court -Bicêtre anew. -</p> -<p> -There was a group of busses or barges at the quay, as I have said, all -huddled together as it were animals seeking warmth, with their bows -nuzzling each other, and on one of them there were preparations being made -for her departure. A cargo of empty casks was piled up in her, lights were -being hung up at her bow and stern, and one of her crew was ashore in the -very act of casting off her ropes. At a flash it occurred to me that I had -here the safest and the speediest means of flight. -</p> -<p> -I ran at once to the edge of the quay and clumsily propounded a question -as to where the barge was bound for. -</p> -<p> -“Rouen or thereabouts,” said the master. -</p> -<p> -I asked if I could have a passage, and chinked my money in my pocket. -</p> -<p> -My French might have been but middling, but Lewis d'Or talks in a language -all can understand. -</p> -<p> -Ten minutes later we were in the fairway of the river running down through -the city which, in that last look I was ever fated to have of it, seemed -to brood on either hand of us like bordering hills, and at morning we were -at a place by name Triel. -</p> -<p> -Of all the rivers I have seen I must think the Seine the finest. It runs -in loops like my native Forth, sometimes in great, wide stretches that -have the semblance of moorland lochs. In that fine weather, with a sun -that was most genial, the country round about us basked and smiled. We -moved upon the fairest waters, by magic gardens, and the borders of -enchanted little towns. Now it would be a meadow sloping backward from the -bank, where reeds were nodding, to the horizon; now an orchard standing -upon grass that was the rarest green, then a village with rusty roofs and -spires and the continual chime of bells, with women washing upon stones or -men silent upon wherries fishing. Every link of the river opened up a -fresher wonder; if not some poplared isle that had the invitation to a -childish escapade, 'twould be another town, or the garden of a château, -maybe, with ladies walking stately on the lawns, perhaps alone, perhaps -with cavaliers about them as if they moved in some odd woodland minuet. I -can mind of songs that came from open windows, sung in women's voices; of -girls that stood drawing water and smiled on us as we passed, at home in -our craft of fortune, and still the lucky roamers seeing the world so -pleasantly without the trouble of moving a step from our galley fire. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes in the middle of the days we would stop at a red-faced, ancient -inn, with bowers whose tables almost had their feet dipped in the river, -and there would eat a meal and linger on a pot of wine while our barge -fell asleep at her tether and dreamt of the open sea. About us in these -inns came the kind country-people and talked of trivial things for the -mere sake of talking, because the weather was sweet and God so gracious; -homely sounds would waft from the byres and from the barns—the laugh -of bairns, the whistle of boys, the low of cattle. -</p> -<p> -At night we moored wherever we might be, and once I mind of a place called -Andelys, selvedged with chalky cliffs and lorded over by a castle called -Gaillard, that had in every aspect of it something of the clash of weapons -and of trumpet-cry. The sky shone blue through its gaping gables and its -crumbling windows like so many eyes; the birds that wheeled all round it -seemed to taunt it for its inability. The old wars over, the deep fosse -silent, the strong men gone—and there at its foot the thriving town -so loud with sounds of peaceful trade! Whoever has been young, and has the -eye for what is beautiful and great and stately, must have felt in such a -scene that craving for companionship that tickles like a laugh within the -heart—that longing for some one to feel with him, and understand, -and look upon with silence. In my case 'twas two women I would have there -with me just to look upon this Gaillard and the town below it. -</p> -<p> -Then the bending, gliding river again, the willow and the aspen edges, the -hazy orchards and the emerald swards; hamlets, towns, farm-steadings, -châteaux, kirks, and mills; the flying mallard, the leaping perch, the -silver dawns, the starry nights, the ripple of the water in my dreams, and -at last the city of Rouen. My ship of fortune went no further on. -</p> -<p> -I slept a night in an inn upon the quay, and early the next morning, -having bought a pair of boots to save my red shoes, I took the road over a -hill that left Rouen and all its steeples, reeking at the bottom of a -bowl. I walked all day, through woods and meadows and trim small towns and -orchards, and late in the gloaming came upon the port of Havre de Grace. -</p> -<p> -The sea was sounding there, and the smell of it was like a salutation. I -went out at night from my inn, and fairly joyed in its propinquity, and -was so keen on it that I was at the quay before it was well daylight. The -harbour was full of vessels. It was not long ere I got word of one that -was in trim for Dunkerque, to which I took a passage, and by favour of -congenial weather came upon the afternoon of the second day. -</p> -<p> -Dunkerque was more busy with soldiers than ever, all the arms of France -seemed to be collected there, and ships of war and flat-bottomed boats -innumerable were in the harbour. -</p> -<p> -At the first go-off I made for the lodgings I had parted from so -unceremoniously on the morning of that noisy glass coach. -</p> -<p> -The house, as I have said before, was over a baker's shop, and was reached -by a common outer stair that rose from a court-yard behind. Though -internally the domicile was well enough, indeed had a sort of -old-fashioned gentility, and was kept by a woman whose man had been a -colonel of dragoons, but now was a tippling pensioner upon the king, and -his own wife's labours, it was, externally, somewhat mean, the place a -solid merchant of our own country might inhabit, but scarce the place -wherein to look for royal blood. What was my astonishment, then, when, as -I climbed the stair, I came face to face with the Prince! -</p> -<p> -I felt the stair swing off below me and half distrusted my senses, but I -had the presence of mind to take my hat off. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Bon jour, Monsieur</i>, said he, with a slight hiccough, and I saw -that he was flushed and meant to pass with an evasion. There and then a -daft notion to explain myself and my relations with the priest who had -planned his assassination came to me, and I stopped and spoke. -</p> -<p> -“Your Royal Highness—-” I began, and at that he grew purple. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Cest un drôle de corps!</i>” said he, and, always speaking in French, -said he again: -</p> -<p> -“You make an error, Monsieur; I have not the honour of Monsieur's -acquaintance,” and looked at me with a bold eye and a disconcerting. -</p> -<p> -“Greig,” I blurted, a perfect lout, and surely as blind as a mole that -never saw his desire, “I had the honour to meet your Royal Highness at -Versailles.” - </p> -<p> -“My Royal Highness!” said he, this time in English. “I think Monsieur -mistakes himself.” And then, when he saw how crestfallen I was, he smiled -and hiccoughed again. “You are going to call on our good Clancarty,” said -he. “In that case please tell him to translate to you the proverb, <i>Oui -phis sait plus se tait</i>.” - </p> -<p> -“There is no necessity, Monsieur,” I answered promptly. “Now that I look -closer I see I was mistaken. The person I did you the honour to take you -for was one in whose opinion (if he took the trouble to think of me at -all) I should have liked to re-establish myself, that was all.” - </p> -<p> -In spite of his dissipation there was something noble in his manner—a -style of the shoulders and the hands, a poise of the head that I might -practise for years and come no closer on than any nowt upon my father's -fields. It was that which I remember best of our engagement on the stair, -and that at the last of it he put out his hand to bid me good-day. -</p> -<p> -“My name,” says he, “is Monsieur Albany so long as I am in Dunkerque. <i>À -bon entendeur salut!</i> I hope we may meet again, Monsieur Greig.” He -looked down at the black boots I had bought me in Rouen. “If I might take -the liberty to suggest it,” said he, smiling, “I should abide by the -others. I have never seen their wearer wanting wit, <i>esprit</i>, and -prudence—which are qualities that at this moment I desire above all -in those that count themselves my friends.” - </p> -<p> -And with that he was gone. I watched him descend the remainder of the -stair with much deliberation, and did not move a step myself until the tip -of his scabbard had gone round the corner of the close. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXX -</h2> -<h3> -A GUID CONCEIT OF MYSELF LEADS ME FAR ASTRAY -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>lancarty and Thurot were playing cards, so intent upon that recreation -that I was in the middle of the floor before they realised who it was the -servant had ushered in. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec! Il n'y a pas de petit chez soi!</i>” - cried Thurot, dropping his hand, and they jumped to their feet to greet -me. -</p> -<p> -“I'll be hanged if you want assurance, child,” said Clancarty, surveying -me from head to foot as if I were some curiosity. “Here's your exploits -ringing about the world, and not wholly to your credit, and you must walk -into the very place where they will find the smallest admiration.” - </p> -<p> -“Not meaning the lodging of Captain Thurot,” said I. “Whatever my -reputation may be with the world, I make bold to think he and you will -believe me better than I may seem at the first glance.” - </p> -<p> -“The first glance!” cried his lordship. “Gad, the first glance suggests -that Bicêtre agreed with our Scotsman. Sure, they must have fed you on -oatmeal. I'd give a hatful of louis d'or to see Father Hamilton, for if he -throve so marvellously in the flesh as his secretary he must look like the -side of St. Eloi. One obviously grows fat on regicide—fatter than a -few poor devils I know do upon devotion to princes.” - </p> -<p> -Thurot's face assured me that I was as welcome there as ever I had been. -He chid Clancarty for his badinage, and told me he was certain all along -that the first place I should make for after my flight from Bicêtre (of -which all the world knew) would be Dunkerque. “And a good thing too, M. -Greig,” said he. -</p> -<p> -“Not so good,” says I, “but what I must meet on your stair the very man-” - </p> -<p> -“Stop!” he cried, and put his finger on his lip. “In these parts we know -only a certain M. Albany, who is, my faith! a good friend of your own if -you only knew it.” - </p> -<p> -“I scarcely see how that can be,” said I. “If any man has a cause to -dislike me it is his Roy—” - </p> -<p> -“M. Albany,” corrected Thurot. -</p> -<p> -“It is M. Albany, for whom, it seems, I was the decoy in a business that -makes me sick to think on. I would expect no more than that he had gone -out there to send the officers upon my heels, and for me to be sitting -here may be simple suicide.” - </p> -<p> -Clancarty laughed. “Tis the way of youth,” said he, “to attach far too -much importance to itself. Take our word for it, M. Greig, all France is -not scurrying round looking for the nephew of Andrew Greig. Faith, and I -wonder at you, my dear Thurot, that has an Occasion here—a veritable -Occasion—and never so much as says bottle. Stap me if I have a -friend come to me from a dungeon without wishing him joy in a glass of -burgundy!” - </p> -<p> -The burgundy was forthcoming, and his lordship made the most of it, while -Captain Thurot was at pains to assure me that my position was by no means -so bad as I considered it. In truth, he said, the police had their own -reasons for congratulating themselves on my going out of their way. They -knew very well, as M. Albany did, that I had been the catspaw of the -priest, who was himself no better than that same, and for that reason as -likely to escape further molestation as I was myself. -</p> -<p> -Thurot spoke with authority, and hinted that he had the word of M. Albany -himself for what he said. I scarcely knew which pleased me best—that -I should be free myself or that the priest should have a certain security -in his concealment. -</p> -<p> -I told them of Buhot, and how oddly he had shown his complacence to his -escaped prisoner in the tavern of the Duke of Burgundy's Head. At that -they laughed. -</p> -<p> -“Buhot!” cried his lordship. “My faith! Ned must have been tickled to see -his escaped prisoner in such a cosy <i>cachette</i> as the Duke's Head, -where he and I, and Andy Greig—ay! and this same priest—tossed -many a glass, <i>Ciel!</i> the affair runs like a play. All it wants to -make this the most delightful of farces is that you should have Father -Hamilton outside the door to come in at a whistle. Art sure the fat old -man is not in your waistcoat pocket? Anyhow, here's his good health....” - </p> -<h3> -=== MISSING PAGES (274-288) === -</h3> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXI. -</h2> -<h3> -THE BARD OF LOVE WHO WROTE WITH OLD MATERIALS -</h3> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXII. -</h2> -<h3> -THE DUEL IN THE AUBERGE GARDEN -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hoever it was that moved at the instigation of Madame on my behalf, he -put speed into the business, for the very next day I was told my -sous-lieutenancy was waiting at the headquarters of the regiment. A -severance that seemed almost impossible to me before I learned from the -lady's own lips that her heart was elsewhere engaged was now a thing to -long for eagerly, and I felt that the sooner I was out of Dunkerque and -employed about something more important than the tying of my hair and the -teasing of my heart with thinking, the better for myself. Teasing my -heart, I say, because Miss Walkinshaw had her own reasons for refusing to -see me any more, and do what I might I could never manage to come face to -face with her. Perhaps on the whole it was as well, for what in the world -I was to say to the lady, supposing I were privileged, it beats me now to -fancy. Anyhow, the opportunity never came my way, though, for the few days -that elapsed before I departed from Dunkerque, I spent hours in the Rue de -la Boucherie sipping sirops on the terrace of the Café Coignet opposite -her lodging, or at night on the old game of humming ancient love-songs to -her high and distant window. All I got for my pains were brief and -tantalising glimpses of her shadow on the curtains; an attenuate kind of -bliss it must be owned, and yet counted by Master Red-Shoes (who suffered -from nostalgia, not from love, if he had had the sense to know it) a very -delirium of delight. -</p> -<p> -One night there was an odd thing came to pass. But, first of all, I must -tell that more than once of an evening, as I would be in the street and -staring across at Miss Walkinshaw's windows, I saw his Royal Highness in -the neighbourhood. His cloak might be voluminous, his hat dragged down -upon the very nose of him, but still the step was unmistakable. If there -had been the smallest doubt of it, there came one evening when he passed -me so close in the light of an oil lamp that I saw the very blotches on -his countenance. What was more, he saw and recognised me, though he passed -without any other sign than the flash of an eye and a halfstep of -hesitation. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a> -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/304.jpg" alt="304" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -“H'm,” thinks I, “here's Monsieur Albany looking as if he might, like -myself, be trying to content himself with the mere shadows of things.” - </p> -<p> -He saw me more than once, and at last there came a night when a fellow in -drink came staving down the street on the side I was on and jostled me in -the by-going without a word of apology. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Pardonnez, Monsieur!</i>” said I in irony, with my hat off to give him -a hint at his manners. -</p> -<p> -He lurched a second time against me and put up his hand to catch my chin, -as if I were a wench, “<i>Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec</i>, 'tis time you -were home,” said he in French, and stuttered some ribaldry that made me -smack his face with an open hand. -</p> -<p> -“I saw his Royal Highness in the neighbourhood—” - </p> -<p> -At once he sobered with suspicious suddenness if I had had the sense to -reflect upon it, and gave me his name and direction as one George Bonnat, -of the Marine. “Monsieur will do me the honour of a meeting behind the -Auberge Cassard after <i>petit dejeuner</i> to-morrow,” said he, and named -a friend. It was the first time I was ever challenged. It should have rung -in the skull of me like an alarm, but I cannot recall at this date that my -heart beat a stroke the faster, or that the invitation vexed me more than -if it had been one to the share of a bottle of wine. “It seems a pretty -ceremony about a cursed impertinence on the part of a man in liquor,” I -said, “but I'm ready to meet you either before or after petit déjeuner, as -it best suits you, and my name's Greig, by your leave.” - </p> -<p> -“Very well, Monsieur Greig,” said he; “except that you stupidly impede the -pavement and talk French like a Spanish cow (<i>comme une vache espagnole</i>), -you seem a gentleman of much accommodation. Eight o'clock then, behind the -<i>auberge</i>,” and off went Sir Ruffler, singularly straight and -business-like, with a profound <i>congé</i> for the unfortunate wretch he -planned to thrust a spit through in the morning. -</p> -<p> -I went home at once, to find Thurot and Clancarty at lansquenet. They were -as elate at my story as if I had been asked to dine with Louis. -</p> -<p> -“Gad, 'tis an Occasion!” cried my lord, and helped himself, as usual, with -a charming sentiment: “<i>A demain les affaires sérieuses</i>; to-night -we'll pledge our friend!” - </p> -<p> -Thurot evinced a flattering certainty of my ability to break down M. -Bonnat's guard in little or no time. “A crab, this Bonnat,” said he. “Why -he should pick a quarrel with you I cannot conceive, for 'tis well known -the man is M. Albany's creature. But, no matter, we shall tickle his ribs, -M. Paul. <i>Ma foi!</i> here's better gaming than your pestilent cards. -I'd have every man in the kingdom find an affair for himself once a month -to keep his spleen in order.” - </p> -<p> -“This one's like to put mine very much out of order with his iron,” I -said, a little ruefully recalling my last affair. -</p> -<p> -“What!” cried Thurot, “after all my lessons! And this Bonnat a crab too! -Fie! M. Paul. And what an he pricks a little? a man's the better for some -iron in his system now and then. Come, come, pass down these foils, my -lord, and I shall supple the arms of our Paul.” - </p> -<p> -We had a little exercise, and then I went to bed. The two sat in my room, -and smoked and talked till late in the night, while I pretended to be fast -asleep. But so far from sleep was I, that I could hear their watches -ticking in their fobs. Some savagery, some fearful want of soul in them, -as evidenced by their conversation, horrified me. It was no great matter -that I was to risk my life upon a drunkard's folly, but for the first time -since I had come into the port of Dunkerque, and knew these men beside my -bed, there intruded a fiery sense of alienation. It seemed a dream—a -dreadful dream, that I should be lying in a foreign land, upon the eve, -perhaps, of my own death or of another manslaughter, and in a -correspondence with two such worldly men as those that sat there recalling -combats innumerable with never a thought of the ultimate fearful -retribution. Compared with this close room, where fumed the wine and weed, -and men with never a tie domestic were paying away their lives in the -small change of trivial pleasures, how noble and august seemed our old -life upon the moors! -</p> -<p> -When they were gone I fell asleep and slept without a break till Thurot's -fingers drummed reveille on my door. I jumped into the sunshine of a -lovely day that streamed into the room, soused my head in water and in a -little stood upon the street with my companion. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Bon matin</i>, Paul!” he cried cheerfully. “Faith, you sleep sur <i>les -deux oreilles</i>, and we must be marching briskly to be at M. Bonnat's -rendezvous at eight o'clock.” - </p> -<p> -We went through the town and out upon its edge at the Calais road. The sky -was blue like another sea; the sea itself was all unvexed by wave; a -sweeter day for slaughtering would pass the wit of man to fancy. Thurot -hummed an air as he walked along the street, but I was busy thinking of -another morning in Scotland, when I got a bitter lesson I now seemed -scandalously soon to have forgotten. By-and-by we came to the inn. It -stood by itself upon the roadside, with a couple of workmen sitting on a -bench in front dipping their morning crusts in a common jug of wine. -Thurot entered and made some inquiry; came out radiant. “Monsieur is not -going to disappoint us, as I feared,” said he; and led me quickly behind -the <i>auberge</i>. We passed through the yard, where a servant-girl -scoured pots and pans and sang the while as if the world were wholly -pleasant in that sunshine; we crossed a tiny rivulet upon a rotten plank -and found ourselves in an orchard. Great old trees stood silent in the -finest foggy grass, their boughs all bursting out into blossom, and the -air scent-thick-ened; everywhere the birds were busy; it seemed a world of -piping song. I thought to myself there could be no more incongruous place -nor season for our duelling, and it was with half a gladness I looked -around the orchard, finding no one there. -</p> -<p> -“Bah! our good Bonnat's gone!” cried Thurot, vastly chagrined and tugging -at his watch. “That comes of being five minutes too late, and I cannot, by -my faith, compliment the gentleman upon his eagerness to meet you.” - </p> -<p> -I was mistaken but for a second; then I spied my fiery friend of the -previous evening lying on his back beneath the oldest of the trees, his -hat tilted over his eyes, as if he had meant to snatch a little sleep in -spite of the dazzling sunshine. He rose to his feet on our approach, swept -off his hat courteously, and hailed Thurot by name. -</p> -<p> -“What, you, Antoine! I am ravished! For, look you, the devil's in all my -friends that I can get none of them to move a step at this hour of the -morning, and I have had to come to M. Greig without a second. Had I known -his friend was Captain Thurot I should not have vexed myself. Doubtless M. -Greig has no objection to my entrusting my interests as well as his own in -the hands of M. le Capitaine?” - </p> -<p> -I bowed my assent. Captain Thurot cast a somewhat cold and unsatisfied eye -upon the ruffler, protesting the thing was unusual. -</p> -<p> -Bonnat smiled and shrugged his shoulders, put off his coat with much -deliberation, and took up his place upon the sward, where I soon followed -him. -</p> -<p> -“Remember, it is no fool, this crab,” whispered Captain Thurot as he took -my coat from me. “And 'tis two to one on him who prefers the parry to the -attack.” - </p> -<p> -I had been reading Molière's “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” the previous morning, -and as I faced my assailant I had the fencing-master's words as well as -Captain Thurot's running in my ears: “To give and not receive is the -secret of the sword.” It may appear incredible, but it seemed physically a -trivial affair I was engaged upon until I saw the man Bonnat's eye. He -wore a smile, but his eye had the steely glint of murder! It was as -unmistakable as if his tongue confessed it, and for a second I trembled at -the possibilities of the situation. He looked an unhealthy dog; sallow -exceedingly on the neck, which had the sinews so tight they might have -twanged like wire, and on his cheeks, that he seemed to suck in with a -gluttonous exultation such as a gross man shows in front of a fine meal. -</p> -<p> -“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said Thurot; and we nodded. “Then in guard!” - said he. -</p> -<p> -We saluted, fell into position and thrust simultaneously in tierce, -parrying alike, then opened more seriously. -</p> -<p> -In Thurot's teaching of me there was one lesson he most unweariedly -insisted on, whose object was to keep my point in a straight line and -parry in the smallest possible circles. I had every mind of it now, but -the cursed thing was that this Bonnat knew it too. He fenced, like an -Italian, wholly from the wrist, and, crouched upon his knees, husbanded -every ounce of energy by the infrequency and the brevity of his thrusts. -His lips drew back from his teeth, giving him a most villainous aspect, -and he began to press in the lower lines. -</p> -<p> -In a side-glance hazarded I saw the anxiety of Thurot's eye and realised -his apprehension. I broke ground, and still, I think, was the bravo's -match but for the alarm of Thurot's eye. It confused me so much that I -parried widely and gave an opening for a thrust that caught me slightly on -the arm, and dyed my shirt-sleeve crimson in a moment. -</p> -<p> -“Halt!” cried Thurot, and put up his arm. -</p> -<p> -I lowered my weapon, thinking the bout over, and again saw murder in -Bonnat's eye. He lunged furiously at my chest, missing by a miracle. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Scélérat!</i>” cried Thurot, and, in an uncontrollable fury at the -action, threw himself upon Bonnat and disarmed him. -</p> -<p> -They glared at each other for a minute, and Thurot finally cast the -other's weapon over a hedge. “So much for M. Bonnat!” said he. “This is -our valiant gentleman, is it? To stab like an assassin!” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Oh, malédiction!</i>” said the other, little abashed, and shrugging -his shoulders as he lifted his coat to put it on. “Talking of -assassination, I but did the duty of the executioner in his absence, and -proposed to kill the man who meditated the same upon the Prince.” - </p> -<p> -“The Prince!” cried Thurot. “Why 'tis the Prince's friend, and saved his -life!” - </p> -<p> -“I know nothing about that,” said Bonnat; “but do you think I'd be out -here at such a cursed early hour fencing if any other than M. Albany had -sent me? <i>Pardieu!</i> the whole of you are in the farce, but I always -counted you the Prince's friend, and here you must meddle when I do as I -am told to do!” - </p> -<p> -“And you tell me, Jean Bonnat, that you take out my friend to murder him -by M. Albany's command?” cried Thurot incredulous. -</p> -<p> -“What the devil else?” replied the bravo. “'Tis true M. Albany only -mentioned that M. des Souliers Rouges was an obstruction in the Rue de la -Boucherie and asked me to clear him out of Dunkerque, but 'twere a tidier -job to clear him altogether. And here is a great pother about an English -hog!” - </p> -<p> -I was too busily stanching my wound, that was scarce so serious as it -appeared, to join in this dispute, but the allusion to the Prince and the -Rue de la Boucherie extremely puzzled me. I turned to Bonnat with a cry -for an explanation. -</p> -<p> -“What!” I says, “does his Royal Highness claim any prerogative to the Rue -de la Boucherie? I'm unconscious that I ever did either you or him the -smallest harm, and if my service—innocent enough as it was—with -the priest Hamilton was something to resent, his Highness has already -condoned the offence.” - </p> -<p> -“For the sake of my old friend M. le Capitaine here I shall give you one -word of advice,” said Bonnat, “and that is, to evacuate Dunkerque as -sharply as you may. M. Albany may owe you some obligement, as I've heard -him hint himself, but nevertheless your steps will be safer elsewhere than -in the Rue de la Boucherie.” - </p> -<p> -“There is far too much of the Rue de la Boucherie about this,” I said, -“and I hope no insult is intended to certain friends I have or had there.” - </p> -<p> -At this they looked at one another. The bravo (for so I think I may at -this time call him) whistled curiously and winked at the other, and, in -spite of himself, Captain Thurot was bound to laugh. -</p> -<p> -“And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?” said he. -“That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. 'Tis, <i>ma foi!</i> -to expect too much of M. Albany's complaisance. After that there is -nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian -work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour.” - </p> -<p> -“You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine,” said Bonnat -brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. “M. Blanc-bec there -handles <i>arme blanche</i> rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the -gallant commander of the <i>Roi Rouge</i>, but if he has a mother let me -suggest the wisdom of his going back to her.” And with that and a <i>congé</i> -he left us to enter the <i>auberge</i>. -</p> -<p> -Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, ruminating -upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better than I could, -yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I pled with him -vainly for an explanation of the Prince's objection to my person. “I -thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the Hamilton affair,” I -said. -</p> -<p> -“And so he had,” said Thurot. “I have his own assurances.” - </p> -<p> -“'Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure -me into a duel.” - </p> -<p> -“My dear boy,” said Thurot, “you owe him all—your escape from -Bicêtre, which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of -the lieutenancy in the Regiment d'Auvergne.” - </p> -<p> -“What! he has a hand in this?” I cried. -</p> -<p> -“Who else?” said he. “'Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled -Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. It -seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not uncommon -with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one reason, and for -the other he would cut your throat. M. Tête-de-fer is my eternal puzzle. -And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, the same reason -for favouring and hating you.” - </p> -<p> -“And what might that be?” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Who, rather?” said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la -Boucherie. “Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under -your very nose, 'tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the -machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she were -anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with Hamilton, -and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and now—though -she may not have attempted it—she has gained you the same person's -enmity.” - </p> -<p> -I stopped in the street and turned to him. “All this is confused enough to -madden me,” I said, “and rather than be longer in the mist I shall brave -her displeasure, compel an audience, and ask her for an explanation.” - </p> -<p> -“Please yourself,” said Thurot, and seeing I meant what I said he left me. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXIII -</h2> -<h3> -FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle's -stairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!) -responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the same -had been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barren -comfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiled at -first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at the -unresponse of mine. -</p> -<p> -“I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw,” said I. -</p> -<p> -The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is more truth -in a menial eye than in most others, and this man's fashionable falsehood -extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he was acting upon -instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable for him, he saw -that I saw. -</p> -<p> -“Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhood till -she returns,” I said, and leaned against the railing. This frightened him -somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did not know when she might -return. -</p> -<p> -“It does not matter,” I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my courage -much higher in the circumstances than I had expected. “If it's midnight -she shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance upon -which to consult her.” - </p> -<p> -He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon the -door-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions had not -gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how he was -further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unable to get -a glance of recognition from me, and resenting further the inconvenience -to which I was subjecting him, he rose to an impertinence—the first -(to do him justice) I had ever found in him. -</p> -<p> -“Will Monsieur,” said he, “tell me who I shall say called?” - </p> -<p> -The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and “My good rogue,” - said I, “if the circumstances were more favourable I should have the -felicity of giving you an honest drubbing.” He got very red. “Come, -Bernard,” I said, adopting another tone, “I think you owe me some -consideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to give you -all the information you required some time ago for your employers, tell me -the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?” - </p> -<p> -He was saved an answer by the lady herself. -</p> -<p> -“La! Mr. Greig!” she cried, coming to the door and putting forth a -welcoming hand. “My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he should -except my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors.” So -much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, “My dear man -of Mearns, you are as dour as—as dour as—” - </p> -<p> -“As a donkey,” I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. “And I -feel very much like that humble beast at this moment.” - </p> -<p> -“I do not wonder at it,” said she, throwing herself in a chair. “To thrust -yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!” - </p> -<p> -“I am the ass—I have been the ass—it would appear, in other -respects as well.” - </p> -<p> -She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back her hair, -that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caught her rather -early in the morning; she had not even the preparation of a <i>petit lever</i>; -and because of a certain chagrin at being discovered scarcely looking her -best her first remarks were somewhat chilly. -</p> -<p> -“Well, at least you have persistency, I'll say that of it,” she went on, -with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. “And for what am I -indebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?” - </p> -<p> -“It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you for -your offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d'Auvergne is -settled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself, for it -looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting my -distinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month, -and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper I -should come in my own person to thank you for your good offices.” - </p> -<p> -“Do not mention it,” she said hurriedly. “I am only too glad that I could -be of the smallest service to you.” - </p> -<p> -“I cannot think,” I went on, “what I can have done to warrant your -displeasure with me.” - </p> -<p> -“Displeasure!” she replied. “Who said I was displeased?” - </p> -<p> -“What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing you -for this past week.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig,” she said, trifling with her rings. -“Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itself -as a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig's ordinary intuitions.” - </p> -<p> -“It's a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to,” I said. -“And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arises now, and -how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me.” - </p> -<p> -“No matter,” said she, and paused. “And so you are going to the frontier, -and are come to say good-bye to me?” - </p> -<p> -“Now that you remind me that is exactly my object,” I said, rising to go. -She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, as if she -felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet I noticed -a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed. -</p> -<p> -“And so you go, Mr. Greig?” she said. “There's but the one thing I would -like to say to my friend, and that's that I should like him not to think -unkindly of one that values his good opinion—if she were worthy to -have it. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and now -that I'm to lose them I feel like to greet.” She was indeed inclined to -tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of my -annoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration. -</p> -<p> -“I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “You -found me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it's a man -that's leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than it would -otherwise have been, and this last kindness—that forces me away from -you—is one more I have to thank you for.” - </p> -<p> -She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or the reverse, -and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half. -</p> -<p> -“I owed all the little I could do to my countryman,” said she. -</p> -<p> -“And I hope I have been useful,” I blurted out, determined to show her I -was going with open eyes. -</p> -<p> -Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. “I hope you will forgive -that, Mr. Greig,” she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to my -meaning. -</p> -<p> -“There is nothing to forgive,” I said shortly. “I am proud that I was of -service, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose house some -more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint is that the -person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the little share I -had unconsciously in preserving his life.” - </p> -<p> -“I am sure he is very grateful,” she cried hastily, and perplexed. “I may -tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in the regiment.” - </p> -<p> -“So I have been told,” I said, and she looked a little startled. “So I -have been told. It may be that I'll be more grateful by-and-by, when I see -what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitude greatly -hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the—in the person's actings -towards myself!” - </p> -<p> -“Inconsistency!” she repeated bitterly. “That need not surprise you! But I -do not understand.” - </p> -<p> -“It is simply that—perhaps to hasten me to my duties—his Royal -Highness this morning sent a ruffian to fight me.” - </p> -<p> -I have never seen a face so suddenly change as hers did when she heard -this; for ordinary she had a look of considerable amiability, a soft, kind -eye, a ready smile that had the hint (as I have elsewhere said) of -melancholy, a voice that, especially in the Scots, was singularly -attractive. A temper was the last thing I would have charged her with, yet -now she fairly flamed, “What is this you are telling me, Paul Greig?” she -cried, her eyes stormy, her bosom beginning to heave. “Oh, just that M. -Albany (as he calls himself) has some grudge against me, for he sent a man—Bonnat—to -pick a quarrel with me, and by Bonnat's own confession the duel that was -to ensue was to be <i>à outrance</i>. But for the intervention of a -friend, half an hour ago, there would have been a vacancy already in the -Regiment d'Auvergne.” - </p> -<p> -“Good heavens!” she cried. “You must be mistaken. What object in the wide -world could his Royal Highness have in doing you any harm? You were an -instrument in the preservation of his life.” - </p> -<p> -I bowed extremely low, with a touch of the courts I had not when I landed -first in Dunkerque. -</p> -<p> -“I have had the distinguished honour, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “And I -should have thought that enough to counterbalance my unfortunate and -ignorant engagement with his enemies.” - </p> -<p> -“But why, in Heaven's name, should he have a shred of resentment against -you?” - </p> -<p> -“It seems,” I said, “that it has something to do with my boldness in using -the Rue de la Boucherie for an occasional promenade.” - </p> -<p> -She put her two hands up to her face for a moment, but I could see the -wine-spill in between, and her very neck was in a flame. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, the shame! the shame!” she cried, and began to walk up and down the -room like one demented. “Am I to suffer these insults for ever in spite of -all that I may do to prove—to prove——” - </p> -<p> -She pulled herself up short, put down her hands from a face exceedingly -distressed, and looked closely at me. “What must you think of me, Mr. -Greig?” she asked suddenly in quite a new key. -</p> -<p> -“What do I think of myself to so disturb you?” I replied. “I do not know -in what way I have vexed you, but to do so was not at all in my intention. -I must tell you that I am not a politician, and that since I came here -these affairs of the Prince and all the rest of it are quite beyond my -understanding. If the cause of the white cockade brought you to France, -Miss Walkinshaw, as seems apparent, I cannot think you are very happy in -it nowadays, but that is no affair of mine.” - </p> -<p> -She stared at me. “I hope,” said she, “you are not mocking me?” - </p> -<p> -“Heaven forbid!” I said. “It would be the last thing I should presume to -do, even if I had a reason. I owe you, after all, nothing but the deepest -gratitude.” - </p> -<p> -Beyond the parlour we stood in was a lesser room that was the lady's -boudoir. We stood with our backs to it, and I know not how much of our -conversation had been overheard when I suddenly turned at the sound of a -man's voice, and saw his Royal Highness standing in the door! -</p> -<p> -I could have rubbed my eyes out of sheer incredulity, for that he should -be in that position was as if I had come upon a ghost. He stood with a -face flushed and frowning, rubbing his eyes, and there was something in -his manner that suggested he was not wholly sober. -</p> -<p> -“I'll be cursed,” said he, “if I haven't been asleep. Deuce take -Clancarty! He kept me at cards till dawn this morning, and I feel as if I -had been all night on heather. <i>Pardieu</i>——!” - </p> -<p> -He pulled himself up short and stared, seeing me for the first time. His -face grew purple with annoyance. “A thousand pardons!” he cried with -sarcasm, and making a deep bow. “I was not aware that I intruded on -affairs.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Walkinshaw turned to him sharply. -</p> -<p> -“There is no intrusion,” said she, “but honesty, in the person of my dear -countryman, who has come to strange quarters with it. Your Royal Highness -has now the opportunity of thanking this gentleman.” - </p> -<p> -“I' faith,” said he, “I seem to be kept pretty constantly in mind of the -little I owe to this gentleman in spite of himself. Harkee, my good -Monsieur, I got you a post; I thought you had been out of Dunkerque by -now.” - </p> -<p> -“The post waits, M. Albany,” said I, “and I am going to take it up -forthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owe the -post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should be -addressed.” - </p> -<p> -“My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us owe her -everything, and—egad!—are not grateful enough,” and with that -he looked for the first time at her with his frown gone. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, yes,” she cried; “we may put off the compliments till another -occasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me that -this gentleman, who has done so much for me—I speak for myself, your -Royal Highness will observe—should be so poorly requited.” - </p> -<p> -“Requited!” cried he. “How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied.” His -face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at his -unshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child of -kings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myself -upon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true. -</p> -<p> -“I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergne -office, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude——” - </p> -<p> -“Bah!” cried he. “Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that does -aught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none of -your gratitude, Monsieur Greig.” - </p> -<p> -“'Tis just as well, M. Albany,” I cried, “for what there was of it is -mortgaged.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Comment?</i>” he asked, uneasily. -</p> -<p> -“I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that calls -himself your servant,” I replied, always very careful to take his own word -for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. “He informed -me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing the same street -with you, and had given him his instructions.” - </p> -<p> -“Bonnat,” cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples. “I'll -be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!—stay—let -me think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner, but—but——” - </p> -<p> -“After dinner! Then surely it should have been in a more favourable mood -to myself, that has done M. Albany no harm,” I said. “I do not wonder that -M. Albany has lost so many of his friends if he settles their destinies -after dinner.” - </p> -<p> -At first he frowned at this and then he laughed outright. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Ma foi!</i>” he cried, “here's another Greig to call me gomeral to my -face,” and he lounged to a chair where he sunk in inextinguishable -laughter. -</p> -<p> -But if I had brought laughter from him I had precipitated anger elsewhere. -</p> -<p> -“Here's a pretty way to speak to his Royal Highness,” cried Miss -Walkinshaw, her face like thunder. “The manners of the Mearns shine very -poorly here. You forget that you speak to one that is your prince, in -faith your king!” - </p> -<p> -“Neither prince nor king of mine, Miss Walkinshaw,” I cried, and turned to -go. “No, if a hundred thousand swords were at his back. I had once a -notion of a prince that rode along the Gallowgate, but I was then a boy, -and now I am a man—which you yourself have made me.” - </p> -<p> -With that I bowed low and left them. They neither of them said a word. It -was the last I was to see of Clementina Walkinshaw and the last of Charles -Edward. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXIV -</h2> -<h3> -OF MY WINTER CAMPAIGN IN PRUSSIA, AND ANOTHER MEETING WITH MACKELLAR OF -KILBRIDE -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> have no intention here of narrating at large what happened in my short -career as a soldier of the French Army, curious though some of the things -that befell me chanced to be. They may stand for another occasion, while I -hurriedly and briefly chronicle what led to my second meeting with -MacKellar of Kilbride, and through that same to the restoration of the -company of Father Hamilton, the sometime priest of Dixmunde. -</p> -<p> -The Regiment d'Auvergne was far from its native hills when first I joined -it, being indeed on the frontier of Austria. 'Twas a corps not long -embodied, composed of a preposterous number of mere lads as soft as kail, -yet driven to miracles of exertion by drafted veteran officers of other -regiments who stiffened their command with the flat of the sword. As for -my lieutenancy it was nothing to be proud of in such a battalion, for I -herded in a mess of foul-mouthed scoundrels and learned little of the -trade of soldiering that I was supposed to be taught in the interval -between our departure from the frontier and our engagement on the field as -allies with the Austrians. Of the Scots that had been in the regiment at -one time there was only one left—a major named MacKay, that came -somewhere out of the Reay country in the shire of Sutherland, and was -reputed the drunkenest officer among the allies, yet comported himself, on -the strength of his Hielan' extraction, towards myself, his Lowland -countryman, with such a ludicrous haughtiness I could not bear the man—no, -not from the first moment I set eyes on him! -</p> -<p> -He was a pompous little person with legs bowed through years of riding -horse, and naturally he was the first of my new comrades I introduced -myself to when I joined the colours. I mind he sat upon a keg of bullets, -looking like a vision of Bacchus, somewhat soiled and pimply, when I -entered to him and addressed him, with a certain gladness, in our tongue. -</p> -<p> -“Humph!” was what he said. “Another of his Royal Highness's Sassenach -friends! Here's a wheen of the lousiest French privates ever shook in -their breeks in front of a cannon, wanting smeddum and courage drummed -into them with a scabbard, and they send me Sassenachs to do the business -with when the whole hearty North of Scotland is crawling with the stuff I -want particularly.” - </p> -<p> -“Anyway, here I am, major,” said I, slightly taken aback at this, “and -you'll have to make the best of me.” - </p> -<p> -“Pshaw!” cried he vulgarly and cracked his thumb. “I have small stomach -for his Royal Highness's recommendations; I have found in the past that he -sends to Austria—him and his friends—only the stuff he has no -use for nearer the English Channel, where it's I would like to be this -day. They're talking of an invasion, I hear; wouldn't I like to be among -the first to have a slap again at Geordie?” - </p> -<p> -My birse rose at this, which I regarded as a rank treason in any man that -spoke my own language even with a tartan accent. -</p> -<p> -“A slap at Geordie!” I cried. “You made a bonny-like job o't when you had -the chance!” - </p> -<p> -It was my first and last confabulation of a private nature with Major -Dugald MacKay. Thereafter he seldom looked the road I was on beyond to -give an order or pick a fault, and, luckily, though a pleasant footing -with my neighbours has ever been my one desire in life, I was not much put -up or down by the ill-will of such a creature. -</p> -<p> -Like a break in a dream, a space of all unfriended travelling, which is -the worst travelling of all, appears my time of marching with the Regiment -d'Auvergne. I was lost among aliens—aliens in tongue and sentiment, -and engaged, to tell the truth, upon an enterprise that never enlisted the -faintest of my sympathy. All I wished was to forget the past (and that, be -sure, was the one impossible thing), and make a living of some sort. The -latter could not well be more scanty, for my pay was a beggar's, and -infrequent at that, and finally it wholly ceased. -</p> -<p> -I saw the world, so much of it as lies in Prussia, and may be witnessed -from the ranks of a marching regiment of the line; I saw life—the -life of the tent and the bivouac, and the unforgettable thing of it was -death—death in the stricken field among the grinding hoofs of -horses, below the flying wheels of the artillery. -</p> -<p> -And yet if I had had love there—some friend to talk to when the -splendour of things filled me; the consciousness of a kind eye to share -the pleasure of a sunshine or to light at a common memory; or if I had had -hope, the prospect of brighter days and a restitution of my self-respect, -they might have been much happier these marching days that I am now only -too willing to forget. For we trod in many pleasant places even when -weary, by summer fields jocund with flowers, and by autumn's laden -orchards. Stars shone on our wearied columns as we rested in the meadows -or on the verge of woods, half satisfied with a gangrel's supper and -sometimes joining in a song. I used to feel then that here was a better -society after all than some I had of late been habituated with upon the -coast. And there were towns we passed through: 'twas sweet exceedingly to -hear the echo of our own loud drums, the tarantara of trumpets. I liked to -see the folks come out although they scarce were friendly, and feel that -priceless zest that is the guerdon of the corps, the crowd, the mob—that -I was something in a vastly moving thing even if it was no more than the -regiment of raw lads called d'Auvergne. -</p> -<p> -We were, for long in our progress, no part of the main army, some strategy -of which we could not guess the reasoning, making it necessary that we -should move alone through the country; and to the interest of our progress -through these foreign scenes was added the ofttimes apprehension that we -might some day suffer an alarm from the regiments of the great Frederick. -Twice we were surprised by night and our pickets broken in, once a native -guided us to a <i>guet-apens</i>—an ambuscade—where, to do him -justice, the major fought like a lion, and by his spirit released his -corps from the utmost danger. A war is like a harvest; you cannot aye be -leading in, though the common notion is that in a campaign men are -fighting even-on. In the cornfield the work depends upon the weather; in -the field of war (at least with us 'twas so) the actual strife must often -depend upon the enemy, and for weeks on end we saw them neither tail nor -horn, as the saying goes. Sometimes it seemed as if the war had quite -forgotten us, and was waging somewhere else upon the planet far away from -Prussia. -</p> -<p> -We got one good from the marching and the waiting; it put vigour in our -men. Day by day they seemed to swell and strengthen, thin faces grew -well-filled and ruddy, slouching steps grew confident and firm. And thus -the Regiment d'Au-vergne was not so badly figured when we fought the fight -of Rosbach that ended my career of glory. -</p> -<p> -Rosbach!—its name to me can still create a tremor. We fought it in -November month in a storm of driving snow. Our corps lay out upon the -right of Frederick among fields that were new-ploughed for wheat and -broken up by ditches. The d'Auvergnes charged with all the fire of -veterans; they were smashed by horse, but rose and fell and rose again -though death swept across them like breath from a furnace, scorching and -shrivelling all before it. The Prussian and the Austrian guns went -rat-a-pat like some gigantic drum upon the braes, and nearer the musketry -volleys mingled with the plunge of horse and shouting of commanders so -that each sound individually was indistinguishable, but all was blended in -one unceasing melancholy hum. -</p> -<p> -That drumming on the braes and that long melancholy hum are what most -vividly remains to me of Rosbach, for I fell early in the engagement, -struck in the charge by the sabre of a Prussian horseman that cleft me to -the skull in a slanting stroke and left me incapable, but not unconscious, -on the field. -</p> -<p> -I lay for hours with other wounded in the snow The battle changed ground; -the noises came from the distance: we seemed to be forgotten. I pitied -myself exceedingly. Finally I swounded. -</p> -<p> -When I came to myself it was night and men with lanterns were moving about -the fields gathering us in like blackcock where we lay. Two Frenchmen came -up and spoke to me, but what they said was all beyond me for I had clean -forgotten every word of their language though that morning I had known it -scarcely less fully than my own. I tried to speak in French, it seems, and -thought I did so, but in spite of me the words were the broadest lallands -Scots such as I had not used since I had run, a bare-legged boy, about the -braes of, home. And otherwise my faculties were singularly acute, for I -remember how keenly I noticed the pitying eye of the younger of the two -men. -</p> -<p> -What they did was to stanch my wound and go away. I feared I was deserted, -but by-and-by they returned with another man who held the lantern close to -my face as he knelt beside me. -</p> -<p> -“By the black stones of Baillinish!” said he in an unmistakable Hielan' -accent, “and what have I here the night but the boy that harmed the bylie? -You were not in your mother's bosom when you got that stroke!” - </p> -<p> -I saw his smile in the light of his lanthom, 'twas no other than MacKellar -of Kilbride! -</p> -<p> -He was a surgeon in one of the corps; had been busy at his trade in -another part of the field when the two Frenchmen who had recognised me for -a Scot had called him away to look to a compatriot. -</p> -<p> -Under charge of Kilbride (as, in our country fashion, I called him) I was -taken in a waggon with several other wounded soldiers over the frontier -into Holland, that was, perhaps, the one unvexed part of all the Continent -of Europe in these stirring days. -</p> -<p> -I mended rapidly, and cheery enough were these days of travel in a cart, -so cheery that I never considered what the end of them might be, but was -content to sit in the sunshine blithely conversing with this odd surgeon -of the French army who had been roving the world for twenty years like my -own Uncle Andrew, and had seen service in every army in Europe, but yet -hankered to get back to the glens of his nativity, where he hoped his -connection with the affair of Tearlach and the Forty-five would be -forgotten. -</p> -<p> -“It's just this way of it, Hazel Den,” he would say to me, “there's them -that has got enough out of Tearlach to make it worth their while to stick -by him and them that has not. I am of the latter. I have been hanging -about Paris yonder for a twelvemonth on the promise of the body that I -should have a post that suited with my talents, and what does he do but -get me clapped into a scurvy regiment that goes trudging through Silesia -since Whitsunday, with never a sign of the paymaster except the once and -then no more than a tenth of what was due to me. It is, maybe, glory, as -the other man said; but my sorrow, it is not the kind that makes a -clinking in your pouches.” - </p> -<p> -He had a comfortable deal of money to have so poor an account of his -paymaster, and at that I hinted. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! Allow me for that!” he cried with great amusement at my wonder. “Fast -hand at a feast and fast feet at a foray is what the other man said, and -I'm thinking it is a very good observation, too. Where would I be if I was -lippening on the paymaster?” - </p> -<p> -“Man! you surely have not been stealing?” said I, with such great -innocency that he laughed like to end. -</p> -<p> -“Stealing!” he cried. “It's no theft to lift a purse in an enemy's -country.” - </p> -<p> -“But these were no enemies of yours?” I protested, “though you happen to -be doctoring in their midst.” - </p> -<p> -“Tuts! tuts, man!” said he shortly. “When the conies quarrel the quirky -one (and that's Sir Fox if ye like to ken) will get his own. There seems -far too much delicacy about you, my friend, to be a sporran-soldier -fighting for the best terms an army will give you. And what for need you -grumble at my having found a purse in an empty house when it's by virtue -of the same we're at this moment making our way to the sea?” - </p> -<p> -I could make no answer to that, for indeed I had had, like the other three -wounded men in the cart with me, the full benefit of his purse, wherever -he had found it, and but for that we had doubtless been mouldering in a -Prussian prison. -</p> -<p> -It will be observed that MacKellar spoke of our making for the sea, and -here it behoves that I should tell how that project arose. -</p> -<p> -When we had crossed the frontier the first time it was simply because it -seemed the easiest way out of trouble, though it led us away from the -remnants of the army. I had commented upon this the first night we stopped -within the Netherlands, and the surgeon bluntly gave me his mind on the -matter. The truth was, he said, that he was sick of his post and meant to -make this the opportunity of getting quit of it. -</p> -<p> -I went as close as I dared upon a hint that the thing looked woundily like -a desertion. He picked me up quick enough and counselled me to follow his -example, and say farewell to so scurvy a service as that I had embarked -on. His advices might have weighed less with me (though in truth I was -sick enough of the Regiment d'Auvergne and a succession of defeats) if he -had not told me that there was a certain man at Helvoetsluys he knew I -should like to see. -</p> -<p> -“And who might that be?” I asked. -</p> -<p> -“Who but his reverence himself?” said Kilbride, who dearly loved an -effect. “Yon night I met you in the Paris change-house it was planned by -them I was with, one of them being Buhot himself of the police, that the -old man must be driven out of his nest in the Hôtel Dieu, seeing they had -got all the information they wanted from him, and I was one of the parties -who was to carry this into effect. At the time I fancied Buhot was as keen -upon yourself as upon the priest, and I thought I was doing a wonderfully -clever thing to spy your red shoes and give you a warning to quit the -priest, but all the time Buhot was only laughing at me, and saw you and -recognised you himself in the change-house. Well, to make the long tale -short, when we went to the hospital the birds were both of them gone, -which was more than we bargained for, because some sort of trial was due -to the priest though there was no great feeling against him. Where he had -taken wing to we could not guess, but you will not hinder him to come on a -night of nights (as we say) to the lodging I was tenanting at the time in -the Rue Espade, and throw himself upon my mercy. The muckle hash! I'll -allow the insolency of the thing tickled me greatly. The man was a fair -object, too; had not tasted food for two days, and captured my fancy by a -tale I suppose there is no trusting, that he had given you the last few <i>livres</i> -he had in the world.” - </p> -<p> -“That was true enough about the <i>livres</i>,” I said with gratitude. -</p> -<p> -“Was it, faith?” cried Kilbride. “Then I'm glad I did him the little -service that lay in my power, which was to give him enough money to pay -for posting to Helvoetsluys, where he is now, and grateful enough so far -as I could gather from the last letters I had from him, and also mighty -anxious to learn what became of his secretary.” - </p> -<p> -“I would give the last plack in my pocket to see the creature,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Would you indeed?” said Kilbride. “Then here's the road for you, and it -must be a long furlough whatever of it from the brigade of Marshal -Clermont.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXV -</h2> -<h3> -BRINGS ME TO HELVOETSLUYS IN WINTER WEATHER -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ilbride and I parted company with the others once we had got within the -lines of Holland; the cateran (as I would sometimes be calling him in a -joke) giving them as much money as might take them leisuredly to the south -they meant to make for, and he and I proceeded on our way across the -country towards the mouth of the River Maas. -</p> -<p> -It was never my lot before nor since to travel with a more cheerful -companion. Not the priest himself had greater humour in his composition, -and what was more it was a jollity I was able the better to understand, -for while much of Hamilton's <i>esprit</i> missed the spark with me -because it had a foreign savour, the pawkiness of Kilbride was just the -marrow of that I had seen in folks at home. And still the man was strange, -for often he had melancholies. Put him in a day of rain and wind and you -would hear him singing like a laverock the daftest songs in Erse; or give -him a tickle task at haggling in the language of signs with a -broad-bottomed bargeman, or the driver of a rattel-van, and the fun would -froth in him like froth on boiling milk. -</p> -<p> -Indeed, and I should say like cream, for this Mac-Kellar man had, what is -common enough among the clans in spite of our miscalling, a heart of jeel -for the tender moment and a heart of iron for the hard. But black, black, -were his vapours when the sun shone, which is surely the poorest of -excuses for dolours. I think he hated the flatness of the land we -travelled in. To me it was none amiss, for though it was winter I could -fancy how rich would be the grass of July in the polders compared with our -poor stunted crops at home, and that has ever a cheerful influence on any -man that has been bred in Lowland fields. But he (if I did not misread his -eye) looked all ungratefully on the stretching leagues that ever opened -before us as we sailed on waterways or jolted on the roads. -</p> -<p> -“I do not ken how it may be with you, Mr. Greig,” he said one day as, -somewhere in Brabant, our sluggish vessel opened up a view of canal that -seemed to stretch so far it pricked the eye of the setting sun, and the -windmills whirled on either hand ridiculous like the games of children—“I -do not ken how it may be with you, but I'm sick of this country. It's no -better nor a bannock, and me so fond of Badenoch!” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed and there's a sameness about every part of it,” I confessed, “and -yet it has its qualities. See the sun on yonder island—'tis pleasant -enough to my notion, and as for the folk, they are not the cut of our own, -but still they have very much in common with folks I've seen in Ayr.” - </p> -<p> -He frowned at that unbelievingly, and cast a sour eye upon some women that -stood upon a bridge. “Troth!” said he, “you would not compare these -limmers with our own. I have not seen a light foot and a right dark eye -since ever I put the back of me to the town of Inverness in the year of -'Fifty-six.'” - </p> -<p> -“Nor I since I left the Mearns,” I cried, suddenly thinking of Isobel and -forgetting all that lay between that lass and me. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! oh!” cried Kilbride. “And that's the way of it? Therms more than -Clemie Walkinshaw, is there? I was ill to convince that a nephew of Andy -Greig's began the game at the age of twenty-odd with a lady that might -have been his mother.” - </p> -<p> -I felt very much ashamed that he should have any knowledge of this part of -my history, and seeing it he took to bantering me. -</p> -<p> -“Come, come!” said he, “you must save my reputation with myself for -penetration, for I aye argued with Buhot that your tanglement with madame -was something short of innocency for all your mim look, and he was for -swearing the lady had found a fool.” - </p> -<p> -“I am beat to understand how my affairs came to be the topic of dispute -with you and Buhot?” said I, astonished. -</p> -<p> -“And what for no'?” said he. “Wasn't the man's business to find out -things, and would you have me with no interest in a ploy when it turned -up? There were but the two ways of it—you were all the gomeral in -love that Buhot thought you, or you were Andy Greig's nephew and willing -to win the woman's favour (for all her antiquity) by keeping Buhot in the -news of Hamilton's movements.” - </p> -<p> -“Good God!” I cried, “that was a horrible alternative!” even then failing -to grasp all that he implied. -</p> -<p> -“Maybe,” he said pawkily; “but you cannot deny you kept them very well -informed upon your master's movements, otherwise it had gone very hard -perhaps with his Royal Highness.” - </p> -<p> -“Me!” I cried. “I would have as soon informed upon my father. And who was -there to inform?” - </p> -<p> -Kilbride looked at me curiously as if he half doubted my innocence. “It is -seldom I have found the man Buhot in a lie of the sort,” said he, “but he -led me to understand that what information he had of the movements of the -priest came from yourself.” - </p> -<p> -I jumped to my feet, and almost choked in denying it. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, very well, very well!” said Kilbride coolly. “There is no need to -make a <i>fracas</i> about the matter. I am just telling you what Buhot -told me. And troth! it was a circumstantial story he had of it; for he -said that the Marshal Duke de Bellisle, and Monsieur Florentin, and -Monsieur Berrier, and all the others of the Cabinet, had Fleuriau's name -and direction from yourself, and found the plot had some connection with -the affair of Damiens. George Kelly, the Prince's secretary, was another -man that told me.” He gazed along the deck of the scow we sat in, as if -thinking hard, and then turned to me with a hesitating suggestion. -“Perhaps,” said he, “you are forgetting. Perhaps you wrote the woman and -told her innocently enough, and that would come to the same thing.” - </p> -<p> -I was overwhelmed with confusion at the idea, though the possibility of my -letters being used had once before occurred to me. -</p> -<p> -“Well, if you must know, it is true I wrote some letters to Miss -Walkinshaw,” I confessed shamefacedly. “But they were very carefully -transmitted by Bernard the Swiss to her, for I got her answers back.” - </p> -<p> -He burst out laughing. -</p> -<p> -“For simplicity you beat all!” cried he. “You sent your news through the -Swiss, that was in Buhot's pay, and took the charge from Hamilton's -pistols, and did his part in helping you to escape from jyle with a great -degree of humour as those of us who knew what was afoot had to agree, and -you think the man would swither about peeping into a letter you entrusted -to him, particularly if it was directed to hersel'! The sleep-bag was -under your head sure enough, as the other man said.” - </p> -<p> -“And I was the unconscious wretch that betrayed our hiding in the Hôtel -Dieu!” I cried with much chagrin, seeing at a flash what all this meant. -“If I had Bernard here I could thraw his neck.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed,” said he, “and what for should it be Bernard? The man but did -what he was told, and there, by my troth! when I think of it, I'm no' so -sure that he was any different from yourself.” - </p> -<p> -“What do you mean?” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, just that hersel' told you to keep her informed of your movements and -you did so. In Bernard and you she had a pair of spies instead of only the -one had she trusted in either.” - </p> -<p> -“And what in all the world would she be doing that for?” - </p> -<p> -“What but for her lover the prince?” said he with a sickening promptness -that some way left me without a doubt he spoke with knowledge. “Foul fa' -the day he ever clapt eyes on her! for she has the cunning of the fox, -though by all accounts a pleasant person. They say she has a sister that's -in the service of the queen at St. James's, and who kens but for all her -pretended affection for Tearlach she may be playing all the time into the -hands of his enemies? She made you and this Bernard the means of putting -an end to the Jesuit plot upon his Royal Highness by discovering the -source of it, and now the Jesuits, as I'm told, are to be driven furth the -country and putten to the horn.” - </p> -<p> -I was stunned by this revelation of what a tool I had been in the hands of -one I fancied briefly that I was in love with. For long I sat silent -pondering on it, and at last unable to make up my mind whether I should -laugh or swear. Kilbride, while affecting to pay no heed to me, was keen -enough to see my perturbation, and had, I think, a sort of pride that he -had been able to display such an astuteness. -</p> -<p> -“I'm afraid,” said I at last, “there is too much probability in all that -you have said and thought. I am a stupendous ass, Mr. MacKellar, and you -are a very clever man.” - </p> -<p> -“Not at all, not at all!” he protested hurriedly. “I have just some -natural Hielan' interest in affairs of intrigue, and you have not (by your -leave) had my advantages of the world, for I have seen much of the evil as -well as the good of it, and never saw a woman's hand in aught yet but I -wondered what mischief she was planning. There's much, I'm telling you, to -be learned about a place like Fontainebleau or Versailles, and I -advantaged myself so well of my opportunities there that you could not -drive a hole but I would put a nail in it, as the other man said.” - </p> -<p> -“Well,” said I, “my hope is that I may never meet the woman again, and -that's without a single angry feeling to her.” - </p> -<p> -“You need not fear about that,” said he. “The thing that does not lie in -your road will never break your leg, as the other man said, and I'll be -surprised if she puts herself in your way again now that her need for you -is done. A score of your friends in Dunkerque could have told you that she -was daft about him. I might be vexed for you if I did not know from your -own mouth of the other one in Mearns.” - </p> -<p> -“We'll say nothing about that,” I says, “for that's a tale that's by wi'. -She's lost to me.” - </p> -<p> -He gave a little chuckle and had that turn in the eye that showed he had a -curious thought. -</p> -<p> -“What are you laughing at?” I asked. “Oh, just an old word we have in the -Language, that with a two-deer stag-hound it will be happening often that -a stag's amissing.” - </p> -<p> -“There's another thing I would like you to tell me out of your -experience,” I said, “and that is the reason for the Prince's doing me a -good turn with the one hand and a bad one with the other; using his -efforts to get me the lieutenancy and at the same time putting a man on my -track to quarrel with me?” - </p> -<p> -“It's as plain as the nose on your face,” he cried. “It was no great -situation he got you when it was in the Regiment d'Auvergne, as you have -discovered, but it would be got I'll warrant on the pressure of the -Walkinshaw one. Just because she had that interest in you to press him for -the post, and you were in the trim to keep up a correspondence with her -(though in his own interest, as he must know, so far as she was -concerned), he would want you out of the road. Love is like lairdship, -Hazel Den, and it puts up very poorly with fellowship, as the other man -said.” - </p> -<p> -I thought of the occasions when his Royal Highness had seen me at night in -front of a certain window in the Rue de la Boucherie, and concluded that -Kilbride in this too had probably hit the mark. -</p> -<p> -And so we passed through Holland in many changes of weather that finally -turned to a black frost, which covered the canals with ice whereon skated -the Dutch folks very pleasantly, but we were the losers, as the rest of -our journey had to be made by post. -</p> -<p> -It was well on in the winter when we got to Helvoetsluys. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXVI -</h2> -<h3> -FATHER HAMILTON IS THREATENED BY THE JESUITS AND WE ARE FORCED TO FLY -AGAIN -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he priest, poor man! aged a dozen years by his anxieties since I had seen -him last, was dubious of his senses when I entered where he lodged, and he -wept like a bairn to see my face again. -</p> -<p> -“Scotland! Scotland! beshrew me, child, and I'd liefer have this than ten -good dinners at Verray's!” cried he, and put his arms about my shoulders -and buried his face in my waistcoat to hide his uncontrollable tears. -</p> -<p> -He was quartered upon a pilot of the Schelde and Hollands Deep, whose only -child he made a shift to tutor in part payment of his costs, and the very -moment that we had come in upon him he was full of a matter that had -puzzled him for weeks before we came to Helvoetsluys. 'Twas a thing that -partly hurt his pride, though that may seem incredible, and partly gave -him pleasure, and 'twas merely that when he had at last found his -concealment day and night in the pilot's house unendurable, and ventured a -stroll or two upon the dunes in broad sunshine, no one paid any attention -to him. There were soldiers and sailors that must have some suspicions of -his identity, and he had himself read his own story and description in one -of the gazettes, yet never a hand was raised to capture him. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Ma foi!</i> Paul,” he cried to me in a perplexity. “I am the most -marvellous priest unfrocked, invisible to the world as if I had Mambrino's -helmet. Sure it cannot be that I am too stale quarry for their hunting! My -<i>amour propre</i> baulks at such conclusion. I that have—heaven -help me!—loaded pistols against the Lord's anointed, might as well -have gone shooting sparrows for all the infamy it has gained me. But -yesterday I passed an officer of the peace that cried '<i>Bon jour</i>, -father,' in villainous French with a smile so sly I could swear he knew my -history from the first breeching. I avow that my hair stirred under my hat -when he said it.” - </p> -<p> -MacKellar stood by contemptuous of the priest's raptures over his restored -secretary. -</p> -<p> -“Goodness be about us!” he said, “what a pity the brock should be hiding -when there's nobody hunting him! The first squirt of the haggis is always -the hottest, as the other man said. If they were keen on your track at the -start of it—and it's myself has the doubt of that same—you may -warrant they are slack on it now. It's Buhot himself would be greatly put -about if you went to the jail and put out your hands for the manacles.” - </p> -<p> -Father Hamilton looked bewildered. -</p> -<p> -“Expiscate, good Monsieur MacKellar,” said he. -</p> -<p> -“Kilbride just means,” said I, “that you are in the same case as myself, -and that orders have gone out that no one is to trouble you.” - </p> -<p> -He believed it, and still he was less cheerful than I looked for. “Indeed, -'tis like enough,” he sighed. “I have put my fat on a trap for a fortnight -back to catch my captors and never a rat of them will come near me, but -pass with sniffing noses. And yet on my word I have little to rejoice for. -My friends have changed coats with my enemies because they swear I -betrayed poor Fleuriau. I'd sooner die on the rack——” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, Father Hamilton!” I could not help crying, with remorse upon my -countenance. He must have read the story in a single glance at me, for he -stammered and took my hand. -</p> -<p> -“What! there too, Scotland!” he said. “I forswear the company of innocence -after this. No matter, 'tis never again old Dixmunde parish for poor -Father Hamilton that loved his flock well enough and believed the best of -everybody and hated the confessional because it made the world so wicked. -My honey-bees will hum next summer among another's flowers, and my darling -blackbirds will be all starving in this pestilent winter weather. Paul, -Paul, hear an old man's wisdom—be frugal in food, and raiment, and -pleasure, and let thy ambitions flutter, but never fly too high to come -down at a whistle. But here am I, old Pater Dull, prating on foolish -little affairs, and thou and our honest friend here new back from the -sounding of the guns. Art a brave fighter, lad? I heard of thee in the -grenadier company of d'Auvergne.” - </p> -<p> -“We did the best part of our fighting with our shanks, as the other man -said,” cried Kilbride. “But Mr. Greig came by a clout that affected his -mind and made him clean forget the number of his regiment, and that is -what for the lowlands of Holland is a very pleasant country just now.” - </p> -<p> -“Wounded!” cried the priest, disturbed at this intelligence. “Had I known -on't I should have prayed for thy deliverance.” - </p> -<p> -“I have little doubt he did that for himself,” said Kilbride. “When I came -on him after Rosbach he was behind a dyke, that is not a bad alternative -for prayer when the lead is in the air.” - </p> -<p> -We made up our minds to remain for a while at Helvoet, but we had not -determined what our next step should be, when in came the priest one day -with his face like clay and his limbs trembling. -</p> -<p> -“Ah, Paul!” he cried, and fell into a chair; “here's Nemesis, daughter of -Nox, a scurvy Italian, and wears a monkish cowl. I fancied it were too -good to be true that I should be free from further trials.” - </p> -<p> -“Surely Buhot has not taken it into his head to move again,” I cried. -“That would be very hirpling justice after so long an interval. And in any -case they could scarcely hale you out of the Netherlands.” - </p> -<p> -“No, lad, not Buhot,” said he, perspiring with his apprehensions, “but the -Society. There's one Gordoletti, a pretended Lutheran that hails from -Jena, that has been agent between the Society and myself before now, and -when I was out there he followed me upon the street with the eyes of a -viper. I'll swear the fellow has a poignard and means the letting of -blood. I know how 'twill be—a watch set upon this building, -Gordoletti upon the steps some evening; a jostle, a thrust, and a speeding -shade. A right stout shade too! if spirits are in any relation of measure -to the corporeal clay. Oh, lad, what do I say? my sinner's wit must be -evincing in the front of doom itself.” - </p> -<p> -I thought he simply havered, but found there was too real cause for his -distress. That afternoon the monk walked up and down the street without -letting his eyes lose a moment's sight of the entrance to the pilot's -house where Father Hamilton abode. I could watch him all the better -because I shared a room with Kilbride on the same side of the street, and -even to me there was something eerie in the sight of this long thin -stooping figure in its monkish garment, slouching on the stones or hanging -over the parapet of the bridge, his eyes, lambent black and darting, over -his narrow chafts. Perhaps it was but fancy, yet I thought I saw in the -side of his gown the unmistakable bulge of a dagger. He paced the street -for hours or leaned over the parapet affecting an interest in the barges, -and all the time the priest sat fascinated within, counting his sentence -come. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, by my faith and it is not so bad as that,” I protested on returning -to find him in this piteous condition. “Surely there are two swords here -that at the worst of it can be depended on to protect you.” - </p> -<p> -He shook his head dolefully. “It is no use, Paul,” he cried. “The poignard -or the phial—'tis all the same to them or Gordoletti, and hereafter -I dare not touch a drop of wine or indulge in a meagre soup.” - </p> -<p> -“But surely,” I said, “there may be a mistake, and this Gordoletti may -have nothing to do with you.” - </p> -<p> -“The man wears a cowl—a monkish cowl—and that is enough for -me. A Jesuit out of his customary <i>soutane</i> is like the devil in -dancing shoes—be sure his lordship means mischief. Oh! Paul, I would -I were back in Bicêtre and like to die there cleaner than on the banks of -a Dutch canal. I protest I hate to think of dying by a canal.” - </p> -<p> -Still I was incredulous that harm was meant to him, and he proceeded to -tell me the Society of Jesus was upon the brink of dissolution, and -desperate accordingly. The discovery of Fleuriau's plot against the Prince -had determined the authorities upon the demolition and extinction of the -Jesuits throughout the whole of the King's dominion. Their riches and -effects and churches were to be seized to the profit and emolument of the -Crown; the reverend Fathers were to be banished furth of France for ever. -Designs so formidable had to be conducted cautiously, and so far the only -evidence of a scheme against the Society was to be seen in the Court -itself, where the number of priests of the order was being rapidly -diminished. -</p> -<p> -I thought no step of the civil power too harsh against the band of whom -the stalking man in the cowl outside was representative, and indeed the -priest at last half-infected myself with his terrors. We sat well back -from the window looking out upon the street till it was dusk. There was -never a moment when the assassin (as I still must think him) was not -there, his interest solely in the house we sat in. And when it was wholly -dark, and a single lamp of oil swinging on a cord across the thoroughfare -lit the passage of the few pedestrians that went along the street, -Gordoletti was still close beneath it, silent, meditating, and alert. -</p> -<p> -MacKellar came in from his coffee-house. We sat in darkness, except for -the flicker of a fire of peat. He must have thought the spectacle curious. -</p> -<p> -“My goodness!” cried he, “candles must be unco dear in this shire when the -pair of you cannot afford one between you to see each other yawning. I'm -of a family myself that must be burning a dozen at a time and at both ends -to make matters cheery, for it's a gey glum world at the best of it.” - </p> -<p> -He stumbled over to the mantel-shelf where there was customarily a candle; -found and lit it, and held it up to see if there was any visible reason -for our silence. -</p> -<p> -The priest's woebegone countenance set him into a shout of laughter. His -amusement scarcely lessened when he heard of the ominous gentleman in the -cowl. -</p> -<p> -“Let me see!” he said, and speedily devised a plan to test the occasion of -Father Hamilton's terrors. He arranged that he should dress himself in the -priest's garments, and as well as no inconsiderable difference in their -bulk might let him, simulate the priest by lolling into the street. -</p> -<p> -“A brave plan verily,” quo' the priest, “but am I a bowelless rogue to let -another have my own particular poignard? No, no, Messieurs, let me pay for -my own <i>pots cassés</i> and run my own risks in my own <i>soutane</i>.” - </p> -<p> -With that he rose to his feet and was bold enough to offer a trial that -was attended by considerable hazard. -</p> -<p> -It was determined, however, that I should follow close upon the heels of -Kilbride in his disguise, prepared to help him in the case of too serious -a surprise. -</p> -<p> -The night was still. There were few people in the street, which was one of -several that led down to the quays. The sky had but a few wan stars. When -MacKellar stepped forth in the priest's hat and cloak, he walked slowly -towards the harbour, ludicrously imitating the rolling gait of his -reverence, while I stayed for a little in the shelter of the door. -Gordoletti left his post upon the bridge and stealthily followed Kilbride. -I gave him some yards of law and followed Gordoletti. -</p> -<p> -Our footsteps sounded on the stones; 'twas all that broke the evening -stillness except the song of a roysterer who staggered upon the quays. The -moment was fateful in its way and yet it ended farcically, for ere he had -gained the foot of the street Kilbride turned and walked back to meet the -man that stalked him. We closed upon the Italian to find him baffled and -confused. -</p> -<p> -“Take that for your attentions!” cried Kilbride, and buffeted the fellow -on the ear, a blow so secular and telling from a man in a frock that -Gordoletti must have thought himself bewitched, for he gave a howl and -took to his heels. Kilbride attempted to stop him, but the cassock escaped -his hands and his own unwonted costume made a chase hopeless. As for me, I -was content to let matters remain as they were now that Father Hamilton's -suspicions seemed too well founded. -</p> -<p> -It did not surprise me that on learning of our experience the priest -should determine on an immediate departure from Helvoetsluys. But where he -was to go was more than he could readily decide. He proposed and rejected -a score of places—Bordeaux, Flanders, the Hague, Katwyk farther up -the coast, and many others—weighing the advantages of each, -enumerating his acquaintances in each, discovering on further thought that -each and every one of them had some feature unfavourable to his -concealment from the Jesuits. -</p> -<p> -“You would be as long tuning your pipes as another would be playing a -tune,” said Kilbride at last. “There's one thing sure of it, that you -cannot be going anywhere the now without Mr. Greig and myself, and what -ails you at Dunkerque in which we have all of us acquaintances?” - </p> -<p> -A season ago the suggestion would have set my heart in flame; but now it -left me cold. Yet I backed up the proposal, for I reflected that (keeping -away from the Rue de la Boucherie) we might there be among a good many -friends. Nor was his reverence ill to influence in favour of the proposal. -</p> -<p> -The next morning saw us, then, upon a hoy that sailed for Calais and was -bargained to drop us at Dunkerque. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXVII -</h2> -<h3> -I OVERHEAR THE PLAN OF BRITAIN'S INVASION -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> began these chronicles with a homily upon the pregnancy of chance that -gives the simplest of our acts ofttimes far-reaching and appalling -consequences. It is clear that I had never become the Spoiled Horn and -vexed my parents' lives had not a widow woman burned her batch of scones, -and though perhaps the pair of shoes in the chest bequeathed to me by my -Uncle Andrew were without the magic influence he and I gave credit for, it -is probable that I had made a different flight from Scotland had they not -led me in the way of Daniel Risk. -</p> -<p> -And even now their influence was not ended. During the months I had spent -at soldiering the red shoes reposed among my baggage; even when I had -changed from the uniform of the Regiment d'Auvergne upon the frontier of -Holland, and made myself again a common citizen of Europe, I had some -freit (as we say of a superstition) against resuming the shoes that had -led me previously into divers perils. But the day we left Helvoet in the -Hollands Deep hoy, I was so hurried in my departure that the red shoes -were the only ones I could lay hands on. As luck would have it, when I -entered Dunkerque for the last time in my history some days after, I was -wearing the same leather as on the first day of my arrival there, and the -fact led, by a singularity of circumstances, to my final severance from -many of those: companions—some of them pleasant and unforgetable—I -had made acquaintance with in France. -</p> -<p> -It was thus that the thing happened. -</p> -<p> -When we entered Dunkerque, the priest, Kilbride, and I went to an inn upon -the sea front. Having breakfasted I was deputed to go forth and call upon -Thurot, explain our circumstances, take his counsel, and return to the hoy -where my two friends would return to wait for me. He was out when I -reached his lodging, but his Swiss—a different one from what he had -before when I was there—informed me that his master was expected -back at any moment, and invited me to step in and wait for him. I availed -myself of the opportunity. -</p> -<p> -Our voyage along the coast had been delayed by contrary winds, so that now -it was the Sabbath; the town was by-ordinary still (though indeed Sabbath -nor Saturday made much difference, as a rule, on the gaiety of Dunkerque), -and wearied by the sea travel that had just concluded I fell fast asleep -in Captain Thurot's chair. -</p> -<p> -I was wakened by a loud knocking at the outer door, not the first, as it -may be remembered, that called me forth from dreams to new twists of -fortune, and I started to my feet to meet my host. -</p> -<p> -What was my chagrin to hear the Prince's voice in converse with him on the -stair! -</p> -<p> -“Here is a pretty pickle!” I told myself. “M. Albany is the last man on -earth I would choose to meet at this moment,” and without another -reflection I darted into the adjoining room and shut the door. It was -Thurot's bed-chamber, with a window that looked out upon the court where -fowls were cackling. I was no sooner in than I somewhat rued my -precipitation, for the manlier course indubitably had been to bide where I -was. But now there was no retreating, so I sat with what patience I could -command to wait my discovery by the tenant of the place after his royal -visitor was gone. -</p> -<p> -It was the Sabbath day as I have said, and the chimes of St. Eloi were -going briskly upon some papist canticle, but not so loud that I could not -hear, in spite of myself, all that went on in the next room. -</p> -<p> -At first I paid no heed, for the situation was unworthy enough of itself -without any attempt on my part to be an eavesdropper. But by-and-bye, -through the banging of the bells of St. Eloi, I heard M. Albany (still to -give the man his by-name) mention the name Ecosse. -</p> -<p> -Scotland! The name of her went through me like a pang! -</p> -<p> -They spoke in French of course; I think I could have understood them had -it been Chinese. For they discussed some details of the intended invasion -that still hung fire, and from the first of M. Albany's sentences I -learned that the descent was determined upon Scotland. 'Twas that which -angered me and made me listen for the rest with every sense of the spy and -deterred by never a scruple. At first I had fancied Thurot would learn -from his servant I was in the house, and leave me alone till his royal -guest's departure from an intuition that I desired no meeting, but it was -obvious now that no such consideration would have induced him to let me -hear the vast secret they discussed. -</p> -<p> -“Twenty thousand men are between Brest and Vannes,” said M. Albany. “We -shall have them in frigates in a fortnight from to-day, and then, <i>mon -Capitaine</i>, affairs shall move briskly.” - </p> -<p> -“And still,” said Thurot, who had some odd tone of dissatisfaction in his -voice, “I had preferred it had been the South of England. Dumont has given -us every anchorage and sounding on the coast between Beachy Head and -Arundel, and from there we could all the sooner have thrust at the heart -of England. This Scotland—” - </p> -<p> -“Bah! Captain Thurot,” cried his Royal Highness impatiently, “you talk -like a fool. At the heart, indeed! With all habitable England like a fat -about it, rich with forts and troops and no more friendship for us than -for the Mameluke! No, no, Thurot, I cry Scotland; all the chances are -among the rocks, and I am glad it has been so decided on.” - </p> -<p> -“And still, with infinite deference, your Royal Highness, this same West -of Scotland never brought but the most abominable luck to you and yours,” - continued Thurot. “Now, Arundel Bay——” - </p> -<p> -“Oh! to the devil with Arundel Bay!” cried M. Albany; “'tis settled -otherwise, and you must take it as you find it. Conflans and his men shall -land upon the West—<i>mon Dieu!</i> I trust they may escape its -fangs; and measures will be there taken with more precaution and I hope -with more success than in Seventeen Forty-five. Thence they will march to -England, sweeping the whole country before them, and not leaving behind -them a man or boy who can carry a musket. Thus they must raise the army to -fifty or sixty thousand men, strike a terror into England, and carry all -with a high hand. I swear 'tis a fatted hog this England: with fewer than -ten thousand Highlanders I have made her thrill at the very vitals.” - </p> -<p> -Thurot hummed. Plainly there was much in the project that failed to meet -his favour. -</p> -<p> -“And Conflans?” said he. -</p> -<p> -His Royal Highness laughed. -</p> -<p> -“Ha! Captain,” said he, “I know, I know. 'Twould suit you better if a -certain Tony Thurot had command.” - </p> -<p> -“At least,” said Thurot, “I am in my prime, while the Marshal is beyond -his grand climacteric.” - </p> -<p> -“And still, by your leave, with the reputation of being yet the best— -well, let us say among the best—of the sea officers of France. Come, -come, Captain, there must be no half-hearts in this venture; would to -Heaven I were permitted to enjoy a share in it! And on you, my friend, -depends a good half of the emprise and the <i>gloire</i>.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Gloire!</i>” cried Thurot. “With every deference to your Royal -Highness I must consider myself abominably ill-used in this matter. That I -should be sent off to Norway and hound-in wretched Swedes with a personage -like Flaubert! Oh, I protest, 'tis beyond all reason! Is it for that I -have been superseded by a man like Conflans that totters on the edge of -the grave?” - </p> -<p> -“I hope 'tis England's grave,” retorted M. Albany with unfailing good -humour, and I heard the gluck of wine as he helped himself to another -glass. “I repeat <i>gloire</i>, with every apology to the experience of M. -le Corsair. 'Tis your duty to advance with your French and your Swedes -upon the North of England, and make the diversion in these parts that -shall inconvenience the English army front or rear.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, curse your diversions!” cried Thurot. “If I have a talent at all 'tis -for the main attack. And this Conflans——” - </p> -<p> -The remainder of the discussion, so far as I remained to hear it, gave no -enlargement upon the plan thus laid bare. But in any case my whole desire -now was to escape from the house without discovery, for I had news that -made my return to Britain imperative. -</p> -<p> -I opened the window quietly and slipped out. The drop to the court was -less than my own height. Into the street I turned with the sober step of -leisure, yet my feet tingled to run hard and my heart was stormy. The -bells of St. Eloi went on ringing; the streets were growing busy with -holiday-makers and the soldiers who were destined to over-run my country. -I took there and then the most dreadful hatred of them, and scowled so -black that some of the soldiers cried after me with a jeer. -</p> -<p> -The priest and Kilbride I found were not at the inn where I had left them, -having gone back to the vessel, so I hurried down to the quay after them. -The hoy had been moved since morning, and in the throng of other vessels -that were in the harbour at the time I lost well-nigh an hour in seeking -her. Whether that was well for me or ill would be folly now to guess, but -when I had no more than set a foot upon the gunwale of a small boat that -was to take me out to her I was clapped upon the shoulder. -</p> -<p> -I turned, to see Thurot and two officers of marine! -</p> -<p> -“Pardon, M. Greig, a moment,” said Thurot, with not the kindest of tones. -“Surely you would not hurry out of Dunkerque without a <i>congé</i> for -old friends?” - </p> -<p> -I stammered some sentences that were meant to reassure him. He interrupted -me, and—not with any roughness, but with a pressure there was no -mistaking and I was not fool enough to resist—led me from the side -of the quay. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Ma foi!</i>” said he, “'Tis the most ridiculous thing! I had nearly -missed you and could never have forgiven myself. My Swiss has just -informed me that you were in the house an hour ago while I was there -myself. I fear we must have bored you, M. Albany and I, with our dull -affairs. At least there was no other excuse for your unceremonious -departure through my back window.” - </p> -<p> -I was never well-equipped to conceal my feelings, and it was plain in my -face that I knew all. -</p> -<p> -He sighed. -</p> -<p> -“Well, lad,” said he, rather sorrowfully, “I'd give a good many <i>louis -d'or</i> that you had come visiting at another hour of the day, and now -there's but one thing left me. My Swiss did not know you, but he has—praise -<i>le bon Dieu!</i>—a pair of eyes in his head, and he remembered -that my visitor wore red shoes. Red shoes and a Scotsman!—the -conjunction was unmistakable, and here we are, M. Greig. There are a score -of men looking all over Dunkerque at this moment for these same shoes.” - </p> -<p> -“Confound the red shoes!” I cried, unable to conceal my vexation that they -should once more have brought me into trouble. -</p> -<p> -“By no means, M. Greig,” said Thurot. “But for them we should never have -identified our visitor, and a somewhat startling tale was over the Channel -a little earlier than we intended. And now all that I may do for old -friendship to yourself and the original wearer of the shoes is to give you -a free trip to England in my own vessel. 'Tis not the <i>Roi Rouge</i> -this time—worse luck!—but a frigate, and we can be happy -enough if you are not a fool.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXVIII -</h2> -<h3> -THUROT'S PRISONER. MY FRIEND THE WATCH -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was plain from the first that my overhearing of the plot must compel -Thurot to the step he took. He was not unkind, but so much depended on the -absolute secrecy of the things he had talked to the Prince, that, even at -the unpleasant cost of trepanning me, he must keep me from carrying my -new-got information elsewhere. For that reason he refused to accede to my -request for a few minutes' conversation with the priest or my -fellow-countrymen. The most ordinary prudence, he insisted, demanded that -he should keep me in a sort of isolation until it was too late to convey a -warning across the Channel. -</p> -<p> -It was for these reasons I was taken that Sabbath afternoon to the frigate -that was destined to be in a humble sense his flagship, and was lying in -the harbour with none of her crew as yet on board. I was given a cabin; -books were furnished to cheer my incarceration, for it was no less. I was -to all intents and purposes a prisoner, though enjoying again some of the -privileges of the <i>salle d'épreuves</i> for the sake of old -acquaintance. -</p> -<p> -All that day I planned escape. Thurot came to the cabin and smoked and -conversed pleasantly, but found me so abstracted that he could scarcely -fail to think I meant a counter-sap. -</p> -<p> -“Be tranquil, my Paul,” he advised; “Clancarty and I will make your life -on ship-board as little irksome as possible, but it is your own cursed -luck that you must make up your mind to a fortnight of it.” - </p> -<p> -But that was considerably longer than I was ready to think of with -equanimity. What I wished for was an immediate freedom and a ship to -England, and while he talked I reviewed a dozen methods of escape. Here -was I with a secret worth a vast deal to the British Government; if I -could do my country that service of putting her into possession of it in -time to prevent catastrophe, might I not, without presumption, expect some -clemency from her laws for the crime I had committed in the hot blood of -ignorant and untutored youth? I saw the most cheerful possibilities rise -out of that accident that had made me an eavesdropper in Thurot's lodging—freedom, -my family perhaps restored to me, my name partly re-established; but the -red shoes that set me on wrong roads to start with still kept me on them. -Thurot was an amiable enough gaoler, but not his best wine nor his -wittiest stories might make me forget by how trivial a chance I had lost -my opportunity. -</p> -<p> -We were joined in the afternoon by Lord Clancarty. -</p> -<p> -“What, lad!” cried his lordship, pomaded and scented beyond words; fresh, -as he told us, from the pursuit of a lady whose wealth was shortly to -patch up his broken fortunes. “What, lad! Here's a pretty matter! Pressed, -egad! A renegade against his will! 'Tis the most cursed luck, Captain -Thurot, and wilt compel the poor young gentleman to cut the throats of his -own countrymen?” - </p> -<p> -“I? Faith, not I!” said Thurot. “I press none but filthy Swedes. M. Greig -has my word for it that twelve hours before we weigh anchor he may take -his leave of us. <i>Je le veux bien</i>.” - </p> -<p> -“Bah! 'Tis an impolite corsair this. As for me I should be inconsolable to -lose M. Greig to such a dull country as this England. Here's an Occasion, -M. le Capitaine, for pledging his health in a bottle, and wishing him well -out of his troubles.” - </p> -<p> -“You do not stand sufficiently on your dignity, Clancarty,” laughed -Thurot. “Here's the enemy—” - </p> -<p> -“Dignity! pooh!” said his lordship. “To stand on that I should need a -year's practice first on the tight-rope. There's that about an Irish -gentleman that makes the posturings and proprieties and pretences of the -fashionable world unnecessary. Sure, race will show in his face and action -if he stood alone in his shirt-sleeves on a village common juggling balls. -I am of the oldest blood that springs in Irish kings. 'Tis that knowledge -keeps my heart up when circumstances make the world look rotten like a -cheese. But the curst thing is one cannot for ever be drinking and dining -off a pedigree, and here I am deserted by M. Tête-de-mouche——” - </p> -<p> -Thurot put up his hand to check one of these disloyalties to the Pretender -that I had long since learned were common with Lord Clancarty. -</p> -<p> -“Bah!” cried his lordship. “I love you, Tony, and all the other boys, but -your Prince is a madman—a sotted madman tied to the petticoat tails -of a trollope. This Walkinshaw—saving your presence, Paul Greig, for -she's your countrywoman and by way of being your friend, I hear—has -ruined Charles and the Cause. We have done what we could to make him send -madame back to the place she came from, but he'll do nothing of the kind. -'She has stuck by me through thick and thin, and lost all for me, and now -I shall stick by her,' says foolish Master Sentiment.” - </p> -<p> -“Bravo!” cried Thurot. “'Tis these things make us love the Prince and have -faith in his ultimate success.” - </p> -<p> -“You were ever the hopeful ass, Tony,” said his lordship coolly. “<i>Il -riest pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre</i>, and you must shut -your ears against a tale that all the world is shouting at the pitch of -its voice. Who knows better than Tony Thurot how his Royal Highness has -declined? Why! 'tis manifest in the fellow's nose; I declare he drinks -like a fish—another vice he brought back from your mountain land, M. -Greig, along with Miss Walkinshaw——” - </p> -<p> -“There is far too much of Miss Walkinshaw about your lordship's remarks,” - I cried in an uncontrollable heat that the lady should be the subject of -implications so unkind. -</p> -<p> -He stared, and then kissed his hand to me with laughter and a bow, “Ha!” - he cried, “here's another young gentleman of sentiment. Stap me if I say a -word against the lady for your sake, Andy Greig's nephew.” And back he -went to his bottle. -</p> -<p> -In this light fashion we spent a day that by rights should have been more -profitably and soberly occupied. The frigate lay well out from the quays -from which Thurot had conveyed me with none of the indignities that might -be expected by a prisoner. There was, as I have said, none of her crew on -board save a watch of two men. Beside her quarter there hung a small -smuggling cutter that had been captured some days previously. As I sat in -the cabin, yawning at the hinder-end over Clancarty's sallies, I could -hear now and then the soft thudding of the smuggler's craft against the -fenders as the sea rocked us lightly, and it put a mad fancy into my head. -</p> -<p> -How good it would be, I thought, to be free on board such a vessel and -speeding before a light wind to Britain! Was it wholly impossible? The -notion so possessed me that I took an occasion to go on deck and see how -things lay. -</p> -<p> -The smuggler's boat had her mast stepped, but no sails in her. Over the -bulwark of the frigate leaned one of the watch idly looking at sea-gulls -that cried like bairns upon the smuggler's thwarts and gunnels. He was a -tarry Dutchman (by his build and colour); I fancy that at the time he -never suspected I was a prisoner, for he saluted me with deference. -</p> -<p> -The harbour was emptier than usual of shipping. Dusk was falling on the -town; some lights were twinkling wanly and bells rang in the cordage of -the quays. I asked the seaman if he knew where the hoy <i>Vrijster</i> of -Helvoetsluys lay. -</p> -<p> -At that his face brightened and he promptly pointed to her yellow hull on -the opposite side of the harbour. -</p> -<p> -“Did my honour know Captain Breuer?” he asked, in crabbed French. -</p> -<p> -My honour was very pleased to confess that he did, though in truth my -acquaintance with the skipper who had taken us round from Helvoetsluys -went scarcely further than sufficed me to recall his name. -</p> -<p> -The best sailor ever canted ship! my Dutchman assured me with enthusiasm. -How often have I heard the self-same sentiment from mariners? for there is -something jovial and kind in the seaman's manner that makes him ever fond -of the free, the brave and competent of his own calling, and ready to cry -their merits round the rolling world. -</p> -<p> -A good seaman certainly!—I agreed heartily, though the man might -have been merely middling for all I knew of him. -</p> -<p> -He would like nothing better than to have an hour with Captain Breuer, -said Mynheer. -</p> -<p> -“And I, too,” said I quickly. “But for Captain Thurot's pressing desire -that I should spend the evening here I should be in Breuer's cabin now. -Next to being with him there I would reckon the privilege of having him -here.” - </p> -<p> -There might be very little difficulty about that if my honour was willing, -said Mynheer. They were old shipmates; had sailed the Zuyder Sea together, -and drunken in a score of ports. Dearly indeed would he love to have some -discourse with Breuer. But to take leave from the frigate and cross to the -hoy—no! Captain Thurot would not care for him to do that. -</p> -<p> -“Why not have Breuer come to the frigate?” I asked, with my heart beating -fast. -</p> -<p> -“Why, indeed?” repeated Mynheer with a laugh. “A hail across the harbour -would not fetch him.” - </p> -<p> -“Then go for him,” said I, my heart beating faster than ever lest he -should have some suspicion of my condition and desires. -</p> -<p> -He reminded me that he had no excuse to leave the frigate, though to take -the small boat at the stern and row over to the hoy would mean but a -minute or two. -</p> -<p> -“Well, as for excuses,” said I, “that's easily arranged, for I can give -you one to carry a note to the care of the captain, and you may take it at -your leisure.” - </p> -<p> -At his leisure! He would take it at once and thankfully while we gentlemen -were drinking below, for there was no pleasure under heaven he could -compare with half an hour of good Jan Breuer's company. -</p> -<p> -Without betraying my eagerness to avail myself of such an unlooked-for -opportunity, I deliberately wrote a note in English intimating that I was -a prisoner on the frigate and in pressing humour to get out of her at the -earliest moment. I addressed it to Kilbride, judging the Highlander more -likely than Father Hamilton to take rational steps for my release if that -were within the bounds of possibility. -</p> -<p> -I assured the seaman that if he lost no time in taking it over I would -engage his absence would never be noticed, and he agreed to indicate to me -by a whistle when he returned. -</p> -<p> -With a cheerful assurance that he would have Jan Breuer on this deck in -less than twenty minutes the seaman loosed the painter of the small boat -and set forth upon his errand, while I returned to the cabin where Thurot -and Clancarty still talked the most contrary and absurd politics over -their wine. The vast and tangled scheme of French intrigue was set before -me; at another time it might have been of the most fascinating interest, -but on this particular occasion I could not subdue my mind to matters so -comparatively trivial, while I kept my hearing strained for the evidence -that the Dutchman had accomplished his mission and got back. -</p> -<p> -The moments passed; the interest flagged; Clancarty began to yawn and -Thurot grew silent. It was manifest that the sooner my Dutchman was back -to his ship the better for my plan. Then it was I showed the brightest -interest in affairs that an hour earlier failed to engage a second of my -attention, and I discovered for the entertainment of my gaoler and his -friend a hitherto unsuspected store of reminiscence about my Uncle Andrew -and a fund of joke and anecdote whereof neither of them probably had -thought me capable. -</p> -<p> -But all was useless. The signal that the Dutchman had returned was not -made when Lord Clancarty rose to his feet and intimated his intention -there and then of going ashore, though his manner suggested that it would -have been easy to induce him to wait longer. We went on deck with him. The -night was banked with clouds though a full moon was due; only a few stars -shone in the spaces of the zenith; our vessel was in darkness except where -a lamp swung at the bow. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu!</i> Tony, what a pitchy night! I'd liefer be safe ashore -than risking my life getting there in your cockle-shell,” said Clancarty. -</p> -<p> -“'Art all right, Lord Clancarty,” said Thurot. “Here's a man will row you -to the quay in two breaths, and you'll be snug in bed before M. Greig and -I have finished our prayers.” Then he cried along the deck for the seaman. -</p> -<p> -I felt that all was lost now the fellow's absence was to be discovered. -</p> -<p> -What was my astonishment to hear an answering call, and see the Dutchman's -figure a blotch upon the blackness of the after-deck. -</p> -<p> -“Bring round the small boat and take Lord Clancarty ashore,” said the -captain, and the seaman hastened to do so. He sprang into the small boat, -released her rope, and brought her round. -</p> -<p> -“<i>A demain</i>, dear Paul,” cried his lordship with a hiccough. “It's -curst unkind of Tony Thurot not to let you ashore on parole or permit me -to wait with you.” - </p> -<p> -The boat dropped off into the darkness of the harbour, her oars thudding -on the thole-pins. -</p> -<p> -“There goes a decent fellow though something of a fool,” said Thurot. -“'Tis his kind have made so many enterprises like our own have an -ineffectual end. And now you must excuse me, M. Greig, if I lock you into -your cabin. There are too few of us on board to let you have the run of -the vessel.” - </p> -<p> -He put a friendly hand upon the shoulder I shrugged with chagrin at this -conclusion to an unfortunate day. -</p> -<p> -“Sorry, M. Greig, sorry,” he said humorously. “<i>Qui commence mal finit -mal</i>, and I wish to heaven you had begun the day by finding Antoine -Thurot at home, in which case we had been in a happier relationship -to-night.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXIX -</h2> -<h3> -DISCLOSES THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE AND HOW WE SET SAIL FOR ALBION -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hurot turned the key on me with a pleasantry that was in no accordance -with my mood, and himself retired to the round house on deck where his -berth was situated. I sat on a form for a little, surrendered all to -melancholy, then sought to remove it by reading, as sleep in my present -humour was out of the question. My reading, though it lasted for an hour -or two, was scarcely worth the name, for my mind continually wandered from -the page. I wondered if my note to Kilbride had been delivered, and if any -step on his part was to be expected therefrom; the hope that rose with -that reflection died at once upon the certainty that as the Dutch seaman -had not signalled as he had promised he had somehow learned the true -nature of my condition in the frigate. Had he told Thurot? If he had told -Thurot—which was like enough—that I had communicated with any -one outside the vessel there was little doubt that the latter would take -adequate steps to prevent interference by Kilbride or any one else. -</p> -<p> -We are compact of memories, a mere bundle of bygone days, childish -recollections, ancient impressions, and so an older experience came to me, -too, of the night I sat in the filthy cabin of Dan Risk's doomed vessel -hearing the splash of illegitimate oars, anticipating with a mind scarcely -more disturbed than I had just now the step of the officer from the prison -at Blackness and the clutch of the chilly fetters. -</p> -<p> -There was a faint but rising nor'-east wind. It sighed among the shrouds -of the frigate. I could hear it even in the cabin, pensive like the call -of the curfew at a great distance. The waves washed against the timbers in -curious short gluckings and hissings. On the vessel herself not a sound -was to be heard, until of a sudden there came a scratching at my cabin -door! -</p> -<p> -It was incredible! I had heard no footstep on the companion, and I had -ceased to hope for anything from the Dutchman! -</p> -<p> -“Who's there?” I asked softly, and at that the key outside was turned and -I was fronted by Kilbride! -</p> -<p> -He wore the most ridiculous travesty of the Dutchman's tarry breeks and -tarpaulin hat and coarse wide jumper, and in the light of my candle there -was a humorous twinkle on his face as he entered, closed the door softly -after him, and sat down beside me. -</p> -<p> -“My goodness!” he whispered, “you have a face on you as if you were in a -graveyard watching ghosts. It's time you were steeping the withies to go -away as we say in the Language, and you may be telling me all the story of -it elsewhere.” - </p> -<p> -“Where's the Dutchman that took my letter?” I asked. -</p> -<p> -“Where,” said Kilbride, “but in the place that well befits him—at -the lug of an anker of Rotterdam gin taking his honest night's rest. I'm -here guizing in his tarry clothes, and if I were Paul Greig of the Hazel -Den I would be clapping on my hat gey quick and getting out of here -without any more parley.” - </p> -<p> -“You left him in the hoy!” said I astonished. -</p> -<p> -“Faith, there was nothing better for it!” said he coolly. “Breuer gave him -so much of the juniper for old acquaintance that when I left he was so -full of it that he had lost the power of his legs and you might as well -try to keep a string of fish standing.” - </p> -<p> -“And it was you took Clancarty ashore?” - </p> -<p> -“Who else? And I don't think it's a great conceit of myself to believe I -play-acted the Dutch tarry-breeks so very well, though I was in something -of a tremble in case the skipper here would make me out below my guizard's -clothes. You may thank your stars the moon was as late of rising this -night as a man would be that was at a funeral yesterday.” “And where's the -other man who was on this vessel?” I asked, preparing to go. -</p> -<p> -“Come on deck and I'll show you,” said Kilbride, checking a chuckle of -amusement at something. -</p> -<p> -We crept softly on deck into the night now slightly lit by a moon veiled -by watery clouds. The ship seemed all our own and we were free to leave -her when we chose for the small boat hung at her stern. -</p> -<p> -“You were asking for the other one,” said Kilbride. “There he is,” and he -pointed to a huddled figure bound upon the waist. “When I came on board -after landing Clancarty this stupid fellow discovered I was a stranger and -nearly made an outcry; but I hit him on the lug with the loom of an oar. -He'll not be observing very much for a while yet, but I was bound all the -same to put a rope on him to prevent him disturbing Captain Thurot's sleep -too soon.” - </p> -<p> -We spoke in whispers for the night seemed all ear and I was for ever -haunted by the reflection that Thurot was divided from us by little more -than an inch or two of teak-wood. Now and then the moon peeped through a -rift of cloud and lit a golden roadway over the sea, enticing me -irresistibly home. -</p> -<p> -“O God, I wish I was in Scotland!” I said passionately. -</p> -<p> -“Less luck than that will have to be doing us,” said Kilbride, fumbling at -the painter of the boat. “The hoy sets sail for Calais in an hour or two, -and it's plain from your letter we'll be best to be taking her round that -length.” - </p> -<p> -“No, not Calais,” said I. “It's too serious a business with me for that. -I'm wanting England, and wanting it unco fast.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Oh, Dhe!</i>” said my countryman, “here's a fellow with the appetite -of Prince Charlie and as likely to gratify it. What for must it be -England, <i>loachain?</i>” - </p> -<p> -“I can only hint at that,” I answered hastily, “and that in a minute. Are -ye loyal?” - </p> -<p> -“To a fine fellow called MacKellar first and to my king and country -after?” - </p> -<p> -“The Stuarts?” said I. -</p> -<p> -He cracked his thumb. “It's all by with that,” said he quickly and not -without a tone of bitterness. -</p> -<p> -“The breed of them has never been loyal to me, and if I could wipe out of -my life six months of the cursedest folly in Forty-five I would go back to -Scotland with the first chance and throw my bonnet for Geordie ever after -like the greasiest burgess ever sold a wab of cloth or a cargo of Virginia -in Glasgow.” - </p> -<p> -“Then,” I said, “you and me's bound for England this night, for I have -that in my knowledge should buy the safety of the pair of us,” and I -briefly conveyed my secret. -</p> -<p> -He softly whistled with astonishment. -</p> -<p> -“Man! it's a gey taking idea,” he confessed. “But the bit is to get over -the Channel.” - </p> -<p> -“I have thought of that,” said I. “Here's a smuggler wanting no more than -a rag of sail in this wind to make the passage in a couple of days.” - </p> -<p> -“By the Holy Iron it's the very thing!” he interrupted, slapping his leg. -</p> -<p> -It takes a time to tell all this in writing, but in actual fact our whole -conversation together in the cabin and on the deck occupied less than five -minutes. We were both of us too well aware of the value of time to have -had it otherwise and waste moments in useless conversation. -</p> -<p> -“What is to be done is this,” I suggested, casting a rapid glance along -the decks and upwards to the spars. “I will rig up a sail of some sort -here and you will hasten over again in the small-boat to the hoy and give -Father Hamilton the option of coming with us. He may or he may not care to -run the risks involved in the exploit, but at least we owe him the offer.” - </p> -<p> -“But when I'm across at the hoy there, here's you with this dovering body -and Captain Thurot. Another knock might settle the one, but you would -scarcely care to have knocks going in the case of an old friend like Tony -Thurot, who's only doing his duty in keeping you here with such a secret -in your charge.” - </p> -<p> -“I have thought of that, too,” I replied quickly, “and I will hazard -Thurot.” - </p> -<p> -Kilbride lowered himself into the small-boat, pushed off from the side of -the frigate, and in silence half-drifted in the direction of the Dutch -vessel. My plans were as clear in my head as if they had been printed on -paper. First of all I took such provender as I could get from my cabin and -placed it along with a breaker of water and a lamp in the cutter. Then I -climbed the shrouds of the frigate, and cut away a small sail that I -guessed would serve my purpose, letting it fall into the cutter. I made a -shift at sheets and halyards and found that with a little contrivance I -could spread enough canvas to take the cutter in that weather at a fair -speed before the wind that had a blessed disposition towards the coast of -England. I worked so fast it was a miracle, dreading at every rustle of -the stolen sail—at every creak of the cutter on the fenders, that -either the captain or his unconscious seaman would awake. -</p> -<p> -My work was scarcely done when the small-boat came off again from the hoy, -and as she drew cautiously near I saw that MacKellar had with him the -bulky figure of the priest. He climbed ponderously, at my signal, into the -cutter, and MacKellar joined me for a moment on the deck of the frigate. -</p> -<p> -“He goes with us then?” I asked, indicating the priest. -</p> -<p> -“To the Indies if need be,” said Kilbride. “But the truth is that this -accident is a perfect God-send to him, for England's the one place below -the firmament he would choose for a refuge at this moment. Is all ready?” - </p> -<p> -“If my sail-making's to be relied on she's in the best of trim,” I -answered. -</p> -<p> -“And—what do ye call it?—all found?” - </p> -<p> -“A water breaker, a bottle of brandy, a bag of bread—” - </p> -<p> -“Enough for a foray of fifty men!” he said heartily. “Give me meal and -water in the heel of my shoe and I would count it very good vivers for a -fortnight.” - </p> -<p> -He went into the cutter; I released the ropes that bound her to the -frigate and followed him. -</p> -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu</i> dear lad, 'tis a world of most fantastic happenings,” was -all the poor old priest said, shivering in the cold night air. -</p> -<p> -We had to use the oars of the frigate's small-boat for a stroke or two so -as to get the cutter round before the wind; she drifted quickly from the -large ship's side almost like a living thing with a crave for freedom at -last realised; up speedily ran her sail, unhandsome yet sufficient, the -friendly air filled out the rustling folds and drove her through the night -into the open sea. -</p> -<p> -There is something in a moonlit night at sea that must touch in the most -cloddish heart a spring of fancy. It is friendlier than the dawn that at -its most glorious carries a hint of sorrow, or than the bravest sunset -that reminds us life is a brief day at the best of it, and the one thing -sempiternal yet will be the darkness. We sat in the well of the cutter—three -odd adventurers, myself the most silent because I had the double share of -dubiety about the enterprise, for who could tell how soon the doomster's -hand would be on me once my feet were again on British soil? Yet now when -I think of it—of the moonlit sea, the swelling sail above us, the -wake behind that shone with fire—I must count it one of the happiest -experiences of my life. -</p> -<p> -The priest looked back at the low land of France receding behind us, with -its scattered lights on the harbour and the shore, mere subjects to the -queenly moon. “There goes poor Father Hamilton,” said he whimsically, -“happy schoolboy, foolish lover in Louvain that had never but moonlit -eves, parish priest of Dixmunde working two gardens, human and divine, -understanding best the human where his bees roved, but loving all men good -and ill. There goes the spoiled page, the botched effort, and here's a fat -old man at the start of a new life, and never to see his darling France -again. Ah! the good mother; <i>Dieu te bénisse!</i>” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XL -</h2> -<h3> -MY INTERVIEW WITH PITT -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>f our voyage across the Channel there need be no more said than that it -was dull to the very verge of monotony, for the wind, though favourable, -was often in a faint where our poor sail shook idly at the mast. Two days -later we were in London, and stopped at the Queen's Head above Craig's -Court in Charing Cross. -</p> -<p> -And now I had to make the speediest possible arrangement for a meeting -with those who could make the most immediate and profitable use of the -tidings I was in a position to lay before them, by no means an easy matter -to decide upon for a person who had as little knowledge of London as he -had of the Cities of the Plain. -</p> -<p> -MacKellar—ever the impetuous Gael—was for nothing less than a -personal approach to his Majesty. -</p> -<p> -“The man that is on the top of the hill will always be seeing furthest,” - he said. “I have come in contact with the best in Europe on that under -standing, but it calls for a kind of Hielan' tact that—that—” - </p> -<p> -“That you cannot credit to a poor Lowlander like myself,” said I, amused -at his vanity. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I'm meaning no offence, just no offence at all,” he responded -quickly, and flushing at his <i>faux pas</i>. “You have as much talent of -the kind as the best of us I'm not denying, and I have just the one -advantage, that I was brought up in a language that has delicacies of -address beyond the expression of the English, or the French that is, in -some measure, like it.” - </p> -<p> -“Well,” said I, “the spirit of it is obviously not to be translated into -English, judging from the way you go on crying up your countrymen at the -expense of my own.” - </p> -<p> -“That is true enough,” he conceded, “and a very just observe; but no -matter, what I would be at is that your news is worth too much to be -wasted on any poor lackey hanging about his Majesty's back door, who might -either sell it or you on his own behoof, or otherwise make a mull of the -matter with the very best intentions. If you would take my way of it, -there would be but Geordie himself for you.” - </p> -<p> -“What have you to say to that?” I asked the priest, whose knowledge of the -world struck me as in most respects more trustworthy than that of this -impetuous Highland chirurgeon. -</p> -<p> -“A plague of your kings! say I; sure I know nothing about them, for my -luck has rubbed me against the gabardine and none of your ermined cloaks. -There must be others who know his Majesty's affairs better than his -Majesty himself, otherwise what advantage were there in being a king?” - </p> -<p> -In fine his decision was for one of the Ministers, and at last the -Secretary of State was decided on. -</p> -<p> -How I came to meet with Mr. Pitt need not here be recorded; 'twas indeed -more a matter of good luck than of good guidance, and had there been no -Scots House of Argyll perhaps I had never got rid of my weighty secret -after all. I had expected to meet a person magnificent in robes of state; -instead of which 'twas a man in a blue coat with yellow metal buttons, -full round bob wig, a large hat, and no sword-bag nor ruffles that met me—more -like a country coachman or a waggoner than a personage of importance. -</p> -<p> -He scanned over again the letter that had introduced me and received me -cordially enough. In a few words I indicated that I was newly come from -France, whence I had escaped in a smuggler's boat, and that I had news of -the first importance which I counted it my duty to my country to convey to -him with all possible expedition. -</p> -<p> -At that his face changed and he showed singularly little eagerness to hear -any more. -</p> -<p> -“There will be—there will be the—the usual bargain, I presume, -Mr. Greig?” he said, half-smiling. “What are the conditions on which I am -to have this vastly important intelligence?” - </p> -<p> -“I never dreamt of making any, sir,” I answered, promptly, with some -natural chagrin, and yet mixed with a little confusion that I should in -truth be expecting something in the long run for my story. -</p> -<p> -“Pardon my stupid pleasantry, Mr. Greig,” he said, reddening slightly. “I -have been so long one of his Majesty's Ministers, and of late have seen so -many urgent couriers from France with prime news to be bargained for, that -I have grown something of a cynic. You are the first that has come with a -secret not for sale. Believe me, your story will have all the more -attention because it is offered disinterestedly.” - </p> -<p> -In twenty minutes I had put him into possession of all I knew of the plans -for invasion. He walked up and down the room, with his hands behind his -back, intently listening, now and then uttering an exclamation incredulous -or astonished. -</p> -<p> -“You are sure of all this?” he asked at last sharply, looking in my face -with embarrassing scrutiny. -</p> -<p> -“As sure as any mortal man may be with the gift of all his senses,” I -replied firmly. “At this moment Thurot's vessel is, I doubt not, taking in -her stores; the embarkation of troops is being practised daily, troops are -assembled all along the coast from Brest to Vannes, and—” - </p> -<p> -“Oh! on these points we are, naturally, not wholly dark,” said the -Minister. “We have known for a year of this somewhat theatrical display on -the part of the French, but the lines of the threatened invasion are not -such as your remarkable narrative suggests. You have been good enough to -honour me with your confidence, Mr. Greig; let me reciprocate by telling -you that we have our—our good friends in France, and that for six -months back I have been in possession of the Chevalier D'Arcy's -instructions to Dumont to reconnoitre the English coast, and of Dumont's -report, with the chart of the harbours and towns where he proposed that -the descent should be made.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “The gentleman who -gave us the information,” he went on, “stipulated for twenty thousand -pounds and a pension of two thousand a year as the just reward for his -loving service to his country in her hour of peril. He was not to get his -twenty thousand, I need scarcely say, but he was to get something in the -event of his intelligence proving to be accurate, and if it were for no -more than to get the better of such a dubious patriot I should wish his -tale wholly disproved, though we have hitherto acted on the assumption -that it might be trustworthy. There cannot be alternative plans of -invasion; our informant—another Scotsman, I may say—is either -lying or has merely the plan of a feint.” - </p> -<p> -“You are most kind, sir,” said I. -</p> -<p> -“Oh,” he said, “I take your story first, and as probably the most correct, -simply because it comes from one that loves his country and makes no -bagman's bargains for the sale of secrets vital to her existence.” - </p> -<p> -“I am much honoured, sir,” said I, with a bow. -</p> -<p> -And then he stopped his walk abruptly and faced me again. -</p> -<p> -“You have told me, Mr. Greig,” he went on, “that Conflans is to descend in -a week or two on the coast of Scotland, and that Thurot is to create a -diversion elsewhere with the aid of the Swedes, I have, from the most -delicate considerations, refrained from asking you how you know all this?” - </p> -<p> -“I heard it from the lips of Thurot himself.” - </p> -<p> -“Thurot! impossible!” he murmured. -</p> -<p> -“Of Thurot himself, sir.” - </p> -<p> -“You must be much in that pirate's confidence,” said Mr. Pitt, for the -first time with suspicion. -</p> -<p> -“Not to that extent that he would tell me of his plans for invading my -country,” I answered, “and I learned these things by the merest accident. -I overheard him speak last Sunday in Dunkerque with the Young Pretender—” - </p> -<p> -“The Pretender!” cried the Minister, shrugging his shoulders, and looking -at me with more suspicion than ever. “You apparently move in the most -select and interesting society, Mr. Greig?” - </p> -<p> -“In this case, sir, it was none of my choosing,” I replied, and went on -briefly to explain how I had got into Thurot's chamber unknown to him, and -unwittingly overhead the Prince and him discuss the plan. -</p> -<p> -“Very good, very good, and still—you will pardon me—I cannot -see how so devout a patriot as Mr. Greig should be in the intimacy of men -like Thurot?” - </p> -<p> -“A most natural remark under the circumstances,” I replied. “Thurot saved -my life from a sinking British vessel, and it is no more than his due to -say he proved a very good friend to me many a time since. But I was to -know nothing of his plans of invasion, for he knew very well I had no -sympathy with them nor with Charles Edward, and, as I have told you, he -made me his prisoner on his ship so that I might not betray what I had -overheard.” - </p> -<p> -The Minister made hurried notes of what I had told him, and concluded the -interview by asking where I could be communicated with during the next few -days. -</p> -<p> -I gave him my direction at the Queen's Head, but added that I had it in my -mind to go shortly to Edinburgh, where my address would be best known to -the Lord Advocate. -</p> -<p> -“The Lord Advocate!” said Mr. Pitt, raising his eyebrows. -</p> -<p> -“I may as well make a clean breast of it, sir,” I proceeded hurriedly, -“and say that I left Scotland under circumstances peculiarly distressing. -Thurot saved me from a ship called the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, that had been -scuttled and abandoned with only myself and a seaman on board of her in -mid-channel, by a man named Daniel Risk.” - </p> -<p> -“Bless me!” cried Mr. Pitt, “the scoundrel Risk was tried in Edinburgh a -month or two ago on several charges, including the one you mention, and he -has either been hanged, or is waiting to be hanged at this moment, in the -jail at Edinburgh.” - </p> -<p> -“I was nominally purser on the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, but in actual fact I -was fleeing from justice.” - </p> -<p> -The Minister hemmed, and fumbled with his papers. -</p> -<p> -“It was owing to a duelling affair, in which I had the misfortune to—to—kill -my opponent. I desire, sir, above all, to be thoroughly honest, and I am -bound to tell you it was my first intention to make the conveyance of this -plan of Thurot's a lever to secure my pardon for the crime of manslaughter -which lies at my charge. I would wish now that my loyalty to my country -was really disinterested, and I have, in the last half-hour, made up my -mind to surrender myself to the law of Scotland.” - </p> -<p> -“That is for yourself to decide on,” said the Minister more gravely, “but -I should advise the postponement of your departure to Edinburgh until you -hear further from me. I shall expect to find you at the inn at Charing -Cross during the next week; thereafter——” - </p> -<p> -He paused for a moment. “Well—thereafter we shall see,” he added. -</p> -<p> -After a few more words of the kindest nature the Minister shook hands with -the confessed manslayer (it flashed on me as a curious circumstance), and -I went back to join the priest and my fellow countryman. -</p> -<p> -They were waiting full of impatience. -</p> -<p> -“Hast the King's pardon in thy pocket, friend Scotland?” cried Father -Hamilton; then his face sank in sympathy with the sobriety of my own that -was due to my determination on a surrender to justice once my business -with the Government was over. -</p> -<p> -“I have no more in my pocket than I went out with in the morning,” said I. -“But my object, so far, has been served. Mr. Pitt knows my story and is -like to take such steps as maybe needful. As for my own affair I have -mentioned it, but it has gone no further than that.” - </p> -<p> -“You're not telling me you did not make a bargain of it before saying a -word about the bit plan?” cried MacKellar in surprise, and could scarcely -find words strong enough to condemn me for what he described as my -stupidity. -</p> -<p> -“Many a man will sow the seed that will never eat the syboe,” was his -comment; “and was I not right yonder when I said yon about the tact? If it -had been me now I would have gone very canny to the King himself and said: -'Your Majesty, I'm a man that has made a slip in a little affair as -between gentlemen, and had to put off abroad until the thing blew by. I -can save the lives of many thousand Englishmen, and perhaps the country -itself, by intelligence that came to my knowledge when I was abroad; if I -prove it, will your Majesty pardon the thing that lies at my charge?'” - </p> -<p> -“And would have his Majesty's signature to the promise as 'twere a deed of -sale!” laughed the priest convulsively. “La! la! la! Paul, here's our -Celtic Solon with tact—the tact of the foot-pad. Stand and deliver! -My pardon, sire, or your life! <i>Mon Dieu!</i> there runs much of the old -original cateran in thy methods of diplomacy, good Master MacKellar. Too -much for royal courts, I reckon.” MacKellar pshawed impatiently. “I'm -asking you what is the Secretary's name, Mr. Greig?” said he. “Fox or Pitt -it is all the same—the one is sly and the other is deep, and it is -the natures of their names. I'll warrant Mr. Pitt has forgotten already -the name of the man who gave him the secret, and the wisest thing Paul -Greig could do now would be to go into hiding as fast as he can.” - </p> -<p> -But I expressed my determination to wait in the Queen's Head a week -longer, as I had promised, and thereafter (if nothing happened to prevent -it) to submit myself at Edinburgh. Though I tried to make as little of -that as possible to myself, and indeed would make myself believe I was -going to act with a rare bravery, I must confess now that my determination -was strengthened greatly by the reflection that my service to the country -would perhaps annul or greatly modify my sentence. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XLI -</h2> -<h3> -TREATS OF FATHER HAMILTON'S DEATH -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a gay place, London, in the days I write of, however it may be now, -though Father Hamilton was prone occasionally to compare it unfavourably -with the Paris of his fancy, the which he held a sample-piece of paradise. -The fogs and rains depressed him; he had an eye altogether unfriendly for -the signs of striving commerce in the streets and the greedy haste of -clerks and merchants into whose days of unremitting industry so few joys -(as he fancied) seemed to enter. -</p> -<p> -MacKellar soon found company in it among silken bucks that held noisy -sederunts in the evenings at a place called White's and another called (if -my memory does not fail me) the Cocoa Nut Tree. 'Twas marvellous the -number of old friends and fellow countrymen that, by his own account, he -found there. And what open hands they had! But for him that was -privileged, for old acquaintance sake, to borrow from them, we had found -our week or two in London singularly hungry because (to tell the truth of -it) our money was come very nearly to an end. But MacKellar, who had -foraged so well in Silesia, was equally good at it in the city of London. -From these night escapades he seldom failed to return richer than he went, -and it was he who paid the piper with so much of an air of thinking it a -privilege, that we had not the heart, even if we had the inclination, to -protest. -</p> -<p> -If I had known then, as I know now, or at least suspect, that the money -that fed and boarded us was won through his skill at dice and cards, I -daresay I had shifted sooner from London than I did at the last. -</p> -<p> -Day after day passed, and no word from Mr. Pitt. I dared scarcely leave my -inn for an hour's airing lest I should be asked for in my absence. There -was, for a while, a hope that though I had refused to make any bargain -about the pardon, something—I could not so much as guess what—might -happen to avert the scandal of a trial at Edinburgh, and the disgrace that -same might bring upon my family. But day after day passed, as I have said, -and there came no hint of how matters stood. -</p> -<p> -And then there came a day when I was to consider it mattered very little -whether I heard from Pitt or not; when even my country was forgotten and I -was to suffer a loss whose bitterness abides with me yet. It was the death -of Father Hamilton, whom I had grown to like exceedingly. Birds have built -and sung for many generations since then; children play in the garden -still; there is essence at the table, there is sparkle in the wine, and he -will never enjoy them any more. Fortune has come to me since then, so that -I might have the wherewithal, if I had the wish, to take the road again -with him in honesty, and see it even better than when Sin paid the bill -for us, but it cannot be with him. -</p> -<p> -It was a December day of the whitest, the city smothered in snow, its -tumult hushed. I had been tempted to wander in the forenoon a good way -from our lodging. Coming home in the afternoon I met Kilbride, distracted, -setting out to seek for me. He had a face like the clay, and his hands, -that grasped my lapels as if I meant to fly from him, were trembling. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Paul,” said he. “Here's the worst of all,” and I declare his cheeks -were wet with tears. -</p> -<p> -“What is it?” I cried in great alarm. -</p> -<p> -“The priest, the priest,” said he. “He's lying yonder at the ebb, and I'm -no more use to him than if I were a bairn. I've seen the death-thraws a -thousand times, but never to vex me just like this before. He could make -two or three of us in bulk, and yet his heart was like a wean's, and there -he's crying on you even-on till I was near demented and must run about the -streets to seek for you.” - </p> -<p> -“But still you give me no clue!” I cried, hurrying home with him. -</p> -<p> -He gave me the story by the way. It seemed his reverence had had a notion -to see Eastcheap, round which the writer Shakespeare had thrown a glamour -for him. He had gone there shortly after I had gone out in the forenoon, -and after a space of walking about it had found himself in a mean street -where a blackguard was beating a child. 'Twas the man's own child, -doubtless, and so he had, I make no doubt, the law of it on his own side, -but the drunken wretch outdid all reasonable chastisement, and thrashed -her till the blood flowed. -</p> -<p> -Up ran the priest and took her in his arms, shielding her from the blows -of the father's cudgel with his arm. The child nuzzled to his breast, -shrieking, and the father tried to pull her away. Between them she fell; -the priest stood over her, keeping back the beast that threatened. The man -struck at him with his stick; Father Hamilton wrenched it from him, threw -it down that he might have no unfair advantage, and flung himself upon the -wretch. He could have crushed him into jelly, but the man was armed, and -suddenly drew a knife. He thrust suddenly between the priest's shoulders, -released himself from the tottering body, and disappeared with his child -apparently beyond all chance of identification or discovery. -</p> -<p> -Father Hamilton was carried home upon a litter. -</p> -<p> -“O God! Kilbride, and must he die?” I cried in horror. -</p> -<p> -“He will travel in less than an hour,” said the Highlander, vastly moved. -“And since he came here his whole cry has been for you and Father Joyce.” - </p> -<p> -We went into the room that seemed unnaturally white and sunny. He lay upon -the bed-clothes. The bed was drawn towards the window, through which the -domes and towers and roofs of London could be seen, with their accustomed -greyness gone below the curtain of the snow. A blotch of blood was on his -shirt-front as he lay upon his side. I thought at first it was his own -life oozing, but learned a little later that the stricken child had had -her face there. -</p> -<p> -“Paul! Paul!” he said, “I thought thou wouldst blame me for deserting thee -again, and this time without so much as a letter of farewell.” - </p> -<p> -What could I do but take his hand, and fall upon my knees beside his bed? -He had blue eyes that never aged nor grossened—the eyes of a boy, -clear, clean, and brave, and round about them wrinkles played in a sad, -sweet smile. -</p> -<p> -“What, Paul!” he said, “all this for behemoth! for the old man of the sea -that has stuck on thy shoulders for a twelvemonth, and spurred thee to -infinite follies and perils! I am no more worth a tear of thine than is -the ivied ash that falls untimely and decayed, eaten out of essence by the -sins he sheltered. And the poor child, Paul!—the poor child with her -arms round my neck, her tears brine—sure I have them on my lips—the -true <i>viaticum!</i> The brute! the brute! Ah no! ah no! poor sinner, we -do not know.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, father!” I cried, “and must we never go into the woods and towns any -more?” - </p> -<p> -He smiled again and stroked my hair. -</p> -<p> -“Not in these fields, boy,” said he, “but perhaps in more spacious, less -perplexed. Be good, be simple, be kind! Tis all I know.” - </p> -<p> -We heard the steps of Father Joyce upon the stairs. -</p> -<p> -“All I know!” repeated the priest. “Fifty years to learn it, and I might -have found it in my mother's lap. <i>Chère ange</i>—the little -mother—'twas a good world! And Fanchon that is dead below the snow -in Louvain—oh, the sweet world! And the sunny gardens of bees and -children—” - </p> -<p> -His eyes were dull. A pallor was on his countenance. He breathed with -difficulty. Kilbride, who stood by, silent, put a finger on his pulse. At -that he opened his eyes again, once more smiling, and Father Joyce was at -the door. -</p> -<p> -“Kiss me, Paul,” said the dying man, “I hear them singing prime.” - </p> -<p> -When Father Joyce was gone I came into the room again where the priest lay -smiling still, great in figure, in the simplicity and sweetness of his -countenance like a child. -</p> -<p> -Kilbride and I stood silent for a little by the bed, and the Highlander -was the first to speak. “I have seen worse,” said he, “than Father -Hamilton.” - </p> -<p> -It may seem a grudging testimony, but not to me that heard it. -</p> -<p> -On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news -which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, “Have you -heard the latest?” he cried. “It is just what I expected,” he went on. -“They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the -tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove him -back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of the -Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The invasion -is at an end.” - </p> -<p> -“It is gallant news!” I cried, warm with satisfaction. -</p> -<p> -“Maybe,” said he indifferently, “but the main thing is that Paul Greig, -who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in cheap -lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. Indeed, -perhaps he's worse off than ever he was.” - </p> -<p> -“How is that?” - </p> -<p> -“Well, they ken where you are, for one thing, and you put yourself in -their power. I am one that has small faith in Governments. What will -hinder them to clap you in jail and save another reward like the first one -Pitt told you about? I would never put it past a Sassenach of the name.” - </p> -<p> -Then I told him it had been in my mind ever since I had seen the Minister -to go to Edinburgh and give myself up to the authorities. -</p> -<p> -“Are ye daft?” he cried, astonished. -</p> -<p> -I could only shrug my shoulders at that. -</p> -<p> -“Perhaps you fancy this business of the invasion will help you to get your -neck out of the loop? I would not lippen on a Government for ten minutes. -You have saved the country—that's the long and the short of it; now -you must just be saving your own hide. There's nothing for us but the -Continent again, and whether you're in the key for that or not, here's a -fellow will sleep uneasy till he has Europe under his head.” - </p> -<p> -Even at the cost of parting with Kilbride I determined to carry out my -intention of going to Edinburgh. With the priest gone, no prospect of Mr. -Pitt taking the first step, and Kilbride in the humour for a retreat, I -decided that the sooner I brought matters to a head the better. -</p> -<p> -There was a mail coach that went north weekly. It took a considerable deal -of money and a fortnight of time to make the journey between the two -capitals, but MacKellar, free-handed to the last, lent me the money (which -I sent him six months later to Holland), and I set out one Saturday from -the “Bull and Whistle” in a genteel two-end spring machine that made a -brisk passage—the weather considered—as far as York on our way -into Scotland. -</p> -<p> -I left on a night of jubilation for the close of the war and the overthrow -of Conflans. Bonfires blazed on the river-side and the eminences round the -city; candles were in every window, the people were huzzaing in the -streets where I left behind me only the one kent face—that of -MacKellar of Kilbride who came to the coach to see the last of me. And -everywhere was the snow—deep, silent, apparently enduring. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XLII -</h2> -<h3> -I DEPART IN THE MIDST OF ILLUMINATION AND COME TO A JAIL, BAD NEWS, AND AN -OLD ENEMY -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e carried this elation all through England with us. Whatever town we -stopped at flags were flying, and the oldest resident must be tipsy on the -green for the glory of the British Isles. The seven passengers who -occupied the coach with me found in these rejoicings, and in the great -event which gave rise to them, subjects of unending discourse as we -dragged through the country in the wake of steaming horses. There was with -us a maker of perukes that had found trade dull in Town (as they call it), -and planned to start business in York; a widow woman who had buried her -second husband and was returning to her parents in Northumberland with a -sprightliness that told she was ready to try a third if he offered; and a -squire (as they call a laird) of Morpeth. -</p> -<p> -But for the common interest in the rejoicings it might have been a week -before the company thawed to each other enough to start a conversation. -The first mile of the journey, however, found us in the briskest clebate -on Hawke and his doings. I say us, but in truth my own share in the -conversation was very small as I had more serious reflections. -</p> -<p> -The perruquier, as was natural to his trade, knew everything and itched to -prove it. -</p> -<p> -“I have it on the very best authority,” he would say, “indeed”—with -a whisper for all the passengers as if he feared the toiling horses -outside might hear him—“indeed between ourselves I do not mind -telling that it was from Sir Patrick Dall's man—that the French -would have been on top of us had not one of themselves sold the plot for a -hatful of guineas.” - </p> -<p> -“That is not what I heard at all,” broke in the squire. “I fancy you are -mistaken, sir. The truth, as I have every reason to believe, is that one -of the spies of the Government—a Scotsman, by all accounts—discovered -Conflans' plans, and came over to London with them. A good business too, -egad! otherwise we'd soon have nothing to eat at Morpeth George Inn on -market days but frogs, and would find the parley-voos overrunning the -country by next Lent with their masses and mistresses, and so on. A good -business for merry old England that this spy had his English ears open.” - </p> -<p> -“It may be you are right, sir,” conceded the perruquier deferentially. -“Now that I remember, Sir Patrick's gentleman said something of the same -kind, and that it was one of them Scotsmen brought the news. Like enough -the fellow found it worth his while. It will be a pretty penny in his -pocket, I'll wager. He'll be able to give up spying and start an inn.” - </p> -<p> -I have little doubt the ideal nature of retirement to an inn came to the -mind of the peruke maker from the fact that at the moment we were drawing -up before “The Crown” at Bawtry. Reek rose in clouds from the horses, as -could be seen from the light of the doors that showed the narrow street -knee-deep in snow; a pleasant smell of cooking supper and warm cordials -came out to us, welcome enough it may be guessed after our long day's -stage. The widow clung just a trifle too long on my arm as I gallantly -helped her out of the coach; perhaps she thought my silence and my -abstracted gaze at her for the last hour or two betrayed a tender -interest, but I was thinking how close the squire and the wig-maker had -come upon the truth, and yet made one mistake in that part of their tale -that most closely affected their silent fellow passenger. -</p> -<p> -The sea-fight and the war lasted us for a topic all through England, but -when we had got into Scotland on the seventh day after my departure from -London, the hostlers at the various change-houses yoked fresh horses to -the tune of “Daniel Risk.” - </p> -<p> -We travelled in the most tempestuous weather. Snow fell incessantly, and -was cast in drifts along the road; sometimes it looked as if we were bound -for days, but we carried the mails, and with gigantic toil the driver -pushed us through. -</p> -<p> -The nearer we got to Edinburgh the more we learned of the notorious Daniel -Risk, whom no one knew better than myself. The charge of losing his ship -wilfully was, it appeared, among the oldest and least heinous of his -crimes. Smuggling had engaged his talent since then, and he had murdered a -cabin-boy under the most revolting circumstances. He had almost escaped -the charge of scuttling the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, for it was not till he -had been in the dock for the murder that evidence of that transaction came -from the seaman Horn, who had been wrecked twice, it appeared, and far in -other parts of the world between the time he was abandoned in the scuttled -ship and returned to his native land, to tell how the ruffian had left two -innocent men to perish. -</p> -<p> -Even in these days of wild happenings the fame of Risk exceeded that of -every malefactor that season, and when we got to Edinburgh the street -singers were chanting doleful ballads about him. -</p> -<p> -I would have given the wretch no thought, or very little, for my own -affairs were heavy enough, had not the very day I landed in Edinburgh seen -a broad-sheet published with “The Last Words and Warning” of Risk. The -last words were in an extraordinarily devout spirit; the homily breathed -what seemed a real repentance for a very black life. It would have moved -me less if I could have learned then, as I did later, that the whole thing -was the invention of some drunken lawyer's clerk in the Canongate, who had -probably devised scores of such fictions for the entertainment of the -world that likes to read of scaffold repentances and of wicked lives. The -condition of the wretch touched me, and I made up my mind to see the -condemned man who, by the accounts of the journals, was being visited -daily by folks interested in his forlorn case. -</p> -<p> -With some manoeuvring I got outside the bars of his cell. -</p> -<p> -There was little change in him. The same wild aspect was there though he -pretended a humility. The skellie eye still roved with little of the love -of God or man in it; his iron-grey hair hung tawted about his temples. -Only his face was changed and had the jail-white of the cells, for he had -been nearly two months in confinement. When I entered he did not know me; -indeed, he scarce looked the road I was on at first, but applied himself -zealously to the study of a book wherein he pretended to be rapturously -engrossed. -</p> -<p> -The fact that the Bible (for so it was) happened to be upside down in his -hands somewhat staggered my faith in the repentance of Daniel Risk, who, I -remembered, had never numbered reading among his arts. -</p> -<p> -I addressed him as Captain. -</p> -<p> -“I am no Captain,” said he in a whine, “but plain Dan Risk, the blackest -sinner under the cope and canopy of heaven.” And he applied himself to his -volume as before. -</p> -<p> -“Do you know me?” I asked, and he must have found the voice familiar, for -he rose from his stool, approached the bars of his cage, and examined me. -“Andy Greigs nephew!” he cried. “It's you; I hope you're a guid man?” - </p> -<p> -“I might be the best of men—and that's a dead one—so far as -you are concerned,” I replied, stung a little by the impertinence of him. -</p> -<p> -“The hand of Providence saved me that last item in my bloody list o' -crimes,” said he, with a singular mixture of the whine for his sins and of -pride in their number. “Your life was spared, I mak' nae doubt, that ye -micht repent o' your past, and I'm sorry to see ye in sic fallals o' -dress, betokenin' a licht mind and a surrender to the vanities.” - </p> -<p> -My dress was scantily different from what it had been on the <i>Seven -Sisters</i>, except for some lace, my tied hair, and a sword. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, and I am in anything but a light frame of mind, Captain Risk,” I -said. “There are reasons for that, apart from seeing you in this condition -which I honestly deplore in spite of all the wrong you did me.” - </p> -<p> -“I thank God that has been forgiven me,” he said, with a hypocritical cock -of his hale eye. “I was lost in sin, a child o' the deevil, but noo I am -made clean,” and much more of the same sort that it is unnecessary herp to -repeat. -</p> -<p> -“You can count on my forgiveness, so far as that goes,” I said, disgusted -with his manner. -</p> -<p> -“I'm greatly obleeged,” said he, “but man's forgiveness doesna coont sae -muckle as a preen, and I would ask ye to see hoo it stands wi' yersel', -Daniel Risk has made his peace wi' his Maker, but what way is it wi' the -nephew o' Andrew Greig?” - </p> -<p> -“It ill becomes a man in a condemned cell to be preacher to those outside -of it,” I told him in some exasperation at his presumption. -</p> -<p> -He threw up his hands and glowered at me with his gleed eye looking seven -ways for sixpence as the saying goes. -</p> -<p> -“Dinna craw ower crouse, young man,” he said. “Whit brings ye here I canna -guess, but I ken that you that's there should be in here where I am, for -there's blood on your hands.” - </p> -<p> -He had me there! Oh, yes, he had me there! Every vein in my body told me -so. But I was not in the humour to make an admission of that kind to this -creature. -</p> -<p> -“I have no conceit of myself in any respect whatever, Daniel Risk,” I said -slowly. “I came here from France but yesterday after experiences there -that paid pretty well for my boy's crime, for I have heard from neither -kith nor kin since you cozened me on the boards of the <i>Seven Sisters</i>.” - </p> -<p> -He put his hands upon the bars and looked at me. He wore a prison garb of -the most horrible colour, and there were round him the foul stenches of -the cell. -</p> -<p> -“Ay!” said he. “New back! And they havena nabbed ye yet! Weel, they'll no' -be lang, maybe, o' doin' that, for I'll warrant ye've been advertised -plenty aboot the country; ony man that has read a gazette or clattered in -a public-hoose kens your description and the blackness o' the deed you're -chairged wi'. All I did was to sink a bit ship that was rotten onyway, -mak' free trade wi' a few ankers o' brandy that wad hae been drunk by the -best i' the land includin' the very lords that tried me, and accidentally -kill a lad that sair needed a beltin' to gar him dae his honest wark. But -you shot a man deliberate and his blood is crying frae the grund. If ye -hurry ye'll maybe dance on naethin' sooner nor mysel'.” - </p> -<p> -There was so much impotent venom in what he said that I lost my anger with -the wretch drawing near his end, and looked on him with pity. It seemed to -annoy him more than if I had reviled him. -</p> -<p> -“I'm a white soul.” says he, clasping his hands—the most arrant -blasphemy of a gesture from one whose deeds were desperately wicked! “I'm -a white soul, praise God! and value not your opinions a docken leaf. Ye -micht hae come here to this melancholy place to slip a bit guinea into my -hand for some few extra comforts, instead o' which it's jist to anger me.” - </p> -<p> -He glued his cheek against the bars and stared at me from head to foot, -catching at the last a glance of my fateful shoes. He pointed at them with -a rigid finger. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a> -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img src="images/407.jpg" alt="407" width="100%" /><br /> -</div> -<p> -“Man! man!” he cried, “there's the sign and token o' the lot o' ye—the -bloody shoon. They may weel be red for him and you that wore them. Red -shoon! red shoon!” He stopped suddenly. “After a',” said he, “I bear ye -nae ill-will, though I hae but to pass the word to the warder on the ither -side o' the rails. And oh! abin a' repent——” He was off again -into one of his blasphemies, for at my elbow now was an old lady who was -doubtless come to confirm the conversion of Daniel Risk. I turned to go. -</p> -<p> -He cast his unaffected eye piously heavenward, and coolly offered up a -brief prayer for “this erring young brother determined on the ways of vice -and folly.” - </p> -<p> -It may be scarce credible that I went forth from the condemned cell with -the most shaken mind I had had since the day I fled from the moor of -Mearns. The streets were thronged with citizens; the castle ramparts rose -up white and fine, the bastions touched by sunset fires, a window blazing -like a star. Above the muffled valley, clear, silvery, proud, rang a -trumpet on the walls, reminding me of many a morning rouse in far Silesia. -Was I not better there? Why should I be the sentimental fool and run my -head into a noose? Risk, whom I had gone to see in pity, paid me with a -vengeance! He had put into the blunt language of the world all the horror -I had never heard in words before, though it had often been in my mind. I -saw myself for the first time the hunted outlaw, captured at last. “You -that's out there should be in where I am!” It was true! But to sit for -weeks in that foul hole within the iron rail, waiting on doom, reflecting -on my folks disgraced—I could not bear it! -</p> -<p> -Risk cured me of my intention to hazard all on the flimsy chance of a -Government's gratitude, and I made up my mind to seek safety and -forgetfulness again in flight to another country. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XLIII -</h2> -<h3> -BACK TO THE MOORLAND -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> had seen yon remnant of a man in the Tolbooth cell, and an immediate -death upon the gallows seemed less dreadful than the degradation and the -doubt he must suffer waiting weary months behind bars. But gallows or cell -was become impossible for the new poltroon of Dan Risk's making to -contemplate with any equanimity, and I made up my mind that America was a -country which would benefit greatly by my presence, if I could get a -passage there by working for it. -</p> -<p> -Perhaps I would not have made so prompt a decision upon America had not -America implied a Clyde ship, and the Clyde as naturally implied a flying -visit to my home in Mearns. Since ever I had set foot on Scotland, and saw -Scots reek rise from Scots lums, and blue bonnets on Scots heads, and -heard the twang of the true North and kindly from the people about me, I -had been wondering about my folk. It was plain they had never got the -letter I had sent by Horn, or got it only recently, for he himself had -only late got home. -</p> -<p> -To see the house among the trees, then, to get a reassuring sight of its -smoke and learn about my parents, was actually of more importance in my -mind than my projected trip to America, though I did not care to confess -so much to myself. -</p> -<p> -I went to Glasgow on the following day; the snow was on the roofs; the -students were noisily battling; the bells were cheerfully ringing as on -the day with whose description I open this history. I put up at the -“Saracen Head,” and next morning engaged a horse to ride to Mearns. In the -night there had come a change in the weather; I splashed through slush of -melted snow, and soaked in a constant rain, but objected none at all -because it gave me an excuse to keep up the collar of my cloak, and pull -the brim of my hat well forward on my face and so minimise the risk of -identification. -</p> -<p> -There is the lichened root of an ancient fallen saugh tree by the side of -Earn Water between Kirkillstane and Driepps that I cannot till this day -look on without a deep emotion. Walter's bairns have seen me sitting there -more than once, and unco solemn so that they have wondered, the cause -beyond their comprehension. It was there I drew up my horse to see the -house of Kirkillstane from the very spot where I had rambled with my -shabby stanzas, and felt the first throb of passion for a woman. -</p> -<p> -The country was about me familiar in every dyke and tree and eminence; -where the water sobbed in the pool it had the accent it had in my dreams; -there was a broken branch of ash that trailed above the fall, where I -myself had dragged it once in climbing. The smell of moss and rotten -leafage in the dripping rain, the eerie aspect of the moorland in the -mist, the call of lapwings—all was as I had left it. There was not -the most infinite difference to suggest that I had seen another world, and -lived another life, and become another than the boy that wandered here. -</p> -<p> -I rode along the river to find the smoke rising from my father's house—thank -God! but what the better was the outlaw son for that? Dare he darken again -the door he had disgraced, and disturb anew the hearts he had made sore? -</p> -<p> -I pray my worst enemy may never feel torn by warring dictates of the -spirit as I was that dreary afternoon by the side of Earn; I pray he may -never know the pang with which I decided that old events were best let -lie, and that I must be content with that brief glimpse of home before -setting forth again upon the roads of dubious fortune. Fortune! Did I not -wear just now the very Shoes of Fortune? They had come I knew not whence, -from what magic part and artisan of heathendom I could not even guess, to -my father's brother; they had covered the unresting foot of him; to me -they had brought their curse of discontent, and so in wearing them I -seemed doomed to be the unhappy rover, too. -</p> -<p> -The afternoon grew loud with wind as I sat my horse beside the increasing -water; I felt desolate beyond expression. -</p> -<p> -“Well, there must be an end of it some way!” I said bitterly, and I turned -to go. -</p> -<p> -The storm opposed me as I cantered over Whig-gitlaw, and won by Brooms, -and Bishops Offerance, and Kilree. Shepherds sheltered in the lee of -dykes, and women hurried out and shuttered windows. I saw sheep hastening -into the angles of the fields, and the wild white sea-gull beating across -the sky. The tempest thrashed on me as though it could not have me go too -soon from the country of my shame; I broke the horse to gallop, and fields -and dykes flew by like things demented. -</p> -<p> -Then of a sudden the beast grew lame; I searched for a stone or a cast -shoe, but neither ailed him, and plainly the ride to town that night was -impossible. Where the beast failed was within half a mile of Newton, and -at all hazards I decided I must make for the inn there. I felt there were -risks of recognition, but I must run them. I led the horse by a side path, -and reached the inn no sooner than the darkness that fell that night with -unusual suddenness. Lights were in the house, and the sound of rural -merriment in the kitchen, where farm lads drank twopenny ale, and sang. -</p> -<p> -A man—he proved to be the innkeeper—came to my summons with a -lantern in his hand, and held it up to see what wayfarer was this in such -a night. He saw as little of me as my hat and cloak could reveal, and I -saw, what greatly relieved me, that he was not John Warnock, who had -tenanted the inn when I left the country, but a new tenant and one unknown -to me. He helped me to unsaddle the horse, discovered with me that the -lameness would probably succumb to a night in the stall, and unburdened -himself to the questions every unknown traveller in the shire of Renfrew -may expect. -</p> -<p> -“You'll be frae Ayr, maybe, or Irvine?” - </p> -<p> -No, I was from neither; I was from Glasgow. -</p> -<p> -“Say ye sae, noo! Dod! it's nae nicht for travelling and nae wonder your -horse is lamed. Ye'll be for ower Fenwick way, noo, i' the mornin'?” Nor -was I for over Fenwick way in the morning. I was for Glasgow again. -</p> -<p> -He looked from the corners of his eyes at this oddity who travelled like a -shuttle in such weather. I was drenched with rain, and my spatter-dashes, -with which I had thought to make up in some degree for the inadequate -foot-wear of red shoes on horseback, were foul with clay. He presumed I -was for supper? -</p> -<p> -“No,” I answered; “I'm more in the humour for bed, and I will be obliged -if you send to my room for my clothes in a little so that they may be dry -by the time I start in the morning, and I shall set out at seven if by -that time my horse is recovered.” - </p> -<p> -I drank a tankard of ale for the good of the house, as we say, during a -few minutes in the parlour, making my dripping clothes and a headache the -excuse for refusing the proffered hospitality of the kitchen where the -ploughboys sang, and then went to the little cam-ceiled room where a hasty -bed had been made for me. -</p> -<p> -The world outside was full of warring winds and plashing rains, into which -the yokels went at last reluctantly, and when they were gone I fell -asleep, wakening once only for a moment when my wet clothes were being -taken from the room. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XLIV -</h2> -<h3> -WHEREIN THE SHOES OF FORTUNE BRING ME HOME -</h3> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> came down from my cam-ceiled room to a breakfast by candle-light in a -morning that was yet stormy. The landlord himself waited on me ('twas no -other than Ralph Craig that's now retired at the Whinnell), and he had a -score of apologies for his servant lass that had slept in too long, as he -clumsily set a table with his own hand, bringing in its equipment in -single pieces. -</p> -<p> -There was a nervousness in his manner that escaped me for a little in the -candle-light, but I saw it finally with some wonder, rueing I had agreed -to have breakfast here at all, and had not taken my horse, now recovered -of his lameness, and pushed on out of a neighbourhood where I had no right -in common sense to be. -</p> -<p> -If the meal was slow of coming it was hearty enough, though the host -embarrassed me too much with his attentions. He was clearly interested in -my personality. -</p> -<p> -“It's not the first time ye've been in the 'Red Lion,'” said he with an -assurance that made me stare. -</p> -<p> -“And what way should you be thinking that?” I asked, beginning to feel -more anxious about my position. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, jist a surmise o' my ain,” he answered. “Ye kent your way to the -stable in the dark, and then—and then there's whiles a twang o' the -Mearns in your speech.” - </p> -<p> -This was certainly coming too close! I hastened through my breakfast, paid -my lawing, and ordered out my horse. That took so long that I surmised the -man was wilfully detaining me. “This fellow has certainly some project to -my detriment,” I told myself, and as speedily as I might got into the -saddle. Then he said what left no doubt: -</p> -<p> -“They'll be gey glad to see ye at the Hazel Den, Mr. Greig.” - </p> -<p> -I felt a stound of anguish at the words that might in other circumstances -have been true but now were so remote from it. -</p> -<p> -“You seem to have a very gleg eye in your head,” I said, “and to have a -great interest in my own affairs.” - </p> -<p> -“No offence, Mr. Paul, no offence!” said he civilly, and indeed abashed. -“There's a lassie in the kitchen that was ance your mither's servant and -she kent your shoes.” - </p> -<p> -“I hope then you'll say nothing about my being here to any one—for -the sake of the servant's old mistress—that was my mother.” - </p> -<p> -“That <i>was</i> your mither!” he repeated. “And what for no' yet? She'll -be prood to see ye hame.” - </p> -<p> -“Is it well with them up there?” I eagerly asked. -</p> -<p> -I rode like fury home. The day was come before I reached the dykes of -Hazel Den. Smoke was rising from its chimneys; there was a homely sound of -lowing cattle, and a horse was saddling for my father who was preparing to -ride over to the inn at Newton to capture his errant son. He stood before -the door, a little more grey, a little more bent, a little more shrunken -than when I had seen him last. When I drew up before him with my hat in my -hand and leaped out of the saddle, he scarcely grasped at first the fact -that here was his son. -</p> -<p> -“Father! Father!” I cried to him, and he put his arms about my shoulders. -</p> -<p> -“You're there, Paul!” said he at last. “Come your ways in; your dear -mother is making your breakfast.” - </p> -<p> -I could not have had it otherwise—'twas the welcome I would have -chosen! -</p> -<p> -His eyes were brimming over; his voice was full of sobs and laughter as he -cried “Katrine! Katrine!” and my mother came to throw herself into my -arms. -</p> -<p> -My Shoes of Fortune had done me their one good office; they had brought me -home. -</p> -<p> -And now, my dear David, and Quentin, and Jean, my tale is ended, leaving -some folks who figured therein a space with their ultimate fortunes -unexplained. There is a tomb in Rome that marks the end of Prince Charles -Edward's wanderings and exploits, ambitions, follies, and passions. Of him -and of my countrywoman, Clementina Walkinshaw, you will by-and-by read -with understanding in your history-books. She died unhappy and disgraced, -yet I can never think of her but as young, beautiful, kind, the fool of -her affections, the plaything of Circumstance. Clancarty's after career I -never learned, but Thurot, not long after I escaped from him in Dunkerque, -plundered the town of Carrickfergus, in Ireland, and was overtaken by -three frigates when he was on his way back to France. His ships were -captured and he himself was killed. You have seen Dr. MacKellar here on a -visit from his native Badenoch; his pardon from the Government was all I -got, or all I wished for, from Mr. Pitt. “And where is Isobel Fortune?” - you will ask. You know her best as your grandmother, my wife. My Shoes of -Fortune, she will sometimes say, laughing, brought me first and last Miss -Fortune; indeed they did! I love them for it, but I love you, too, and -hope to keep you from the Greig's temptation, so they are to the fore no -longer. -</p> -<h3> -THE END -</h3> -<div style="height: 6em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - -***** This file should be named 43732-h.htm or 43732-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/3/43732/ - -Produced by David Widger - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Shoes of Fortune - -Author: Neil Munro - -Illustrator: A. S. Boyd - -Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43732] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger - - - - - - -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE - -HOW THEY BROUGHT TO MANHOOD LOVE ADVENTURE AND CONTENT AS ALSO INTO -DIVERS PERILS ON LAND AND SEA IN FOREIGN PARTS AND IN AN ALIEN ARMY PAUL -GREIG OF THE HAZEL DEN IN SCOTLAND ONE TIME PURSER OF 'THE SEVEN SISTERS' -BRIGANTINE OF HULL AND LATE LIEUTENANT IN THE REGIMENT D'AUVERGNE ALL -AS WRIT BY HIM AND NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME SET FORTH - -By Neil Munro - -Illustrated by A. S. Boyd - - - - - -THE SHOES OF FORTUNE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -NARRATES HOW I CAME TO QUIT THE STUDY OF LATIN AND THE LIKE, AND TAKE TO -HARD WORK IN A MOORLAND COUNTRY - -It is an odd thing, chance--the one element to baffle the logician and -make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the -sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the -incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this -day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase -and sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate -overlooked, sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh--a moody soured -man with a jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment -to office. I might have been that, or less, if it had not been for so -trifling a circumstance as the burning of an elderly woman's batch of -scones. Had Mistress Grant a more attentive eye to her Culross griddle, -what time the scones for her lodgers, breakfast were a-baking forty -years ago, I would never have fled furth my native land in a mortal -terror of the gallows: had her griddle, say, been higher on the -swee-chain by a link or two, Paul Greig would never have foregathered -with Dan Risk, the blackguard skipper of a notorious craft; nor pined -in a foreign jail; nor connived, unwitting, at a prince's murder; nor -marched the weary leagues of France and fought there on a beggar's -wage. And this is not all that hung that long-gone day upon a woman's -stair-head gossip to the neglect of her _cuisine_, for had this woman -been more diligent at her baking I had probably never seen my Isobel -with a lover's eye. - -Well, here's one who can rarely regret the past except that it is gone. -It was hard, it was cruel often; dangers the most curious and unexpected -beset me, and I got an insight to deep villainies whereof man may be -capable; yet on my word, if I had the parcelling out of a second life -for myself, I think I would have it not greatly differing from the -first, that seems in God's providence like to end in the parish where -it started, among kent and friendly folk. I would not swear to it, yet I -fancy I would have Lucky Grant again gossiping on her stair-head and -her scones burned black, that Mackellar, my fellow-lodger, might make me -once more, as he used to do, the instrument of his malcontent. - -I mind, as it were yesterday, his gloomy look at the platter that morn's -morning. "Here they are again!" cried he, "fired to a cinder; it's -always that with the old wife, or else a heart of dough. For a bawbee I -would throw them in her face." - -"Well, not so much as that." said I, "though it is mighty provoking." - -"I'm not thinking of myself," said he, always glooming at the platter -with his dark, wild Hielan' eye. "I'm not thinking of myself," said he, -"but it's something by way of an insult to you, that had to complain of -Sunday's haddocks." - -"Oh, as to them," quo' I, "they did brawly for me; 'twas you put your -share in your pocket and threw it away on the Green. Besides the scones -are not so bad as they look"--I broke one and ate; "they're owre good at -least for a hungry man like me to send back where they came from." - -His face got red. "What's that rubbish about the haddocks and the -Green?" said he. "You left me at my breakfast when you went to the Ram's -Horn Kirk." - -"And that's true, Jock," said I; "but I think I have made no' so bad a -guess. You were feared to affront the landlady by leaving her ancient -fish on the ashet, and you egged me on to do the grumbling." - -"Well, it's as sure as death, Paul," said he shamefacedly, "I hate to -vex a woman. And you're a thought wrong in your guess"--he laughed at -his own humour as he said it--"for when you were gone to your kirk I -transferred my share of the stinking fish to your empty plate." - -He jouked his head, but scarcely quick enough, for my Sallust caught him -on the ear. He replied with a volume of Buchanan the historian, the man -I like because he skelped the Lord's anointed, James the First, and for -a time there was war in Lucky Grant's parlour room, till I threw him -into the recess bed snibbed the door, and went abroad into the street -leaving my room-fellow for once to utter his own complaints. - -I went out with the itch of battle on me, and that was the consequence -of a woman's havering while scones burned, and likewise my undoing, -for the High Street when I came to it was in the yeasty ferment of -encountering hosts, their cries calling poor foolish Paul Greig like a -trumpet. - -It had been a night and morning of snow, though I and Mackellar, so high -in Lucky Grant's chamber in Crombie's Land, had not suspected it. The -dull drab streets, with their crazy, corbelled gable-ends, had been -transformed by a silent miracle of heaven into something new and clean; -where noisome gutters were wont to brim with slops there was the napkin -of the Lord. - -For ordinary I hated this town of my banishment; hated its tun-bellied -Virginian merchants, so constantly airing themselves upon the Tontine -piazza and seeming to suffer from prosperity as from a disease; and felt -no great love of its women--always so much the madame to a drab-coated -lad from the moorlands; suffered from its greed and stifled with the -stinks of it. "Gardyloo! Gardyloo! Gardyloo!" Faith! I hear that evening -slogan yet, and see the daunderers on the Rottenrow skurry like rats -into the closes to escape the cascades from the attic windows. And while -I think I loved learning (when it was not too ill to come by), and was -doing not so bad in my Humanities, the carven gateway of the college -in my two sessions of a scholar's fare never but scowled upon me as I -entered. - -But the snow that morning made of the city a place wherein it was good -to be young, warm-clad, and hardy. It silenced the customary traffic of -the street, it gave the morning bells a song of fairydom and the valleys -of dream; up by-ordinary tall and clean-cut rose the crow-stepped walls, -the chimney heads, and steeples, and I clean forgot my constant fancy -for the hill of Ballageich and the heather all about it. And war raged. -The students faced 'prentice lads and the journeymen of the crafts -with volleys of snowballs; the merchants in the little booths ran -out tremulous and vainly cried the watch. Charge was made and -counter-charge; the air was thick with missiles, and close at hand -the silver bells had their merry sweet chime high over the city of my -banishment drowned by the voices taunting and defiant. - -Merry was that day, but doleful was the end of it, for in the fight -I smote with a snowball one of the bailies of the burgh, who had come -waving his three-cocked hat with the pomp and confidence of an elected -man and ordering an instant stoppage of our war: he made more ado about -the dignity of his office than the breakage of his spectacles, and I was -haled before my masters, where I fear I was not so penitent as prudence -would advise. - -Two days later my father came in upon Dawson's cart to convoy me -home. He saw the Principal, he saw the regents of the college, and up, -somewhat clashed and melancholy, he climbed to my lodging. Mackellar -fled before his face as it had been the face of the Medusa. - -"Well, Paul," said my father, "it seems we made a mistake about your -birthday." - -"Did you?" said I, without meaning, for I knew he was ironical. - -"It would seem so, at any rate," said he, not looking my airt at all, -but sideways to the window and a tremor in his voice. "When your mother -packed your washing last Wednesday and slipped the siller I was not -supposed to see into a stocking-foot, she said, 'Now he's twenty and the -worst of it over.' Poor woman! she was sadly out of her reckoning. I'm -thinking I have here but a bairn of ten. You should still be at the -dominie's." - -"I was not altogether to blame, father," I cried. "The thing was an -accident." - -"Of course, of course," said he soothingly. "Was't ever otherwise when -the devil joggled an elbow? Whatever it was, accident or design, it's a -session lost. Pack up, Paul, my very young boy, and we'll e'en make our -way quietly from this place where they may ken us." - -He paid the landlady her lawing, with sixpence over for her -motherliness, whereat she was ready to greet, and he took an end of my -blue kist down the stairs with me, and over with it like a common porter -to the carrier's stance. - -A raw, raining day, and the rough highways over the hoof with slush of -melted snow, we were a chittering pair as we drove under the tilt of the -cart that came to the Mearns to meet us, and it was a dumb and solemn -home-coming for me. - -Not that I cared much myself, for my lawyership thus cracked in the -shell, as it were I had been often seized with the notion that six -feet of a moor-lander, in a lustre gown and a horse-hair wig and a blue -shalloon bag for the fees, was a wastry of good material. But it was -the dad and her at home I thought of, and could put my neck below the -cartwheel for distressing. I knew what he thought of as he sat in the -cart corner, for many a time he had told me his plans; and now they were -sadly marred. I was to get as much as I could from the prelections of -Professor Reid, work my way through the furrows of Van Eck, Van Muyden, -and the Pandects, then go to Utrecht or Groningen for the final baking, -and come back to the desk of Coghill and Sproat, Writers to the Signet, -in Spreull's Land of Edinburgh; run errands between that dusty hole and -the taverns of Salamander Land, where old Sproat (that was my father's -doer) held long sederunts with his clients, to write a thesis finally, -and graduate at the art of making black look--not altogether white -perhaps, but a kind of dirty grey. I had been even privileged to try a -sampling of the lawyer's life before I went to college, in the chambers -of MacGibbon of Lanark town, where I spent a summer (that had been more -profitably passed in my father's fields), backing letters, fair-copying -drafts of lease and process, and indexing the letter-book. The last I -hated least of all, for I could have a half-sheet of foolscap between -the pages, and under MacGibbon's very nose try my hand at something -sombre in the manner of the old ancient ballads of the Border. Doing -that same once, I gave a wild cry and up with my inky hand and shook it. -"Eh! eh!" cried MacGibbon, thinking I had gone mad. "What ails ye?" "He -struck me with his sword!" said I like a fool, not altogether out of my -frenzy; and then the snuffy old body came round the corner of the desk, -keeked into the letter-book where I should have been doing his work, and -saw that I was wasting good paper with clinking trash. "Oh, sirs! sirs! -I never misused a minute of my youth in the like of that!" said he, -sneering, and the sneer hurt. "No, I daresay not," I answered him. -"Perhaps ye never had the inclination--nor the art." - -I have gone through the world bound always to say what was in me, and -that has been my sore loss more than once; but to speak thus to an old -man, who had done me no ill beyond demonstrating the general world's -attitude to poetry and men of sentiment, was the blackest insolence. He -was well advised to send me home for a leathering at my father's hands. -And I got the leathering, too, though it was three months after. I had -been off in the interim upon a sloop ship out of Ayr. - -But here I am havering, and the tilted cart with my father and me in it -toiling on the mucky way through the Meams; and it has escaped couping -into the Earn at the ford, and it has landed us at the gate of home; and -in all that weary journey never a word, good or ill, from the man that -loved me and my mother before all else in a world he was well content -with. - -Mother was at the door; that daunted me. - -"Ye must be fair starving, Paul," quoth she softly with her hand on my -arm, and I daresay my face was blae with cold and chagrin. But my father -was not to let a disgrace well merited blow over just like that. - -"Here's our little Paul, Katrine," said he, and me towering a head or -two above the pair of them and a black down already on my face. "Here's -our little Paul. I hope you have not put by his bibs and daidlies, for -the wee man's not able to sup the good things of this life clean yet." - -And that was the last word of reproof I heard for my folly from my -father Quentin Greig. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MISS FORTUNE'S TRYST BY WATER OF EARN, AND HOW I MARRED THE SAME -UNWITTINGLY - -For the most part of a year I toiled and moiled like any crofter's son -on my father's poor estate, and dreary was the weird I had to dree, for -my being there at all was an advertisement to the countryside of what a -fool was young Paul Greig. "The Spoiled Horn" was what they called me in -the neighbourhood (I learned it in the taunt of a drunken packman), for -I had failed at being the spoon I was once designed for, and there was -not a ne'er-do-weel peasant nor a bankrupt portioner came craving some -benefit to my father's door but made up for his deference to the laird -by his free manner with the laird's son. The extra tenderness of my -mother (if that were possible) only served to swell my rebel heart, for -I knew she was but seeking to put me in a better conceit of myself, and -I found a place whereof I had before been fond exceedingly assume a new -complexion. The rain seemed to fall constantly that year, and the earth -in spring was sodden and sour. Hazel Den House appeared sunk in the -rotten leafage of the winter long after the lambs came home and the -snipe went drumming on the marsh, and the rookery in the holm plantation -was busy with scolding parents tutoring their young. A solemn house at -its best--it is so yet, sometimes I think, when my wife is on a jaunt -at her sister's and Walter's bairns are bedded--it was solemn beyond all -description that spring, and little the better for the coming of summer -weather. For then the trees about it, that gave it over long billows of -untimbered countryside an aspect of dark importance, by the same token -robbed it (as I thought then) of its few amenities. How it got the name -of Hazel Den I cannot tell, for autumn never browned a nut there. It was -wych elm and ash that screened Hazel Den House; the elms monstrous and -grotesque with knotty growths: when they were in their full leaf behind -the house they hid the valley of the Clyde and the Highland hills, that -at bleaker seasons gave us a sense of companionship with the wide world -beyond our infield of stunted crops. The ash towered to the number of -two score and three towards the south, shutting us off from the view -there, and working muckle harm to our kitchen-garden. Many a time my -father was for cutting them down, but mother forbade it, though her -syboes suffered from the shade and her roses grew leggy and unblooming. -"That," said she, "is the want of constant love: flowers are like -bairns; ye must be aye thinking of them kindly to make them thrive." And -indeed there might be something in the notion, for her apple-ringie -and Dutch Admiral, jonquils, gillyflowers, and peony-roses throve -marvellously, better then they did anywhere in the shire of Renfrew -while she lived and tended them and have never been quite the same since -she died, even with a paid gardener to look after them. - -A winter loud with storm, a spring with rain-rot in the fallen leaf, a -summer whose foliage but made our home more solitary than ever, a short -autumn of stifling heats--that was the year the Spoiled Horn tasted the -bitterness of life, the bitterness that comes from the want of an -aim (that is better than the best inheritance in kind) and from a -consciousness that the world mistrusts your ability. And to cap all, -there was no word about my returning to the prelections of Professor -Reid, for a reason which I could only guess at then, but learned later -was simply the want of money. - -My father comported himself to me as if I were doomed to fall into a -decline, as we say, demanding my avoidance of night airs, preaching the -Horatian virtues of a calm life in the fields, checking with a reddened -face and a half-frightened accent every turn of the conversation that -gave any alluring colour to travel or adventure. Notably he was dumb, -and so was my mother, upon the history of his family. He had had four -brothers: three of them I knew were dead and their tombs not in Mearns -kirkyard; one of them, Andrew, the youngest, still lived: I feared it -might be in a bedlam, by the avoidance they made of all reference to -him. I was fated, then, for Bedlam or a galloping consumption--so I -apprehended dolefully from the mystery of my folk; and the notion sent -me often rambling solitary over the autumn moors, cultivating a not -unpleasing melancholy and often stringing stanzas of a solemn complexion -that I cannot recall nowadays but with a laugh at my folly. - -A favourite walk of mine in these moods was along the Water of Earn, -where the river chattered and sang over rocks and shallows or plunged -thundering in its linn as it did ere I was born and shall do when I and -my story are forgotten. A pleasant place, and yet I nearly always had it -to myself alone. - -I should have had it always to myself but for one person--Isobel Fortune -from the Kirkillstane. She seemed as little pleased to meet me there -as I was to meet her, though we had been brought up in the same school -together; and when I would come suddenly round a bend of the road and -she appeared a hundred yards off, I noticed that she half stopped and -seemed, as it were, to swither whether she should not turn and avoid me. -It would not have surprised me had she done so, for, to tell the truth, -I was no very cheery object to contemplate upon a pleasant highway, with -the bawbee frown of a poetic gloom upon my countenance and the most curt -of salutations as I passed. What she did there all her lone so often -mildly puzzled me, till I concluded she was on a tryst with some young -gentleman of the neighbourhood; but as I never saw sign of him, I did -not think myself so much the marplot as to feel bound to take another -road for my rambling. I was all the surer 'twas a lover she was out to -meet, because she reddened guiltily each time that we encountered (a -fine and sudden charm to a countenance very striking and beautiful, as I -could not but observe even then when weightier affairs engaged me); but -it seemed I was all in error, for long after she maintained she was, -like myself, indulging a sentimental humour that she found go very well -in tune with the noise of Earn Water. - -As it was her habit to be busily reading when we thus met, I had little -doubt as to the ownership of a book that one afternoon I found on -the road not long after passing her. It was--of all things in the -world!--Hervey's "Meditations." - -"It's an odd graveyard taste for a lass of that stamp," thought I, -hastening back after her to restore the book, and when I came up to her -she was--not red this time, but wan to the very lips, and otherwise in -such confusion that she seemed to tremble upon her legs, "I think this -is yours, Isobel," says I: we were too well acquaint from childhood for -any address more formal. - -"Oh, thank you, Paul," said she hastily. "How stupid of me to lose it!" -She took it from me; her eye fell (for the first time, I felt sure) upon -the title of the volume, and she bit her lip in a vexation. I was all -the more convinced that her book was but a blind in her rambles, and -that there was a lover somewhere; and I think I must have relaxed my -silly black frown a little, and my proud melancholy permitted a faint -smile of amusement. The flag came to her face then. - -"Thank you," said she very dryly, and she left me in the middle of the -road, like a stirk. If it had been no more than that, I should have -thought it a girl's tantrum; but the wonder was to come, for before -I had taken three steps on my resumed way I heard her run after me. I -stopped, and she stopped, and the notion struck me like a rhyme of song -that there was something inexpressibly pleasant in her panting breath -and her heaving bosom, where a pebble brooch of shining red gleamed like -an eye between her breasts. - -"I'm not going to tell you a lie about it, Master Paul," she said, -almost like to cry; "I let the book fall on purpose." - -"Oh, I could have guessed as much as that, Isobel," said I, wondering -who in all the world the fellow was. Her sun-bonnet had fallen from her -head in her running, and hung at her back on its pink ribbons, and a -curl or two of her hair played truant upon her cheek and temple. It -seemed to me the young gentleman she was willing to let a book drop for -as a signal of her whereabouts was lucky enough. - -"Oh! you could have guessed!" she repeated, with a tone in which were -dumbfounderment and annoyance; "then I might have saved myself the -trouble." And off she went again, leaving me more the stirk than ever -and greatly struck at her remorse of conscience over a little sophistry -very pardonable in a lass caught gallivanting. When she was gone and her -frock was fluttering pink at the turn of the road, I was seized for the -first time with a notion that a girl like that some way set off, as we -say, or suited with, a fine landscape. - -Not five minutes later I met young David Borland of the Driepps, and -there--I told myself--the lover was revealed! He let on he was taking -a short cut for Polnoon, so I said neither buff nor sty as to Mistress -Isobel. - -The cool superiority of the gentleman, who had, to tell the truth, as -little in his head as I had in the heel of my shoe, somewhat galled me, -for it cried "Spoiled Horn!" as loud as if the taunt were bawled, so my -talk with him was short. There was but one topic in it to interest me. - -"Has the man with the scarred brow come yet?" he asked curiously. - -I did not understand. - -"Then he's not your length yet," said he, with the manifest gratification -of one who has the hanselling of great news. "Oh! I came on him this -morning outside a tavern in the Gorbals, bargaining loudly about a -saddle horse for Hazel Den. I'll warrant Hazel Den will get a start when -it sees him." - -I did not care to show young Borland much curiosity in his story, and so -it was just in the few words he gave it to me that I brought it home to -our supper-table. - -My father and mother looked at each other as if I had told them a -tragedy. The supper ended abruptly. The evening worship passed unusually -fast, my father reading the Book as one in a dream, and we went to our -beds nigh an hour before the customary time. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -OF THE COMING OF UNCLE ANDREW WITH A SCARRED FOREHEAD AND A BRASS-BOUND -CHEST, AND HOW I TOOK AN INFECTION - -It was a night--as often happens in the uplands of our shire in autumn -weather--of vast and brooding darkness: the world seemed to swound in -a breathless oven, and I had scarcely come to my chamber when thunder -broke wild upon the world and torrential rain began to fall. I did not -go to bed, but sat with my candle extinguished and watched the lightning -show the landscape as if it had been flooded by the gleam of moon and -star. - -Between the roar of the thunder and the blatter of the rain there were -intervals of an astounding stillness of an ominous suspense, and it -seemed oddly to me, as I sat in my room, that more than I was awake in -Hazel Den House. I felt sure my father and mother sat in their -room, still clad and whispering; it was but the illusion of a -moment--something felt by the instinct and not by reason--and then a -louder, nearer peal of thunder dispelled the notion, and I made to go to -bed. - -I stopped like one shot, with my waistcoat half undone. - -There was a sound of a horse's hoofs coming up the loan, with the beat -of them in mire sounding soft enough to make me shiver at the notion of -the rider's discomfort in that appalling night, and every now and then -the metal click of shoes, showing the animal over-reached himself in the -trot. - -The rider drew up at the front; a flash of the lightning and the wildest -thunder-peal of the night seemed to meet among our outhouses, and when -the roll of the thunder ceased I heard a violent rapping at the outer -door. - -The servants would be long ere they let this late visitor out of the -storm, I fancied, and I hurried down; but my father was there in the -hall before me, all dressed, as my curious intuition had informed me, -and his face strange and inscrutable in the light of a shaded candle. -He was making to open the door. My appearance seemed to startle him. He -paused, dubious and a trifle confused. - -"I thought you had been in bed long ago," said he, "and--" - -His sentence was not finished, for the horseman broke in upon it with a -masterful rataplan upon the oak, seemingly with a whip-head or a pistol -butt, and a cry, new to my ear and uncanny, rose through the beating -rain. - -With a sigh the most distressing I can mind of, my father seemed to -reconcile himself to some fate he would have warded off if he could. He -unbolted and threw back the door. - -Our visitor threw himself in upon us as if we held the keys of -paradise--a man like a rake for lankiness, as was manifest even through -the dripping wrap-rascal that he wore; bearded cheek and chin in a -fashion that must seem fiendish in our shaven country; with a wild and -angry eye, the Greig mole black on his temple, and an old scar livid -across his sunburned brow. He threw a three-cocked hat upon the floor -with a gesture of indolent possession. - -"Well, I'm damned!" cried he, "but this is a black welcome to one's -poor brother Andy," and scarcely looked upon my father standing with -the shaded candle in the wind. "What's to drink? Drink, do you hear that -Quentin? Drink--drink--d-r-i-n-k. A long strong drink too, and that's -telling you, and none of the whey that I'm hearing's running through -the Greigs now, that once was a reputable family of three bottles and a -rummer to top all." - -"Whist, whist, man!" pleaded father tremulously, all the man out of him -as he stood before this drunken apparition. - -"Whist I quo' he. Well stap me! do you no' ken the lean pup of the -litter?" hiccoughed our visitor, with a sort of sneer that made the -blood run to my head, and for the first time I felt the great, the -splendid joy of a good cause to fight for. - -"You're Andrew," said my father simply, putting his hand upon the man's -coat sleeve in a sympathy for his drenchen clothes. - -That kindly hand was jerked off rudely, an act as insolent as if he had -smitten his host upon the mouth: my heart leaped, and my fingers went at -his throat. I could have spread him out against the wall, though I knew -him now my uncle; I could have given him the rogue's quittance with a -black face and a protruding tongue. The candle fell from my father's -hand; the glass shade shattered; the hall of Hazel Den House was plunged -in darkness, and the rain drave in through the open door upon us three -struggling. - -"Let him go, Paul," whispered my father, who I knew was in terror of -frightening his wife, and he wrestled mightily with an arm of each of -us. - -Yet I could not let my uncle go, for with the other arm he held a knife, -and he would perhaps have died for it had not another light come on the -stair and my mother's voice risen in a pitiful cry. - -We fell asunder on a common impulse, and the drunken wanderer was the -first to speak. - -"Katrine," said he; "it's always the old tale with Andy, you see; -they must be misunderstanding me," and he bowed with a surprising -gentlemanliness that could have made me almost think him not the man -who had fouled our house with oaths and drawn a knife upon us in the -darkness. The blade of the same, by a trick of legerdemain, had gone up -the sleeve of his dripping coat. He seemed all at once sobered. He took -my good mother by the hand as she stood trembling and never to know -clearly upon what elements of murder she had come. - -"It is you, Andrew," said she, bravely smiling. "What a night to come -home in after twenty years! I'm wae to see you in such a plight. And -your horse?" said she again, lifting her candle and peering into the -darkness of the night. "I must cry up Sandy to stable your horse." - -I'll give my uncle the credit of a confusion at his own forgetfulness. - -"Good Lord! Katrine," said he, "if I did not clean forget the brute, a -fiddle-faced, spavined, spatter-dasher of a Gorbals mare, no' worth her -corn; but there's my bit kistie on her hump." - -The servant was round soon at the stabling of the mare, and my mother -was brewing something of what the gentleman had had too much already, -though she could not guess that; and out of the dripping night he -dragged in none of a rider's customary holsters but a little brass-bound -chest. - -"Yon night I set out for my fortune, Quentin," said he, "I did not think -I would come back with it a bulk so small as this; did you? It was the -sight of the quiet house and the thought of all it contained that made -me act like an idiot as I came in. Still, we must just take the world as -we get it, Quentin; and I knew I was sure of a warm welcome in the old -house, from one side of it if not from the other, for the sake of lang -syne. And this is your son, is it?" he went on, looking at my six feet -of indignation not yet dead "Split me if there's whey in that piece! You -near jammed my hawze that time! Your Uncle Andrew's hawze, boy. Are you -not ashamed of yourself?" - -"Not a bit," said I between my teeth; "I leave that to you." - -He smiled till his teeth shone white in his black beard, and "Lord!" -cried he, "I'm that glad I came. It was but the toss of a bawbee, when I -came to Leith last week, whether I should have a try at the old doocot, -or up Blue Peter again and off to the Indies. I hate ceiled rooms--they -mind me of the tomb; I'm out of practice at sitting doing nothing in -a parlour and saying grace before meat, and--I give you warning, -Quentin--I'll be damned if I drink milk for supper. It was the notion -of milk for supper and all that means that kept me from calling on -Katrine--and you--any sooner. But I'm glad I came to meet a lad of -spirit like young Andy here." - -"Not Andy," said my father. "Paul is his name." - -My uncle laughed. - -"That was ill done of you, Quentin," said he; "I think it was as little -as Katrine and you could do to have kept up the family name. I suppose -you reckoned to change the family fate when you made him Paul. H'm! You -must have forgotten that Paul the Apostle wandered most, and many ways -fared worst of all the rest. I haven't forgotten my Bible, you see, -Quentin." - -We were now in the parlour room; a servant lass was puffing up a -new-lighted fire; my uncle, with his head in the shade, had his -greatcoat off, and stood revealed in shabby garments that had once been -most genteel; and his brass-bound fortune, that he seemed averse from -parting with a moment, was at his feet. Getting no answer to what he had -said of the disciples, he looked from one to the other of us and laughed -slyly. - -"Take off your boots, Andy," said my father. - -"And where have you been since--since--the Plantations?" - -"Stow that, Quentin!" cried my uncle, with an oath and his eye on me. -"What Plantations are you blethering about? And where have I been? Ask -me rather where have I not been. It makes me dizzy even to think of it: -with rotten Jesuits and Pagan gentlemen; with France and Spain, and -with filthy Lascars, lying Greeks, Eboe slaves, stinking niggers, and -slit-eyed Chinese! Oh! I tell you I've seen things in twenty years. And -places, too: this Scotland, with its infernal rain and its grey fields -and its rags, looks like a nightmare to me yet. You may be sure I'll be -out of it pretty fast again." - -"Poor Scotland!" said father ambiguously. - -There must be people in the world who are oddly affected by the names -of places, peoples, things that have never come within their own -experience. Till this day the name of Barbadoes influences me like a -story of adventure; and when my Uncle Andrew--lank, bearded, drenched -with storm, stood in our parlour glibly hinting at illimitable travel, -I lost my anger with the tipsy wretch and felt a curious glow go through -my being. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -I COME UPON THE RED SHOES - -Uncle Andrew settled for the remainder of his time into our domestic -world at Hazel Den as if his place had been kept warm for him since ever -he went away. For the remainder of his time, I say, because he was to be -in the clods of Mearns kirkyard before the hips and haws were off the -hedges; and I think I someway saw his doom in his ghastly countenance -the first morning he sat at our breakfast table, contrite over his folly -of the night before, as you could see, but carrying off the situation -with worldly _sang froid_, and even showing signs of some affection for -my father. - -His character may be put in two words--he was a lovable rogue; his -tipsy bitterness to the goodman his brother may be explained almost -as briefly: he had had a notion of Katrine Oliver, and had courted her -before ever she met my father, and he had lost her affection through -his own folly. Judging from what I would have felt myself in the like -circumstances, his bitterest punishment for a life ill spent must have -been to see Katrine Oliver's pitying kindness to him now, and the sight -of that douce and loving couple finding their happiness in each other -must have been a constant sermon to him upon repentance. - -Yet, to tell the truth, I fear my Uncle Andrew was not constituted -for repentance or remorse. He had slain a man honestly once, and had -suffered the Plantations, but beyond that (and even that included, as -he must ever insist) he had been guilty of no mean act in all his roving -career. Follies--vices--extremes--ay, a thousand of them; but for most -his conscience never pricked him. On the contrary, he would narrate with -gusto the manifold jeopardies his own follies brought him into; his -wan face, nigh the colour of a shroud, would flush, and his eyes dance -humorously as he shocked the table when we sat at meals, our spoons -suspended in the agitation created by his wonderful histories. - -Kept to a moderation with the bottle, and with the constant influence of -my mother, who used to feed the rogue on vegetables and, unknown to him, -load his broth with simples as a cure for his craving, Uncle Andrew was, -all things considered, an acquisition to Hazel Den House. Speaking for -myself, he brought the element of the unusual and the unexpected to a -place where routine had made me sick of my own society; and though -the man in his sober senses knew he was dying on his feet, he was the -cheeriest person of our company sequestered so remote in the moors. It -was a lesson in resignation to see yon merry eyes loweing like lamps -over his tombstone cheeks, and hear him crack a joke in the flushed and -heaving interludes of his cough. - -It was to me he ever directed the most sensational of his extraordinary -memorials. My father did not like it; I saw it in his eye. It was -apparent to me that a remonstrance often hung on the tip of his tongue. -He would invent ridiculous and unnecessary tasks to keep me out of -reach of that alluring _raconteur_, and nobody saw it plainer than Uncle -Andrew, who but laughed with the mischievousness of a boy. - -Well, the long and short of it was just what Quentin Greig feared--the -Spoiled Horn finally smit with a hunger for the road of the Greigs. -For three hundred years--we could go no further back, because of a bend -sinister--nine out of ten of that family had travelled that road, that -leads so often to a kistful of sailor's shells and a death with boots -on. It was a fate in the blood, like the black hair of us, the mole on -the temple, and the trick of irony. It was that ailment my father -had feared for me; it was that kept the household silent upon missing -brothers (they were dead, my uncle told me, in Trincomalee, and in -Jamaica, and a yard in the Borough of London); it was that inspired the -notion of a lawyer's life for Paul Greig. - -Just when I was in the deepmost confidence of Uncle Andrew, who was by -then confined to his bed and suffering the treatment of Doctor Clews, -his stories stopped abruptly and he began to lament the wastry of his -life. If the thing had been better acted I might have been impressed, -for our follies never look just like what they are till we are finally -on the broad of our backs and the Fell Sergeant's step is at the door. -But it was not well acted; and when the wicked Uncle Andrew groaned over -the very ploys he had a week ago exulted in, I recognised some of my -mother's commonest sentiments in his sideways sermon. She had got her -quondam Andy, for lang syne's sake, to help her keep her son at home; -and he was doing his best, poor man, but a trifle late in the day. - -"Uncle Andrew," said I, never heeding his homily, "tell me what came of -the pock-marked tobacco planter when you and the negro lay in the swamp -for him?" - -He groaned hopelessly. - -"A rotten tale, Paul, my lad," said he, never looking me in the face; "I -rue the day I was mixed up in that affair." - -"But it was a good story so far as it went, no further gone than -Wednesday last," I protested. - -He laughed at that, and for half an hour he put off the new man of -my mother's bidding, and we were on the old naughty footing again. He -concluded by bequeathing to me for the twentieth time the brass-bound -chest, and its contents that we had never seen nor could guess the -nature of. But now for the first time he let me know what I might expect -there. - -"It's not what Quentin might consider much," said he, "for there's not a -guelder of money in it, no, nor so little as a groat, for as the world's -divided ye can't have both the money and the dance, and I was aye the -fellow for the dance. There's scarcely anything in it, Paul, but the -trash--ahem!--that is the very fitting reward of a life like mine." - -"And still and on, uncle," said I, "it is a very good tale about the -pock-marked man." - -"Ah! You're there, Greig!" cried the rogue, laughing till his hoast came -to nigh choke him. "Well, the kist's yours, anyway, such as it is; and -there's but one thing in it--to be strict, a pair--that I set any store -by as worth leaving to my nephew." - -"It ought to be spurs," said I, "to drive me out of this lamentable -countryside and to where a fellow might be doing something worth while." - -"Eh!" he cried, "you're no' so far off it, for it's a pair of shoes." - -"A pair of shoes!" I repeated, half inclined to think that Uncle Andrew -was doited at last. - -"A pair of shoes, and perhaps in some need of the cobbler, for I have -worn them a good deal since I got them in Madras. They were not new when -I got them, but by the look of them they're not a day older now. They -have got me out of some unco' plights in different parts of the world, -for all that the man who sold them to me at a bonny penny called them -the Shoes of Sorrow; and so far as I ken, the virtue's in them yet." - -"A doomed man's whim," thought I, and professed myself vastly gratified -by his gift. - -He died next morning. It was Candlemas Day. He went out at last like a -crusie wanting oil. In the morning he had sat up in bed to sup -porridge that, following a practice I had made before his reminiscences -concluded, I had taken in to him myself. Tremendous long and lean the -upper part of him looked, and the cicatrice upon his brow made his -ghastliness the more appalling. When he sat against the bolsters he -could see through the window into the holm field, and, as it happened, -what was there but a wild young roe-deer driven down from some higher -part of the country by stress of winter weather, and a couple of mongrel -dogs keeping him at bay in an angle of the fail dyke. - -I have seldom seen a man more vastly moved than Uncle Andrew looking -upon this tragedy of the wilds. He gasped as though his chest would -crack, a sweat burst on his face. - -"That's--that's the end o't, Paul, my lad!" said he. "Yonder's your -roving uncle, and the tykes have got him cornered at last. No more the -heather and the brae; no more--no more--no more--" - -Such a change came on him that I ran and cried my mother ben, and she -and father were soon at his bedside. - -It was to her he turned his eyes, that had seen so much of the spacious -world of men and women and all their multifarious interests, great and -little. They shone with a light of memory and affection, so that I got -there and then a glimpse of the Uncle Andrew of innocence and the Uncle -Andrew who might have been if fate had had it otherwise. - -He put out his hand and took hers, and said goodbye. - -"The hounds have me, Katrine," said he. "I'm at the fail dyke corner." - -"I'll go out and whistle them off, uncle," said I, fancying it all a -doited man's illusion, though the look of death was on him; but I stood -rebuked in the frank gaze he gave me of a fuller comprehension than -mine, though he answered me not. - -And then he took my father's hand in his other, and to him too he said -farewell. - -"You're there, Quentin!" said he; "and Katrine--Katrine--Katrine chose -by far the better man. God be merciful to poor Andy Greig, a sinner." -And these were his last words. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -A SPOILED TRYST, AND OTHER THINGS THAT FOLLOWED ON THE OPENING OF THE -CHEST - -The funeral was over before I cared to examine my bequest, and then I -went to it with some reluctance, for if a pair of shoes was the chief -contents of the brass-bound chest, there was like to be little else -except the melancholy relics of a botched life. It lay where he left it -on the night he came--under the foot of his bed--and when I lifted the -lid I felt as if I was spying upon a man through a keyhole. Yet, when I -came more minutely to examine the contents, I was disappointed that at -the first reflection nothing was there half so pregnant as his own most -casual tale to rouse in me the pleasant excitation of romance. - -A bairn's caul--that sailor's trophy that has kept many a mariner -from drowning only that he might die a less pleasant death; a broken -handcuff, whose meaning I cared not to guess at; a pop or pistol; a -chap-book of country ballads, that possibly solaced his exile from -the land they were mostly written about; the batters of a Bible, with -nothing between them but his name in his mother's hand on the inside of -the board; a traveller's log or itinerary, covering a period of fifteen -years, extremely minute in its detail and well written; a broken -sixpence and the pair of shoes. - -The broken sixpence moved my mother to tears, for she had had the other -half twenty years ago, before Andrew Greig grew ne'er-do-weel; the shoes -failed to rouse in her or in my father any interest whatever. If they -could have guessed it, they would have taken them there and then and -sunk them in the deepest linn of Earn. - -There was little kenspeckle about them saving their colour, which was -a dull dark red. They were of the most excellent material, with a great -deal of fine sewing thrown away upon them in parts where it seems to -me their endurance was in no wise benefited, and an odd pair of silver -buckles gave at your second glance a foreign look to them. - -I put them on at the first opportunity: they fitted me as if my feet had -been moulded to them, and I sat down to the study of the log-book. The -afternoon passed, the dusk came. I lit a candle, and at midnight, when I -reached the year of my uncle's escape from the Jesuits of Spain, I came -to myself gasping, to find the house in an alarm, and that lanthorns -were out about Earn Water looking for me, while all the time I was -_perdu_ in the dead uncle's chamber in the baron's wing, as we called -it, of Hazel Den House. I pretended I had fallen asleep; it was the -first and the last time I lied to my mother, and something told me she -knew I was deceiving her. She looked at the red shoes on my feet. - -"Ugly brogues!" said she; "it's a wonder to me you would put them on -your feet. You don't know who has worn them." - -"They were Uncle Andy's," said I, complacently looking at them, for they -fitted like a glove; the colour was hardly noticeable in the evening, -and the buckles were most becoming. - -"Ay! and many a one before him, I'm sure," said she, with distaste in -her tone, "I don't think them nice at all, Paul," and she shuddered a -little. - -"That's but a freit," said I; "but it's not likely I'll wear much of -such a legacy." I went up and left them in the chest, and took the diary -into my own room and read Uncle Andrew's marvellous adventures in the -trade of rover till it was broad daylight. - -When I had come to the conclusion it seemed as if I had been in the -delirium of a fever, so tempestuous and unreal was that memoir of a wild -loose life. The sea was there, buffeting among the pages in rollers and -breakers; there were the chronicles of a hundred ports, with boozing -kens and raving lazarettos in them; far out isles and cays in nameless -oceans, and dozing lagoons below tropic skies; a great clash of weapons -and a bewildering deal of political intrigue in every part of the -Continent from Calais to Constantinople. My uncle's narrative in life -had not hinted at one half the marvel of his career, and I read his -pages with a rapture, as one hears a noble piece of music, fascinated to -the uttermost, and finding no moral at the end beyond that the world -we most of us live in with innocence and ignorance is a crust over -tremendous depths. And then I burned the book. It went up in a grey -smoke on the top of the fire that I had kept going all night for its -perusal; and the thing was no sooner done than I regretted it, though -the act was dictated by the seemly enough idea that its contents would -only distress my parents if they came to their knowledge. - -For days--for weeks--for a season--I went about, my head humming with -Uncle Andy's voice recounting the most stirring of his adventures as -narrated in the log-book. I had been infected by almost his first words -the night he came to Hazel Den House, and made a magic chant of the mere -names of foreign peoples; now I was fevered indeed; and when I put on -the red shoes (as I did of an evening, impelled by some dandyism foreign -to my nature hitherto), they were like the seven-league boots for magic, -as they set my imagination into every harbour Uncle Andy had frequented -and made me a guest at every inn where he had met his boon companions. - -I was wearing them the next time I went on my excursion to Earn side and -there met Isobel Fortune, who had kept away from the place since I had -smiled at my discovery of her tryst with Hervey's "Meditations." She -came upon me unexpectedly, when the gentility of my shoes and the -recollection of all that they had borne of manliness was making me walk -along the road with a very high head and an unusually jaunty step. - -She seemed struck as she came near, with her face displaying her -confusion, and it seemed to me she was a new woman altogether--at least, -not the Isobel I had been at school with and seen with an indifferent -eye grow up like myself from pinafores. It seemed suddenly scandalous -that the like of her should have any correspondence with so ill-suited a -lover as David Borland of the Dreipps. - -For the first time (except for the unhappy introduction of Hervey's -"Meditations") we stopped to speak to each other. She was the most -bewitching mixture of smiles and blushes, and stammering now and then, -and vastly eager to be pleasant to me, and thinks I, "My lass, you're -keen on trysting when it's with Borland." - -The very thought of the fellow in that connection made me angry in her -interest; and with a mischievous intention of spoiling his sport if he -hovered, as I fancied, in the neighbourhood, or at least of delaying his -happiness as long as I could, I kept the conversation going very blithe -indeed. - -She had a laugh, low and brief, and above all sincere, which is the -great thing in laughter, that was more pleasant to hear than the sound -of Earn in its tinkling hollow among the ferns: it surprised me that she -should favour my studied and stupid jocosities with it so frequently. -Here was appreciation! I took, in twenty minutes, a better conceit of -myself, than the folks at home could have given me in the twelve -months since I left the college, and I'll swear to this date 'twas the -consciousness of my fancy shoes that put me in such good key. - -She saw my glance to them at last complacently, and pretended herself to -notice them for the first time. - -She smiled--little hollows came near the corners of her lips; of -a sudden I minded having once kissed Mistress Grant's niece in a -stair-head frolic in Glasgow High Street, and the experience had been -pleasant enough. - -"They're very nice," said Isobel. - -"They're all that," said I, gazing boldly at her dimples. She flushed -and drew in her lips. - -"No, no!" I cried,"'twas not them I was thinking of; but their -neighbours. I never saw you had dimples before." - -At that she was redder than ever. - -"I could not help that, Paul," said she; "they have been always there, -and you are getting very audacious. I was thinking of your new shoes." - -"How do you know they're new?" - -"I could tell," said she, "by the sound of your footstep before you came -in sight." - -"It might not have been my footstep," said I, and at that she was taken -back. - -"That is true," said she, hasty to correct herself. "I only thought it -might be your footstep, as you are often this way." - -"It might as readily have been David Borland's. I have seen him about -here." I watched her as closely as I dared: had her face changed, I -would have felt it like a blow. - -"Anyway, they're very nice, your new shoes," said she, with a marvellous -composure that betrayed nothing. - -"They were uncle's legacy," I explained, "and had travelled far in many -ways about the world; far--and fast." - -"And still they don't seem to be in such a hurry as your old ones," said -she, with a mischievous air. Then she hastened to cover what might seem -a rudeness. "Indeed, they're very handsome, Paul, and become you very -much, and--and--and--" - -"They're called the Shoes of Sorrow; that's the name my uncle had for -them," said I, to help her to her own relief. - -"Indeed, and I hope it may be no more than a by-name," she said gravely. - -The day had the first rumour of spring: green shoots thrust among the -bare bushes on the river side, and the smell of new turned soil came -from a field where a plough had been feiring; above us the sky was blue, -in the north the land was pleasantly curved against silver clouds. - -And one small bird began to pipe in a clump of willows, that showered a -dust of gold upon us when the little breeze came among the branches. I -looked at all and I looked at Isobel Fortune, so trim and bonny, and it -seemed there and then good to be a man and my fortunes all to try. - -"Sorrow here or sorrow there, Isobel," I said, "they are the shoes to -take me away sooner or later from Hazel Den." - -She caught my meaning with astounding quickness. - -"Are you in earnest?" she asked soberly, and I thought she could not -have been more vexed had it been David Borland. - -"Another year of this." said I, looking at the vacant land, "would break -my heart." - -"Indeed, Paul, and I thought Earn-side was never so sweet as now," said -she, vexed like, as if she was defending a companion. - -"That is true, too," said I, smiling into the very depths of her large -dark eyes, where I saw a pair of Spoiled Horns as plainly as if I looked -in sunny weather into Linn of Earn. "That is true, too. I have never -been better pleased with it than to-day. But what in the world's to -keep me? It's all bye with the college--at which I'm but middling well -pleased; it's all bye with the law--for which thanks to Heaven! and, -though they seem to think otherwise at Hazel Den House, I don't believe -I've the cut of a man to spend his life among rowting cattle and dour -clay land." - -"I daresay not; it's true," said she stammeringly, with one fast glance -that saw me from the buckles of my red shoes to the underlids of my -eyes. For some reason or other she refused to look higher, and the -distant landscape seemed to have charmed her after that. She drummed -with a toe upon the path; she bit her nether lip; upon my word, the lass -had tears at her eyes! I had, plainly, kept her long enough from her -lover. "Well, it's a fine evening; I must be going," said I stupidly, -making a show at parting, and an ugly sense of annoyance with David -Borland stirring in my heart. "But it will rain before morning," said -she, making to go too, but always looking to the hump of Dungoyne that -bars the way to the Hielands. "I think, after all, Master Paul, I liked -the old shoon better than the new ones." - -"Do you say so?" I asked, astonished at the irrelevance that came -rapidly from her lips, as if she must cry it out or choke. "And how -comes that?" - -"Just because--" said she, and never a word more, like a woman, nor fair -good-e'en nor fair good-day to ye, but off she went, and I was the stirk -again. - -I looked after her till she went out of sight, wondering what had been -the cause of her tirravee. She fair ran at the last, as if eager to get -out of my sight; and when she disappeared over the brae that rose from -the river-side there was a sense of deprivation within me. I was clean -gone in love and over the lugs in it with Isobel Fortune. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -MY DEED ON THE MOOR OF MEARNS - - -Next day I shot David Borland of the Driepps. - -It was the seventh of March, the first day I heard the laverock that -season, and it sang like to burst its heart above the spot where the -lad fell with a cry among the rushes. It rose from somewhere in our -neighbourhood, aspiring to the heavens, but chained to earth by its -own song; and even yet I can recall the eerie influence of that strange -conjunction of sin and song as I stood knee-deep in the tangle of the -moor with the pistol smoking in my hand. - -To go up to the victim of my jealousy as he lay ungainly on the ground, -his writhing over, was an ordeal I could not face. - -"Davie, Davie!" I cried to him over the thirty paces; but I got no reply -from yon among the rushes. I tried to wet my cracking lips with a tongue -like a cork, and "Davie, oh, Davie, are ye badly hurt?" I cried, in a -voice I must have borrowed from ancient time when my forefathers fought -with the forest terrors. - -I listened and I better listened, but Borland still lay there at last, a -thing insensate like a gangrel's pack, and in all the dreary land there -was nothing living but the laverock and me. - -The bird was high--a spot upon the blue; his song, I am sure, was the -song of his kind, that has charmed lovers in summer fields from old -time--a melody rapturous, a message like the message of the evening -star that God no more fondly loves than that small warbler in desert -places--and yet there and then it deaved me like a cry from hell. No -heavenly message had the lark for me: he flew aloft there into the -invisible, to tell of this deed of mine among the rushes. Not God alone -would hear him tell his story: they might hear it, I knew, in shepherds' -cots; they might hear it in an old house bowered dark among trees; the -solitary witness of my crime might spread the hue and cry about the -shire; already the law might be on the road for young Paul Greig. - -I seemed to listen a thousand years to that telltale in the air; for a -thousand years I scanned the blue for him in vain, yet when I looked at -my pistol again the barrel was still warm. - -It was the first time I had handled such a weapon. - -A senseless tool it seemed, and yet the crooking of a finger made it -the confederate of hate; though it, with its duty done, relapsed into a -heedless silence, I, that owned it for my instrument, must be wailing in -my breast, torn head to foot with thunders of remorse. - -I raised the hammer, ran a thumb along the flint, seeing something -fiendish in the jaws that held it; I lifted up the prime-cap, and it -seemed some miracle of Satan that the dust I had put there in the peace -of my room that morning in Hazel Den should have disappeared. "Truefitt" -on the lock; a silver shield and an initial graven on it; a butt with a -dragon's grin that had seemed ridiculous before, and now seemed to cry -"Cain!" Lord! that an instrument like this in an unpractised hand should -cut off all young Borland's earthly task, end his toil with plough and -harrow, his laugh and story. - -I looked again at the shapeless thing at thirty paces. "It cannot be," -I told myself; and I cried again, in the Scots that must make him cease -his joke, "I ken ye're only lettin' on, Davie. Get up oot o' that and -we'll cry quits." - -But there was no movement; there was no sound; the tell-tale had the -heavens to himself. - -All the poltroon in me came a-top and dragged my better man round about, -let fall the pistol from my nerveless fingers and drove me away from -that place. It was not the gallows I thought of (though that too was -sometimes in my mind), but of the frightful responsibility I had made my -burden, to send a human man before his Maker without a preparation, and -my bullet hole upon his brow or breast, to tell for ever through the -roaring ring of all eternity that this was the work of Paul Greig. The -rushes of the moor hissed me as I ran blindly through them; the tufts of -heather over Whiggit Knowe caught at me to stop me; the laverock seemed -to follow overhead, a sergeant of provost determined on his victim. - -My feet took me, not home to the home that was mine no more, but to -Earn-side, where I felt the water crying in its linn would drown the -sound of the noisy laverock; and the familiar scene would blot for a -space the ugly sight from my eyes. I leant at the side to lave my brow, -and could scarce believe that this haggard countenance I saw look up at -me from the innocent waters was the Spoiled Horn who had been reflected -in Isobel's eyes. Over and over again I wet my lips and bathed my -temples; I washed my hands, and there was on the right forefinger a mark -I bear to this day where the trigger guard of the pistol in the moments -of my agony had cut me to the bone without my knowing it. - -When my face looked less like clay and my plans were clear, I rose and -went home. - -My father and mother were just sitting to supper, and I joined them. -They talked of a cousin to be married in Drymen at Michaelmas, of an -income in the leg of our mare, of Sabbath's sermon, of things that were -as far from me as I from heaven, and I heard them as one in a dream, -far-off. What I was hearing most of the time was the laverock setting -the hue and cry of Paul Greig's crime around the world and up to the -Throne itself, and what I was seeing was the vacant moor, now in the -dusk, and a lad's remains awaiting their discovery. The victuals choked -me as I pretended to eat; my father noticed nothing, my mother gave a -glance, and a fright was in her face. - -I went up to my room and searched a desk for some verses that had been -gathering there in my twelve months' degradation, and particularly for -one no more than a day old with Isobel Fortune for its theme. It was -all bye with that! I was bound to be glancing at some of the lines as -I furiously tore them up and threw them out of the window into the -bleaching-green; and oh! but the black sorrows and glooms that were -there recorded seemed a mockery in the light of this my terrible -experience. They went by the window, every scrap: then I felt cut off -from every innocent day of my youth, the past clean gone from me for -ever. - -The evening worship came. - -_"If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost ends of -the sea."_ - -My father, peering close at the Book through his spectacles, gave out -the words as if he stood upon a pulpit, deliberate--too deliberate for -Cain his son, that sat with his back to the window shading his face from -a mother's eyes. They were always on me, her eyes, throughout that last -service; they searched me like a torch in a pit, and wae, wae was her -face! - -When we came to pray and knelt upon the floor, I felt as through my shut -eyes that hers were on me even then, exceeding sad and troubled. They -followed me like that when I went up, as they were to think, to my bed, -and I was sitting at my window in the dark half an hour later when -she came up after me. She had never done the like before since I was a -child. - -"Are ye bedded, Paul?" she whispered in the dark. - -I could not answer her in words, but I stood to my feet and lit a -candle, and she saw that I was dressed. - -"What ails ye to-night?" she asked trembling. "I'm going away, mother," I -answered. "There's something wrong?" she queried in great distress. - -"There's all that!" I confessed. "It'll be time for you to ken about -that in the morning, but I must be off this night." - -"Oh, Paul, Paul!" she cried, "I did not like to see you going out in -these shoes this afternoon, and I ken't that something ailed ye." - -"The road to hell suits one shoe as well's another," said I bitterly; -"where the sorrow lies is that ye never saw me go out with a different -heart. Mother, mother, the worst ye can guess is no' so bad as the worst -ye've yet to hear of your son." - -I was in a storm of roaring emotions, yet her next words startled me. - -"It's Isobel Fortune of the Kirkillstane," she said, trying hard to -smile with a wan face in the candle light. - -"It _was_--poor dear! Am I not in torment when I think that she must -know it?" - -"I thought it was that that ailed ye, Paul," said she, as if she were -relieved. "Look; I got this a little ago on the bleaching-green--this -scrap of paper in your write and her name upon it. Maybe I should not -have read it." And she handed me part of that ardent ballad I had torn -less than an hour ago. - -I held it in the flame of her candle till it was gone, our hands all -trembling, and "That's the end appointed for Paul Greig," said I. - -"Oh, Paul, Paul, it cannot be so unco'!" she cried in terror, and -clutched me at the arm. - -"It is--it is the worst." - -"And yet--and yet--you're my son, Paul. Tell me." - -She looked so like a reed in the winter wind, so frail and little and -shivering in my room, that I dared not tell her there and then. I said -it was better that both father and she should hear my tale together, and -we went into the room where already he was bedded but not asleep. He sat -up staring at our entry, a night-cowl tassel dangling on his brow. - -"There's a man dead--" I began, when he checked me with a shout. - -"Stop, stop!" he cried, and put my mother in a chair. "I have heard the -tale before with my brother Andy, and the end was not for women's ears." - -"I must know, Quentin," said his wife, blanched to the lip but -determined, and then he put his arm about her waist. It seemed like a -second murder to wrench those tender hearts that loved me, but the thing -was bound to do. - -I poured out my tale at one breath and in one sentence, and when it -ended my mother was in her swound. - -"Oh, Paul!" cried the poor man, his face like a clout; "black was the -day she gave you birth!" - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -QUENTIN GREIG LOSES A SON, AND I SET OUT WITH A HORSE AS ALL MY FORTUNE - -He pushed me from the chamber as I had been a stranger intruding, and I -went to the trance door and looked out at the stretching moorlands lit -by an enormous moon that rose over Cathkin Braes, and an immensity of -stars. For the first time in all my life I realised the heedlessness of -nature in human affairs the most momentous. For the moon swung up serene -beyond expression; the stars winked merrily: a late bird glid among the -bushes and perched momentarily on a bough of ash to pipe briefly almost -with the passion of the spring. But not the heedlessness of nature -influenced me so much as the barren prospect of the world that the moon -and stars revealed. There was no one out there in those deep spaces of -darkness I could claim as friend or familiar. Where was I to go? What -was I to do? Only the beginnings of schemes came to me--schemes -of concealment and disguise, of surrender even--but the last to be -dismissed as soon as it occurred to me, for how could I leave this house -the bitter bequest of a memory of the gallows-tree? - -Only the beginnings, I say, for every scheme ran tilt against the -obvious truth that I was not only without affection or regard out there, -but without as much as a crown of money to purchase the semblance of -either. - -I could not have stood very long there when my father came out, his face -like clay, and aged miraculously, and beckoned me to the parlour. - -"Your mother--my wife," said he, "is very ill, and I am sending for the -doctor. The horse is yoking. There is another woman in Driepps who--God -help her!--will be no better this night, but I wish in truth her case -was ours, and that it was you who lay among the heather." - -He began pacing up and down the floor, his eyes bent, his hands -continually wringing, his heart bursting, as it were, with sighs and the -dry sobs of the utmost wretchedness. As for me, I must have been clean -gyte (as the saying goes), for my attention was mostly taken up with the -tassel of his nightcap that bobbed grotesquely on his brow. I had not -seen it since, as a child, I used to share his room. - -"What! what!" he cried at last piteously, "have ye never a word to say? -Are ye dumb?" He ran at me and caught me by the collar of the coat and -tried to shake me in an anger, but I felt it no more than I had been a -stone. - -"What did ye do it for? What in heaven's name did ye quarrel on?" - -"It was--it was about a girl," I said, reddening even at that momentous -hour to speak of such a thing to him. - -"A girl!" he repeated, tossing up his hands. "Keep us! Hoo lang are ye -oot o' daidlies? Well! well!" he went on, subduing himself and prepared -to listen. I wished the tassel had been any other colour than crimson, -and hung fairer on the middle of his forehead; it seemed to fascinate -me. And he, belike, forgot that I was there, for he thought, I knew, -continually of his wife, and he would stop his feverish pacing on the -floor, and hearken for a sound from the room where she was quartered -with the maid. I made no answer. - -"Well, well!" he cried again fiercely, turning upon me. "Out with it; -out with the whole hellish transaction, man!" - -And then I told him in detail what before my mother I had told in a -brief abstract. - -How that I had met young Borland coming down the breast of the brae at -Kirkillstane last night and-- - -"Last night!" he cried. "Are ye havering? I saw ye go to your bed at -ten, and your boots were in the kitchen." - -It was so, I confessed. I had gone to my room but not to bed, and had -slipped out by the window when the house was still, with Uncle Andrew's -shoes. - -"Oh, lad!" he cried, "it's Andy's shoes you stand in sure enough, for -I have seen him twenty years syne in the plight that you are in this -night. Merciful heaven! what dark blotch is in the history of this -family of ours that it must ever be embroiled in crimes of passion and -come continually to broken ends of fortune? I have lived stark honest -and humble, fearing the Lord; the covenants have I kept, and still and -on it seems I must beget a child of the Evil One!" - -And how, going out thus under cover of night, I had meant to indulge a -boyish fancy by seeing the light of Isobel Fortune's window. And how, -coming to the Kirkillstane, I met David Borland leaving the house, -whistling cheerfully. - -"Oh, Paul, Paul!" cried my father, "I mind of you an infant on her knees -that's ben there, and it might have been but yesterday your greeting in -the night wakened me to mourn and ponder on your fate." And how Borland, -divining my object there, and himself new out triumphant from that -cheerful house of many daughters, made his contempt for the Spoiled Horn -too apparent. - -"You walked to the trough-stane when you were a twelvemonth old," said -my father with the irrelevance of great grief, as if he recalled a dead -son's infancy. - -And how, maddened by some irony of mine, he had struck a blow upon -my chest, and so brought my challenge to something more serious and -gentlemanly than a squalid brawl with fists upon the highway. - -I stopped my story; it seemed useless to be telling it to one so much -preoccupied with the thought of the woman he loved. His lips were open, -his eyes were constant on the door. - -But "Well! Well!" he cried again eagerly, and I resumed. - -Of how I had come home, and crept into my guilty chamber and lay the -long night through, torn by grief and anger, jealousy and distress. And -how evading the others of the household as best I could that day, I -had in the afternoon at the hour appointed gone out with Uncle Andrew's -pistol. - -My father moaned--a waefu' sound! - -And found young Borland up on the moor before me with such another -weapon, his face red byordinary, his hands and voice trembling with -passion. - -"Poor lad, poor lad!" my father cried blurting the sentiment as he had -been a bairn. - -How we tossed a coin to decide which should be the first to fire, and -Borland had won the toss, and gone to the other end of our twenty paces -with vulgar menaces and "Spoiled Horn" the sweetest of his epithets. - -"Poor lad! he but tried to bluster down the inward voice that told him -the folly o't," said father. - -And how Borland had fired first. The air was damp. The sound was like a -slamming door. - -"The door of hope shut up for him, poor dear," cried father. - -And how he missed me in his trepidation that made his hand that held the -pistol so tremble that I saw the muzzle quiver even at twenty paces. - -"And then you shot him deliberately I M cried my father. - -"No, no," I cried at that, indignant. "I aimed without a glance along -the barrel: the flint flashed; the prime missed fire, and I was not -sorry, but Borland cried 'Spoiled Horn' braggingly, and I cocked again -as fast as I could, and blindly jerked the trigger. I never thought of -striking him. He fell with one loud cry among the rushes." - -"Murder, by God!" cried my father, and he relapsed into a chair, his -body all convulsed with horror. - -I had told him all this as if I had been in a delirium, or as if it were -a tale out of a book, and it was only when I saw him writhing in his -chair and the tassel shaking over his eyes, I minded that the murderer -was me. I made for the door; up rose my father quickly and asked me what -I meant to do. - -I confessed I neither knew nor cared. - -"You must thole your assize," said he, and just as he said it the -clatter of the mare's hoofs sounded on the causey of the yard, and he -must have minded suddenly for what object she was saddled there. - -"No, no," said he, "you must flee the country. What right have you to -make it any worse for her?" - -"I have not a crown in my pocket," said I. - -"And I have less," he answered quickly. "Where are you going? No, no, -don't tell me that; I'm not to know. There's the mare saddled, I meant -Sandy to send the doctor from the Mearns, but you can do that. Bid him -come here as fast as he can." - -"And must I come back with the mare?" I asked, reckless what he might -say to that, though my life depended on it. - -"For the sake of your mother," he answered, "I would rather never set -eyes on you or the beast again; she's the last transaction between us, -Paul Greig." And then he burst in tears, with his arms about my neck. - -[Illustration: 067] - -Ten minutes later I was on the mare, and galloping, for all her ailing -leg, from Hazel Den as if it were my own loweing conscience. I roused -Dr. Clews at the Mearns, and gave him my father's message. "Man," said -he, holding his chamber light up to my face, "man, ye're as gash as a -ghaist yersel'." - -"I may well be that," said I, and off I set, with some of Uncle Andy's -old experience in my mind, upon a ride across broad Scotland. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -I RIDE BY NIGHT ACROSS SCOTLAND, AND MEET A MARINER WITH A GLEED EYE - -That night was like the day, with a full moon shining. The next -afternoon I rode into Borrowstounness, my horse done out and myself sore -from head to heel; and never in all my life have I seen a place with a -more unwelcome aspect, for the streets were over the hoof in mud; the -natives directed me in an accent like a tinker's whine; the Firth of -Forth was wrapped in a haar or fog that too closely put me in mind of my -prospects. But I had no right to be too particular, and in the course of -an hour I had sold the mare for five pounds to a man of much Christian -profession, who would not give a farthing more on the plea that she was -likely stolen. - -The five pounds and the clothes I stood in were my fortune: it did not -seem very much, if it was to take me out of the reach of the long arm of -the doomster; and thinking of the doomster I minded of the mole upon -my brow, that was the most kenspeckle thing about me in the event of a -description going about the country, so the first thing I bought with -my fortune was a pair of scissors. Going into a pend close in one of the -vennels beside the quay, I clipped off the hair upon the mole and felt a -little safer. I was coming out of the close, pouching the scissors, when -a man of sea-going aspect, with high boots and a tarpaulin hat, stumbled -against me and damned my awkwardness. - -"You filthy hog," said I, exasperated at such manners, for he was -himself to blame for the encounter; "how dare you speak to me like -that?" He was a man of the middle height, sturdy on his bowed legs in -spite of the drink obvious in his face and speech, and he had a roving -gleed black eye. I had never clapped gaze on him in all my life before. - -"Is that the way ye speak to Dan Risk, ye swab?" said he, ludicrously -affecting a dignity that ill suited with his hiccough. "What's the good -of me being a skipper if every linen-draper out of Fife can cut into my -quarter on my own deck?" - -"This is no' your quarter-deck, man, if ye were sober enough to ken it," -said I; "and I'm no linen-draper from Fife or anywhere else." - -And then the brute, with his hands thrust to the depth of his pockets, -staggered me as if he had done it with a blow of his fist. - -"No," said he, with a very cunning tone, "ye're no linen-draper perhaps, -but--ye're maybe no sae decent a man, young Greig." - -It was impossible for me to conceal even from this tipsy rogue my -astonishment and alarm at this. It seemed to me the devil himself must -be leagued against me in the cause of justice. A cold sweat came on my -face and the palms of my hands. I opened my mouth and meant to give him -the lie but I found I dare not do so in the presence of what seemed a -miracle of heaven. - -"How do you ken my name's Greig?" I asked at the last. - -"Fine that," he made answer, with a grin; "and there's mony an odd thing -else I ken." - -"Well, it's no matter," said I, preparing to quit him, but in great fear -of what the upshot might be; "I'm for off, anyway." - -By this time it was obvious that he was not so drunk as I thought him at -first, and that in temper and tact he was my match even with the -glass in him. "Do ye ken what I would be doing if I was you?" said he -seemingly determined not to let me depart like that, for he took a step -or two after me. - -I made no reply, but quickened my pace and after me he came, lurching -and catching at my arm; and I mind to this day the roll of him gave me -the impression of a crab. - -"If it's money ye want-" I said at the end of my patience. - -"Curse your money!" he cried, pretending to spit the insult from his -mouth. "Curse your money; but if I was you, and a weel-kent skipper like -Dan Risk--like Dan Risk of the _Seven Sisters_--made up to me out of a -redeeculous good nature and nothing else, I would gladly go and splice -the rope with him in the nearest ken." - -"Go and drink with yourself, man," I cried; "there's the money for a -chappin of ate, and I'll forego my share of it." - -I could have done nothing better calculated to infuriate him. As I held -out the coin on the palm of my hand he struck it up with an oath and -it rolled into the syver. His face flamed till the neck of him seemed a -round of seasoned beef. - -"By the Rock o' Bass!" he roared, "I would clap ye in jyle for less than -your lousy groat." - -Ah, then, it was in vain I had put the breadth of Scotland between me -and that corpse among the rushes: my heart struggled a moment, and sank -as if it had been drowned in bilge. I turned on the man what must have -been a gallows face, and he laughed, and, gaining his drunken good -nature again he hooked me by the arm, and before my senses were my own -again he was leading me down the street and to the harbour. I had never -a word to say. - -The port, as I tell, was swathed in the haar of the east, out of which -tall masts rose dim like phantom spears; the clumsy tarred bulwarks -loomed like walls along the quay, and the neighbourhood was noisy with -voices that seemed unnatural coming out of the haze. Mariners were -hanging about the sheds, and a low tavern belched others out to keep -them company. Risk made for the tavern, and at that I baulked. - -"Oh, come on!" said he. "If I'm no' mistaken Dan Risk's the very man -ye're in the need of. You're wanting out of Scotland, are ye no'?" - -"More than that; I'm wanting out of myself," said I, but that seemed -beyond him. - -"Come in anyway, and we'll talk it over." - -That he might help me out of the country seemed possible if he was not, -as I feared at first, some agent of the law and merely playing with me, -so I entered the tavern with him. - -"Two gills to the coffin-room, Mrs. Clerihew," he cried to the woman in -the kitchen. "And slippy aboot it, if ye please, for my mate here's been -drinking buttermilk all his life, and ye can tell't in his face." - -"I would rather have some meat," said I. - -"Humph!" quo' he, looking at my breeches. "A lang ride!" He ordered the -food at my mentioning, and made no fuss about drinking my share of the -spirits as well as his own, while I ate with a hunger that was soon -appeased, for my eye, as the saying goes, was iller to satisfy than my -appetite. - -He sat on the other side of the table in the little room that doubtless -fairly deserved the name it got of coffin, for many a man, I'm thinking, -was buried there in his evil habits; and I wondered what was to be next. - -"To come to the bit," said the at last, looking hard into the bottom of -his tankard in a way that was a plain invitation to buy more for him. -"To come to the bit, you're wanting out of the country?" - -"It's true," said I; "but how do you know? And how do you know my name, -for I never saw you to my knowledge in all my life before?" - -"So much the worse for you; I'm rale weel liked by them that kens me. -What would ye give for a passage to Nova Scotia?" - -"It's a long way," said I, beginning to see a little clearer. - -"Ay," said he, "but I've seen a gey lang rope too, and a man danglin' at -the end of it." - -Again my face betrayed me. I made no answer. - -"I ken all aboot it," he went on. "Your name's Greig; ye're from a -place called the Hazel Den at the other side o' the country; ye've been -sailing wi' a stiff breeze on the quarter all night, and the clime -o' auld Scotland's one that doesna suit your health, eh? What's the -amount?" said he, and he looked towards my pocket "Could we no' mak' it -halfers?" - -"Five pounds," said I, and at that he looked strangely dashed. - -"Five pounds," he repeated incredulously. "It seems to have been hardly -worth the while." And then his face changed, as if a new thought had -struck him. He leaned over the table and whispered with the infernal -tone of a confederate, "Doused his glim, eh?" winking with his hale eye, -so that I could not but shiver at him, as at the touch of slime. - -"I don't understand," said I. - -"Do ye no'?" said he, with a sneer; "for a Greig ye're mighty slow in -the uptak'. The plain English o' that, then, is that ye've killed a man. -A trifle like that ance happened to a Greig afore." - -"What's your name?" I demanded. - -"Am I no tellin' ye?" said he shortly. "It's just Daniel Risk; and where -could you get a better? Perhaps ye were thinkin' aboot swappin' names -wi' me; and by the Bass, it's Dan's family name would suit very weel -your present position," and the scoundrel laughed at his own humour. - -"I asked because I was frightened it might be Mahoun," said I. "It seems -gey hard to have ridden through mire for a night and a day, and land -where ye started from at the beginning. And how do ye ken all that?" - -"Oh!" he said, "kennin's my trade, if ye want to know. And whatever way -I ken, ye needna think I'm the fellow to make much of a sang aboot it. -Still and on, the thing's frowned doon on in this country, though in -places I've been it would be coonted to your credit. I'll take anither -gill; and if ye ask me, I would drench the butter-milk wi' something -o' the same, for the look o' ye sittin' there's enough to gie me the -waterbrash. Mrs. Clerihew--here!" He rapped loudly on the table, and -the drink coming in I was compelled again to see him soak himself at my -expense. He reverted to my passage from the country, and "Five pounds is -little enough for it," said he; "but ye might be eking it oot by partly -working your passage." - -"I didn't say I was going either to Nova Scotia or with you," said I, -"and I think I could make a better bargain elsewhere." - -"So could I, maybe," said he, fuming of spirits till I felt sick. "And -it's time I was doin' something for the good of my country." With that -he rose to his feet with a look of great moral resolution, and made as -if for the door, but by this time I understood him better. - -"Sit down, ye muckle hash!" said I, and I stood over him with a most -threatening aspect. - -"By the Lord!" said he, "that's a Greig anyway!" - -"Ay!" said I. "ye seem to ken the breed. Can I get another vessel abroad -besides yours?" - -"Ye can not," said he, with a promptness I expected, "unless ye wait on -the _Sea Pyat_. She leaves for Jamaica next Thursday; and there's no' -a spark of the Christian in the skipper o' her, one Macallum from -Greenock." - -For the space of ten minutes I pondered over the situation. Undoubtedly -I was in a hole. This brute had me in his power so long as my feet were -on Scottish land, and he knew it. At sea he might have me in his power -too, but against that there was one precaution I could take, and I made -up my mind. - -"I'll give you four pounds--half at leaving the quay and the other half -when ye land me." - -"My conscience wadna' aloo me," protested the rogue; but the greed was -in his face, and at last he struck my thumb on the bargain, and when -he did that I think I felt as much remorse at the transaction as at the -crime from whose punishment I fled. - -"Now," said I, "tell me how you knew me and heard about--about--" - -"About what?" said he, with an affected surprise. "Let me tell ye this, -Mr. Greig, or whatever your name may be, that Dan Risk is too much of -the gentleman to have any recollection of any unpleasantness ye may -mention, now that he has made the bargain wi' ye. I ken naethin' -aboot ye, if ye please: whether your name's Greig or Mackay or Habbie -Henderson, it's new to me, only ye're a likely lad for a purser's berth -in the _Seven Sisters._" And refusing to say another word on the topic -that so interested me, he took me down to the ship's side, where I found -the _Seven Sisters_ was a brigantine out of Hull, sadly in the want of -tar upon her timbers and her mainmast so decayed and worm-eaten that it -sounded boss when I struck it with my knuckles in the by-going. - -Risk saw me doing it. He gave an ugly smile. - -"What do ye think o' her? said he, showing me down the companion. - -"Mighty little," I told him straight. "I'm from the moors," said I, "but -I've had my feet on a sloop of Ayr before now; and by the look of this -craft I would say she has been beeking in the sun idle till she rotted -down to the garboard strake." - -He gave his gleed eye a turn and vented some appalling oaths, and wound -up with the insult I might expect--namely, that drowning was not my -portion. - -"There was some brag a little ago of your being a gentleman," said I, -convinced that this blackguard was to be treated to his own fare if he -was to be got on with at all. "There's not much of a gentleman in the -like of that." - -At this he was taken aback. "Well," said he, "don't you cross my temper; -if my temper's crossed it's gey hard to keep up gentility. The ship's -sound enough, or she wouldn't be half a dizen times round the Horn and -as weel kent in Halifax as one o' their ain dories. She's guid enough -for your--for our business, if ye please, Mr. Greig; and here's my mate -Murchison." - -Another tarry-breeks of no more attractive aspect came down the -companion. - -"Here's a new hand for ye," said the skipper humorously. - -The mate looked me up and down with some contempt from his own height of -little more than five feet four, and peeled an oilskin coat off him. -I was clad myself in a good green coat and breeches with fine wool -rig-and-fur hose, and the buckled red shoon and the cock of my hat I -daresay gave me the look of some importance in tarry-breeks' eyes. -At any rate, he did not take Risk's word for my identity, but at last -touched his hat with awkward fingers after relinquishing his look of -contempt. - -"Mr. Jamieson?" said he questioningly, and the skipper by this time was -searching in a locker for a bottle of rum he said he had there for the -signing of agreements. "Mr. Jamieson," said the mate, "I'm glad to see -ye. The money's no; enough for the job, and that's letting ye know. It's -all right for Dan here wi' neither wife nor family, but--" - -"What's that, ye idiot?" cried Risk turning about in alarm. "Do ye tak' -this callan for the owner? I tell't ye he was a new hand." - -"A hand!" repeated Murchison, aback and dubious. - -"Jist that; he's the purser." - -Murchison laughed. "That's a new ornament on the auld randy; he'll be -to keep his keekers on the manifest, like?" said he as one who cracks a -good joke. But still and on he scanned me with a suspicious eye, and -it was not till Risk had taken him aside later in the day and seemingly -explained, that he was ready to meet me with equanimity. By that time -I had paid the skipper his two guineas, for the last of his crew was on -board, every man Jack of them as full as the Baltic, and staggering at -the coamings of the hatches not yet down, until I thought half of them -would finally land in the hold. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -WHEREIN THE "SEVEN SISTERS" ACTS STRANGELY, AND I SIT WAITING FOR THE -MANACLES - -An air of westerly wind had risen after meridian and the haar was gone, -so that when I stood at the break of the poop as the brigantine crept -into the channel and flung out billows of canvas while her drunken -seamen quarrelled and bawled high on the spars, I saw, as I imagined, -the last of Scotland in a pleasant evening glow. My heart sank. It was -not a departure like this I had many a time anticipated when I listened -to Uncle Andys tales; here was I with blood on my hands and a guinea to -start my life in a foreign country; that was not the worst of it either, -for far more distress was in my mind at the reflection that I travelled -with a man who was in my secret. At first I was afraid to go near him -once our ropes were off the pawls, and I, as it were, was altogether -his, but to my surprise there could be no pleasanter man than Risk when -he had the wash of water under his rotten barque. He was not only a -better-mannered man to myself, but he became, in half an hour of the -Firth breeze, as sober as a judge. But for the roving gleed eye, and -what I had seen of him on shore, Captain Dan Risk might have passed for -a model of all the virtues. He called me Mr. Greig and once or twice -(but I stopped that) Young Hazel Den, with no irony in the appellation, -and he was at pains to make his mate see that I was one to be treated -with some respect, proffering me at our first meal together (for I was -to eat in the cuddy,) the first of everything on the table, and even -making some excuses for the roughness of the viands. And I could see -that whatever his qualities of heart might be, he was a good seaman, a -thing to be told in ten minutes by a skipper's step on a deck and his -grip of the rail, and his word of command. Those drunken barnacles of -his seemed to be men with the stuff of manly deeds in them, when at his -word they dashed aloft among the canvas canopy to fist the bulging sail -and haul on clew or gasket, or when they clung on greasy ropes and at a -gesture of his hand heaved cheerily with that "yo-ho" that is the chant -of all the oceans where keels run. - -Murchison was a saturnine, silent man, from whom little was to be got of -edification. The crew numbered eight men, one of them a black deaf -mute, with the name of Antonio Ferdinando, who cooked in a galley little -larger than the Hazel Den kennel. It was apparent that no two of them -had ever met before, such a career of flux and change is the seaman's, -and except one of them, a fellow Horn, who was foremast man, a more -villainous gang I never set eyes on before or since. If Risk had raked -the ports of Scotland with a fine bone comb for vermin, he could not -have brought together a more unpleasant-looking crew. No more than two -of them brought a bag on board, and so ragged was their appearance that -I felt ashamed to air my own good clothes on the same deck with them. - -Fortunately it seemed I had nothing to do with them nor they with me; -all that was ordered for the eking out of my passage, as Risk had -said, was to copy the manifest, and I had no sooner set to that than I -discerned it was a gowk's job just given me to keep me in employ in the -cabin. Whatever his reason, the man did not want me about his deck. I -saw that in an interlude in my writing, when I came up from his airless -den to learn what progress old rotten-beams made under all her canvas. - -It had declined to a mere handful of wind, and the vessel scarcely -moved, seemed indeed steadfast among the sea-birds that swooped and -wheeled and cried around her. I saw the sun just drop among blood-red -clouds over Stirling, and on the shore of Fife its pleasant glow. The -sea swung flat and oily, running to its ebb, and lapping discernibly -upon a recluse promontory of land with a stronghold on it. - -"What do you call yon, Horn?" I said to the seaman I have before -mentioned, who leaned upon the taffrail and watched the vessel's greasy -wake, and I pointed to the gloomy buildings on the shore. - -"Blackness Castle," said he, and he had time to tell no more, for the -skipper bawled upon him for a shirking dog, and ordered the flemishing -of some ropes loose upon the forward deck. Nor was I exempt from -his zeal for the industry of other folks for he came up to me with -a suspicious look, as if he feared I had been hearing news from his -foremast man, and "How goes the manifest, Mr. Greig?" says he. - -"Oh, brawly, brawly!" said I, determined to begin with Captain Daniel -Risk as I meant to end. - -He grew purple, but restrained himself with an effort. "This is not -an Ayr sloop, Mr. Greig," said he; "and when orders go on the _Seven -Sisters_ I like to see them implemented. You must understand that -there's a pressing need for your clerking, or I would not be so soon -putting you at it." - -"At this rate of sailing," says I, "I'll have time to copy some hundred -manifests between here and Nova Scotia." - -"Perhaps you'll permit me to be the best judge of that," he replied in -the English he ever assumed with his dignity, and seeing there was no -more for it, I went back to my quill. - -It was little wonder, in all the circumstances, that I fell asleep over -my task with my head upon the cabin table whereon I wrote, and it was -still early in the night when I crawled into the narrow bunk that the -skipper had earlier indicated as mine. - -Weariness mastered my body, but my mind still roamed; the bunk became -a coffin quicklimed, and the murderer of David Borland lying in it; the -laverock cried across Earn Water and the moors of Renfrew with the voice -of Daniel Risk. And yet the strange thing was that I knew I slept and -dreamed, and more than once I made effort, and dragged myself into -wakefulness from the horrors of my nightmare. At these times there was -nothing to hear but the plop of little waves against the side of the -ship, a tread on deck, and the call of the watch. - -I had fallen into a sleep more profound than any that had yet blessed my -hard couch, when I was suddenly wakened by a busy clatter on the deck, -the shriek of ill-greased davits, the squeak of blocks, and the fall of -a small-boat into the water. Another odd sound puzzled me: but for the -probability that we were out over Bass I could have sworn it was the -murmur of a stream running upon a gravelled shore. A stream--heavens! -There could be no doubt about it now; we were somewhere close in shore, -and the _Seven Sisters_ was lying to. The brigantine stopped in her -voyage where no stoppage should be; a small boat plying to land in -the middle of the night; come! here was something out of the ordinary, -surely, on a vessel seaward bound. I had dreamt of the gallows and of -Dan Risk as an informer. Was it a wonder that there should flash into my -mind the conviction of my betrayal? What was more likely than that the -skipper, secure of my brace of guineas, was selling me to the garrison -of Blackness? - -I clad myself hurriedly and crept cautiously up the companion ladder, -and found myself in overwhelming darkness, only made the more appalling -and strange because the vessel's lights were all extinguished. Silence -large and brooding lay upon the _Seven Sisters_ as she lay in that -obscuring haar that had fallen again; she might be Charon's craft -pausing mid-way on the cursed stream, and waiting for the ferry cry upon -the shore of Time. We were still in the estuary or firth, to judge -by the bickering burn and the odors off-shore, above all the odour of -rotting brake; and we rode at anchor, for her bows were up-water to -the wind and tide, and above me, in the darkness, I could hear the -idle sails faintly flapping in the breeze and the reef-points all -tap-tapping. I seemed to have the deck alone, but for one figure at the -stern; I went back, and found that it was Horn. - -"Where are we?" I asked, relieved to find there the only man I could -trust on board the ship. - -"A little below Blackness," said he shortly with a dissatisfied tone. - -"I did not know we were to stop here," said I, wondering if he knew that -I was doomed. - -"Neither did I," said he, peering into the void of night. "And whit's -mair, I wish I could guess the reason o' oor stopping. The skipper's -been ashore mair nor ance wi' the lang-boat forward there, and I'm sent -back here to keep an e'e on lord kens what except it be yersel'." - -"Are ye indeed?" said I, exceedingly vexed. "Then I ken too well, Horn, -the reason for the stoppage. You are to keep your eye on a man who's -being bargained for with the hangman." - -"I would rather ken naithin' about that," said he, "and onyway I think -ye're mistaken. Here they're comin' back again." - -Two or three small boats were coming down on us out of the darkness; not -that I could see them, but that I heard their oars in muffled rowlocks. - -"If they want me," said I sorrowfully, "they can find me down below," -and back I went and sat me in the cabin, prepared for the manacles. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE STRUGGLE IN THE CABIN, AND AN EERIE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER - -The place stank with bilge and the odour of an ill-trimmed lamp smoking -from a beam; the fragments of the skipper's supper were on the table, -with a broken quadrant; rats scurried and squealed in the bulkheads, -and one stared at me from an open locker, where lay a rum-bottle, -while beetles and slaters travelled along the timbers. But these -things compelled my attention less than the skylights that were masked -internally by pieces of canvas nailed roughly on them. They were not -so earlier in the evening; it must have been done after I had gone to -sleep, and what could be the object? That puzzled me extremely, for it -must have been the same hand that had extinguished all the deck and mast -lights, and though black was my crime darkness was unnecessary to my -betrayal. - -I waited with a heart like lead. - -I heard the boats swung up on the davits, the squeak of the falls, the -tread of the seamen, the voice of Risk in an unusually low tone. In the -bows in a little I heard the windlass click and the chains rasp in the -hawse-holes; we were lifting the anchor. - -For a moment hope possessed me. If we were weighing anchor then my -arrest was not imminent at least; but that consolation lasted briefly -when I thought of the numerous alternatives to imprisonment in -Blackness. - -We were under weigh again; there was a heel to port, and a more rapid -plop of the waters along the carvel planks. And then Risk and his mate -came down. - -I have seldom seen a man more dashed than the skipper when he saw me -sitting waiting on him, clothed and silent. His face grew livid; round -he turned to Murchison and hurried him with oaths to come and clap eyes -on this sea-clerk. I looked for the officer behind them, but they were -alone, and at that I thought more cheerfully I might have been mistaken -about the night's curious proceedings. - -"Anything wrang?" said Risk, affecting nonchalance now that his spate of -oaths was by, and he pulled the rum out of the locker and helped himself -and his mate to a swingeing caulker. - -"Oh, nothing at all," said I, "at least nothing that I know of, Captain -Risk. And are we--are we--at Halifax already?" - -"What do you mean?" said he. And then he looked at me closely, put out -the hand unoccupied by his glass and ran an insolent dirty finger over -my new-clipped mole. "Greig, Greig," said he, "Greig to a hair! I would -have the wee shears to that again, for its growin'." - -"You're a very noticing man," said I, striking down his hand no way -gently, and remembering that he had seen my scissors when I emerged from -the Borrowstouness close after my own barbering. - -"I'm all that," he replied, with a laugh, and all the time Murchison, -the mate, sat mopping his greasy face with a rag, as one after hard -work, and looked on us with wonder at what we meant. "I'm all that," -he replied, "the hair aff the mole and the horse-hair on your creased -breeches wad hae tauld ony ane that ye had ridden in a hurry and clipped -in a fricht o' discovery." - -"Oh, oh!" I cried, "and that's what goes to the makin' o' a Mahoun!" - -"Jist that," said he, throwing himself on a seat with an easy -indifference meant to conceal his vanity. "Jist observation and a knack -o' puttin' twa and twa thegether. Did ye think the skipper o' the _Seven -Sisters_ was fleein' over Scotland at the tail o' your horse?" - -"The Greig mole's weel kent, surely," said I, astonished and chagrined. -"I jalouse it's notorious through my Uncle Andy?" - -Risk laughed at that. "Oh, ay!" said he, "when Andy Greig girned at ye -it was ill to miss seein' his mole. Man, ye might as well wear your name -on the front o' your hat as gae aboot wi' a mole like that--and--and -that pair o' shoes." - -The blood ran to my face at this further revelation of his astuteness. -It seemed, then, I carried my identity head and foot, and it was no -wonder a halfeyed man like Risk should so easily discover me. I looked -down at my feet, and sure enough, when I thought of it now, it would -have been a stupid man who, having seen these kenspeckle shoes once, -would ever forget them. - -"My uncle seems to have given me good introductions," said I. "They -struck mysel' as rather dandy for a ship," broke in the mate, at last -coming on something he could understand. - -"And did _you_ know Andy Greig, too?" said I. "Andy Greig," he replied. -"Not me!" - -"Then, by God, ye hinna sailed muckle aboot the warld!" said the -skipper. "I hae seen thae shoes in the four quarters and aye in a good -companionship." - -"They appear yet to retain that virtue," said I, unable to resist the -irony. "And, by the way, Captain Risk, now that we have discussed the -shoes and my mole, what have we been waiting for at Blackness?" - -His face grew black with annoyance. - -"What's that to you?" he cried. - -"Oh, I don't know," I answered indifferently. "I thought that now ye had -got the best part o' your passage money ye might hae been thinking to do -something for your country again. They tell me it's a jail in there, -and it might suggest itself to you as providing a good opportunity for -getting rid of a very indifferent purser." - -It is one thing I can remember to the man's credit that this innuendo -of treachery seemed to make him frantic. He dashed the rum-glass at -his feet and struck at me with a fist like a jigot of mutton, and I had -barely time to step back and counter. He threw himself at me as he had -been a cat; I closed and flung my arms about him with a wrestler's grip, -and bent him back upon the table edge, where I might have broken his -spine but for Murchison's interference. The mate called loudly for -assistance; footsteps pounded on the cuddy-stair, and down came Horn. -Between them they drew us apart, and while Murchison clung to his -captain, and plied him into quietness with a fresh glass of grog, Horn -thrust me not unkindly out into the night, and with no unwillingness on -my part. - -[Illustration 091] - -It was the hour of dawn, and the haar was gone. - -There was something in that chill grey monotone of sky and sea that -filled me with a very passion of melancholy. The wind had risen, and the -billows ran frothing from the east; enormous clouds hung over the land -behind us, so that it seemed to roll with smoke from the eternal fires. -Out from that reeking pit of my remorse--that lost Scotland where now -perhaps there still lay lying among the rushes, with the pees-weep's cry -above it, the thing from which I flew, our ship went fast, blown upon -the frothy billows, like a ponderous bird, leaving a wake of hissing -bubbling brine, flying, as it seemed, to a world of less imminent -danger, yet unalluring still. - -I looked aloft at the straining spars; they seemed to prick the clouds -between the swelling sails; the ropes and shrouds stretched infinitely -into a region very grey and chill. Oh, the pallor! oh, the cold and -heartless spirit of the sea in that first dawning morn! - -"It's like to be a good day," said Horn, breaking in upon my silence, -and turning to him I saw his face exceeding hollow and wan. The watch -lay forward, all but a lad who seemed half-dozing at the helm; Risk and -his mate had lapsed to silence in the cuddy. - -"You're no frien', seemingly, o' the pair below!" said Horn again, -whispering, and with a glance across his shoulder at the helm. - -"It did not look as if I were, a minute or two ago," said I. "Yon's a -scoundrel, and yet I did him an injustice when I thought he meant to -sell me." - -"I never sailed with a more cheat-the-widdy crew since I followed the -sea," said Horn, "and whether it's the one way or the other, sold ye -are." - -"Eh?" said I, uncomprehending. - -He looked again at the helm, and moved over to a water-breaker further -forward, obviously meaning that I should follow. He drew a drink of -water for himself, drank slowly, but seemed not to be much in the need -for it from the little he took, but he had got out of ear-shot of the -man steering. - -"You and me's the gulls this time, Mr. Greig," said he, whispering. -"This is a doomed ship." - -"I thought as much from her rotten spars," I answered. "So long as she -takes me to Nova Scotia I care little what happens to her." - -"It's a long way to Halifax," said he. "I wish I could be sure we were -likely even to have Land's End on our starboard before waur happens. -Will ye step this way, Mr. Greig?" and he cautiously led the way -forward. There was a look-out humming a stave of song somewhere in the -bows, and two men stretched among the chains, otherwise that part of the -ship was all our own. We went down the fo'c'sle scuttle quietly, and -I found myself among the carpenter's stores, in darkness, divided by a -bulkhead door from the quarters of the sleeping men. Rats were scurrying -among the timbers and squealing till Horn stamped lightly with his feet -and secured stillness. - -"Listen!" said he. - -I could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of a seaman within, and the -wash of water against the ship's sides. - -"Well?" I queried, wondering. - -"Put your lug here," said he, indicating a beam that was dimly revealed -by the light from the lamp swinging in the fo'c'sle. I did so, and heard -water running as from a pipe somewhere in the bowels of the vessel. - -"What's that?" I asked. - -"That's all," said he and led me aft again. - -The dawn by now had spread over half the heavens; behind us the mouth of -the Firth gulped enormous clouds, and the fringe of Fife was as flat -as a bannock; before us the sea spread chill, leaden, all unlovely. "My -sorrow!" says I, "if this is travelling, give me the high-roads and the -hot noon." - -Horn's face seemed more hollow and dark than ever in the wan morning. I -waited his explanation. "I think ye said Halifax, Mr. Greig?" said he. "I -signed on, mysel', for the same port, but you and me's perhaps the only -ones on this ship that ever hoped to get there. God give me grace to get -foot on shore and Dan Risk will swing for this!" - -Somebody sneezed behind us as Horn thus rashly expressed himself; we -both turned suddenly on the rail we had been leaning against, expecting -that this was the skipper, and though it was not Risk, it was one whose -black visage and gleaming teeth and rolling eyes gave me momentarily -something of a turn. - -It was the cook Ferdinando. He had come up behind on his bare feet, and -out upon the sea he gazed with that odd eerie look of the deaf and dumb, -heedless of us, it seemed, as we had been dead portions of the ship's -fabric, seeing but the salt wave, the rim of rising sun, blood-red upon -the horizon, communing with an old familiar. - -"A cauld momin', cook," said Horn, like one who tests a humbug -pretending to be dumb, but Ferdinando heard him not. - -"It might have been a man wi' all his faculties," said the seaman -whispering, "and it's time we werena seen thegether. I'll tell ye later -on." - -With that we separated, he to some trivial duty of his office, I, with -a mind all disturbed, back to my berth to lie awake, tossing and -speculating on the meaning of Horn's mystery. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE SCUTTLED SHIP - -When I went on deck next morning there was something great ado. We were -out of sight of land, sailing large, as the old phrase went, on a brisk -quarter breeze with top-sails atrip, and the sky a vast fine open blue. -The crew were gathered at the poop, the pump was clanking in the midst -of them, and I saw they were taking spells at the cruellest labour a -seaman knows. - -At first I was noway troubled at the spectacle; a leak was to be -expected in old rotten-beams, and I went forward with the heart of me -not a pulse the faster. - -Risk was leaning over the poop-rail, humped up and his beard on -his hands; Murchison, a little apart, swept the horizon with a -prospect-glass, and the pump sent a great spate of bilge-water upon the -deck. But for a man at the tiller who kept the ship from yawing in the -swell that swung below her counter the _Seven Sisters_ sailed at her -sweet will; all the interest of her company was in this stream of -stinking water that she retched into the scuppers. And yet I could not -but be struck by the half-hearted manner in which the seamen wrought; -they were visibly shirking; I saw it in the slack muscles, in the -heedless eyes. - -Risk rose and looked sourly at me as I went up. "Are ye for a job?" said -he. "It's more in your line perhaps than clerkin'." - -"What, at the pumps? Is the old randy geyzing already?" - -"Like a washing-boyne," said he. "Bear a hand like a good lad! we maun -keep her afloat at least till some other vessel heaves in sight." - -In the tone and look of the man there was something extraordinary. -His words were meant to suggest imminent peril, and yet his voice was -shallow as that of a burgh bellman crying an auction sale, and his eyes -had more interest in the horizon that his mate still searched with the -prospect-glass than in the spate of bilge that gulped upon the deck. - -Bilge did I say? Heavens! it was bilge no more, but the pure sea-green -that answered to the clanking pump. It was no time for idle wonder -at the complacence of the skipper; I flew to the break and threw -my strength into the seaman's task. "Clank-click, clank-click"--the -instrument worked reluctantly as if the sucker moved in slime, and in a -little the sweat poured from me. - -"How is she now, Campbell?" asked Risk, as the carpenter came on deck. - -"Three feet in the hold," said Campbell airily, like one that had an -easy conscience. - -"Good lord, a foot already!" cried Risk, and then in a tone of sarcasm, -"Hearty, lads, hearty there! A little more Renfrewshire beef into it, -Mr. Greig, if you please." - -At that I ceased my exertion, stood back straight and looked at the -faces about me. There was only one man in the company who did not seem -to be amused at me, and that was Horn, who stood with folded arms, -moodily eying the open sea. - -"You seem mighty joco about it," I said to Risk, and I wonder to this -day at my blindness that never read the whole tale in these hurried -events. - -"I can afford to be," he said quickly; "if I gang I gang wi' clean -hands," and he spat into the seawater streaming from the pump where the -port-watch now were working with as much listlessness as the men they -superseded. - -To the taunt I made no reply, but moved after Horn who had gone forward -with his hands in his pockets. - -"What does this mean, Horn?" I asked him. "Is the vessel in great -danger?" - -"I suppose she is," said he bitterly, "but I have had nae experience o' -scuttled ships afore." - -"Scuttled!" cried I, astounded, only half grasping his meaning. - -"Jist that," said he. "The job's begun. It began last night in the run -of the vessel as I showed ye when ye put your ear to the beam. After I -left ye, I foun' half a dizen cords fastened to the pump stanchels; ane -of them I pulled and got a plug at the end of it; the ithers hae been -comin' oot since as it suited Dan Risk best, and the _Seven Ststers_ is -doomed to die o' a dropsy this very day. Wasn't I the cursed idiot that -ever lipped drink in Clerihew's coffin-room!" - -"If it was that," said I, "why did you not cut the cords and spoil the -plot?" - -"Cut the cords! Ye mean cut my ain throat; that's what wad happen if the -skipper guessed my knowledge o' his deevilry. And dae ye think a gallows -job o' this kind depends a'thegither on twa or three bits o' twine? -Na, na, this is a very business-like transaction, Mr. Greig, and I'll -warrant there has been naethin' left to chance. I wondered at them bein' -sae pernicketty about the sma' boats afore we sailed when the timbers -o' the ship hersel' were fair ganting. That big new boat and sails frae -Kirkcaldy was a gey odd thing in itsel' if I had been sober enough to -think o't. I suppose ye paid your passage, Mr. Greig? I can fancy a -purser on the _Seven Sisters_ upon nae ither footin' and that made me -dubious o' ye when I first learned o' this hell's caper for Jamieson o' -the Grange. If ye hadna fought wi' the skipper I would hae coonted ye in -wi' the rest." - -"He has two pounds of my money," I answered; "at least I've saved the -other two if we fail to reach Halifax." - -At that he laughed softly again. - -"It might be as well wi' Risk as wi' the conger," said he, meaningly. -"I'm no' sae sure that you and me's meant to come oot o' this; that's -what I might tak' frae their leaving only the twa o' us aft when they -were puttin' the cargo aff there back at Blackness." - -"The cargo!" I repeated. - -"Of course," said Horn. "Ye fancied they were goin' to get rid o' ye -there, did ye? I'll alloo I thought that but a pretence on your pairt, -and no' very neatly done at that. Well, the smallest pairt but the maist -valuable o' the cargo shipped at Borrowstouness is still in Scotland; -and the underwriters 'll be to pay through the nose for what has never -run sea risks." - -At that a great light came to me. This was the reason for the masked -cuddy skylights, the utter darkness of the _Seven Sisters_ while her -boats were plying to the shore; for this was I so closely kept at her -ridiculous manifest; the lists of lace and plate I had been fatuously -copying were lists of stuff no longer on the ship at all, but back in -the possession of the owner of the brigantine. - -"You are an experienced seaman--?" - -"I have had a vessel of my own," broke in Horn, some vanity as well as -shame upon his countenance. - -"Well, you are the more likely to know the best way out of this trap we -are in," I went on. "For a certain reason I am not at all keen on it to -go back to Scotland, but I would sooner risk that than run in leash -with a scoundrel like this who's sinking his command, not to speak of -hazarding my unworthy life with a villainous gang. Is there any way out -of it, Horn?" - -The seaman pondered, a dark frown upon his tanned forehead, where the -veins stood out in knots, betraying his perturbation. The wind whistled -faintly in the tops, the _Seven Sisters_ plainly went by the head; she -had a slow response to her helm, and moved sluggishly. Still the pump -was clanking and we could hear the water streaming through the scupper -holes. Risk had joined his mate and was casting anxious eyes over the -waters. - -"If we play the safty here, Mr. Greig," said Horn, "there's a chance o' -a thwart for us when the _Seven Ststers_ comes to her labour. That's oor -only prospect. At least they daurna murder us." - -"And what about the crew?" I asked. "Do you tell me there is not enough -honesty among them all to prevent a blackguardly scheme like this?" - -"We're the only twa on this ship this morning wi' oor necks ootside tow, -for they're all men o' the free trade, and broken men at that," said -Horn resolutely, and even in the midst of this looming disaster my -private horror rose within me. - -"Ah!" said I, helpless to check the revelation, "speak for yourself, Mr. -Horn; it's the hangman I'm here fleeing from." - -He looked at me with quite a new countenance, clearly losing relish for -his company. - -"Anything by-ordinar dirty?" he asked, and in my humility I did not have -the spirit to resent what that tone and query implied. - -"Dirty enough," said I, "the man's dead," and Horn's face cleared. - -"Oh, faith! is that all?" quo' he, "I was thinkin' it might be -coinin'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Greig, or somethin' in the fancy way. -But a gentleman's quarrel ower the cartes or a wench--that's a different -tale. I hate homicide mysel' to tell the truth, but whiles I've had -it in my heart, and in a way o' speakin* Dan Risk this meenute has my -gully-knife in his ribs." - -As he spoke the vessel, mishandled, or a traitor to her helm, now that -she was all awash internally with water, yawed and staggered in the -wind. The sails shivered, the yards swung violently, appalling noises -came from the hold. At once the pumping ceased, and Risk's voice roared -in the confusion, ordering the launch of the Kirkcaldy boat. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -MAKES PLAIN THE DEEPEST VILLAINY OF RISK AND SETS ME ON A FRENCHMAN - -When I come to write these affairs down after the lapse of years, I find -my memory but poorly retains the details of that terrific period between -the cry of Risk and the moment when Horn and I, abandoned on the doomed -vessel, watched the evening fall upon the long Kirkcaldy boat, her mast -stepped, but her sails down, hovering near us for the guarantee of our -eternal silence regarding the crime the men on her were there and then -committing. There is a space--it must have been brief, but I lived a -lifetime in it--whose impressions rest with me, blurred, but with the -general hue of agony. I can see the sun again sailing overhead in the -arching sky of blue; the enormous ocean, cruel, cold, spread out to the -line of the horizon; the flapping sails and drumming reef-points, the -streaming halliards and clew-garnets, the spray buffeting upon our hull -and spitting in our faces like an enemy; I hear the tumult of the seamen -hurrying vulgarly to save their wretched lives, the gluck of waters -in the bowels of the ship, the thud of cargo loose and drifting under -decks. - -But I see and hear it all as in a dream or play, and myself someway -standing only a spectator. - -It seemed that Risk and his men put all their dependence on the -long-boat out of Kirkcaldy. She was partly decked at the bows like a -Ballantrae herring-skiff, beamy and commodious. They clustered round her -like ants; swung her out, and over she went, and the whole hellish -plot lay revealed in the fact that she was all found with equipment and -provisions. - -Horn and I made an effort to assist at her preparation; we were shoved -aside with frantic curses; we were beaten back by her oars when we -sought to enter her, and when she pushed off from the side of the _Seven -Sisters_, Dan Risk was so much the monster that he could jeer at our -perplexity. He sat at the tiller of her without a hat, his long hair, -that was turning lyart, blown by the wind about his black and mocking -eyes. - -"Head her for Halifax, Horn," said he, "and ye'll get there by-and-by." - -"Did I ever do ye any harm, skipper?" cried the poor seaman, standing on -the gunwale, hanging to the shrouds, and his aspect hungry for life. - -"Ye never got the chance, Port Glesca," cried back Risk, hugging the -tiller of the Kirkcaldy boat under his arm. "I'll gie ye a guess-- - - Come-a-riddle, come-a-riddle, come-a-rote-tote-tote-- - -Oh to bleezes! I canna put a rhyme till't, but this is the sense o't--a -darkie's never deaf and dumb till he's deid. Eh! Antonio, ye rascal!" - -He looked forward as he spoke and exchanged a villainous laugh with the -cook, his instrument, who had overheard us and betrayed. - -"Ye would mak' me swing for it, would ye, John Horn, when ye get ashore? -That's what I would expect frae a keelie oot o' Clyde." - -It is hard to credit that man could be so vile as this, but of such -stuff was Daniel Risk. He was a fiend in the glory of his revenge upon -the seaman who had threatened him with the gallows; uplifted like a -madman's, his face, that was naturally sallow, burned lamp-red at his -high cheek-bones, his hale eye gloated, his free hand flourished as -in an exultation. His mate sat silent beside him on the stern-thwart, -clearing the sheets: the crew, who had out the sweeps to keep the boat's -bows in the wind, made an effort to laugh at his jocosities, but clearly -longed to be away from this tragedy. And all the time, I think, I stood -beside the weather bulwark, surrendered to the certainty of a speedy -death, with the lines of a ballad coming back again and again to my -mind: - - An' he shall lie in fathoms deep, - The star-fish ower his een shall creep. - An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep - In the hall o' Monaltrie. - -I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in -spite of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea -that beat about my feet. - -My silence--my seeming indifference--would seem to have touched the -heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn. -At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on -me. - -"I'm saying, Greig," he cried, "noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy -was no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole -that--astern, lads, and tak' the purser aboard." - -The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick -me off the doomed ship. - -At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a -second--praise God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never -released the cleat by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still -upon the lower shrouds and saw hope upon his countenance. - -"Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?" said I. - -"Not if he offered a thousand pounds," cried Risk, "in ye come!" and -Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump -among them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as -with a spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, -bleeding profusely and half insensible. - -"You are a foul dog!" I cried to his assailant. "And I'll settle with -you for that!" - -"Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!" cried Risk impatient. - -"Let us look oot for oorselves, that's whit I say," cried Murchison -angry at my threat, and prepared cheerfully to see me perish. "What -for should we risk oor necks with either o' them?" and he pushed off -slightly with his boat-hook. - -The skipper turned, struck down the hook, and snarled upon him. "Shut -up, Murchison!" he cried. "I'm still the captain, if ye please, and I -ken as much about the clerk here as will keep his gab shut on any trifle -we hae dune." - -I looked upon the clean sea, and then at that huddle of scoundrels in -the Kirkcaldy boat, and then upon the seaman Horn coming back again to -the full consciousness of his impending fate. He gazed upon me with eyes -alarmed and pitiful, and at that I formed my resolution. - -"I stick by Horn," said I. "If he gets too, I'll go; if not I'll bide -and be drowned with an honest man." - -"Bide and be damned then! Ye've had your chance," shouted Risk, letting -his boat fall off. "It's time we werena here." And the halliards of his -main-sail were running in the blocks as soon as he said it. The boat -swept away rapidly, but not before I gave him a final touch of my irony. -From my pocket I took out my purse and threw it upon his lap. - -"There's the ither twa, Risk," I cried; "it's no' like the thing at all -to murder a harmless lad for less than what ye bargained for." - -He bawled back some reply I could not hear, and I turned about, to see -Horn making for the small boat on the starboard chocks. I followed with -a hope again wakened, only to share his lamentation when he found -that two of her planks had been wantonly sprung from their clinkers, -rendering her utterly useless. The two other boats were in a similar -condition; Risk and his confederates had been determined that no chance -should be left of our escape from the _Seven Sisters_. - -It was late in the afternoon. The wind had softened somewhat; in the -west there were rising billowy clouds of silver and red, and half a mile -away the Kirkcaldy boat, impatient doubtless for the end of us, that -final assurance of safety, plied to windward with only her foresail set. -We had gone below in a despairing mind on the chance that the leakage -might be checked, but the holes were under water in the after peak, and -in other parts we could not come near. An inch-and-a-half auger, and a -large bung-borer, a gouge and chisel in the captain's private locker, -told us how the crime had been committed whereof we were the victims. - -We had come on deck again, the pair of us, without the vaguest notion -of what was next to do, and--speaking for myself--convinced that nothing -could avert our hurrying fate. Horn told me later that he proposed full -half a score of plans for at least a prolongation of our time, but that -I paid no heed to them. That may be, for I know the ballad stanza went -in my head like a dirge, as I sat on a hatch with the last few days of -my history rolling out before my eyes. The dusk began to fall like a -veil, the wind declined still further. Horn feverishly hammered and -caulked at the largest of the boats, now and then throwing the tools -from him as in momentary realisations of the hopelessness of his toil -that finally left him in despair. - -"It's no use, Mr. Greig," he cried then, "they did the job ower weel," -and he shook his fist at the Kirkcaldy boat. He checked the gesture -suddenly and gave an astonished cry. - -"They're gone, Greig," said he, now frantic. "They're gone. O God! -they're gone! I was sure they couldna hae the heart to leave us at the -last," and as he spoke I chanced to look astern, and behold! a ship with -all her canvas full was swiftly bearing down the wind upon us. We had -been so intent upon our fate that we had never seen her! - -I clambered up the shrouds of the main-mast, and cried upon the coming -vessel with some mad notion that she might fancy the _Seven Sisters_ -derelict. But indeed that was not necessary. In a little she went round -into the wind, a long-boat filled with men came towards us, and twenty -minutes later we were on the deck of the _Roi Rouge_. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -WHEREIN APPEARS A GENTLEMANLY CORSAIR AND A FRENCH-IRISH LORD - -While it may be that the actual crisis of my manhood came to me on the -day I first put on my Uncle Andrew's shoes, the sense of it was mine -only when I met with Captain Thurot. I had put the past for ever behind -me (as I fancied) when I tore the verses of a moon-struck boy and -cast them out upon the washing-green at Hazel Den, but I was bound -to foregather with men like Thurot and his friends ere the scope and -fashion of a man's world were apparent to me. Whether his influence on -my destiny in the long run was good or bad I would be the last to say; -he brought me into danger, but--in a manner--he brought me good, though -that perhaps was never in his mind. - -You must fancy this Thurot a great tall man, nearly half a foot -exceeding myself in stature, peak-bearded, straight as a lance, with -plum-black eyes and hair, polished in dress and manner to the rarest -degree and with a good humour that never failed. He sat under a swinging -lamp in his cabin when Horn and I were brought before him, and asked my -name first in an accent of English that was if anything somewhat better -than my own. - -"Greig," said I; "Paul Greig," and he started as if I had pricked him -with a knife. - -A little table stood between us, on which there lay a book he had been -reading when we were brought below, some hours after the _Seven Sisters_ -had gone down, and the search for the Kirkcaldy boat had been abandoned. -He took the lamp off its hook, came round the table and held the light -so that he could see my face the clearer. At any time his aspect was -manly and pleasant; most of all was it so when he smiled, and I was -singularly encouraged when he smiled at me, with a rapid survey of my -person that included the Hazel Den mole and my Uncle Andrew's shoes. - -A seaman stood behind us; to him he spoke a message I could not -comprehend, as it was in French, of which I had but little. The seaman -retired; we were offered a seat, and in a minute the seaman came back -with a gentleman--a landsman by his dress. - -"Pardon, my lord," said the captain to his visitor, "but I thought that -here was a case--speaking of miracles--you would be interested in. -Our friends here"--he indicated myself particularly with a gracious -gesture--"are not, as you know, dropped from heaven, but come from that -unfortunate ship we saw go under a while ago. May I ask your lordship to -tell us--you will see the joke in a moment--whom we were talking of at -the moment our watch first announced the sight of that vessel?" - -His lordship rubbed his chin and smilingly peered at the captain. - -"Gad!" he said. "You are the deuce and all, Thurot. What are you in the -mood for now? Why, we talked of Greig--Andrew Greig, the best player of -_passe-passe_ and the cheerfullest loser that ever cut a pack." - -Thurot turned to me, triumphant. - -"Behold," said he, "how ridiculously small the world is. _Ma foi!_ I -wonder how I manage so well to elude my creditors, even when I sail the -high seas. Lord Clancarty, permit me to have the distinguished honour -to introduce another Greig, who I hope has many more of his charming -uncle's qualities than his handsome eyes and red shoes. I assume it is -a nephew, because poor Monsieur Andrew was not of the marrying -kind. Anyhow, 'tis a Greig of the blood, or Antoine Thurot is a bat! -And--Monsieur Greig, it is my felicity to bid you know one of your -uncle's best friends and heartiest admirers--Lord Clancarty." - -"Lord Clancarty!" I cried, incredulous. "Why he figured in my uncle's -log-book a dozen years ago." - -"A dozen, no less!" cried his lordship, with a grimace. "We need not be -so particular about the period. I trust he set me down there a decently -good companion; I could hardly hope to figure in a faithful scribe's -tablets as an example otherwise," said his lordship, laughing and taking -me cordially by the hand. "Gad! one has but to look at you to see Andrew -Greig in every line. I loved your uncle, lad. He had a rugged, manly -nature, and just sufficient folly, bravado, and sinfulness to keep a -poor Irishman in countenance. Thurot, one must apologise for taking from -your very lips the suggestion I see hesitating there, but sure 'tis an -Occasion this; it must be a bottle--the best bottle on your adorable but -somewhat ill-found vessel. Why 'tis Andy Greig come young again. Poor -Andy! I heard of his death no later than a month ago, and have ordered -a score of masses for him--which by the way are still unpaid for to good -Father Hamilton. I could not sleep happily of an evening--of a forenoon -rather--if I thought of our Andy suffering aught that a few candles and -such-like could modify." And his lordship with great condescension -tapped and passed me his jewelled box of maccabaw. - -You can fancy a raw lad, untutored and untravelled, fresh from the -plough-tail, as it were, was vastly tickled at this introduction to the -genteel world. I was no longer the shivering outlaw, the victim of a -Risk. I was honoured more or less for the sake of my uncle (whose esteem -in this quarter my father surely would have been surprised at), and it -seemed as though my new life in a new country were opening better than I -had planned myself. I blessed my shoes--the Shoes of Sorrow--and for the -time forgot the tragedy from which I was escaping. - -They birled the bottle between them, Clancarty and Thurot, myself -virtually avoiding it, but clinking now and then, and laughing with them -at the numerous exploits they recalled of him that was the bond between -us; Horn elsewhere found himself well treated also; and listening to -these two gentlemen of the world, their allusions, off-hand, to the -great, their indications of adventure, travel, intrigue, enterprise, -gaiety, I saw my horizon expand until it was no longer a cabin on the -sea I sat in, with the lamplight swinging over me, but a spacious world -of castles, palaces, forests, streets, churches, casernes, harbours, -masquerades, routs, operas, love, laughter, and song. Perhaps they saw -my elation and fully understood, and smiled within them at my efforts -to figure as a little man of the world too--as boys will--but they never -showed me other than the finest sympathy and attention. - -I found them fascinating at night; I found them much the same at -morning, which is the test of the thing in youth, and straightway made a -hero of the foreigner Thurot. Clancarty was well enough, but without -any method in his life, beyond a principle of keeping his character ever -trim and presentable like his cravat. Thurot carried on his strenuous -career as soldier, sailor, spy, politician, with a plausible enough -theory that thus he got the very juice and pang of life, that at the -most, as he would aye be telling me, was brief to an absurdity. - -"Your Scots," he would say to me, "as a rule, are too phlegmatic--is it -not, Lord Clancarty?--but your uncle gave me, on my word, a regard for -your whole nation. He had aplomb--Monsieur Andrew; he had luck too, and -if he cracked a nut anywhere there was always a good kernel in it." And -the shoes see how I took the allusion to King George, and that gave me a -flood of light upon my new position. - -I remembered that in my uncle's log-book the greater part of the -narrative of his adventures in France had to do with politics and the -intrigues of the Jacobite party. He was not, himself, apparently, "out," -as we call it, in the affair of the 'Forty-five, because he did not -believe the occasion suitable, and thought the Prince precipitous, but -before and after that untoward event for poor Scotland, he had been -active with such men as Clancarty, Lord Clare, the Murrays, the -Mareschal, and such-like, which was not to be wondered at, perhaps, for -our family had consistently been Jacobite, a fact that helped to its -latter undoing, though my father as nominal head of the house had taken -no interest in politics; and my own sympathies had ever been with the -Chevalier, whom I as a boy had seen ride through the city of Glasgow, -wishing myself old enough to be his follower in such a glittering -escapade as he was then embarked on. - -But though I thought all this in a flash as it were, I betrayed nothing -to Captain Thurot, who seemed somewhat dashed at my silence. There must -have been something in my face, however, to show that I fully realised -what he was feeling at, and was not too complacent, for Clancarty -laughed. - -"Sure, 'tis a good boy, Thurot," said he, "and loves his King George -properly, like a true patriot." - -"I won't believe it of a Greig," said Captain Thurot. "A pestilent, -dull thing, loyalty in England; the other thing came much more readily, -I remember, to the genius of Andrew Greig. Come! Monsieur Paul, to be -quite frank about it, have you no instincts of friendliness to the -exiled house? M. Tete-de-fer has a great need at this particular moment -for English friends. Once he could count on your uncle to the last -ditch; can he count on the nephew?" - -"M. Tete-de-fer?" I repeated, somewhat bewildered. - -"M. Tete-de-mouche, rather," cried my lord, testily, and then hurried to -correct himself. "He alluded, Monsieur Greig, to Prince Charles Edward. -We are all, I may confess, his Royal Highness's most humble servants; -some of us, however--as our good friend, Captain Thurot--more actively -than others. For myself I begin to weary of a cause that has -been dormant for eight years, but no matter; sure one must have a -recreation!" - -I looked at his lordship to see if he was joking. He was the relic of -a handsome man, though still, I daresay, less than fifty years of age, -with a clever face and gentle, just tinged by the tracery of small -surface veins to a redness that accused him of too many late nights; -his mouth and eyes, that at one time must have been fascinating, had -the ultimate irresolution that comes to one who finds no fingerposts at -life's cross-roads and thinks one road just as good's another. He was -born at Atena, near Hamburg (so much I had remembered from my uncle's -memoir), but he was, even in his accent, as Irish as Kerry. Someway I -liked and yet doubted him, in spite of all the praise of him that I had -read in a dead man's diurnal. - -"_Fi donc! vous devriez avoir honte, milord_," cried Thurot, somewhat -disturbed, I saw, at this reckless levity. - -"Ashamed!" said his lordship, laughing; "why, 'tis for his Royal -Highness who has taken a diligence to the devil, and left us poor -dependants to pay the bill at the inn. But no matter, Master Greig, I'll -be cursed if I say a single word more to spoil a charming picture of -royalty under a cloud." And so saying he lounged away from us, a strange -exquisite for shipboard, laced up to the nines, as the saying goes, -parading the deck as it had been the Rue St. Honore, with merry words -for every sailorman who tapped a forehead to him. - -Captain Thurot looked at him, smiling, and shrugged his shoulders. - -"_Tete-de-mouche!_ There it is for you, M. Paul--the head of a -butterfly. Now you--" he commanded my eyes most masterfully--"now _you_ -have a Scotsman's earnestness; I should like to see you on the right -side. _Mon Dieu_, you owe us your life, no less; 'tis no more King -George's, for one of his subjects has morally sent you to the bottom of -the sea in a scuttled ship. I wish we had laid hands on your Risk and -his augers." - -But I was learning my world; I was cautious; I said neither yea nor nay. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -IN DUNKERQUE--A LADY SPEAKS TO ME IN SCOTS AND A FAT PRIEST SEEMS TO -HAVE SOMETHING ON HIS MIND - -Two days after, the _Roi Rouge_ came to Dunkerque; Horn the seaman went -home to Scotland in a vessel out of Leith with a letter in his pocket -for my people at Hazel Den, and I did my best for the next fortnight to -forget by day the remorse that was my nightmare. To this Captain Thurot -and Lord Clancarty, without guessing 'twas a homicide they favoured, -zealously helped me. - -And then Dunkerque at the moment was sparkling with attractions. -Something was in its air to distract every waking hour, the pulse -of drums, the sound of trumpets calling along the shores, troops -manoeuvring, elation apparent in every countenance. I was Thurot's guest -in a lodging over a _boulangerie_ upon the sea front, and at daybreak I -would look out from the little window to see regiments of horse and foot -go by on their way to an enormous camp beside the old fort of Risebank. -Later in the morning I would see the soldiers toiling at the grand -sluice for deepening the harbour or repairing the basin, or on the dunes -near Graveline manoeuvring under the command of the Prince de Soubise -and Count St. Germain. All day the paving thundered with the roll of -tumbrels, with the noise of plunging horse; all night the front of -the _boulangerie_ was clamorous with carriages bearing cannon, timber, -fascines, gabions, and other military stores. - -Thurot, with his ship in harbour, became a man of the town, with ruffled -neck- and wrist-bands, the most extravagant of waistcoats, hats laced -with point d'Espagne, and up and down Dunkerque he went with a restless -foot as if the conduct of the world depended on him. He sent an old -person, a reduced gentleman, to me to teach me French that I laboured -with as if my life depended on it from a desire to be as soon as -possible out of his reverence, for, to come to the point and be done -with it, he was my benefactor to the depth of my purse. - -Sometimes Lord Clancarty asked me out to a _dejeuner_. He moved in a -society where I met many fellow countrymen--Captain Foley, of Rooth's -regiment; Lord Roscommon and his brother young Dillon; Lochgarry, -Lieutenant-Colonel of Ogilvie's Corps, among others, and by-and-by -I became known favourably in what, if it was not actually the select -society of Dunkerque, was so at least in the eyes of a very ignorant -young gentleman from the moors of Mearns. - -It was so strange a thing as to be almost incredible, but my Uncle -Andy's shoes seemed to have some magic quality that brought them for -ever on tracks they had taken before, and if my cast of countenance did -not proclaim me a Greig wherever I went, the shoes did so. They were a -passport to the favour of folks the most divergent in social state--to -a poor Swiss who kept the door and attended on the table at Clancarty's -(my uncle, it appeared, had once saved his life), and to Soubise -himself, who counted my uncle the bravest man and the best mimic he had -ever met, and on that consideration alone pledged his influence to find -me a post. - -You may be sure I did not wear such tell-tale shoes too often. I began -to have a freit about them as he had to whom they first belonged, and to -fancy them somehow bound up with my fortune. - -I put them on only when curiosity prompted me to test what new -acquaintances they might make me, and one day I remember I donned them -for a party of blades at Lord Clancarty's, the very day indeed upon -which the poor Swiss, weeping, told me what he owed to the old rogue -with the scarred brow now lying dead in the divots of home. - -There was a new addition to the company that afternoon--a priest who -passed with the name of Father Hamilton, though, as I learned later, he -was formerly Vliegh, a Fleming, born at Ostend, and had been educated -partly at the College Major of Louvain and partly in London. He was -or had been parish priest of Dixmunde near Ostend, and his most -decent memory of my uncle, whom he, too, knew, was a challenge to a -drinking-bout in which the thin man of Meams had been several bottles -more thirsty than the fat priest of Dixmunde. - -He was corpulent beyond belief, with a dewlap like an ox; great limbs, -a Gargantuan appetite, and a laugh like thunder that at its loudest -created such convulsions of his being as compelled him to unbutton the -neck of his _soutane_, else he had died of a seizure. - -His friends at Lord Clancarty's played upon him a little joke wherein I -took an unconscious part. It seemed they had told him Mr. Andrew Greig -was not really dead, but back in France and possessed of an elixir of -youth which could make the ancient and furrowed hills themselves look -like yesterday's creations. - -"What! M. Andrew!" he had cried. "An elixir of grease were more in the -fellow's line; I have never seen a man's viands give so scurvy a return -for the attention he paid them. 'Tis a pole--this M. Andrew--but what a -head--what a head!" - -"Oh! but 'tis true of the elixir," they protested; "and he looks thirty -years younger; here he comes!" - -It was then that I stepped in with the servant bawling my name, and the -priest surged to his feet with his face all quivering. - -"What! M. Andrew!" he cried; "fattened and five-and-twenty. Holy Mother! -It is, then, that miracles are possible? I shall have a hogshead, -master, of thine infernal essence and drink away this paunch, and skip -anon like to the goats of--of-" - -And then his friends burst into peals of laughter as much at my -bewilderment as at his credulity, and he saw that it was all a -pleasantry. - -"Mon Dieu!" he said, sighing like a November forest. "There was never -more pestilent gleek played upon a wretched man. Oh! oh! oh! I had an -angelic dream for that moment of your entrance, for I saw me again a -stripling--a stripling--and the girl's name was--never mind. God rest -her! she is under grass in Louvain." - -All the rest of the day--at Clancarty's, at the Cafe de la Poste, in our -walk along the dunes where cannon were being fired at marks well out at -sea, this obese cleric scarcely let his eyes off me. He seemed to envy -and admire, and then again he would appear to muse upon my countenance, -debating with himself as one who stands at a shop window pondering a -purchase that may be on the verge of his means. - -Captain Thurot observed his interest, and took an occasion to whisper to -me. - -"Have a care, M. Greig," said he playfully; "this priest schemes -something; that's ever the worst of your Jesuits, and you may swear 'tis -not your eternal salvation." - -'Twas that afternoon we went all together to the curious lodging in the -Rue de la Boucherie. I remember as it had been yesterday how sunny -was the weather, and how odd it seemed to me that there should be a -country-woman of my own there. - -She was not, as it seems to me now, lovely, though where her features -failed of perfection it would beat me to disclose, but there was -something inexpressibly fascinating in her--in the mild, kind, melting -eyes, and the faint sad innuendo of her smile. She sat at a spinet -playing, and for the sake of this poor exile, sang some of the songs we -are acquainted with at home. Upon my word, the performance touched me -to the core! I felt sick for home: my mother's state, the girl at -Kirkillstane, the dead lad on the moor, sounds of Earn Water, clouds and -heather on the hill of Ballageich--those mingled matters swept through -my thoughts as I sat with these blithe gentlemen, hearkening to a simple -Doric tune, and my eyes filled irrestrainably with tears. - -Miss Walkinshaw--for so her name was--saw what effect her music had -produced; reddened, ceased her playing, took me to the window while the -others discussed French poetry, and bade me tell her, as we looked out -upon the street, all about myself and of my home. She was, perhaps, ten -years my senior, and I ran on like a child. - -"The Mearns!" said she. "Oh dear, oh dear! And you come frae the Meams!" -She dropped into her Scots that showed her heart was true, and told me -she had often had her May milk in my native parish. - -"And you maybe know," said she, flushing, "the toun of Glasgow, and the -house of Walkinshaw, my--my father, there?" - -I knew the house very well, but no more of it than that it existed. - -It was in her eyes the tears were now, talking of her native place, but -she quickly changed the topic ere I could learn much about her, and -she guessed--with a smile coming through her tears, like a sun through -mist--that I must have been in love and wandered in its fever, to be so -far from home at my age. - -"There was a girl," I said, my face hot, my heart rapping at the -recollection, and someway she knew all about Isobel Fortune in five -minutes, while the others in the room debated on so trivial a thing as -the songs of the troubadours. - -"Isobel Fortune!" she said (and I never thought the name so beautiful -as it sounded on her lips, where it lingered like a sweet); "Isobel -Fortune; why, it's an omen, Master Greig, and it must be a good fortune. -I am wae for the poor lassie that her big foolish lad"--she smiled with -bewitching sympathy at me under long lashes--"should be so far away frae -her side. You must go back as quick as you can; but stay now, is it true -you love her still?" - -The woman would get the feeling and the truth from a heart of stone; I -only sighed for answer. - -"Then you'll go back," said she briskly, "and it will be Earn-side again -and trysts at Ballageich--oh! the name is like a bagpipe air to me!--and -you will be happy, and be married and settle down--and--and poor Clemie -Walkinshaw will be friendless far away from her dear Scotland, but not -forgetting you and your wife." - -"I cannot go back there at all," I said, with a long face, bitter -enough, you may be sure, at the knowledge I had thrown away all that she -depicted, and her countenance fell. - -"What for no'?" she asked softly. - -"Because I fought a duel with the man that Isobel preferred, -and--and--killed him!" - -She shuddered with a little sucking in of air at her teeth and drew up -her shoulders as if chilled with cold. - -"Ah, then," said she, "the best thing's to forget. Are you a Jacobite, -Master Greig?" - -She had set aside my love affair and taken to politics with no more than -a sigh of sympathy, whether for the victim of my jealousy, or Isobel -Fortune, or for me, I could not say. - -"I'm neither one thing nor another," said I. "My father is a staunch -enough royalist, and so, I daresay, I would be too if I had not got a -gliff of bonnie Prince Charlie at the Tontine of Glasgow ten years ago." - -"Ten years ago!" she repeated, staring abstracted out at the window. -"Ten years ago! So it was; I thought it was a lifetime since. And what -did you think of him?" - -Whatever my answer might have been it never got the air, for here -Clancarty, who had had a message come to the door for him, joined us at -the window, and she turned to him with some phrase about the trampling -of troops that passed along the streets. - -"Yes," he said, "the affair marches quickly. Have you heard that England -has declared war? And our counter declaration is already on its way -across. _Pardieu!_ there shall be matters toward in a month or two and -the Fox will squeal. Braddock's affair in America has been the best -thing that has happened us in many years." - -Thus he went on with singular elation that did not escape me, though -my wits were also occupied by some curious calculations as to what -disturbed the minds of Hamilton and of the lady. I felt that I was in -the presence of some machinating influences probably at variance, for -while Clancarty and Roscommon and Thurot were elate, the priest made -only a pretence at it, and was looking all abstracted as if weightier -matters occupied his mind, his large fat hand, heavy-ringed, buttressing -his dewlap, and Miss Walkinshaw was stealing glances of inquiry at -him--glances of inquiry and also of distrust. All this I saw in a mirror -over the mantelpiece of the room. - -"Sure there's but one thing to regret in it," cried Clancarty suddenly, -stopping and turning to me, "it must mean that we lose Monsieur des -Souliers Rouges. _Peste!_ There is always something to worry one about a -war!" - -"_Comment?_" said Thurot. - -"The deportment," answered his lordship. "Every English subject has -been ordered out of France. We are going to lose not only your company, -Father Hamilton, because of your confounded hare-brained scheme for -covering all Europe in a glass coach, but our M. Greig must put the -Sleeve between him and those best qualified to estimate and esteem his -thousand virtues of head and heart For a _louis_ or two I'd take ship -with him and fight on the other side. Gad! it would always be fighting -anyway, and one would be by one's friend." - -The priest's jaw fell as if my going was a blow to his inmost -affections; he turned his face rapidly into shadow; Miss Walkinshaw lost -no movement of his; she was watching him as he had been a snake. - -"Oh! but it is not necessary that we lose my compatriot so fast as -that," she said. "There are such things as permits, excepting English -friends of ours from deportment,--and--and--I fancy I could get one for -Mr. Greig." - -In my heart I thanked her for her ready comprehension of my inability to -go back to Britain with an easy mind; and I bowed my recognition of her -goodness. - -She was paying no heed to my politeness; she had again an eye on the -priest, who was obviously cheered marvellously by the prospect. - -And then we took a dish of tea with her, the lords and Thurot loudly -cheerful, Hamilton ruminant and thundering alternately, Miss Walkinshaw -showing a score of graces as hostess, myself stimulated to some unusual -warmth of spirit as I sat beside her, well-nigh fairly loving her -because she was my country-woman and felt so fond about my native -Mearns. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -WHEREIN A SITUATION OFFERS AND I ENGAGE TO GO TRAVELLING WITH THE PRIEST - -A week passed with no further incident particularly affecting this -history. With my reduced and antique mentor I studied _la belle langue_, -sedulous by day, at night pacing the front of the sea, giving words to -its passion as it broke angry on the bar or thundered on the beach--the -sea that still haunts me and invites, whose absence makes often lonely -the moorland country where is my home, where are my people's graves. It -called me then, in the dripping weather of those nights in France--it -called me temptingly to try again my Shoes of Fortune (as now I named -them to myself), and learn whereto they might lead. - -But in truth I was now a prisoner to that inviting sea. The last English -vessel had gone; the Channel was a moat about my native isle, and I -was a tee'd ball with a passport that was no more and no less than a -warder's warrant in my pouch. It had come to me under cover of Thurot -two days after Miss Walkinshaw's promise; it commanded _tous les -gouverneurs et tous les lieutenants-generaux de nos provinces et de nos -armees, gouverneurs particuliers et commandants de nos villes, places -et troupes_ to permit and pass the Sieur Greig anywhere in the country, -_sans lui donner aucun empechement_, and was signed for the king by the -Duc de Choiseuil. - -I went round to make my devoirs to the lady to whom I owed the favour, -and this time I was alone. - -"Where's your shoon, laddie?" said she at the first go-off. "Losh! do -ye no' ken that they're the very makin' o' ye? If it hadna been for them -Clementina Walkinshaw wad maybe never hae lookit the gait ye were on. -Ye'll be to put them on again!" She thrust forth a _bottine_ like a -doll's for size and trod upon my toes, laughing the while with -her curious suggestion of unpractised merriment at my first solemn -acceptance of her humour as earnest. - -"Am I never to get quit o' thae shoes?" I cried; "the very deil maun be -in them." - -"It was the very deil," said she, "was in them when it was your Uncle -Andrew." And she stopped and sighed. "O Andy Greig, Andy Greig! had I -been a wise woman and ta'en a guid-hearted though throughither Mearns -man's advice--toots! laddie, I micht be a rudas auld wife by my -preachin'. Oh, gie's a sang, or I'll dee." - -And then she flew to the spinet (a handsome instrument singularly out of -keeping with the rest of the plenishing in that odd lodging in the Rue -de la Boucherie of Dunkerque), and touched a prelude and broke into an -air. - -To-day they call that woman lost and wicked; I have seen it said in -books: God's pity on her! she was not bad; she was the very football of -fate, and a heart of the yellow gold. If I was warlock or otherwise had -charms, I would put back the dial two score years and wrench her from -her chains. - - O waly, waly up the bank, - O waly, waly doon the brae. - And waly, waly yon burn-side, - Where I and my love wont to gae. - I leaned my back unto an aik, - I thocht it was a trusty tree, - But first it bowed and syne it brak, - Sae my true love did lichtly me. - -They have their own sorrow even in script those ballad words of an -exile like herself, but to hear Miss Walkinshaw sing them was one of the -saddest things I can recall in a lifetime that has known many sorrows. -And still, though sad, not wanting in a sort of brave defiance of -calumny, a hope, and an unchanging affection. She had a voice as sweet -as a bird in the thicket at home; she had an eye full and melting; her -lips, at the sentiment, sometimes faintly broke. - -I turned my head away that I might not spy upon her feeling, for here, -it was plain, was a tragedy laid bare. She stopped her song mid-way with -a laugh, dashed a hand across her eyes, and threw herself into a chair. - -"Oh, fie! Mr. Greig, to be backing up a daft woman, old enough to know -better, in her vapours. You must be fancying I am a begrutten bairn to -be snackin' my daidlie in this lamentable fashion, but it's just you and -your Mearns, and your Ballageich, and your douce Scots face and tongue -that have fair bewitched me. O Scotland! Scotland! Let us look oot at -this France o' theirs, Mr. Greig." She came to the window (her movements -were ever impetuous, like the flight of a butterfly), and "Do I no' wish -that was the Gallowgate," said she, "and Glasgow merchants were in -the shops and Christian signs abin the doors, like 'MacWhannal' and -'Mackay,' and 'Robin Oliphant'? If that was Bailie John Walkinshaw, wi' -his rattan, and yon was the piazza o' Tontine, would no' his dochter -be the happy woman? Look! look! ye Mearns man, look! look! at the bairn -playing pal-al in the close. 'Tis my little sister Jeanie that's married -on the great Doctor Doig--him wi' the mant i' the Tron kirk--and bairns -o' her ain, I'm tell't, and they'll never hear their Aunt Clemie named -but in a whisper. And yon auld body wi' the mob cap, that's the baxter's -widow, and there's carvie in her scones that you'll can buy for a bawbee -apiece." - -The maddest thing!--but here was the woman smiling through her tears, -and something tremulous in her as though her heart was leaping at her -breast. Suddenly her manner changed, as if she saw a sobering sight, -and I looked out again, and there was Father Hamilton heaving round the -corner of a lane, his face as red as the moon in a fog of frost. - -"Ah!" cried Miss Walkinshaw, "here's France, sure enough, Mr. Greig. We -must put by our sentiments, and be just witty or as witty as we can be. -If you're no' witty here, my poor Mr. Greig, you might as well be dumb. -A heart doesna maitter much; but, oh! be witty." - -The priest was making for the house. She dried her tears before me, a -frankness that flattered my vanity; "and let us noo to our English, Mr. -Greig," said she as the knock came to the door. "It need be nae honest -Scots when France is chappin'. Would you like to travel for a season?" - -The question took me by surprise; it had so little relevance to what had -gone before. - -"Travel?" I repeated. - -"Travel," said she again quickly. "In a glass coach with a companion -who has plenty of money--wherever it comes from--and see all Europe, and -maybe--for you are Scots like myself--make money. The fat priest wants a -secretary; that's the long and the short of it, for there's his foot on -the stairs, and if you'll say yes, I fancy I can get you the situation." - -I did not hesitate a second. - -"Why, then yes, to be sure," said I, "and thank you kindly." - -"Thank _you_, Paul Greig," said she softly, for now the Swiss had opened -the door, and she squeezed my wrist. - -"_Benedicite!_" cried his reverence and came in, puffing hugely after -his climb, his face now purple almost to strangulation. "May the devil -fly away with turnpike stairs, Madame!--puff-puff--I curse them whether -they be wood or marble;--puff-puff--I curse them Dunkerque; in Ostend, -Paris, all Europe itself, ay even unto the two Americas. I curse their -designers, artisans, owners, and defenders in their waking and sleeping! -Madame, kindly consider your stairs anathema!" - -"You need all your wind to cool your porridge, as we say in Scotland, -Father Hamilton," cried Miss Walkinshaw, "and a bonny-like thing it is -to have you coming here blackguarding my honest stairs." - -He laughed enormously and fell into a chair, shaking the house as if the -world itself had quaked. "Pardon, my dear Miss Walkinshaw," said he when -his breath was restored, "but, by the Mass, you must confess 'tis the -deuce and all for a man--a real man that loves his viands, and sleeps -well o' nights, and has a contented mind and grows flesh accordingly, -to trip up to Paradise--" here he bowed, his neck swelling in massive -folds--"to trip up to Paradise, where the angels are, as easily as a -ballet-dancer--bless her!--skips to the other place where, by my faith! -I should like to pay a brief visit myself, if 'twere only to see old -friends of the Opera Comique. Madame, I give you good-day. Sir, Monsieur -Greig--'shalt never be a man like thine Uncle Andrew for all thy -confounded elixir. I favour not your virtuous early rising in the young. -There! thine uncle would a-been abed at this hour an' he were alive and -in Dunkerque; thou must be a confoundedly industrious and sober Greig to -be dangling at a petticoat-tail--Pardon, Madame, 'tis the dearest tail, -anyway!--before the hour meridian." - -"And this is France," thought I. "Here's your papistical gospeller at -home!" I minded of the Rev. Scipio Walker in the kirk of Mearns, an -image ever of austerity, waling his words as they had come from Solomon, -groaning even-on for man's eternal doom. - -The priest quickly comprehended my surprise at his humour, and laughed -the more at that till a fit of coughing choked him. "_Mon Dieu_" said -he; "our Andy reincarnate is an Andy most pestilent dull, or I'm a -cockle, a convoluted cockle, and uncooked at that. Why, man! cheer up, -thou _croque mort_, thou lanthorn-jaw, thou veal-eye, thou melancholious -eater of oaten-meal!" - -"It's a humblin' sicht!" said I. The impertinence was no sooner uttered -than I felt degraded that I should have given it voice, for here was a -priest of God, however odd to my thinking, and, what was more, a man who -might in years have been my father. - -But luckily it could never then, or at any other time, be said of Father -Hamilton that he was thin-skinned. He only laughed the more at me. -"Touche!" he cried. "I knew I could prick the old Andy somewhere. Still, -Master Paul, thine uncle was not so young as thou, my cockerel. Had seen -his world and knew that Scotland and its--what do you call them?--its -manses, did not provide the universal ensample of true piety." - -"I do not think, Father Hamilton," said I, "that piety troubled him very -much, or his shoes had not been so well known in Dunkerque." - -Miss Walkinshaw laughed. - -"There you are, Father Hamilton!" said she. "You'll come little speed -with a man from the Mearns moors unless you take him a little more -seriously." - -Father Hamilton pursed his lips and rubbed down his thighs, an image -of the gross man that would have turned my father's stomach, who always -liked his men lean, clean, and active. He was bantering me, this fat -priest of Dixmunde, but all the time it was with a friendly eye. Thinks -I, here's another legacy of goodwill from my extraordinary uncle! - -"Hast got thy pass yet, Master Dull?" said he. - -"Not so dull, Master Minister, but what I resent the wrong word even in -a joke," I replied, rising to go. - -Thurot's voice was on the stair now, and Clan-carty's. If they were not -to find their _protege_ in an undignified war of words with the priest -of Dixmunde, it was time I was taking my feet from there, as the saying -went. - -But Miss Walkinshaw would not hear of it. "No, no," she protested, "we -have some business before you go to your ridiculous French--weary be on -the language that ever I heard _Je t'aime_ in it!--and how does the same -march with you, Mr. Greig?" - -"I know enough of it to thank my good friends in," said I, "but that -must be for another occasion." - -"Father Hamilton," said she, "here's your secretary." - -A curious flash came to those eyes pitted in rolls of flabby flesh, I -thought of an eagle old and moulting, languid upon a mountain cliff in -misty weather, catching the first glimpse of sun and turned thereby -to ancient memories. He said nothing; there was at the moment no -opportunity, for the visitors had entered, noisily polite and posturing -as was their manner, somewhat touched by wine, I fancied, and for that -reason scarcely welcomed by the mistress of the house. - -There could be no more eloquent evidence of my innocence in these days -than was in the fact that I never wondered at the footing upon which -these noisy men of the world were with a countrywoman of mine. The cause -they often spoke of covered many mysteries; between the Rue de Paris -and the Rue de la Boucherie I could have picked out a score of Scots in -exile for their political faiths, and why should not Miss Walkinshaw be -one of the company? But sometimes there was just the faintest hint of -over-much freedom in their manner to her, and that I liked as little as -she seemed to do, for when her face flushed and her mouth firmed, and -she became studiously deaf, I felt ashamed of my sex, and could have -retorted had not prudence dictated silence as the wisest policy. - -As for her, she was never but the minted metal, ringing true and decent, -compelling order by a glance, gentle yet secure in her own strength, -tolerant, but in bounds. - -They were that day full of the project for invading England. It had -gone so far that soldiers at Calais and Boulogne were being practised in -embarkation. I supposed she must have a certain favour for a step that -was designed to benefit the cause wherefor I judged her an exile, but -she laughed at the idea of Britain falling, as she said, to a parcel of -_crapauds_. "Treason!" treason!" cried Thurot laughingly. - -"Under the circumstances, Madame----" - -"--Under the circumstances, Captain Thurot," she interrupted quickly, -"I need not pretend at a lie. This is not in the Prince's interest, this -invasion, and it is a blow at a land I love. Mr. Greig here has just put -it into my mind how good are the hearts there, how pleasant the tongue, -and how much I love the very name of Scotland. I would be sorry to think -of its end come to pleasure the women in Versailles." - -"Bravo! bravo! _vive la bagatelle!_" cried my Lord Clancarty. "Gad! I -sometimes feel the right old pathriot myself. Sure I have a good mind--" - -"Then 'tis not your own, my lord," she cried quickly, displeasure in her -expression, and Clancarty only bowed, not a whit abashed at the sarcasm. - -Father Hamilton drew me aside from these cheerful contentions, and -plunged into the matter that was manifestly occupying all his thoughts -since Miss Walkinshaw had mooted me as his secretary. - -"Monsieur Greig," he said, placing his great carcase between me and the -others in the room, "I declare that women are the seven plagues, and yet -here we come chasing them from _petit lever_ till--till--well, till as -late as the darlings will let us. By the Mass and Father Hamilton knows -their value, and when a man talks to me about a woman and the love he -bears her, I think 'tis a maniac shouting the praise of the snake that -has crept to his breast to sting him. Women--chut!--now tell me what the -mischief is a woman an' thou canst." - -"I fancy, Father Hamilton," said I, "you could be convinced of the -merits of woman if your heart was ever attacked by one--your heart, that -does not believe anything in that matter that emanates from your head." - -Again the eagle's gleam from the pitted eyes; and, upon my word, a sigh! -It was a queer man this priest of Dixmunde. - -"Ah, young cockerel," said he, "thou knowest nothing at all about it, -and as for me--well, I dare not; but once--once--once there were dews in -the woods, and now it is very dry weather, Master Greig. How about thine -honour's secretaryship? Gripp'st at the opportunity, young fellow? -Eh? Has the lady said sooth? Come now, I like the look of my old -Andrew's--my old Merry Andrew's nephew, and could willingly tolerate -his _croque-mort_ countenance, his odour of the sanctuary, if he could -weather it with a plethoric good liver that takes the world as he finds -it." - -He was positively eager to have me. It was obvious from his voice. He -took me by the button of my lapel as if I were about to run away from -his offer, but I was in no humour to run away. Here was the very office -I should have chosen if a thousand offered. The man was a fatted sow to -look on, and by no means engaging in his manner to myself, but what was -I and what my state that I should be too particular? Here was a chance -to see the world--and to forget. Seeing the world might have been of -most importance some months ago in the mind of a clean-handed young -lad in the parish of Mearns in Scotland, but now it was of vastly more -importance that I should forget. - -"We start in a week," said the priest, pressing me closely lest I should -change my mind, and making the prospects as picturesque as he could. -"Why should a man of flesh and blood vex his good stomach with all this -babblement of king's wars? and a pox on their flat-bottomed boats! -I have seen my last Mass in Dixmunde; say not a word on that to our -friends nor to Madame; and I suffer from a very jaundice of gold. Is't a -pact, friend Scotland?" - -A pact it was; I went out from Miss Walkinshaw's lodging that afternoon -travelling secretary to the fat priest. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -RELATES HOW I INDULGED MY CURIOSITY AND HOW LITTLE CAME OF IT - -Dunkerque in these days (it may be so no longer) was a place for a man -to go through with his nose in his fingers. Garbage stewed and festered -in the gutters of the street so that the women were bound to walk -high-kilted, and the sea-breeze at its briskest scarcely sufficed to -stir the stagnant, stenching atmosphere of the town, now villainously -over-populated by the soldiery with whom it was France's pleasant -delusion she should whelm our isle. - -"_Pardieu!_" cried Father Hamilton, as we emerged in this malodorous -open, "'twere a fairy godfather's deed to clear thee out of this -feculent cloaca. Think on't, boy; of you and me a week hence riding -through the sweet woods of Somme or Oise, and after that Paris! Paris! -my lad of tragedy; Paris, where the world moves and folk live. And then, -perhaps, Tours, and Bordeaux, and Flanders, and Sweden, Seville, St. -Petersburg itself, but at least the woods of Somme, where the roads are -among gossamer and dew and enchantment in the early morning--if we cared -to rise early enough to see them, which I promise thee we shall not." - -His lips were thick and trembling: he gloated as he pictured me this -mad itinerary, leaning heavily on my arm--Silenus on an ash -sapling--half-trotting beside me, looking up every now and then to -satisfy himself I appreciated the prospect. It was pleasant enough, -though in a measure incredible, but at the moment I was thinking of Miss -Walkinshaw, and wondering much to myself that this exposition of foreign -travel should seem barely attractive because it meant a severance from -her. Her sad smile, her brave demeanour, her kind heart, her beauty had -touched me sensibly. - -"Well, Master Scrivener!" cried the priest, panting at my side, "art -dumb?" - -"I fancy, sir, it is scarcely the weather for woods," said I. "I hope we -are not to put off our journey till the first of April a twelvemonth." -A suspicion unworthy of me had flashed into my mind that I might, after -all, be no more than the butt of a practical joke. But that was merely -for a moment; the priest was plainly too eager on his scheme to be -play-acting it. - -"I am very grateful to the lady," I hastened to add, "who gave me the -chance of listing in your service. Had it not been for her you might -have found a better secretary, and I might have remained long enough -in the evil smells of Dunkerque that I'll like all the same in spite of -that, because I have so good a friend as Miss Walkinshaw in it." - -"La! la! la!" cried out Father Hamilton, squeezing my arm. "Here's our -young cockerel trailing wing already! May I never eat fish again if -'tisn't a fever in this woman that she must infect every man under three -score. For me I am within a month of the period immune, and only feel a -malaise in her company. Boy, perpend! Have I not told thee every woman, -except the ugliest, is an agent of the devil? I am the first to -discover that his majesty is married and his wife keeps shop when he -is travelling--among Jesuits and Jacobites and such busy fuel for the -future fires. His wife keeps shop, lad, and does a little business among -her own sex, using the handsomest for her purposes. Satan comes back to -the _boutique_. 'What!' he cries, and counts the till, 'these have been -busy days, good wife.' And she, Madame Dusky, chuckles with a 'Ha! Jack, -old man, hast a good wife or not? Shalt never know how to herd in souls -like sheep till thou hast a quicker eye for what's below a Capuchin -hood.' This--this is a sweet woman, this Walkinshaw, Paul, but a -dangerous. 'Ware hawk, lad, 'ware hawk!" - -I suppose my face reddened at that; at least he looked at me again and -pinched, and "Smitten to the marrow; may I drink water and grow thin -else. _Sacre nom de nom!_ 'tis time thou wert on the highways of -Europe." - -"How does it happen that a countrywoman of mine is here alone?" I asked. - -"I'll be shot if thou art not the rascalliest young innocent in France. -Aye! or out of Scotland," cried Father Hamilton, holding his sides for -laughter. - -"Is thy infernal climate of fogs and rains so pleasant that a woman of -spirit should abide there for ever an' she have the notion to travel -otherwheres? La! la! la! Master Scrivener, and thou must come to an -honest pious priest for news of the world. But, boy, I'm deaf and dumb; -mine eyes on occasion are without vision. Let us say the lady has been -an over-ardent Jacobite; 'twill suffice in the meantime. And now has't -ever set eyes on Charles Edward?" - -I told him I had never had any hand in the Jacobite affairs, if that was -what he meant. - -His countenance fell at that. - -"What!" he cried, losing his Roman manner, "do you tell me you have -never seen him?" - -But once, I explained, when he marched into Glasgow city with his wild -Highlanders and bullied the burgesses into providing shoes for his -ragged army. - -"Ah," said he with a clearing visage, "that will suffice. Must point him -out to me. Dixmunde parish was a poor place for seeing the great; 'tis -why I go wandering now." - -Father Hamilton's hint at politics confirmed my guess about Miss -Walkinshaw, but I suppose I must have been in a craze to speak of her on -any pretence, for later in the day I was at Thurot's lodging, and there -must precognosce again. - -"_Oh, mon Dieu, quelle espieglerie!_" cried out the captain. "And this -a Greig too! Well, I do not wonder that your poor uncle stayed so -long away from home; faith, he'd have died of an _ennui_ else. Miss -Walkinshaw is--Miss Walkinshaw; a countryman of her own should know -better than I all that is to be known about her. But 'tis not our -affair, Mr. Greig. For sure 'tis enough that we find her smiling, -gentle, tolerant, what you call the 'perfect lady'--_n'est ce pas?_And -of all the virtues, upon my word, kindness is the best and rarest, and -that she has to a miracle." - -"I'm thinking that is not a corsair's creed, Captain Thurot," said I, -smiling at the gentleman's eagerness. He was standing over me like a -lighthouse, with his eyes on fire, gesturing with his arms as they had -been windmill sails. - -"No, faith! but 'tis a man's, Master Greig, and I have been happy with -it. Touching our fair friend, I may say that, much as I admire her, I -agree with some others that ours were a luckier cause without her. Gad! -the best thing you could do, Mr. Greig, would be to marry her yourself -and take her back with you to Scotland." - -"What! byway of Paris in Father Hamilton's glass coach," I said, -bantering to conceal my confusion at such a notion. - -"H'm," said he. "Father Hamilton and the lady are a pair." He walked a -little up and down the room as if he were in a quandary. "A pair," he -resumed. "I fancied I could see to the very centre of the Sphinx itself, -for all men are in ourselves if we only knew it, till I came upon -this Scotswoman and this infernal Flemish-English priest of Dix-munde. -Somehow, for them Antoine Thurot has not the key in himself yet. Still, -'twill arrive, 'twill arrive! I like the lady--and yet I wish she were a -thousand miles away; I like the man too, but a Jesuit is too many men -at once to be sure of; and, Gad! I can scarcely sleep at nights for -wondering what he may be plotting. This grand tour of his-" - -"Stop, stop!" I cried, in a fear that he might compromise himself in an -ignorance of my share in the tour in question; "I must tell you that I -am going with Father Hamilton as his secretary, although it bothers me -to know what scrivening is to be accomplished in a glass coach. Like -enough I am to be no more, in truth, than the gentleman's companion or -courier, and it is no matter so long as I am moving." - -"Indeed, and is it so?" cried Captain Thurot, stopping as if he had been -shot. "And how happens it that this priest is willing to take you, that -are wholly a foreigner and a stranger to the country?" - -"Miss Walkinshaw recommended me," said I. - -"Oh!" he cried, "you have not been long of getting into your excellent -countrywoman's kind favour. Is it that Tony Thurot has been doing -the handsome by an ingrate? No, no, Monsieur, that were a monstrous -innuendo, for the honour has been all mine. But that Miss Walkinshaw -should be on such good terms with the priest as to trouble with the -provision of his secretary is opposed to all I had expected of her. Why, -she dislikes the man, or I'm a stuffed fish." - -"Anyhow, she has done a handsome thing by me," said I. "It is no wonder -that so good a heart as hers should smother its repugnances (and the -priest is a fat sow, there is no denying) for the sake of a poor lad -from its own country. You are but making it the plainer that I owe her -more than at first I gave her credit for." - -"Bless me, here's gratitude!" cried the captain, laughing at my warmth. -"Mademoiselle Walkinshaw has her own plans; till now, I fancied them -somewhat different from Hamilton's, but more fool I to fancy they were -what they seemed! All that, my dear lad, need not prevent your enjoying -your grand tour with the priest, who has plenty of money and the -disposition to spend it like a gentleman." - -Finally I went to my Lord Clancarty, for it will be observed that I had -still no hint as to the origin of the lady who was so good a friend of -mine. Though the last thing in the world I should have done was to pry -into her affairs for the indulgence of an idle curiosity, I would know -the best of her before the time came to say farewell, and leave of her -with me no more than a memory. - -The earl was at the Cafe du Soleil d'Or, eating mussels on the terrace -and tossing the empty shells into the gutter what time he ogled passing -women and exchanged levitous repartee with some other frequenters of the -place. - -"Egad, Paul," he cried, meeting me with effusion, "'tis said there is -one pearl to be found for every million mussels; but here's a pearl come -to me in the midst of a single score. An Occasion, lad; I sat at the -dice last night till a preposterous hour this morning, and now I have a -headache like the deuce and a thirst to take the Baltic. I must have -the tiniest drop, and on an Occasion too. _Voila! Gaspard, une autre -bouteille._" - -He had his bottle, that I merely made pretence to help him empty, and I -had my precognition. - -But it came to little in the long run. Oh yes, he understood my interest -in the lady (with rakish winking); 'twas a delicious creature for all -its _hauteur_ when one ventured a gallantry, but somehow no particular -friend to the Earl of Clancarty, who, if she only knew it, was come of -as noble a stock as any rotten Scot ever went unbreeched; not but what -(this with a return of the naturally polite man) there were admirable -and high-bred people of that race, as instance my Uncle Andrew and -myself. But was there any reason why such a man as Charlie Stuart should -be King of Ireland? "I say, Greig, blister the old Chevalier and his two -sons! There is not a greater fumbler on earth than this sotted person, -who has drunk the Cause to degradation and would not stir a hand to -serve me and my likes, that are, begad! the fellow's betters." - -"But all this," said I, "has little to do with Miss Walkinshaw. I have -nothing to say of the Prince, who may be all you say, though that is not -the repute he has in Scotland." - -"Bravo, Mr. Greig!" cried his lordship. "That is the tone if you would -keep in the lady's favour. Heaven knows she has little reason to listen -to praise of such a creature, but, then, women are blind. She loves not -Clancarty, as I have said; but, no matter, I forgive her that; 'tis well -known 'tis because I cannot stomach her prince." - -"And yet," said I, "you must interest yourself in these Jacobite -affairs and mix with all that are here of that party." - -"Faith and I do," he confessed heartily. "What! am I to be a mole and -stay underground? A man must have his diversion, and though I detest the -Prince I love his foolish followers. Do you know what, Mr. Greig? 'Tis -the infernal irony of things in this absurd world that the good fellows, -the bloods, the men of sensibilities must for ever be wrapped up in poor -mad escapades and emprises. And a Clancarty is ever of such a heart that -the more madcap the scheme the more will he dote on it." - -A woman passing in a chair at this moment looked in his direction; -fortunately, otherwise I was condemned to a treatise on life and -pleasure. - -"Egad!" he cried, "there's a face that's like a line of song," and he -smiled at her with unpardonable boldness as it seemed to me, a pleasant -pucker about his eyes, a hint of the good comrade in his mouth. - -She flushed like wine and tried to keep from smiling, but could not -resist, and smiling she was borne away. - -"Do you know her, my lord?" I could not forbear asking. - -"Is it know her?" said he. "Devil a know, but 'tis a woman anyhow, and -a heart at that. Now who the deuce can she be?" And he proceeded, like a -true buck, to fumble with the Mechlin of his fall and dust his stockings -in an airy foppish manner so graceful that I swear no other could have -done the same so well. - -"Now this Miss Walkinshaw--" I went on, determined to have some -satisfaction from my interview. - -"Confound your Miss Walkinshaw, by your leave, Mr. Greig," he -interrupted. "Can you speak of Miss Walkinshaw when the glory of the -comet is still trailing in the heavens? And--hum!--I mind me of a -certain engagement, Mr. Greig," he went on hurriedly, drawing a horologe -from his fob and consulting it with a frowning brow. "In the charm of -your conversation I had nigh forgot, so _adieu, adieu, mon ami!_" - -He gave me the tips of his fingers, and a second later he was gone, -stepping down the street with a touch of the minuet, tapping his legs -with his cane, his sword skewering his coat-skirts, all the world giving -him the cleanest portion of the thoroughfare and looking back after him -with envy and admiration. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -WITNESSES THE LAST OF A BLATE YOUNG MAN - -And all this time it may well be wondered where was my remorse for a -shot fired on the moor of Mearns, for two wretched homes created by my -passion and my folly. And where, in that shifting mind of mine, was the -place of Isobel Fortune, whose brief days of favour for myself (if that, -indeed, was not imagination on my part) had been the cause of these my -wanderings? There is one beside me as I write, ready to make allowance -for youth and ignorance, the untutored affection, the distraught mind, -if not for the dubiety as to her feelings for myself when I was outlawed -for a deed of blood and had taken, as the Highland phrase goes, the -world for my pillow. - -I did not forget the girl of Kirkillstane; many a time in the inward -visions of the night, and of the day too, I saw her go about that -far-off solitary house in the hollow of the hills. Oddly enough, 'twas -ever in sunshine I saw her, with her sun-bonnet swinging from its -ribbons and her hand above her eyes, shading them that she might look -across the fields that lay about her home, or on a tryst of fancy by -the side of Earn, hearing the cushats mourn in a magic harmony with her -melancholy thoughts. As for the killing of young Borland, that I kept, -waking at least, from my thoughts, or if the same intruded, I found it -easier, as time passed, to excuse myself for a fatality that had been in -the experience of nearly every man I now knew--of Clancarty and Thurot, -of the very baker in whose house I lodged and who kneaded the dough for -his little bread not a whit the less cheerily because his hands had been -imbrued. - -The late Earl of Clare, in France called the Marechal Comte de Thomond, -had come to Dunkerque in the quality of Inspector-General of the Armies -of France, to review the troops in garrison and along that menacing -coast. The day after my engagement with Father Hamilton I finished my -French lesson early and went to see his lordship and his army on the -dunes to the east of the town. Cannon thundered, practising at marks far -out in the sea; there was infinite manoeuvring of horse and foot; -the noon was noisy with drums and the turf shook below the hoofs of -galloping chargers. I fancy it was a holiday; at least, as I recall -the thing, Dunkerque was all _en fete_, and a happy and gay populace -gathered in the rear of the marechales flag. Who should be there among -the rest, or rather a little apart from the crowd, but Miss Walkinshaw! -She had come in a chair; her dainty hand beckoned me to her side almost -as soon as I arrived. - -"Now, that's what I must allow is very considerate," said she, eyeing -my red shoes, which were put on that day from some notion of proper -splendour. - -"Well considered?" I repeated. - -"Just well considered," said she. "You know how much it would please me -to see you in your red shoes, and so you must put them on." - -I was young in these days, and, like the ass I was, I quickly set about -disabusing her mind of a misapprehension that injured her nor me. - -"Indeed, Miss Walkinshaw," said I, "how could I do that when I did not -know you were to be here? You are the last I should have expected to see -here." - -"What!" she exclaimed, growing very red. "Does Mr. Greig trouble himself -so much about the _convenances?_ And why should I not be here if I have -the whim? Tell me that, my fastidious compatriot." - -Here was an accountable flurry over a thoughtless phrase! - -"No reason in the world that I know of," said I gawkily, as red as -herself, wondering what it was my foot was in. - -"That you know of," she repeated, as confused as ever. "It seems to -me, Mr. Greig, that the old gentleman who is tutoring you in the French -language would be doing a good turn to throw in a little of the manners -of the same. Let me tell you that I am as much surprised as you can be -to find myself here, and now that you are so good as to put me in mind -of the--of the--of the _convenances_, I will go straight away home. It -was not the priest, nor was it Captain Thurot that got your ear, for -they are by the way of being gentlemen; it could only have been this -Irishman Clancarty--the quality of that country have none of the -scrupulosity that distinguishes our own. You can tell his lordship, next -time you see him, that Miss Walkinshaw will see day about with him for -this." - -She ordered her chairmen to take her home, and then--burst into tears! - -I followed at her side, in a stew at my indiscoverable blundering, my -_chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand, and myself like to greet too for sympathy -and vexation. - -"You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "Heaven -knows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your good -opinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant." - -"Go away!" she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, that -was now being borne towards the town. - -"Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for the -freedom," I said, "for here's some monstrous misconception, and I must -clear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever." - -She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed to -me. Feeling like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walk -deliberately by her side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. She -dismissed the chair and was for going into the house without letting an -eye light on young persistency. - -"One word, Miss Walkinshaw," I pleaded. "We are a Scottish man and a -Scottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in this -street, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she will -not give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and an -affection, a chance to know wherein he may have blundered." - -"Respect and affection," she said, her profile turned to me, her foot on -the steps, visibly hesitating. - -"Respect and affection," I repeated, flushing at my own boldness. - -"In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?" she said, biting her nether lip -and still manifestly close on tears. - -"How?" said I, bewildered. "His lordship gave me no tales that I know -of." - -"And why," said she, "be at such pains to tell me you wondered I should -be there?" - -I got very red at that. - -"You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig," she said bitterly. - -"Well, then," I ventured boldly, "what I should have said was that I -feared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. And -I have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with me -and would not let me explain myself." - -"What!" she cried, quite radiant, "and, after all, the red shoon were -not without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tell -you the truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only making -believe to be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither you -can see me to my parlour." - -"Well, Bernard," she said to the Swiss as we entered, "any news?" - -He informed her there was none. - -"What! no one called?" said she with manifest disappointment. - -"_Personne, Madame_." - -"No letters?" - -Nor were there any letters, he replied. - -She sighed, paused irresolute a moment with her foot on the stair, one -hand at her heart, the other at the fastening of her coat, and looked at -me with a face almost tragic in its trouble. I cannot but think she was -on the brink of a confidence, but ere it came she changed her mind and -dashed up the stair with a tra-la-la of a song meant to indicate her -indifference, leaving me a while in her parlour while she changed -her dress. She came back to me in a little, attired in a pale -primrose-coloured paduasoy, the cuffs and throat embroidered in a -pattern of roses and leaves, her hair unpowdered and glossy, wantoning -in and out of a neck beyond description. The first thing she did on -entrance was odd enough, for it was to stand over me where I lounged -on her settee, staring down into my eyes until I felt a monstrous -embarrassment. - -"I am wonderin'," said she, "if ye are the man I tak' ye for." - -Her eyes were moist; I saw she had been crying in her toilet room. - -"I'm just the man you see," I said, "but for some unco' troubles that -are inside me and are not for airing to my friends on a fine day in -Dunkerque." - -"Perhaps, like the lave of folks, ye dinna ken yoursel'," she went on, -speaking with no sprightly humour though in the Scots she was given to -fall to in her moments of fun. "All men, Mr. Greig, mean well, but most -of them fall short of their own ideals; they're like the women in that, -no doubt, but in the men the consequence is more disastrous." - -"When I was a girl in a place you know," she went on even more soberly, -"I fancied all men were on the model of honest John Walkinshaw--better -within than without. He was stern to austerity, demanding the last -particle of duty from his children, and to some he might seem hard, but -I have never met the man yet with a kinder heart, a pleasanter mind, a -more pious disposition than John Walkin-shaw's. It has taken ten years, -and acquaintance with some gentry not of Scotland, to make it plain that -all men are not on his model." - -"I could fancy not, to judge from his daughter," I said, blushing at my -first compliment that was none the less bold because it was sincere. - -At that she put on a little mouth and shrugged her shoulders with a -shiver that made the snaps in her ears tremble. - -"My good young man," said she, "there you go! If there's to be any -friendship between you and Clementina Walkinshaw, understand there must -be a different key from that. You are not only learning your French, but -you are learning, it would seem, the manners of the nation. It was that -made me wonder if you could be the man I took you for the first day you -were in this room and I found I could make you greet with a Scots sang, -and tell me honestly about a lass you had a notion of and her no' me. -That last's the great stroke of honesty in any man, and let me tell you -there are some women who would not relish it. But you are in a company -here so ready with the tongue of flattery that I doubt each word they -utter, and that's droll enough in me that loves my fellow creatures, and -used to think the very best of every one of them. If I doubt them now -I doubt them with a sore enough heart, I'll warrant you. Oh! am I not -sorry that my man of Mearns should be put in the reverence of such -creatures as Clancarty and Thurot, and all that gang of worldlings? I do -not suppose I could make you understand it, Mr. Paul Greig, but I feel -motherly to you, and to see my son--this great giant fellow who kens the -town of Glasgow and dwelt in Mearns where I had May milk, and speaks wi' -the fine Scots tongue like mysel' when his heart is true--to see him the -boon comrade with folks perhaps good enough for Clementina Walkinshaw -but lacking a particle of principle, is a sight to sorrow me." - -"And is it for that you seek to get me away with the priest?" I asked, -surprised at all this, and a little resenting the suggestion of youth -implied in her feeling like a mother to me. Her face was lit, her -movement free and beautiful; something in her fascinated me. - -She dropped in a chair and pushed the hair from her ears with a hand -like milk, and laughed. - -"Now how could you guess?" said she. "Am I no' the careful mother of -you to put you in the hands o' the clergy? I doubt this play-acting -rhetorician of a man from Dixmunde is no great improvement on the rest -of your company when all's said and done, but you'll be none the worse -for seeing the world at his costs, and being in other company than -Clancarty's and Thurot's and Roscommon's. He told me to-day you were -going with him, and I was glad that I had been of that little service to -you." - -"Then it seems you think so little of my company as to be willing enough -to be rid of me at the earliest opportunity," I said, honestly somewhat -piqued at her readiness to clear me out of Dunkerque. - -She looked at me oddly. "Havers, Mr. Greig!" said she, "just havers!" - -I was thanking her for her offices, but she checked me. "You are well -off," she said, "to be away from here while these foolish manouvrings -are on foot. Poor me! I must bide and see them plan the breaking down -of my native country. It's a mercy I know in what a fiasco it will end, -this planning. Hearken! Do you hear the bugles? That's Soubise going -back to the caserne. He and his little men are going back to eat another -dinner destined to assist in the destruction of an island where you and -I should be this day if we were wiser than we are. Fancy them destroying -Britain, Mr. Greig!--Britain, where honest John Walkinshaw is, that -never said an ill word in his life, nor owed any man a penny: where the -folks are guid and true, and fear God and want nothing but to be left to -their crofts and herds. If it was England--if it was the palace of Saint -James--no, but it's Scotland, too, and the men you saw marching up and -down to-day are to be marching over the moor o' Mearns when the -heather's red. Can you think of it?" She stamped her foot. "Where the -wee thack hooses are at the foot o' the braes, and the bairns playing -under the rowan trees; where the peat is smelling, and the burns are -singing in the glens, and the kirk-bells are ringing. Poor Mr. Greig! -Are ye no' wae for Scotland? Do ye think Providence will let a man like -Thomond ye saw to-day cursing on horseback--do ye think Providence will -let him lead a French army among the roads you and I ken so well, -affronting the people we ken too, who may be a thought dull in the -matter of repartee, but are for ever decent, who may be hard-visaged, -but are so brave?" - -She laughed, herself, half bitterly, half contemptuously, at the picture -she drew. Outside, in the sunny air of the afternoon, the bugles of -Soubise filled the street with brazen cries, and nearer came the roar -of pounding drums. I thought I heard them menacing the sleep of evening -valleys far away, shattering the calm of the hearth of Hazel Den. - -"The cause for which--for which so many are exile here," I said, looking -on this Jacobite so strangely inconsistent, "has no reason to regret -that France should plan an attack on Georgius Rex." - -She shook her head impatiently. "The cause has nothing to do with it, -Mr. Greig," said she. "The cause will suffer from this madness more than -ever it did, but in any case 'tis the most miserable of lost causes." - -"Prince Charlie-" - -"Once it was the cause with me, now I would sooner have it Scotland," -she went on, heedless of my interruption. "Scotland! Scotland! Oh, how -the name of her is like a dirge to me, and my heart is sore for her! -Where is your heart, Mr. Greig, that it does not feel alarm at the -prospect of these _crapauds_ making a single night's sleep uneasy for -the folks you know? Where is your heart, I'm asking?" - -"I wish I knew," said I impulsively, staring at her, completely -bewitched by her manner so variable and intense, and the straying -tendrils of her hair. - -"Do you not?" said she. "Then I will tell you. It is where it ought to -be--with a girl of the name of Isobel Fortune. Oh, the dear name! oh, -the sweet name! And when you are on your travels with this priest do not -be forgetting her. Oh, yes! I know you will tell me again that all is -over between the pair of you, and that she loved another--but I am not -believing a word of that, Mr. Greig, when I look at you--(and will ye -say 'thank ye' for the compliment that's there?)--you will just go on -thinking her the same, and you will be the better man for it. There's -something tells me she is thinking of you though I never saw her, the -dear! Let me see, this is what sort of girl she will be." - -She drew her chair closer to the settee and leaned forward in front -of me, and, fixing her eyes on mine, drew a picture of the girl of -Kirkillstane as she imagined her. - -"She will be about my own height, and with the same colour of hair-" - -"How do you know that? I never said a word of that to you," I cried, -astonished at the nearness of her first guess. - -"Oh, I'm a witch," she cried triumphantly, "a fair witch. Hoots! do I -no' ken ye wadna hae looked the side o' the street I was on if I -hadna put ye in mind o' her? Well, she's my height and colour--but, -alack-a-day, no' my years. She 'll have a voice like the mavis for -sweetness, and 'll sing to perfection. She'll be shy and forward in -turns, accordin' as you are forward and shy; she 'll can break your -heart in ten minutes wi' a pout o' her lips or mak' ye fair dizzy with -delight at a smile. And then"--here Miss Walkinshaw seemed carried away -herself by her fancy portrait, for she bent her brows studiously as she -thought, and seemed to speak in an abstraction--"and then she'll be a -managing woman. She'll be the sort of woman that the Bible tells of -whose value is over rubies; knowing your needs as you battle with the -world, and cheerful when you come in to the hearthstone from the turmoil -outside. A witty woman and a judge of things, calm but full of fire in -your interests. A household where the wife's a doll is a cart with one -wheel, and your Isobel will be the perfect woman. I think she must have -travelled some, too, and seen how poor is the wide world compared with -what is to be found at your own fire-end; I think she must have had -trials and learned to be brave." - -She stopped suddenly, looked at me and got very red in the face. - -"A fine picture, Miss Walkinshaw!" said I, with something drumming at my -heart. "It is not just altogether like Isobel Fortune, who has long syne -forgot but to detest me, but I fancy I know who it is like." - -"And who might that be?" she asked in a low voice and with a somewhat -guilty look. - -"Will I tell you?" I asked, myself alarmed at my boldness. - -"No! no! never mind," she cried. "I was just making a picture of a -girl I once knew--poor lass! and of what she might have been. But she's -dead--dead and buried. I hope, after all, your Isobel is a nobler woman -than the one I was thinking on and a happier destiny awaiting her." - -"That cannot matter much to me now," I said, "for, as I told you, there -is nothing any more between us--except--except a corp upon the heather." - -She shuddered as she did the first time I told her of my tragedy, and -sucked in the air again through her clenched teeth. - -"Poor lad! poor lad!" said she. "And you have quite lost her. If so, and -the thing must be, then this glass coach of Father Hamilton's must take -you to the country of forgetfulness. I wish I could drive there myself -this minute, but wae's me, there's no chariot at the _remise_ that'll do -that business for John Walkinshaw's girl." - -Something inexpressively moving was in her mien, all her heart was in -her face as it seemed; a flash of fancy came to me that she was alone in -the world with nothing of affection to hap her round from its abrasions, -and that her soul was crying out for love. Sweet beyond expression was -this woman and I was young; up to my feet I rose, and turned on her a -face that must have plainly revealed my boyish passion. - -"Miss Walkinshaw," I said, "you may put me out of this door for ever, -but I'm bound to say I'm going travelling in no glass coach; Dunkerque -will be doing very well for me." - -Her lips trembled; her cheek turned pale; she placed a hand upon her -breast, and there was I contrite before her anger! - -"Is this--is this your respect and your esteem, Mr. Greig?" she asked -brokenly. - -"They were never greater than at this moment," I replied. - -"And how are they to be manifested by your waiting on in Dunkerque?" she -asked, recovering her colour and some of her ordinary manner. - -How indeed? She had no need to ask me the question, for it was already -ringing through my being. That the Spoiled Horn from Mearns, an outlaw -with blood on his hands and borrowed money in his pocket, should have -the presumption to feel any ardour for this creature seemed preposterous -to myself, and I flushed in an excess of shame and confusion. - -This seemed completely to reassure her. "Oh, Mr. Greig--Mr. Greig, was I -not right to ask if ye were the man ye seemed? Here's a nice display o' -gallantry from my giant son! I believe you are just makin' fun o' this -auld wife; and if no' I hae just one word for you, Paul Greig, and it's -this that I said afore--jist havers!" - -She went to her spinet and ran her fingers over the keys and broke into -a song-- - - Oh, what ails the laddie, new twined frae his mither? - The laddie gallantin' roun' Tibbie and me?-- - -with glances coquettish yet repelling round her shoulder at me as I -stood turning my _chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand as a boy turns his bonnet -in presence of laird or dominie. The street was shaking now with the -sound of marching soldiers, whose platoons were passing in a momentary -silence of trumpet or drum. All at once the trumpets blared forth -just in front of the house, broke upon her song, and gave a heavensent -diversion to our comedy or tragedy or whatever it was in the parlour. - -We both stood looking out at the window for a while in silence, watching -the passing troops, and when the last file had gone, she turned with a -change of topic "If these men had been in England ten years ago," she -said, "when brisk affairs were doing there with Highland claymores, your -Uncle Andrew would have been there, too, and it would not perhaps be -your father who was Laird of Hazel Den. But that's all by with now. And -when do you set out with Father Hamilton?" - -She had a face as serene as fate; my heart ached to tell her that I -loved her, but her manner made me hold my tongue on that. - -"In three days," I said, still turning my hat and wishing myself -elsewhere, though her presence intoxicated. - -"In three days!" she said, as one astonished. "I had thought it had been -a week at the earliest. Will I tell you what you might do? You are my -great blate bold son, you know, from the moors of Mearns, and I will be -wae, wae, to think of you travelling all round Europe without a friend -of your own country to exchange a word with. Write to me; will you?" - -"Indeed and I will, and that gaily," I cried, delighted at the prospect. - -"And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and what -you have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, and -be sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel, -I daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league upon -the map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to be -here at noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will write -to you--but oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would I -have him know that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. That -is bad." - -She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, but -the problem was beyond me, and she sighed. - -"Of course his reverence need not know anything about it," she said -then. - -"Certainly," I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. "I will -never mention to him anything about it." - -"But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without his -suspecting something?" - -"Oh, but he cannot suspect." - -"What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this Father -Hamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves so -innocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way that -I shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way. -But never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honour -for that." - -As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over the -bannister and cried after me: - -"Mr. Greig," said she, "ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoes -when ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to be -thinkin' of you as traivellin' in them a' the time." - -I looked up and saw her smiling saucily at me over the rail. - -"Would you indeed?" said I. "Then I'll never put them aff till I see ye -again, when I come back to Dunkerque." - -"That is kind," she answered, laughing outright, "but fair reediculous. -To wear them to bed would be against your character for sobriety." - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -A RAP IN THE EARLY MORNING AWAKENS ME AND I START IN A GLASS COACH UPON -THE ODDEST OF JOURNEYS - -It was the last, for many months, I was to see of my countrywoman. -Before the crow of the cock next morning I was on the unending roads, -trundling in a noisy vehicle through pitch darkness, my companion -snoring stertorous at my side, his huge head falling every now and then -upon my shoulder, myself peering to catch some revelation of what manner -of country-side we went through as the light from the swinging lanthorn -lit up briefly passing banks of frosted hedge or sleeping hamlets on -whose pave the hoofs of our horses hammered as they had been the very -war-steeds of Bellona. - -But how came I there? How but by my master's whim, that made him -anticipate his departure by three days and drag me from my bed -incontinent to set out upon his trip over Europe. - -I had been sleeping soundly, dreaming I heard the hopper of the mill -of Driepps at home banging to make Jock Alexander's fortune, when I -awakened, or rather half-wakened, to discover that 'twas no hopper but a -nieve at my door, rapping with a vigour to waken the dead. - -"Come out! Sir Secretary, come out! or I shall pull thy domicile about -thine ears," cried the voice of Father Hamilton. - -He stood at the door when I opened, wrapped over the chin in a muffler -of multitudinous folds, and covered by a roquelaure. - -"_Pax!_" he cried, thrusting a purple face into the room, "and on with -thy boots like a good lad. We must be off and over the dunes before the -bell of St. Eloi knocks another nail in the coffin of time." - -"What!" I said, dumbfoundered, "are we to start on our journey to-day?" - -"Even so, my sluggardly Scot; faith! before the day even, for the day -will be in a deuce of a hurry an' it catch up on us before we reach -Pont-Opoise. Sop a crust in a jug of wine--I've had no better _petit -dejeuner_ myself--put a clean cravat and a pair of hose in thy sack, -and in all emulate the judicious flea that wastes no time in idle -rumination, but transacts its affairs in a succession of leaps." - -"And no time to say good-bye to anyone?" I asked, struggling into my -toilet. - -"La! la! la! the flea never takes a _conge_ that I've heard on, Master -Punctilio. Not so much as a kiss o' the hand for you; I have had news, -and 'tis now or never." - -Twenty minutes later, Thurot's landlord (for Thurot himself was from -home) lit me to the courtyard, and the priest bundled me and my sack -into the bowels of an enormous chariot waiting there. - -The clocks began to strike the hour of five; before the last stroke had -ceased to shiver the darkness we were thundering along the sea front -and my master was already composed to sleep in his corner, without -vouchsafing me a sentence of explanation for so hurried a departure. -Be sure my heart was sore! I felt the blackest of ingrates to be thus -speeding without a sign of farewell from a place where I had met with so -much of friendship. - -Out at the window of the coach I gazed, to see nothing but the cavernous -night on one side, on the other, lit by the lanthorn, the flashing past -of houses all shuttered and asleep. - -It was dry and pleasant weather, with a sting of frost in the air, and -the propinquity of the sea manifest not in its plangent voice alone but -in the odour of it that at that hour dominated the natural smells of the -faubourgs. Only one glimpse I had of fellow creatures; as we passed the -fort, the flare of flambeaux showed an enormous body of soldiers -working upon the walls of Risebank; it but added to the poignance of my -melancholy to reflect that here were my country's enemies unsleeping, -and I made a sharp mental contrast of this most dauntening spectacle -with a picture of the house of Hazel Den dreaming among its trees, and -only crying lambs perhaps upon the moor to indicate that any life -was there. Melancholy! oh, it was eerie beyond expression for me that -morning! Outside, the driver talked to his horses and to some one with -him on the boot; it must have been cheerier for him than for me as I sat -in that sombre and close interior, jolted by my neighbour, and unable to -refrain from rehabilitating all the past. Especially did I think of my -dark home-coming with a silent father on the day I left the college to -go back to the Mearns. And by a natural correlation, that was bound -to lead to all that followed--even to the event for which I was now so -miserably remote from my people. - -Once or twice his reverence woke, to thrust his head out at the window -and ask where we were. Wherever we were when he did so, *twas certain -never to be far enough for his fancy, and he condemned the driver for -a snail until the whip cracked wickedly and the horses laboured more -strenuously than ever, so that our vehicle swung upon its springs till -it might well seem we were upon a ship at sea. - -For me he had but the one comment--"I wonder what's for _dejeuner._" He -said it each time solemnly as it were his matins, and then slid into his -swinish sleep again. - -The night seemed interminable, but by-and-by the day broke. I watched -it with eagerness as it gradually paled the east, and broke up the black -bulk of the surrounding land into fields, orchards, gardens, woods. And -the birds awoke--God bless the little birds!--they woke, and started -twittering and singing in the haze, surely the sweetest, the least -sinless of created things, the tiny angels of the woods, from whom, -walking in summer fields in the mornings of my age as of my youth, I -have borrowed hope and cheer. - -Father Hamilton wakened too, and heard the birds; indeed, they filled -the ear of the dawn with melodies. A smile singularly pleasant came upon -his countenance as he listened. - -"_Pardieu!_" said he, "how they go on! Has't the woodland soul, _Sieur -Croque-mort_? Likely enough not; I never knew another but myself and -thine uncle that had it, and 'tis the mischief that words will not -explain the same. 'Tis a gift of the fairies"--here he crossed himself -devoutly and mumbled a Romish incantation--"that, having the -said woodland spirit--in its nature a Pagan thing perchance, but -_n'importe!_--thou hast in the song of the tiny beings choiring there -something to make the inward tremor that others find in a fiddle and -a glass of wine. No! no! not that, 'tis a million times more precious; -'tis--'tis the pang of the devotee, 'tis the ultimate thrill of things. -Myself, I could expire upon the ecstasy of the thrush, or climb to -heaven upon the lark's May rapture. And there they go! the loves! and -they have the same ditty I heard from them first in Louvain. There are -but three clean things in this world, my lad of Scotland--a bird, a -flower, and a child's laughter. I have been confessor long enough -to know all else is filth. But what's the luck in waiting for us at -Azincourt? and what's the _pot-au-feu_ to-day?" - -He listened a little longer to the birds, and fell asleep smiling, his -fat face for once not amiss, and I was left again alone as it were to -receive the day. - -We had long left the dunes and the side of the sea, though sometimes on -puffs of wind I heard its distant rumour. Now the land was wooded with -the apple tree; we rose high on the side of a glen, full of a rolling -fog that streamed off as the day grew. A tolerable land enough; perhaps -more lush than my own, with scarce a rood uncultivated, and dotted -far and wide by the strangest farm steadings and pendicles, but such -steadings and pendicles as these eyes never before beheld, with enormous -eaves of thatch reaching almost to the ground, and ridiculous windows of -no shape; with the yokings of the cattle, the boynes, stoups, carts, and -ploughs about the places altogether different from our own. We passed -troops marching, peasants slouching with baskets of poultry to market -towns, now and then a horseman, now and then a caleche. And there were -numerous hamlets, and at least two middling-sized towns, and finally -we came, at the hour of eleven, upon the place appointed for our -_dejeuner_. It was a small inn on the banks of the only rivulet I had -seen in all the journey. I forget its name, but I remember there was -a patch of heather on the side of it, and that I wished ardently the -season had been autumn that I might have looked upon the purple bells. - -"Tis a long lane that has no tavern," said his reverence, and oozed -out of his side of the coach with groanings. The innkeeper ran forth, -louted, and kissed his hand. - -"_Jour, m'sieu jour!_" said Father Hamilton hurriedly. "And now, what -have you here that is worth while?" - -The innkeeper respectfully intimated that the church of -Saint-Jean-en-Greve was generally considered worth notice. Its -vestments, relics, and windows were of merit, and the view from the -tower-- - -"_Mort de ma vie!_" cried the priest angrily, "do I look like a -traveller who trots up belfrys in strange villages at the hour of -_dejeuner?_ A plague on Saint-Jean-en-Greve! I said nothing at all of -churches; I spoke of _dejeuner_, my good fellow. What's for _dejeuner?_" - -The innkeeper recounted a series of dishes. Father Hamilton hummed and -hawed, reflected, condemned, approved, all with an eagerness beyond -description. And when the meal was being dished up, he went frantically -to the kitchen and lifted pot-lids, and swung a salad for himself, and -confounding the ordinary wine for the vilest piquette ordered a special -variety from the cellar. It was a spectacle of gourmandise not without -its humour; I was so vastly engaged in watching him that I scarce -glanced at the men who had travelled on the outside of the coach since -morning. - -What was my amazement when I did so to see that the servant or valet (as -he turned out to be) was no other than the Swiss, Bernard, who had been -in the service of Miss Walkinshaw no later than yesterday morning! - -I commented on the fact to Father Hamilton when we sat down to eat. - -"Why, yes!" he said, gobbling at his vivers with a voracity I learned -not to wonder at later when I knew him more. "The same man. A good man, -too, or I'm a Turk. I've envied Miss Walkinshaw this lusty, trusty, -secret rogue for a good twelvemonth, and just on the eve of my leaving -Dunkerque, by a very providence, the fellow gets drunk and finds himself -dismissed. He came to me with a flush and a hiccough last night to ask -a recommendation, and overlooking the peccadillo that is not of a nature -confined to servants, Master Greig, let me tell thee, I gave him a place -in my _entourage_. Madame will not like it, but no matter! she'll have -time to forget it ere I see her again." - -I felt a mild satisfaction to have the Swiss with us just because I had -heard him called "Bernard" so often by his late employer. - -We rested for some hours after _dejeuner_, seated under a tree by the -brink of the rivulet, and in the good humour of a man satisfied in -nature the priest condescended to let me into some of his plans. - -We were bound for Paris in the first place. "Zounds!" he cried, "I am -all impatience to clap eyes again on Lutetia, the sweet rogue, and -eat decent bread and behold a noble gown and hear a right cadenza. -And though thou hast lost thy Lyrnessides--la! la! la! I have thee -there!--thou canst console thyself with the Haemonian lyre. Paris! oh, -lad, I'd give all to have thy years and a winter or two in it. Still, we -shall make shift--oh, yes! I warrant thee we shall make shift. We shall -be there, at my closest reckoning, on the second day of Holy Week, and -my health being so poorly we shall not wait to commence _de faire les -Paques_ an hour after. What's in a _soutane_, anyhow, that it should be -permitted to mortify an honest priest's oesophagus?" - -I sighed in spite of myself, for he had made me think of our throwing of -Easter eggs on the green at Hazel Den. - -"What!" he cried. "Does my frugal Scot fancy we have not enough -trinkgeld for enjoyment. Why, look here!--and here!--and here!" - -He thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth numerous rouleaux--so -many that I thought his corpulence might well be a plethora of coin. - -"There!" said he, squeezing a rouleau till it burst and spreading out -the gold upon the table before him. "Am I a poor parish priest or a very -Croesus?" - -Then he scooped in the coins with his fat hands and returned all to his -bosom. "_Allons!_" he said shortly; we were on the road again! - -That night we put up at the Bon Accueil in a town whose name escapes my -recollection. - -He had gone to bed; through the wall from his chamber came the noise -of his sleep, while I was at the writing of my first letter to Miss -Walkinshaw, making the same as free and almost affectionate as I had -been her lover, for as I know it now, I was but seeking in her for the -face of the love of the first woman and the last my heart was given to. - -I had scarcely concluded when the Swiss came knocking softly to my door, -and handed me a letter from the very woman whose name was still in wet -ink upon my folded page. I tore it open eagerly, to find a score of -pleasant remembrances. She had learned the night before that the priest -was to set out in the morning: "I have kept my word," she went on. "Your -best friend is Bernard, so I let you have him, and let us exchange our -billets through him. It will be the most Discreet method. And I am, with -every consideration, Ye Ken Wha." - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -LEADS ME TO THE FRONT OF A COFFEE-HOUSE WHERE I AM STARTLED TO SEE A -FACE I KNOW - -The occasion for this precaution in our correspondence was beyond my -comprehension; nevertheless I was too proud to have the patronage of so -fine a woman to cavil at what system she should devise for its discreet -conduct, and the Swiss that night got my first letter to frank and -despatch. He got one next evening also, and the evening after that; in -short, I made a diurnal of each stage in our journey and Bernard was my -postman--so to name it--on every occasion that I forwarded the same to -Miss Walkinshaw. He assured me that he was in circumstances to secure -the more prompt forwardation of my epistles than if I trusted in the -common runner, and it was a proof of this that when we got, after some -days, into Versailles, he should bring to me a letter from the lady -herself informing me how much of pleasure she had got from the receipt -of the first communication I had sent her. - -Perhaps it is a sign of the injudicious mind that I should not be very -mightily pleased with this same Versailles. We had come into it of a -sunny afternoon and quartered at the Cerf d'Or Inn, and went out in the -evening for the air. Somehow the place gave me an antagonism; its dipt -trees all in rows upon the wayside like a guard of soldiers; its trim -gardens and bits of plots; its fountains crying, as it seemed, for -attention--these things hurt me as a liberty taken with nature. Here, -thought I, is the fitting place for the raff in ruffles and the scented -wanton; it should be the artificial man and the insincere woman should -be condemned to walk for ever in these alleys and drink in these -_bosquets;_ I would not give a fir planting black against the evening -sky at home for all this pompous play-acting at landscape, nor a yard -of the brown heather of the hills for all these well-drilled flower -parterres. - -"Eh! M. Croque-mort," said the priest, delighted visibly with all he saw -about him; "what think'st thou of Le Notre's gardening?" - -"A good deal, sir," I said, "that need never be mentioned. I feel a pity -for the poor trees as I did for yon dipt poodle dog at Griepon." - -"La! la! la! _sots raissonable_, Monsieur," cried the priest. "We cannot -have the tastes of our Dubarrys and Pompadours and Maintenons so called -in question by an untravelled Scot that knows but the rude mountain and -stunted oaks dying in a murrain of climate. 'Art too ingenuous, youth. -And yet--and yet"--here he paused and tapped his temple and smiled -whimsically--"between ourselves, I prefer the woods of Somme where the -birds sang together so jocund t'other day. But there now--ah, _quelle -gloire!_" - -We had come upon the front of the palace, and its huge far-reaching -masonry, that I learned later to regard as cold, formal, and wanting in -a soul, vastly discomposed me. I do not know why it should be so, but -as I gazed at this--the greatest palace I had ever beheld--I felt tears -rush irrestrainably to my eyes. Maybe it was the poor little poet in -MacGibbon's law chamber in Lanark town that used to tenant every ancient -dwelling with spirits of the past, cropped up for the moment in Father -Hamilton's secretary, and made me, in a flash, people the place with -kings--and realise something of the wrench it must have been and still -would be to each and all of them to say adieu at the long last to this -place of noisy grandeur where they had had their time of gaiety and -splendour. Anyhow, I well-nigh wept, and the priest was quick to see it. - -"Fore God!" he cried, "here's Andrew Greig again! 'Twas the wickedest -rogue ever threw dice, and yet the man must rain at the eyes like a very -woman." - -And yet he was pleased, I thought, to see me touched. A band was playing -somewhere in a garden unseen; he tapped time to its music with his -finger tips against each other and smiled beatifically and hummed. He -seemed at peace with the world and himself at that moment, yet a second -later he was the picture of distress and apprehension. - -We were going towards the Place d'Armes; he had, as was customary, his -arm through mine, leaning on me more than was comfortable, for he was -the poorest judge imaginable of his own corpulence. Of a sudden I felt -him jolt as if he had been startled, and then he gripped my arm with -a nervous grasp. All that was to account for his perturbation was that -among the few pedestrians passing us on the road was one in a uniform -who cast a rapid glance at us. It was not wonderful that he should do -so, for indeed we were a singularly ill-assorted pair, but there was a -recognition of the priest in the glance the man in the uniform threw -at him in passing. Nothing was said; the man went on his way and we on -ours, but looking at Father Hamilton I saw his face had lost its colour -and grown blotched in patches. His hand trembled; for the rest of the -walk he was silent, and he could not too soon hurry us back to the Cerf -d'Or. - -Next day was Sunday, and Father Hamilton went to Mass leaving me to my -own affairs, that were not of that complexion perhaps most becoming -on that day to a lad from Scotland. He came back anon and dressed most -scrupulously in a suit of lay clothing. - -"Come out, Master Greig," said he, "and use thine eyes for a poor -priest that has ruined his own in studying the Fathers and seeking for -honesty." - -"It is not in the nature of a compliment to myself, that," I said, a -little tired of his sour sentiments regarding humanity, and not afraid -in the least to tell him so. - -"Eh!" said he. "I spoke not of thee, thou savage. A plague on thy curt -temper; 'twas ever the weakness of the Greigs. Come, and I shall show -thee a house where thy uncle and I had many a game of dominoes." - -We went to a coffee-house and watched the fashionable world go by. It -was a sight monstrously fine. Because it was the Easter Sunday the women -had on their gayest apparel, the men their most belaced _jabots_. - -"Now look you well, Friend Scotland," said Father Hamilton, as we sat -at a little table and watched the stream of quality pass, "look you well -and watch particularly every gentleman that passes to the right, and -when you see one you know tell me quickly." - -He had dropped his Roman manner as if in too sober a mood to act. - -"Is it a game?" I asked. "Who can I ken in the town of Versailles that -never saw me here before?" - -"Never mind," said he, "do as I tell you. A sharp eye, and-" - -"Why," I cried, "there's a man I have seen before!" - -"Where? where?" said Father Hamilton, with the utmost interest lighting -his countenance. - -"Yonder, to the left of the man with the velvet breeches. He will pass -us in a minute or two." - -The person I meant would have been kenspeckle in any company by -the splendour of his clothing, but beyond his clothing there was -a haughtiness in his carriage that singled him out even among the -fashionables of Versailles, who were themselves obviously interested in -his personality, to judge by the looks that they gave him as closely -as breeding permitted. He came sauntering along the pavement swinging -a cane by its tassel, his chin in the air, his eyes anywhere but on the -crowds that parted to give him room. As he came closer I saw it was a -handsome face enough that thus was cocked in haughtiness to the heavens, -not unlike Clancarty's in that it showed the same signs of dissipation, -yet with more of native nobility in it than was in the good enough -countenance of the French-Irish nobleman. Where had I seen that face -before? - -It must have been in Scotland; it must have been when I was a boy; it -was never in the Mearns. This was a hat with a Dettingen cock; when I -saw that forehead last it was under a Highland bonnet. - -A Highland bonnet--why! yes, and five thousand Highland bonnets were in -its company--whom had I here but Prince Charles Edward! - -The recognition set my heart dirling in my breast, for there was -enough of the rebel in me to feel a romantic glow at seeing him who set -Scotland in a blaze, and was now the stuff of songs our women sang -in milking folds among the hills; that heads had fallen for, and the -Hebrides had been searched for in vain for weary seasons. The man was -never a hero of mine so long as I had the cooling influence of my father -to tell me how lamentable for Scotland had been his success had God -permitted the same, yet I was proud to-day to see him. - -"Is it he?" asked the priest, dividing his attention between me and the -approaching nobleman. - -"It's no other," said I. "I would know Prince Charles in ten thousand, -though I saw him but the once in a rabble of caterans coming up the -Gallow-gate of Glasgow." - -"Ah," said the priest, with a curious sighing sound. "They said he -passed here at the hour. And that's our gentleman, is it? I expected -he would have been--would have been different." When the Prince was -opposite the cafe where we sat he let his glance come to earth, and it -fell upon myself. His aspect changed; there was something of recognition -in it; though he never slackened his pace and was gazing the next moment -down the vista of the street, I knew that his glance had taken me in -from head to heel, and that I was still the object of his thoughts. - -"You see! you see!" cried the priest, "I was right, and he knew the -Greig. Why, lad, shalt have an Easter egg for this--the best horologe in -Versailles upon Monday morning." - -"Why, how could he know me?" I asked. "It is an impossibility, for when -he and I were in the same street last he rode a horse high above an army -and I was only a raw laddie standing at a close-mouth in Duff's Land in -the Gallowgate." - -But all the same I felt the priest was right, and that there was some -sort of recognition in the Prince's glance at me in passing. - -Father Hamilton poured himself a generous glass and drank thirstily. - -"La! la! la!" said he, resuming his customary manner of address. "I -daresay his Royal Highness has never clapt eyes on thy _croque-mori_ -countenance before, but he has seen its like--ay, and had a regard for -it, too! Thine Uncle Andrew has done the thing for thee again; the mole, -the hair, the face, the shoes--sure they advertise the Greig as by a -drum tuck! and Charles Edward knew thy uncle pretty well so I supposed -he would know thee. And this is my gentleman, is it? Well, well! No, not -at all well; mighty ill indeed. Not the sort of fellow I had looked for -at all. Seems a harmless man enough, and has tossed many a goblet in the -way of company. If he had been a sour whey-face now--" - -Father Hamilton applied himself most industriously to the bottle that -afternoon, and it was not long till the last of my respect for him was -gone. Something troubled him. He was moody and hilarious by turns, but -neither very long, and completed my distrust of him when he intimated -that there was some possibility of our trip across Europe never coming -into effect. But all the same, I was to be assured of his patronage, -I was to continue in his service as secretary, if, as was possible, he -should take up his residence for a time in Paris. And money--why, look -again! he had a ship's load of it, and 'twould never be said of Father -Hamilton that he could not share with a friend. And there he thrust some -rouleaux upon me and clapped my shoulder and was so affected at his own -love for Andrew Greig's nephew that he must even weep. - -Weeping indeed was the priest's odd foible for the week we remained -at Versailles. He that had been so jocular before was now filled with -morose moods, and would ruminate over his bottle by the hour at a time. - -He was none the better for the company he met during our stay at the -Cerf d'Or--all priests, and to the number of half a dozen, one of them -an abbe with a most noble and reverent countenance. They used to come to -him late at night, confer with him secretly in his room, and when -they were gone I found him each time drenched in a perspiration and -feverishly gulping spirits. - -Every day we went to the cafe where we had seen the Prince first, and -every day at the same hour we saw his Royal Highness, who, it appeared, -was not known to the world as such, though known to me. The sight of -him seemed to trouble Father Hamilton amazingly, and yet 'twas the grand -object of the day--its only diversion; when we had seen the Prince we -went back straight to the inn every afternoon. - -The Cerf d'Or had a courtyard, cobbled with rough stones, in which there -was a great and noisy traffic. In the midst of the court there was a -little clump of evergreen trees and bushes in tubs, round which were -gathered a few tables and chairs whereat--now that the weather was -mild--the world sat in the afternoon. The walls about were covered with -dusty ivy where sparrows had begun to busy themselves with love and -housekeeping; lilacs sprouted into green, and the porter of the house -was for ever scratching at the hard earth about the plants, and tying up -twigs and watering the pots. It was here I used to write my letters to -Miss Walkinshaw at a little table separate from the rest, and I think it -was on Friday I was at this pleasant occupation when I looked up to see -the man with the uniform gazing at me from the other side of the bushes -as if he were waiting to have the letter when I was done with it. - -I went in and asked Father Hamilton who this man was. - -"What!" he cried in a great disturbance, "the same as we met near the -Trianon! O Lord! Paul, there is something wrong, for that was Buhot." - -"And this Buhot?" I asked. - -"A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want -you to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into -the hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that -he passes the cafe at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest -thing in the world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's -to be done by you." - -"But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by -the Swiss?" - -"That is my affair," cried the priest testily. "The Prince knows -you--that is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have -the Swiss with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he -should have this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis -a letter from his Royal Highness's most intimate friend." - -I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address -was in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the -bosom of my coat! - -What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be -conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must -carry it! - -"Very well," I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince. - -The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer -clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour -more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my -hat in my hand. "I beg your Royal Highness's pardon," I said in English, -"but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you." - -He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes, -and took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction, -reddened, and bit his lip. - -"Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the -honour?" - -"Greig," I answered. "Paul Greig." - -"Ah!" he cried, "of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family. -_Charme, Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance_. M. Andrew Greig-" - -"Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?" - -"So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of -irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M. -Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a--what was it -now?--a gomeral." - -"It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness," I said. "But I -know that he loved you and your cause." - -"I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did," said the Prince, -flushing, and with a show of pleasure at my speech. "I have learned of -late that the fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it -all I liked M. Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing -Monsieur Greig's nephew soon again. _Au plaisir de vous revoir!_" And -off he went, putting the letter, unread, into his pocket. - -When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed, -he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE - -And now I come to an affair of which there have been many accounts -written, some of them within a mile or two of the truth, the most but -sheer romantics. I have in my mind notably the account of the officer -Buhot printed two years after the events in question, in which he makes -the most fabulous statement as to the valiancy of Father Hamilton's -stand in the private house in the Rue des Reservoirs, and maintains that -myself--_le fier Eccossais_, as he is flattering enough to designate -me--drew my sword upon himself and threatened to run him through for his -proposition that I should confess to a complicity in the attempt upon -his Royal Highness. I have seen his statement reproduced with some extra -ornament in the _Edinburgh Courant_, and the result of all this is -that till this day my neighbours give me credit, of which I am loth to -advantage myself, for having felled two or three of the French officers -before I was overcome at the hinder-end. - -The matter is, in truth, more prosaic as it happened, and if these -memorials of mine leave the shadow of a doubt in the minds of any -interested in an old story that created some stir in its time, I pray -them see the archives of M. Bertin, the late Lieut.-General of the -police. Bertin was no particular friend of mine, that had been the -unconscious cause of great trouble and annoyance to him, but he has the -truth in the deposition I made and signed prior to my appointment to a -company of the d'Auvergne regiment. - -Well, to take matters in their right order, it was the evening of the -day I had given the letter to the Prince that Father Hamilton expressed -his intention of passing that night in the house of a friend. - -I looked at him with manifest surprise, for he had been at the bottle -most of the afternoon, and was by now more in a state for his bed than -for going among friends. - -"Well," he cried peevishly, observing my dubiety. "Do you think me too -drunk for the society of a parcel of priests? _Ma foi!_ it is a pretty -thing that I cannot budge from my ordinary habitude of things without a -stuck owl setting up a silent protest." - -To a speech so wanting in dignity I felt it better there should be no -reply, and instead I helped him into his great-coat. As I did so, he -made an awkward lurching movement due to his corpulence, and what jumped -out of an inner pocket but a pistol? Which of us was the more confused -at that it would be hard to say. For my part, the weapon--that I -had never seen in his possession before--was a fillip to my sleeping -conscience; I picked it up with a distaste, and he took it from me with -trembling fingers and an averted look. - -"A dangerous place, Versailles, after dark," he explained feebly. "One -never knows, one never knows," and into his pocket hurriedly with it. - -"I shall be back for breakfast," he went on. "Unless--unless--oh, I -certainly shall be back." And off he set. - -The incident of the pistol disturbed me for a while. I made a score of -speculations as to why a fat priest should burden himself with such an -article, and finally concluded that it was as he suggested, to defend -himself from night birds if danger offered; though that at the time had -been the last thing I myself would have looked for in the well-ordered -town of Versailles. I sat in the common-room or _salle_ of the inn for -a while after he had gone, and thereafter retired to my own bedchamber, -meaning to read or write for an hour or two before going to bed. In the -priest's room--which was on the same landing and next to my own--I heard -the whistle of Bernard the Swiss, but I had no letters for him that -evening, and we did not meet each other. I was at first uncommon dull, -feeling more than usually the hame-wae that must have been greatly -wanting in the experience of my Uncle Andrew to make him for so long a -wanderer on the face of the earth. But there is no condition of life -so miserable but what one finds in it remissions, diversions, nay, and -delights also, and soon I was--of all things in the world to be doing -when what followed came to pass!--inditing a song to a lady, my quill -scratching across the paper in spurts and dashes, and baffled pauses -where the matter would not attend close enough on the mood, stopping -altogether at a stanza's end to hum the stuff over to myself with great -satisfaction. I was, as I say, in the midst of this; the Swiss had gone -downstairs; all in my part of the house was still, though vehicles moved -about in the courtyard, when unusually noisy footsteps sounded on the -stair, with what seemed like the tap of scabbards on the treads. - -It was a sound so strange that my hand flew by instinct to the small -sword I was now in the habit of wearing and had learned some of the use -of from Thurot. - -There was no knock for entrance; the door was boldly opened and four -officers with Buhot at their head were immediately in the room. - -Buhot intimated in French that I was to consider myself under arrest, -and repeated the same in indifferent English that there might be no -mistake about a fact as patent as that the sword was in his hand. - -For a moment I thought the consequence of my crime had followed me -abroad, and that this squat, dark officer, watching me with the scrutiny -of a forest animal, partly in a dread that my superior bulk should -endanger himself, was in league with the law of my own country. That -I should after all be dragged back in chains to a Scots gallows was a -prospect unendurable; I put up the ridiculous small sword and dared -him to lay a hand on me. But I had no sooner done so than its folly was -apparent, and I laid the weapon down. - -"_Tant mieux!_" said he, much relieved, and then an assurance that he -knew I was a gentleman of discretion and would not make unnecessary -trouble. "Indeed," he went on, "_Voyez!_ I take these men away; I have -the infinite trust in Monsieur; Monsieur and I shall settle this little -affair between us." - -And he sent his friends to the foot of the stair. - -"Monsieur may compose himself," he assured me with a profound -inclination. - -"I am very much obliged to you," I said, seating myself on the corner of -the table and crushing my poor verses into my pocket as I did so, "I am -very much obliged to you, but I'm at a loss to understand to what I owe -the honour." - -"Indeed!" he said, also seating himself on the table to show, I -supposed, that he was on terms of confidence with his prisoner. -"Monsieur is Father Hamilton's secretary?" - -"So I believe," I said; "at least I engaged for the office that's -something of a sinecure, to tell the truth." - -And then Buhot told me a strange story. - -He told me that Father Hamilton was now a prisoner, and on his way to -the prison of Bicetre. He was--this Buhot--something of the artist and -loved to make his effects most telling (which accounts, no doubt, for -the romantical nature of the accounts aforesaid), and sitting upon the -table-edge he embarked upon a narrative of the most crowded two hours -that had perhaps been in Father Hamilton's lifetime. - -It seemed that when the priest had left the Cerf d'Or, he had gone to -a place till recently called the Bureau des Carrosses pour la Rochelle, -and now unoccupied save by a concierge, and the property of some person -or persons unknown. There he had ensconced himself in the only habitable -room and waited for a visitor regarding whom the concierge had his -instructions. - -"You must imagine him," said the officer, always with the fastidiousness -of an artist for his effects, "you must imagine him, Monsieur, sitting -in this room, all alone, breathing hard, with a pistol before him on the -table, and--" - -"What! a pistol!" I cried, astounded and alarmed. "_Certainement_" said -Buhot, charmed with the effect his dramatic narrative was creating. -"Your friend, _mon ami_, would be little good, I fancy, with a rapier. -Anyway, 'twas a pistol. A carriage drives up to the door; the priest -rises to his feet with the pistol in his hand; there is the rap at the -door. '_Entrez!_' cries the priest, cocking the pistol, and no sooner -was his visitor within than he pulled the trigger; the explosion rang -through the dwelling; the chamber was full of smoke." - -"Good heavens!" I cried in horror, "and who was the unhappy wretch?" - -Buhot shrugged his shoulders, made a French gesture with his hands, and -pursed his mouth. - -"Whom did you invite to the room at the hour of ten, M. Greig?" he -asked. - -"Invite!" I cried. "It's your humour to deal in parables. I declare to -you I invited no one." - -"And yet, my good sir, you are Hamilton's secretary and you are -Hamilton's envoy. 'Twas you handed to the Prince the _poulet_ that was -designed to bring him to his fate." - -My instinct grasped the situation in a second; I had been the ignorant -tool of a madman; the whole events of the past week made the fact plain, -and I was for the moment stunned. - -Buhot watched me closely, and not unkindly, I can well believe, from -what I can recall of our interview and all that followed after it. - -"And you tell me he killed the Prince?" I cried at last. - -"No, Monsieur," said Buhot; "I am happy to say he did not. The Prince -was better advised than to accept the invitation you sent to him." - -"Still," I cried with remorse, "there's a man dead, and 'tis as much as -happens when princes themselves are clay." - -"_Parfaitement_, Monsieur, though it is indiscreet to shout it here. -Luckily there is no one at all dead in this case, otherwise it had been -myself, for I was the man who entered to the priest and received his -pistol fire. It was not the merriest of duties either," he went on, -always determined I should lose no iota of the drama, "for the priest -might have discovered before I got there that the balls of his pistol -had been abstracted." - -"Then Father Hamilton has been under watch?" - -"Since ever you set foot in Versailles last Friday," said Buhot -complacently. "The Damiens affair has sharpened our wits, I warrant -you." - -"Well, sir," I said, "let me protest that I have been till this moment -in utter darkness about Hamilton's character or plans. I took him for -what he seemed--a genial buffoon of a kind with more gear than -guidance." - -"We cannot, with infinite regret, assume that, Monsieur, but personally -I would venture a suggestion," said Buhot, coming closer on the table -and assuming an affable air. "In this business, Hamilton is a tool--no -more; and a poor one at that, badly wanting the grindstone. To break -him--phew!--'twere as easy as to break a glass, but he is one of a great -movement and the man we seek is his master--one Father Fleuriau of the -Jesuits. Hamilton's travels were but part of a great scheme that has -sent half a dozen of his kind chasing the Prince in the past year or -two from Paris to Amsterdam, from Amsterdam to Orleans, from Orleans to -Hamburg, Seville, Lisbon, Rome, Brussels, Potsdam, Nuremburg, Berlin. -The same hand that extracted his bullets tapped the priest's portfolio -and found the wretch was in promise of a bishopric and a great sum of -money. You see, M. Greig, I am curiously frank with my prisoner." - -"And no doubt you have your reasons," said I, but beat, myself, -to imagine what they could be save that he might have proofs of my -innocence. - -"Very well," said M. Buhot. "To come to the point, it is this, that we -desire to have the scheme of the Jesuits for the Prince's assassination, -and other atrocities shocking to all that revere the divinity of -princes, crumbled up. Father Hamilton is at the very roots of the -secret; if, say, a gentleman so much in his confidence as yourself--now, -if such a one were, say, to share a cell with this regicide for a night -or two, and pursue judicious inquiries----" - -"Stop! stop!" I cried, my blood hammering in my head, and the words like -to choke me. "Am I to understand that you would make me your spy and -informer upon this miserable old madman that has led me such a gowk's -errand?" - -Buhot slid back off the table edge and on to his feet. "Oh," said he, -"the terms are not happily chosen: 'spy'--'informer'--come, Monsieur -Greig; this man is in all but the actual accomplishment of his purpose -an assassin. 'Tis the duty of every honest man to help in discovering -the band of murderers whose tool he has been." - -"Then I'm no honest man, M. Buhot," said I bitterly, "for I've no -stomach for a duty so dirty." - -"Think of it for a moment," he pressed, with evident surprise at my -decision. "Bicetre is an unwholesome hostelry, I give you my word. -Consider that your choice is between a night or two there and--who -knows?--a lifetime of Galbanon that is infinitely worse." - -"Then let it be Galbanon!" I said, and lifted my sword and slapped it -furiously, sheathed as it was, like a switch upon the table. - -[Illustration: 198] - -Buhot leaped back in a fear that I was to attack him, and cried his men -from the stair foot. - -"This force is not needed at all," I said. "I am innocent enough to be -prepared to go quietly." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -OF A NIGHT JOURNEY AND BLACK BICETRE AT THE END OF IT - -'Twas a long journey to the prison of Bicetre, which is two miles to the -south of the city of Paris, a great building that had once (they say) -been a palace, but now in the time of my experience was little better -than a vestibule of hell. I was driven to it through a black loud night -of rain, a plunging troop of horse on either hand the coach as if I were -a traveller of state, and Buhot in front of me as silent as the priest -had been the day we left Dunkerque, though wakeful, and the tip of -his scabbard leaning on my boot to make sure that in the darkness no -movement of mine should go unobserved. - -The trees swung and roared in the wind; the glass lozens of the carriage -pattered to the pelting showers; sometimes we lurched horribly in the -ruts of the highway, and were released but after monstrous efforts -on the part of the cavaliers. Once, as we came close upon a loop of a -brawling river, I wished with all fervency that we might fall in, and -so end for ever this pitiful coil of trials whereto fate had obviously -condemned poor Paul Greig. To die among strangers (as is widely -known) is counted the saddest of deaths by our country people, and so, -nowadays, it would seem to myself, but there and then it appeared an -enviable conclusion to the Spoiled Horn that had blundered from folly to -folly. To die there and then would be to leave no more than a regret and -an everlasting wonder in the folks at home; to die otherwise, as seemed -my weird, upon a block or gallows, would be to foul the name of my -family for generations, and I realised in my own person the agony of my -father when he got the news, and I bowed my shoulders in the coach below -the shame that he would feel as in solemn blacks he walked through the -Sabbath kirkyard in summers to come in Mearns, with the knowledge that -though neighbours looked not at him but with kindness, their inmost -thoughts were on the crimson chapter of his son. - -Well, we came at the long last to Bicetre, and I was bade alight in the -flare of torches. A strange, a memorable scene; it will never leave me. -Often I remit me there in dreams. When I came out of the conveyance the -lights dazzled me, and Buhot put his hands upon my shoulders and turned -me without a word in the direction he wished me to take. It was through -a vast and frowning doorway that led into a courtyard so great that -the windows on the other side seemed to be the distance of a field. The -windows were innumerable, and though the hour was late they were lit in -stretching corridors. Fires flamed in corners of the yard--great leaping -fires round which warders (as I guessed them) gathered to dry themselves -or get warmth against the chill of the early April morning. Their -scabbards or their muskets glittered now and then in the light of the -flames; their voices--restrained by the presence of Buhot--sounded -deep and dreadful to me that knew not the sum of his iniquity yet could -shudder at the sense of what portended. - -[Illustration: 203] - -It were vain for me to try and give expression to my feeling as I went -past these fires across the stony yard, and entered between a guard or -two at the other side. At the root of my horror was the sentiment that -all was foreign, that I was no more to these midnight monsters round -their torturing flames than a creature of the wood, less, perhaps, for -were they not at sworn war with my countrymen, and had not I a share -at least of the repute of regicide? And when, still led by the silent -officer, I entered the building itself and walked through an unending -corridor broken at intervals by black doors and little barred borrowed -lights, and heard sometimes a moan within, or a shriek far off in -another part of the building, I experienced something of that long -swound that is insanity. Then I was doomed for the rest of my brief days -to be among these unhappy wretches--the victims of the law or political -vengeance, the _forcat_ who had thieved, or poisoned, perjured himself, -or taken human blood! - -At last we came to a door, where Buhot stopped me and spoke, for the -first time, almost, since we had left Versailles. He put his hand out to -check a warder who was going to open the cell for my entrance. - -"I am not a hard man, M. Greig," said he, in a stumbling English, "and -though this is far beyond my duties, and, indeed, contrary to the same, -I would give you another chance. We shall have, look you, our friend the -priest in any case, and to get the others is but a matter of time. 'Tis -a good citizen helps the law always; you must have that respect for the -law that you should feel bound to circumvent those who would go counter -to it with your cognisance." - -"My good man," I said, as quietly as I could, and yet internally with -feelings like to break me, "I have already said my say. If the tow was -round my thrapple I would say no more than that I am innocent of any -plot against a man by whose family mine have lost, and that I myself, -for all my loyalty to my country, would do much to serve as a private -individual." - -"Consider," he pleaded. "After all, this Hamilton may be a madman with -nothing at all to tell that will help us." - -"But the bargain is to be that I must pry and I must listen," said I, -"and be the tale-pyat whose work may lead to this poor old buffoon's and -many another's slaughtering. Not I, M. Buhot, and thank ye kindly! It's -no' work for one of the Greigs of Hazel Den." - -"I fear you do not consider all," he said patiently--so patiently indeed -that I wondered at him. "I will show you to what you are condemned even -before your trial, before you make up your mind irrevocably to refuse -this very reasonable request of ours," and he made a gesture that caused -the warder to open the door so that I could see within. - -There was no light of its own in the cell, but it borrowed wanly a -little of the radiance of the corridor, and I could see that it was bare -to the penury of a mausoleum, with a stone floor, a wooden palliasse, -and no window other than a barred hole above the door. There was not -even a stool to sit on. But I did not quail. - -"I have been in more comfortable quarters, M. Buhot," I said, "but in -none that I could occupy with a better conscience." Assuming with that a -sort of bravado, I stepped in before he asked me. - -"Very good," he cried; "but I cannot make you my felicitations on your -decision, M. Greig," and without more ado he had the door shut on me. - -I sat on the woollen palliasse for a while, with my head on my hands, -surrendered all to melancholy; and then, though the thing may seem -beyond belief, I stretched myself and slept till morning. It was not the -most refreshing of sleep, but still 'twas wonderful that I should sleep -at all in such circumstances, and I take it that a moorland life had -been a proper preparation for just such trials. - -When I wakened in the morning the prison seemed full of eerie noises--of -distant shrieks as in a bedlam, and commanding voices, and of ringing -metals, the clank of fetters, or the thud of musket-butts upon the -stones. A great beating of feet was in the yard, as if soldiers were -manoeuvring, and it mastered me to guess what all this might mean, until -a warder opened my door and ordered me out for an airing. - -I mind always of a parrot at a window. - -This window was one that looked into the yard from some official's -dwelling in that dreadful place, and the bird occupied a great cage that -was suspended from a nail outside. - -The bird, high above the rabble of rogues in livery, seemed to have a -devilish joy in the spectacle of the misery tramping round and round -beneath, for it clung upon the bars and thrust out its head to whistle, -as if in irony, or taunt us with a foul song. There was one air it -had, expressed so clearly that I picked up air and words with little -difficulty, and the latter ran something like this: - - Ah! ah! Pierrot, Pierrot! - Fais ta toilette, - Voila le barbier! oh! oh! - Et sa charrette-- - -all in the most lugubrious key. - -And who were we that heard that reference to the axe? We were the scum, -the _sordes_, the rot of France. There was, doubtless, no crime before -the law of the land, no outrage against God and man, that had not here -its representative. We were not men, but beasts, cut off from every -pleasant--every clean and decent association, the visions of sin -always behind the peering eyes, the dreams of vice and crime for ever -fermenting in the low brows. I felt 'twas the forests we should be -frequenting--the forests of old, the club our weapon, the cave our -habitation; no song ours, nor poem, no children to infect with fondness, -no women to smile at in the light of evening lamps. The forest--the -cave--the animal! What were we but children of the outer dark, condemned -from the start of time, our faces ground hard against the flints, our -feet bogged in hag and mire? - -There must have been several hundreds of the convicts in the yard, and -yet I was told later that it was not a fourth of the misery that Bicetre -held, and that scores were leaving weekly for the _bagnes_--the hulks at -Toulon and at Brest--while others took their places. - -Every man wore a uniform--a coarse brown jacket, vast wide breeches of -the same hue, a high sugar-loaf cap and wooden shoes--all except some -privileged, whereof I was one--and we were divided into gangs, each gang -with its warders--tall grenadiers with their muskets ready. - -Round and round and across and across we marched in the great -quadrangle, every man treading the rogues' measure with leg-weary -reluctance, many cursing their warders under breath, most scowling, all -hopeless and all lost. - -'Twas the exercise of the day. - -As we slouched through that mad ceremony in the mud of the yard, with -rain still drizzling on us, the parrot in its cage had a voice loud -and shrill above the commands of the grenadiers and officers; sang -its taunting song, or whistled like a street boy, a beast so free, so -careless and remote, that I had a fancy it had the only soul in the -place. - -As I say, we were divided into gangs, each gang taking its own course -back and forward in the yard as its commander ordered. The gang I was -with marched a little apart from the rest. We were none of us in this -gang in the ugly livery of the prison, but in our own clothing, and we -were, it appeared, allowed that privilege because we were yet to try. I -knew no reason for the distinction at the time, nor did I prize it very -much, for looking all about the yard--at the officers, the grenadiers, -and other functionaries of the prison, I failed to see a single face -I knew. What could I conclude but that Buhot was gone and that I was -doomed to be forgotten here? - -It would have been a comfort even to have got a glimpse of Father -Hamilton, the man whose machinations were the cause of my imprisonment, -but Father Hamilton, if he had been taken here as Buhot had suggested, -was not, at all events, in view. - -After the morning's exercise we that were the privileged were taken to -what was called the _salle depreuve_, and with three or four to each -_gamelle_ or mess-tub, ate a scurvy meal of a thin soup and black bread -and onions. To a man who had been living for a month at heck and manger, -as we say, this might naturally seem unpalatable fare, but truth to -tell I ate it with a relish that had been all the greater had it been -permitted me to speak to any of my fellow sufferers. But speech was -strictly interdict and so our meal was supped in silence. - -When it was over I was to be fated for the pleasantest of surprises! - -There came to me a sous-officer of the grenadiers. - -In French he asked if I was Monsieur Greig. I said as best I could in -the same tongue that I was that unhappy person at his service. Then, -said he, "Come with me." He led me into a hall about a hundred feet long -that had beds or mattresses for about three hundred people. The room was -empty, as those who occupied it were, he said, at Mass. Its open windows -in front looked into another courtyard from that in which we had been -exercising, while the windows at the rear looked into a garden where -already lilac was in bloom and daffodillies endowed the soil of a few -mounds with the colour of the gold. On the other side of the court first -named there was a huge building. "Galbanon," said my guide, pointing to -it, and then made me understand that the same was worse by far than -the Bastille, and at the moment full of Marquises, Counts, Jesuits, and -other clergymen, many of them in irons for abusing or writing against -the Marchioness de Pompadour. - -I listened respectfully and waited Monsieur's explanation. It was -manifest I had not been brought into this hall for the good of my -education, and naturally I concluded the name of Galbanon, that I had -heard already from Buhot, with its villainous reputation, was meant to -terrify me into a submission to what had been proposed. The moment after -a hearty meal--even of _soup maigre_--was not, however, the happiest of -times to work upon a Greig's feelings of fear or apprehension, and so I -waited, very dour within upon my resolution though outwardly in the most -complacent spirit. - -The hall was empty when we entered as I have said, but we had not been -many minutes in it when the tramp of men returning to it might be heard, -and this hurried my friend the officer to his real business. - -He whipped a letter from his pocket and put it in my hand with a sign to -compel secrecy on my part. It may be readily believed I was quick enough -to conceal the missive. He had no cause to complain of the face I turned -upon another officer who came up to us, for 'twas a visage of clownish -vacuity. - -The duty of the second officer, it appeared, was to take me to a new -cell that had been in preparation for me, and when I got there it -was with satisfaction I discovered it more than tolerable, with a -sufficiency of air and space, a good light from the quadrangle, a few -books, paper, and a writing standish. - -When the door had been shut upon me, I turned to open my letter and -found there was in fact a couple of them--a few lines from her ladyship -in Dunkerque expressing her continued interest in my welfare and -adventures, and another from the Swiss through whom the first had come. -He was still--said the honest Bernard--at my service, having eluded -the vigilance of Buhot, who doubtless thought a lackey scarce worth his -hunting, and he was still in a position to post my letters, thanks to -the goodwill of the sous-officer who was a relative. Furthermore, he -was in hopes that Miss Walkinshaw, who was on terms of intimacy with the -great world and something of an _intriguante_, would speedily take steps -to secure my freedom. "Be tranquil, dear Monsieur!" concluded the brave -fellow, and I was so exceedingly comforted and inspired by these matters -that I straightway sat down to the continuation of my journal for Miss -Walkinshaw's behoof. I had scarce dipped the pen, when my cell -door opened and gave entrance to the man who was the cause of my -incarceration. - -The door shut and locked behind him; it was Father Hamilton! - -It was indeed Father Hamilton, by all appearance none the worse in body -for his violent escapade, so weighty with the most fatal possibilities -for himself, for he advanced to me almost gaily, his hand extended and -his face red and smiling. - -"Scotland! to my heart!" cries he in the French, and throws his arms -about me before I could resist, and kisses me on the cheeks after the -amusing fashion of his nation. "La! la! la! Paul," he cried, "I'd have -wanted three breakfasts sooner than miss this meeting with my good -secretary lad that is the lovablest rogue never dipped a pen in his -master's service. Might have been dead for all I knew, and run through -by a brutal rapier, victim of mine own innocence. But here's my Paul, -_pardieu!_ I would as soon have my _croque-mort_ now as that jolly dog -his uncle, that never waked till midnight or slept till the dull, -uninteresting noon in the years when we went roving. What! Paul! Paul -Greig! my _croque-mort!_ my Don Dolorous!--oh, Lord, my child, I am the -most miserable of wretches!" - -And there he let me go, and threw himself upon a chair, and gave his -vast body to a convulsion of arid sobs. The man was in hysterics, -compounding smiles and sobs a score to the minute, but at the end 'twas -the natural man won the bout, else he had taken a stroke. I stood by -him in perplexity of opinions whether to laugh or storm, whether to give -myself to the righteous horror a good man ought to feel in the presence -of a murtherer, or shrug my shoulders tolerantly at the imbecile. - -"There!" said he, recovering his natural manner, "I have made a mortal -enemy of Andrew Greig's nephew. Yes, yes, master, glower at Misery, -fat Misery--and the devil take it!--old Misery, without a penny in 'ts -pocket, and its next trip upon wheels a trip to the block to nuzzle at -the dirty end in damp sawdust a nose that has appreciated the bouquet -of the rarest wines. Paul, my boy, has't a pinch of snuff? A brutal -bird out there sings a stave of the _Chanson de la Veuve_ so like the -confounded thing that I heard my own foolish old head drop into the -basket, and there! I swear to you the smell of the sawdust is in my -nostrils now." - -I handed him my box; 'twas a mull my Uncle Andy gave me before he died, -made of the horn of a young bullock, with a blazon of the house on the -silver lid. He took it eagerly and drenched himself with the contents. - -"Oh, la! la!" he cried; "I give thanks. My head was like yeast. I wish -it were Christmas last, and a man called Hamilton was back in Dixmunde -parish. But there! that is enough, I have made my bed and I must lie -on't, with a blight on all militant jesuitry! When last I had this box -in my fingers they were as steady as Mont St. Michel, now look--they are -trembling like aspen, _n'est-ce pas?_ And all that's different is that I -have eaten one or two better dinners and cracked a few pipkins of better -wine, and--and--well-nigh killed a police officer. Did'st ever hear of -one Hamilton, M. Greig? 'Twas a cheery old fellow in Dixmunde whose name -was the same as mine, and had a garden and bee-hives, and I am on the -rack for my sins." - -He might be on the rack--and, indeed, I daresay the man was in a passion -of feelings so that he knew not what he was havering about, but what -impressed me most of all about him was that he seemed to have some -momentary gleams of satisfaction in his situation. - -"I have every ground of complaint against you, sir," I said. - -"What!" he interrupted. "Would'st plague an old man with complaints when -M. de Paris is tapping him on the shoulder to come away and smell the -sawdust of his own coffin? Oh, 'tis not in this wise thy uncle had done, -but no matter!" - -"I have no wish, Father Hamilton, to revile you for what you have -brought me," I hastened to tell him. "That is far from my thoughts, -though now that you put me in mind of it, there is some ground for my -blaming you if blaming was in my intention. But I shall blame you for -this, that you are a priest of the Church and a Frenchman, and yet did -draw a murderous hand upon a prince of your own country." - -This took him somewhat aback. He helped himself to another voluminous -pinch of my snuff to give him time for a rejoinder and then--"Regicide, -M. Greig, is sometimes to be defended when----" - -"Regicide!" I cried, losing all patience, "give us the plain English -of it, Father Hamilton, and call it murder. To call it by a Latin name -makes it none the more respectable a crime against the courts of heaven -where the curse of Babel has an end. But for an accident, or the cunning -of others, you had a corpse upon your conscience this day, and your name -had been abhorred throughout the whole of Europe." - -He put his shoulders up till his dew-laps fell in massive folds. - -"'Fore God!" said he, "here's a treatise in black letter from Andrew -Greig's nephew. It comes indifferently well, I assure thee, from -Andrew's nephew. Those who live in glass houses, _cher ami_,--those who -live in glass houses----" - -He tapped me upon the breast with his fat finger and paused, with a -significant look upon his countenance. - -"Oh, ye can out with it, Father Hamilton!" I cried, certain I knew his -meaning. - -"Those who live in glass houses," said he, "should have some pity for a -poor old devil out in the weather without a shelter of any sort." - -"You were about to taunt me with my own unhappy affair," I said, little -relishing his consideration. - -"Was I, M. Greig?" he said softly. "Faith! a glass residence seems to -breed an ungenerous disposition! If thou can'st credit me I know nothing -of thine affair beyond what I may have suspected from a Greig travelling -hurriedly and in red shoes. I make you my compliments, Monsieur, of your -morality that must be horror-struck at my foolish play with a pistol, -yet thinks me capable of a retort so vile as that you indicate. My dear -lad, I but spoke of what we have spoken of together before in our happy -chariot in the woods of Somme--thine uncle's fate, and all I expected -was, that remembering the same, thou his nephew would'st have enough -tolerance for an old fool to leave his punishment in the hands of -the constitute authority. _Voila!_ I wish to heaven they had given me -another cell, after all, that I might have imagined thy pity for one -that did thee no harm, or at least meant to do none, which is the main -thing with all our acts else Purgatory's more crowded than I fancy." - -He went wearily over to the fire and spread his trembling hands to -the blaze; I looked after him perplexed in my mind, but not without an -overpowering pity. - -"I have come, like thyself, doubtless," he said after a little, "over -vile roads in a common cart, and lay awake last night in a dungeon--a -pretty conclusion to my excursion! And yet I am vastly more happy to-day -than I was this time yesterday morning." - -"But then you were free," I said, "you had all you need wish for--money, -a conveyance, servants, leisure----" - -"And M' Croque-mort's company," he added with a poor smile. "True, true! -But the thing was then to do," and he shuddered. "Now my part is done, -'twas by God's grace a failure, and I could sing for content like one of -the little birds we heard the other day in Somme." - -He could not but see my bewilderment in my face. - -"You wonder at that," said he, relinquishing the Roman manner as he -always did when most in earnest. "Does Monsieur fancy a poor old priest -can take to the ancient art of assassination with an easy mind? _Nom de -nom!_ I could skip to the block like a ballet-dancer if 'twere either -that or live the past two days over again and fifty years after. I have -none of the right stomach for murder; that's flat! 'tis a business that -keeps you awake too much at night, and disturbs the gastric essence; -calls, too, for a confounded agility that must be lacking in a person of -my handsome and plenteous bulk. I had rather go fishing any day in the -week than imbrue. When Buhot entered the room where I waited for a less -worthy man and I fired honestly for my money and missed, I could have -died of sheer rapture. Instead I threw myself upon his breast and -embraced him." - -"He said none of that to me." - -"Like enough not, but 'tis true none the less, though he may keep so -favourable a fact out of his records. A good soul enough, Buhot! We knew -him, your uncle and I, in the old days when I was thinner and played a -good game of chess at three in the morning. Fancy Ned Hamilton cutting -short the glorious career of old Buhot! I'd sooner pick a pocket." - -"Or kill a prince!" - -"Felicitations on your wit, M. Greig! Heaven help the elderly when -the new wit is toward! _N'importe!_ Perhaps 'twere better to kill some -princes than to pick a pocket. Is it not better, or less wicked, let us -say, to take the life of a man villainously abusing it than the purse of -a poor wretch making the most of his scanty _livres?_" - -And then the priest set out upon his defence. It is too long here to -reproduce in his own words, even if I recalled them, and too specious -in its terms for the patience of the honest world of our time. With his -hands behind his back he marched up and down the room for the space of -a half-hour at the least, recounting all that led to his crime. The -tale was like a wild romance, but yet, as we know now, true in every -particular. He was of the Society of Jesus, had lived a stormy youth, -and fallen in later years into a disrepute in his own parish, and there -the heads of his Society discovered him a very likely tool for their -purposes. They had only half convinced him that the death of Charles -Edward was for the glory of God and the good of the Church when they -sent him marching with a pistol and L500 in bills of exchange and -letters of credit upon a chase that covered a great part of three or -four countries, and ended at Lisbon, when a German Jesuit in the secret -gave him ten crusadoes to bring him home with his task unaccomplished. - -"I have what amounts almost to a genius for losing the opportunities -of which I do not desire to avail myself," said Father Hamilton with a -whimsical smile. - -And then he had lain in disgrace with the Jesuits for a number of -years until it became manifest (as he confessed with shame) that his -experience of leisure, wealth, and travel had enough corrupted him to -make the prospect of a second adventure of a similar kind pleasing. At -that time Charles, lost to the sight of Europe, and only discovered at -brief and tantalising intervals by the Jesuit agents, scarce slept two -nights in the same town, but went from country to country _incognito_, -so that 'twas no trivial task Father Hamilton undertook to run him to -earth. - -"The difficulty of it--indeed the small likelihood there was of my ever -seeing him," he said, "was what mainly induced me to accept the office, -though in truth it was compelled. I was doing very well at Dunkerque," -he went on, "and very happy if I had never heard more of prince or -priesthood, when Father Fleuriau sent me a hurried intimation that my -victim was due at Versailles on Easter and ordered my instant departure -there." - -The name of Fleuriau recalled me to my senses. "Stop, stop, Father -Hamilton!" I cried, "I must hear no more." - -"What!" said he, bitterly, "is't too good a young gentleman to listen to -the confession of a happy murderer that has failed at his trade?" - -"I have no feeling left but pity," said I, almost like to weep at this, -"but you have been put into this cell along with me for a purpose." - -"And what might that be, M. Greig?" he asked, looking round about him, -and seeing for the first time, I swear, the sort of place he was -in. "Faith! it is comfort, at any rate; I scarce noticed that, in my -pleasure at seeing Paul Greig again." - -"You must not tell me any more of your Jesuit plot, nor name any of -those involved in the same, for Buhot has been at me to cock an ear -to everything you may say in that direction, and betray you and your -friends. It is for that he has put us together into this cell." - -"_Pardieu!_ am not I betrayed enough already?" cried the priest, -throwing up his hands. "I'll never deny my guilt." - -"Yes," I said, "but they want the names of your fellow conspirators, and -Buhot says they never expect them directly from you." - -"He does, does he?" said the priest, smiling. "Faith, M. Buhot has a -good memory for his friend's characteristics. No, M. Greig, if they -put this comfortable carcase to the rack itself. And was that all -thy concern? Well, as I was saying--let us speak low lest some one be -listening--this Father Fleuriau-" - -Again I stopped him. - -"You put me into a hard position, Father Hamilton," I said. "My -freedom--my life, perhaps--depends on whether I can tell them your -secret or not, and here you throw it in my face." - -"And why not?" he asked, simply. "I merely wish to show myself largely -the creature of circumstances, and so secure a decent Scot's most -favourable opinion of me before the end." - -"But I might be tempted to betray you." - -The old eagle looked again out at his eyes. He gently slapped my -cheek with a curious touch of fondness almost womanly, and gave a low, -contented laugh. - -"_Farceur!_" he said. "As if I did not know my Don Dolorous, my merry -Andrew's nephew!" His confidence hugely moved me, and, lest he should -think I feared to trust myself with his secrets, I listened to the -remainder of his story, which I shall not here set down, as it bears but -slightly on my own narrative, and may even yet be revealed only at cost -of great distress among good families, not only on the Continent but in -London itself. - -When he had done, he thanked me for listening so attentively to a matter -that was so much on his mind that it gave him relief to share it with -some one. "And not only for that, M. Greig," said he, "are my thanks -due, for you saved the life that might have been the prince's instead -of my old gossip, Buhot's. To take the bullet out of my pistol was -the device your uncle himself would have followed in the like -circumstances." - -"But I did not do that!" I protested. - -He looked incredulous. - -"Buhot said as much," said he; "he let it out unwittingly that I had had -my claws clipped by my own household." - -"Then assuredly not by me, Father Hamilton." - -"So!" said he, half incredulous, and a look of speculation came upon his -countenance. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -PHILOSOPHY IN A FELON'S CELL - -It seemed for a while as if we were fated to lie forgotten in Bicetre -till the crack of doom; not that we were many days there when all was -done, but that in our natural hourly expectation at first of being -called forth for trial the hours passed so sluggishly that Time -seemed finally to sleep, and a week, to our fancy--to mine at all -events--seemed a month at the most modest computation. - -I should have lost my reason but for the company of the priest, who, for -considerations best known to others and to me monstrously inadequate, -was permitted all the time to share my cell. In his singular society -there was a recreation that kept me from too feverishly brooding on my -wrongs, and his character every day presented fresh features of interest -and admiration. He had become quite cheerful again, and as content in -the confine of his cell as he had been when the glass coach was jolting -over the early stages of what had been intended for a gay procession -round the courts of Europe. Once more he affected the Roman manner that -was due to his devotion to Shakespeare and L'Estrange's Seneca, and -"Clarissa Harlowe," a knowledge of which, next to the Scriptures, he -counted the first essentials for a polite education. I protest he grew -fatter every day, and for ease his corpulence was at last saved the -restraint of buttons, which was an indolent indulgence so much to -his liking that of itself it would have reconciled him to spend the -remainder of his time in prison. - -"_Tiens!_ Paul," he would say, "here's an old fool has blundered through -the greater part of his life without guessing till now how easy a thing -content is to come by. Why, 'tis no more than a loose waistcoat and a -chemise unbuttoned at the neck. I dared not be happy thus in Dixmunde, -where the folks were plaguily particular that their priest should be -point-devise, as if mortal man had time to tend his soul and keep a -constant eye on the lace of his fall." - -And he would stretch himself--a very mountain of sloth--in his chair. - -With me 'twas different. Even in a gaol I felt sure a day begun untidily -was a day ill-done by. If I had no engagements with the fastidious -fashionable world I had engagements with myself; moreover, I shared my -father's sentiment, that a good day's darg of work with any thinking in -it was never done in a pair of slippers down at the heel. Thus I was -as peijink (as we say) in Bicetre as I would have been at large in the -genteel world. - -"Not," he would admit, "but that I love to see thee in a decent habit, -and so constant plucking at thy hose, for I have been young myself, and -had some right foppish follies, too. But now, my good man Dandiprat, my -_petit-maitre_, I am old--oh, so old!--and know so much of wisdom, and -have seen such a confusion of matters, that I count comfort the greatest -of blessings. The devil fly away with buttons and laces! say I, that -have been parish priest of Dixmunde--and happily have not killed a man -nor harmed a flea, though like enough to get killed myself." - -The weather was genial, yet he sat constantly hugging the fire, and I -at the window, which happily gave a prospect of the yard between our -building and that of Galbanon. I would be looking out there, and -perhaps pining for freedom, while he went prating on upon the scurviest -philosophy surely ever man gave air to. - -[Illustration: 226] - -"Behold, my scrivener, how little man wants for happiness! My constant -fear in Dixmunde was that I would become so useless for all but eating -and sleeping, when I was old, that no one would guarantee me either; -poverty took that place at my table the skull took among the Romans--the -thought on't kept me in a perpetual apprehension. _Nom de chien!_ and -this was what I feared--this, a hard lodging, coarse viands, and sour -wine! What was the fellow's name?--Demetrius, upon the taking of Megara, -asked Monsieur Un-tel the Philosopher what he had lost. 'Nothing at -all,' said he, 'for I have all that I could call my own about me,' and -yet 'twas no more than the skin he stood in. A cell in Bicetre would -have been paradise to such a gallant fellow. Oh, Paul, I fear thou -may'st be ungrateful--I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining -for freedom," he went prating on, "to this good Buhot, who has given us -such a fine lodging, and saved us the care of providing for ourselves." - -"'Tis all very well, father," I said, leaning on the sill of the window, -and looking at a gang of prisoners being removed from one part of -Galbanon to another--"'tis all very well, but I mind a priest that -thought jaunting round the country in a chariot the pinnacle of bliss. -And that was no further gone than a fortnight ago." - -"Bah!" said he, and stretched his fat fingers to the fire; "he that -cannot live happily anywhere will live happily nowhere at all. What -avails travel, if Care waits like a hostler to unyoke the horses at -every stage? I tell thee, my boy, I never know what a fine fellow -is Father Hamilton till I have him by himself at a fireside; 'tis by -firesides all the wisest notions come to one." - -"I wish there came a better dinner than to-day's," said I, for we had -agreed an hour ago that smoked soup was not very palatable. - -"La! la! la! there goes Sir Gourmet!" cried his reverence. "Have I -infected this poor Scot that ate naught but oats ere he saw France, with -mine own fever for fine feeding from which, praise _le bon Dieu!_ I have -recovered? 'Tis a brutal entertainment, and unworthy of man, to place -his felicity in the service of his senses. I maintain that even smoked -soup is pleasant enough on the palate of a man with an easy conscience, -and a mind purged of vulgar cares." - -"And you can be happy here, Father Hamilton?" - -I asked, astonished at such sentiments from a man before so ill to -please. - -He heaved like a mountain in travail, and brought forth a peal of -laughter out of all keeping with our melancholy situation. "Happy!" said -he, "I have never been happy for twenty years till Buhot clapped claw -upon my wrist. Thou may'st have seen a sort of mask of happiness, a -false face of jollity in Dunkerque parlours, and heard a well-simulated -laughter now and then as we drank by wayside inns, but may I be called -coxcomb if the miserable wretch who playacted then was half so light of -heart as this that sits here at ease, and has only one regret--that he -should have dragged Andrew Greig's nephew into trouble with him. What -man can be perfectly happy that runs the risk of disappointment--which -is the case of every man that fears or hopes for anything? Here am I, -too old for the flame of love or the ardour of ambition; all that knew -me and understood me best and liked me most are dead long since. I have -a state palace prepared for me free; a domestic in livery to serve my -meals; parishioners do not vex me with their trifling little hackneyed -sins, and my conclusion seems like to come some morning after an omelet -and a glass of wine." - -I could not withhold a shudder. - -"But to die that way, Father!" I said. - -"_C'est egal!_" said he, and crossed himself. "We must all die somehow, -and I had ever a dread of a stone. Come, come, M. Croque-mort, enough -of thy confounded dolours! I'll be hanged if thou did'st not steal -these shoes, and art after all but an impersonator of a Greig. The lusty -spirit thou call'st thine uncle would have used his teeth ere now to -gnaw his way through the walls of Bicetre, and here thou must stop to -converse cursedly on death to the fatted ox that smells the blood of the -abattoir--oh lad, give's thy snuff-box, sawdust again!" - -Thus by the hour went on the poor wretch, resigned most obviously to -whatever was in store for him, not so much from a native courage, I -fear, as from a plethora of flesh that smothered every instinct of -self-preservation. As for me I kept up hope for three days that Buhot -would surely come to test my constancy again, and when that seemed -unlikely, when day after day brought the same routine, the same cell -with Hamilton, the same brief exercise in the yard, the same vulgar -struggle at the _gamelle_ in the _salle d'epreuve_--I could have -welcomed Galbanon itself as a change, even if it meant all the -horror that had been associated with it by Buhot and my friend the -sous-officer. - -Galbanon! I hope it has long been levelled with the dust, and even then -I know the ghosts of those there tortured in their lives will habitate -the same in whirling eddies, for a constant cry for generations has -gone up to heaven from that foul spot. It must have been a devilish -ingenuity, an invention of all the impish courts below, that placed me -at a window where Galbanon faced me every hour of the day or night, its -horror all revealed. I have seen in the pool of Earn in autumn weather, -when the river was in spate, dead leaves and broken branches borne down -dizzily upon the water to toss madly in the linn at the foot of the -fall; no less helpless, no less seared by sin and sorrow, or broken by -the storms of circumstance, were the wretches that came in droves to -Galbanon. The stream of crime or tyranny bore them down (some from very -high places), cast them into this boiling pool, and there they eddied in -a circle of degraded tasks from which it seemed the fate of many of them -never to escape, though their luckier fellows went in twos or threes -every other day in a cart to their doom appointed. - -Be sure it was not pleasant each day for me to hear the hiss of the lash -and the moans of the bastinadoed wretch, to see the blood spurt, and -witness the anguish of the men who dragged enormous bilboes on their -galled ankles. - -At last I felt I could stand it no longer, and one day intimated to -Father Hamilton that I was determined on an escape. - -"Good lad!" he cried, his eye brightening. "The most sensible thing thou -hast said in twenty-four hours. 'Twill be a recreation for myself to -help," and he buttoned his waistcoat. - -"We can surely devise some means of breaking out if----" - -"We!" he repeated, shaking his head. "No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky -a task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by -thyself and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows -when he is well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's -charming and commodious inn until the bill is presented." - -In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while -I took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day -at least I abandoned the project. - -Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned -before him. - -"Well, Monsieur," he said, "is it that we have here a more discerning -young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?" - -"Just the very same, M. Buhot," said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of -his pen and shrugged his shoulders. - -"Come, come, M. Greig," he went on, "this is a _betise_ of the most -ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself -whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool -of others or himself a genius of mischief." - -"The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but -that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man! -he has not got the energy to kick a dog." - -"And--and--" said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of -revelation. - -"And that's all, M. Buhot," said I, with a carriage he could not -mistake. - -He shrugged his shoulders again, wrote something in a book on the desk -before him with great deliberation and then asked me how I liked my -quarters in Bicetre. - -"Tolerably well," I said. "I've been in better, but I might be in waur." - -He laughed a little at the Scotticism that seemed to recall -something--perhaps a pleasantry of my uncle's--to him, and then said -he, "I'm sorry they cannot be yours very much longer, M. Greig. We -calculated that a week or two of this priest's company would have been -enough to inspire a distaste and secure his confession, but apparently -we were mistaken. You shall be taken to other quarters on Saturday." - -"I hope, M. Buhot," said I, "they are to be no worse than those I occupy -now." - -His face reddened a little at this--I felt always there was some vein of -special kindness to me in this man's nature--and he said hesitatingly, -"Well, the truth is, 'tis Galbanon." - -"Before a trial?" I asked, incredulous. - -"The trial will come in good time," he said, rising to conclude the -parley, and he turned his back on me as I was conducted out of the -room and back to the cell, where Father Hamilton waited with unwonted -agitation for my tidings. - -"Well, lad," he cried, whenever we were alone, "what stirs? I warrant -they have not a jot of evidence against thee," but in a second he saw -from my face the news was not so happy, and his own face fell. - -"We are to be separated on Saturday," I told him. - -Tears came to his eyes at that--a most feeling old rogue! - -"And where is't for thee, Paul?" he asked. - -"Where is't for yourself ought to be of more importance to you, Father -Hamilton." - -"No, no," he cried, "it matters little about me, but surely for you it -cannot be Galbanon?" - -"Indeed, and it is no less." - -"Then, Paul," he said firmly, "we must break out, and that without loss -of time." - -"Is it in the plural this time?" I asked him. - -He affected an indifference, but at the last consented to share the -whole of the enterprise. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -WE ATTEMPT AN ESCAPE - -Father Hamilton was not aware of the extent of it, but he knew I was in -a correspondence with the sous-officer. More than once he had seen us in -the _salle depreuve_ in a manifest understanding of each other, -though he had no suspicion that the gentleman was a Mercury for Miss -Walkinshaw, whose name seldom, if ever, entered into our conversation -in the cell. From her I had got but one other letter--a brief -acknowledgment of some of my fullest budgets, but 'twas enough to keep -me at my diurnal on every occasion almost on which the priest slept. I -sent her (with the strictest injunction to secrecy upon so important a -matter) a great deal of the tale the priest had told me--not so much -for her entertainment as for the purpose of moving in the poor man's -interests. Especially was I anxious that she should use her influence -to have some one communicate to Father Fleuriau, who was at the time in -Bruges, how hazardous was the position of his unhappy cat's-paw, whose -state I pictured in the most moving colours I could command. There was, -it must be allowed, a risk in entrusting a document so damnatory to -any one in Bicetre, but that the packet was duly forwarded to its -destination I had every satisfaction of from the sous-officer, who -brought me an acknowledgment to that effect from Bernard the Swiss. - -The priest knew, then, as I say, that I was on certain terms with this -sous-officer, and so it was with no hesitation I informed him that, -through the favour of the latter, I had a very fair conception of -the character and plan of this building of Bicetre in which we were -interned. What I had learned of most importance to us was that the block -of which our cell was a part had a face to the main road of Paris, from -which thoroughfare it was separated by a spacious court and a long range -of iron palisades. If ever we were to make our way out of the place -it must be in this direction, for on two sides of our building we were -overlooked by buildings vastly more throng than our own, and bordered by -yards in which were constant sentinels. Our block jutted out at an angle -from one very much longer, but lower by two storeys, and the disposition -of both made it clear that to enter into this larger edifice, and -towards the gable end of it that overlooked the palisades of the Paris -road, was our most feasible method of essay. - -I drew a plan of the prison and grounds on paper, estimating as best I -might all the possible checks we were like to meet with, and leaving a -balance of chances in our favour that we could effect our purpose in a -night. - -The priest leaned his chin upon his arms as he lolled over the table on -which I eagerly explained my diagram, and sighed at one or two of the -feats of agility it assumed. There was, for example, a roof to walk -upon--the roof of the building we occupied--though how we were to get -there in the first place was still to be decided. Also there was a -descent from that roof on to the lower building at right angles, though -where the ladder or rope for this was to come from I must meanwhile -airily leave to fortune. Finally, there was--assuming we got into the -larger building, and in some unforeseeable way along its roof and clear -to the gable end--a part of the yard to cross, and the palisade to -escalade. - -"Oh, lad! thou takest me for a bird," cried his reverence, aghast at -all this. "Is thy poor fellow prisoner a sparrow? A little after this I -might do't with my own wings--the saints guide me!--but figure you that -at present I am not Philetas, the dwarf, who had to wear leaden shoes -lest the wind should blow him away. 'Twould take a wind indeed to stir -this amplitude of good humours, this sepulchre of twenty thousand good -dinners and incomputible tuns of liquid merriment. Pray, Paul, make -an account of my physical infirmities, and mitigate thy transport of -vaultings and soarings and leapings and divings, unless, indeed, thou -meditatest sewing me up in a sheet, and dragging me through the realms -of space." - -"We shall manage! we shall manage!" I insisted, now quite uplifted in a -fanciful occupation that was all to my tastes, even if nothing came -of it, and I plunged more boldly into my plans. They were favoured -by several circumstances--the first, namely, that we were not in the -uniform of the prison, and, once outside the prison, could mingle with -the world without attracting attention. Furthermore, by postponing the -attempt till the morrow night I could communicate with the Swiss, and -secure his cooperation outside in the matter of a horse or a vehicle, if -the same were called for. I did not, however, say so much as that to his -reverence, whom I did not wish as yet to know of my correspondence -with Bernard. Finally, we had an auspicious fact at the outset of our -attempt, inasmuch as the cell we were in was in the corridor next to -that of which the sous-officer had some surveillance, and I knew his -mind well enough now to feel sure he would help in anything that did not -directly involve his own position and duties. In other words, he was to -procure a copy of the key of our cell, and find a means of leaving it -unlocked when the occasion arose. - -"A copy of the key, Paul!" said Father Hamilton; "sure there are no -bounds to thy cheerful mad expectancy! But go on! go on! art sure he -could not be prevailed on--this fairy godfather--to give us an escort of -cavalry and trumpeters?" - -"This is not much of a backing-up, Father Hamilton," I said, annoyed at -his skeptic comments upon an affair that involved so much and agitated -myself so profoundly. - -"Pardon! Paul," he said hastily, confused and vexed himself at the -reproof. "Art quite right, I'm no more than a croaker, and for penance I -shall compel myself to do the wildest feat thou proposest." - -We determined to put off the attempt at escape till I had communicated -with the sous-officer (in truth, though Father Hamilton did not know -it, till I had communicated with Bernard the Swiss), and it was the -following afternoon I had not only an assurance of the unlocked door, -but in my hand a more trustworthy plan of the prison than my own, and -the promise that the Swiss would be waiting with a carriage outside the -palisades when we broke through, any time between midnight and five in -the morning. - -Next day, then, we were in a considerable agitation; to that extent -indeed that I clean forgot that we had no aid to our descent of twenty -or thirty feet (as the sous-sergeant's diagram made it) from the roof of -our block on to that of the one adjoining. We had had our minds so much -on bolted doors and armed sentinels that this detail had quite escaped -us until almost on the eve of setting out at midnight, the priest began -again to sigh about his bulk and swear no rope short of a ship's cable -would serve to bear him. - -"Rope!" I cried, in a tremendous chagrin at my stupidity. "Lord! if I -have not quite forgot it. We have none." - -"Ah!" he said, "perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps my heart is so -light at parting with my _croque-mort_ that I can drop upon the tiles -like a pigeon." - -"Parting," I repeated, eyeing him suspiciously, for I thought perhaps he -had changed his mind again. "Who thinks of parting?" - -"Not I indeed," says he, "unless the rope do when thou hast got it." - -There was no rope, however, and I cursed my own folly that I had not -asked one from the sous-officer whose complaisance might have gone the -length of a fathom or two, though it did not, as the priest suggested, -go so far as an armed convoy and a brace of trumpeters. It was too late -now to repair the overlook, and to the making of rope the two of us had -there and then to apply ourselves, finding the sheets and blankets-of -our beds scanty enough for our purpose, and by no means of an assuring -elegance or strength when finished. But we had thirty feet of some sort -of cord at the last, and whether it was elegant or not it had to do for -our purpose. - -Luckily the night was dark as pitch and a high wind roared in the -chimneys, and in the numerous corners of the prison. There was a sting -in the air that drew many of the sentinels round the braziers flaming -in the larger yard between the main entrance and the buildings, and that -further helped our prospects; so that it was with some hope, in spite -of a heart that beat like a flail in my breast, I unlocked the door and -crept out into the dimly-lighted corridor with the priest close behind -me. - -Midway down this gallery there was a stair of which our plan apprised -us, leading to another gallery--the highest of the block--from which a -few steps led to a cock-loft where the sous-officer told us there was -one chance in a score of finding a blind window leading to the roof. - -No one, luckily, appeared as we hurried down the long gallery. I darted -like a fawn up the stair to the next flat, Father Hamilton grievously -puffing behind me, and we had just got into the shadow of the steps -leading to the cock-loft when a warder's step and the clank of his -chained keys came sounding down the corridor. He passed within three -feet of us and I felt the blood of all my body chill with fear! - -"I told thee, lad," whispered the priest, mopping the sweat from his -face, "I told thee 'twas an error to burden thyself with such a useless -carcase. Another moment or two--a gasp for the wind that seems so cursed -ill to come by at my years, and I had brought thee into trouble." - -I paid no heed to him, but crept up the steps and into the cock-loft -that smelt villainously of bats. - -The window was unfastened! I stuck out my head upon the tiles and -sniffed the fine fresh air of freedom as it had been a rare perfume. - -Luckily the window was scarcely any height, and it proved easy to aid -his reverence into the open air. Luckily, further, it was too dark -for him to realise the jeopardies of his situation for whether his -precarious gropings along the tiles were ten feet or thirty from the -yard below was indiscoverable in the darkness. He slid his weighty body -along with an honest effort that was wholly due to his regard for my -interests, because 'twas done with groans and whispered protestations -that 'twas the maddest thing for a man to leave a place where he was -happy and risk his neck in an effort to discover misery. A rime of frost -was on the tiles, and they were bitter cold to the touch. One fell, -too, below me as I slid along, and rattled loudly over its fellows and -plunged into the yard. - -Naturally we stopped dead and listened breathless, a foolish action for -one reason because in any case we had been moving silently at a great -height above the place where the tile should fall so that there was no -risk of our being heard or seen, but our listening discovered so great -an interval between the loosening of the tile and its dull shattering -on the stones below that the height on which we were perched in the -darkness was made more plain--more dreadful to the instincts than if -we could actually measure it with the eye. I confess I felt a touch -of nausea, but nothing compared with the priest, whose teeth began to -chitter in an ague of horror. - -"Good Lord, Paul!" he whispered to me, clutching my leg as I moved in -front of him, "it is the bottomless pit." - -"Not unless we drop," said I. And to cheer him up I made some foolish -joke. - -If the falling tile attracted any attention in the yard it was not -apparent to us, and five minutes later we had to brace ourselves to a -matter that sent the tile out of our minds. - -For we were come to the end of the high building, and twenty feet below -us, at right angles, we could plainly see the glow of several skylights -in the long prison to which it was attached. It was now the moment for -our descent on the extemporised rope. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -A RIMEY NIGHT ON ROOF-TOPS, AND A NEW USE FOR AN OLD KIRK BELL - -I fastened the rope about a chimney-head with some misgivings that by -the width and breadth of the same I was reducing our chance of ever -getting down to the lower building, as the knotted sheets from the -outset had been dubious measure for the thirty feet of which my -sous-officer had given the estimate. But I said never a word to the -priest of my fears on that score, and determined for once to let what -was left of honesty go before well-fattened age and test the matter -first myself. If the cord was too brief for its purpose, or (what was -just as likely) on the frail side, I could pull myself back in the one -case as the priest was certainly unfit to do, and in the other my weight -would put less strain upon it than that of Father Hamilton. - -I can hear him yet in my imagination after forty years, as he clung -to the ridge of the roof like a seal on a rock, chittering in the cold -night wind, enviously eyeing some fires that blazed in another yard and -groaning melancholiously. - -"A garden," said he, "and six beehives--no, 'faith! 'twas seven last -summer, and a roomful of books. Oh, Paul, Paul! Now I know how God cast -out Satan. He took him from his warm fireside, and his books before they -were all read, and his pantoufles, and set him straddling upon a frozen -house-top to ponder through eternal night upon the happy past. Alas, -poor being! How could he know what joys were in the simplicity of a room -of books half-read and a pair of warm old slippers?" - -He was fair rambling in his fears, my poor priest, and I declare -scarcely knew the half of what he uttered, indeed he spoke out so loudly -that I had to check him lest he should attract attention from below. - -"Father Hamilton," said I, when my cord was fastened, "with your -permission I'll try it first. I want to make it sure that my seamanship -on the sloop _Sarah_, of Ayr, has not deserted me to the extent that I -cannot come down a rope without a ratline or tie a bowling knot." - -"Certainly, Paul, certainly," said he, quite eagerly, so that I was -tempted for a second to think he gladly postponed his own descent from -sheer terror. - -I threw over the free end of the cord and crouched upon the beak of the -gable to lower myself. - -"Well, Paul," said his reverence in a broken voice. "Let us say -'good-bye' in case aught should happen ere we are on the same level -again." - -"Oh!" said I, impatient, "that's the true _croque-mort_ spirit indeed! -Why, Father, it isn't--it isn't--" I was going to say it was not a -gallows I was venturing on, but the word stuck in my throat, for a -certain thought that sprung to me of how nearly in my own case it had -been to the very gallows, and his reverence doubtless saw some delicacy, -for he came promptly to my help. - -"Not a priest's promise--made to be broken, you would say, good Paul," -said he. "I promised the merriest of jaunts over Europe in a coach, -and here my scrivener is hanging in the reins! Pardon, dear Scotland, -_milles pardons_ and good-bye and good luck." And at that he made to -embrace me. - -"Here's a French ceremony just about nothing at all," I thought, and -began my descent. The priest lay on his stomach upon the ridge. As I -sank, with my eyes turned upwards, I could see his hair blown by the -wind against a little patch of stars, that was the only break in the -Ethiopia of the sky. He seemed to follow my progress breathlessly, -and when I gained the other roof and shook the cord to tell him so he -responded by a faint clapping of his hands. - -"Art all right, lad?" he whispered down to me, and I bade him follow. - -"Good-night, Paul, good-bye, and God bless you!" he whispered. "Get out -of this as quick as you can; 'tis more than behemoth could do in a month -of dark nights, and so I cut my share of the adventure. One will do't -when two (and one of them a hogshead) will die in trying to do't." - -Here was a pretty pickle! The man's ridiculous regard for my safety -outweighed his natural inclinations, though his prospects in the prison -of Bicetre were blacker than my own, having nothing less dreadful than -an execution at the end of them. He had been merely humouring me so -far--and such a brave humouring in one whose flesh was in a quaking of -alarms all the time he slid along the roof! - -"Are you not coming?" I whispered. - -"On the contrary, I'm going, dear Paul," said he with a pretence at -levity. "Going back to my comfortable cell and my uniformed servant and -M. Buhot, the charmingest of hostellers, and I declare my feet are like -ice." - -"Then," said I firmly, "I go back too. I'll be eternally cursed if I -give up my situation as scrivener at this point. I must e'en climb up -again." And with that I prepared to start the ascent. - -"Stop! stop!" said he without a second's pause, "stop where you are and -I'll go down. Though 'tis the most stupendous folly," he added with a -sigh, and in a moment later I saw his vast bulk laboriously heaving -over the side of the roof. Fortunately the knots in the cord where -the fragments of sheet and blanket were joined made his task not so -difficult as it had otherwise been, and almost as speedily as I had done -it myself he reached the roof of the lower building, though in such a -state he quivered like a jelly, and was dumb with fear or with exertion -when the thing was done. - -"Ah!" he said at last, when he had recovered himself. "Art a fool to be -so particular about an old carcase accursed of easy humours and accused -of regicide. Take another thought on't, Paul. What have you to do with -this wretch of a priest that brought about the whole trouble in your -ignorance? And think of Galbanon!" - -"Think of the devil! Father Hamilton," I snapped at him, "every minute -we waste havering away here adds to the chances against any of us -getting free, and I am sure that is not your desire. The long and the -short of it is that I'll not stir a step out of Bicetre--no, not if the -doors themselves were open--unless you consent to come with me." - -"_Ventre Dieu!_" said he, "'tis just such a mulish folly as I might have -looked for from the nephew of Andrew Greig. But lead on, good imbecile, -lead on, and blame not poor Father Hamilton if the thing ends in a -fiasco!" - -We now crawled along a roof no whit more easily traversed than that -we had already commanded. Again and again I had to stop to permit my -companion to come up on me, for the pitch of the tiles was steep, and -he in a peril from his own lubricity, and it was necessary even to put -a hand under his arm at times when he suffered a vertigo through seeing -the lights in the yard deep down as points of flame. - -"Egad! boy," he said, and his perspiring hand clutching mine at one of -our pauses, "I thrill at the very entrails. I'd liefer have my nose in -the sawdust any day than thrash through thin air on to a paving-stone." - -"A minute or two more and we are there," I answered him. - -"Where?" said he, starting; "in purgatory?" - -"Look up, man!" I told him. "There's a window beaming ten yards off." -And again I pushed on. - -In very truth there was no window, though I prayed as fervently for one -as it had been a glimpse of paradise, but I was bound to cozen the -old man into effort for his own life and for mine. What I had from the -higher building taken for the glow of skylights had been really the -light of windows on the top flat of the other prison block, and its -roof was wholly unbroken. At least I had made up my mind to that with -a despair benumbing when I touched wood. My fingers went over it in the -dark with frantic eagerness. It was a trap such as we had come out of at -the other block, but it was shut. Before the priest could come up to me -and suffer the fresh horror of disappointment I put my weight upon it, -and had the good fortune to throw it in. The flap fell with a shriek of -hinges and showed gaping darkness. We stretched upon the tiles as close -as limpets and as silent. Nothing stirred within. - -"A garden," said he in a little, "as sweet as ever bean grew in, with -the rarest plum-tree; and now I am so cold." - -"I could be doing with some of your complaint," said I; "as for me, I'm -on fire. Please heaven, you'll be back in the garden again." - -I lowered myself within, followed by the priest, and found we were -upon the rafters. A good bit off there was a beam of light that led us, -groping, and in an imminent danger of going through the plaster, to -an air-hole over a little gallery whose floor was within stretch as I -lowered myself again. - -Father Hamilton squeezed after me; we both looked over the edge of the -gallery, and found it was a chapel we were in! - -"_Sacre nom!_" said the priest and crossed himself, with a genuflexion -to the side of the altar. - -"Oh, Lord! Paul," he said, whispering, "if 'twere the Middle Ages, and -this were indeed a sanctuary, how happy was a poor undeserving son of -Mother Church! Even Dagobert's hounds drew back from the stag in St. -Denys." - -It was a mean interior, as befitted the worship of the _miserables_ who -at times would meet there. A solemn quiet held the place, that seemed -wholly deserted; the dim light that had shown through the air-hole and -guided us came from some candles dripping before a shrine. - -"Heaven help us!" said the priest. "I know just such another." - -There was nobody in the church so far as we could observe from the -little gallery in which we found ourselves, but when we had gone down a -flight of steps into the body of the same, and made to cross towards the -door, we were suddenly confronted by a priest in a white cope. My heart -jumped to my mouth; I felt a prinkling in the roots of my hair, and -stopped dumb, with all my faculties basely deserted from me. Luckily -Father Hamilton kept his presence of mind. As he told me later, he -remembered of a sudden the Latin proverb that in battles the eye is -first overcome, and he fixed the man in the stole with a glance that was -bold and disconcerting. As it happened, however, the other priest was -almost as blind as a bat, and saw but two civil worshippers in his -chapel. He did not even notice that it was a _soutane_; he passed -peeringly, with a bow to our inclinations, and it was almost -incredulous of our good fortune I darted out of the chapel into the -darkness of a courtyard of equal extent with that I had crossed on the -night of my first arrival at Bicetre. At its distant end there were the -same flaming braziers with figures around them, and the same glitter of -arms. - -Now this Bicetre is set upon a hill and commands a prospect of the city -of Paris, of the Seine and its environs. For that reason we could see -to our right the innumerable lights of a great plain twinkling in the -darkness, and it seemed as if we had only to proceed in that direction -to secure freedom by the mere effort of walking. As we stood in the -shadow of the chapel, Father Hamilton eyed the distant prospect of the -lighted town with a singular rapture. - -"Paris!" said he. "Oh, Dieu! and I thought never to clap an eye on't -again. Paris, my Paul! Behold the lights of it--_la ville lumiere_ that -is so fine I could spend eternity in it. Hearts are there, lad, kind and -jocund-" - -"And meditating a descent on unhappy Britain," said I. - -"Good neighbourly hearts, or I'm a gourd else," he went on, unheeding my -interruption. "The stars in heaven are not so good, are no more notably -the expression of a glowing and fraternal spirit. There is laughter in -the streets of her." - -"Not at this hour, Father Hamilton," said I, and the both of us always -whispering. "I've never seen the place by day nor put a foot in it, -but it will be droll indeed if there is laughter in its streets at two -o'clock in the morning." - -"Ah, Paul, shall we ever get there?" said he longingly. "We can but try, -anyway. I certainly did not come all this way, Father Hamilton, just to -look on the lowe of Paris." - -What had kept us shrinking in the shadow of the chapel wall had been -the sound of footsteps between us and the palisades that were to be -distinguished a great deal higher than I had expected, on our right. -On the other side of the rails was freedom, as well as Paris that so -greatly interested my companion, but the getting clear of them seemed -like to be a more difficult task than any we had yet overcome, and all -the more hazardous because the footsteps obviously suggested a -sentinel. Whether it was the rawness of the night that tempted him to -a relaxation, or whether he was not strictly on duty, I know not, but, -while we stood in the most wretched of quandaries, the man who was in -our path very soon ceased his perambulation along the palisades, and -went over to one of the distant fires, passing within a few yards of us -as we crouched in the darkness. When he had gone sufficiently out of the -way we ran for it. So plain were the lights of the valley, so flimsy a -thing had seemed to part us from the high-road there, that never a doubt -intruded on my mind that now we were as good as free, and when I came -to the rails I beat my head with my hands when the nature of our folly -dawned upon me. - -"We may just go back," I said to the priest in a stricken voice. - -"_Comment?_" said he, wiping his brow and gloating on the spectacle of -the lighted town. - -"Look," I said, indicating the railings that were nearly three times my -own height, "there are no convenient trap-doors here." - -"But the cord--" said he simply. - -"Exactly," I said; "the cord's where we left it snugly tied with a -bowling knot to the chimney of our block, and I'm an ass." - -"Oh, poor Paul!" said the priest in a prostration at this divulgence of -our error. "I'm the millstone on your neck, for had I not parleyed at -the other end of the cord when you had descended, the necessity for it -would never have escaped your mind. I gave you fair warning, lad, 'twas -a quixotic imbecility to burden yourself with me. And are we really at -a stand? God! look at Paris. Had I not seen these lights I had not -cared for myself a straw, but, oh lord! lad, they are so pleasant and so -close! Why will the world sleep when two unhappy wretches die for want -of a little bit of hemp?" - -"You are not to blame," said I, "one rope was little use to us in any -case. But anyhow I do not desire to die of a little bit of hemp if I can -arrange it better." And I began hurriedly to scour up and down the -palisade like a trapped mouse. It extended for about a hundred yards, -ending at one side against the walls of a gate-house or lodge; on the -other side it concluded at the wall of the chapel. It had no break in -all its expanse, and so there was nothing left for us to do but to go -back the way we had come, obliterate the signs of our attempt and find -our cells again. We went, be sure, with heavy hearts, again ventured -into the chapel, climbed the stairs, went through the ceiling, and -stopped a little among the rafters to rest his reverence who was finding -these manoeuvres too much for his weighty body. While he sat regaining -sufficient strength to resume his crawling on rimey tiles I made a -search of the loft we were in and found it extended to the gable end of -the chapel, but nothing more for my trouble beyond part of a hanging -chain that came through the roof and passed through the ceiling. I had -almost missed it in the darkness, and even when I touched it my first -thought was to leave it alone. But I took a second thought and tried the -lower end, which came up as I hauled, yard upon yard, until I had the -end of it, finished with a bell-ringer's hempen grip, in my hands. Here -was a discovery if bell-pulls had been made of rope throughout in -Bicetre prison! But a chain with an end to a bell was not a thing to be -easily borrowed. - -I went back to where Father Hamilton was seated on the rafters, and told -him my discovery. - -"A bell," said he. "Faith! I never liked them. Pestilent inventions of -the enemy, that suggested duties to be done and the fleeting hours. But -a bell-rope implies a belfry on the roof and a bell in it, and the -chain that may reach the ground within the building may reach the same -desirable place without the same." - -"That's very true," said I, struck with the thing. And straight got -through the trap and out upon the roof again. Father Hamilton puffed -after me and in a little we came upon a structure like a dovecot at the -very gable-end. "The right time to harry a nest is at night," said I, -"for then you get all that's in it." And I started to pull up the chain -that was fastened to the bell. - -I lowered behemoth with infinite exertion till he reached the ground -outside the prison grounds in safety, wrapped the clapper of the bell in -my waistcoat, and descended hand over hand after him. - -We were on the side of a broad road that dipped down the hill into a -little village. Between us and the village street, across which hung a -swinging lamp, there mounted slowly a carriage with a pair of horses. - -"Bernard!" I cried, running up to it, and found it was the Swiss in the -very article of waiting for us, and he speedily drove us into Paris. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -WE ENTER PARIS AND FIND A SANCTUARY THERE - -Of the town of Paris that is so lamentably notable in these days I have -but the recollection that one takes away from a new scene witnessed -under stress of mind due to matters more immediately affecting him than -the colour, shape, and properties of things seen, and the thought I had -in certain parts of it is more clear to me to-day than the vision of the -place itself. It is, in my mind, like a fog that the bridges thundered -as our coach drove over them with our wretched fortunes on that early -morning of our escape from Bicetre, but as clear as when it sprung to -me from the uproar of the wheels comes back the dread that the whole of -this community would be at their windows looking out to see what folks -untimeously disturbed their rest. We were delayed briefly at a gate upon -the walls; I can scarcely mind what manner of men they were that stopped -us and thrust a lantern in our faces, and what they asked eludes me -altogether, but I mind distinctly how I gasped relief when we were -permitted to roll on. Blurred, too--no better than the surplusage of -dreams, is my first picture of the river and its isles in the dawn, but, -like a favourite song, I mind the gluck of waters on the quays and that -they made me think of Earn and Cart and Clyde. - -We stopped in the place of the Notre Dame at the corner of a street; -the coach drove off to a _remise_ whence it had come, and we went to an -hospital called the Hotel Dieu, in the neighbourhood, where Hamilton had -a Jesuit friend in one of the heads, and where we were accommodated in -a room that was generally set aside for clergymen. It was a place of the -most wonderful surroundings, this Hotel Dieu, choked, as it were, among -towers, the greatest of them those of Our Lady itself that were in -the Gothic taste, regarding which Father Hamilton used to say, "_Dire -gothique, c'est dire mauvais gout_," though, to tell the truth, I -thought the building pretty braw myself. Alleys and wynds were round -about us, and so narrow that the sky one saw between them was but a -ribbon by day, while at night they seemed no better than ravines. - -'Twas at night I saw most of the city, for only in the darkness did -I dare to venture out of the Hotel Dieu. Daundering my lone along the -cobbles, I took a pleasure in the exercise of tenanting these towering -lands with people having histories little different from the histories -of the folks far off in my Scottish home--their daughters marrying, -their sons going throughither (as we say), their bairns wakening and -crying in their naked beds, and grannies sitting by the ingle-neuk -cheerfully cracking upon ancient days. Many a time in the by-going I -looked up their pend closes seeking the eternal lovers of our own burgh -towns and never finding them, for I take it that in love the foreign -character is coyer than our own. But no matter how eagerly I went forth -upon my nightly airing in a _roquelaure_ borrowed from Father Hamilton's -friend, the adventure always ended, for me, in a sort of eerie terror -of those close-hemming walls, those tangled lanes where slouched the -outcast and the ne'er-do-weel, and not even the glitter of the moon upon -the river between its laden isles would comfort me. - -"La! la! la!" would Father Hamilton cry at me when I got home with a face -like a fiddle. "Art the most ridiculous rustic ever ate a cabbage or -set foot in Arcady. Why, man! the woman must be wooed--this Mademoiselle -Lutetia. Must take her front and rear, walk round her, ogling bravely. -Call her dull! call her dreadful! _Ciel!_ Has the child never an eye in -his mutton head? I avow she is the queen of the earth this Paris. If I -were young and wealthy I'd buy the glittering stars in constellations -and turn them into necklets for her. With thy plaguey gift of the sonnet -I'd deave her with ecstasies and spill oceans of ink upon leagues -of paper to tell her about her eyes. Go to! Scotland, go to! Ghosts! -ghosts! devil the thing else but ghosts in thy rustic skull, for to take -a fear of Lutetia when her black hair is down of an evening and thou -canst not get a glimpse of that beautiful neck that is rounded like the -same in the Psyche of Praxiteles. Could I pare off a portion of this -rotundity and go out in a masque as Apollo I'd show thee things." - -And all he saw of Paris himself was from the windows of the hospital, -where he and I would stand by the hour looking out into the square. -For the air itself he had to take it in a little garden at the back, -surrounded by a high wall, and affording a seclusion that even the -priest could avail himself of without the hazard of discovery. He used -to sit in an arbour there in the warmth of the day, and it was there -I saw another trait of his character that helped me much to forget his -shortcomings. - -Over his head, within the doorway of the bower, he hung a box and placed -therein the beginnings of a bird's nest. The thing was not many hours -done when a pair of birds came boldly into his presence as he sat -silent and motionless in the bower, and began to avail themselves of so -excellent a start in householding. In a few days there were eggs in the -nest, and 'twas the most marvellous of spectacles to witness the hen sit -content upon them over the head of the fat man underneath, and the cock, -without concern, fly in and out attentive on his mate. - -But, indeed, the man was the friend of all helpless things, and few of -the same came his way without an instinct that told them it was so. Not -the birds in the nest alone were at ease in his society; he had but -to walk along the garden paths whistling and chirping, and there came -flights of birds about his head and shoulders, and some would even perch -upon his hand. I have never seen him more like his office than when he -talked with the creatures of the air, unless it was on another occasion -when two bairns, the offspring of an inmate in the hospital, ventured -into the garden, finding there another child, though monstrous, who had -not lost the key to the fields where blossom the flowers of infancy, and -frolic is a prayer. - -But he dare not set a foot outside the walls of our retreat, for it was -as useless to hide Ballageich under a Kilmarnock bonnet as to seek a -disguise for his reverence in any suit of clothes. Bernard would come to -us rarely under cover of night, but alas! there were no letters for me -now, and mine that were sent through him were fewer than before. -And there was once an odd thing happened that put an end to these -intromissions; a thing that baffled me to understand at the time, and -indeed for many a day thereafter, but was made plain to me later on in -a manner that proved how contrary in his character was this mad priest, -that was at once assassin and the noblest friend. - -Father Hamilton was not without money, though all had been taken from -him at Bicetre. It was an evidence of the width and power of the Jesuit -movement that even in the Hotel Dieu he could command what sums he -needed, and Bernard was habituated to come to him for moneys that might -pay for himself and the coachman and the horses at the _remise_. On -the last of these occasions I took the chance to slip a letter for Miss -Walkinshaw into his hand. Instead of putting it in his pocket he laid it -down a moment on a table, and he and I were busy packing linen for the -wash when a curious cry from Father Hamilton made us turn to see him -with the letter in his hand. - -He was gazing with astonishment on the direction. - -"Ah!" said he, "and so my Achilles is not consoling himself exclusively -with the Haemonian lyre, but has taken to that far more dangerous -instrument the pen. The pen, my child, is the curse of youth. When we -are young we use it for our undoing, and for the facture of regrets -for after years--even if it be no more than the reading of our wives' -letters that I'm told are a bitter revelation to the married man. And -so--and so, Monsieur Croque-mort keeps up a correspondence with the -lady. H'm!" He looked so curiously and inquiringly at me that I felt -compelled to make an explanation. - -"It is quite true, Father Hamilton," said I. "After all, you gave me so -little clerkly work that I was bound to employ my pen somehow, and how -better than with my countrywoman?" - -"'Tis none of my affair--perhaps," he said, laying down the letter. -"And yet I have a curiosity. Have we here the essential Mercury?" and he -indicated Bernard who seemed to me to have a greater confusion than the -discovery gave a cause for. - -"Bernard has been good enough," said I. "You discover two Scots, Father -Hamilton, in a somewhat sentimental situation. The lady did me the -honour to be interested in my little travels, and I did my best to keep -her informed." - -He turned away as he had been shot, hiding his face, but I saw from his -neck that he had grown as white as parchment. - -"What in the world have I done?" thinks I, and concluded that he -was angry for my taking the liberty to use the dismissed servant as a -go-between. In a moment or two he turned about again, eying me closely, -and at last he put his hand upon my shoulder as a schoolmaster might do -upon a boy's. - -"My good Paul," said he, "how old are you?" - -"Twenty-one come Martinmas," I said. - -"Expiscate! elucidate! 'Come Martinmas,'" says he, "and what does that -mean? But no matter--twenty-one says my barbarian; sure 'tis a right -young age, a very baby of an age, an age in frocks if one that has it -has lived the best of his life with sheep and bullocks." - -"Sir," I said, indignant, "I was in very honest company among the same -sheep and bullocks." - -"Hush!" said he, and put up his hand, eying me with compassion and -kindness. "If thou only knew it, lad, thou art due me a civil attention -at the very least. Sure there is no harm in my mentioning that thou art -mighty ingenuous for thy years. 'Tis the quality I would be the last -to find fault with, but sometimes it has its inconveniences. -And Bernard"--he turned to the Swiss who was still greatly -disturbed--"Bernard is a somewhat older gentleman. Perhaps he will -say--our good Bernard--if he was the person I have to thank for taking -the sting out of the wasp, for extracting the bullet from my pistol? Ah! -I see he is the veritable person. Adorable Bernard, let that stand to -his credit!" - -Then Bernard fell trembling like a saugh tree, and protested he did but -what he was told. - -"And a good thing, too," said the priest, still very pale but with no -displeasure. "And a good thing too, else poor Buhot, that I have seen an -infinity of headachy dawns with, had been beyond any interest in cards -or prisoners. For that I shall forgive you the rest that I can guess at. -Take Monsieur Grog's letter where you have taken the rest, and be gone." - -The Swiss went out much crestfallen from an interview that was beyond my -comprehension. - -When he was gone Father Hamilton fell into a profound meditation, -walking up and down his room muttering to himself. - -"Faith, I never had such a problem presented to me before," said he, -stopping his walk; "I know not whether to laugh or swear. I feel that -I have been made a fool of, and yet nothing better could have happened. -And so my Croque-mort, my good Monsieur Propriety, has been writing the -lady? I should not wonder if he thought she loved him." - -"Nothing so bold," I cried. "You might without impropriety have seen -every one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log." - -"A seaman's log!" said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin; -"nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! -And I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear -was what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she -not caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?" - -I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made -the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she -should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman. - -The priest laughed consumedly at this. - -"Interest in her countryman!" said he. "Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me -for thy unexpected spots of innocence." - -"And as to that," I said, "you must have had a sort of correspondence -with her yourself." - -"I!" said he. "_Comment!_" - -"To be quite frank with you," said I, "it has been the cause of some -vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was -directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, -it was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate -in the Rue des Reservoirs." Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any -time the terrible affair was mentioned. - -"It is true, Paul, quite true," said he, "but the letter was a forgery. -I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it." - -"I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have -troubled me for a while back." - -"Ah," said he, "and your perplexities and mine are not over even now, -poor Paul. This Bernard is like to be the ruin of me yet. For you, -however, I have no fear, but it is another matter with the poor old fool -from Dixmunde." - -His voice broke, he displayed thus and otherwise so troubled a mind and -so great a reluctance to let me know the cause of it that I thought it -well to leave him for a while and let him recover his old manner. - -To that end I put on my coat and hat and went out rather earlier than -usual for my evening walk. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE MAN WITH THE TARTAN WAISTCOAT - -It was the first of May. But for Father Hamilton's birds, and some -scanty signs of it in the small garden, the lengthened day and the -kindlier air of the evenings, I might never have known what season it -was out of the almanac, for all seasons were much the same, no doubt, in -the Isle of the City where the priest and I sequestered. 'Twas ever the -shade of the tenements there; the towers of the churches never greened -nor budded; I would have waited long, in truth, for the scent of the -lilac and the chatter of the rook among these melancholy temples. - -Till that night I had never ventured farther from the gloomy vicinity of -the hospital than I thought I could safely retrace without the necessity -of asking any one the way; but this night, more courageous, or perhaps -more careless than usual, I crossed the bridge of Notre Dame and found -myself in something like the Paris of the priest's rhapsodies and the -same all thrilling with the passion of the summer. It was not flower nor -tree, though these were not wanting, but the spirit in the air--young -girls laughing in the by-going with merriest eyes, windows wide open -letting out the sounds of songs, the pavements like a river with -zesty life of Highland hills when the frosts above are broken and the -overhanging boughs have been flattering it all the way in the valleys. - -I was fair infected. My step, that had been unco' dull and heavy, I -fear, and going to the time of dirges on the Isle, went to a different -tune; my being rhymed and sang. I had got the length of the Rue de -Richelieu and humming to myself in the friendliest key, with the -good-natured people pressing about me, when of a sudden it began to -rain. There was no close in the neighbourhood where I could shelter from -the elements, but in front of me was the door of a tavern called the -Tete du Duc de Burgoyne shining with invitation, and in I went. - -A fat wife sat at a counter; a pot-boy, with a cry of "V'ia!" that was -like a sheep's complaining, served two ancient citizens in skull-caps -that played the game of dominoes, and he came to me with my humble order -of a litre of ordinary and a piece of bread for the good of the house. - -Outside the rain pelted, and the folks upon the pavement ran, and -by-and-by the tavern-room filled up with shelterers like myself and kept -the pot-boy busy. Among the last to enter was a group of five that took -a seat at another corner of the room than that where I sat my lone at a -little table. At first I scarcely noticed them until I heard a word -of Scots. I think the man that used it spoke of "gully-knives," but at -least the phrase was the broadest lallands, and went about my heart. - -I put down my piece of bread and looked across the room in wonder to see -that three of the men were gazing intently at myself. The fourth was -hid by those in front of him; the fifth that had spoken had a tartan -waistcoat and eyes that were like a gled's, though they were not on me. -In spite of that, 'twas plain that of me he spoke, and that I was the -object of some speculation among them. - -No one that has not been lonely in a foreign town, and hungered for -communion with those that know his native tongue, can guess how much I -longed for speech with this compatriot that in dress and eye and accent -brought back the place of my nativity in one wild surge of memory. -Every bawbee in my pocket would not have been too much to pay for such -a privilege, but it might not be unless the overtures came from the -persons in the corner. - -Very deliberately, though all in a commotion within, I ate my piece and -drank my wine before the stare of the three men, and at last, on the -whisper of one of them, another produced a box of dice. - -"No, no!" said the man with the tartan waistcoat hurriedly, with a -glance from the tail of his eye at me, but they persisted in their -purpose and began to throw. My countryman in tartan got the last chance, -of which he seemed reluctant to avail himself till the one unseen said: -"_Vous avez le de'_, Kilbride." - -Kilbride! the name was the call of whaups at home upon the moors! - -He laughed, shook, and tossed carelessly, and then the laugh was all -with them, for whatever they had played for he had seemingly lost and -the dice were now put by. - -He rose somewhat confused, looked dubiously across at me with a -reddening face, and then came over with his hat in his hand. - -"Pardon, Monsieur," he began; then checked the French, and said: "Have I -a countryman here?" - -"It is like enough," said I, with a bow and looking at his tartan. "I am -from Scotland myself." - -He smiled at that with a look of some relief and took a vacant chair on -the other side of my small table. - -"I have come better speed with my impudence," said he in the Hielan' -accent, "than I expected or deserved. My name's Kilbride--MacKellar of -Kilbride--and I am here with another Highland gentleman of the name of -Grant and two or three French friends we picked up at the door of the -play-house. Are you come off the Highlands, if I make take the liberty?" - -"My name is lowland," said I, "and I hail from the shire of Renfrew." - -"Ah," said he, with a vanity that was laughable. "What a pity! I wish -you had been Gaelic, but of course you cannot help it being otherwise, -and indeed there are many estimable persons in the lowlands." - -"And a great wheen of Highland gentlemen very glad to join them there -too," said I, resenting the implication. - -"Of course, of course," said he heartily. "There is no occasion for -offence." - -"Confound the offence, Mr. MacKellar!" said I. "Do you not think I am -just too glad at this minute to hear a Scottish tongue and see a tartan -waistcoat? Heilan' or Lowlan', we are all the same" when our feet are -off the heather. - -"Not exactly," he corrected, "but still and on we understand each other. -You must be thinking it gey droll, sir, that a band of strangers in a -common tavern would have the boldness to stare at you like my friends -there, and toss a dice about you in front of your face, but that is the -difference between us. If I had been in your place I would have thrown -the jug across at them, but here I am not better nor the rest, because -the dice fell to me, and I was one that must decide the wadger." - -"Oh, and was I the object of a wadger?" said I, wondering what we were -coming to. - -"Indeed, and that you were," said he shamefacedly, "and I'm affronted -to tell it. But when Grant saw you first he swore you were a countryman, -and there was some difference of opinion." - -"And what, may I ask, did Kilbride side with?" - -"Oh," said he promptly, "I had never a doubt about that. I knew you were -Scots, but what beat me was to say whether you were Hielan' or Lowlan'." -"And how, if it's a fair question, did you come to the conclusion that I -was a countryman of any sort?" said I. - -He laughed softly, and "Man," said he, "I could never make any mistake -about that, whatever of it. There's many a bird that's like the -woodcock, but the woodcock will aye be kennin' which is which, as the -other man said. Thae bones were never built on bread and wine. It's a -French coat you have there, and a cockit hat (by your leave), but to my -view you were as plainly from Scotland as if you had a blue bonnet on -your head and a sprig of heather in your lapels. And here am I giving -you the strange cow's welcome (as the other man said), and that is all -inquiry and no information. You must just be excusing our bit foolish -wadger, and if the proposal would come favourably from myself, that is -of a notable family, though at present under a sort of cloud, as the -other fellow said, I would be proud to have you share in the bottle of -wine that was dependent upon Grant's impudent wadger. I can pass my word -for my friends there that they are all gentry like ourselves--of the -very best, in troth, though not over-nice in putting this task on -myself." - -I would have liked brawly to spend an hour out any company than my own, -but the indulgence was manifestly one involving the danger of discovery; -it was, as I told myself, the greatest folly to be sitting in a tavern -at all, so MacKellar's manner immediately grew cold when he saw a -swithering in my countenance. - -"Of course," said he, reddening and rising, "of course, every gentleman -has his own affairs, and I would be the last to make a song of it if -you have any dubiety about my friends and me. I'll allow the thing looks -very like a gambler's contrivance." - -"No, no, Mr. MacKellar," said I hurriedly, unwilling to let us part -like that, "I'm swithering here just because I'm like yoursel' of it and -under a cloud of my own." - -"Dod! Is that so?" said he quite cheerfully again, and clapping down, -"then I'm all the better pleased that the thing that made the roebuck -swim the loch--and that's necessity--as the other man said, should have -driven me over here to precognosce you. But when you say you are under -a cloud, that is to make another way of it altogether, and I will not be -asking you over, for there is a gentleman there among the five of us who -might be making trouble of it." - -"Have you a brother in Glasgow College?" says I suddenly, putting a -question that had been in my mind ever since he had mentioned his name. - -"Indeed, and I have that," said he quickly, "but now he is following the -law in Edinburgh, where I am in the hopes it will be paying him better -than ever it paid me that has lost two fine old castles and the best -part of a parish by the same. You'll not be sitting there and telling me -surely that you know my young brother Alasdair?" - -"Man! him and me lodged together in Lucky Grant's, in Crombie's Land in -the High Street, for two Sessions," said I. - -"What!" said MacKellar. "And you'll be the lad that snow-balled the -bylie, and your name will be Greig?" - -As he said it he bent to look under the table, then drew up suddenly -with a startled face and a whisper of a whistle on his lips. - -"My goodness!" said he, in a cautious tone, "and that beats all. You'll -be the lad that broke jyle with the priest that shot at Buhot, and there -you are, you _amadain_, like a gull with your red brogues on you, crying -'come and catch me' in two languages. I'm telling you to keep thae feet -of yours under this table till we're out of here, if it should be the -morn's morning. No--that's too long, for by the morn's morning Buhot's -men will be at the Hotel Dieu, and the end of the story will be little -talk and the sound of blows, as the other man said." - -Every now and then as he spoke he would look over his shoulder with a -quick glance at his friends--a very anxious man, but no more anxious -than Paul Greig. - -"Mercy on us!" said I, "do you tell me you ken all that?" - -"I ken a lot more than that," said he, "but that's the latest of my -budget, and I'm giving it to you for the sake of the shoes and my -brother Alasdair, that is a writer in Edinburgh. There's not two -Scotchmen drinking a bowl in Paris town this night that does not ken -your description, and it's kent by them at the other table there--where -better?--but because you have that coat on you that was surely made for -you when you were in better health, as the other man said, and because -your long trams of legs and red shoes are under the table there's none -of them suspects you. And now that I'm thinking of it, I would not go -near the hospital place again." - -"Oh! but the priest's there," said I, "and it would never do for me to be -leaving him there without a warning." - -"A warning!" said MacKellar with contempt. "I'm astonished to hear you, -Mr. Greig. The filthy brock that he is!" - -"If you're one of the Prince's party," said I, "and it has every look of -it, or, indeed, whether you are or not, I'll allow you have some cause -to blame Father Hamilton, but as for me, I'm bound to him because we -have been in some troubles together." - -"What's all this about 'bound to him'?" said MacKellar with a kind of -sneer. "The dog that's tethered with a black pudding needs no pity, as -the other man said, and I would leave this fellow to shift for himself." - -"Thank you," said I, "but I'll not be doing that." - -"Well, well," said he, "it's your business, and let me tell you that -you're nothing but a fool to be tangled up with the creature. That's -Kilbride's advice to you. Let me tell you this more of it, that they're -not troubling themselves much about you at all now that you have given -them the information." - -"Information!" I said with a start. "What do you mean by that?" - -He prepared to join his friends, with a smile of some slyness, and gave -me no satisfaction on the point. - -"You'll maybe ken best yourself," said he, "and I'm thinking your -name will have to be Robertson and yourself a decent Englishman for my -friends on the other side of the room there. Between here and yonder -I'll have to be making up a bonny lie or two that will put them off the -scent of you." - -A bonny lie or two seemed to serve the purpose, for their interest in me -appeared to go no further, and by-and-by, when it was obvious that there -would be no remission of the rain, they rose to go. - -The last that went out of the door turned on the threshold and looked at -me with a smile of recognition and amusement. - -It was Buhot! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -WHEREIN THE PRIEST LEAVES ME, AND I MAKE AN INLAND VOYAGE - -What this marvel betokened was altogether beyond my comprehension, but -the five men were no sooner gone than I clapped on my hat and drew up -the collar of my coat and ran like fury through the plashing streets for -the place that was our temporary home. It must have been an intuition of -the raised that guided me; my way was made without reflection on it, -at pure hazard, and yet I landed through a multitude of winding and -bewildering streets upon the Isle of the City and in front of the Hotel -Dieu in a much shorter time than it had taken me to get from there to -the Duke of Burgundy's Head. - -I banged past the doorkeeper, jumped upstairs to the clergyman's -quarters, threw open the door and--found Father Hamilton was gone! - -About the matter there could be no manner of dubiety, for he had left a -letter directed to myself upon the drawers-head. - -"My Good Paul (said the epistle, that I have kept till now as a memorial -of my adventure): When you return you will discover from this that I -have taken leave _a l'anglaise_, and I fancy I can see my secretary -looking like the arms of Bourges (though that is an unkind imputation). -'Tis fated, seemingly, that there shall be no rest for the sole of -the foot of poor Father Hamilton. I had no sooner got to like a loose -collar, and an unbuttoned vest, and the seclusion of a cell, than I must -be plucked out; and now when my birds--the darlings!--are on the very -point of hatching I must make adieux. _Oh! la belle equipee!_ M. Buhot -knows where I am--that's certain, so I must remove myself, and this time -I do not propose to burden M. Paul Greig with my company, for it will -be a miracle if they fail to find me. As for my dear Croque-mort, he can -have the glass coach and Jacques and Bernard, and doubtless the best -he can do with them is to take all to Dunkerque and leave them there. -I myself, I go _sans trompette_, and no inquiries will discover to him -where I go." - -As a postscript he added, "And 'twas only a sailor's log, dear lad! My -poor young Paul!" When I read the letter I was puzzled tremendously, and -at first I felt inclined to blame the priest for a scurvy flitting to -rid himself of my society, but a little deliberation convinced me that -no such ignoble consideration was at the bottom of his flight. If I read -his epistle aright the step he took was in my own interest, though how -it could be so there was no surmising. In any case he was gone; his -friend in the hospital told me he had set out behind myself, and taken -a candle with him and given a farewell visit to his birds, and almost -cried about them and about myself, and then departed for good to conceal -himself, in some other part of the city, probably, but exactly where -his friend had no way of guessing. And it was a further evidence of the -priest's good feeling to myself (if such were needed) that he had left a -sum of a hundred livres for me towards the costs of my future movements. - -I left the Hotel Dieu at midnight to wander very melancholy about the -streets for a time, and finally came out upon the river's bank, where -some small vessels hung at a wooden quay. I saw them in moonlight (for -now the rain was gone), and there rose in me such a feeling as I had -often experienced as a lad in another parish than the Mearns, to see the -road that led from strangeness past my mother's door. The river seemed a -pathway out of mystery and discontent to the open sea, and the open sea -was the same that beat about the shores of Britain, and my thought -took flight there and then to Britain, but stopped for a space, like a -wearied bird, upon the town Dunkerque. There is one who reads this -who will judge kindly, and pardon when I say that I felt a sort of -tenderness for the lady there, who was not only my one friend in France, -so far as I could guess, but, next to my mother, the only woman who knew -my shame and still retained regard for me. And thinking about Scotland -and about Dunkerque, and seeing that watery highway to them both, I was -seized with a great repugnance for the city I stood in, and felt that -I must take my feet from there at once. Father Hamilton was lost to me: -that was certain. I could no more have found him in this tanglement -of streets and strange faces than I could have found a needle in a -haystack, and I felt disinclined to make the trial. Nor was I prepared -to avail myself of his offer of the coach and horses, for to go -travelling again in them would be to court Bicetre anew. - -There was a group of busses or barges at the quay, as I have said, all -huddled together as it were animals seeking warmth, with their bows -nuzzling each other, and on one of them there were preparations being -made for her departure. A cargo of empty casks was piled up in her, -lights were being hung up at her bow and stern, and one of her crew was -ashore in the very act of casting off her ropes. At a flash it occurred -to me that I had here the safest and the speediest means of flight. - -I ran at once to the edge of the quay and clumsily propounded a question -as to where the barge was bound for. - -"Rouen or thereabouts," said the master. - -I asked if I could have a passage, and chinked my money in my pocket. - -My French might have been but middling, but Lewis d'Or talks in a -language all can understand. - -Ten minutes later we were in the fairway of the river running down -through the city which, in that last look I was ever fated to have of -it, seemed to brood on either hand of us like bordering hills, and at -morning we were at a place by name Triel. - -Of all the rivers I have seen I must think the Seine the finest. It runs -in loops like my native Forth, sometimes in great, wide stretches that -have the semblance of moorland lochs. In that fine weather, with a sun -that was most genial, the country round about us basked and smiled. -We moved upon the fairest waters, by magic gardens, and the borders of -enchanted little towns. Now it would be a meadow sloping backward from -the bank, where reeds were nodding, to the horizon; now an orchard -standing upon grass that was the rarest green, then a village with rusty -roofs and spires and the continual chime of bells, with women washing -upon stones or men silent upon wherries fishing. Every link of the -river opened up a fresher wonder; if not some poplared isle that had -the invitation to a childish escapade, 'twould be another town, or the -garden of a chateau, maybe, with ladies walking stately on the lawns, -perhaps alone, perhaps with cavaliers about them as if they moved -in some odd woodland minuet. I can mind of songs that came from open -windows, sung in women's voices; of girls that stood drawing water and -smiled on us as we passed, at home in our craft of fortune, and still -the lucky roamers seeing the world so pleasantly without the trouble of -moving a step from our galley fire. - -Sometimes in the middle of the days we would stop at a red-faced, -ancient inn, with bowers whose tables almost had their feet dipped in -the river, and there would eat a meal and linger on a pot of wine while -our barge fell asleep at her tether and dreamt of the open sea. About us -in these inns came the kind country-people and talked of trivial things -for the mere sake of talking, because the weather was sweet and God -so gracious; homely sounds would waft from the byres and from the -barns--the laugh of bairns, the whistle of boys, the low of cattle. - -At night we moored wherever we might be, and once I mind of a place -called Andelys, selvedged with chalky cliffs and lorded over by a castle -called Gaillard, that had in every aspect of it something of the clash -of weapons and of trumpet-cry. The sky shone blue through its gaping -gables and its crumbling windows like so many eyes; the birds that -wheeled all round it seemed to taunt it for its inability. The old wars -over, the deep fosse silent, the strong men gone--and there at its foot -the thriving town so loud with sounds of peaceful trade! Whoever has -been young, and has the eye for what is beautiful and great and stately, -must have felt in such a scene that craving for companionship that -tickles like a laugh within the heart--that longing for some one to feel -with him, and understand, and look upon with silence. In my case 'twas -two women I would have there with me just to look upon this Gaillard and -the town below it. - -Then the bending, gliding river again, the willow and the aspen -edges, the hazy orchards and the emerald swards; hamlets, towns, -farm-steadings, chateaux, kirks, and mills; the flying mallard, the -leaping perch, the silver dawns, the starry nights, the ripple of the -water in my dreams, and at last the city of Rouen. My ship of fortune -went no further on. - -I slept a night in an inn upon the quay, and early the next morning, -having bought a pair of boots to save my red shoes, I took the road over -a hill that left Rouen and all its steeples, reeking at the bottom of a -bowl. I walked all day, through woods and meadows and trim small towns -and orchards, and late in the gloaming came upon the port of Havre de -Grace. - -The sea was sounding there, and the smell of it was like a salutation. I -went out at night from my inn, and fairly joyed in its propinquity, and -was so keen on it that I was at the quay before it was well daylight. -The harbour was full of vessels. It was not long ere I got word of one -that was in trim for Dunkerque, to which I took a passage, and by favour -of congenial weather came upon the afternoon of the second day. - -Dunkerque was more busy with soldiers than ever, all the arms of France -seemed to be collected there, and ships of war and flat-bottomed boats -innumerable were in the harbour. - -At the first go-off I made for the lodgings I had parted from so -unceremoniously on the morning of that noisy glass coach. - -The house, as I have said before, was over a baker's shop, and was -reached by a common outer stair that rose from a court-yard behind. -Though internally the domicile was well enough, indeed had a sort of -old-fashioned gentility, and was kept by a woman whose man had been a -colonel of dragoons, but now was a tippling pensioner upon the king, and -his own wife's labours, it was, externally, somewhat mean, the place a -solid merchant of our own country might inhabit, but scarce the place -wherein to look for royal blood. What was my astonishment, then, when, -as I climbed the stair, I came face to face with the Prince! - -I felt the stair swing off below me and half distrusted my senses, but I -had the presence of mind to take my hat off. - -"_Bon jour, Monsieur_, said he, with a slight hiccough, and I saw that -he was flushed and meant to pass with an evasion. There and then a -daft notion to explain myself and my relations with the priest who had -planned his assassination came to me, and I stopped and spoke. - -"Your Royal Highness---" I began, and at that he grew purple. - -"_Cest un drole de corps!_" said he, and, always speaking in French, -said he again: - -"You make an error, Monsieur; I have not the honour of Monsieur's -acquaintance," and looked at me with a bold eye and a disconcerting. - -"Greig," I blurted, a perfect lout, and surely as blind as a mole that -never saw his desire, "I had the honour to meet your Royal Highness at -Versailles." - -"My Royal Highness!" said he, this time in English. "I think Monsieur -mistakes himself." And then, when he saw how crestfallen I was, -he smiled and hiccoughed again. "You are going to call on our good -Clancarty," said he. "In that case please tell him to translate to you -the proverb, _Oui phis sait plus se tait_." - -"There is no necessity, Monsieur," I answered promptly. "Now that I look -closer I see I was mistaken. The person I did you the honour to take you -for was one in whose opinion (if he took the trouble to think of me at -all) I should have liked to re-establish myself, that was all." - -In spite of his dissipation there was something noble in his manner--a -style of the shoulders and the hands, a poise of the head that I might -practise for years and come no closer on than any nowt upon my father's -fields. It was that which I remember best of our engagement on the -stair, and that at the last of it he put out his hand to bid me -good-day. - -"My name," says he, "is Monsieur Albany so long as I am in Dunkerque. -_A bon entendeur salut!_ I hope we may meet again, Monsieur Greig." He -looked down at the black boots I had bought me in Rouen. "If I might -take the liberty to suggest it," said he, smiling, "I should abide by -the others. I have never seen their wearer wanting wit, _esprit_, and -prudence--which are qualities that at this moment I desire above all in -those that count themselves my friends." - -And with that he was gone. I watched him descend the remainder of the -stair with much deliberation, and did not move a step myself until the -tip of his scabbard had gone round the corner of the close. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -A GUID CONCEIT OF MYSELF LEADS ME FAR ASTRAY - -Clancarty and Thurot were playing cards, so intent upon that recreation -that I was in the middle of the floor before they realised who it was -the servant had ushered in. - -"_Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec! Il n'y a pas de petit chez soi!_" cried -Thurot, dropping his hand, and they jumped to their feet to greet me. - -"I'll be hanged if you want assurance, child," said Clancarty, surveying -me from head to foot as if I were some curiosity. "Here's your exploits -ringing about the world, and not wholly to your credit, and you must -walk into the very place where they will find the smallest admiration." - -"Not meaning the lodging of Captain Thurot," said I. "Whatever my -reputation may be with the world, I make bold to think he and you will -believe me better than I may seem at the first glance." - -"The first glance!" cried his lordship. "Gad, the first glance suggests -that Bicetre agreed with our Scotsman. Sure, they must have fed you on -oatmeal. I'd give a hatful of louis d'or to see Father Hamilton, for -if he throve so marvellously in the flesh as his secretary he must look -like the side of St. Eloi. One obviously grows fat on regicide--fatter -than a few poor devils I know do upon devotion to princes." - -Thurot's face assured me that I was as welcome there as ever I had been. -He chid Clancarty for his badinage, and told me he was certain all along -that the first place I should make for after my flight from Bicetre (of -which all the world knew) would be Dunkerque. "And a good thing too, M. -Greig," said he. - -"Not so good," says I, "but what I must meet on your stair the very -man-" - -"Stop!" he cried, and put his finger on his lip. "In these parts we know -only a certain M. Albany, who is, my faith! a good friend of your own if -you only knew it." - -"I scarcely see how that can be," said I. "If any man has a cause to -dislike me it is his Roy--" - -"M. Albany," corrected Thurot. - -"It is M. Albany, for whom, it seems, I was the decoy in a business that -makes me sick to think on. I would expect no more than that he had gone -out there to send the officers upon my heels, and for me to be sitting -here may be simple suicide." - -Clancarty laughed. "Tis the way of youth," said he, "to attach far too -much importance to itself. Take our word for it, M. Greig, all France is -not scurrying round looking for the nephew of Andrew Greig. Faith, and -I wonder at you, my dear Thurot, that has an Occasion here--a veritable -Occasion--and never so much as says bottle. Stap me if I have a -friend come to me from a dungeon without wishing him joy in a glass of -burgundy!" - -The burgundy was forthcoming, and his lordship made the most of it, -while Captain Thurot was at pains to assure me that my position was by -no means so bad as I considered it. In truth, he said, the police had -their own reasons for congratulating themselves on my going out of their -way. They knew very well, as M. Albany did, that I had been the catspaw -of the priest, who was himself no better than that same, and for that -reason as likely to escape further molestation as I was myself. - -Thurot spoke with authority, and hinted that he had the word of M. -Albany himself for what he said. I scarcely knew which pleased me -best--that I should be free myself or that the priest should have a -certain security in his concealment. - -I told them of Buhot, and how oddly he had shown his complacence to his -escaped prisoner in the tavern of the Duke of Burgundy's Head. At that -they laughed. - -"Buhot!" cried his lordship. "My faith! Ned must have been tickled to -see his escaped prisoner in such a cosy _cachette_ as the Duke's Head, -where he and I, and Andy Greig--ay! and this same priest--tossed many -a glass, _Ciel!_ the affair runs like a play. All it wants to make this -the most delightful of farces is that you should have Father Hamilton -outside the door to come in at a whistle. Art sure the fat old man is -not in your waistcoat pocket? Anyhow, here's his good health...." - -=== MISSING PAGES (274-288) === - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -THE BARD OF LOVE WHO WROTE WITH OLD MATERIALS - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -THE DUEL IN THE AUBERGE GARDEN - -Whoever it was that moved at the instigation of Madame on my behalf, -he put speed into the business, for the very next day I was told my -sous-lieutenancy was waiting at the headquarters of the regiment. A -severance that seemed almost impossible to me before I learned from the -lady's own lips that her heart was elsewhere engaged was now a thing to -long for eagerly, and I felt that the sooner I was out of Dunkerque and -employed about something more important than the tying of my hair and -the teasing of my heart with thinking, the better for myself. Teasing my -heart, I say, because Miss Walkinshaw had her own reasons for refusing -to see me any more, and do what I might I could never manage to come -face to face with her. Perhaps on the whole it was as well, for what -in the world I was to say to the lady, supposing I were privileged, -it beats me now to fancy. Anyhow, the opportunity never came my way, -though, for the few days that elapsed before I departed from Dunkerque, -I spent hours in the Rue de la Boucherie sipping sirops on the terrace -of the Cafe Coignet opposite her lodging, or at night on the old game of -humming ancient love-songs to her high and distant window. All I got -for my pains were brief and tantalising glimpses of her shadow on the -curtains; an attenuate kind of bliss it must be owned, and yet counted -by Master Red-Shoes (who suffered from nostalgia, not from love, if he -had had the sense to know it) a very delirium of delight. - -One night there was an odd thing came to pass. But, first of all, I must -tell that more than once of an evening, as I would be in the street and -staring across at Miss Walkinshaw's windows, I saw his Royal Highness in -the neighbourhood. His cloak might be voluminous, his hat dragged down -upon the very nose of him, but still the step was unmistakable. If there -had been the smallest doubt of it, there came one evening when he passed -me so close in the light of an oil lamp that I saw the very blotches -on his countenance. What was more, he saw and recognised me, though he -passed without any other sign than the flash of an eye and a halfstep of -hesitation. - -[Illustration: 304] - -"H'm," thinks I, "here's Monsieur Albany looking as if he might, like -myself, be trying to content himself with the mere shadows of things." - -He saw me more than once, and at last there came a night when a fellow -in drink came staving down the street on the side I was on and jostled -me in the by-going without a word of apology. - -"_Pardonnez, Monsieur!_" said I in irony, with my hat off to give him a -hint at his manners. - -He lurched a second time against me and put up his hand to catch my -chin, as if I were a wench, "_Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec_, 'tis time -you were home," said he in French, and stuttered some ribaldry that made -me smack his face with an open hand. - -"I saw his Royal Highness in the neighbourhood--" - -At once he sobered with suspicious suddenness if I had had the sense -to reflect upon it, and gave me his name and direction as one George -Bonnat, of the Marine. "Monsieur will do me the honour of a meeting -behind the Auberge Cassard after _petit dejeuner_ to-morrow," said he, -and named a friend. It was the first time I was ever challenged. It -should have rung in the skull of me like an alarm, but I cannot recall -at this date that my heart beat a stroke the faster, or that the -invitation vexed me more than if it had been one to the share of a -bottle of wine. "It seems a pretty ceremony about a cursed impertinence -on the part of a man in liquor," I said, "but I'm ready to meet you -either before or after petit dejeuner, as it best suits you, and my -name's Greig, by your leave." - -"Very well, Monsieur Greig," said he; "except that you stupidly impede -the pavement and talk French like a Spanish cow (_comme une vache -espagnole_), you seem a gentleman of much accommodation. Eight o'clock -then, behind the _auberge_," and off went Sir Ruffler, singularly -straight and business-like, with a profound _conge_ for the unfortunate -wretch he planned to thrust a spit through in the morning. - -I went home at once, to find Thurot and Clancarty at lansquenet. They -were as elate at my story as if I had been asked to dine with Louis. - -"Gad, 'tis an Occasion!" cried my lord, and helped himself, as usual, -with a charming sentiment: "_A demain les affaires serieuses_; to-night -we'll pledge our friend!" - -Thurot evinced a flattering certainty of my ability to break down M. -Bonnat's guard in little or no time. "A crab, this Bonnat," said he. -"Why he should pick a quarrel with you I cannot conceive, for 'tis well -known the man is M. Albany's creature. But, no matter, we shall tickle -his ribs, M. Paul. _Ma foi!_ here's better gaming than your pestilent -cards. I'd have every man in the kingdom find an affair for himself once -a month to keep his spleen in order." - -"This one's like to put mine very much out of order with his iron," I -said, a little ruefully recalling my last affair. - -"What!" cried Thurot, "after all my lessons! And this Bonnat a crab too! -Fie! M. Paul. And what an he pricks a little? a man's the better for -some iron in his system now and then. Come, come, pass down these foils, -my lord, and I shall supple the arms of our Paul." - -We had a little exercise, and then I went to bed. The two sat in my -room, and smoked and talked till late in the night, while I pretended -to be fast asleep. But so far from sleep was I, that I could hear their -watches ticking in their fobs. Some savagery, some fearful want of soul -in them, as evidenced by their conversation, horrified me. It was no -great matter that I was to risk my life upon a drunkard's folly, but -for the first time since I had come into the port of Dunkerque, and knew -these men beside my bed, there intruded a fiery sense of alienation. It -seemed a dream--a dreadful dream, that I should be lying in a foreign -land, upon the eve, perhaps, of my own death or of another manslaughter, -and in a correspondence with two such worldly men as those that sat -there recalling combats innumerable with never a thought of the ultimate -fearful retribution. Compared with this close room, where fumed the wine -and weed, and men with never a tie domestic were paying away their lives -in the small change of trivial pleasures, how noble and august seemed -our old life upon the moors! - -When they were gone I fell asleep and slept without a break till -Thurot's fingers drummed reveille on my door. I jumped into the sunshine -of a lovely day that streamed into the room, soused my head in water and -in a little stood upon the street with my companion. - -"_Bon matin_, Paul!" he cried cheerfully. "Faith, you sleep sur _les -deux oreilles_, and we must be marching briskly to be at M. Bonnat's -rendezvous at eight o'clock." - -We went through the town and out upon its edge at the Calais road. The -sky was blue like another sea; the sea itself was all unvexed by wave; a -sweeter day for slaughtering would pass the wit of man to fancy. Thurot -hummed an air as he walked along the street, but I was busy thinking -of another morning in Scotland, when I got a bitter lesson I now seemed -scandalously soon to have forgotten. By-and-by we came to the inn. It -stood by itself upon the roadside, with a couple of workmen sitting on -a bench in front dipping their morning crusts in a common jug of wine. -Thurot entered and made some inquiry; came out radiant. "Monsieur is not -going to disappoint us, as I feared," said he; and led me quickly behind -the _auberge_. We passed through the yard, where a servant-girl scoured -pots and pans and sang the while as if the world were wholly pleasant in -that sunshine; we crossed a tiny rivulet upon a rotten plank and found -ourselves in an orchard. Great old trees stood silent in the finest -foggy grass, their boughs all bursting out into blossom, and the air -scent-thick-ened; everywhere the birds were busy; it seemed a world -of piping song. I thought to myself there could be no more incongruous -place nor season for our duelling, and it was with half a gladness I -looked around the orchard, finding no one there. - -"Bah! our good Bonnat's gone!" cried Thurot, vastly chagrined and -tugging at his watch. "That comes of being five minutes too late, and I -cannot, by my faith, compliment the gentleman upon his eagerness to meet -you." - -I was mistaken but for a second; then I spied my fiery friend of the -previous evening lying on his back beneath the oldest of the trees, his -hat tilted over his eyes, as if he had meant to snatch a little sleep -in spite of the dazzling sunshine. He rose to his feet on our approach, -swept off his hat courteously, and hailed Thurot by name. - -"What, you, Antoine! I am ravished! For, look you, the devil's in all my -friends that I can get none of them to move a step at this hour of the -morning, and I have had to come to M. Greig without a second. Had I -known his friend was Captain Thurot I should not have vexed myself. -Doubtless M. Greig has no objection to my entrusting my interests as -well as his own in the hands of M. le Capitaine?" - -I bowed my assent. Captain Thurot cast a somewhat cold and unsatisfied -eye upon the ruffler, protesting the thing was unusual. - -Bonnat smiled and shrugged his shoulders, put off his coat with much -deliberation, and took up his place upon the sward, where I soon -followed him. - -"Remember, it is no fool, this crab," whispered Captain Thurot as he -took my coat from me. "And 'tis two to one on him who prefers the parry -to the attack." - -I had been reading Moliere's "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" the previous -morning, and as I faced my assailant I had the fencing-master's words as -well as Captain Thurot's running in my ears: "To give and not receive -is the secret of the sword." It may appear incredible, but it seemed -physically a trivial affair I was engaged upon until I saw the man -Bonnat's eye. He wore a smile, but his eye had the steely glint of -murder! It was as unmistakable as if his tongue confessed it, and for -a second I trembled at the possibilities of the situation. He looked an -unhealthy dog; sallow exceedingly on the neck, which had the sinews -so tight they might have twanged like wire, and on his cheeks, that he -seemed to suck in with a gluttonous exultation such as a gross man shows -in front of a fine meal. - -"Are you ready, gentlemen?" said Thurot; and we nodded. "Then in guard!" -said he. - -We saluted, fell into position and thrust simultaneously in tierce, -parrying alike, then opened more seriously. - -In Thurot's teaching of me there was one lesson he most unweariedly -insisted on, whose object was to keep my point in a straight line and -parry in the smallest possible circles. I had every mind of it now, but -the cursed thing was that this Bonnat knew it too. He fenced, like an -Italian, wholly from the wrist, and, crouched upon his knees, husbanded -every ounce of energy by the infrequency and the brevity of his thrusts. -His lips drew back from his teeth, giving him a most villainous aspect, -and he began to press in the lower lines. - -In a side-glance hazarded I saw the anxiety of Thurot's eye and realised -his apprehension. I broke ground, and still, I think, was the bravo's -match but for the alarm of Thurot's eye. It confused me so much that I -parried widely and gave an opening for a thrust that caught me slightly -on the arm, and dyed my shirt-sleeve crimson in a moment. - -"Halt!" cried Thurot, and put up his arm. - -I lowered my weapon, thinking the bout over, and again saw murder in -Bonnat's eye. He lunged furiously at my chest, missing by a miracle. - -"_Scelerat!_" cried Thurot, and, in an uncontrollable fury at the -action, threw himself upon Bonnat and disarmed him. - -They glared at each other for a minute, and Thurot finally cast the -other's weapon over a hedge. "So much for M. Bonnat!" said he. "This is -our valiant gentleman, is it? To stab like an assassin!" - -"_Oh, malediction!_" said the other, little abashed, and shrugging his -shoulders as he lifted his coat to put it on. "Talking of assassination, -I but did the duty of the executioner in his absence, and proposed to -kill the man who meditated the same upon the Prince." - -"The Prince!" cried Thurot. "Why 'tis the Prince's friend, and saved his -life!" - -"I know nothing about that," said Bonnat; "but do you think I'd be out -here at such a cursed early hour fencing if any other than M. Albany -had sent me? _Pardieu!_ the whole of you are in the farce, but I always -counted you the Prince's friend, and here you must meddle when I do as -I am told to do!" - -"And you tell me, Jean Bonnat, that you take out my friend to murder him -by M. Albany's command?" cried Thurot incredulous. - -"What the devil else?" replied the bravo. "'Tis true M. Albany only -mentioned that M. des Souliers Rouges was an obstruction in the Rue de -la Boucherie and asked me to clear him out of Dunkerque, but 'twere a -tidier job to clear him altogether. And here is a great pother about an -English hog!" - -I was too busily stanching my wound, that was scarce so serious as it -appeared, to join in this dispute, but the allusion to the Prince and -the Rue de la Boucherie extremely puzzled me. I turned to Bonnat with a -cry for an explanation. - -"What!" I says, "does his Royal Highness claim any prerogative to the -Rue de la Boucherie? I'm unconscious that I ever did either you or him -the smallest harm, and if my service--innocent enough as it was--with -the priest Hamilton was something to resent, his Highness has already -condoned the offence." - -"For the sake of my old friend M. le Capitaine here I shall give you -one word of advice," said Bonnat, "and that is, to evacuate Dunkerque as -sharply as you may. M. Albany may owe you some obligement, as I've heard -him hint himself, but nevertheless your steps will be safer elsewhere -than in the Rue de la Boucherie." - -"There is far too much of the Rue de la Boucherie about this," I said, -"and I hope no insult is intended to certain friends I have or had -there." - -At this they looked at one another. The bravo (for so I think I may at -this time call him) whistled curiously and winked at the other, and, in -spite of himself, Captain Thurot was bound to laugh. - -"And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?" said he. -"That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. 'Tis, _ma foi!_ -to expect too much of M. Albany's complaisance. After that there is -nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian -work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour." - -"You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine," said Bonnat -brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. "M. Blanc-bec -there handles _arme blanche_ rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the -gallant commander of the _Roi Rouge_, but if he has a mother let me -suggest the wisdom of his going back to her." And with that and a -_conge_ he left us to enter the _auberge_. - -Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, -ruminating upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better -than I could, yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I -pled with him vainly for an explanation of the Prince's objection to -my person. "I thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the -Hamilton affair," I said. - -"And so he had," said Thurot. "I have his own assurances." - -"'Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure -me into a duel." - -"My dear boy," said Thurot, "you owe him all--your escape from Bicetre, -which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of the -lieutenancy in the Regiment d'Auvergne." - -"What! he has a hand in this?" I cried. - -"Who else?" said he. "'Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled -Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. -It seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not -uncommon with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one -reason, and for the other he would cut your throat. M. Tete-de-fer is my -eternal puzzle. And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, -the same reason for favouring and hating you." - -"And what might that be?" said I. - -"Who, rather?" said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la -Boucherie. "Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under -your very nose, 'tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the -machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she -were anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with -Hamilton, and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and -now--though she may not have attempted it--she has gained you the same -person's enmity." - -I stopped in the street and turned to him. "All this is confused enough -to madden me," I said, "and rather than be longer in the mist I shall -brave her displeasure, compel an audience, and ask her for an -explanation." - -"Please yourself," said Thurot, and seeing I meant what I said he left -me. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - -FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW - -It was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle's -stairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!) -responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the same -had been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barren -comfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiled -at first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at the -unresponse of mine. - -"I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw," said I. - -The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is more -truth in a menial eye than in most others, and this man's fashionable -falsehood extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he was -acting upon instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable for -him, he saw that I saw. - -"Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhood -till she returns," I said, and leaned against the railing. This -frightened him somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did not -know when she might return. - -"It does not matter," I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my courage -much higher in the circumstances than I had expected. "If it's midnight -she shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance upon -which to consult her." - -He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon the -door-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions had -not gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how he -was further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unable -to get a glance of recognition from me, and resenting further -the inconvenience to which I was subjecting him, he rose to an -impertinence--the first (to do him justice) I had ever found in him. - -"Will Monsieur," said he, "tell me who I shall say called?" - -The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and "My good rogue," -said I, "if the circumstances were more favourable I should have the -felicity of giving you an honest drubbing." He got very red. "Come, -Bernard," I said, adopting another tone, "I think you owe me some -consideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to give -you all the information you required some time ago for your employers, -tell me the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?" - -He was saved an answer by the lady herself. - -"La! Mr. Greig!" she cried, coming to the door and putting forth a -welcoming hand. "My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he should -except my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors." -So much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, "My dear -man of Mearns, you are as dour as--as dour as--" - -"As a donkey," I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. "And I -feel very much like that humble beast at this moment." - -"I do not wonder at it," said she, throwing herself in a chair. "To -thrust yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!" - -"I am the ass--I have been the ass--it would appear, in other respects -as well." - -She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back her -hair, that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caught -her rather early in the morning; she had not even the preparation of -a _petit lever_; and because of a certain chagrin at being discovered -scarcely looking her best her first remarks were somewhat chilly. - -"Well, at least you have persistency, I'll say that of it," she went -on, with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. "And for what am I -indebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?" - -"It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you for -your offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d'Auvergne is -settled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself, -for it looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting my -distinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month, -and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper I -should come in my own person to thank you for your good offices." - -"Do not mention it," she said hurriedly. "I am only too glad that I -could be of the smallest service to you." - -"I cannot think," I went on, "what I can have done to warrant your -displeasure with me." - -"Displeasure!" she replied. "Who said I was displeased?" - -"What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing you -for this past week." - -"Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig," she said, trifling with her rings. -"Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itself -as a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig's ordinary intuitions." - -"It's a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to," I -said. "And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arises -now, and how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me." - -"No matter," said she, and paused. "And so you are going to the -frontier, and are come to say good-bye to me?" - -"Now that you remind me that is exactly my object," I said, rising to -go. She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, as -if she felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet I -noticed a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed. - -"And so you go, Mr. Greig?" she said. "There's but the one thing I would -like to say to my friend, and that's that I should like him not to think -unkindly of one that values his good opinion--if she were worthy to have -it. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and now -that I'm to lose them I feel like to greet." She was indeed inclined -to tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of my -annoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration. - -"I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "You -found me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it's a man -that's leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than it -would otherwise have been, and this last kindness--that forces me away -from you--is one more I have to thank you for." - -She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or the -reverse, and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half. - -"I owed all the little I could do to my countryman," said she. - -"And I hope I have been useful," I blurted out, determined to show her I -was going with open eyes. - -Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. "I hope you will forgive -that, Mr. Greig," she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to my -meaning. - -"There is nothing to forgive," I said shortly. "I am proud that I was of -service, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose house -some more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint is -that the person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the little -share I had unconsciously in preserving his life." - -"I am sure he is very grateful," she cried hastily, and perplexed. "I -may tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in the -regiment." - -"So I have been told," I said, and she looked a little startled. "So I -have been told. It may be that I'll be more grateful by-and-by, when I -see what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitude -greatly hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the--in the person's -actings towards myself!" - -"Inconsistency!" she repeated bitterly. "That need not surprise you! But -I do not understand." - -"It is simply that--perhaps to hasten me to my duties--his Royal -Highness this morning sent a ruffian to fight me." - -I have never seen a face so suddenly change as hers did when she heard -this; for ordinary she had a look of considerable amiability, a soft, -kind eye, a ready smile that had the hint (as I have elsewhere said) -of melancholy, a voice that, especially in the Scots, was singularly -attractive. A temper was the last thing I would have charged her with, -yet now she fairly flamed, "What is this you are telling me, Paul -Greig?" she cried, her eyes stormy, her bosom beginning to heave. "Oh, -just that M. Albany (as he calls himself) has some grudge against me, -for he sent a man--Bonnat--to pick a quarrel with me, and by Bonnat's -own confession the duel that was to ensue was to be _a outrance_. But -for the intervention of a friend, half an hour ago, there would have -been a vacancy already in the Regiment d'Auvergne." - -"Good heavens!" she cried. "You must be mistaken. What object in the -wide world could his Royal Highness have in doing you any harm? You were -an instrument in the preservation of his life." - -I bowed extremely low, with a touch of the courts I had not when I -landed first in Dunkerque. - -"I have had the distinguished honour, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "And -I should have thought that enough to counterbalance my unfortunate and -ignorant engagement with his enemies." - -"But why, in Heaven's name, should he have a shred of resentment against -you?" - -"It seems," I said, "that it has something to do with my boldness in -using the Rue de la Boucherie for an occasional promenade." - -She put her two hands up to her face for a moment, but I could see the -wine-spill in between, and her very neck was in a flame. - -"Oh, the shame! the shame!" she cried, and began to walk up and down the -room like one demented. "Am I to suffer these insults for ever in spite -of all that I may do to prove--to prove----" - -She pulled herself up short, put down her hands from a face exceedingly -distressed, and looked closely at me. "What must you think of me, Mr. -Greig?" she asked suddenly in quite a new key. - -"What do I think of myself to so disturb you?" I replied. "I do not -know in what way I have vexed you, but to do so was not at all in my -intention. I must tell you that I am not a politician, and that since I -came here these affairs of the Prince and all the rest of it are quite -beyond my understanding. If the cause of the white cockade brought you -to France, Miss Walkinshaw, as seems apparent, I cannot think you are -very happy in it nowadays, but that is no affair of mine." - -She stared at me. "I hope," said she, "you are not mocking me?" - -"Heaven forbid!" I said. "It would be the last thing I should presume -to do, even if I had a reason. I owe you, after all, nothing but the -deepest gratitude." - -Beyond the parlour we stood in was a lesser room that was the lady's -boudoir. We stood with our backs to it, and I know not how much of our -conversation had been overheard when I suddenly turned at the sound of a -man's voice, and saw his Royal Highness standing in the door! - -I could have rubbed my eyes out of sheer incredulity, for that he should -be in that position was as if I had come upon a ghost. He stood with a -face flushed and frowning, rubbing his eyes, and there was something in -his manner that suggested he was not wholly sober. - -"I'll be cursed," said he, "if I haven't been asleep. Deuce take -Clancarty! He kept me at cards till dawn this morning, and I feel as if -I had been all night on heather. _Pardieu_----!" - -He pulled himself up short and stared, seeing me for the first time. -His face grew purple with annoyance. "A thousand pardons!" he cried with -sarcasm, and making a deep bow. "I was not aware that I intruded on -affairs." - -Miss Walkinshaw turned to him sharply. - -"There is no intrusion," said she, "but honesty, in the person of my -dear countryman, who has come to strange quarters with it. Your Royal -Highness has now the opportunity of thanking this gentleman." - -"I' faith," said he, "I seem to be kept pretty constantly in mind of -the little I owe to this gentleman in spite of himself. Harkee, my good -Monsieur, I got you a post; I thought you had been out of Dunkerque by -now." - -"The post waits, M. Albany," said I, "and I am going to take it up -forthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owe -the post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should be -addressed." - -"My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us owe -her everything, and--egad!--are not grateful enough," and with that he -looked for the first time at her with his frown gone. - -"Yes, yes," she cried; "we may put off the compliments till another -occasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me that -this gentleman, who has done so much for me--I speak for myself, your -Royal Highness will observe--should be so poorly requited." - -"Requited!" cried he. "How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied." -His face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at his -unshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child of -kings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myself -upon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true. - -"I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergne -office, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude----" - -"Bah!" cried he. "Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that does -aught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none of -your gratitude, Monsieur Greig." - -"'Tis just as well, M. Albany," I cried, "for what there was of it is -mortgaged." - -"_Comment?_" he asked, uneasily. - -"I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that calls -himself your servant," I replied, always very careful to take his own -word for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. "He -informed me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing the -same street with you, and had given him his instructions." - -"Bonnat," cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples. -"I'll be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!--stay--let -me think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner, -but--but----" - -"After dinner! Then surely it should have been in a more favourable mood -to myself, that has done M. Albany no harm," I said. "I do not wonder -that M. Albany has lost so many of his friends if he settles their -destinies after dinner." - -At first he frowned at this and then he laughed outright. - -"_Ma foi!_" he cried, "here's another Greig to call me gomeral to my -face," and he lounged to a chair where he sunk in inextinguishable -laughter. - -But if I had brought laughter from him I had precipitated anger -elsewhere. - -"Here's a pretty way to speak to his Royal Highness," cried Miss -Walkinshaw, her face like thunder. "The manners of the Mearns shine very -poorly here. You forget that you speak to one that is your prince, in -faith your king!" - -"Neither prince nor king of mine, Miss Walkinshaw," I cried, and turned -to go. "No, if a hundred thousand swords were at his back. I had once a -notion of a prince that rode along the Gallowgate, but I was then a boy, -and now I am a man--which you yourself have made me." - -With that I bowed low and left them. They neither of them said a word. -It was the last I was to see of Clementina Walkinshaw and the last of -Charles Edward. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - -OF MY WINTER CAMPAIGN IN PRUSSIA, AND ANOTHER MEETING WITH MACKELLAR OF -KILBRIDE - -I have no intention here of narrating at large what happened in my -short career as a soldier of the French Army, curious though some of -the things that befell me chanced to be. They may stand for another -occasion, while I hurriedly and briefly chronicle what led to my -second meeting with MacKellar of Kilbride, and through that same to the -restoration of the company of Father Hamilton, the sometime priest of -Dixmunde. - -The Regiment d'Auvergne was far from its native hills when first I -joined it, being indeed on the frontier of Austria. 'Twas a corps not -long embodied, composed of a preposterous number of mere lads as soft as -kail, yet driven to miracles of exertion by drafted veteran officers of -other regiments who stiffened their command with the flat of the sword. -As for my lieutenancy it was nothing to be proud of in such a battalion, -for I herded in a mess of foul-mouthed scoundrels and learned little of -the trade of soldiering that I was supposed to be taught in the interval -between our departure from the frontier and our engagement on the field -as allies with the Austrians. Of the Scots that had been in the regiment -at one time there was only one left--a major named MacKay, that came -somewhere out of the Reay country in the shire of Sutherland, and was -reputed the drunkenest officer among the allies, yet comported himself, -on the strength of his Hielan' extraction, towards myself, his Lowland -countryman, with such a ludicrous haughtiness I could not bear the -man--no, not from the first moment I set eyes on him! - -He was a pompous little person with legs bowed through years of riding -horse, and naturally he was the first of my new comrades I introduced -myself to when I joined the colours. I mind he sat upon a keg of -bullets, looking like a vision of Bacchus, somewhat soiled and pimply, -when I entered to him and addressed him, with a certain gladness, in our -tongue. - -"Humph!" was what he said. "Another of his Royal Highness's Sassenach -friends! Here's a wheen of the lousiest French privates ever shook in -their breeks in front of a cannon, wanting smeddum and courage drummed -into them with a scabbard, and they send me Sassenachs to do the -business with when the whole hearty North of Scotland is crawling with -the stuff I want particularly." - -"Anyway, here I am, major," said I, slightly taken aback at this, "and -you'll have to make the best of me." - -"Pshaw!" cried he vulgarly and cracked his thumb. "I have small stomach -for his Royal Highness's recommendations; I have found in the past that -he sends to Austria--him and his friends--only the stuff he has no use -for nearer the English Channel, where it's I would like to be this day. -They're talking of an invasion, I hear; wouldn't I like to be among the -first to have a slap again at Geordie?" - -My birse rose at this, which I regarded as a rank treason in any man -that spoke my own language even with a tartan accent. - -"A slap at Geordie!" I cried. "You made a bonny-like job o't when you -had the chance!" - -It was my first and last confabulation of a private nature with Major -Dugald MacKay. Thereafter he seldom looked the road I was on beyond to -give an order or pick a fault, and, luckily, though a pleasant footing -with my neighbours has ever been my one desire in life, I was not much -put up or down by the ill-will of such a creature. - -Like a break in a dream, a space of all unfriended travelling, which -is the worst travelling of all, appears my time of marching with the -Regiment d'Auvergne. I was lost among aliens--aliens in tongue and -sentiment, and engaged, to tell the truth, upon an enterprise that never -enlisted the faintest of my sympathy. All I wished was to forget the -past (and that, be sure, was the one impossible thing), and make a -living of some sort. The latter could not well be more scanty, for -my pay was a beggar's, and infrequent at that, and finally it wholly -ceased. - -I saw the world, so much of it as lies in Prussia, and may be witnessed -from the ranks of a marching regiment of the line; I saw life--the -life of the tent and the bivouac, and the unforgettable thing of it was -death--death in the stricken field among the grinding hoofs of horses, -below the flying wheels of the artillery. - -And yet if I had had love there--some friend to talk to when the -splendour of things filled me; the consciousness of a kind eye to share -the pleasure of a sunshine or to light at a common memory; or if I -had had hope, the prospect of brighter days and a restitution of my -self-respect, they might have been much happier these marching days that -I am now only too willing to forget. For we trod in many pleasant places -even when weary, by summer fields jocund with flowers, and by autumn's -laden orchards. Stars shone on our wearied columns as we rested in the -meadows or on the verge of woods, half satisfied with a gangrel's supper -and sometimes joining in a song. I used to feel then that here was a -better society after all than some I had of late been habituated with -upon the coast. And there were towns we passed through: 'twas sweet -exceedingly to hear the echo of our own loud drums, the tarantara of -trumpets. I liked to see the folks come out although they scarce were -friendly, and feel that priceless zest that is the guerdon of the corps, -the crowd, the mob--that I was something in a vastly moving thing even -if it was no more than the regiment of raw lads called d'Auvergne. - -We were, for long in our progress, no part of the main army, some -strategy of which we could not guess the reasoning, making it necessary -that we should move alone through the country; and to the interest -of our progress through these foreign scenes was added the ofttimes -apprehension that we might some day suffer an alarm from the regiments -of the great Frederick. Twice we were surprised by night and our -pickets broken in, once a native guided us to a _guet-apens_--an -ambuscade--where, to do him justice, the major fought like a lion, and -by his spirit released his corps from the utmost danger. A war is like a -harvest; you cannot aye be leading in, though the common notion is -that in a campaign men are fighting even-on. In the cornfield the work -depends upon the weather; in the field of war (at least with us 'twas -so) the actual strife must often depend upon the enemy, and for weeks on -end we saw them neither tail nor horn, as the saying goes. Sometimes it -seemed as if the war had quite forgotten us, and was waging somewhere -else upon the planet far away from Prussia. - -We got one good from the marching and the waiting; it put vigour in our -men. Day by day they seemed to swell and strengthen, thin faces grew -well-filled and ruddy, slouching steps grew confident and firm. And thus -the Regiment d'Au-vergne was not so badly figured when we fought the -fight of Rosbach that ended my career of glory. - -Rosbach!--its name to me can still create a tremor. We fought it in -November month in a storm of driving snow. Our corps lay out upon the -right of Frederick among fields that were new-ploughed for wheat and -broken up by ditches. The d'Auvergnes charged with all the fire of -veterans; they were smashed by horse, but rose and fell and rose again -though death swept across them like breath from a furnace, scorching -and shrivelling all before it. The Prussian and the Austrian guns -went rat-a-pat like some gigantic drum upon the braes, and nearer -the musketry volleys mingled with the plunge of horse and shouting of -commanders so that each sound individually was indistinguishable, but -all was blended in one unceasing melancholy hum. - -That drumming on the braes and that long melancholy hum are what most -vividly remains to me of Rosbach, for I fell early in the engagement, -struck in the charge by the sabre of a Prussian horseman that cleft -me to the skull in a slanting stroke and left me incapable, but not -unconscious, on the field. - -I lay for hours with other wounded in the snow The battle changed -ground; the noises came from the distance: we seemed to be forgotten. I -pitied myself exceedingly. Finally I swounded. - -When I came to myself it was night and men with lanterns were moving -about the fields gathering us in like blackcock where we lay. Two -Frenchmen came up and spoke to me, but what they said was all beyond -me for I had clean forgotten every word of their language though that -morning I had known it scarcely less fully than my own. I tried to speak -in French, it seems, and thought I did so, but in spite of me the words -were the broadest lallands Scots such as I had not used since I had run, -a bare-legged boy, about the braes of, home. And otherwise my faculties -were singularly acute, for I remember how keenly I noticed the pitying -eye of the younger of the two men. - -What they did was to stanch my wound and go away. I feared I was -deserted, but by-and-by they returned with another man who held the -lantern close to my face as he knelt beside me. - -"By the black stones of Baillinish!" said he in an unmistakable Hielan' -accent, "and what have I here the night but the boy that harmed the -bylie? You were not in your mother's bosom when you got that stroke!" - -I saw his smile in the light of his lanthom, 'twas no other than -MacKellar of Kilbride! - -He was a surgeon in one of the corps; had been busy at his trade in -another part of the field when the two Frenchmen who had recognised me -for a Scot had called him away to look to a compatriot. - -Under charge of Kilbride (as, in our country fashion, I called him) -I was taken in a waggon with several other wounded soldiers over the -frontier into Holland, that was, perhaps, the one unvexed part of all -the Continent of Europe in these stirring days. - -I mended rapidly, and cheery enough were these days of travel in a cart, -so cheery that I never considered what the end of them might be, but was -content to sit in the sunshine blithely conversing with this odd surgeon -of the French army who had been roving the world for twenty years like -my own Uncle Andrew, and had seen service in every army in Europe, but -yet hankered to get back to the glens of his nativity, where he hoped -his connection with the affair of Tearlach and the Forty-five would be -forgotten. - -"It's just this way of it, Hazel Den," he would say to me, "there's -them that has got enough out of Tearlach to make it worth their while -to stick by him and them that has not. I am of the latter. I have been -hanging about Paris yonder for a twelvemonth on the promise of the body -that I should have a post that suited with my talents, and what does he -do but get me clapped into a scurvy regiment that goes trudging through -Silesia since Whitsunday, with never a sign of the paymaster except the -once and then no more than a tenth of what was due to me. It is, maybe, -glory, as the other man said; but my sorrow, it is not the kind that -makes a clinking in your pouches." - -He had a comfortable deal of money to have so poor an account of his -paymaster, and at that I hinted. - -"Oh! Allow me for that!" he cried with great amusement at my wonder. -"Fast hand at a feast and fast feet at a foray is what the other man -said, and I'm thinking it is a very good observation, too. Where would I -be if I was lippening on the paymaster?" - -"Man! you surely have not been stealing?" said I, with such great -innocency that he laughed like to end. - -"Stealing!" he cried. "It's no theft to lift a purse in an enemy's -country." - -"But these were no enemies of yours?" I protested, "though you happen to -be doctoring in their midst." - -"Tuts! tuts, man!" said he shortly. "When the conies quarrel the quirky -one (and that's Sir Fox if ye like to ken) will get his own. There seems -far too much delicacy about you, my friend, to be a sporran-soldier -fighting for the best terms an army will give you. And what for need you -grumble at my having found a purse in an empty house when it's by virtue -of the same we're at this moment making our way to the sea?" - -I could make no answer to that, for indeed I had had, like the other -three wounded men in the cart with me, the full benefit of his purse, -wherever he had found it, and but for that we had doubtless been -mouldering in a Prussian prison. - -It will be observed that MacKellar spoke of our making for the sea, and -here it behoves that I should tell how that project arose. - -When we had crossed the frontier the first time it was simply because -it seemed the easiest way out of trouble, though it led us away from -the remnants of the army. I had commented upon this the first night we -stopped within the Netherlands, and the surgeon bluntly gave me his mind -on the matter. The truth was, he said, that he was sick of his post and -meant to make this the opportunity of getting quit of it. - -I went as close as I dared upon a hint that the thing looked woundily -like a desertion. He picked me up quick enough and counselled me to -follow his example, and say farewell to so scurvy a service as that I -had embarked on. His advices might have weighed less with me (though in -truth I was sick enough of the Regiment d'Auvergne and a succession -of defeats) if he had not told me that there was a certain man at -Helvoetsluys he knew I should like to see. - -"And who might that be?" I asked. - -"Who but his reverence himself?" said Kilbride, who dearly loved an -effect. "Yon night I met you in the Paris change-house it was planned by -them I was with, one of them being Buhot himself of the police, that the -old man must be driven out of his nest in the Hotel Dieu, seeing they -had got all the information they wanted from him, and I was one of the -parties who was to carry this into effect. At the time I fancied Buhot -was as keen upon yourself as upon the priest, and I thought I was doing -a wonderfully clever thing to spy your red shoes and give you a warning -to quit the priest, but all the time Buhot was only laughing at me, and -saw you and recognised you himself in the change-house. Well, to make -the long tale short, when we went to the hospital the birds were both -of them gone, which was more than we bargained for, because some sort -of trial was due to the priest though there was no great feeling against -him. Where he had taken wing to we could not guess, but you will not -hinder him to come on a night of nights (as we say) to the lodging I -was tenanting at the time in the Rue Espade, and throw himself upon my -mercy. The muckle hash! I'll allow the insolency of the thing tickled -me greatly. The man was a fair object, too; had not tasted food for two -days, and captured my fancy by a tale I suppose there is no trusting, -that he had given you the last few _livres_ he had in the world." - -"That was true enough about the _livres_," I said with gratitude. - -"Was it, faith?" cried Kilbride. "Then I'm glad I did him the little -service that lay in my power, which was to give him enough money to pay -for posting to Helvoetsluys, where he is now, and grateful enough so far -as I could gather from the last letters I had from him, and also mighty -anxious to learn what became of his secretary." - -"I would give the last plack in my pocket to see the creature," said I. - -"Would you indeed?" said Kilbride. "Then here's the road for you, and -it must be a long furlough whatever of it from the brigade of Marshal -Clermont." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - -BRINGS ME TO HELVOETSLUYS IN WINTER WEATHER - -Kilbride and I parted company with the others once we had got within the -lines of Holland; the cateran (as I would sometimes be calling him in -a joke) giving them as much money as might take them leisuredly to the -south they meant to make for, and he and I proceeded on our way across -the country towards the mouth of the River Maas. - -It was never my lot before nor since to travel with a more cheerful -companion. Not the priest himself had greater humour in his composition, -and what was more it was a jollity I was able the better to understand, -for while much of Hamilton's _esprit_ missed the spark with me because -it had a foreign savour, the pawkiness of Kilbride was just the marrow -of that I had seen in folks at home. And still the man was strange, for -often he had melancholies. Put him in a day of rain and wind and you -would hear him singing like a laverock the daftest songs in Erse; or -give him a tickle task at haggling in the language of signs with a -broad-bottomed bargeman, or the driver of a rattel-van, and the fun -would froth in him like froth on boiling milk. - -Indeed, and I should say like cream, for this Mac-Kellar man had, what -is common enough among the clans in spite of our miscalling, a heart of -jeel for the tender moment and a heart of iron for the hard. But black, -black, were his vapours when the sun shone, which is surely the poorest -of excuses for dolours. I think he hated the flatness of the land we -travelled in. To me it was none amiss, for though it was winter I could -fancy how rich would be the grass of July in the polders compared with -our poor stunted crops at home, and that has ever a cheerful influence -on any man that has been bred in Lowland fields. But he (if I did not -misread his eye) looked all ungratefully on the stretching leagues that -ever opened before us as we sailed on waterways or jolted on the roads. - -"I do not ken how it may be with you, Mr. Greig," he said one day as, -somewhere in Brabant, our sluggish vessel opened up a view of canal that -seemed to stretch so far it pricked the eye of the setting sun, and -the windmills whirled on either hand ridiculous like the games of -children--"I do not ken how it may be with you, but I'm sick of this -country. It's no better nor a bannock, and me so fond of Badenoch!" - -"Indeed and there's a sameness about every part of it," I confessed, -"and yet it has its qualities. See the sun on yonder island--'tis -pleasant enough to my notion, and as for the folk, they are not the cut -of our own, but still they have very much in common with folks I've seen -in Ayr." - -He frowned at that unbelievingly, and cast a sour eye upon some women -that stood upon a bridge. "Troth!" said he, "you would not compare these -limmers with our own. I have not seen a light foot and a right dark eye -since ever I put the back of me to the town of Inverness in the year of -'Fifty-six.'" - -"Nor I since I left the Mearns," I cried, suddenly thinking of Isobel -and forgetting all that lay between that lass and me. - -"Oh! oh!" cried Kilbride. "And that's the way of it? Therms more than -Clemie Walkinshaw, is there? I was ill to convince that a nephew of Andy -Greig's began the game at the age of twenty-odd with a lady that might -have been his mother." - -I felt very much ashamed that he should have any knowledge of this part -of my history, and seeing it he took to bantering me. - -"Come, come!" said he, "you must save my reputation with myself for -penetration, for I aye argued with Buhot that your tanglement with -madame was something short of innocency for all your mim look, and he -was for swearing the lady had found a fool." - -"I am beat to understand how my affairs came to be the topic of dispute -with you and Buhot?" said I, astonished. - -"And what for no'?" said he. "Wasn't the man's business to find out -things, and would you have me with no interest in a ploy when it turned -up? There were but the two ways of it--you were all the gomeral in love -that Buhot thought you, or you were Andy Greig's nephew and willing to -win the woman's favour (for all her antiquity) by keeping Buhot in the -news of Hamilton's movements." - -"Good God!" I cried, "that was a horrible alternative!" even then -failing to grasp all that he implied. - -"Maybe," he said pawkily; "but you cannot deny you kept them very well -informed upon your master's movements, otherwise it had gone very hard -perhaps with his Royal Highness." - -"Me!" I cried. "I would have as soon informed upon my father. And who -was there to inform?" - -Kilbride looked at me curiously as if he half doubted my innocence. "It -is seldom I have found the man Buhot in a lie of the sort," said -he, "but he led me to understand that what information he had of the -movements of the priest came from yourself." - -I jumped to my feet, and almost choked in denying it. - -"Oh, very well, very well!" said Kilbride coolly. "There is no need to -make a _fracas_ about the matter. I am just telling you what Buhot told -me. And troth! it was a circumstantial story he had of it; for he said -that the Marshal Duke de Bellisle, and Monsieur Florentin, and Monsieur -Berrier, and all the others of the Cabinet, had Fleuriau's name and -direction from yourself, and found the plot had some connection with the -affair of Damiens. George Kelly, the Prince's secretary, was another -man that told me." He gazed along the deck of the scow we sat in, as -if thinking hard, and then turned to me with a hesitating suggestion. -"Perhaps," said he, "you are forgetting. Perhaps you wrote the woman and -told her innocently enough, and that would come to the same thing." - -I was overwhelmed with confusion at the idea, though the possibility of -my letters being used had once before occurred to me. - -"Well, if you must know, it is true I wrote some letters to Miss -Walkinshaw," I confessed shamefacedly. "But they were very carefully -transmitted by Bernard the Swiss to her, for I got her answers back." - -He burst out laughing. - -"For simplicity you beat all!" cried he. "You sent your news through -the Swiss, that was in Buhot's pay, and took the charge from Hamilton's -pistols, and did his part in helping you to escape from jyle with a -great degree of humour as those of us who knew what was afoot had to -agree, and you think the man would swither about peeping into a letter -you entrusted to him, particularly if it was directed to hersel'! The -sleep-bag was under your head sure enough, as the other man said." - -"And I was the unconscious wretch that betrayed our hiding in the Hotel -Dieu!" I cried with much chagrin, seeing at a flash what all this meant. -"If I had Bernard here I could thraw his neck." - -"Indeed," said he, "and what for should it be Bernard? The man but did -what he was told, and there, by my troth! when I think of it, I'm no' so -sure that he was any different from yourself." - -"What do you mean?" said I. - -"Oh, just that hersel' told you to keep her informed of your movements -and you did so. In Bernard and you she had a pair of spies instead of -only the one had she trusted in either." - -"And what in all the world would she be doing that for?" - -"What but for her lover the prince?" said he with a sickening promptness -that some way left me without a doubt he spoke with knowledge. "Foul fa' -the day he ever clapt eyes on her! for she has the cunning of the fox, -though by all accounts a pleasant person. They say she has a sister -that's in the service of the queen at St. James's, and who kens but for -all her pretended affection for Tearlach she may be playing all the time -into the hands of his enemies? She made you and this Bernard the -means of putting an end to the Jesuit plot upon his Royal Highness by -discovering the source of it, and now the Jesuits, as I'm told, are to -be driven furth the country and putten to the horn." - -I was stunned by this revelation of what a tool I had been in the hands -of one I fancied briefly that I was in love with. For long I sat silent -pondering on it, and at last unable to make up my mind whether I should -laugh or swear. Kilbride, while affecting to pay no heed to me, was keen -enough to see my perturbation, and had, I think, a sort of pride that he -had been able to display such an astuteness. - -"I'm afraid," said I at last, "there is too much probability in all that -you have said and thought. I am a stupendous ass, Mr. MacKellar, and you -are a very clever man." - -"Not at all, not at all!" he protested hurriedly. "I have just some -natural Hielan' interest in affairs of intrigue, and you have not (by -your leave) had my advantages of the world, for I have seen much of the -evil as well as the good of it, and never saw a woman's hand in aught -yet but I wondered what mischief she was planning. There's much, -I'm telling you, to be learned about a place like Fontainebleau or -Versailles, and I advantaged myself so well of my opportunities there -that you could not drive a hole but I would put a nail in it, as the -other man said." - -"Well," said I, "my hope is that I may never meet the woman again, and -that's without a single angry feeling to her." - -"You need not fear about that," said he. "The thing that does not lie in -your road will never break your leg, as the other man said, and I'll be -surprised if she puts herself in your way again now that her need for -you is done. A score of your friends in Dunkerque could have told you -that she was daft about him. I might be vexed for you if I did not know -from your own mouth of the other one in Mearns." - -"We'll say nothing about that," I says, "for that's a tale that's by -wi'. She's lost to me." - -He gave a little chuckle and had that turn in the eye that showed he had -a curious thought. - -"What are you laughing at?" I asked. "Oh, just an old word we have in -the Language, that with a two-deer stag-hound it will be happening often -that a stag's amissing." - -"There's another thing I would like you to tell me out of your -experience," I said, "and that is the reason for the Prince's doing me -a good turn with the one hand and a bad one with the other; using his -efforts to get me the lieutenancy and at the same time putting a man on -my track to quarrel with me?" - -"It's as plain as the nose on your face," he cried. "It was no great -situation he got you when it was in the Regiment d'Auvergne, as you -have discovered, but it would be got I'll warrant on the pressure of the -Walkinshaw one. Just because she had that interest in you to press him -for the post, and you were in the trim to keep up a correspondence with -her (though in his own interest, as he must know, so far as she was -concerned), he would want you out of the road. Love is like lairdship, -Hazel Den, and it puts up very poorly with fellowship, as the other man -said." - -I thought of the occasions when his Royal Highness had seen me at night -in front of a certain window in the Rue de la Boucherie, and concluded -that Kilbride in this too had probably hit the mark. - -And so we passed through Holland in many changes of weather that finally -turned to a black frost, which covered the canals with ice whereon -skated the Dutch folks very pleasantly, but we were the losers, as the -rest of our journey had to be made by post. - -It was well on in the winter when we got to Helvoetsluys. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - -FATHER HAMILTON IS THREATENED BY THE JESUITS AND WE ARE FORCED TO FLY -AGAIN - -The priest, poor man! aged a dozen years by his anxieties since I had -seen him last, was dubious of his senses when I entered where he lodged, -and he wept like a bairn to see my face again. - -"Scotland! Scotland! beshrew me, child, and I'd liefer have this than -ten good dinners at Verray's!" cried he, and put his arms about my -shoulders and buried his face in my waistcoat to hide his uncontrollable -tears. - -He was quartered upon a pilot of the Schelde and Hollands Deep, whose -only child he made a shift to tutor in part payment of his costs, and -the very moment that we had come in upon him he was full of a matter -that had puzzled him for weeks before we came to Helvoetsluys. 'Twas a -thing that partly hurt his pride, though that may seem incredible, and -partly gave him pleasure, and 'twas merely that when he had at last -found his concealment day and night in the pilot's house unendurable, -and ventured a stroll or two upon the dunes in broad sunshine, no one -paid any attention to him. There were soldiers and sailors that must -have some suspicions of his identity, and he had himself read his own -story and description in one of the gazettes, yet never a hand was -raised to capture him. - -"_Ma foi!_ Paul," he cried to me in a perplexity. "I am the most -marvellous priest unfrocked, invisible to the world as if I had -Mambrino's helmet. Sure it cannot be that I am too stale quarry for -their hunting! My _amour propre_ baulks at such conclusion. I that -have--heaven help me!--loaded pistols against the Lord's anointed, might -as well have gone shooting sparrows for all the infamy it has gained me. -But yesterday I passed an officer of the peace that cried '_Bon jour_, -father,' in villainous French with a smile so sly I could swear he knew -my history from the first breeching. I avow that my hair stirred under -my hat when he said it." - -MacKellar stood by contemptuous of the priest's raptures over his -restored secretary. - -"Goodness be about us!" he said, "what a pity the brock should be hiding -when there's nobody hunting him! The first squirt of the haggis is -always the hottest, as the other man said. If they were keen on -your track at the start of it--and it's myself has the doubt of that -same--you may warrant they are slack on it now. It's Buhot himself would -be greatly put about if you went to the jail and put out your hands for -the manacles." - -Father Hamilton looked bewildered. - -"Expiscate, good Monsieur MacKellar," said he. - -"Kilbride just means," said I, "that you are in the same case as myself, -and that orders have gone out that no one is to trouble you." - -He believed it, and still he was less cheerful than I looked for. -"Indeed, 'tis like enough," he sighed. "I have put my fat on a trap for -a fortnight back to catch my captors and never a rat of them will come -near me, but pass with sniffing noses. And yet on my word I have little -to rejoice for. My friends have changed coats with my enemies because -they swear I betrayed poor Fleuriau. I'd sooner die on the rack----" - -"Oh, Father Hamilton!" I could not help crying, with remorse upon my -countenance. He must have read the story in a single glance at me, for -he stammered and took my hand. - -"What! there too, Scotland!" he said. "I forswear the company of -innocence after this. No matter, 'tis never again old Dixmunde parish -for poor Father Hamilton that loved his flock well enough and believed -the best of everybody and hated the confessional because it made the -world so wicked. My honey-bees will hum next summer among another's -flowers, and my darling blackbirds will be all starving in this -pestilent winter weather. Paul, Paul, hear an old man's wisdom--be -frugal in food, and raiment, and pleasure, and let thy ambitions -flutter, but never fly too high to come down at a whistle. But here am -I, old Pater Dull, prating on foolish little affairs, and thou and our -honest friend here new back from the sounding of the guns. Art a brave -fighter, lad? I heard of thee in the grenadier company of d'Auvergne." - -"We did the best part of our fighting with our shanks, as the other man -said," cried Kilbride. "But Mr. Greig came by a clout that affected his -mind and made him clean forget the number of his regiment, and that is -what for the lowlands of Holland is a very pleasant country just now." - -"Wounded!" cried the priest, disturbed at this intelligence. "Had I -known on't I should have prayed for thy deliverance." - -"I have little doubt he did that for himself," said Kilbride. "When -I came on him after Rosbach he was behind a dyke, that is not a bad -alternative for prayer when the lead is in the air." - -We made up our minds to remain for a while at Helvoet, but we had not -determined what our next step should be, when in came the priest one day -with his face like clay and his limbs trembling. - -"Ah, Paul!" he cried, and fell into a chair; "here's Nemesis, daughter -of Nox, a scurvy Italian, and wears a monkish cowl. I fancied it were -too good to be true that I should be free from further trials." - -"Surely Buhot has not taken it into his head to move again," I cried. -"That would be very hirpling justice after so long an interval. And in -any case they could scarcely hale you out of the Netherlands." - -"No, lad, not Buhot," said he, perspiring with his apprehensions, "but -the Society. There's one Gordoletti, a pretended Lutheran that hails -from Jena, that has been agent between the Society and myself before -now, and when I was out there he followed me upon the street with the -eyes of a viper. I'll swear the fellow has a poignard and means the -letting of blood. I know how 'twill be--a watch set upon this building, -Gordoletti upon the steps some evening; a jostle, a thrust, and a -speeding shade. A right stout shade too! if spirits are in any relation -of measure to the corporeal clay. Oh, lad, what do I say? my sinner's -wit must be evincing in the front of doom itself." - -I thought he simply havered, but found there was too real cause for his -distress. That afternoon the monk walked up and down the street without -letting his eyes lose a moment's sight of the entrance to the pilot's -house where Father Hamilton abode. I could watch him all the better -because I shared a room with Kilbride on the same side of the street, -and even to me there was something eerie in the sight of this long -thin stooping figure in its monkish garment, slouching on the stones -or hanging over the parapet of the bridge, his eyes, lambent black and -darting, over his narrow chafts. Perhaps it was but fancy, yet I thought -I saw in the side of his gown the unmistakable bulge of a dagger. He -paced the street for hours or leaned over the parapet affecting an -interest in the barges, and all the time the priest sat fascinated -within, counting his sentence come. - -"Oh, by my faith and it is not so bad as that," I protested on returning -to find him in this piteous condition. "Surely there are two swords here -that at the worst of it can be depended on to protect you." - -He shook his head dolefully. "It is no use, Paul," he cried. "The -poignard or the phial--'tis all the same to them or Gordoletti, and -hereafter I dare not touch a drop of wine or indulge in a meagre soup." - -"But surely," I said, "there may be a mistake, and this Gordoletti may -have nothing to do with you." - -"The man wears a cowl--a monkish cowl--and that is enough for me. A -Jesuit out of his customary _soutane_ is like the devil in dancing -shoes--be sure his lordship means mischief. Oh! Paul, I would I were -back in Bicetre and like to die there cleaner than on the banks of a -Dutch canal. I protest I hate to think of dying by a canal." - -Still I was incredulous that harm was meant to him, and he proceeded -to tell me the Society of Jesus was upon the brink of dissolution, and -desperate accordingly. The discovery of Fleuriau's plot against the -Prince had determined the authorities upon the demolition and extinction -of the Jesuits throughout the whole of the King's dominion. Their riches -and effects and churches were to be seized to the profit and emolument -of the Crown; the reverend Fathers were to be banished furth of France -for ever. Designs so formidable had to be conducted cautiously, and so -far the only evidence of a scheme against the Society was to be seen -in the Court itself, where the number of priests of the order was being -rapidly diminished. - -I thought no step of the civil power too harsh against the band of whom -the stalking man in the cowl outside was representative, and indeed the -priest at last half-infected myself with his terrors. We sat well back -from the window looking out upon the street till it was dusk. There was -never a moment when the assassin (as I still must think him) was not -there, his interest solely in the house we sat in. And when it was -wholly dark, and a single lamp of oil swinging on a cord across the -thoroughfare lit the passage of the few pedestrians that went along the -street, Gordoletti was still close beneath it, silent, meditating, and -alert. - -MacKellar came in from his coffee-house. We sat in darkness, except -for the flicker of a fire of peat. He must have thought the spectacle -curious. - -"My goodness!" cried he, "candles must be unco dear in this shire when -the pair of you cannot afford one between you to see each other yawning. -I'm of a family myself that must be burning a dozen at a time and at -both ends to make matters cheery, for it's a gey glum world at the best -of it." - -He stumbled over to the mantel-shelf where there was customarily a -candle; found and lit it, and held it up to see if there was any visible -reason for our silence. - -The priest's woebegone countenance set him into a shout of laughter. His -amusement scarcely lessened when he heard of the ominous gentleman in -the cowl. - -"Let me see!" he said, and speedily devised a plan to test the occasion -of Father Hamilton's terrors. He arranged that he should dress himself -in the priest's garments, and as well as no inconsiderable difference -in their bulk might let him, simulate the priest by lolling into the -street. - -"A brave plan verily," quo' the priest, "but am I a bowelless rogue to -let another have my own particular poignard? No, no, Messieurs, let me -pay for my own _pots casses_ and run my own risks in my own _soutane_." - -With that he rose to his feet and was bold enough to offer a trial that -was attended by considerable hazard. - -It was determined, however, that I should follow close upon the heels -of Kilbride in his disguise, prepared to help him in the case of too -serious a surprise. - -The night was still. There were few people in the street, which was one -of several that led down to the quays. The sky had but a few wan stars. -When MacKellar stepped forth in the priest's hat and cloak, he walked -slowly towards the harbour, ludicrously imitating the rolling gait of -his reverence, while I stayed for a little in the shelter of the -door. Gordoletti left his post upon the bridge and stealthily followed -Kilbride. I gave him some yards of law and followed Gordoletti. - -Our footsteps sounded on the stones; 'twas all that broke the evening -stillness except the song of a roysterer who staggered upon the quays. -The moment was fateful in its way and yet it ended farcically, for ere -he had gained the foot of the street Kilbride turned and walked back to -meet the man that stalked him. We closed upon the Italian to find him -baffled and confused. - -"Take that for your attentions!" cried Kilbride, and buffeted the fellow -on the ear, a blow so secular and telling from a man in a frock that -Gordoletti must have thought himself bewitched, for he gave a howl -and took to his heels. Kilbride attempted to stop him, but the cassock -escaped his hands and his own unwonted costume made a chase hopeless. As -for me, I was content to let matters remain as they were now that Father -Hamilton's suspicions seemed too well founded. - -It did not surprise me that on learning of our experience the priest -should determine on an immediate departure from Helvoetsluys. But where -he was to go was more than he could readily decide. He proposed and -rejected a score of places--Bordeaux, Flanders, the Hague, Katwyk -farther up the coast, and many others--weighing the advantages of each, -enumerating his acquaintances in each, discovering on further thought -that each and every one of them had some feature unfavourable to his -concealment from the Jesuits. - -"You would be as long tuning your pipes as another would be playing a -tune," said Kilbride at last. "There's one thing sure of it, that you -cannot be going anywhere the now without Mr. Greig and myself, and what -ails you at Dunkerque in which we have all of us acquaintances?" - -A season ago the suggestion would have set my heart in flame; but now -it left me cold. Yet I backed up the proposal, for I reflected that -(keeping away from the Rue de la Boucherie) we might there be among a -good many friends. Nor was his reverence ill to influence in favour of -the proposal. - -The next morning saw us, then, upon a hoy that sailed for Calais and was -bargained to drop us at Dunkerque. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - -I OVERHEAR THE PLAN OF BRITAIN'S INVASION - -I began these chronicles with a homily upon the pregnancy of chance -that gives the simplest of our acts ofttimes far-reaching and appalling -consequences. It is clear that I had never become the Spoiled Horn -and vexed my parents' lives had not a widow woman burned her batch of -scones, and though perhaps the pair of shoes in the chest bequeathed -to me by my Uncle Andrew were without the magic influence he and I -gave credit for, it is probable that I had made a different flight from -Scotland had they not led me in the way of Daniel Risk. - -And even now their influence was not ended. During the months I had -spent at soldiering the red shoes reposed among my baggage; even when -I had changed from the uniform of the Regiment d'Auvergne upon the -frontier of Holland, and made myself again a common citizen of Europe, I -had some freit (as we say of a superstition) against resuming the shoes -that had led me previously into divers perils. But the day we left -Helvoet in the Hollands Deep hoy, I was so hurried in my departure that -the red shoes were the only ones I could lay hands on. As luck would -have it, when I entered Dunkerque for the last time in my history some -days after, I was wearing the same leather as on the first day of my -arrival there, and the fact led, by a singularity of circumstances, to -my final severance from many of those: companions--some of them pleasant -and unforgetable--I had made acquaintance with in France. - -It was thus that the thing happened. - -When we entered Dunkerque, the priest, Kilbride, and I went to an inn -upon the sea front. Having breakfasted I was deputed to go forth and -call upon Thurot, explain our circumstances, take his counsel, and -return to the hoy where my two friends would return to wait for me. He -was out when I reached his lodging, but his Swiss--a different one from -what he had before when I was there--informed me that his master was -expected back at any moment, and invited me to step in and wait for him. -I availed myself of the opportunity. - -Our voyage along the coast had been delayed by contrary winds, so that -now it was the Sabbath; the town was by-ordinary still (though indeed -Sabbath nor Saturday made much difference, as a rule, on the gaiety of -Dunkerque), and wearied by the sea travel that had just concluded I fell -fast asleep in Captain Thurot's chair. - -I was wakened by a loud knocking at the outer door, not the first, as -it may be remembered, that called me forth from dreams to new twists of -fortune, and I started to my feet to meet my host. - -What was my chagrin to hear the Prince's voice in converse with him on -the stair! - -"Here is a pretty pickle!" I told myself. "M. Albany is the last man -on earth I would choose to meet at this moment," and without another -reflection I darted into the adjoining room and shut the door. It was -Thurot's bed-chamber, with a window that looked out upon the court -where fowls were cackling. I was no sooner in than I somewhat rued my -precipitation, for the manlier course indubitably had been to bide where -I was. But now there was no retreating, so I sat with what patience I -could command to wait my discovery by the tenant of the place after -his royal visitor was gone. - -It was the Sabbath day as I have said, and the chimes of St. Eloi were -going briskly upon some papist canticle, but not so loud that I could -not hear, in spite of myself, all that went on in the next room. - -At first I paid no heed, for the situation was unworthy enough of itself -without any attempt on my part to be an eavesdropper. But by-and-bye, -through the banging of the bells of St. Eloi, I heard M. Albany (still -to give the man his by-name) mention the name Ecosse. - -Scotland! The name of her went through me like a pang! - -They spoke in French of course; I think I could have understood them -had it been Chinese. For they discussed some details of the intended -invasion that still hung fire, and from the first of M. Albany's -sentences I learned that the descent was determined upon Scotland. 'Twas -that which angered me and made me listen for the rest with every sense -of the spy and deterred by never a scruple. At first I had fancied -Thurot would learn from his servant I was in the house, and leave me -alone till his royal guest's departure from an intuition that I desired -no meeting, but it was obvious now that no such consideration would have -induced him to let me hear the vast secret they discussed. - -"Twenty thousand men are between Brest and Vannes," said M. Albany. "We -shall have them in frigates in a fortnight from to-day, and then, _mon -Capitaine_, affairs shall move briskly." - -"And still," said Thurot, who had some odd tone of dissatisfaction in -his voice, "I had preferred it had been the South of England. Dumont has -given us every anchorage and sounding on the coast between Beachy Head -and Arundel, and from there we could all the sooner have thrust at the -heart of England. This Scotland--" - -"Bah! Captain Thurot," cried his Royal Highness impatiently, "you talk -like a fool. At the heart, indeed! With all habitable England like a fat -about it, rich with forts and troops and no more friendship for us than -for the Mameluke! No, no, Thurot, I cry Scotland; all the chances are -among the rocks, and I am glad it has been so decided on." - -"And still, with infinite deference, your Royal Highness, this same -West of Scotland never brought but the most abominable luck to you and -yours," continued Thurot. "Now, Arundel Bay----" - -"Oh! to the devil with Arundel Bay!" cried M. Albany; "'tis settled -otherwise, and you must take it as you find it. Conflans and his men -shall land upon the West--_mon Dieu!_ I trust they may escape its fangs; -and measures will be there taken with more precaution and I hope with -more success than in Seventeen Forty-five. Thence they will march to -England, sweeping the whole country before them, and not leaving behind -them a man or boy who can carry a musket. Thus they must raise the army -to fifty or sixty thousand men, strike a terror into England, and carry -all with a high hand. I swear 'tis a fatted hog this England: with -fewer than ten thousand Highlanders I have made her thrill at the very -vitals." - -Thurot hummed. Plainly there was much in the project that failed to meet -his favour. - -"And Conflans?" said he. - -His Royal Highness laughed. - -"Ha! Captain," said he, "I know, I know. 'Twould suit you better if a -certain Tony Thurot had command." - -"At least," said Thurot, "I am in my prime, while the Marshal is beyond -his grand climacteric." - -"And still, by your leave, with the reputation of being yet the best-- -well, let us say among the best--of the sea officers of France. Come, -come, Captain, there must be no half-hearts in this venture; would to -Heaven I were permitted to enjoy a share in it! And on you, my friend, -depends a good half of the emprise and the _gloire_." - -"_Gloire!_" cried Thurot. "With every deference to your Royal Highness -I must consider myself abominably ill-used in this matter. That I should -be sent off to Norway and hound-in wretched Swedes with a personage like -Flaubert! Oh, I protest, 'tis beyond all reason! Is it for that I have -been superseded by a man like Conflans that totters on the edge of the -grave?" - -"I hope 'tis England's grave," retorted M. Albany with unfailing good -humour, and I heard the gluck of wine as he helped himself to another -glass. "I repeat _gloire_, with every apology to the experience of M. le -Corsair. 'Tis your duty to advance with your French and your Swedes upon -the North of England, and make the diversion in these parts that shall -inconvenience the English army front or rear." - -"Oh, curse your diversions!" cried Thurot. "If I have a talent at all -'tis for the main attack. And this Conflans----" - -The remainder of the discussion, so far as I remained to hear it, gave -no enlargement upon the plan thus laid bare. But in any case my whole -desire now was to escape from the house without discovery, for I had -news that made my return to Britain imperative. - -I opened the window quietly and slipped out. The drop to the court was -less than my own height. Into the street I turned with the sober step -of leisure, yet my feet tingled to run hard and my heart was stormy. The -bells of St. Eloi went on ringing; the streets were growing busy -with holiday-makers and the soldiers who were destined to over-run my -country. I took there and then the most dreadful hatred of them, and -scowled so black that some of the soldiers cried after me with a jeer. - -The priest and Kilbride I found were not at the inn where I had left -them, having gone back to the vessel, so I hurried down to the quay -after them. The hoy had been moved since morning, and in the throng of -other vessels that were in the harbour at the time I lost well-nigh an -hour in seeking her. Whether that was well for me or ill would be folly -now to guess, but when I had no more than set a foot upon the gunwale -of a small boat that was to take me out to her I was clapped upon the -shoulder. - -I turned, to see Thurot and two officers of marine! - -"Pardon, M. Greig, a moment," said Thurot, with not the kindest of -tones. "Surely you would not hurry out of Dunkerque without a _conge_ -for old friends?" - -I stammered some sentences that were meant to reassure him. He -interrupted me, and--not with any roughness, but with a pressure there -was no mistaking and I was not fool enough to resist--led me from the -side of the quay. - -"_Ma foi!_" said he, "'Tis the most ridiculous thing! I had nearly -missed you and could never have forgiven myself. My Swiss has just -informed me that you were in the house an hour ago while I was there -myself. I fear we must have bored you, M. Albany and I, with our dull -affairs. At least there was no other excuse for your unceremonious -departure through my back window." - -I was never well-equipped to conceal my feelings, and it was plain in my -face that I knew all. - -He sighed. - -"Well, lad," said he, rather sorrowfully, "I'd give a good many _louis -d'or_ that you had come visiting at another hour of the day, and -now there's but one thing left me. My Swiss did not know you, but -he has--praise _le bon Dieu!_--a pair of eyes in his head, and -he remembered that my visitor wore red shoes. Red shoes and a -Scotsman!--the conjunction was unmistakable, and here we are, M. Greig. -There are a score of men looking all over Dunkerque at this moment for -these same shoes." - -"Confound the red shoes!" I cried, unable to conceal my vexation that -they should once more have brought me into trouble. - -"By no means, M. Greig," said Thurot. "But for them we should never -have identified our visitor, and a somewhat startling tale was over the -Channel a little earlier than we intended. And now all that I may do for -old friendship to yourself and the original wearer of the shoes is to -give you a free trip to England in my own vessel. 'Tis not the _Roi -Rouge_ this time--worse luck!--but a frigate, and we can be happy enough -if you are not a fool." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - -THUROT'S PRISONER. MY FRIEND THE WATCH - -It was plain from the first that my overhearing of the plot must compel -Thurot to the step he took. He was not unkind, but so much depended on -the absolute secrecy of the things he had talked to the Prince, that, -even at the unpleasant cost of trepanning me, he must keep me from -carrying my new-got information elsewhere. For that reason he refused to -accede to my request for a few minutes' conversation with the priest or -my fellow-countrymen. The most ordinary prudence, he insisted, demanded -that he should keep me in a sort of isolation until it was too late to -convey a warning across the Channel. - -It was for these reasons I was taken that Sabbath afternoon to the -frigate that was destined to be in a humble sense his flagship, and was -lying in the harbour with none of her crew as yet on board. I was given -a cabin; books were furnished to cheer my incarceration, for it was -no less. I was to all intents and purposes a prisoner, though enjoying -again some of the privileges of the _salle d'epreuves_ for the sake of -old acquaintance. - -All that day I planned escape. Thurot came to the cabin and smoked and -conversed pleasantly, but found me so abstracted that he could scarcely -fail to think I meant a counter-sap. - -"Be tranquil, my Paul," he advised; "Clancarty and I will make your life -on ship-board as little irksome as possible, but it is your own cursed -luck that you must make up your mind to a fortnight of it." - -But that was considerably longer than I was ready to think of with -equanimity. What I wished for was an immediate freedom and a ship to -England, and while he talked I reviewed a dozen methods of escape. Here -was I with a secret worth a vast deal to the British Government; if I -could do my country that service of putting her into possession of it -in time to prevent catastrophe, might I not, without presumption, expect -some clemency from her laws for the crime I had committed in the -hot blood of ignorant and untutored youth? I saw the most cheerful -possibilities rise out of that accident that had made me an eavesdropper -in Thurot's lodging--freedom, my family perhaps restored to me, my name -partly re-established; but the red shoes that set me on wrong roads to -start with still kept me on them. Thurot was an amiable enough gaoler, -but not his best wine nor his wittiest stories might make me forget by -how trivial a chance I had lost my opportunity. - -We were joined in the afternoon by Lord Clancarty. - -"What, lad!" cried his lordship, pomaded and scented beyond words; -fresh, as he told us, from the pursuit of a lady whose wealth was -shortly to patch up his broken fortunes. "What, lad! Here's a pretty -matter! Pressed, egad! A renegade against his will! 'Tis the most cursed -luck, Captain Thurot, and wilt compel the poor young gentleman to cut -the throats of his own countrymen?" - -"I? Faith, not I!" said Thurot. "I press none but filthy Swedes. M. -Greig has my word for it that twelve hours before we weigh anchor he may -take his leave of us. _Je le veux bien_." - -"Bah! 'Tis an impolite corsair this. As for me I should be inconsolable -to lose M. Greig to such a dull country as this England. Here's an -Occasion, M. le Capitaine, for pledging his health in a bottle, and -wishing him well out of his troubles." - -"You do not stand sufficiently on your dignity, Clancarty," laughed -Thurot. "Here's the enemy--" - -"Dignity! pooh!" said his lordship. "To stand on that I should need a -year's practice first on the tight-rope. There's that about an Irish -gentleman that makes the posturings and proprieties and pretences of -the fashionable world unnecessary. Sure, race will show in his face -and action if he stood alone in his shirt-sleeves on a village common -juggling balls. I am of the oldest blood that springs in Irish kings. -'Tis that knowledge keeps my heart up when circumstances make the world -look rotten like a cheese. But the curst thing is one cannot for ever -be drinking and dining off a pedigree, and here I am deserted by M. -Tete-de-mouche----" - -Thurot put up his hand to check one of these disloyalties to the -Pretender that I had long since learned were common with Lord Clancarty. - -"Bah!" cried his lordship. "I love you, Tony, and all the other boys, -but your Prince is a madman--a sotted madman tied to the petticoat tails -of a trollope. This Walkinshaw--saving your presence, Paul Greig, for -she's your countrywoman and by way of being your friend, I hear--has -ruined Charles and the Cause. We have done what we could to make him -send madame back to the place she came from, but he'll do nothing of the -kind. 'She has stuck by me through thick and thin, and lost all for me, -and now I shall stick by her,' says foolish Master Sentiment." - -"Bravo!" cried Thurot. "'Tis these things make us love the Prince and -have faith in his ultimate success." - -"You were ever the hopeful ass, Tony," said his lordship coolly. "_Il -riest pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre_, and you must shut -your ears against a tale that all the world is shouting at the pitch of -its voice. Who knows better than Tony Thurot how his Royal Highness has -declined? Why! 'tis manifest in the fellow's nose; I declare he drinks -like a fish--another vice he brought back from your mountain land, M. -Greig, along with Miss Walkinshaw----" - -"There is far too much of Miss Walkinshaw about your lordship's -remarks," I cried in an uncontrollable heat that the lady should be the -subject of implications so unkind. - -He stared, and then kissed his hand to me with laughter and a bow, "Ha!" -he cried, "here's another young gentleman of sentiment. Stap me if I say -a word against the lady for your sake, Andy Greig's nephew." And back he -went to his bottle. - -In this light fashion we spent a day that by rights should have been -more profitably and soberly occupied. The frigate lay well out from the -quays from which Thurot had conveyed me with none of the indignities -that might be expected by a prisoner. There was, as I have said, none of -her crew on board save a watch of two men. Beside her quarter there hung -a small smuggling cutter that had been captured some days previously. As -I sat in the cabin, yawning at the hinder-end over Clancarty's sallies, -I could hear now and then the soft thudding of the smuggler's craft -against the fenders as the sea rocked us lightly, and it put a mad fancy -into my head. - -How good it would be, I thought, to be free on board such a vessel and -speeding before a light wind to Britain! Was it wholly impossible? The -notion so possessed me that I took an occasion to go on deck and see how -things lay. - -The smuggler's boat had her mast stepped, but no sails in her. Over the -bulwark of the frigate leaned one of the watch idly looking at sea-gulls -that cried like bairns upon the smuggler's thwarts and gunnels. He was -a tarry Dutchman (by his build and colour); I fancy that at the time he -never suspected I was a prisoner, for he saluted me with deference. - -The harbour was emptier than usual of shipping. Dusk was falling on the -town; some lights were twinkling wanly and bells rang in the cordage -of the quays. I asked the seaman if he knew where the hoy _Vrijster_ of -Helvoetsluys lay. - -At that his face brightened and he promptly pointed to her yellow hull -on the opposite side of the harbour. - -"Did my honour know Captain Breuer?" he asked, in crabbed French. - -My honour was very pleased to confess that he did, though in truth my -acquaintance with the skipper who had taken us round from Helvoetsluys -went scarcely further than sufficed me to recall his name. - -The best sailor ever canted ship! my Dutchman assured me with -enthusiasm. How often have I heard the self-same sentiment from -mariners? for there is something jovial and kind in the seaman's manner -that makes him ever fond of the free, the brave and competent of his own -calling, and ready to cry their merits round the rolling world. - -A good seaman certainly!--I agreed heartily, though the man might have -been merely middling for all I knew of him. - -He would like nothing better than to have an hour with Captain Breuer, -said Mynheer. - -"And I, too," said I quickly. "But for Captain Thurot's pressing desire -that I should spend the evening here I should be in Breuer's cabin now. -Next to being with him there I would reckon the privilege of having him -here." - -There might be very little difficulty about that if my honour was -willing, said Mynheer. They were old shipmates; had sailed the Zuyder -Sea together, and drunken in a score of ports. Dearly indeed would he -love to have some discourse with Breuer. But to take leave from the -frigate and cross to the hoy--no! Captain Thurot would not care for him -to do that. - -"Why not have Breuer come to the frigate?" I asked, with my heart -beating fast. - -"Why, indeed?" repeated Mynheer with a laugh. "A hail across the harbour -would not fetch him." - -"Then go for him," said I, my heart beating faster than ever lest he -should have some suspicion of my condition and desires. - -He reminded me that he had no excuse to leave the frigate, though to -take the small boat at the stern and row over to the hoy would mean but -a minute or two. - -"Well, as for excuses," said I, "that's easily arranged, for I can give -you one to carry a note to the care of the captain, and you may take it -at your leisure." - -At his leisure! He would take it at once and thankfully while we -gentlemen were drinking below, for there was no pleasure under heaven he -could compare with half an hour of good Jan Breuer's company. - -Without betraying my eagerness to avail myself of such an unlooked-for -opportunity, I deliberately wrote a note in English intimating that I -was a prisoner on the frigate and in pressing humour to get out of -her at the earliest moment. I addressed it to Kilbride, judging the -Highlander more likely than Father Hamilton to take rational steps for -my release if that were within the bounds of possibility. - -I assured the seaman that if he lost no time in taking it over I would -engage his absence would never be noticed, and he agreed to indicate to -me by a whistle when he returned. - -With a cheerful assurance that he would have Jan Breuer on this deck in -less than twenty minutes the seaman loosed the painter of the small -boat and set forth upon his errand, while I returned to the cabin where -Thurot and Clancarty still talked the most contrary and absurd politics -over their wine. The vast and tangled scheme of French intrigue was set -before me; at another time it might have been of the most fascinating -interest, but on this particular occasion I could not subdue my mind to -matters so comparatively trivial, while I kept my hearing strained for -the evidence that the Dutchman had accomplished his mission and got -back. - -The moments passed; the interest flagged; Clancarty began to yawn and -Thurot grew silent. It was manifest that the sooner my Dutchman was back -to his ship the better for my plan. Then it was I showed the brightest -interest in affairs that an hour earlier failed to engage a second of my -attention, and I discovered for the entertainment of my gaoler and -his friend a hitherto unsuspected store of reminiscence about my Uncle -Andrew and a fund of joke and anecdote whereof neither of them probably -had thought me capable. - -But all was useless. The signal that the Dutchman had returned was not -made when Lord Clancarty rose to his feet and intimated his intention -there and then of going ashore, though his manner suggested that it -would have been easy to induce him to wait longer. We went on deck with -him. The night was banked with clouds though a full moon was due; only a -few stars shone in the spaces of the zenith; our vessel was in darkness -except where a lamp swung at the bow. - -"_Mon Dieu!_ Tony, what a pitchy night! I'd liefer be safe ashore than -risking my life getting there in your cockle-shell," said Clancarty. - -"'Art all right, Lord Clancarty," said Thurot. "Here's a man will row -you to the quay in two breaths, and you'll be snug in bed before M. -Greig and I have finished our prayers." Then he cried along the deck for -the seaman. - -I felt that all was lost now the fellow's absence was to be discovered. - -What was my astonishment to hear an answering call, and see the -Dutchman's figure a blotch upon the blackness of the after-deck. - -"Bring round the small boat and take Lord Clancarty ashore," said the -captain, and the seaman hastened to do so. He sprang into the small -boat, released her rope, and brought her round. - -"_A demain_, dear Paul," cried his lordship with a hiccough. "It's curst -unkind of Tony Thurot not to let you ashore on parole or permit me to -wait with you." - -The boat dropped off into the darkness of the harbour, her oars thudding -on the thole-pins. - -"There goes a decent fellow though something of a fool," said Thurot. -"'Tis his kind have made so many enterprises like our own have an -ineffectual end. And now you must excuse me, M. Greig, if I lock you -into your cabin. There are too few of us on board to let you have the -run of the vessel." - -He put a friendly hand upon the shoulder I shrugged with chagrin at this -conclusion to an unfortunate day. - -"Sorry, M. Greig, sorry," he said humorously. "_Qui commence mal finit -mal_, and I wish to heaven you had begun the day by finding Antoine -Thurot at home, in which case we had been in a happier relationship -to-night." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - -DISCLOSES THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE AND HOW WE SET SAIL FOR ALBION - -Thurot turned the key on me with a pleasantry that was in no accordance -with my mood, and himself retired to the round house on deck where his -berth was situated. I sat on a form for a little, surrendered all to -melancholy, then sought to remove it by reading, as sleep in my present -humour was out of the question. My reading, though it lasted for an hour -or two, was scarcely worth the name, for my mind continually wandered -from the page. I wondered if my note to Kilbride had been delivered, and -if any step on his part was to be expected therefrom; the hope that rose -with that reflection died at once upon the certainty that as the Dutch -seaman had not signalled as he had promised he had somehow learned the -true nature of my condition in the frigate. Had he told Thurot? If he -had told Thurot--which was like enough--that I had communicated with any -one outside the vessel there was little doubt that the latter would take -adequate steps to prevent interference by Kilbride or any one else. - -We are compact of memories, a mere bundle of bygone days, childish -recollections, ancient impressions, and so an older experience came to -me, too, of the night I sat in the filthy cabin of Dan Risk's doomed -vessel hearing the splash of illegitimate oars, anticipating with a mind -scarcely more disturbed than I had just now the step of the officer from -the prison at Blackness and the clutch of the chilly fetters. - -There was a faint but rising nor'-east wind. It sighed among the shrouds -of the frigate. I could hear it even in the cabin, pensive like the call -of the curfew at a great distance. The waves washed against the timbers -in curious short gluckings and hissings. On the vessel herself not a -sound was to be heard, until of a sudden there came a scratching at my -cabin door! - -It was incredible! I had heard no footstep on the companion, and I had -ceased to hope for anything from the Dutchman! - -"Who's there?" I asked softly, and at that the key outside was turned -and I was fronted by Kilbride! - -He wore the most ridiculous travesty of the Dutchman's tarry breeks -and tarpaulin hat and coarse wide jumper, and in the light of my candle -there was a humorous twinkle on his face as he entered, closed the door -softly after him, and sat down beside me. - -"My goodness!" he whispered, "you have a face on you as if you were in a -graveyard watching ghosts. It's time you were steeping the withies to go -away as we say in the Language, and you may be telling me all the story -of it elsewhere." - -"Where's the Dutchman that took my letter?" I asked. - -"Where," said Kilbride, "but in the place that well befits him--at the -lug of an anker of Rotterdam gin taking his honest night's rest. I'm -here guizing in his tarry clothes, and if I were Paul Greig of the Hazel -Den I would be clapping on my hat gey quick and getting out of here -without any more parley." - -"You left him in the hoy!" said I astonished. - -"Faith, there was nothing better for it!" said he coolly. "Breuer gave -him so much of the juniper for old acquaintance that when I left he was -so full of it that he had lost the power of his legs and you might as -well try to keep a string of fish standing." - -"And it was you took Clancarty ashore?" - -"Who else? And I don't think it's a great conceit of myself to believe -I play-acted the Dutch tarry-breeks so very well, though I was in -something of a tremble in case the skipper here would make me out below -my guizard's clothes. You may thank your stars the moon was as late of -rising this night as a man would be that was at a funeral yesterday." -"And where's the other man who was on this vessel?" I asked, preparing -to go. - -"Come on deck and I'll show you," said Kilbride, checking a chuckle of -amusement at something. - -We crept softly on deck into the night now slightly lit by a moon veiled -by watery clouds. The ship seemed all our own and we were free to leave -her when we chose for the small boat hung at her stern. - -"You were asking for the other one," said Kilbride. "There he is," and -he pointed to a huddled figure bound upon the waist. "When I came on -board after landing Clancarty this stupid fellow discovered I was a -stranger and nearly made an outcry; but I hit him on the lug with the -loom of an oar. He'll not be observing very much for a while yet, but -I was bound all the same to put a rope on him to prevent him disturbing -Captain Thurot's sleep too soon." - -We spoke in whispers for the night seemed all ear and I was for ever -haunted by the reflection that Thurot was divided from us by little more -than an inch or two of teak-wood. Now and then the moon peeped through -a rift of cloud and lit a golden roadway over the sea, enticing me -irresistibly home. - -"O God, I wish I was in Scotland!" I said passionately. - -"Less luck than that will have to be doing us," said Kilbride, fumbling -at the painter of the boat. "The hoy sets sail for Calais in an hour -or two, and it's plain from your letter we'll be best to be taking her -round that length." - -"No, not Calais," said I. "It's too serious a business with me for that. -I'm wanting England, and wanting it unco fast." - -"_Oh, Dhe!_" said my countryman, "here's a fellow with the appetite of -Prince Charlie and as likely to gratify it. What for must it be England, -_loachain?_" - -"I can only hint at that," I answered hastily, "and that in a minute. -Are ye loyal?" - -"To a fine fellow called MacKellar first and to my king and country -after?" - -"The Stuarts?" said I. - -He cracked his thumb. "It's all by with that," said he quickly and not -without a tone of bitterness. - -"The breed of them has never been loyal to me, and if I could wipe out -of my life six months of the cursedest folly in Forty-five I would go -back to Scotland with the first chance and throw my bonnet for Geordie -ever after like the greasiest burgess ever sold a wab of cloth or a -cargo of Virginia in Glasgow." - -"Then," I said, "you and me's bound for England this night, for I have -that in my knowledge should buy the safety of the pair of us," and I -briefly conveyed my secret. - -He softly whistled with astonishment. - -"Man! it's a gey taking idea," he confessed. "But the bit is to get over -the Channel." - -"I have thought of that," said I. "Here's a smuggler wanting no more -than a rag of sail in this wind to make the passage in a couple of -days." - -"By the Holy Iron it's the very thing!" he interrupted, slapping his -leg. - -It takes a time to tell all this in writing, but in actual fact our -whole conversation together in the cabin and on the deck occupied less -than five minutes. We were both of us too well aware of the value of -time to have had it otherwise and waste moments in useless conversation. - -"What is to be done is this," I suggested, casting a rapid glance along -the decks and upwards to the spars. "I will rig up a sail of some sort -here and you will hasten over again in the small-boat to the hoy and -give Father Hamilton the option of coming with us. He may or he may not -care to run the risks involved in the exploit, but at least we owe him -the offer." - -"But when I'm across at the hoy there, here's you with this dovering -body and Captain Thurot. Another knock might settle the one, but you -would scarcely care to have knocks going in the case of an old friend -like Tony Thurot, who's only doing his duty in keeping you here with -such a secret in your charge." - -"I have thought of that, too," I replied quickly, "and I will hazard -Thurot." - -Kilbride lowered himself into the small-boat, pushed off from the side -of the frigate, and in silence half-drifted in the direction of the -Dutch vessel. My plans were as clear in my head as if they had been -printed on paper. First of all I took such provender as I could get from -my cabin and placed it along with a breaker of water and a lamp in the -cutter. Then I climbed the shrouds of the frigate, and cut away a small -sail that I guessed would serve my purpose, letting it fall into the -cutter. I made a shift at sheets and halyards and found that with a -little contrivance I could spread enough canvas to take the cutter -in that weather at a fair speed before the wind that had a blessed -disposition towards the coast of England. I worked so fast it was a -miracle, dreading at every rustle of the stolen sail--at every creak of -the cutter on the fenders, that either the captain or his unconscious -seaman would awake. - -My work was scarcely done when the small-boat came off again from the -hoy, and as she drew cautiously near I saw that MacKellar had with him -the bulky figure of the priest. He climbed ponderously, at my signal, -into the cutter, and MacKellar joined me for a moment on the deck of the -frigate. - -"He goes with us then?" I asked, indicating the priest. - -"To the Indies if need be," said Kilbride. "But the truth is that this -accident is a perfect God-send to him, for England's the one place -below the firmament he would choose for a refuge at this moment. Is all -ready?" - -"If my sail-making's to be relied on she's in the best of trim," I -answered. - -"And--what do ye call it?--all found?" - -"A water breaker, a bottle of brandy, a bag of bread--" - -"Enough for a foray of fifty men!" he said heartily. "Give me meal and -water in the heel of my shoe and I would count it very good vivers for a -fortnight." - -He went into the cutter; I released the ropes that bound her to the -frigate and followed him. - -"_Mon Dieu_ dear lad, 'tis a world of most fantastic happenings," was -all the poor old priest said, shivering in the cold night air. - -We had to use the oars of the frigate's small-boat for a stroke or two -so as to get the cutter round before the wind; she drifted quickly -from the large ship's side almost like a living thing with a crave -for freedom at last realised; up speedily ran her sail, unhandsome yet -sufficient, the friendly air filled out the rustling folds and drove her -through the night into the open sea. - -There is something in a moonlit night at sea that must touch in the most -cloddish heart a spring of fancy. It is friendlier than the dawn that at -its most glorious carries a hint of sorrow, or than the bravest sunset -that reminds us life is a brief day at the best of it, and the one -thing sempiternal yet will be the darkness. We sat in the well of the -cutter--three odd adventurers, myself the most silent because I had the -double share of dubiety about the enterprise, for who could tell how -soon the doomster's hand would be on me once my feet were again on -British soil? Yet now when I think of it--of the moonlit sea, the -swelling sail above us, the wake behind that shone with fire--I must -count it one of the happiest experiences of my life. - -The priest looked back at the low land of France receding behind us, -with its scattered lights on the harbour and the shore, mere subjects -to the queenly moon. "There goes poor Father Hamilton," said he -whimsically, "happy schoolboy, foolish lover in Louvain that had never -but moonlit eves, parish priest of Dixmunde working two gardens, human -and divine, understanding best the human where his bees roved, but -loving all men good and ill. There goes the spoiled page, the botched -effort, and here's a fat old man at the start of a new life, and never -to see his darling France again. Ah! the good mother; _Dieu te benisse!_" - - - - -CHAPTER XL - -MY INTERVIEW WITH PITT - -Of our voyage across the Channel there need be no more said than that it -was dull to the very verge of monotony, for the wind, though favourable, -was often in a faint where our poor sail shook idly at the mast. Two -days later we were in London, and stopped at the Queen's Head above -Craig's Court in Charing Cross. - -And now I had to make the speediest possible arrangement for a meeting -with those who could make the most immediate and profitable use of the -tidings I was in a position to lay before them, by no means an easy -matter to decide upon for a person who had as little knowledge of London -as he had of the Cities of the Plain. - -MacKellar--ever the impetuous Gael--was for nothing less than a personal -approach to his Majesty. - -"The man that is on the top of the hill will always be seeing furthest," -he said. "I have come in contact with the best in Europe on that under -standing, but it calls for a kind of Hielan' tact that--that--" - -"That you cannot credit to a poor Lowlander like myself," said I, amused -at his vanity. - -"Oh, I'm meaning no offence, just no offence at all," he responded -quickly, and flushing at his _faux pas_. "You have as much talent of -the kind as the best of us I'm not denying, and I have just the one -advantage, that I was brought up in a language that has delicacies of -address beyond the expression of the English, or the French that is, in -some measure, like it." - -"Well," said I, "the spirit of it is obviously not to be translated into -English, judging from the way you go on crying up your countrymen at the -expense of my own." - -"That is true enough," he conceded, "and a very just observe; but no -matter, what I would be at is that your news is worth too much to be -wasted on any poor lackey hanging about his Majesty's back door, who -might either sell it or you on his own behoof, or otherwise make a mull -of the matter with the very best intentions. If you would take my way of -it, there would be but Geordie himself for you." - -"What have you to say to that?" I asked the priest, whose knowledge of -the world struck me as in most respects more trustworthy than that of -this impetuous Highland chirurgeon. - -"A plague of your kings! say I; sure I know nothing about them, for -my luck has rubbed me against the gabardine and none of your ermined -cloaks. There must be others who know his Majesty's affairs better than -his Majesty himself, otherwise what advantage were there in being a -king?" - -In fine his decision was for one of the Ministers, and at last the -Secretary of State was decided on. - -How I came to meet with Mr. Pitt need not here be recorded; 'twas indeed -more a matter of good luck than of good guidance, and had there been no -Scots House of Argyll perhaps I had never got rid of my weighty secret -after all. I had expected to meet a person magnificent in robes of -state; instead of which 'twas a man in a blue coat with yellow metal -buttons, full round bob wig, a large hat, and no sword-bag nor ruffles -that met me--more like a country coachman or a waggoner than a personage -of importance. - -He scanned over again the letter that had introduced me and received me -cordially enough. In a few words I indicated that I was newly come from -France, whence I had escaped in a smuggler's boat, and that I had news -of the first importance which I counted it my duty to my country to -convey to him with all possible expedition. - -At that his face changed and he showed singularly little eagerness to -hear any more. - -"There will be--there will be the--the usual bargain, I presume, Mr. -Greig?" he said, half-smiling. "What are the conditions on which I am to -have this vastly important intelligence?" - -"I never dreamt of making any, sir," I answered, promptly, with some -natural chagrin, and yet mixed with a little confusion that I should in -truth be expecting something in the long run for my story. - -"Pardon my stupid pleasantry, Mr. Greig," he said, reddening slightly. -"I have been so long one of his Majesty's Ministers, and of late have -seen so many urgent couriers from France with prime news to be bargained -for, that I have grown something of a cynic. You are the first that has -come with a secret not for sale. Believe me, your story will have all -the more attention because it is offered disinterestedly." - -In twenty minutes I had put him into possession of all I knew of the -plans for invasion. He walked up and down the room, with his hands -behind his back, intently listening, now and then uttering an -exclamation incredulous or astonished. - -"You are sure of all this?" he asked at last sharply, looking in my face -with embarrassing scrutiny. - -"As sure as any mortal man may be with the gift of all his senses," I -replied firmly. "At this moment Thurot's vessel is, I doubt not, taking -in her stores; the embarkation of troops is being practised daily, -troops are assembled all along the coast from Brest to Vannes, and--" - -"Oh! on these points we are, naturally, not wholly dark," said the -Minister. "We have known for a year of this somewhat theatrical display -on the part of the French, but the lines of the threatened invasion -are not such as your remarkable narrative suggests. You have been good -enough to honour me with your confidence, Mr. Greig; let me reciprocate -by telling you that we have our--our good friends in France, and that -for six months back I have been in possession of the Chevalier D'Arcy's -instructions to Dumont to reconnoitre the English coast, and of Dumont's -report, with the chart of the harbours and towns where he proposed that -the descent should be made." He smiled somewhat grimly. "The gentleman -who gave us the information," he went on, "stipulated for twenty -thousand pounds and a pension of two thousand a year as the just reward -for his loving service to his country in her hour of peril. He was -not to get his twenty thousand, I need scarcely say, but he was to get -something in the event of his intelligence proving to be accurate, and -if it were for no more than to get the better of such a dubious patriot -I should wish his tale wholly disproved, though we have hitherto -acted on the assumption that it might be trustworthy. There cannot be -alternative plans of invasion; our informant--another Scotsman, I may -say--is either lying or has merely the plan of a feint." - -"You are most kind, sir," said I. - -"Oh," he said, "I take your story first, and as probably the most -correct, simply because it comes from one that loves his country -and makes no bagman's bargains for the sale of secrets vital to her -existence." - -"I am much honoured, sir," said I, with a bow. - -And then he stopped his walk abruptly and faced me again. - -"You have told me, Mr. Greig," he went on, "that Conflans is to descend -in a week or two on the coast of Scotland, and that Thurot is to create -a diversion elsewhere with the aid of the Swedes, I have, from the most -delicate considerations, refrained from asking you how you know all -this?" - -"I heard it from the lips of Thurot himself." - -"Thurot! impossible!" he murmured. - -"Of Thurot himself, sir." - -"You must be much in that pirate's confidence," said Mr. Pitt, for the -first time with suspicion. - -"Not to that extent that he would tell me of his plans for invading -my country," I answered, "and I learned these things by the merest -accident. I overheard him speak last Sunday in Dunkerque with the Young -Pretender--" - -"The Pretender!" cried the Minister, shrugging his shoulders, and -looking at me with more suspicion than ever. "You apparently move in the -most select and interesting society, Mr. Greig?" - -"In this case, sir, it was none of my choosing," I replied, and went on -briefly to explain how I had got into Thurot's chamber unknown to him, -and unwittingly overhead the Prince and him discuss the plan. - -"Very good, very good, and still--you will pardon me--I cannot see how -so devout a patriot as Mr. Greig should be in the intimacy of men like -Thurot?" - -"A most natural remark under the circumstances," I replied. "Thurot -saved my life from a sinking British vessel, and it is no more than his -due to say he proved a very good friend to me many a time since. But I -was to know nothing of his plans of invasion, for he knew very well I -had no sympathy with them nor with Charles Edward, and, as I have told -you, he made me his prisoner on his ship so that I might not betray what -I had overheard." - -The Minister made hurried notes of what I had told him, and concluded -the interview by asking where I could be communicated with during the -next few days. - -I gave him my direction at the Queen's Head, but added that I had it in -my mind to go shortly to Edinburgh, where my address would be best known -to the Lord Advocate. - -"The Lord Advocate!" said Mr. Pitt, raising his eyebrows. - -"I may as well make a clean breast of it, sir," I proceeded hurriedly, -"and say that I left Scotland under circumstances peculiarly -distressing. Thurot saved me from a ship called the _Seven Sisters_, -that had been scuttled and abandoned with only myself and a seaman on -board of her in mid-channel, by a man named Daniel Risk." - -"Bless me!" cried Mr. Pitt, "the scoundrel Risk was tried in Edinburgh a -month or two ago on several charges, including the one you mention, and -he has either been hanged, or is waiting to be hanged at this moment, in -the jail at Edinburgh." - -"I was nominally purser on the _Seven Sisters_, but in actual fact I was -fleeing from justice." - -The Minister hemmed, and fumbled with his papers. - -"It was owing to a duelling affair, in which I had the misfortune -to--to--kill my opponent. I desire, sir, above all, to be thoroughly -honest, and I am bound to tell you it was my first intention to make the -conveyance of this plan of Thurot's a lever to secure my pardon for the -crime of manslaughter which lies at my charge. I would wish now that my -loyalty to my country was really disinterested, and I have, in the last -half-hour, made up my mind to surrender myself to the law of Scotland." - -"That is for yourself to decide on," said the Minister more gravely, -"but I should advise the postponement of your departure to Edinburgh -until you hear further from me. I shall expect to find you at the inn at -Charing Cross during the next week; thereafter----" - -He paused for a moment. "Well--thereafter we shall see," he added. - -After a few more words of the kindest nature the Minister shook -hands with the confessed manslayer (it flashed on me as a curious -circumstance), and I went back to join the priest and my fellow -countryman. - -They were waiting full of impatience. - -"Hast the King's pardon in thy pocket, friend Scotland?" cried Father -Hamilton; then his face sank in sympathy with the sobriety of my own -that was due to my determination on a surrender to justice once my -business with the Government was over. - -"I have no more in my pocket than I went out with in the morning," said -I. "But my object, so far, has been served. Mr. Pitt knows my story and -is like to take such steps as maybe needful. As for my own affair I have -mentioned it, but it has gone no further than that." - -"You're not telling me you did not make a bargain of it before saying -a word about the bit plan?" cried MacKellar in surprise, and could -scarcely find words strong enough to condemn me for what he described as -my stupidity. - -"Many a man will sow the seed that will never eat the syboe," was his -comment; "and was I not right yonder when I said yon about the tact? If -it had been me now I would have gone very canny to the King himself and -said: 'Your Majesty, I'm a man that has made a slip in a little affair -as between gentlemen, and had to put off abroad until the thing blew -by. I can save the lives of many thousand Englishmen, and perhaps the -country itself, by intelligence that came to my knowledge when I was -abroad; if I prove it, will your Majesty pardon the thing that lies at -my charge?'" - -"And would have his Majesty's signature to the promise as 'twere a deed -of sale!" laughed the priest convulsively. "La! la! la! Paul, here's our -Celtic Solon with tact--the tact of the foot-pad. Stand and deliver! -My pardon, sire, or your life! _Mon Dieu!_ there runs much of the old -original cateran in thy methods of diplomacy, good Master MacKellar. Too -much for royal courts, I reckon." MacKellar pshawed impatiently. "I'm -asking you what is the Secretary's name, Mr. Greig?" said he. "Fox or -Pitt it is all the same--the one is sly and the other is deep, and it is -the natures of their names. I'll warrant Mr. Pitt has forgotten already -the name of the man who gave him the secret, and the wisest thing Paul -Greig could do now would be to go into hiding as fast as he can." - -But I expressed my determination to wait in the Queen's Head a week -longer, as I had promised, and thereafter (if nothing happened to -prevent it) to submit myself at Edinburgh. Though I tried to make as -little of that as possible to myself, and indeed would make myself -believe I was going to act with a rare bravery, I must confess now that -my determination was strengthened greatly by the reflection that -my service to the country would perhaps annul or greatly modify my -sentence. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI - -TREATS OF FATHER HAMILTON'S DEATH - -It was a gay place, London, in the days I write of, however it may -be now, though Father Hamilton was prone occasionally to compare -it unfavourably with the Paris of his fancy, the which he held a -sample-piece of paradise. The fogs and rains depressed him; he had an -eye altogether unfriendly for the signs of striving commerce in the -streets and the greedy haste of clerks and merchants into whose days of -unremitting industry so few joys (as he fancied) seemed to enter. - -MacKellar soon found company in it among silken bucks that held noisy -sederunts in the evenings at a place called White's and another called -(if my memory does not fail me) the Cocoa Nut Tree. 'Twas marvellous the -number of old friends and fellow countrymen that, by his own account, -he found there. And what open hands they had! But for him that was -privileged, for old acquaintance sake, to borrow from them, we had found -our week or two in London singularly hungry because (to tell the truth -of it) our money was come very nearly to an end. But MacKellar, who -had foraged so well in Silesia, was equally good at it in the city of -London. From these night escapades he seldom failed to return richer -than he went, and it was he who paid the piper with so much of an air of -thinking it a privilege, that we had not the heart, even if we had the -inclination, to protest. - -If I had known then, as I know now, or at least suspect, that the money -that fed and boarded us was won through his skill at dice and cards, I -daresay I had shifted sooner from London than I did at the last. - -Day after day passed, and no word from Mr. Pitt. I dared scarcely leave -my inn for an hour's airing lest I should be asked for in my absence. -There was, for a while, a hope that though I had refused to make any -bargain about the pardon, something--I could not so much as guess -what--might happen to avert the scandal of a trial at Edinburgh, and the -disgrace that same might bring upon my family. But day after day passed, -as I have said, and there came no hint of how matters stood. - -And then there came a day when I was to consider it mattered very little -whether I heard from Pitt or not; when even my country was forgotten and -I was to suffer a loss whose bitterness abides with me yet. It was the -death of Father Hamilton, whom I had grown to like exceedingly. Birds -have built and sung for many generations since then; children play in -the garden still; there is essence at the table, there is sparkle in -the wine, and he will never enjoy them any more. Fortune has come to me -since then, so that I might have the wherewithal, if I had the wish, -to take the road again with him in honesty, and see it even better than -when Sin paid the bill for us, but it cannot be with him. - -It was a December day of the whitest, the city smothered in snow, its -tumult hushed. I had been tempted to wander in the forenoon a good -way from our lodging. Coming home in the afternoon I met Kilbride, -distracted, setting out to seek for me. He had a face like the clay, and -his hands, that grasped my lapels as if I meant to fly from him, were -trembling. - -"Oh, Paul," said he. "Here's the worst of all," and I declare his cheeks -were wet with tears. - -"What is it?" I cried in great alarm. - -"The priest, the priest," said he. "He's lying yonder at the ebb, -and I'm no more use to him than if I were a bairn. I've seen the -death-thraws a thousand times, but never to vex me just like this -before. He could make two or three of us in bulk, and yet his heart -was like a wean's, and there he's crying on you even-on till I was near -demented and must run about the streets to seek for you." - -"But still you give me no clue!" I cried, hurrying home with him. - -He gave me the story by the way. It seemed his reverence had had a -notion to see Eastcheap, round which the writer Shakespeare had thrown -a glamour for him. He had gone there shortly after I had gone out in the -forenoon, and after a space of walking about it had found himself in a -mean street where a blackguard was beating a child. 'Twas the man's own -child, doubtless, and so he had, I make no doubt, the law of it on his -own side, but the drunken wretch outdid all reasonable chastisement, and -thrashed her till the blood flowed. - -Up ran the priest and took her in his arms, shielding her from the blows -of the father's cudgel with his arm. The child nuzzled to his breast, -shrieking, and the father tried to pull her away. Between them she fell; -the priest stood over her, keeping back the beast that threatened. The -man struck at him with his stick; Father Hamilton wrenched it from him, -threw it down that he might have no unfair advantage, and flung himself -upon the wretch. He could have crushed him into jelly, but the man -was armed, and suddenly drew a knife. He thrust suddenly between the -priest's shoulders, released himself from the tottering body, -and disappeared with his child apparently beyond all chance of -identification or discovery. - -Father Hamilton was carried home upon a litter. - -"O God! Kilbride, and must he die?" I cried in horror. - -"He will travel in less than an hour," said the Highlander, vastly -moved. "And since he came here his whole cry has been for you and Father -Joyce." - -We went into the room that seemed unnaturally white and sunny. He lay -upon the bed-clothes. The bed was drawn towards the window, through -which the domes and towers and roofs of London could be seen, with their -accustomed greyness gone below the curtain of the snow. A blotch of -blood was on his shirt-front as he lay upon his side. I thought at first -it was his own life oozing, but learned a little later that the stricken -child had had her face there. - -"Paul! Paul!" he said, "I thought thou wouldst blame me for deserting -thee again, and this time without so much as a letter of farewell." - -What could I do but take his hand, and fall upon my knees beside his -bed? He had blue eyes that never aged nor grossened--the eyes of a boy, -clear, clean, and brave, and round about them wrinkles played in a sad, -sweet smile. - -"What, Paul!" he said, "all this for behemoth! for the old man of the -sea that has stuck on thy shoulders for a twelvemonth, and spurred thee -to infinite follies and perils! I am no more worth a tear of thine than -is the ivied ash that falls untimely and decayed, eaten out of essence -by the sins he sheltered. And the poor child, Paul!--the poor child -with her arms round my neck, her tears brine--sure I have them on my -lips--the true _viaticum!_ The brute! the brute! Ah no! ah no! poor -sinner, we do not know." - -"Oh, father!" I cried, "and must we never go into the woods and towns -any more?" - -He smiled again and stroked my hair. - -"Not in these fields, boy," said he, "but perhaps in more spacious, less -perplexed. Be good, be simple, be kind! Tis all I know." - -We heard the steps of Father Joyce upon the stairs. - -"All I know!" repeated the priest. "Fifty years to learn it, and I might -have found it in my mother's lap. _Chere ange_--the little mother--'twas -a good world! And Fanchon that is dead below the snow in Louvain--oh, -the sweet world! And the sunny gardens of bees and children--" - -His eyes were dull. A pallor was on his countenance. He breathed with -difficulty. Kilbride, who stood by, silent, put a finger on his pulse. -At that he opened his eyes again, once more smiling, and Father Joyce -was at the door. - -"Kiss me, Paul," said the dying man, "I hear them singing prime." - -When Father Joyce was gone I came into the room again where the priest -lay smiling still, great in figure, in the simplicity and sweetness of -his countenance like a child. - -Kilbride and I stood silent for a little by the bed, and the Highlander -was the first to speak. "I have seen worse," said he, "than Father -Hamilton." - -It may seem a grudging testimony, but not to me that heard it. - -On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news -which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, "Have you -heard the latest?" he cried. "It is just what I expected," he went on. -"They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the -tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove -him back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of -the Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The -invasion is at an end." - -"It is gallant news!" I cried, warm with satisfaction. - -"Maybe," said he indifferently, "but the main thing is that Paul Greig, -who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in -cheap lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. -Indeed, perhaps he's worse off than ever he was." - -"How is that?" - -"Well, they ken where you are, for one thing, and you put yourself in -their power. I am one that has small faith in Governments. What will -hinder them to clap you in jail and save another reward like the first -one Pitt told you about? I would never put it past a Sassenach of the -name." - -Then I told him it had been in my mind ever since I had seen the -Minister to go to Edinburgh and give myself up to the authorities. - -"Are ye daft?" he cried, astonished. - -I could only shrug my shoulders at that. - -"Perhaps you fancy this business of the invasion will help you to get -your neck out of the loop? I would not lippen on a Government for ten -minutes. You have saved the country--that's the long and the short of -it; now you must just be saving your own hide. There's nothing for us -but the Continent again, and whether you're in the key for that or not, -here's a fellow will sleep uneasy till he has Europe under his head." - -Even at the cost of parting with Kilbride I determined to carry out -my intention of going to Edinburgh. With the priest gone, no prospect -of Mr. Pitt taking the first step, and Kilbride in the humour for a -retreat, I decided that the sooner I brought matters to a head the -better. - -There was a mail coach that went north weekly. It took a considerable -deal of money and a fortnight of time to make the journey between the -two capitals, but MacKellar, free-handed to the last, lent me the -money (which I sent him six months later to Holland), and I set out one -Saturday from the "Bull and Whistle" in a genteel two-end spring machine -that made a brisk passage--the weather considered--as far as York on our -way into Scotland. - -I left on a night of jubilation for the close of the war and the -overthrow of Conflans. Bonfires blazed on the river-side and the -eminences round the city; candles were in every window, the people -were huzzaing in the streets where I left behind me only the one kent -face--that of MacKellar of Kilbride who came to the coach to see the -last of me. And everywhere was the snow--deep, silent, apparently -enduring. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII - -I DEPART IN THE MIDST OF ILLUMINATION AND COME TO A JAIL, BAD NEWS, AND -AN OLD ENEMY - -We carried this elation all through England with us. Whatever town we -stopped at flags were flying, and the oldest resident must be tipsy on -the green for the glory of the British Isles. The seven passengers who -occupied the coach with me found in these rejoicings, and in the great -event which gave rise to them, subjects of unending discourse as we -dragged through the country in the wake of steaming horses. There was -with us a maker of perukes that had found trade dull in Town (as they -call it), and planned to start business in York; a widow woman who -had buried her second husband and was returning to her parents in -Northumberland with a sprightliness that told she was ready to try a -third if he offered; and a squire (as they call a laird) of Morpeth. - -But for the common interest in the rejoicings it might have been a week -before the company thawed to each other enough to start a conversation. -The first mile of the journey, however, found us in the briskest clebate -on Hawke and his doings. I say us, but in truth my own share in the -conversation was very small as I had more serious reflections. - -The perruquier, as was natural to his trade, knew everything and itched -to prove it. - -"I have it on the very best authority," he would say, "indeed"--with -a whisper for all the passengers as if he feared the toiling horses -outside might hear him--"indeed between ourselves I do not mind telling -that it was from Sir Patrick Dall's man--that the French would have been -on top of us had not one of themselves sold the plot for a hatful of -guineas." - -"That is not what I heard at all," broke in the squire. "I fancy you are -mistaken, sir. The truth, as I have every reason to believe, is that one -of the spies of the Government--a Scotsman, by all accounts--discovered -Conflans' plans, and came over to London with them. A good business too, -egad! otherwise we'd soon have nothing to eat at Morpeth George Inn on -market days but frogs, and would find the parley-voos overrunning the -country by next Lent with their masses and mistresses, and so on. A good -business for merry old England that this spy had his English ears open." - -"It may be you are right, sir," conceded the perruquier deferentially. -"Now that I remember, Sir Patrick's gentleman said something of the same -kind, and that it was one of them Scotsmen brought the news. Like enough -the fellow found it worth his while. It will be a pretty penny in his -pocket, I'll wager. He'll be able to give up spying and start an inn." - -I have little doubt the ideal nature of retirement to an inn came to -the mind of the peruke maker from the fact that at the moment we were -drawing up before "The Crown" at Bawtry. Reek rose in clouds from the -horses, as could be seen from the light of the doors that showed the -narrow street knee-deep in snow; a pleasant smell of cooking supper and -warm cordials came out to us, welcome enough it may be guessed after our -long day's stage. The widow clung just a trifle too long on my arm as -I gallantly helped her out of the coach; perhaps she thought my silence -and my abstracted gaze at her for the last hour or two betrayed a tender -interest, but I was thinking how close the squire and the wig-maker had -come upon the truth, and yet made one mistake in that part of their tale -that most closely affected their silent fellow passenger. - -The sea-fight and the war lasted us for a topic all through England, but -when we had got into Scotland on the seventh day after my departure from -London, the hostlers at the various change-houses yoked fresh horses to -the tune of "Daniel Risk." - -We travelled in the most tempestuous weather. Snow fell incessantly, -and was cast in drifts along the road; sometimes it looked as if we were -bound for days, but we carried the mails, and with gigantic toil the -driver pushed us through. - -The nearer we got to Edinburgh the more we learned of the notorious -Daniel Risk, whom no one knew better than myself. The charge of losing -his ship wilfully was, it appeared, among the oldest and least heinous -of his crimes. Smuggling had engaged his talent since then, and he had -murdered a cabin-boy under the most revolting circumstances. He had -almost escaped the charge of scuttling the _Seven Sisters_, for it was -not till he had been in the dock for the murder that evidence of that -transaction came from the seaman Horn, who had been wrecked twice, it -appeared, and far in other parts of the world between the time he was -abandoned in the scuttled ship and returned to his native land, to tell -how the ruffian had left two innocent men to perish. - -Even in these days of wild happenings the fame of Risk exceeded that of -every malefactor that season, and when we got to Edinburgh the street -singers were chanting doleful ballads about him. - -I would have given the wretch no thought, or very little, for my own -affairs were heavy enough, had not the very day I landed in Edinburgh -seen a broad-sheet published with "The Last Words and Warning" of Risk. -The last words were in an extraordinarily devout spirit; the homily -breathed what seemed a real repentance for a very black life. It would -have moved me less if I could have learned then, as I did later, that -the whole thing was the invention of some drunken lawyer's clerk in -the Canongate, who had probably devised scores of such fictions for the -entertainment of the world that likes to read of scaffold repentances -and of wicked lives. The condition of the wretch touched me, and I -made up my mind to see the condemned man who, by the accounts of the -journals, was being visited daily by folks interested in his forlorn -case. - -With some manoeuvring I got outside the bars of his cell. - -There was little change in him. The same wild aspect was there though -he pretended a humility. The skellie eye still roved with little of -the love of God or man in it; his iron-grey hair hung tawted about his -temples. Only his face was changed and had the jail-white of the cells, -for he had been nearly two months in confinement. When I entered he did -not know me; indeed, he scarce looked the road I was on at first, but -applied himself zealously to the study of a book wherein he pretended to -be rapturously engrossed. - -The fact that the Bible (for so it was) happened to be upside down in -his hands somewhat staggered my faith in the repentance of Daniel Risk, -who, I remembered, had never numbered reading among his arts. - -I addressed him as Captain. - -"I am no Captain," said he in a whine, "but plain Dan Risk, the blackest -sinner under the cope and canopy of heaven." And he applied himself to -his volume as before. - -"Do you know me?" I asked, and he must have found the voice familiar, -for he rose from his stool, approached the bars of his cage, and -examined me. "Andy Greigs nephew!" he cried. "It's you; I hope you're a -guid man?" - -"I might be the best of men--and that's a dead one--so far as you are -concerned," I replied, stung a little by the impertinence of him. - -"The hand of Providence saved me that last item in my bloody list o' -crimes," said he, with a singular mixture of the whine for his sins and -of pride in their number. "Your life was spared, I mak' nae doubt, that -ye micht repent o' your past, and I'm sorry to see ye in sic fallals o' -dress, betokenin' a licht mind and a surrender to the vanities." - -My dress was scantily different from what it had been on the _Seven -Sisters_, except for some lace, my tied hair, and a sword. - -"Indeed, and I am in anything but a light frame of mind, Captain Risk," -I said. "There are reasons for that, apart from seeing you in this -condition which I honestly deplore in spite of all the wrong you did -me." - -"I thank God that has been forgiven me," he said, with a hypocritical -cock of his hale eye. "I was lost in sin, a child o' the deevil, but noo -I am made clean," and much more of the same sort that it is unnecessary -here to repeat. - -"You can count on my forgiveness, so far as that goes," I said, -disgusted with his manner. - -"I'm greatly obleeged," said he, "but man's forgiveness doesna coont sae -muckle as a preen, and I would ask ye to see hoo it stands wi' yersel', -Daniel Risk has made his peace wi' his Maker, but what way is it wi' the -nephew o' Andrew Greig?" - -"It ill becomes a man in a condemned cell to be preacher to those -outside of it," I told him in some exasperation at his presumption. - -He threw up his hands and glowered at me with his gleed eye looking -seven ways for sixpence as the saying goes. - -"Dinna craw ower crouse, young man," he said. "Whit brings ye here I -canna guess, but I ken that you that's there should be in here where I -am, for there's blood on your hands." - -He had me there! Oh, yes, he had me there! Every vein in my body told -me so. But I was not in the humour to make an admission of that kind to -this creature. - -"I have no conceit of myself in any respect whatever, Daniel Risk," I -said slowly. "I came here from France but yesterday after experiences -there that paid pretty well for my boy's crime, for I have heard from -neither kith nor kin since you cozened me on the boards of the _Seven -Sisters_." - -He put his hands upon the bars and looked at me. He wore a prison garb -of the most horrible colour, and there were round him the foul stenches -of the cell. - -"Ay!" said he. "New back! And they havena nabbed ye yet! Weel, -they'll no' be lang, maybe, o' doin' that, for I'll warrant ye've been -advertised plenty aboot the country; ony man that has read a gazette or -clattered in a public-hoose kens your description and the blackness o' -the deed you're chairged wi'. All I did was to sink a bit ship that was -rotten onyway, mak' free trade wi' a few ankers o' brandy that wad hae -been drunk by the best i' the land includin' the very lords that tried -me, and accidentally kill a lad that sair needed a beltin' to gar him -dae his honest wark. But you shot a man deliberate and his blood is -crying frae the grund. If ye hurry ye'll maybe dance on naethin' sooner -nor mysel'." - -There was so much impotent venom in what he said that I lost my anger -with the wretch drawing near his end, and looked on him with pity. It -seemed to annoy him more than if I had reviled him. - -"I'm a white soul." says he, clasping his hands--the most arrant -blasphemy of a gesture from one whose deeds were desperately wicked! -"I'm a white soul, praise God! and value not your opinions a docken -leaf. Ye micht hae come here to this melancholy place to slip a bit -guinea into my hand for some few extra comforts, instead o' which it's -jist to anger me." - -He glued his cheek against the bars and stared at me from head to foot, -catching at the last a glance of my fateful shoes. He pointed at them -with a rigid finger. - -[Illustration: 407] - -"Man! man!" he cried, "there's the sign and token o' the lot o' ye--the -bloody shoon. They may weel be red for him and you that wore them. Red -shoon! red shoon!" He stopped suddenly. "After a'," said he, "I bear -ye nae ill-will, though I hae but to pass the word to the warder on the -ither side o' the rails. And oh! abin a' repent----" He was off again -into one of his blasphemies, for at my elbow now was an old lady who was -doubtless come to confirm the conversion of Daniel Risk. I turned to go. - -He cast his unaffected eye piously heavenward, and coolly offered up a -brief prayer for "this erring young brother determined on the ways of -vice and folly." - -It may be scarce credible that I went forth from the condemned cell with -the most shaken mind I had had since the day I fled from the moor of -Mearns. The streets were thronged with citizens; the castle ramparts -rose up white and fine, the bastions touched by sunset fires, a window -blazing like a star. Above the muffled valley, clear, silvery, proud, -rang a trumpet on the walls, reminding me of many a morning rouse in far -Silesia. Was I not better there? Why should I be the sentimental fool -and run my head into a noose? Risk, whom I had gone to see in pity, paid -me with a vengeance! He had put into the blunt language of the world all -the horror I had never heard in words before, though it had often been -in my mind. I saw myself for the first time the hunted outlaw, captured -at last. "You that's out there should be in where I am!" It was true! -But to sit for weeks in that foul hole within the iron rail, waiting on -doom, reflecting on my folks disgraced--I could not bear it! - -Risk cured me of my intention to hazard all on the flimsy chance of -a Government's gratitude, and I made up my mind to seek safety and -forgetfulness again in flight to another country. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII - -BACK TO THE MOORLAND - -I had seen yon remnant of a man in the Tolbooth cell, and an immediate -death upon the gallows seemed less dreadful than the degradation and the -doubt he must suffer waiting weary months behind bars. But gallows or -cell was become impossible for the new poltroon of Dan Risk's making to -contemplate with any equanimity, and I made up my mind that America was -a country which would benefit greatly by my presence, if I could get a -passage there by working for it. - -Perhaps I would not have made so prompt a decision upon America had -not America implied a Clyde ship, and the Clyde as naturally implied -a flying visit to my home in Mearns. Since ever I had set foot on -Scotland, and saw Scots reek rise from Scots lums, and blue bonnets on -Scots heads, and heard the twang of the true North and kindly from the -people about me, I had been wondering about my folk. It was plain they -had never got the letter I had sent by Horn, or got it only recently, -for he himself had only late got home. - -To see the house among the trees, then, to get a reassuring sight of its -smoke and learn about my parents, was actually of more importance in my -mind than my projected trip to America, though I did not care to confess -so much to myself. - -I went to Glasgow on the following day; the snow was on the roofs; the -students were noisily battling; the bells were cheerfully ringing as -on the day with whose description I open this history. I put up at the -"Saracen Head," and next morning engaged a horse to ride to Mearns. In -the night there had come a change in the weather; I splashed through -slush of melted snow, and soaked in a constant rain, but objected none -at all because it gave me an excuse to keep up the collar of my cloak, -and pull the brim of my hat well forward on my face and so minimise the -risk of identification. - -There is the lichened root of an ancient fallen saugh tree by the side -of Earn Water between Kirkillstane and Driepps that I cannot till this -day look on without a deep emotion. Walter's bairns have seen me sitting -there more than once, and unco solemn so that they have wondered, the -cause beyond their comprehension. It was there I drew up my horse to see -the house of Kirkillstane from the very spot where I had rambled with my -shabby stanzas, and felt the first throb of passion for a woman. - -The country was about me familiar in every dyke and tree and eminence; -where the water sobbed in the pool it had the accent it had in my -dreams; there was a broken branch of ash that trailed above the fall, -where I myself had dragged it once in climbing. The smell of moss and -rotten leafage in the dripping rain, the eerie aspect of the moorland in -the mist, the call of lapwings--all was as I had left it. There was not -the most infinite difference to suggest that I had seen another world, -and lived another life, and become another than the boy that wandered -here. - -I rode along the river to find the smoke rising from my father's -house--thank God! but what the better was the outlaw son for that? Dare -he darken again the door he had disgraced, and disturb anew the hearts -he had made sore? - -I pray my worst enemy may never feel torn by warring dictates of the -spirit as I was that dreary afternoon by the side of Earn; I pray he may -never know the pang with which I decided that old events were best let -lie, and that I must be content with that brief glimpse of home before -setting forth again upon the roads of dubious fortune. Fortune! Did I -not wear just now the very Shoes of Fortune? They had come I knew not -whence, from what magic part and artisan of heathendom I could not even -guess, to my father's brother; they had covered the unresting foot of -him; to me they had brought their curse of discontent, and so in wearing -them I seemed doomed to be the unhappy rover, too. - -The afternoon grew loud with wind as I sat my horse beside the -increasing water; I felt desolate beyond expression. - -"Well, there must be an end of it some way!" I said bitterly, and I -turned to go. - -The storm opposed me as I cantered over Whig-gitlaw, and won by Brooms, -and Bishops Offerance, and Kilree. Shepherds sheltered in the lee -of dykes, and women hurried out and shuttered windows. I saw sheep -hastening into the angles of the fields, and the wild white sea-gull -beating across the sky. The tempest thrashed on me as though it could -not have me go too soon from the country of my shame; I broke the horse -to gallop, and fields and dykes flew by like things demented. - -Then of a sudden the beast grew lame; I searched for a stone or a cast -shoe, but neither ailed him, and plainly the ride to town that night was -impossible. Where the beast failed was within half a mile of Newton, -and at all hazards I decided I must make for the inn there. I felt there -were risks of recognition, but I must run them. I led the horse by a -side path, and reached the inn no sooner than the darkness that fell -that night with unusual suddenness. Lights were in the house, and the -sound of rural merriment in the kitchen, where farm lads drank twopenny -ale, and sang. - -A man--he proved to be the innkeeper--came to my summons with a lantern -in his hand, and held it up to see what wayfarer was this in such a -night. He saw as little of me as my hat and cloak could reveal, and I -saw, what greatly relieved me, that he was not John Warnock, who had -tenanted the inn when I left the country, but a new tenant and one -unknown to me. He helped me to unsaddle the horse, discovered with me -that the lameness would probably succumb to a night in the stall, and -unburdened himself to the questions every unknown traveller in the shire -of Renfrew may expect. - -"You'll be frae Ayr, maybe, or Irvine?" - -No, I was from neither; I was from Glasgow. - -"Say ye sae, noo! Dod! it's nae nicht for travelling and nae wonder your -horse is lamed. Ye'll be for ower Fenwick way, noo, i' the mornin'?" Nor -was I for over Fenwick way in the morning. I was for Glasgow again. - -He looked from the corners of his eyes at this oddity who travelled -like a shuttle in such weather. I was drenched with rain, and my -spatter-dashes, with which I had thought to make up in some degree for -the inadequate foot-wear of red shoes on horseback, were foul with clay. -He presumed I was for supper? - -"No," I answered; "I'm more in the humour for bed, and I will be obliged -if you send to my room for my clothes in a little so that they may be -dry by the time I start in the morning, and I shall set out at seven if -by that time my horse is recovered." - -I drank a tankard of ale for the good of the house, as we say, during -a few minutes in the parlour, making my dripping clothes and a headache -the excuse for refusing the proffered hospitality of the kitchen where -the ploughboys sang, and then went to the little cam-ceiled room where a -hasty bed had been made for me. - -The world outside was full of warring winds and plashing rains, into -which the yokels went at last reluctantly, and when they were gone I -fell asleep, wakening once only for a moment when my wet clothes were -being taken from the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV - -WHEREIN THE SHOES OF FORTUNE BRING ME HOME - -I came down from my cam-ceiled room to a breakfast by candle-light in a -morning that was yet stormy. The landlord himself waited on me ('twas no -other than Ralph Craig that's now retired at the Whinnell), and he had -a score of apologies for his servant lass that had slept in too long, as -he clumsily set a table with his own hand, bringing in its equipment in -single pieces. - -There was a nervousness in his manner that escaped me for a little in -the candle-light, but I saw it finally with some wonder, rueing I had -agreed to have breakfast here at all, and had not taken my horse, now -recovered of his lameness, and pushed on out of a neighbourhood where I -had no right in common sense to be. - -If the meal was slow of coming it was hearty enough, though the host -embarrassed me too much with his attentions. He was clearly interested -in my personality. - -"It's not the first time ye've been in the 'Red Lion,'" said he with -an assurance that made me stare. - -"And what way should you be thinking that?" I asked, beginning to feel -more anxious about my position. - -"Oh, jist a surmise o' my ain," he answered. "Ye kent your way to the -stable in the dark, and then--and then there's whiles a twang o' the -Mearns in your speech." - -This was certainly coming too close! I hastened through my breakfast, -paid my lawing, and ordered out my horse. That took so long that I -surmised the man was wilfully detaining me. "This fellow has certainly -some project to my detriment," I told myself, and as speedily as I might -got into the saddle. Then he said what left no doubt: - -"They'll be gey glad to see ye at the Hazel Den, Mr. Greig." - -I felt a stound of anguish at the words that might in other -circumstances have been true but now were so remote from it. - -"You seem to have a very gleg eye in your head," I said, "and to have a -great interest in my own affairs." - -"No offence, Mr. Paul, no offence!" said he civilly, and indeed abashed. -"There's a lassie in the kitchen that was ance your mither's servant and -she kent your shoes." - -"I hope then you'll say nothing about my being here to any one--for the -sake of the servant's old mistress--that was my mother." - -"That _was_ your mither!" he repeated. "And what for no' yet? She'll be -prood to see ye hame." - -"Is it well with them up there?" I eagerly asked. - -I rode like fury home. The day was come before I reached the dykes of -Hazel Den. Smoke was rising from its chimneys; there was a homely -sound of lowing cattle, and a horse was saddling for my father who was -preparing to ride over to the inn at Newton to capture his errant son. -He stood before the door, a little more grey, a little more bent, a -little more shrunken than when I had seen him last. When I drew up -before him with my hat in my hand and leaped out of the saddle, he -scarcely grasped at first the fact that here was his son. - -"Father! Father!" I cried to him, and he put his arms about my -shoulders. - -"You're there, Paul!" said he at last. "Come your ways in; your dear -mother is making your breakfast." - -I could not have had it otherwise--'twas the welcome I would have -chosen! - -His eyes were brimming over; his voice was full of sobs and laughter as -he cried "Katrine! Katrine!" and my mother came to throw herself into my -arms. - -My Shoes of Fortune had done me their one good office; they had brought -me home. - -And now, my dear David, and Quentin, and Jean, my tale is ended, leaving -some folks who figured therein a space with their ultimate fortunes -unexplained. There is a tomb in Rome that marks the end of Prince -Charles Edward's wanderings and exploits, ambitions, follies, and -passions. Of him and of my countrywoman, Clementina Walkinshaw, you -will by-and-by read with understanding in your history-books. She -died unhappy and disgraced, yet I can never think of her but as -young, beautiful, kind, the fool of her affections, the plaything of -Circumstance. Clancarty's after career I never learned, but Thurot, -not long after I escaped from him in Dunkerque, plundered the town of -Carrickfergus, in Ireland, and was overtaken by three frigates when he -was on his way back to France. His ships were captured and he himself -was killed. You have seen Dr. MacKellar here on a visit from his native -Badenoch; his pardon from the Government was all I got, or all I wished -for, from Mr. Pitt. "And where is Isobel Fortune?" you will ask. You -know her best as your grandmother, my wife. My Shoes of Fortune, she -will sometimes say, laughing, brought me first and last Miss Fortune; -indeed they did! I love them for it, but I love you, too, and hope to -keep you from the Greig's temptation, so they are to the fore no longer. - -THE END - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE *** - -***** This file should be named 43732.txt or 43732.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/3/43732/ - -Produced by David Widger - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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-The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro
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-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shoes of Fortune, by Neil Munro
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: The Shoes of Fortune
-
-Author: Neil Munro
-
-Illustrator: A. S. Boyd
-
-Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43732]
-Last Updated: March 8, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOES OF FORTUNE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
-<div style="height: 8em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h1>
-THE SHOES OF FORTUNE
-</h1>
-<h5>
-HOW THEY BROUGHT TO MANHOOD LOVE ADVENTURE AND CONTENT AS ALSO INTO DIVERS
-PERILS ON LAND AND SEA IN FOREIGN PARTS AND IN AN ALIEN ARMY PAUL GREIG OF
-THE HAZEL DEN IN SCOTLAND ONE TIME PURSER OF 'THE SEVEN SISTERS'
-BRIGANTINE OF HULL AND LATE LIEUTENANT IN THE REGIMENT D'AUVERGNE ALL AS
-WRIT BY HIM AND NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME SET FORTH
-</h5>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h2>
-By Neil Munro
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h3>
-Illustrated by A. S. Boyd
-</h3>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage (97K)" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="frontispiece (135K)" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<p>
-<b>CONTENTS</b>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE SHOES OF FORTUNE</b> </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXVI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXVII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXIX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXV </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XL </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XLI </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XLII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLIII </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLIV </a>
-</p>
-
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-THE SHOES OF FORTUNE
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER I
-</h2>
-<h3>
-NARRATES HOW I CAME TO QUIT THE STUDY OF LATIN AND THE LIKE, AND TAKE TO
-HARD WORK IN A MOORLAND COUNTRY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t is an odd thing, chance—the one element to baffle the logician
-and make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the
-sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the
-incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this
-day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase and
-sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate overlooked,
-sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh—a moody soured man with a
-jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment to office. I
-might have been that, or less, if it had not been for so trifling a
-circumstance as the burning of an elderly woman's batch of scones. Had
-Mistress Grant a more attentive eye to her Culross griddle, what time the
-scones for her lodgers, breakfast were a-baking forty years ago, I would
-never have fled furth my native land in a mortal terror of the gallows:
-had her griddle, say, been higher on the swee-chain by a link or two, Paul
-Greig would never have foregathered with Dan Risk, the blackguard skipper
-of a notorious craft; nor pined in a foreign jail; nor connived,
-unwitting, at a prince's murder; nor marched the weary leagues of France
-and fought there on a beggar's wage. And this is not all that hung that
-long-gone day upon a woman's stair-head gossip to the neglect of her <i>cuisine</i>,
-for had this woman been more diligent at her baking I had probably never
-seen my Isobel with a lover's eye.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, here's one who can rarely regret the past except that it is gone. It
-was hard, it was cruel often; dangers the most curious and unexpected
-beset me, and I got an insight to deep villainies whereof man may be
-capable; yet on my word, if I had the parcelling out of a second life for
-myself, I think I would have it not greatly differing from the first, that
-seems in God's providence like to end in the parish where it started,
-among kent and friendly folk. I would not swear to it, yet I fancy I would
-have Lucky Grant again gossiping on her stair-head and her scones burned
-black, that Mackellar, my fellow-lodger, might make me once more, as he
-used to do, the instrument of his malcontent.
-</p>
-<p>
-I mind, as it were yesterday, his gloomy look at the platter that morn's
-morning. “Here they are again!” cried he, “fired to a cinder; it's always
-that with the old wife, or else a heart of dough. For a bawbee I would
-throw them in her face.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, not so much as that.” said I, “though it is mighty provoking.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, always glooming at the platter with
-his dark, wild Hielan' eye. “I'm not thinking of myself,” said he, “but
-it's something by way of an insult to you, that had to complain of
-Sunday's haddocks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, as to them,” quo' I, “they did brawly for me; 'twas you put your
-share in your pocket and threw it away on the Green. Besides the scones
-are not so bad as they look”—I broke one and ate; “they're owre good
-at least for a hungry man like me to send back where they came from.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His face got red. “What's that rubbish about the haddocks and the Green?”
- said he. “You left me at my breakfast when you went to the Ram's Horn
-Kirk.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And that's true, Jock,” said I; “but I think I have made no' so bad a
-guess. You were feared to affront the landlady by leaving her ancient fish
-on the ashet, and you egged me on to do the grumbling.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, it's as sure as death, Paul,” said he shamefacedly, “I hate to vex
-a woman. And you're a thought wrong in your guess”—he laughed at his
-own humour as he said it—“for when you were gone to your kirk I
-transferred my share of the stinking fish to your empty plate.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He jouked his head, but scarcely quick enough, for my Sallust caught him
-on the ear. He replied with a volume of Buchanan the historian, the man I
-like because he skelped the Lord's anointed, James the First, and for a
-time there was war in Lucky Grant's parlour room, till I threw him into
-the recess bed snibbed the door, and went abroad into the street leaving
-my room-fellow for once to utter his own complaints.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went out with the itch of battle on me, and that was the consequence of
-a woman's havering while scones burned, and likewise my undoing, for the
-High Street when I came to it was in the yeasty ferment of encountering
-hosts, their cries calling poor foolish Paul Greig like a trumpet.
-</p>
-<p>
-It had been a night and morning of snow, though I and Mackellar, so high
-in Lucky Grant's chamber in Crombie's Land, had not suspected it. The dull
-drab streets, with their crazy, corbelled gable-ends, had been transformed
-by a silent miracle of heaven into something new and clean; where noisome
-gutters were wont to brim with slops there was the napkin of the Lord.
-</p>
-<p>
-For ordinary I hated this town of my banishment; hated its tun-bellied
-Virginian merchants, so constantly airing themselves upon the Tontine
-piazza and seeming to suffer from prosperity as from a disease; and felt
-no great love of its women—always so much the madame to a
-drab-coated lad from the moorlands; suffered from its greed and stifled
-with the stinks of it. “Gardyloo! Gardyloo! Gardyloo!” Faith! I hear that
-evening slogan yet, and see the daunderers on the Rottenrow skurry like
-rats into the closes to escape the cascades from the attic windows. And
-while I think I loved learning (when it was not too ill to come by), and
-was doing not so bad in my Humanities, the carven gateway of the college
-in my two sessions of a scholar's fare never but scowled upon me as I
-entered.
-</p>
-<p>
-But the snow that morning made of the city a place wherein it was good to
-be young, warm-clad, and hardy. It silenced the customary traffic of the
-street, it gave the morning bells a song of fairydom and the valleys of
-dream; up by-ordinary tall and clean-cut rose the crow-stepped walls, the
-chimney heads, and steeples, and I clean forgot my constant fancy for the
-hill of Ballageich and the heather all about it. And war raged. The
-students faced 'prentice lads and the journeymen of the crafts with
-volleys of snowballs; the merchants in the little booths ran out tremulous
-and vainly cried the watch. Charge was made and counter-charge; the air
-was thick with missiles, and close at hand the silver bells had their
-merry sweet chime high over the city of my banishment drowned by the
-voices taunting and defiant.
-</p>
-<p>
-Merry was that day, but doleful was the end of it, for in the fight I
-smote with a snowball one of the bailies of the burgh, who had come waving
-his three-cocked hat with the pomp and confidence of an elected man and
-ordering an instant stoppage of our war: he made more ado about the
-dignity of his office than the breakage of his spectacles, and I was haled
-before my masters, where I fear I was not so penitent as prudence would
-advise.
-</p>
-<p>
-Two days later my father came in upon Dawson's cart to convoy me home. He
-saw the Principal, he saw the regents of the college, and up, somewhat
-clashed and melancholy, he climbed to my lodging. Mackellar fled before
-his face as it had been the face of the Medusa.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Paul,” said my father, “it seems we made a mistake about your
-birthday.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Did you?” said I, without meaning, for I knew he was ironical.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It would seem so, at any rate,” said he, not looking my airt at all, but
-sideways to the window and a tremor in his voice. “When your mother packed
-your washing last Wednesday and slipped the siller I was not supposed to
-see into a stocking-foot, she said, 'Now he's twenty and the worst of it
-over.' Poor woman! she was sadly out of her reckoning. I'm thinking I have
-here but a bairn of ten. You should still be at the dominie's.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I was not altogether to blame, father,” I cried. “The thing was an
-accident.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Of course, of course,” said he soothingly. “Was't ever otherwise when the
-devil joggled an elbow? Whatever it was, accident or design, it's a
-session lost. Pack up, Paul, my very young boy, and we'll e'en make our
-way quietly from this place where they may ken us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He paid the landlady her lawing, with sixpence over for her motherliness,
-whereat she was ready to greet, and he took an end of my blue kist down
-the stairs with me, and over with it like a common porter to the carrier's
-stance.
-</p>
-<p>
-A raw, raining day, and the rough highways over the hoof with slush of
-melted snow, we were a chittering pair as we drove under the tilt of the
-cart that came to the Mearns to meet us, and it was a dumb and solemn
-home-coming for me.
-</p>
-<p>
-Not that I cared much myself, for my lawyership thus cracked in the shell,
-as it were I had been often seized with the notion that six feet of a
-moor-lander, in a lustre gown and a horse-hair wig and a blue shalloon bag
-for the fees, was a wastry of good material. But it was the dad and her at
-home I thought of, and could put my neck below the cartwheel for
-distressing. I knew what he thought of as he sat in the cart corner, for
-many a time he had told me his plans; and now they were sadly marred. I
-was to get as much as I could from the prelections of Professor Reid, work
-my way through the furrows of Van Eck, Van Muyden, and the Pandects, then
-go to Utrecht or Groningen for the final baking, and come back to the desk
-of Coghill and Sproat, Writers to the Signet, in Spreull's Land of
-Edinburgh; run errands between that dusty hole and the taverns of
-Salamander Land, where old Sproat (that was my father's doer) held long
-sederunts with his clients, to write a thesis finally, and graduate at the
-art of making black look—not altogether white perhaps, but a kind of
-dirty grey. I had been even privileged to try a sampling of the lawyer's
-life before I went to college, in the chambers of MacGibbon of Lanark
-town, where I spent a summer (that had been more profitably passed in my
-father's fields), backing letters, fair-copying drafts of lease and
-process, and indexing the letter-book. The last I hated least of all, for
-I could have a half-sheet of foolscap between the pages, and under
-MacGibbon's very nose try my hand at something sombre in the manner of the
-old ancient ballads of the Border. Doing that same once, I gave a wild cry
-and up with my inky hand and shook it. “Eh! eh!” cried MacGibbon, thinking
-I had gone mad. “What ails ye?” “He struck me with his sword!” said I like
-a fool, not altogether out of my frenzy; and then the snuffy old body came
-round the corner of the desk, keeked into the letter-book where I should
-have been doing his work, and saw that I was wasting good paper with
-clinking trash. “Oh, sirs! sirs! I never misused a minute of my youth in
-the like of that!” said he, sneering, and the sneer hurt. “No, I daresay
-not,” I answered him. “Perhaps ye never had the inclination—nor the
-art.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have gone through the world bound always to say what was in me, and that
-has been my sore loss more than once; but to speak thus to an old man, who
-had done me no ill beyond demonstrating the general world's attitude to
-poetry and men of sentiment, was the blackest insolence. He was well
-advised to send me home for a leathering at my father's hands. And I got
-the leathering, too, though it was three months after. I had been off in
-the interim upon a sloop ship out of Ayr.
-</p>
-<p>
-But here I am havering, and the tilted cart with my father and me in it
-toiling on the mucky way through the Meams; and it has escaped couping
-into the Earn at the ford, and it has landed us at the gate of home; and
-in all that weary journey never a word, good or ill, from the man that
-loved me and my mother before all else in a world he was well content
-with.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mother was at the door; that daunted me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ye must be fair starving, Paul,” quoth she softly with her hand on my
-arm, and I daresay my face was blae with cold and chagrin. But my father
-was not to let a disgrace well merited blow over just like that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's our little Paul, Katrine,” said he, and me towering a head or two
-above the pair of them and a black down already on my face. “Here's our
-little Paul. I hope you have not put by his bibs and daidlies, for the wee
-man's not able to sup the good things of this life clean yet.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And that was the last word of reproof I heard for my folly from my father
-Quentin Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER II
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MISS FORTUNE'S TRYST BY WATER OF EARN, AND HOW I MARRED THE SAME
-UNWITTINGLY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or the most part of a year I toiled and moiled like any crofter's son on
-my father's poor estate, and dreary was the weird I had to dree, for my
-being there at all was an advertisement to the countryside of what a fool
-was young Paul Greig. “The Spoiled Horn” was what they called me in the
-neighbourhood (I learned it in the taunt of a drunken packman), for I had
-failed at being the spoon I was once designed for, and there was not a
-ne'er-do-weel peasant nor a bankrupt portioner came craving some benefit
-to my father's door but made up for his deference to the laird by his free
-manner with the laird's son. The extra tenderness of my mother (if that
-were possible) only served to swell my rebel heart, for I knew she was but
-seeking to put me in a better conceit of myself, and I found a place
-whereof I had before been fond exceedingly assume a new complexion. The
-rain seemed to fall constantly that year, and the earth in spring was
-sodden and sour. Hazel Den House appeared sunk in the rotten leafage of
-the winter long after the lambs came home and the snipe went drumming on
-the marsh, and the rookery in the holm plantation was busy with scolding
-parents tutoring their young. A solemn house at its best—it is so
-yet, sometimes I think, when my wife is on a jaunt at her sister's and
-Walter's bairns are bedded—it was solemn beyond all description that
-spring, and little the better for the coming of summer weather. For then
-the trees about it, that gave it over long billows of untimbered
-countryside an aspect of dark importance, by the same token robbed it (as
-I thought then) of its few amenities. How it got the name of Hazel Den I
-cannot tell, for autumn never browned a nut there. It was wych elm and ash
-that screened Hazel Den House; the elms monstrous and grotesque with
-knotty growths: when they were in their full leaf behind the house they
-hid the valley of the Clyde and the Highland hills, that at bleaker
-seasons gave us a sense of companionship with the wide world beyond our
-infield of stunted crops. The ash towered to the number of two score and
-three towards the south, shutting us off from the view there, and working
-muckle harm to our kitchen-garden. Many a time my father was for cutting
-them down, but mother forbade it, though her syboes suffered from the
-shade and her roses grew leggy and unblooming. “That,” said she, “is the
-want of constant love: flowers are like bairns; ye must be aye thinking of
-them kindly to make them thrive.” And indeed there might be something in
-the notion, for her apple-ringie and Dutch Admiral, jonquils,
-gillyflowers, and peony-roses throve marvellously, better then they did
-anywhere in the shire of Renfrew while she lived and tended them and have
-never been quite the same since she died, even with a paid gardener to
-look after them.
-</p>
-<p>
-A winter loud with storm, a spring with rain-rot in the fallen leaf, a
-summer whose foliage but made our home more solitary than ever, a short
-autumn of stifling heats—that was the year the Spoiled Horn tasted
-the bitterness of life, the bitterness that comes from the want of an aim
-(that is better than the best inheritance in kind) and from a
-consciousness that the world mistrusts your ability. And to cap all, there
-was no word about my returning to the prelections of Professor Reid, for a
-reason which I could only guess at then, but learned later was simply the
-want of money.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father comported himself to me as if I were doomed to fall into a
-decline, as we say, demanding my avoidance of night airs, preaching the
-Horatian virtues of a calm life in the fields, checking with a reddened
-face and a half-frightened accent every turn of the conversation that gave
-any alluring colour to travel or adventure. Notably he was dumb, and so
-was my mother, upon the history of his family. He had had four brothers:
-three of them I knew were dead and their tombs not in Mearns kirkyard; one
-of them, Andrew, the youngest, still lived: I feared it might be in a
-bedlam, by the avoidance they made of all reference to him. I was fated,
-then, for Bedlam or a galloping consumption—so I apprehended
-dolefully from the mystery of my folk; and the notion sent me often
-rambling solitary over the autumn moors, cultivating a not unpleasing
-melancholy and often stringing stanzas of a solemn complexion that I
-cannot recall nowadays but with a laugh at my folly.
-</p>
-<p>
-A favourite walk of mine in these moods was along the Water of Earn, where
-the river chattered and sang over rocks and shallows or plunged thundering
-in its linn as it did ere I was born and shall do when I and my story are
-forgotten. A pleasant place, and yet I nearly always had it to myself
-alone.
-</p>
-<p>
-I should have had it always to myself but for one person—Isobel
-Fortune from the Kirkillstane. She seemed as little pleased to meet me
-there as I was to meet her, though we had been brought up in the same
-school together; and when I would come suddenly round a bend of the road
-and she appeared a hundred yards off, I noticed that she half stopped and
-seemed, as it were, to swither whether she should not turn and avoid me.
-It would not have surprised me had she done so, for, to tell the truth, I
-was no very cheery object to contemplate upon a pleasant highway, with the
-bawbee frown of a poetic gloom upon my countenance and the most curt of
-salutations as I passed. What she did there all her lone so often mildly
-puzzled me, till I concluded she was on a tryst with some young gentleman
-of the neighbourhood; but as I never saw sign of him, I did not think
-myself so much the marplot as to feel bound to take another road for my
-rambling. I was all the surer 'twas a lover she was out to meet, because
-she reddened guiltily each time that we encountered (a fine and sudden
-charm to a countenance very striking and beautiful, as I could not but
-observe even then when weightier affairs engaged me); but it seemed I was
-all in error, for long after she maintained she was, like myself,
-indulging a sentimental humour that she found go very well in tune with
-the noise of Earn Water.
-</p>
-<p>
-As it was her habit to be busily reading when we thus met, I had little
-doubt as to the ownership of a book that one afternoon I found on the road
-not long after passing her. It was—of all things in the world!—Hervey's
-“Meditations.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's an odd graveyard taste for a lass of that stamp,” thought I,
-hastening back after her to restore the book, and when I came up to her
-she was—not red this time, but wan to the very lips, and otherwise
-in such confusion that she seemed to tremble upon her legs, “I think this
-is yours, Isobel,” says I: we were too well acquaint from childhood for
-any address more formal.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, thank you, Paul,” said she hastily. “How stupid of me to lose it!”
- She took it from me; her eye fell (for the first time, I felt sure) upon
-the title of the volume, and she bit her lip in a vexation. I was all the
-more convinced that her book was but a blind in her rambles, and that
-there was a lover somewhere; and I think I must have relaxed my silly
-black frown a little, and my proud melancholy permitted a faint smile of
-amusement. The flag came to her face then.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Thank you,” said she very dryly, and she left me in the middle of the
-road, like a stirk. If it had been no more than that, I should have
-thought it a girl's tantrum; but the wonder was to come, for before I had
-taken three steps on my resumed way I heard her run after me. I stopped,
-and she stopped, and the notion struck me like a rhyme of song that there
-was something inexpressibly pleasant in her panting breath and her heaving
-bosom, where a pebble brooch of shining red gleamed like an eye between
-her breasts.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm not going to tell you a lie about it, Master Paul,” she said, almost
-like to cry; “I let the book fall on purpose.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I could have guessed as much as that, Isobel,” said I, wondering who
-in all the world the fellow was. Her sun-bonnet had fallen from her head
-in her running, and hung at her back on its pink ribbons, and a curl or
-two of her hair played truant upon her cheek and temple. It seemed to me
-the young gentleman she was willing to let a book drop for as a signal of
-her whereabouts was lucky enough.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! you could have guessed!” she repeated, with a tone in which were
-dumbfounderment and annoyance; “then I might have saved myself the
-trouble.” And off she went again, leaving me more the stirk than ever and
-greatly struck at her remorse of conscience over a little sophistry very
-pardonable in a lass caught gallivanting. When she was gone and her frock
-was fluttering pink at the turn of the road, I was seized for the first
-time with a notion that a girl like that some way set off, as we say, or
-suited with, a fine landscape.
-</p>
-<p>
-Not five minutes later I met young David Borland of the Driepps, and there—I
-told myself—the lover was revealed! He let on he was taking a short
-cut for Polnoon, so I said neither buff nor sty as to Mistress Isobel.
-</p>
-<p>
-The cool superiority of the gentleman, who had, to tell the truth, as
-little in his head as I had in the heel of my shoe, somewhat galled me,
-for it cried “Spoiled Horn!” as loud as if the taunt were bawled, so my
-talk with him was short. There was but one topic in it to interest me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Has the man with the scarred brow come yet?” he asked curiously.
-</p>
-<p>
-I did not understand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Then he's not your length yet,” said he, with the manifest gratification
-of one who has the hanselling of great news. “Oh! I came on him this
-morning outside a tavern in the Gorbals, bargaining loudly about a saddle
-horse for Hazel Den. I'll warrant Hazel Den will get a start when it sees
-him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I did not care to show young Borland much curiosity in his story, and so
-it was just in the few words he gave it to me that I brought it home to
-our supper-table.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father and mother looked at each other as if I had told them a tragedy.
-The supper ended abruptly. The evening worship passed unusually fast, my
-father reading the Book as one in a dream, and we went to our beds nigh an
-hour before the customary time.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER III
-</h2>
-<h3>
-OF THE COMING OF UNCLE ANDREW WITH A SCARRED FOREHEAD AND A BRASS-BOUND
-CHEST, AND HOW I TOOK AN INFECTION
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a night—as often happens in the uplands of our shire in
-autumn weather—of vast and brooding darkness: the world seemed to
-swound in a breathless oven, and I had scarcely come to my chamber when
-thunder broke wild upon the world and torrential rain began to fall. I did
-not go to bed, but sat with my candle extinguished and watched the
-lightning show the landscape as if it had been flooded by the gleam of
-moon and star.
-</p>
-<p>
-Between the roar of the thunder and the blatter of the rain there were
-intervals of an astounding stillness of an ominous suspense, and it seemed
-oddly to me, as I sat in my room, that more than I was awake in Hazel Den
-House. I felt sure my father and mother sat in their room, still clad and
-whispering; it was but the illusion of a moment—something felt by
-the instinct and not by reason—and then a louder, nearer peal of
-thunder dispelled the notion, and I made to go to bed.
-</p>
-<p>
-I stopped like one shot, with my waistcoat half undone.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a sound of a horse's hoofs coming up the loan, with the beat of
-them in mire sounding soft enough to make me shiver at the notion of the
-rider's discomfort in that appalling night, and every now and then the
-metal click of shoes, showing the animal over-reached himself in the trot.
-</p>
-<p>
-The rider drew up at the front; a flash of the lightning and the wildest
-thunder-peal of the night seemed to meet among our outhouses, and when the
-roll of the thunder ceased I heard a violent rapping at the outer door.
-</p>
-<p>
-The servants would be long ere they let this late visitor out of the
-storm, I fancied, and I hurried down; but my father was there in the hall
-before me, all dressed, as my curious intuition had informed me, and his
-face strange and inscrutable in the light of a shaded candle. He was
-making to open the door. My appearance seemed to startle him. He paused,
-dubious and a trifle confused.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I thought you had been in bed long ago,” said he, “and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-His sentence was not finished, for the horseman broke in upon it with a
-masterful rataplan upon the oak, seemingly with a whip-head or a pistol
-butt, and a cry, new to my ear and uncanny, rose through the beating rain.
-</p>
-<p>
-With a sigh the most distressing I can mind of, my father seemed to
-reconcile himself to some fate he would have warded off if he could. He
-unbolted and threw back the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our visitor threw himself in upon us as if we held the keys of paradise—a
-man like a rake for lankiness, as was manifest even through the dripping
-wrap-rascal that he wore; bearded cheek and chin in a fashion that must
-seem fiendish in our shaven country; with a wild and angry eye, the Greig
-mole black on his temple, and an old scar livid across his sunburned brow.
-He threw a three-cocked hat upon the floor with a gesture of indolent
-possession.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, I'm damned!” cried he, “but this is a black welcome to one's poor
-brother Andy,” and scarcely looked upon my father standing with the shaded
-candle in the wind. “What's to drink? Drink, do you hear that Quentin?
-Drink—drink—d-r-i-n-k. A long strong drink too, and that's
-telling you, and none of the whey that I'm hearing's running through the
-Greigs now, that once was a reputable family of three bottles and a rummer
-to top all.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Whist, whist, man!” pleaded father tremulously, all the man out of him as
-he stood before this drunken apparition.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Whist I quo' he. Well stap me! do you no' ken the lean pup of the
-litter?” hiccoughed our visitor, with a sort of sneer that made the blood
-run to my head, and for the first time I felt the great, the splendid joy
-of a good cause to fight for.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're Andrew,” said my father simply, putting his hand upon the man's
-coat sleeve in a sympathy for his drenchen clothes.
-</p>
-<p>
-That kindly hand was jerked off rudely, an act as insolent as if he had
-smitten his host upon the mouth: my heart leaped, and my fingers went at
-his throat. I could have spread him out against the wall, though I knew
-him now my uncle; I could have given him the rogue's quittance with a
-black face and a protruding tongue. The candle fell from my father's hand;
-the glass shade shattered; the hall of Hazel Den House was plunged in
-darkness, and the rain drave in through the open door upon us three
-struggling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let him go, Paul,” whispered my father, who I knew was in terror of
-frightening his wife, and he wrestled mightily with an arm of each of us.
-</p>
-<p>
-Yet I could not let my uncle go, for with the other arm he held a knife,
-and he would perhaps have died for it had not another light come on the
-stair and my mother's voice risen in a pitiful cry.
-</p>
-<p>
-We fell asunder on a common impulse, and the drunken wanderer was the
-first to speak.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Katrine,” said he; “it's always the old tale with Andy, you see; they
-must be misunderstanding me,” and he bowed with a surprising
-gentlemanliness that could have made me almost think him not the man who
-had fouled our house with oaths and drawn a knife upon us in the darkness.
-The blade of the same, by a trick of legerdemain, had gone up the sleeve
-of his dripping coat. He seemed all at once sobered. He took my good
-mother by the hand as she stood trembling and never to know clearly upon
-what elements of murder she had come.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is you, Andrew,” said she, bravely smiling. “What a night to come home
-in after twenty years! I'm wae to see you in such a plight. And your
-horse?” said she again, lifting her candle and peering into the darkness
-of the night. “I must cry up Sandy to stable your horse.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I'll give my uncle the credit of a confusion at his own forgetfulness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good Lord! Katrine,” said he, “if I did not clean forget the brute, a
-fiddle-faced, spavined, spatter-dasher of a Gorbals mare, no' worth her
-corn; but there's my bit kistie on her hump.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The servant was round soon at the stabling of the mare, and my mother was
-brewing something of what the gentleman had had too much already, though
-she could not guess that; and out of the dripping night he dragged in none
-of a rider's customary holsters but a little brass-bound chest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yon night I set out for my fortune, Quentin,” said he, “I did not think I
-would come back with it a bulk so small as this; did you? It was the sight
-of the quiet house and the thought of all it contained that made me act
-like an idiot as I came in. Still, we must just take the world as we get
-it, Quentin; and I knew I was sure of a warm welcome in the old house,
-from one side of it if not from the other, for the sake of lang syne. And
-this is your son, is it?” he went on, looking at my six feet of
-indignation not yet dead “Split me if there's whey in that piece! You near
-jammed my hawze that time! Your Uncle Andrew's hawze, boy. Are you not
-ashamed of yourself?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not a bit,” said I between my teeth; “I leave that to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He smiled till his teeth shone white in his black beard, and “Lord!” cried
-he, “I'm that glad I came. It was but the toss of a bawbee, when I came to
-Leith last week, whether I should have a try at the old doocot, or up Blue
-Peter again and off to the Indies. I hate ceiled rooms—they mind me
-of the tomb; I'm out of practice at sitting doing nothing in a parlour and
-saying grace before meat, and—I give you warning, Quentin—I'll
-be damned if I drink milk for supper. It was the notion of milk for supper
-and all that means that kept me from calling on Katrine—and you—any
-sooner. But I'm glad I came to meet a lad of spirit like young Andy here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not Andy,” said my father. “Paul is his name.”
- </p>
-<p>
-My uncle laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That was ill done of you, Quentin,” said he; “I think it was as little as
-Katrine and you could do to have kept up the family name. I suppose you
-reckoned to change the family fate when you made him Paul. H'm! You must
-have forgotten that Paul the Apostle wandered most, and many ways fared
-worst of all the rest. I haven't forgotten my Bible, you see, Quentin.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We were now in the parlour room; a servant lass was puffing up a
-new-lighted fire; my uncle, with his head in the shade, had his greatcoat
-off, and stood revealed in shabby garments that had once been most
-genteel; and his brass-bound fortune, that he seemed averse from parting
-with a moment, was at his feet. Getting no answer to what he had said of
-the disciples, he looked from one to the other of us and laughed slyly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Take off your boots, Andy,” said my father.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And where have you been since—since—the Plantations?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stow that, Quentin!” cried my uncle, with an oath and his eye on me.
-“What Plantations are you blethering about? And where have I been? Ask me
-rather where have I not been. It makes me dizzy even to think of it: with
-rotten Jesuits and Pagan gentlemen; with France and Spain, and with filthy
-Lascars, lying Greeks, Eboe slaves, stinking niggers, and slit-eyed
-Chinese! Oh! I tell you I've seen things in twenty years. And places, too:
-this Scotland, with its infernal rain and its grey fields and its rags,
-looks like a nightmare to me yet. You may be sure I'll be out of it pretty
-fast again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Poor Scotland!” said father ambiguously.
-</p>
-<p>
-There must be people in the world who are oddly affected by the names of
-places, peoples, things that have never come within their own experience.
-Till this day the name of Barbadoes influences me like a story of
-adventure; and when my Uncle Andrew—lank, bearded, drenched with
-storm, stood in our parlour glibly hinting at illimitable travel, I lost
-my anger with the tipsy wretch and felt a curious glow go through my
-being.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER IV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I COME UPON THE RED SHOES
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">U</span>ncle Andrew settled for the remainder of his time into our domestic world
-at Hazel Den as if his place had been kept warm for him since ever he went
-away. For the remainder of his time, I say, because he was to be in the
-clods of Mearns kirkyard before the hips and haws were off the hedges; and
-I think I someway saw his doom in his ghastly countenance the first
-morning he sat at our breakfast table, contrite over his folly of the
-night before, as you could see, but carrying off the situation with
-worldly <i>sang froid</i>, and even showing signs of some affection for my
-father.
-</p>
-<p>
-His character may be put in two words—he was a lovable rogue; his
-tipsy bitterness to the goodman his brother may be explained almost as
-briefly: he had had a notion of Katrine Oliver, and had courted her before
-ever she met my father, and he had lost her affection through his own
-folly. Judging from what I would have felt myself in the like
-circumstances, his bitterest punishment for a life ill spent must have
-been to see Katrine Oliver's pitying kindness to him now, and the sight of
-that douce and loving couple finding their happiness in each other must
-have been a constant sermon to him upon repentance.
-</p>
-<p>
-Yet, to tell the truth, I fear my Uncle Andrew was not constituted for
-repentance or remorse. He had slain a man honestly once, and had suffered
-the Plantations, but beyond that (and even that included, as he must ever
-insist) he had been guilty of no mean act in all his roving career.
-Follies—vices—extremes—ay, a thousand of them; but for
-most his conscience never pricked him. On the contrary, he would narrate
-with gusto the manifold jeopardies his own follies brought him into; his
-wan face, nigh the colour of a shroud, would flush, and his eyes dance
-humorously as he shocked the table when we sat at meals, our spoons
-suspended in the agitation created by his wonderful histories.
-</p>
-<p>
-Kept to a moderation with the bottle, and with the constant influence of
-my mother, who used to feed the rogue on vegetables and, unknown to him,
-load his broth with simples as a cure for his craving, Uncle Andrew was,
-all things considered, an acquisition to Hazel Den House. Speaking for
-myself, he brought the element of the unusual and the unexpected to a
-place where routine had made me sick of my own society; and though the man
-in his sober senses knew he was dying on his feet, he was the cheeriest
-person of our company sequestered so remote in the moors. It was a lesson
-in resignation to see yon merry eyes loweing like lamps over his tombstone
-cheeks, and hear him crack a joke in the flushed and heaving interludes of
-his cough.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was to me he ever directed the most sensational of his extraordinary
-memorials. My father did not like it; I saw it in his eye. It was apparent
-to me that a remonstrance often hung on the tip of his tongue. He would
-invent ridiculous and unnecessary tasks to keep me out of reach of that
-alluring <i>raconteur</i>, and nobody saw it plainer than Uncle Andrew,
-who but laughed with the mischievousness of a boy.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, the long and short of it was just what Quentin Greig feared—the
-Spoiled Horn finally smit with a hunger for the road of the Greigs. For
-three hundred years—we could go no further back, because of a bend
-sinister—nine out of ten of that family had travelled that road,
-that leads so often to a kistful of sailor's shells and a death with boots
-on. It was a fate in the blood, like the black hair of us, the mole on the
-temple, and the trick of irony. It was that ailment my father had feared
-for me; it was that kept the household silent upon missing brothers (they
-were dead, my uncle told me, in Trincomalee, and in Jamaica, and a yard in
-the Borough of London); it was that inspired the notion of a lawyer's life
-for Paul Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-Just when I was in the deepmost confidence of Uncle Andrew, who was by
-then confined to his bed and suffering the treatment of Doctor Clews, his
-stories stopped abruptly and he began to lament the wastry of his life. If
-the thing had been better acted I might have been impressed, for our
-follies never look just like what they are till we are finally on the
-broad of our backs and the Fell Sergeant's step is at the door. But it was
-not well acted; and when the wicked Uncle Andrew groaned over the very
-ploys he had a week ago exulted in, I recognised some of my mother's
-commonest sentiments in his sideways sermon. She had got her quondam Andy,
-for lang syne's sake, to help her keep her son at home; and he was doing
-his best, poor man, but a trifle late in the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Uncle Andrew,” said I, never heeding his homily, “tell me what came of
-the pock-marked tobacco planter when you and the negro lay in the swamp
-for him?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He groaned hopelessly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A rotten tale, Paul, my lad,” said he, never looking me in the face; “I
-rue the day I was mixed up in that affair.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But it was a good story so far as it went, no further gone than Wednesday
-last,” I protested.
-</p>
-<p>
-He laughed at that, and for half an hour he put off the new man of my
-mother's bidding, and we were on the old naughty footing again. He
-concluded by bequeathing to me for the twentieth time the brass-bound
-chest, and its contents that we had never seen nor could guess the nature
-of. But now for the first time he let me know what I might expect there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's not what Quentin might consider much,” said he, “for there's not a
-guelder of money in it, no, nor so little as a groat, for as the world's
-divided ye can't have both the money and the dance, and I was aye the
-fellow for the dance. There's scarcely anything in it, Paul, but the trash—ahem!—that
-is the very fitting reward of a life like mine.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still and on, uncle,” said I, “it is a very good tale about the
-pock-marked man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah! You're there, Greig!” cried the rogue, laughing till his hoast came
-to nigh choke him. “Well, the kist's yours, anyway, such as it is; and
-there's but one thing in it—to be strict, a pair—that I set
-any store by as worth leaving to my nephew.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It ought to be spurs,” said I, “to drive me out of this lamentable
-countryside and to where a fellow might be doing something worth while.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Eh!” he cried, “you're no' so far off it, for it's a pair of shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A pair of shoes!” I repeated, half inclined to think that Uncle Andrew
-was doited at last.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A pair of shoes, and perhaps in some need of the cobbler, for I have worn
-them a good deal since I got them in Madras. They were not new when I got
-them, but by the look of them they're not a day older now. They have got
-me out of some unco' plights in different parts of the world, for all that
-the man who sold them to me at a bonny penny called them the Shoes of
-Sorrow; and so far as I ken, the virtue's in them yet.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A doomed man's whim,” thought I, and professed myself vastly gratified by
-his gift.
-</p>
-<p>
-He died next morning. It was Candlemas Day. He went out at last like a
-crusie wanting oil. In the morning he had sat up in bed to sup porridge
-that, following a practice I had made before his reminiscences concluded,
-I had taken in to him myself. Tremendous long and lean the upper part of
-him looked, and the cicatrice upon his brow made his ghastliness the more
-appalling. When he sat against the bolsters he could see through the
-window into the holm field, and, as it happened, what was there but a wild
-young roe-deer driven down from some higher part of the country by stress
-of winter weather, and a couple of mongrel dogs keeping him at bay in an
-angle of the fail dyke.
-</p>
-<p>
-I have seldom seen a man more vastly moved than Uncle Andrew looking upon
-this tragedy of the wilds. He gasped as though his chest would crack, a
-sweat burst on his face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's—that's the end o't, Paul, my lad!” said he. “Yonder's your
-roving uncle, and the tykes have got him cornered at last. No more the
-heather and the brae; no more—no more—no more—”
- </p>
-<p>
-Such a change came on him that I ran and cried my mother ben, and she and
-father were soon at his bedside.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was to her he turned his eyes, that had seen so much of the spacious
-world of men and women and all their multifarious interests, great and
-little. They shone with a light of memory and affection, so that I got
-there and then a glimpse of the Uncle Andrew of innocence and the Uncle
-Andrew who might have been if fate had had it otherwise.
-</p>
-<p>
-He put out his hand and took hers, and said goodbye.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The hounds have me, Katrine,” said he. “I'm at the fail dyke corner.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'll go out and whistle them off, uncle,” said I, fancying it all a
-doited man's illusion, though the look of death was on him; but I stood
-rebuked in the frank gaze he gave me of a fuller comprehension than mine,
-though he answered me not.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then he took my father's hand in his other, and to him too he said
-farewell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're there, Quentin!” said he; “and Katrine—Katrine—Katrine
-chose by far the better man. God be merciful to poor Andy Greig, a
-sinner.” And these were his last words.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER V
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A SPOILED TRYST, AND OTHER THINGS THAT FOLLOWED ON THE OPENING OF THE
-CHEST
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he funeral was over before I cared to examine my bequest, and then I went
-to it with some reluctance, for if a pair of shoes was the chief contents
-of the brass-bound chest, there was like to be little else except the
-melancholy relics of a botched life. It lay where he left it on the night
-he came—under the foot of his bed—and when I lifted the lid I
-felt as if I was spying upon a man through a keyhole. Yet, when I came
-more minutely to examine the contents, I was disappointed that at the
-first reflection nothing was there half so pregnant as his own most casual
-tale to rouse in me the pleasant excitation of romance.
-</p>
-<p>
-A bairn's caul—that sailor's trophy that has kept many a mariner
-from drowning only that he might die a less pleasant death; a broken
-handcuff, whose meaning I cared not to guess at; a pop or pistol; a
-chap-book of country ballads, that possibly solaced his exile from the
-land they were mostly written about; the batters of a Bible, with nothing
-between them but his name in his mother's hand on the inside of the board;
-a traveller's log or itinerary, covering a period of fifteen years,
-extremely minute in its detail and well written; a broken sixpence and the
-pair of shoes.
-</p>
-<p>
-The broken sixpence moved my mother to tears, for she had had the other
-half twenty years ago, before Andrew Greig grew ne'er-do-weel; the shoes
-failed to rouse in her or in my father any interest whatever. If they
-could have guessed it, they would have taken them there and then and sunk
-them in the deepest linn of Earn.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was little kenspeckle about them saving their colour, which was a
-dull dark red. They were of the most excellent material, with a great deal
-of fine sewing thrown away upon them in parts where it seems to me their
-endurance was in no wise benefited, and an odd pair of silver buckles gave
-at your second glance a foreign look to them.
-</p>
-<p>
-I put them on at the first opportunity: they fitted me as if my feet had
-been moulded to them, and I sat down to the study of the log-book. The
-afternoon passed, the dusk came. I lit a candle, and at midnight, when I
-reached the year of my uncle's escape from the Jesuits of Spain, I came to
-myself gasping, to find the house in an alarm, and that lanthorns were out
-about Earn Water looking for me, while all the time I was <i>perdu</i> in
-the dead uncle's chamber in the baron's wing, as we called it, of Hazel
-Den House. I pretended I had fallen asleep; it was the first and the last
-time I lied to my mother, and something told me she knew I was deceiving
-her. She looked at the red shoes on my feet.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ugly brogues!” said she; “it's a wonder to me you would put them on your
-feet. You don't know who has worn them.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“They were Uncle Andy's,” said I, complacently looking at them, for they
-fitted like a glove; the colour was hardly noticeable in the evening, and
-the buckles were most becoming.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ay! and many a one before him, I'm sure,” said she, with distaste in her
-tone, “I don't think them nice at all, Paul,” and she shuddered a little.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's but a freit,” said I; “but it's not likely I'll wear much of such
-a legacy.” I went up and left them in the chest, and took the diary into
-my own room and read Uncle Andrew's marvellous adventures in the trade of
-rover till it was broad daylight.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I had come to the conclusion it seemed as if I had been in the
-delirium of a fever, so tempestuous and unreal was that memoir of a wild
-loose life. The sea was there, buffeting among the pages in rollers and
-breakers; there were the chronicles of a hundred ports, with boozing kens
-and raving lazarettos in them; far out isles and cays in nameless oceans,
-and dozing lagoons below tropic skies; a great clash of weapons and a
-bewildering deal of political intrigue in every part of the Continent from
-Calais to Constantinople. My uncle's narrative in life had not hinted at
-one half the marvel of his career, and I read his pages with a rapture, as
-one hears a noble piece of music, fascinated to the uttermost, and finding
-no moral at the end beyond that the world we most of us live in with
-innocence and ignorance is a crust over tremendous depths. And then I
-burned the book. It went up in a grey smoke on the top of the fire that I
-had kept going all night for its perusal; and the thing was no sooner done
-than I regretted it, though the act was dictated by the seemly enough idea
-that its contents would only distress my parents if they came to their
-knowledge.
-</p>
-<p>
-For days—for weeks—for a season—I went about, my head
-humming with Uncle Andy's voice recounting the most stirring of his
-adventures as narrated in the log-book. I had been infected by almost his
-first words the night he came to Hazel Den House, and made a magic chant
-of the mere names of foreign peoples; now I was fevered indeed; and when I
-put on the red shoes (as I did of an evening, impelled by some dandyism
-foreign to my nature hitherto), they were like the seven-league boots for
-magic, as they set my imagination into every harbour Uncle Andy had
-frequented and made me a guest at every inn where he had met his boon
-companions.
-</p>
-<p>
-I was wearing them the next time I went on my excursion to Earn side and
-there met Isobel Fortune, who had kept away from the place since I had
-smiled at my discovery of her tryst with Hervey's “Meditations.” She came
-upon me unexpectedly, when the gentility of my shoes and the recollection
-of all that they had borne of manliness was making me walk along the road
-with a very high head and an unusually jaunty step.
-</p>
-<p>
-She seemed struck as she came near, with her face displaying her
-confusion, and it seemed to me she was a new woman altogether—at
-least, not the Isobel I had been at school with and seen with an
-indifferent eye grow up like myself from pinafores. It seemed suddenly
-scandalous that the like of her should have any correspondence with so
-ill-suited a lover as David Borland of the Dreipps.
-</p>
-<p>
-For the first time (except for the unhappy introduction of Hervey's
-“Meditations”) we stopped to speak to each other. She was the most
-bewitching mixture of smiles and blushes, and stammering now and then, and
-vastly eager to be pleasant to me, and thinks I, “My lass, you're keen on
-trysting when it's with Borland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The very thought of the fellow in that connection made me angry in her
-interest; and with a mischievous intention of spoiling his sport if he
-hovered, as I fancied, in the neighbourhood, or at least of delaying his
-happiness as long as I could, I kept the conversation going very blithe
-indeed.
-</p>
-<p>
-She had a laugh, low and brief, and above all sincere, which is the great
-thing in laughter, that was more pleasant to hear than the sound of Earn
-in its tinkling hollow among the ferns: it surprised me that she should
-favour my studied and stupid jocosities with it so frequently. Here was
-appreciation! I took, in twenty minutes, a better conceit of myself, than
-the folks at home could have given me in the twelve months since I left
-the college, and I'll swear to this date 'twas the consciousness of my
-fancy shoes that put me in such good key.
-</p>
-<p>
-She saw my glance to them at last complacently, and pretended herself to
-notice them for the first time.
-</p>
-<p>
-She smiled—little hollows came near the corners of her lips; of a
-sudden I minded having once kissed Mistress Grant's niece in a stair-head
-frolic in Glasgow High Street, and the experience had been pleasant
-enough.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They're very nice,” said Isobel.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They're all that,” said I, gazing boldly at her dimples. She flushed and
-drew in her lips.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no!” I cried, ”'twas not them I was thinking of; but their neighbours.
-I never saw you had dimples before.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that she was redder than ever.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I could not help that, Paul,” said she; “they have been always there, and
-you are getting very audacious. I was thinking of your new shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How do you know they're new?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I could tell,” said she, “by the sound of your footstep before you came
-in sight.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It might not have been my footstep,” said I, and at that she was taken
-back.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That is true,” said she, hasty to correct herself. “I only thought it
-might be your footstep, as you are often this way.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It might as readily have been David Borland's. I have seen him about
-here.” I watched her as closely as I dared: had her face changed, I would
-have felt it like a blow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Anyway, they're very nice, your new shoes,” said she, with a marvellous
-composure that betrayed nothing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They were uncle's legacy,” I explained, “and had travelled far in many
-ways about the world; far—and fast.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still they don't seem to be in such a hurry as your old ones,” said
-she, with a mischievous air. Then she hastened to cover what might seem a
-rudeness. “Indeed, they're very handsome, Paul, and become you very much,
-and—and—and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“They're called the Shoes of Sorrow; that's the name my uncle had for
-them,” said I, to help her to her own relief.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I hope it may be no more than a by-name,” she said gravely.
-</p>
-<p>
-The day had the first rumour of spring: green shoots thrust among the bare
-bushes on the river side, and the smell of new turned soil came from a
-field where a plough had been feiring; above us the sky was blue, in the
-north the land was pleasantly curved against silver clouds.
-</p>
-<p>
-And one small bird began to pipe in a clump of willows, that showered a
-dust of gold upon us when the little breeze came among the branches. I
-looked at all and I looked at Isobel Fortune, so trim and bonny, and it
-seemed there and then good to be a man and my fortunes all to try.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sorrow here or sorrow there, Isobel,” I said, “they are the shoes to take
-me away sooner or later from Hazel Den.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She caught my meaning with astounding quickness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are you in earnest?” she asked soberly, and I thought she could not have
-been more vexed had it been David Borland.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Another year of this.” said I, looking at the vacant land, “would break
-my heart.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, Paul, and I thought Earn-side was never so sweet as now,” said
-she, vexed like, as if she was defending a companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That is true, too,” said I, smiling into the very depths of her large
-dark eyes, where I saw a pair of Spoiled Horns as plainly as if I looked
-in sunny weather into Linn of Earn. “That is true, too. I have never been
-better pleased with it than to-day. But what in the world's to keep me?
-It's all bye with the college—at which I'm but middling well
-pleased; it's all bye with the law—for which thanks to Heaven! and,
-though they seem to think otherwise at Hazel Den House, I don't believe
-I've the cut of a man to spend his life among rowting cattle and dour clay
-land.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I daresay not; it's true,” said she stammeringly, with one fast glance
-that saw me from the buckles of my red shoes to the underlids of my eyes.
-For some reason or other she refused to look higher, and the distant
-landscape seemed to have charmed her after that. She drummed with a toe
-upon the path; she bit her nether lip; upon my word, the lass had tears at
-her eyes! I had, plainly, kept her long enough from her lover. “Well, it's
-a fine evening; I must be going,” said I stupidly, making a show at
-parting, and an ugly sense of annoyance with David Borland stirring in my
-heart. “But it will rain before morning,” said she, making to go too, but
-always looking to the hump of Dungoyne that bars the way to the Hielands.
-“I think, after all, Master Paul, I liked the old shoon better than the
-new ones.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Do you say so?” I asked, astonished at the irrelevance that came rapidly
-from her lips, as if she must cry it out or choke. “And how comes that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Just because—” said she, and never a word more, like a woman, nor
-fair good-e'en nor fair good-day to ye, but off she went, and I was the
-stirk again.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked after her till she went out of sight, wondering what had been the
-cause of her tirravee. She fair ran at the last, as if eager to get out of
-my sight; and when she disappeared over the brae that rose from the
-river-side there was a sense of deprivation within me. I was clean gone in
-love and over the lugs in it with Isobel Fortune.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER VI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MY DEED ON THE MOOR OF MEARNS
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext day I shot David Borland of the Driepps.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the seventh of March, the first day I heard the laverock that
-season, and it sang like to burst its heart above the spot where the lad
-fell with a cry among the rushes. It rose from somewhere in our
-neighbourhood, aspiring to the heavens, but chained to earth by its own
-song; and even yet I can recall the eerie influence of that strange
-conjunction of sin and song as I stood knee-deep in the tangle of the moor
-with the pistol smoking in my hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-To go up to the victim of my jealousy as he lay ungainly on the ground,
-his writhing over, was an ordeal I could not face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Davie, Davie!” I cried to him over the thirty paces; but I got no reply
-from yon among the rushes. I tried to wet my cracking lips with a tongue
-like a cork, and “Davie, oh, Davie, are ye badly hurt?” I cried, in a
-voice I must have borrowed from ancient time when my forefathers fought
-with the forest terrors.
-</p>
-<p>
-I listened and I better listened, but Borland still lay there at last, a
-thing insensate like a gangrel's pack, and in all the dreary land there
-was nothing living but the laverock and me.
-</p>
-<p>
-The bird was high—a spot upon the blue; his song, I am sure, was the
-song of his kind, that has charmed lovers in summer fields from old time—a
-melody rapturous, a message like the message of the evening star that God
-no more fondly loves than that small warbler in desert places—and
-yet there and then it deaved me like a cry from hell. No heavenly message
-had the lark for me: he flew aloft there into the invisible, to tell of
-this deed of mine among the rushes. Not God alone would hear him tell his
-story: they might hear it, I knew, in shepherds' cots; they might hear it
-in an old house bowered dark among trees; the solitary witness of my crime
-might spread the hue and cry about the shire; already the law might be on
-the road for young Paul Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-I seemed to listen a thousand years to that telltale in the air; for a
-thousand years I scanned the blue for him in vain, yet when I looked at my
-pistol again the barrel was still warm.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the first time I had handled such a weapon.
-</p>
-<p>
-A senseless tool it seemed, and yet the crooking of a finger made it the
-confederate of hate; though it, with its duty done, relapsed into a
-heedless silence, I, that owned it for my instrument, must be wailing in
-my breast, torn head to foot with thunders of remorse.
-</p>
-<p>
-I raised the hammer, ran a thumb along the flint, seeing something
-fiendish in the jaws that held it; I lifted up the prime-cap, and it
-seemed some miracle of Satan that the dust I had put there in the peace of
-my room that morning in Hazel Den should have disappeared. “Truefitt” on
-the lock; a silver shield and an initial graven on it; a butt with a
-dragon's grin that had seemed ridiculous before, and now seemed to cry
-“Cain!” Lord! that an instrument like this in an unpractised hand should
-cut off all young Borland's earthly task, end his toil with plough and
-harrow, his laugh and story.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked again at the shapeless thing at thirty paces. “It cannot be,” I
-told myself; and I cried again, in the Scots that must make him cease his
-joke, “I ken ye're only lettin' on, Davie. Get up oot o' that and we'll
-cry quits.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But there was no movement; there was no sound; the tell-tale had the
-heavens to himself.
-</p>
-<p>
-All the poltroon in me came a-top and dragged my better man round about,
-let fall the pistol from my nerveless fingers and drove me away from that
-place. It was not the gallows I thought of (though that too was sometimes
-in my mind), but of the frightful responsibility I had made my burden, to
-send a human man before his Maker without a preparation, and my bullet
-hole upon his brow or breast, to tell for ever through the roaring ring of
-all eternity that this was the work of Paul Greig. The rushes of the moor
-hissed me as I ran blindly through them; the tufts of heather over Whiggit
-Knowe caught at me to stop me; the laverock seemed to follow overhead, a
-sergeant of provost determined on his victim.
-</p>
-<p>
-My feet took me, not home to the home that was mine no more, but to
-Earn-side, where I felt the water crying in its linn would drown the sound
-of the noisy laverock; and the familiar scene would blot for a space the
-ugly sight from my eyes. I leant at the side to lave my brow, and could
-scarce believe that this haggard countenance I saw look up at me from the
-innocent waters was the Spoiled Horn who had been reflected in Isobel's
-eyes. Over and over again I wet my lips and bathed my temples; I washed my
-hands, and there was on the right forefinger a mark I bear to this day
-where the trigger guard of the pistol in the moments of my agony had cut
-me to the bone without my knowing it.
-</p>
-<p>
-When my face looked less like clay and my plans were clear, I rose and
-went home.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father and mother were just sitting to supper, and I joined them. They
-talked of a cousin to be married in Drymen at Michaelmas, of an income in
-the leg of our mare, of Sabbath's sermon, of things that were as far from
-me as I from heaven, and I heard them as one in a dream, far-off. What I
-was hearing most of the time was the laverock setting the hue and cry of
-Paul Greig's crime around the world and up to the Throne itself, and what
-I was seeing was the vacant moor, now in the dusk, and a lad's remains
-awaiting their discovery. The victuals choked me as I pretended to eat; my
-father noticed nothing, my mother gave a glance, and a fright was in her
-face.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went up to my room and searched a desk for some verses that had been
-gathering there in my twelve months' degradation, and particularly for one
-no more than a day old with Isobel Fortune for its theme. It was all bye
-with that! I was bound to be glancing at some of the lines as I furiously
-tore them up and threw them out of the window into the bleaching-green;
-and oh! but the black sorrows and glooms that were there recorded seemed a
-mockery in the light of this my terrible experience. They went by the
-window, every scrap: then I felt cut off from every innocent day of my
-youth, the past clean gone from me for ever.
-</p>
-<p>
-The evening worship came.
-</p>
-<p>
-<i>“If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost ends of
-the sea.”</i>
-</p>
-<p>
-My father, peering close at the Book through his spectacles, gave out the
-words as if he stood upon a pulpit, deliberate—too deliberate for
-Cain his son, that sat with his back to the window shading his face from a
-mother's eyes. They were always on me, her eyes, throughout that last
-service; they searched me like a torch in a pit, and wae, wae was her
-face!
-</p>
-<p>
-When we came to pray and knelt upon the floor, I felt as through my shut
-eyes that hers were on me even then, exceeding sad and troubled. They
-followed me like that when I went up, as they were to think, to my bed,
-and I was sitting at my window in the dark half an hour later when she
-came up after me. She had never done the like before since I was a child.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are ye bedded, Paul?” she whispered in the dark.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could not answer her in words, but I stood to my feet and lit a candle,
-and she saw that I was dressed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What ails ye to-night?” she asked trembling. “I'm going away, mother,” I
-answered. “There's something wrong?” she queried in great distress.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There's all that!” I confessed. “It'll be time for you to ken about that
-in the morning, but I must be off this night.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul, Paul!” she cried, “I did not like to see you going out in these
-shoes this afternoon, and I ken't that something ailed ye.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The road to hell suits one shoe as well's another,” said I bitterly;
-“where the sorrow lies is that ye never saw me go out with a different
-heart. Mother, mother, the worst ye can guess is no' so bad as the worst
-ye've yet to hear of your son.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was in a storm of roaring emotions, yet her next words startled me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's Isobel Fortune of the Kirkillstane,” she said, trying hard to smile
-with a wan face in the candle light.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It <i>was</i>—poor dear! Am I not in torment when I think that she
-must know it?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I thought it was that that ailed ye, Paul,” said she, as if she were
-relieved. “Look; I got this a little ago on the bleaching-green—this
-scrap of paper in your write and her name upon it. Maybe I should not have
-read it.” And she handed me part of that ardent ballad I had torn less
-than an hour ago.
-</p>
-<p>
-I held it in the flame of her candle till it was gone, our hands all
-trembling, and “That's the end appointed for Paul Greig,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul, Paul, it cannot be so unco'!” she cried in terror, and clutched
-me at the arm.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is—it is the worst.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And yet—and yet—you're my son, Paul. Tell me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She looked so like a reed in the winter wind, so frail and little and
-shivering in my room, that I dared not tell her there and then. I said it
-was better that both father and she should hear my tale together, and we
-went into the room where already he was bedded but not asleep. He sat up
-staring at our entry, a night-cowl tassel dangling on his brow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There's a man dead—” I began, when he checked me with a shout.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stop, stop!” he cried, and put my mother in a chair. “I have heard the
-tale before with my brother Andy, and the end was not for women's ears.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I must know, Quentin,” said his wife, blanched to the lip but determined,
-and then he put his arm about her waist. It seemed like a second murder to
-wrench those tender hearts that loved me, but the thing was bound to do.
-</p>
-<p>
-I poured out my tale at one breath and in one sentence, and when it ended
-my mother was in her swound.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul!” cried the poor man, his face like a clout; “black was the day
-she gave you birth!”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER VII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-QUENTIN GREIG LOSES A SON, AND I SET OUT WITH A HORSE AS ALL MY FORTUNE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e pushed me from the chamber as I had been a stranger intruding, and I
-went to the trance door and looked out at the stretching moorlands lit by
-an enormous moon that rose over Cathkin Braes, and an immensity of stars.
-For the first time in all my life I realised the heedlessness of nature in
-human affairs the most momentous. For the moon swung up serene beyond
-expression; the stars winked merrily: a late bird glid among the bushes
-and perched momentarily on a bough of ash to pipe briefly almost with the
-passion of the spring. But not the heedlessness of nature influenced me so
-much as the barren prospect of the world that the moon and stars revealed.
-There was no one out there in those deep spaces of darkness I could claim
-as friend or familiar. Where was I to go? What was I to do? Only the
-beginnings of schemes came to me—schemes of concealment and
-disguise, of surrender even—but the last to be dismissed as soon as
-it occurred to me, for how could I leave this house the bitter bequest of
-a memory of the gallows-tree?
-</p>
-<p>
-Only the beginnings, I say, for every scheme ran tilt against the obvious
-truth that I was not only without affection or regard out there, but
-without as much as a crown of money to purchase the semblance of either.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could not have stood very long there when my father came out, his face
-like clay, and aged miraculously, and beckoned me to the parlour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your mother—my wife,” said he, “is very ill, and I am sending for
-the doctor. The horse is yoking. There is another woman in Driepps who—God
-help her!—will be no better this night, but I wish in truth her case
-was ours, and that it was you who lay among the heather.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He began pacing up and down the floor, his eyes bent, his hands
-continually wringing, his heart bursting, as it were, with sighs and the
-dry sobs of the utmost wretchedness. As for me, I must have been clean
-gyte (as the saying goes), for my attention was mostly taken up with the
-tassel of his nightcap that bobbed grotesquely on his brow. I had not seen
-it since, as a child, I used to share his room.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! what!” he cried at last piteously, “have ye never a word to say?
-Are ye dumb?” He ran at me and caught me by the collar of the coat and
-tried to shake me in an anger, but I felt it no more than I had been a
-stone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What did ye do it for? What in heaven's name did ye quarrel on?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was—it was about a girl,” I said, reddening even at that
-momentous hour to speak of such a thing to him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A girl!” he repeated, tossing up his hands. “Keep us! Hoo lang are ye oot
-o' daidlies? Well! well!” he went on, subduing himself and prepared to
-listen. I wished the tassel had been any other colour than crimson, and
-hung fairer on the middle of his forehead; it seemed to fascinate me. And
-he, belike, forgot that I was there, for he thought, I knew, continually
-of his wife, and he would stop his feverish pacing on the floor, and
-hearken for a sound from the room where she was quartered with the maid. I
-made no answer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, well!” he cried again fiercely, turning upon me. “Out with it; out
-with the whole hellish transaction, man!”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then I told him in detail what before my mother I had told in a brief
-abstract.
-</p>
-<p>
-How that I had met young Borland coming down the breast of the brae at
-Kirkillstane last night and—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Last night!” he cried. “Are ye havering? I saw ye go to your bed at ten,
-and your boots were in the kitchen.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was so, I confessed. I had gone to my room but not to bed, and had
-slipped out by the window when the house was still, with Uncle Andrew's
-shoes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, lad!” he cried, “it's Andy's shoes you stand in sure enough, for I
-have seen him twenty years syne in the plight that you are in this night.
-Merciful heaven! what dark blotch is in the history of this family of ours
-that it must ever be embroiled in crimes of passion and come continually
-to broken ends of fortune? I have lived stark honest and humble, fearing
-the Lord; the covenants have I kept, and still and on it seems I must
-beget a child of the Evil One!”
- </p>
-<p>
-And how, going out thus under cover of night, I had meant to indulge a
-boyish fancy by seeing the light of Isobel Fortune's window. And how,
-coming to the Kirkillstane, I met David Borland leaving the house,
-whistling cheerfully.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul, Paul!” cried my father, “I mind of you an infant on her knees
-that's ben there, and it might have been but yesterday your greeting in
-the night wakened me to mourn and ponder on your fate.” And how Borland,
-divining my object there, and himself new out triumphant from that
-cheerful house of many daughters, made his contempt for the Spoiled Horn
-too apparent.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You walked to the trough-stane when you were a twelvemonth old,” said my
-father with the irrelevance of great grief, as if he recalled a dead son's
-infancy.
-</p>
-<p>
-And how, maddened by some irony of mine, he had struck a blow upon my
-chest, and so brought my challenge to something more serious and
-gentlemanly than a squalid brawl with fists upon the highway.
-</p>
-<p>
-I stopped my story; it seemed useless to be telling it to one so much
-preoccupied with the thought of the woman he loved. His lips were open,
-his eyes were constant on the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-But “Well! Well!” he cried again eagerly, and I resumed.
-</p>
-<p>
-Of how I had come home, and crept into my guilty chamber and lay the long
-night through, torn by grief and anger, jealousy and distress. And how
-evading the others of the household as best I could that day, I had in the
-afternoon at the hour appointed gone out with Uncle Andrew's pistol.
-</p>
-<p>
-My father moaned—a waefu' sound!
-</p>
-<p>
-And found young Borland up on the moor before me with such another weapon,
-his face red byordinary, his hands and voice trembling with passion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poor lad, poor lad!” my father cried blurting the sentiment as he had
-been a bairn.
-</p>
-<p>
-How we tossed a coin to decide which should be the first to fire, and
-Borland had won the toss, and gone to the other end of our twenty paces
-with vulgar menaces and “Spoiled Horn” the sweetest of his epithets.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poor lad! he but tried to bluster down the inward voice that told him the
-folly o't,” said father.
-</p>
-<p>
-And how Borland had fired first. The air was damp. The sound was like a
-slamming door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The door of hope shut up for him, poor dear,” cried father.
-</p>
-<p>
-And how he missed me in his trepidation that made his hand that held the
-pistol so tremble that I saw the muzzle quiver even at twenty paces.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And then you shot him deliberately I M cried my father.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no,” I cried at that, indignant. “I aimed without a glance along the
-barrel: the flint flashed; the prime missed fire, and I was not sorry, but
-Borland cried 'Spoiled Horn' braggingly, and I cocked again as fast as I
-could, and blindly jerked the trigger. I never thought of striking him. He
-fell with one loud cry among the rushes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Murder, by God!” cried my father, and he relapsed into a chair, his body
-all convulsed with horror.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had told him all this as if I had been in a delirium, or as if it were a
-tale out of a book, and it was only when I saw him writhing in his chair
-and the tassel shaking over his eyes, I minded that the murderer was me. I
-made for the door; up rose my father quickly and asked me what I meant to
-do.
-</p>
-<p>
-I confessed I neither knew nor cared.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You must thole your assize,” said he, and just as he said it the clatter
-of the mare's hoofs sounded on the causey of the yard, and he must have
-minded suddenly for what object she was saddled there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no,” said he, “you must flee the country. What right have you to make
-it any worse for her?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have not a crown in my pocket,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And I have less,” he answered quickly. “Where are you going? No, no,
-don't tell me that; I'm not to know. There's the mare saddled, I meant
-Sandy to send the doctor from the Mearns, but you can do that. Bid him
-come here as fast as he can.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And must I come back with the mare?” I asked, reckless what he might say
-to that, though my life depended on it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“For the sake of your mother,” he answered, “I would rather never set eyes
-on you or the beast again; she's the last transaction between us, Paul
-Greig.” And then he burst in tears, with his arms about my neck.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/067.jpg" alt="067 (146K)" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-Ten minutes later I was on the mare, and galloping, for all her ailing
-leg, from Hazel Den as if it were my own loweing conscience. I roused Dr.
-Clews at the Mearns, and gave him my father's message. “Man,” said he,
-holding his chamber light up to my face, “man, ye're as gash as a ghaist
-yersel'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I may well be that,” said I, and off I set, with some of Uncle Andy's old
-experience in my mind, upon a ride across broad Scotland.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER VIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I RIDE BY NIGHT ACROSS SCOTLAND, AND MEET A MARINER WITH A GLEED EYE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat night was like the day, with a full moon shining. The next afternoon
-I rode into Borrowstounness, my horse done out and myself sore from head
-to heel; and never in all my life have I seen a place with a more
-unwelcome aspect, for the streets were over the hoof in mud; the natives
-directed me in an accent like a tinker's whine; the Firth of Forth was
-wrapped in a haar or fog that too closely put me in mind of my prospects.
-But I had no right to be too particular, and in the course of an hour I
-had sold the mare for five pounds to a man of much Christian profession,
-who would not give a farthing more on the plea that she was likely stolen.
-</p>
-<p>
-The five pounds and the clothes I stood in were my fortune: it did not
-seem very much, if it was to take me out of the reach of the long arm of
-the doomster; and thinking of the doomster I minded of the mole upon my
-brow, that was the most kenspeckle thing about me in the event of a
-description going about the country, so the first thing I bought with my
-fortune was a pair of scissors. Going into a pend close in one of the
-vennels beside the quay, I clipped off the hair upon the mole and felt a
-little safer. I was coming out of the close, pouching the scissors, when a
-man of sea-going aspect, with high boots and a tarpaulin hat, stumbled
-against me and damned my awkwardness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You filthy hog,” said I, exasperated at such manners, for he was himself
-to blame for the encounter; “how dare you speak to me like that?” He was a
-man of the middle height, sturdy on his bowed legs in spite of the drink
-obvious in his face and speech, and he had a roving gleed black eye. I had
-never clapped gaze on him in all my life before.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is that the way ye speak to Dan Risk, ye swab?” said he, ludicrously
-affecting a dignity that ill suited with his hiccough. “What's the good of
-me being a skipper if every linen-draper out of Fife can cut into my
-quarter on my own deck?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“This is no' your quarter-deck, man, if ye were sober enough to ken it,”
- said I; “and I'm no linen-draper from Fife or anywhere else.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then the brute, with his hands thrust to the depth of his pockets,
-staggered me as if he had done it with a blow of his fist.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No,” said he, with a very cunning tone, “ye're no linen-draper perhaps,
-but—ye're maybe no sae decent a man, young Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was impossible for me to conceal even from this tipsy rogue my
-astonishment and alarm at this. It seemed to me the devil himself must be
-leagued against me in the cause of justice. A cold sweat came on my face
-and the palms of my hands. I opened my mouth and meant to give him the lie
-but I found I dare not do so in the presence of what seemed a miracle of
-heaven.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How do you ken my name's Greig?” I asked at the last.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Fine that,” he made answer, with a grin; “and there's mony an odd thing
-else I ken.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, it's no matter,” said I, preparing to quit him, but in great fear
-of what the upshot might be; “I'm for off, anyway.”
- </p>
-<p>
-By this time it was obvious that he was not so drunk as I thought him at
-first, and that in temper and tact he was my match even with the glass in
-him. “Do ye ken what I would be doing if I was you?” said he seemingly
-determined not to let me depart like that, for he took a step or two after
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-I made no reply, but quickened my pace and after me he came, lurching and
-catching at my arm; and I mind to this day the roll of him gave me the
-impression of a crab.
-</p>
-<p>
-“If it's money ye want-” I said at the end of my patience.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Curse your money!” he cried, pretending to spit the insult from his
-mouth. “Curse your money; but if I was you, and a weel-kent skipper like
-Dan Risk—like Dan Risk of the <i>Seven Sisters</i>—made up to
-me out of a redeeculous good nature and nothing else, I would gladly go
-and splice the rope with him in the nearest ken.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Go and drink with yourself, man,” I cried; “there's the money for a
-chappin of ate, and I'll forego my share of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could have done nothing better calculated to infuriate him. As I held
-out the coin on the palm of my hand he struck it up with an oath and it
-rolled into the syver. His face flamed till the neck of him seemed a round
-of seasoned beef.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By the Rock o' Bass!” he roared, “I would clap ye in jyle for less than
-your lousy groat.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Ah, then, it was in vain I had put the breadth of Scotland between me and
-that corpse among the rushes: my heart struggled a moment, and sank as if
-it had been drowned in bilge. I turned on the man what must have been a
-gallows face, and he laughed, and, gaining his drunken good nature again
-he hooked me by the arm, and before my senses were my own again he was
-leading me down the street and to the harbour. I had never a word to say.
-</p>
-<p>
-The port, as I tell, was swathed in the haar of the east, out of which
-tall masts rose dim like phantom spears; the clumsy tarred bulwarks loomed
-like walls along the quay, and the neighbourhood was noisy with voices
-that seemed unnatural coming out of the haze. Mariners were hanging about
-the sheds, and a low tavern belched others out to keep them company. Risk
-made for the tavern, and at that I baulked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, come on!” said he. “If I'm no' mistaken Dan Risk's the very man ye're
-in the need of. You're wanting out of Scotland, are ye no'?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“More than that; I'm wanting out of myself,” said I, but that seemed
-beyond him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come in anyway, and we'll talk it over.”
- </p>
-<p>
-That he might help me out of the country seemed possible if he was not, as
-I feared at first, some agent of the law and merely playing with me, so I
-entered the tavern with him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Two gills to the coffin-room, Mrs. Clerihew,” he cried to the woman in
-the kitchen. “And slippy aboot it, if ye please, for my mate here's been
-drinking buttermilk all his life, and ye can tell't in his face.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I would rather have some meat,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Humph!” quo' he, looking at my breeches. “A lang ride!” He ordered the
-food at my mentioning, and made no fuss about drinking my share of the
-spirits as well as his own, while I ate with a hunger that was soon
-appeased, for my eye, as the saying goes, was iller to satisfy than my
-appetite.
-</p>
-<p>
-He sat on the other side of the table in the little room that doubtless
-fairly deserved the name it got of coffin, for many a man, I'm thinking,
-was buried there in his evil habits; and I wondered what was to be next.
-</p>
-<p>
-“To come to the bit,” said the at last, looking hard into the bottom of
-his tankard in a way that was a plain invitation to buy more for him. “To
-come to the bit, you're wanting out of the country?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's true,” said I; “but how do you know? And how do you know my name,
-for I never saw you to my knowledge in all my life before?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So much the worse for you; I'm rale weel liked by them that kens me. What
-would ye give for a passage to Nova Scotia?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a long way,” said I, beginning to see a little clearer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ay,” said he, “but I've seen a gey lang rope too, and a man danglin' at
-the end of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Again my face betrayed me. I made no answer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I ken all aboot it,” he went on. “Your name's Greig; ye're from a place
-called the Hazel Den at the other side o' the country; ye've been sailing
-wi' a stiff breeze on the quarter all night, and the clime o' auld
-Scotland's one that doesna suit your health, eh? What's the amount?” said
-he, and he looked towards my pocket “Could we no' mak' it halfers?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Five pounds,” said I, and at that he looked strangely dashed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Five pounds,” he repeated incredulously. “It seems to have been hardly
-worth the while.” And then his face changed, as if a new thought had
-struck him. He leaned over the table and whispered with the infernal tone
-of a confederate, “Doused his glim, eh?” winking with his hale eye, so
-that I could not but shiver at him, as at the touch of slime.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I don't understand,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do ye no'?” said he, with a sneer; “for a Greig ye're mighty slow in the
-uptak'. The plain English o' that, then, is that ye've killed a man. A
-trifle like that ance happened to a Greig afore.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What's your name?” I demanded.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Am I no tellin' ye?” said he shortly. “It's just Daniel Risk; and where
-could you get a better? Perhaps ye were thinkin' aboot swappin' names wi'
-me; and by the Bass, it's Dan's family name would suit very weel your
-present position,” and the scoundrel laughed at his own humour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I asked because I was frightened it might be Mahoun,” said I. “It seems
-gey hard to have ridden through mire for a night and a day, and land where
-ye started from at the beginning. And how do ye ken all that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh!” he said, “kennin's my trade, if ye want to know. And whatever way I
-ken, ye needna think I'm the fellow to make much of a sang aboot it. Still
-and on, the thing's frowned doon on in this country, though in places I've
-been it would be coonted to your credit. I'll take anither gill; and if ye
-ask me, I would drench the butter-milk wi' something o' the same, for the
-look o' ye sittin' there's enough to gie me the waterbrash. Mrs. Clerihew—here!”
- He rapped loudly on the table, and the drink coming in I was compelled
-again to see him soak himself at my expense. He reverted to my passage
-from the country, and “Five pounds is little enough for it,” said he; “but
-ye might be eking it oot by partly working your passage.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I didn't say I was going either to Nova Scotia or with you,” said I, “and
-I think I could make a better bargain elsewhere.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So could I, maybe,” said he, fuming of spirits till I felt sick. “And
-it's time I was doin' something for the good of my country.” With that he
-rose to his feet with a look of great moral resolution, and made as if for
-the door, but by this time I understood him better.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sit down, ye muckle hash!” said I, and I stood over him with a most
-threatening aspect.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By the Lord!” said he, “that's a Greig anyway!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ay!” said I. “ye seem to ken the breed. Can I get another vessel abroad
-besides yours?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ye can not,” said he, with a promptness I expected, “unless ye wait on
-the <i>Sea Pyat</i>. She leaves for Jamaica next Thursday; and there's no'
-a spark of the Christian in the skipper o' her, one Macallum from
-Greenock.”
- </p>
-<p>
-For the space of ten minutes I pondered over the situation. Undoubtedly I
-was in a hole. This brute had me in his power so long as my feet were on
-Scottish land, and he knew it. At sea he might have me in his power too,
-but against that there was one precaution I could take, and I made up my
-mind.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll give you four pounds—half at leaving the quay and the other
-half when ye land me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My conscience wadna' aloo me,” protested the rogue; but the greed was in
-his face, and at last he struck my thumb on the bargain, and when he did
-that I think I felt as much remorse at the transaction as at the crime
-from whose punishment I fled.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now,” said I, “tell me how you knew me and heard about—about—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“About what?” said he, with an affected surprise. “Let me tell ye this,
-Mr. Greig, or whatever your name may be, that Dan Risk is too much of the
-gentleman to have any recollection of any unpleasantness ye may mention,
-now that he has made the bargain wi' ye. I ken naethin' aboot ye, if ye
-please: whether your name's Greig or Mackay or Habbie Henderson, it's new
-to me, only ye're a likely lad for a purser's berth in the <i>Seven
-Sisters.</i>” And refusing to say another word on the topic that so
-interested me, he took me down to the ship's side, where I found the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i> was a brigantine out of Hull, sadly in the want of tar upon
-her timbers and her mainmast so decayed and worm-eaten that it sounded
-boss when I struck it with my knuckles in the by-going.
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk saw me doing it. He gave an ugly smile.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What do ye think o' her? said he, showing me down the companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mighty little,” I told him straight. “I'm from the moors,” said I, “but
-I've had my feet on a sloop of Ayr before now; and by the look of this
-craft I would say she has been beeking in the sun idle till she rotted
-down to the garboard strake.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He gave his gleed eye a turn and vented some appalling oaths, and wound up
-with the insult I might expect—namely, that drowning was not my
-portion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There was some brag a little ago of your being a gentleman,” said I,
-convinced that this blackguard was to be treated to his own fare if he was
-to be got on with at all. “There's not much of a gentleman in the like of
-that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At this he was taken aback. “Well,” said he, “don't you cross my temper;
-if my temper's crossed it's gey hard to keep up gentility. The ship's
-sound enough, or she wouldn't be half a dizen times round the Horn and as
-weel kent in Halifax as one o' their ain dories. She's guid enough for
-your—for our business, if ye please, Mr. Greig; and here's my mate
-Murchison.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Another tarry-breeks of no more attractive aspect came down the companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's a new hand for ye,” said the skipper humorously.
-</p>
-<p>
-The mate looked me up and down with some contempt from his own height of
-little more than five feet four, and peeled an oilskin coat off him. I was
-clad myself in a good green coat and breeches with fine wool rig-and-fur
-hose, and the buckled red shoon and the cock of my hat I daresay gave me
-the look of some importance in tarry-breeks' eyes. At any rate, he did not
-take Risk's word for my identity, but at last touched his hat with awkward
-fingers after relinquishing his look of contempt.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mr. Jamieson?” said he questioningly, and the skipper by this time was
-searching in a locker for a bottle of rum he said he had there for the
-signing of agreements. “Mr. Jamieson,” said the mate, “I'm glad to see ye.
-The money's no; enough for the job, and that's letting ye know. It's all
-right for Dan here wi' neither wife nor family, but—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What's that, ye idiot?” cried Risk turning about in alarm. “Do ye tak'
-this callan for the owner? I tell't ye he was a new hand.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A hand!” repeated Murchison, aback and dubious.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Jist that; he's the purser.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Murchison laughed. “That's a new ornament on the auld randy; he'll be to
-keep his keekers on the manifest, like?” said he as one who cracks a good
-joke. But still and on he scanned me with a suspicious eye, and it was not
-till Risk had taken him aside later in the day and seemingly explained,
-that he was ready to meet me with equanimity. By that time I had paid the
-skipper his two guineas, for the last of his crew was on board, every man
-Jack of them as full as the Baltic, and staggering at the coamings of the
-hatches not yet down, until I thought half of them would finally land in
-the hold.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER IX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN THE “SEVEN SISTERS” ACTS STRANGELY, AND I SIT WAITING FOR THE
-MANACLES
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>n air of westerly wind had risen after meridian and the haar was gone, so
-that when I stood at the break of the poop as the brigantine crept into
-the channel and flung out billows of canvas while her drunken seamen
-quarrelled and bawled high on the spars, I saw, as I imagined, the last of
-Scotland in a pleasant evening glow. My heart sank. It was not a departure
-like this I had many a time anticipated when I listened to Uncle Andys
-tales; here was I with blood on my hands and a guinea to start my life in
-a foreign country; that was not the worst of it either, for far more
-distress was in my mind at the reflection that I travelled with a man who
-was in my secret. At first I was afraid to go near him once our ropes were
-off the pawls, and I, as it were, was altogether his, but to my surprise
-there could be no pleasanter man than Risk when he had the wash of water
-under his rotten barque. He was not only a better-mannered man to myself,
-but he became, in half an hour of the Firth breeze, as sober as a judge.
-But for the roving gleed eye, and what I had seen of him on shore, Captain
-Dan Risk might have passed for a model of all the virtues. He called me
-Mr. Greig and once or twice (but I stopped that) Young Hazel Den, with no
-irony in the appellation, and he was at pains to make his mate see that I
-was one to be treated with some respect, proffering me at our first meal
-together (for I was to eat in the cuddy,) the first of everything on the
-table, and even making some excuses for the roughness of the viands. And I
-could see that whatever his qualities of heart might be, he was a good
-seaman, a thing to be told in ten minutes by a skipper's step on a deck
-and his grip of the rail, and his word of command. Those drunken barnacles
-of his seemed to be men with the stuff of manly deeds in them, when at his
-word they dashed aloft among the canvas canopy to fist the bulging sail
-and haul on clew or gasket, or when they clung on greasy ropes and at a
-gesture of his hand heaved cheerily with that “yo-ho” that is the chant of
-all the oceans where keels run.
-</p>
-<p>
-Murchison was a saturnine, silent man, from whom little was to be got of
-edification. The crew numbered eight men, one of them a black deaf mute,
-with the name of Antonio Ferdinando, who cooked in a galley little larger
-than the Hazel Den kennel. It was apparent that no two of them had ever
-met before, such a career of flux and change is the seaman's, and except
-one of them, a fellow Horn, who was foremast man, a more villainous gang I
-never set eyes on before or since. If Risk had raked the ports of Scotland
-with a fine bone comb for vermin, he could not have brought together a
-more unpleasant-looking crew. No more than two of them brought a bag on
-board, and so ragged was their appearance that I felt ashamed to air my
-own good clothes on the same deck with them.
-</p>
-<p>
-Fortunately it seemed I had nothing to do with them nor they with me; all
-that was ordered for the eking out of my passage, as Risk had said, was to
-copy the manifest, and I had no sooner set to that than I discerned it was
-a gowk's job just given me to keep me in employ in the cabin. Whatever his
-reason, the man did not want me about his deck. I saw that in an interlude
-in my writing, when I came up from his airless den to learn what progress
-old rotten-beams made under all her canvas.
-</p>
-<p>
-It had declined to a mere handful of wind, and the vessel scarcely moved,
-seemed indeed steadfast among the sea-birds that swooped and wheeled and
-cried around her. I saw the sun just drop among blood-red clouds over
-Stirling, and on the shore of Fife its pleasant glow. The sea swung flat
-and oily, running to its ebb, and lapping discernibly upon a recluse
-promontory of land with a stronghold on it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What do you call yon, Horn?” I said to the seaman I have before
-mentioned, who leaned upon the taffrail and watched the vessel's greasy
-wake, and I pointed to the gloomy buildings on the shore.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Blackness Castle,” said he, and he had time to tell no more, for the
-skipper bawled upon him for a shirking dog, and ordered the flemishing of
-some ropes loose upon the forward deck. Nor was I exempt from his zeal for
-the industry of other folks for he came up to me with a suspicious look,
-as if he feared I had been hearing news from his foremast man, and “How
-goes the manifest, Mr. Greig?” says he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, brawly, brawly!” said I, determined to begin with Captain Daniel Risk
-as I meant to end.
-</p>
-<p>
-He grew purple, but restrained himself with an effort. “This is not an Ayr
-sloop, Mr. Greig,” said he; “and when orders go on the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-I like to see them implemented. You must understand that there's a
-pressing need for your clerking, or I would not be so soon putting you at
-it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“At this rate of sailing,” says I, “I'll have time to copy some hundred
-manifests between here and Nova Scotia.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Perhaps you'll permit me to be the best judge of that,” he replied in the
-English he ever assumed with his dignity, and seeing there was no more for
-it, I went back to my quill.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was little wonder, in all the circumstances, that I fell asleep over my
-task with my head upon the cabin table whereon I wrote, and it was still
-early in the night when I crawled into the narrow bunk that the skipper
-had earlier indicated as mine.
-</p>
-<p>
-Weariness mastered my body, but my mind still roamed; the bunk became a
-coffin quicklimed, and the murderer of David Borland lying in it; the
-laverock cried across Earn Water and the moors of Renfrew with the voice
-of Daniel Risk. And yet the strange thing was that I knew I slept and
-dreamed, and more than once I made effort, and dragged myself into
-wakefulness from the horrors of my nightmare. At these times there was
-nothing to hear but the plop of little waves against the side of the ship,
-a tread on deck, and the call of the watch.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had fallen into a sleep more profound than any that had yet blessed my
-hard couch, when I was suddenly wakened by a busy clatter on the deck, the
-shriek of ill-greased davits, the squeak of blocks, and the fall of a
-small-boat into the water. Another odd sound puzzled me: but for the
-probability that we were out over Bass I could have sworn it was the
-murmur of a stream running upon a gravelled shore. A stream—heavens!
-There could be no doubt about it now; we were somewhere close in shore,
-and the <i>Seven Sisters</i> was lying to. The brigantine stopped in her
-voyage where no stoppage should be; a small boat plying to land in the
-middle of the night; come! here was something out of the ordinary, surely,
-on a vessel seaward bound. I had dreamt of the gallows and of Dan Risk as
-an informer. Was it a wonder that there should flash into my mind the
-conviction of my betrayal? What was more likely than that the skipper,
-secure of my brace of guineas, was selling me to the garrison of
-Blackness?
-</p>
-<p>
-I clad myself hurriedly and crept cautiously up the companion ladder, and
-found myself in overwhelming darkness, only made the more appalling and
-strange because the vessel's lights were all extinguished. Silence large
-and brooding lay upon the <i>Seven Sisters</i> as she lay in that
-obscuring haar that had fallen again; she might be Charon's craft pausing
-mid-way on the cursed stream, and waiting for the ferry cry upon the shore
-of Time. We were still in the estuary or firth, to judge by the bickering
-burn and the odors off-shore, above all the odour of rotting brake; and we
-rode at anchor, for her bows were up-water to the wind and tide, and above
-me, in the darkness, I could hear the idle sails faintly flapping in the
-breeze and the reef-points all tap-tapping. I seemed to have the deck
-alone, but for one figure at the stern; I went back, and found that it was
-Horn.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where are we?” I asked, relieved to find there the only man I could trust
-on board the ship.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A little below Blackness,” said he shortly with a dissatisfied tone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I did not know we were to stop here,” said I, wondering if he knew that I
-was doomed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Neither did I,” said he, peering into the void of night. “And whit's
-mair, I wish I could guess the reason o' oor stopping. The skipper's been
-ashore mair nor ance wi' the lang-boat forward there, and I'm sent back
-here to keep an e'e on lord kens what except it be yersel'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Are ye indeed?” said I, exceedingly vexed. “Then I ken too well, Horn,
-the reason for the stoppage. You are to keep your eye on a man who's being
-bargained for with the hangman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I would rather ken naithin' about that,” said he, “and onyway I think
-ye're mistaken. Here they're comin' back again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Two or three small boats were coming down on us out of the darkness; not
-that I could see them, but that I heard their oars in muffled rowlocks.
-</p>
-<p>
-“If they want me,” said I sorrowfully, “they can find me down below,” and
-back I went and sat me in the cabin, prepared for the manacles.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER X
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE STRUGGLE IN THE CABIN, AND AN EERIE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he place stank with bilge and the odour of an ill-trimmed lamp smoking
-from a beam; the fragments of the skipper's supper were on the table, with
-a broken quadrant; rats scurried and squealed in the bulkheads, and one
-stared at me from an open locker, where lay a rum-bottle, while beetles
-and slaters travelled along the timbers. But these things compelled my
-attention less than the skylights that were masked internally by pieces of
-canvas nailed roughly on them. They were not so earlier in the evening; it
-must have been done after I had gone to sleep, and what could be the
-object? That puzzled me extremely, for it must have been the same hand
-that had extinguished all the deck and mast lights, and though black was
-my crime darkness was unnecessary to my betrayal.
-</p>
-<p>
-I waited with a heart like lead.
-</p>
-<p>
-I heard the boats swung up on the davits, the squeak of the falls, the
-tread of the seamen, the voice of Risk in an unusually low tone. In the
-bows in a little I heard the windlass click and the chains rasp in the
-hawse-holes; we were lifting the anchor.
-</p>
-<p>
-For a moment hope possessed me. If we were weighing anchor then my arrest
-was not imminent at least; but that consolation lasted briefly when I
-thought of the numerous alternatives to imprisonment in Blackness.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were under weigh again; there was a heel to port, and a more rapid plop
-of the waters along the carvel planks. And then Risk and his mate came
-down.
-</p>
-<p>
-I have seldom seen a man more dashed than the skipper when he saw me
-sitting waiting on him, clothed and silent. His face grew livid; round he
-turned to Murchison and hurried him with oaths to come and clap eyes on
-this sea-clerk. I looked for the officer behind them, but they were alone,
-and at that I thought more cheerfully I might have been mistaken about the
-night's curious proceedings.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Anything wrang?” said Risk, affecting nonchalance now that his spate of
-oaths was by, and he pulled the rum out of the locker and helped himself
-and his mate to a swingeing caulker.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, nothing at all,” said I, “at least nothing that I know of, Captain
-Risk. And are we—are we—at Halifax already?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What do you mean?” said he. And then he looked at me closely, put out the
-hand unoccupied by his glass and ran an insolent dirty finger over my
-new-clipped mole. “Greig, Greig,” said he, “Greig to a hair! I would have
-the wee shears to that again, for its growin'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You're a very noticing man,” said I, striking down his hand no way
-gently, and remembering that he had seen my scissors when I emerged from
-the Borrowstouness close after my own barbering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm all that,” he replied, with a laugh, and all the time Murchison, the
-mate, sat mopping his greasy face with a rag, as one after hard work, and
-looked on us with wonder at what we meant. “I'm all that,” he replied,
-“the hair aff the mole and the horse-hair on your creased breeches wad hae
-tauld ony ane that ye had ridden in a hurry and clipped in a fricht o'
-discovery.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, oh!” I cried, “and that's what goes to the makin' o' a Mahoun!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Jist that,” said he, throwing himself on a seat with an easy indifference
-meant to conceal his vanity. “Jist observation and a knack o' puttin' twa
-and twa thegether. Did ye think the skipper o' the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-was fleein' over Scotland at the tail o' your horse?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Greig mole's weel kent, surely,” said I, astonished and chagrined. “I
-jalouse it's notorious through my Uncle Andy?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Risk laughed at that. “Oh, ay!” said he, “when Andy Greig girned at ye it
-was ill to miss seein' his mole. Man, ye might as well wear your name on
-the front o' your hat as gae aboot wi' a mole like that—and—and
-that pair o' shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The blood ran to my face at this further revelation of his astuteness. It
-seemed, then, I carried my identity head and foot, and it was no wonder a
-halfeyed man like Risk should so easily discover me. I looked down at my
-feet, and sure enough, when I thought of it now, it would have been a
-stupid man who, having seen these kenspeckle shoes once, would ever forget
-them.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My uncle seems to have given me good introductions,” said I. “They struck
-mysel' as rather dandy for a ship,” broke in the mate, at last coming on
-something he could understand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And did <i>you</i> know Andy Greig, too?” said I. “Andy Greig,” he
-replied. “Not me!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then, by God, ye hinna sailed muckle aboot the warld!” said the skipper.
-“I hae seen thae shoes in the four quarters and aye in a good
-companionship.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“They appear yet to retain that virtue,” said I, unable to resist the
-irony. “And, by the way, Captain Risk, now that we have discussed the
-shoes and my mole, what have we been waiting for at Blackness?”
- </p>
-<p>
-His face grew black with annoyance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What's that to you?” he cried.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I don't know,” I answered indifferently. “I thought that now ye had
-got the best part o' your passage money ye might hae been thinking to do
-something for your country again. They tell me it's a jail in there, and
-it might suggest itself to you as providing a good opportunity for getting
-rid of a very indifferent purser.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It is one thing I can remember to the man's credit that this innuendo of
-treachery seemed to make him frantic. He dashed the rum-glass at his feet
-and struck at me with a fist like a jigot of mutton, and I had barely time
-to step back and counter. He threw himself at me as he had been a cat; I
-closed and flung my arms about him with a wrestler's grip, and bent him
-back upon the table edge, where I might have broken his spine but for
-Murchison's interference. The mate called loudly for assistance; footsteps
-pounded on the cuddy-stair, and down came Horn. Between them they drew us
-apart, and while Murchison clung to his captain, and plied him into
-quietness with a fresh glass of grog, Horn thrust me not unkindly out into
-the night, and with no unwillingness on my part.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/091.jpg" alt="091" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-It was the hour of dawn, and the haar was gone.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was something in that chill grey monotone of sky and sea that filled
-me with a very passion of melancholy. The wind had risen, and the billows
-ran frothing from the east; enormous clouds hung over the land behind us,
-so that it seemed to roll with smoke from the eternal fires. Out from that
-reeking pit of my remorse—that lost Scotland where now perhaps there
-still lay lying among the rushes, with the pees-weep's cry above it, the
-thing from which I flew, our ship went fast, blown upon the frothy
-billows, like a ponderous bird, leaving a wake of hissing bubbling brine,
-flying, as it seemed, to a world of less imminent danger, yet unalluring
-still.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked aloft at the straining spars; they seemed to prick the clouds
-between the swelling sails; the ropes and shrouds stretched infinitely
-into a region very grey and chill. Oh, the pallor! oh, the cold and
-heartless spirit of the sea in that first dawning morn!
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's like to be a good day,” said Horn, breaking in upon my silence, and
-turning to him I saw his face exceeding hollow and wan. The watch lay
-forward, all but a lad who seemed half-dozing at the helm; Risk and his
-mate had lapsed to silence in the cuddy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're no frien', seemingly, o' the pair below!” said Horn again,
-whispering, and with a glance across his shoulder at the helm.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It did not look as if I were, a minute or two ago,” said I. “Yon's a
-scoundrel, and yet I did him an injustice when I thought he meant to sell
-me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I never sailed with a more cheat-the-widdy crew since I followed the
-sea,” said Horn, “and whether it's the one way or the other, sold ye are.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Eh?” said I, uncomprehending.
-</p>
-<p>
-He looked again at the helm, and moved over to a water-breaker further
-forward, obviously meaning that I should follow. He drew a drink of water
-for himself, drank slowly, but seemed not to be much in the need for it
-from the little he took, but he had got out of ear-shot of the man
-steering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You and me's the gulls this time, Mr. Greig,” said he, whispering. “This
-is a doomed ship.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I thought as much from her rotten spars,” I answered. “So long as she
-takes me to Nova Scotia I care little what happens to her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a long way to Halifax,” said he. “I wish I could be sure we were
-likely even to have Land's End on our starboard before waur happens. Will
-ye step this way, Mr. Greig?” and he cautiously led the way forward. There
-was a look-out humming a stave of song somewhere in the bows, and two men
-stretched among the chains, otherwise that part of the ship was all our
-own. We went down the fo'c'sle scuttle quietly, and I found myself among
-the carpenter's stores, in darkness, divided by a bulkhead door from the
-quarters of the sleeping men. Rats were scurrying among the timbers and
-squealing till Horn stamped lightly with his feet and secured stillness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Listen!” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of a seaman within, and the
-wash of water against the ship's sides.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well?” I queried, wondering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Put your lug here,” said he, indicating a beam that was dimly revealed by
-the light from the lamp swinging in the fo'c'sle. I did so, and heard
-water running as from a pipe somewhere in the bowels of the vessel.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What's that?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's all,” said he and led me aft again.
-</p>
-<p>
-The dawn by now had spread over half the heavens; behind us the mouth of
-the Firth gulped enormous clouds, and the fringe of Fife was as flat as a
-bannock; before us the sea spread chill, leaden, all unlovely. “My
-sorrow!” says I, “if this is travelling, give me the high-roads and the
-hot noon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Horn's face seemed more hollow and dark than ever in the wan morning. I
-waited his explanation. “I think ye said Halifax, Mr. Greig?” said he. “I
-signed on, mysel', for the same port, but you and me's perhaps the only
-ones on this ship that ever hoped to get there. God give me grace to get
-foot on shore and Dan Risk will swing for this!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Somebody sneezed behind us as Horn thus rashly expressed himself; we both
-turned suddenly on the rail we had been leaning against, expecting that
-this was the skipper, and though it was not Risk, it was one whose black
-visage and gleaming teeth and rolling eyes gave me momentarily something
-of a turn.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the cook Ferdinando. He had come up behind on his bare feet, and
-out upon the sea he gazed with that odd eerie look of the deaf and dumb,
-heedless of us, it seemed, as we had been dead portions of the ship's
-fabric, seeing but the salt wave, the rim of rising sun, blood-red upon
-the horizon, communing with an old familiar.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A cauld momin', cook,” said Horn, like one who tests a humbug pretending
-to be dumb, but Ferdinando heard him not.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It might have been a man wi' all his faculties,” said the seaman
-whispering, “and it's time we werena seen thegether. I'll tell ye later
-on.”
- </p>
-<p>
-With that we separated, he to some trivial duty of his office, I, with a
-mind all disturbed, back to my berth to lie awake, tossing and speculating
-on the meaning of Horn's mystery.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE SCUTTLED SHIP
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen I went on deck next morning there was something great ado. We were
-out of sight of land, sailing large, as the old phrase went, on a brisk
-quarter breeze with top-sails atrip, and the sky a vast fine open blue.
-The crew were gathered at the poop, the pump was clanking in the midst of
-them, and I saw they were taking spells at the cruellest labour a seaman
-knows.
-</p>
-<p>
-At first I was noway troubled at the spectacle; a leak was to be expected
-in old rotten-beams, and I went forward with the heart of me not a pulse
-the faster.
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk was leaning over the poop-rail, humped up and his beard on his hands;
-Murchison, a little apart, swept the horizon with a prospect-glass, and
-the pump sent a great spate of bilge-water upon the deck. But for a man at
-the tiller who kept the ship from yawing in the swell that swung below her
-counter the <i>Seven Sisters</i> sailed at her sweet will; all the
-interest of her company was in this stream of stinking water that she
-retched into the scuppers. And yet I could not but be struck by the
-half-hearted manner in which the seamen wrought; they were visibly
-shirking; I saw it in the slack muscles, in the heedless eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk rose and looked sourly at me as I went up. “Are ye for a job?” said
-he. “It's more in your line perhaps than clerkin'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What, at the pumps? Is the old randy geyzing already?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Like a washing-boyne,” said he. “Bear a hand like a good lad! we maun
-keep her afloat at least till some other vessel heaves in sight.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In the tone and look of the man there was something extraordinary. His
-words were meant to suggest imminent peril, and yet his voice was shallow
-as that of a burgh bellman crying an auction sale, and his eyes had more
-interest in the horizon that his mate still searched with the
-prospect-glass than in the spate of bilge that gulped upon the deck.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bilge did I say? Heavens! it was bilge no more, but the pure sea-green
-that answered to the clanking pump. It was no time for idle wonder at the
-complacence of the skipper; I flew to the break and threw my strength into
-the seaman's task. “Clank-click, clank-click”—the instrument worked
-reluctantly as if the sucker moved in slime, and in a little the sweat
-poured from me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How is she now, Campbell?” asked Risk, as the carpenter came on deck.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Three feet in the hold,” said Campbell airily, like one that had an easy
-conscience.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good lord, a foot already!” cried Risk, and then in a tone of sarcasm,
-“Hearty, lads, hearty there! A little more Renfrewshire beef into it, Mr.
-Greig, if you please.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that I ceased my exertion, stood back straight and looked at the faces
-about me. There was only one man in the company who did not seem to be
-amused at me, and that was Horn, who stood with folded arms, moodily eying
-the open sea.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You seem mighty joco about it,” I said to Risk, and I wonder to this day
-at my blindness that never read the whole tale in these hurried events.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I can afford to be,” he said quickly; “if I gang I gang wi' clean hands,”
- and he spat into the seawater streaming from the pump where the port-watch
-now were working with as much listlessness as the men they superseded.
-</p>
-<p>
-To the taunt I made no reply, but moved after Horn who had gone forward
-with his hands in his pockets.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What does this mean, Horn?” I asked him. “Is the vessel in great danger?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I suppose she is,” said he bitterly, “but I have had nae experience o'
-scuttled ships afore.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Scuttled!” cried I, astounded, only half grasping his meaning.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Jist that,” said he. “The job's begun. It began last night in the run of
-the vessel as I showed ye when ye put your ear to the beam. After I left
-ye, I foun' half a dizen cords fastened to the pump stanchels; ane of them
-I pulled and got a plug at the end of it; the ithers hae been comin' oot
-since as it suited Dan Risk best, and the <i>Seven Ststers</i> is doomed
-to die o' a dropsy this very day. Wasn't I the cursed idiot that ever
-lipped drink in Clerihew's coffin-room!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If it was that,” said I, “why did you not cut the cords and spoil the
-plot?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Cut the cords! Ye mean cut my ain throat; that's what wad happen if the
-skipper guessed my knowledge o' his deevilry. And dae ye think a gallows
-job o' this kind depends a'thegither on twa or three bits o' twine? Na,
-na, this is a very business-like transaction, Mr. Greig, and I'll warrant
-there has been naethin' left to chance. I wondered at them bein' sae
-pernicketty about the sma' boats afore we sailed when the timbers o' the
-ship hersel' were fair ganting. That big new boat and sails frae Kirkcaldy
-was a gey odd thing in itsel' if I had been sober enough to think o't. I
-suppose ye paid your passage, Mr. Greig? I can fancy a purser on the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i> upon nae ither footin' and that made me dubious o' ye when I
-first learned o' this hell's caper for Jamieson o' the Grange. If ye hadna
-fought wi' the skipper I would hae coonted ye in wi' the rest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He has two pounds of my money,” I answered; “at least I've saved the
-other two if we fail to reach Halifax.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that he laughed softly again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It might be as well wi' Risk as wi' the conger,” said he, meaningly. “I'm
-no' sae sure that you and me's meant to come oot o' this; that's what I
-might tak' frae their leaving only the twa o' us aft when they were
-puttin' the cargo aff there back at Blackness.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The cargo!” I repeated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course,” said Horn. “Ye fancied they were goin' to get rid o' ye
-there, did ye? I'll alloo I thought that but a pretence on your pairt, and
-no' very neatly done at that. Well, the smallest pairt but the maist
-valuable o' the cargo shipped at Borrowstouness is still in Scotland; and
-the underwriters 'll be to pay through the nose for what has never run sea
-risks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At that a great light came to me. This was the reason for the masked cuddy
-skylights, the utter darkness of the <i>Seven Sisters</i> while her boats
-were plying to the shore; for this was I so closely kept at her ridiculous
-manifest; the lists of lace and plate I had been fatuously copying were
-lists of stuff no longer on the ship at all, but back in the possession of
-the owner of the brigantine.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You are an experienced seaman—?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have had a vessel of my own,” broke in Horn, some vanity as well as
-shame upon his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, you are the more likely to know the best way out of this trap we
-are in,” I went on. “For a certain reason I am not at all keen on it to go
-back to Scotland, but I would sooner risk that than run in leash with a
-scoundrel like this who's sinking his command, not to speak of hazarding
-my unworthy life with a villainous gang. Is there any way out of it,
-Horn?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The seaman pondered, a dark frown upon his tanned forehead, where the
-veins stood out in knots, betraying his perturbation. The wind whistled
-faintly in the tops, the <i>Seven Sisters</i> plainly went by the head;
-she had a slow response to her helm, and moved sluggishly. Still the pump
-was clanking and we could hear the water streaming through the scupper
-holes. Risk had joined his mate and was casting anxious eyes over the
-waters.
-</p>
-<p>
-“If we play the safty here, Mr. Greig,” said Horn, “there's a chance o' a
-thwart for us when the <i>Seven Ststers</i> comes to her labour. That's
-oor only prospect. At least they daurna murder us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what about the crew?” I asked. “Do you tell me there is not enough
-honesty among them all to prevent a blackguardly scheme like this?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We're the only twa on this ship this morning wi' oor necks ootside tow,
-for they're all men o' the free trade, and broken men at that,” said Horn
-resolutely, and even in the midst of this looming disaster my private
-horror rose within me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” said I, helpless to check the revelation, “speak for yourself, Mr.
-Horn; it's the hangman I'm here fleeing from.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He looked at me with quite a new countenance, clearly losing relish for
-his company.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Anything by-ordinar dirty?” he asked, and in my humility I did not have
-the spirit to resent what that tone and query implied.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Dirty enough,” said I, “the man's dead,” and Horn's face cleared.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, faith! is that all?” quo' he, “I was thinkin' it might be coinin'—beggin'
-your pardon, Mr. Greig, or somethin' in the fancy way. But a gentleman's
-quarrel ower the cartes or a wench—that's a different tale. I hate
-homicide mysel' to tell the truth, but whiles I've had it in my heart, and
-in a way o' speakin* Dan Risk this meenute has my gully-knife in his
-ribs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-As he spoke the vessel, mishandled, or a traitor to her helm, now that she
-was all awash internally with water, yawed and staggered in the wind. The
-sails shivered, the yards swung violently, appalling noises came from the
-hold. At once the pumping ceased, and Risk's voice roared in the
-confusion, ordering the launch of the Kirkcaldy boat.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MAKES PLAIN THE DEEPEST VILLAINY OF RISK AND SETS ME ON A FRENCHMAN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen I come to write these affairs down after the lapse of years, I find
-my memory but poorly retains the details of that terrific period between
-the cry of Risk and the moment when Horn and I, abandoned on the doomed
-vessel, watched the evening fall upon the long Kirkcaldy boat, her mast
-stepped, but her sails down, hovering near us for the guarantee of our
-eternal silence regarding the crime the men on her were there and then
-committing. There is a space—it must have been brief, but I lived a
-lifetime in it—whose impressions rest with me, blurred, but with the
-general hue of agony. I can see the sun again sailing overhead in the
-arching sky of blue; the enormous ocean, cruel, cold, spread out to the
-line of the horizon; the flapping sails and drumming reef-points, the
-streaming halliards and clew-garnets, the spray buffeting upon our hull
-and spitting in our faces like an enemy; I hear the tumult of the seamen
-hurrying vulgarly to save their wretched lives, the gluck of waters in the
-bowels of the ship, the thud of cargo loose and drifting under decks.
-</p>
-<p>
-But I see and hear it all as in a dream or play, and myself someway
-standing only a spectator.
-</p>
-<p>
-It seemed that Risk and his men put all their dependence on the long-boat
-out of Kirkcaldy. She was partly decked at the bows like a Ballantrae
-herring-skiff, beamy and commodious. They clustered round her like ants;
-swung her out, and over she went, and the whole hellish plot lay revealed
-in the fact that she was all found with equipment and provisions.
-</p>
-<p>
-Horn and I made an effort to assist at her preparation; we were shoved
-aside with frantic curses; we were beaten back by her oars when we sought
-to enter her, and when she pushed off from the side of the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i>, Dan Risk was so much the monster that he could jeer at our
-perplexity. He sat at the tiller of her without a hat, his long hair, that
-was turning lyart, blown by the wind about his black and mocking eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Head her for Halifax, Horn,” said he, “and ye'll get there by-and-by.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Did I ever do ye any harm, skipper?” cried the poor seaman, standing on
-the gunwale, hanging to the shrouds, and his aspect hungry for life.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ye never got the chance, Port Glesca,” cried back Risk, hugging the
-tiller of the Kirkcaldy boat under his arm. “I'll gie ye a guess—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Come-a-riddle, come-a-riddle, come-a-rote-tote-tote—
-</pre>
-<p>
-Oh to bleezes! I canna put a rhyme till't, but this is the sense o't—a
-darkie's never deaf and dumb till he's deid. Eh! Antonio, ye rascal!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He looked forward as he spoke and exchanged a villainous laugh with the
-cook, his instrument, who had overheard us and betrayed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ye would mak' me swing for it, would ye, John Horn, when ye get ashore?
-That's what I would expect frae a keelie oot o' Clyde.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It is hard to credit that man could be so vile as this, but of such stuff
-was Daniel Risk. He was a fiend in the glory of his revenge upon the
-seaman who had threatened him with the gallows; uplifted like a madman's,
-his face, that was naturally sallow, burned lamp-red at his high
-cheek-bones, his hale eye gloated, his free hand flourished as in an
-exultation. His mate sat silent beside him on the stern-thwart, clearing
-the sheets: the crew, who had out the sweeps to keep the boat's bows in
-the wind, made an effort to laugh at his jocosities, but clearly longed to
-be away from this tragedy. And all the time, I think, I stood beside the
-weather bulwark, surrendered to the certainty of a speedy death, with the
-lines of a ballad coming back again and again to my mind:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-An' he shall lie in fathoms deep,
-The star-fish ower his een shall creep.
-An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep
-In the hall o' Monaltrie.
-</pre>
-<p>
-I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in spite
-of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea that
-beat about my feet.
-</p>
-<p>
-My silence—my seeming indifference—would seem to have touched
-the heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn.
-At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm saying, Greig,” he cried, “noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy was
-no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole that—astern,
-lads, and tak' the purser aboard.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick
-me off the doomed ship.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a second—praise
-God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never released the cleat
-by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still upon the lower shrouds
-and saw hope upon his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not if he offered a thousand pounds,” cried Risk, “in ye come!” and
-Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump among
-them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as with a
-spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, bleeding
-profusely and half insensible.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You are a foul dog!” I cried to his assailant. “And I'll settle with you
-for that!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!” cried Risk impatient.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let us look oot for oorselves, that's whit I say,” cried Murchison angry
-at my threat, and prepared cheerfully to see me perish. “What for should
-we risk oor necks with either o' them?” and he pushed off slightly with
-his boat-hook.
-</p>
-<p>
-The skipper turned, struck down the hook, and snarled upon him. “Shut up,
-Murchison!” he cried. “I'm still the captain, if ye please, and I ken as
-much about the clerk here as will keep his gab shut on any trifle we hae
-dune.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I looked upon the clean sea, and then at that huddle of scoundrels in the
-Kirkcaldy boat, and then upon the seaman Horn coming back again to the
-full consciousness of his impending fate. He gazed upon me with eyes
-alarmed and pitiful, and at that I formed my resolution.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I stick by Horn,” said I. “If he gets too, I'll go; if not I'll bide and
-be drowned with an honest man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bide and be damned then! Ye've had your chance,” shouted Risk, letting
-his boat fall off. “It's time we werena here.” And the halliards of his
-main-sail were running in the blocks as soon as he said it. The boat swept
-away rapidly, but not before I gave him a final touch of my irony. From my
-pocket I took out my purse and threw it upon his lap.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There's the ither twa, Risk,” I cried; “it's no' like the thing at all to
-murder a harmless lad for less than what ye bargained for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He bawled back some reply I could not hear, and I turned about, to see
-Horn making for the small boat on the starboard chocks. I followed with a
-hope again wakened, only to share his lamentation when he found that two
-of her planks had been wantonly sprung from their clinkers, rendering her
-utterly useless. The two other boats were in a similar condition; Risk and
-his confederates had been determined that no chance should be left of our
-escape from the <i>Seven Sisters</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was late in the afternoon. The wind had softened somewhat; in the west
-there were rising billowy clouds of silver and red, and half a mile away
-the Kirkcaldy boat, impatient doubtless for the end of us, that final
-assurance of safety, plied to windward with only her foresail set. We had
-gone below in a despairing mind on the chance that the leakage might be
-checked, but the holes were under water in the after peak, and in other
-parts we could not come near. An inch-and-a-half auger, and a large
-bung-borer, a gouge and chisel in the captain's private locker, told us
-how the crime had been committed whereof we were the victims.
-</p>
-<p>
-We had come on deck again, the pair of us, without the vaguest notion of
-what was next to do, and—speaking for myself—convinced that
-nothing could avert our hurrying fate. Horn told me later that he proposed
-full half a score of plans for at least a prolongation of our time, but
-that I paid no heed to them. That may be, for I know the ballad stanza
-went in my head like a dirge, as I sat on a hatch with the last few days
-of my history rolling out before my eyes. The dusk began to fall like a
-veil, the wind declined still further. Horn feverishly hammered and
-caulked at the largest of the boats, now and then throwing the tools from
-him as in momentary realisations of the hopelessness of his toil that
-finally left him in despair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's no use, Mr. Greig,” he cried then, “they did the job ower weel,” and
-he shook his fist at the Kirkcaldy boat. He checked the gesture suddenly
-and gave an astonished cry.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They're gone, Greig,” said he, now frantic. “They're gone. O God! they're
-gone! I was sure they couldna hae the heart to leave us at the last,” and
-as he spoke I chanced to look astern, and behold! a ship with all her
-canvas full was swiftly bearing down the wind upon us. We had been so
-intent upon our fate that we had never seen her!
-</p>
-<p>
-I clambered up the shrouds of the main-mast, and cried upon the coming
-vessel with some mad notion that she might fancy the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-derelict. But indeed that was not necessary. In a little she went round
-into the wind, a long-boat filled with men came towards us, and twenty
-minutes later we were on the deck of the <i>Roi Rouge</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN APPEARS A GENTLEMANLY CORSAIR AND A FRENCH-IRISH LORD
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile it may be that the actual crisis of my manhood came to me on the day
-I first put on my Uncle Andrew's shoes, the sense of it was mine only when
-I met with Captain Thurot. I had put the past for ever behind me (as I
-fancied) when I tore the verses of a moon-struck boy and cast them out
-upon the washing-green at Hazel Den, but I was bound to foregather with
-men like Thurot and his friends ere the scope and fashion of a man's world
-were apparent to me. Whether his influence on my destiny in the long run
-was good or bad I would be the last to say; he brought me into danger, but—in
-a manner—he brought me good, though that perhaps was never in his
-mind.
-</p>
-<p>
-You must fancy this Thurot a great tall man, nearly half a foot exceeding
-myself in stature, peak-bearded, straight as a lance, with plum-black eyes
-and hair, polished in dress and manner to the rarest degree and with a
-good humour that never failed. He sat under a swinging lamp in his cabin
-when Horn and I were brought before him, and asked my name first in an
-accent of English that was if anything somewhat better than my own.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Greig,” said I; “Paul Greig,” and he started as if I had pricked him with
-a knife.
-</p>
-<p>
-A little table stood between us, on which there lay a book he had been
-reading when we were brought below, some hours after the <i>Seven Sisters</i>
-had gone down, and the search for the Kirkcaldy boat had been abandoned.
-He took the lamp off its hook, came round the table and held the light so
-that he could see my face the clearer. At any time his aspect was manly
-and pleasant; most of all was it so when he smiled, and I was singularly
-encouraged when he smiled at me, with a rapid survey of my person that
-included the Hazel Den mole and my Uncle Andrew's shoes.
-</p>
-<p>
-A seaman stood behind us; to him he spoke a message I could not
-comprehend, as it was in French, of which I had but little. The seaman
-retired; we were offered a seat, and in a minute the seaman came back with
-a gentleman—a landsman by his dress.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon, my lord,” said the captain to his visitor, “but I thought that
-here was a case—speaking of miracles—you would be interested
-in. Our friends here”—he indicated myself particularly with a
-gracious gesture—“are not, as you know, dropped from heaven, but
-come from that unfortunate ship we saw go under a while ago. May I ask
-your lordship to tell us—you will see the joke in a moment—whom
-we were talking of at the moment our watch first announced the sight of
-that vessel?”
- </p>
-<p>
-His lordship rubbed his chin and smilingly peered at the captain.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gad!” he said. “You are the deuce and all, Thurot. What are you in the
-mood for now? Why, we talked of Greig—Andrew Greig, the best player
-of <i>passe-passe</i> and the cheerfullest loser that ever cut a pack.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot turned to me, triumphant.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Behold,” said he, “how ridiculously small the world is. <i>Ma foi!</i> I
-wonder how I manage so well to elude my creditors, even when I sail the
-high seas. Lord Clancarty, permit me to have the distinguished honour to
-introduce another Greig, who I hope has many more of his charming uncle's
-qualities than his handsome eyes and red shoes. I assume it is a nephew,
-because poor Monsieur Andrew was not of the marrying kind. Anyhow, 'tis a
-Greig of the blood, or Antoine Thurot is a bat! And—Monsieur Greig,
-it is my felicity to bid you know one of your uncle's best friends and
-heartiest admirers—Lord Clancarty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Lord Clancarty!” I cried, incredulous. “Why he figured in my uncle's
-log-book a dozen years ago.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A dozen, no less!” cried his lordship, with a grimace. “We need not be so
-particular about the period. I trust he set me down there a decently good
-companion; I could hardly hope to figure in a faithful scribe's tablets as
-an example otherwise,” said his lordship, laughing and taking me cordially
-by the hand. “Gad! one has but to look at you to see Andrew Greig in every
-line. I loved your uncle, lad. He had a rugged, manly nature, and just
-sufficient folly, bravado, and sinfulness to keep a poor Irishman in
-countenance. Thurot, one must apologise for taking from your very lips the
-suggestion I see hesitating there, but sure 'tis an Occasion this; it must
-be a bottle—the best bottle on your adorable but somewhat ill-found
-vessel. Why 'tis Andy Greig come young again. Poor Andy! I heard of his
-death no later than a month ago, and have ordered a score of masses for
-him—which by the way are still unpaid for to good Father Hamilton. I
-could not sleep happily of an evening—of a forenoon rather—if
-I thought of our Andy suffering aught that a few candles and such-like
-could modify.” And his lordship with great condescension tapped and passed
-me his jewelled box of maccabaw.
-</p>
-<p>
-You can fancy a raw lad, untutored and untravelled, fresh from the
-plough-tail, as it were, was vastly tickled at this introduction to the
-genteel world. I was no longer the shivering outlaw, the victim of a Risk.
-I was honoured more or less for the sake of my uncle (whose esteem in this
-quarter my father surely would have been surprised at), and it seemed as
-though my new life in a new country were opening better than I had planned
-myself. I blessed my shoes—the Shoes of Sorrow—and for the
-time forgot the tragedy from which I was escaping.
-</p>
-<p>
-They birled the bottle between them, Clancarty and Thurot, myself
-virtually avoiding it, but clinking now and then, and laughing with them
-at the numerous exploits they recalled of him that was the bond between
-us; Horn elsewhere found himself well treated also; and listening to these
-two gentlemen of the world, their allusions, off-hand, to the great, their
-indications of adventure, travel, intrigue, enterprise, gaiety, I saw my
-horizon expand until it was no longer a cabin on the sea I sat in, with
-the lamplight swinging over me, but a spacious world of castles, palaces,
-forests, streets, churches, casernes, harbours, masquerades, routs,
-operas, love, laughter, and song. Perhaps they saw my elation and fully
-understood, and smiled within them at my efforts to figure as a little man
-of the world too—as boys will—but they never showed me other
-than the finest sympathy and attention.
-</p>
-<p>
-I found them fascinating at night; I found them much the same at morning,
-which is the test of the thing in youth, and straightway made a hero of
-the foreigner Thurot. Clancarty was well enough, but without any method in
-his life, beyond a principle of keeping his character ever trim and
-presentable like his cravat. Thurot carried on his strenuous career as
-soldier, sailor, spy, politician, with a plausible enough theory that thus
-he got the very juice and pang of life, that at the most, as he would aye
-be telling me, was brief to an absurdity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your Scots,” he would say to me, “as a rule, are too phlegmatic—is
-it not, Lord Clancarty?—but your uncle gave me, on my word, a regard
-for your whole nation. He had aplomb—Monsieur Andrew; he had luck
-too, and if he cracked a nut anywhere there was always a good kernel in
-it.” And the shoes see how I took the allusion to King George, and that
-gave me a flood of light upon my new position.
-</p>
-<p>
-I remembered that in my uncle's log-book the greater part of the narrative
-of his adventures in France had to do with politics and the intrigues of
-the Jacobite party. He was not, himself, apparently, “out,” as we call it,
-in the affair of the 'Forty-five, because he did not believe the occasion
-suitable, and thought the Prince precipitous, but before and after that
-untoward event for poor Scotland, he had been active with such men as
-Clancarty, Lord Clare, the Murrays, the Mareschal, and such-like, which
-was not to be wondered at, perhaps, for our family had consistently been
-Jacobite, a fact that helped to its latter undoing, though my father as
-nominal head of the house had taken no interest in politics; and my own
-sympathies had ever been with the Chevalier, whom I as a boy had seen ride
-through the city of Glasgow, wishing myself old enough to be his follower
-in such a glittering escapade as he was then embarked on.
-</p>
-<p>
-But though I thought all this in a flash as it were, I betrayed nothing to
-Captain Thurot, who seemed somewhat dashed at my silence. There must have
-been something in my face, however, to show that I fully realised what he
-was feeling at, and was not too complacent, for Clancarty laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sure, 'tis a good boy, Thurot,” said he, “and loves his King George
-properly, like a true patriot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I won't believe it of a Greig,” said Captain Thurot. “A pestilent, dull
-thing, loyalty in England; the other thing came much more readily, I
-remember, to the genius of Andrew Greig. Come! Monsieur Paul, to be quite
-frank about it, have you no instincts of friendliness to the exiled house?
-M. Tête-de-fer has a great need at this particular moment for English
-friends. Once he could count on your uncle to the last ditch; can he count
-on the nephew?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“M. Tête-de-fer?” I repeated, somewhat bewildered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“M. Tête-de-mouche, rather,” cried my lord, testily, and then hurried to
-correct himself. “He alluded, Monsieur Greig, to Prince Charles Edward. We
-are all, I may confess, his Royal Highness's most humble servants; some of
-us, however—as our good friend, Captain Thurot—more actively
-than others. For myself I begin to weary of a cause that has been dormant
-for eight years, but no matter; sure one must have a recreation!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I looked at his lordship to see if he was joking. He was the relic of a
-handsome man, though still, I daresay, less than fifty years of age, with
-a clever face and gentle, just tinged by the tracery of small surface
-veins to a redness that accused him of too many late nights; his mouth and
-eyes, that at one time must have been fascinating, had the ultimate
-irresolution that comes to one who finds no fingerposts at life's
-cross-roads and thinks one road just as good's another. He was born at
-Atena, near Hamburg (so much I had remembered from my uncle's memoir), but
-he was, even in his accent, as Irish as Kerry. Someway I liked and yet
-doubted him, in spite of all the praise of him that I had read in a dead
-man's diurnal.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Fi donc! vous devriez avoir honte, milord</i>,” cried Thurot, somewhat
-disturbed, I saw, at this reckless levity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ashamed!” said his lordship, laughing; “why, 'tis for his Royal Highness
-who has taken a diligence to the devil, and left us poor dependants to pay
-the bill at the inn. But no matter, Master Greig, I'll be cursed if I say
-a single word more to spoil a charming picture of royalty under a cloud.”
- And so saying he lounged away from us, a strange exquisite for shipboard,
-laced up to the nines, as the saying goes, parading the deck as it had
-been the Rue St. Honoré, with merry words for every sailorman who tapped a
-forehead to him.
-</p>
-<p>
-Captain Thurot looked at him, smiling, and shrugged his shoulders.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Tête-de-mouche!</i> There it is for you, M. Paul—the head of a
-butterfly. Now you—” he commanded my eyes most masterfully—“now
-<i>you</i> have a Scotsman's earnestness; I should like to see you on the
-right side. <i>Mon Dieu</i>, you owe us your life, no less; 'tis no more
-King George's, for one of his subjects has morally sent you to the bottom
-of the sea in a scuttled ship. I wish we had laid hands on your Risk and
-his augers.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But I was learning my world; I was cautious; I said neither yea nor nay.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-IN DUNKERQUE—A LADY SPEAKS TO ME IN SCOTS AND A FAT PRIEST SEEMS TO
-HAVE SOMETHING ON HIS MIND
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo days after, the <i>Roi Rouge</i> came to Dunkerque; Horn the seaman
-went home to Scotland in a vessel out of Leith with a letter in his pocket
-for my people at Hazel Den, and I did my best for the next fortnight to
-forget by day the remorse that was my nightmare. To this Captain Thurot
-and Lord Clancarty, without guessing 'twas a homicide they favoured,
-zealously helped me.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then Dunkerque at the moment was sparkling with attractions. Something
-was in its air to distract every waking hour, the pulse of drums, the
-sound of trumpets calling along the shores, troops manoeuvring, elation
-apparent in every countenance. I was Thurot's guest in a lodging over a <i>boulangerie</i>
-upon the sea front, and at daybreak I would look out from the little
-window to see regiments of horse and foot go by on their way to an
-enormous camp beside the old fort of Risebank. Later in the morning I
-would see the soldiers toiling at the grand sluice for deepening the
-harbour or repairing the basin, or on the dunes near Graveline manoeuvring
-under the command of the Prince de Soubise and Count St. Germain. All day
-the paving thundered with the roll of tumbrels, with the noise of plunging
-horse; all night the front of the <i>boulangerie</i> was clamorous with
-carriages bearing cannon, timber, fascines, gabions, and other military
-stores.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot, with his ship in harbour, became a man of the town, with ruffled
-neck- and wrist-bands, the most extravagant of waistcoats, hats laced with
-point d'Espagne, and up and down Dunkerque he went with a restless foot as
-if the conduct of the world depended on him. He sent an old person, a
-reduced gentleman, to me to teach me French that I laboured with as if my
-life depended on it from a desire to be as soon as possible out of his
-reverence, for, to come to the point and be done with it, he was my
-benefactor to the depth of my purse.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sometimes Lord Clancarty asked me out to a <i>déjeuner</i>. He moved in a
-society where I met many fellow countrymen—Captain Foley, of Rooth's
-regiment; Lord Roscommon and his brother young Dillon; Lochgarry,
-Lieutenant-Colonel of Ogilvie's Corps, among others, and by-and-by I
-became known favourably in what, if it was not actually the select society
-of Dunkerque, was so at least in the eyes of a very ignorant young
-gentleman from the moors of Mearns.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was so strange a thing as to be almost incredible, but my Uncle Andy's
-shoes seemed to have some magic quality that brought them for ever on
-tracks they had taken before, and if my cast of countenance did not
-proclaim me a Greig wherever I went, the shoes did so. They were a
-passport to the favour of folks the most divergent in social state—to
-a poor Swiss who kept the door and attended on the table at Clancarty's
-(my uncle, it appeared, had once saved his life), and to Soubise himself,
-who counted my uncle the bravest man and the best mimic he had ever met,
-and on that consideration alone pledged his influence to find me a post.
-</p>
-<p>
-You may be sure I did not wear such tell-tale shoes too often. I began to
-have a freit about them as he had to whom they first belonged, and to
-fancy them somehow bound up with my fortune.
-</p>
-<p>
-I put them on only when curiosity prompted me to test what new
-acquaintances they might make me, and one day I remember I donned them for
-a party of blades at Lord Clancarty's, the very day indeed upon which the
-poor Swiss, weeping, told me what he owed to the old rogue with the
-scarred brow now lying dead in the divots of home.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a new addition to the company that afternoon—a priest who
-passed with the name of Father Hamilton, though, as I learned later, he
-was formerly Vliegh, a Fleming, born at Ostend, and had been educated
-partly at the College Major of Louvain and partly in London. He was or had
-been parish priest of Dixmunde near Ostend, and his most decent memory of
-my uncle, whom he, too, knew, was a challenge to a drinking-bout in which
-the thin man of Meams had been several bottles more thirsty than the fat
-priest of Dixmunde.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was corpulent beyond belief, with a dewlap like an ox; great limbs, a
-Gargantuan appetite, and a laugh like thunder that at its loudest created
-such convulsions of his being as compelled him to unbutton the neck of his
-<i>soutane</i>, else he had died of a seizure.
-</p>
-<p>
-His friends at Lord Clancarty's played upon him a little joke wherein I
-took an unconscious part. It seemed they had told him Mr. Andrew Greig was
-not really dead, but back in France and possessed of an elixir of youth
-which could make the ancient and furrowed hills themselves look like
-yesterday's creations.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! M. Andrew!” he had cried. “An elixir of grease were more in the
-fellow's line; I have never seen a man's viands give so scurvy a return
-for the attention he paid them. 'Tis a pole—this M. Andrew—but
-what a head—what a head!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! but 'tis true of the elixir,” they protested; “and he looks thirty
-years younger; here he comes!”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was then that I stepped in with the servant bawling my name, and the
-priest surged to his feet with his face all quivering.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! M. Andrew!” he cried; “fattened and five-and-twenty. Holy Mother!
-It is, then, that miracles are possible? I shall have a hogshead, master,
-of thine infernal essence and drink away this paunch, and skip anon like
-to the goats of—of-”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then his friends burst into peals of laughter as much at my
-bewilderment as at his credulity, and he saw that it was all a pleasantry.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mon Dieu!” he said, sighing like a November forest. “There was never more
-pestilent gleek played upon a wretched man. Oh! oh! oh! I had an angelic
-dream for that moment of your entrance, for I saw me again a stripling—a
-stripling—and the girl's name was—never mind. God rest her!
-she is under grass in Louvain.”
- </p>
-<p>
-All the rest of the day—at Clancarty's, at the Café de la Poste, in
-our walk along the dunes where cannon were being fired at marks well out
-at sea, this obese cleric scarcely let his eyes off me. He seemed to envy
-and admire, and then again he would appear to muse upon my countenance,
-debating with himself as one who stands at a shop window pondering a
-purchase that may be on the verge of his means.
-</p>
-<p>
-Captain Thurot observed his interest, and took an occasion to whisper to
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Have a care, M. Greig,” said he playfully; “this priest schemes
-something; that's ever the worst of your Jesuits, and you may swear 'tis
-not your eternal salvation.”
- </p>
-<p>
-'Twas that afternoon we went all together to the curious lodging in the
-Rue de la Boucherie. I remember as it had been yesterday how sunny was the
-weather, and how odd it seemed to me that there should be a country-woman
-of my own there.
-</p>
-<p>
-She was not, as it seems to me now, lovely, though where her features
-failed of perfection it would beat me to disclose, but there was something
-inexpressibly fascinating in her—in the mild, kind, melting eyes,
-and the faint sad innuendo of her smile. She sat at a spinet playing, and
-for the sake of this poor exile, sang some of the songs we are acquainted
-with at home. Upon my word, the performance touched me to the core! I felt
-sick for home: my mother's state, the girl at Kirkillstane, the dead lad
-on the moor, sounds of Earn Water, clouds and heather on the hill of
-Ballageich—those mingled matters swept through my thoughts as I sat
-with these blithe gentlemen, hearkening to a simple Doric tune, and my
-eyes filled irrestrainably with tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-Miss Walkinshaw—for so her name was—saw what effect her music
-had produced; reddened, ceased her playing, took me to the window while
-the others discussed French poetry, and bade me tell her, as we looked out
-upon the street, all about myself and of my home. She was, perhaps, ten
-years my senior, and I ran on like a child.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The Mearns!” said she. “Oh dear, oh dear! And you come frae the Meams!”
- She dropped into her Scots that showed her heart was true, and told me she
-had often had her May milk in my native parish.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you maybe know,” said she, flushing, “the toun of Glasgow, and the
-house of Walkinshaw, my—my father, there?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I knew the house very well, but no more of it than that it existed.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was in her eyes the tears were now, talking of her native place, but
-she quickly changed the topic ere I could learn much about her, and she
-guessed—with a smile coming through her tears, like a sun through
-mist—that I must have been in love and wandered in its fever, to be
-so far from home at my age.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There was a girl,” I said, my face hot, my heart rapping at the
-recollection, and someway she knew all about Isobel Fortune in five
-minutes, while the others in the room debated on so trivial a thing as the
-songs of the troubadours.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Isobel Fortune!” she said (and I never thought the name so beautiful as
-it sounded on her lips, where it lingered like a sweet); “Isobel Fortune;
-why, it's an omen, Master Greig, and it must be a good fortune. I am wae
-for the poor lassie that her big foolish lad”—she smiled with
-bewitching sympathy at me under long lashes—“should be so far away
-frae her side. You must go back as quick as you can; but stay now, is it
-true you love her still?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The woman would get the feeling and the truth from a heart of stone; I
-only sighed for answer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Then you'll go back,” said she briskly, “and it will be Earn-side again
-and trysts at Ballageich—oh! the name is like a bagpipe air to me!—and
-you will be happy, and be married and settle down—and—and poor
-Clemie Walkinshaw will be friendless far away from her dear Scotland, but
-not forgetting you and your wife.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I cannot go back there at all,” I said, with a long face, bitter enough,
-you may be sure, at the knowledge I had thrown away all that she depicted,
-and her countenance fell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What for no'?” she asked softly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Because I fought a duel with the man that Isobel preferred, and—and—killed
-him!”
- </p>
-<p>
-She shuddered with a little sucking in of air at her teeth and drew up her
-shoulders as if chilled with cold.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah, then,” said she, “the best thing's to forget. Are you a Jacobite,
-Master Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-She had set aside my love affair and taken to politics with no more than a
-sigh of sympathy, whether for the victim of my jealousy, or Isobel
-Fortune, or for me, I could not say.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm neither one thing nor another,” said I. “My father is a staunch
-enough royalist, and so, I daresay, I would be too if I had not got a
-gliff of bonnie Prince Charlie at the Tontine of Glasgow ten years ago.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ten years ago!” she repeated, staring abstracted out at the window. “Ten
-years ago! So it was; I thought it was a lifetime since. And what did you
-think of him?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Whatever my answer might have been it never got the air, for here
-Clancarty, who had had a message come to the door for him, joined us at
-the window, and she turned to him with some phrase about the trampling of
-troops that passed along the streets.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” he said, “the affair marches quickly. Have you heard that England
-has declared war? And our counter declaration is already on its way
-across. <i>Pardieu!</i> there shall be matters toward in a month or two
-and the Fox will squeal. Braddock's affair in America has been the best
-thing that has happened us in many years.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thus he went on with singular elation that did not escape me, though my
-wits were also occupied by some curious calculations as to what disturbed
-the minds of Hamilton and of the lady. I felt that I was in the presence
-of some machinating influences probably at variance, for while Clancarty
-and Roscommon and Thurot were elate, the priest made only a pretence at
-it, and was looking all abstracted as if weightier matters occupied his
-mind, his large fat hand, heavy-ringed, buttressing his dewlap, and Miss
-Walkinshaw was stealing glances of inquiry at him—glances of inquiry
-and also of distrust. All this I saw in a mirror over the mantelpiece of
-the room.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sure there's but one thing to regret in it,” cried Clancarty suddenly,
-stopping and turning to me, “it must mean that we lose Monsieur des
-Souliers Rouges. <i>Peste!</i> There is always something to worry one
-about a war!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Comment?</i>” said Thurot.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The deportment,” answered his lordship. “Every English subject has been
-ordered out of France. We are going to lose not only your company, Father
-Hamilton, because of your confounded hare-brained scheme for covering all
-Europe in a glass coach, but our M. Greig must put the Sleeve between him
-and those best qualified to estimate and esteem his thousand virtues of
-head and heart For a <i>louis</i> or two I'd take ship with him and fight
-on the other side. Gad! it would always be fighting anyway, and one would
-be by one's friend.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The priest's jaw fell as if my going was a blow to his inmost affections;
-he turned his face rapidly into shadow; Miss Walkinshaw lost no movement
-of his; she was watching him as he had been a snake.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! but it is not necessary that we lose my compatriot so fast as that,”
- she said. “There are such things as permits, excepting English friends of
-ours from deportment,—and—and—I fancy I could get one
-for Mr. Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In my heart I thanked her for her ready comprehension of my inability to
-go back to Britain with an easy mind; and I bowed my recognition of her
-goodness.
-</p>
-<p>
-She was paying no heed to my politeness; she had again an eye on the
-priest, who was obviously cheered marvellously by the prospect.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then we took a dish of tea with her, the lords and Thurot loudly
-cheerful, Hamilton ruminant and thundering alternately, Miss Walkinshaw
-showing a score of graces as hostess, myself stimulated to some unusual
-warmth of spirit as I sat beside her, well-nigh fairly loving her because
-she was my country-woman and felt so fond about my native Mearns.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN A SITUATION OFFERS AND I ENGAGE TO GO TRAVELLING WITH THE PRIEST
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> week passed with no further incident particularly affecting this
-history. With my reduced and antique mentor I studied <i>la belle langue</i>,
-sedulous by day, at night pacing the front of the sea, giving words to its
-passion as it broke angry on the bar or thundered on the beach—the
-sea that still haunts me and invites, whose absence makes often lonely the
-moorland country where is my home, where are my people's graves. It called
-me then, in the dripping weather of those nights in France—it called
-me temptingly to try again my Shoes of Fortune (as now I named them to
-myself), and learn whereto they might lead.
-</p>
-<p>
-But in truth I was now a prisoner to that inviting sea. The last English
-vessel had gone; the Channel was a moat about my native isle, and I was a
-tee'd ball with a passport that was no more and no less than a warder's
-warrant in my pouch. It had come to me under cover of Thurot two days
-after Miss Walkinshaw's promise; it commanded <i>tous les gouverneurs et
-tous les lieutenants-généraux de nos provinces et de nos armées,
-gouverneurs particuliers et commandants de nos villes, places et troupes</i>
-to permit and pass the Sieur Greig anywhere in the country, <i>sans lui
-donner aucun empêchement</i>, and was signed for the king by the Duc de
-Choiseuil.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went round to make my devoirs to the lady to whom I owed the favour, and
-this time I was alone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where's your shoon, laddie?” said she at the first go-off. “Losh! do ye
-no' ken that they're the very makin' o' ye? If it hadna been for them
-Clementina Walkinshaw wad maybe never hae lookit the gait ye were on.
-Ye'll be to put them on again!” She thrust forth a <i>bottine</i> like a
-doll's for size and trod upon my toes, laughing the while with her curious
-suggestion of unpractised merriment at my first solemn acceptance of her
-humour as earnest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Am I never to get quit o' thae shoes?” I cried; “the very deil maun be in
-them.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was the very deil,” said she, “was in them when it was your Uncle
-Andrew.” And she stopped and sighed. “O Andy Greig, Andy Greig! had I been
-a wise woman and ta'en a guid-hearted though throughither Mearns man's
-advice—toots! laddie, I micht be a rudas auld wife by my preachin'.
-Oh, gie's a sang, or I'll dee.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then she flew to the spinet (a handsome instrument singularly out of
-keeping with the rest of the plenishing in that odd lodging in the Rue de
-la Boucherie of Dunkerque), and touched a prelude and broke into an air.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-To-day they call that woman lost and wicked; I have seen it said in
-books: God's pity on her! she was not bad; she was the very football of
-fate, and a heart of the yellow gold. If I was warlock or otherwise had
-charms, I would put back the dial two score years and wrench her from
-her chains.
-
-O waly, waly up the bank,
-O waly, waly doon the brae.
-And waly, waly yon burn-side,
-Where I and my love wont to gae.
-I leaned my back unto an aik,
-I thocht it was a trusty tree,
-But first it bowed and syne it brak,
-Sae my true love did lichtly me.
-</pre>
-<p>
-They have their own sorrow even in script those ballad words of an exile
-like herself, but to hear Miss Walkinshaw sing them was one of the saddest
-things I can recall in a lifetime that has known many sorrows. And still,
-though sad, not wanting in a sort of brave defiance of calumny, a hope,
-and an unchanging affection. She had a voice as sweet as a bird in the
-thicket at home; she had an eye full and melting; her lips, at the
-sentiment, sometimes faintly broke.
-</p>
-<p>
-I turned my head away that I might not spy upon her feeling, for here, it
-was plain, was a tragedy laid bare. She stopped her song mid-way with a
-laugh, dashed a hand across her eyes, and threw herself into a chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, fie! Mr. Greig, to be backing up a daft woman, old enough to know
-better, in her vapours. You must be fancying I am a begrutten bairn to be
-snackin' my daidlie in this lamentable fashion, but it's just you and your
-Mearns, and your Ballageich, and your douce Scots face and tongue that
-have fair bewitched me. O Scotland! Scotland! Let us look oot at this
-France o' theirs, Mr. Greig.” She came to the window (her movements were
-ever impetuous, like the flight of a butterfly), and “Do I no' wish that
-was the Gallowgate,” said she, “and Glasgow merchants were in the shops
-and Christian signs abin the doors, like 'MacWhannal' and 'Mackay,' and
-'Robin Oliphant'? If that was Bailie John Walkinshaw, wi' his rattan, and
-yon was the piazza o' Tontine, would no' his dochter be the happy woman?
-Look! look! ye Mearns man, look! look! at the bairn playing pal-al in the
-close. 'Tis my little sister Jeanie that's married on the great Doctor
-Doig—him wi' the mant i' the Tron kirk—and bairns o' her ain,
-I'm tell't, and they'll never hear their Aunt Clemie named but in a
-whisper. And yon auld body wi' the mob cap, that's the baxter's widow, and
-there's carvie in her scones that you'll can buy for a bawbee apiece.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The maddest thing!—but here was the woman smiling through her tears,
-and something tremulous in her as though her heart was leaping at her
-breast. Suddenly her manner changed, as if she saw a sobering sight, and I
-looked out again, and there was Father Hamilton heaving round the corner
-of a lane, his face as red as the moon in a fog of frost.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “here's France, sure enough, Mr. Greig. We
-must put by our sentiments, and be just witty or as witty as we can be. If
-you're no' witty here, my poor Mr. Greig, you might as well be dumb. A
-heart doesna maitter much; but, oh! be witty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The priest was making for the house. She dried her tears before me, a
-frankness that flattered my vanity; “and let us noo to our English, Mr.
-Greig,” said she as the knock came to the door. “It need be nae honest
-Scots when France is chappin'. Would you like to travel for a season?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The question took me by surprise; it had so little relevance to what had
-gone before.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Travel?” I repeated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Travel,” said she again quickly. “In a glass coach with a companion who
-has plenty of money—wherever it comes from—and see all Europe,
-and maybe—for you are Scots like myself—make money. The fat
-priest wants a secretary; that's the long and the short of it, for there's
-his foot on the stairs, and if you'll say yes, I fancy I can get you the
-situation.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I did not hesitate a second.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why, then yes, to be sure,” said I, “and thank you kindly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Thank <i>you</i>, Paul Greig,” said she softly, for now the Swiss had
-opened the door, and she squeezed my wrist.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Benedicite!</i>” cried his reverence and came in, puffing hugely after
-his climb, his face now purple almost to strangulation. “May the devil fly
-away with turnpike stairs, Madame!—puff-puff—I curse them
-whether they be wood or marble;—puff-puff—I curse them
-Dunkerque; in Ostend, Paris, all Europe itself, ay even unto the two
-Americas. I curse their designers, artisans, owners, and defenders in
-their waking and sleeping! Madame, kindly consider your stairs anathema!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You need all your wind to cool your porridge, as we say in Scotland,
-Father Hamilton,” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “and a bonny-like thing it is to
-have you coming here blackguarding my honest stairs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He laughed enormously and fell into a chair, shaking the house as if the
-world itself had quaked. “Pardon, my dear Miss Walkinshaw,” said he when
-his breath was restored, “but, by the Mass, you must confess 'tis the
-deuce and all for a man—a real man that loves his viands, and sleeps
-well o' nights, and has a contented mind and grows flesh accordingly, to
-trip up to Paradise—” here he bowed, his neck swelling in massive
-folds—“to trip up to Paradise, where the angels are, as easily as a
-ballet-dancer—bless her!—skips to the other place where, by my
-faith! I should like to pay a brief visit myself, if 'twere only to see
-old friends of the Opéra Comique. Madame, I give you good-day. Sir,
-Monsieur Greig—'shalt never be a man like thine Uncle Andrew for all
-thy confounded elixir. I favour not your virtuous early rising in the
-young. There! thine uncle would a-been abed at this hour an' he were alive
-and in Dunkerque; thou must be a confoundedly industrious and sober Greig
-to be dangling at a petticoat-tail—Pardon, Madame, 'tis the dearest
-tail, anyway!—before the hour meridian.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And this is France,” thought I. “Here's your papistical gospeller at
-home!” I minded of the Rev. Scipio Walker in the kirk of Mearns, an image
-ever of austerity, waling his words as they had come from Solomon,
-groaning even-on for man's eternal doom.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest quickly comprehended my surprise at his humour, and laughed the
-more at that till a fit of coughing choked him. “<i>Mon Dieu</i>” said he;
-“our Andy reincarnate is an Andy most pestilent dull, or I'm a cockle, a
-convoluted cockle, and uncooked at that. Why, man! cheer up, thou <i>croque
-mort</i>, thou lanthorn-jaw, thou veal-eye, thou melancholious eater of
-oaten-meal!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a humblin' sicht!” said I. The impertinence was no sooner uttered
-than I felt degraded that I should have given it voice, for here was a
-priest of God, however odd to my thinking, and, what was more, a man who
-might in years have been my father.
-</p>
-<p>
-But luckily it could never then, or at any other time, be said of Father
-Hamilton that he was thin-skinned. He only laughed the more at me.
-“Touche!” he cried. “I knew I could prick the old Andy somewhere. Still,
-Master Paul, thine uncle was not so young as thou, my cockerel. Had seen
-his world and knew that Scotland and its—what do you call them?—its
-manses, did not provide the universal ensample of true piety.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I do not think, Father Hamilton,” said I, “that piety troubled him very
-much, or his shoes had not been so well known in Dunkerque.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Miss Walkinshaw laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There you are, Father Hamilton!” said she. “You'll come little speed with
-a man from the Mearns moors unless you take him a little more seriously.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton pursed his lips and rubbed down his thighs, an image of
-the gross man that would have turned my father's stomach, who always liked
-his men lean, clean, and active. He was bantering me, this fat priest of
-Dixmunde, but all the time it was with a friendly eye. Thinks I, here's
-another legacy of goodwill from my extraordinary uncle!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Hast got thy pass yet, Master Dull?” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not so dull, Master Minister, but what I resent the wrong word even in a
-joke,” I replied, rising to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot's voice was on the stair now, and Clan-carty's. If they were not to
-find their <i>protégé</i> in an undignified war of words with the priest
-of Dixmunde, it was time I was taking my feet from there, as the saying
-went.
-</p>
-<p>
-But Miss Walkinshaw would not hear of it. “No, no,” she protested, “we
-have some business before you go to your ridiculous French—weary be
-on the language that ever I heard <i>Je t'aime</i> in it!—and how
-does the same march with you, Mr. Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know enough of it to thank my good friends in,” said I, “but that must
-be for another occasion.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Father Hamilton,” said she, “here's your secretary.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A curious flash came to those eyes pitted in rolls of flabby flesh, I
-thought of an eagle old and moulting, languid upon a mountain cliff in
-misty weather, catching the first glimpse of sun and turned thereby to
-ancient memories. He said nothing; there was at the moment no opportunity,
-for the visitors had entered, noisily polite and posturing as was their
-manner, somewhat touched by wine, I fancied, and for that reason scarcely
-welcomed by the mistress of the house.
-</p>
-<p>
-There could be no more eloquent evidence of my innocence in these days
-than was in the fact that I never wondered at the footing upon which these
-noisy men of the world were with a countrywoman of mine. The cause they
-often spoke of covered many mysteries; between the Rue de Paris and the
-Rue de la Boucherie I could have picked out a score of Scots in exile for
-their political faiths, and why should not Miss Walkinshaw be one of the
-company? But sometimes there was just the faintest hint of over-much
-freedom in their manner to her, and that I liked as little as she seemed
-to do, for when her face flushed and her mouth firmed, and she became
-studiously deaf, I felt ashamed of my sex, and could have retorted had not
-prudence dictated silence as the wisest policy.
-</p>
-<p>
-As for her, she was never but the minted metal, ringing true and decent,
-compelling order by a glance, gentle yet secure in her own strength,
-tolerant, but in bounds.
-</p>
-<p>
-They were that day full of the project for invading England. It had gone
-so far that soldiers at Calais and Boulogne were being practised in
-embarkation. I supposed she must have a certain favour for a step that was
-designed to benefit the cause wherefor I judged her an exile, but she
-laughed at the idea of Britain falling, as she said, to a parcel of <i>crapauds</i>.
-“Treason!” treason!” cried Thurot laughingly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Under the circumstances, Madame——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“—Under the circumstances, Captain Thurot,” she interrupted quickly,
-“I need not pretend at a lie. This is not in the Prince's interest, this
-invasion, and it is a blow at a land I love. Mr. Greig here has just put
-it into my mind how good are the hearts there, how pleasant the tongue,
-and how much I love the very name of Scotland. I would be sorry to think
-of its end come to pleasure the women in Versailles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bravo! bravo! <i>vive la bagatelle!</i>” cried my Lord Clancarty. “Gad! I
-sometimes feel the right old pathriot myself. Sure I have a good mind—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then 'tis not your own, my lord,” she cried quickly, displeasure in her
-expression, and Clancarty only bowed, not a whit abashed at the sarcasm.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton drew me aside from these cheerful contentions, and plunged
-into the matter that was manifestly occupying all his thoughts since Miss
-Walkinshaw had mooted me as his secretary.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Monsieur Greig,” he said, placing his great carcase between me and the
-others in the room, “I declare that women are the seven plagues, and yet
-here we come chasing them from <i>petit lever</i> till—till—well,
-till as late as the darlings will let us. By the Mass and Father Hamilton
-knows their value, and when a man talks to me about a woman and the love
-he bears her, I think 'tis a maniac shouting the praise of the snake that
-has crept to his breast to sting him. Women—chut!—now tell me
-what the mischief is a woman an' thou canst.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I fancy, Father Hamilton,” said I, “you could be convinced of the merits
-of woman if your heart was ever attacked by one—your heart, that
-does not believe anything in that matter that emanates from your head.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Again the eagle's gleam from the pitted eyes; and, upon my word, a sigh!
-It was a queer man this priest of Dixmunde.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah, young cockerel,” said he, “thou knowest nothing at all about it, and
-as for me—well, I dare not; but once—once—once there
-were dews in the woods, and now it is very dry weather, Master Greig. How
-about thine honour's secretaryship? Gripp'st at the opportunity, young
-fellow? Eh? Has the lady said sooth? Come now, I like the look of my old
-Andrew's—my old Merry Andrew's nephew, and could willingly tolerate
-his <i>croque-mort</i> countenance, his odour of the sanctuary, if he
-could weather it with a plethoric good liver that takes the world as he
-finds it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was positively eager to have me. It was obvious from his voice. He took
-me by the button of my lapel as if I were about to run away from his
-offer, but I was in no humour to run away. Here was the very office I
-should have chosen if a thousand offered. The man was a fatted sow to look
-on, and by no means engaging in his manner to myself, but what was I and
-what my state that I should be too particular? Here was a chance to see
-the world—and to forget. Seeing the world might have been of most
-importance some months ago in the mind of a clean-handed young lad in the
-parish of Mearns in Scotland, but now it was of vastly more importance
-that I should forget.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We start in a week,” said the priest, pressing me closely lest I should
-change my mind, and making the prospects as picturesque as he could. “Why
-should a man of flesh and blood vex his good stomach with all this
-babblement of king's wars? and a pox on their flat-bottomed boats! I have
-seen my last Mass in Dixmunde; say not a word on that to our friends nor
-to Madame; and I suffer from a very jaundice of gold. Is't a pact, friend
-Scotland?”
- </p>
-<p>
-A pact it was; I went out from Miss Walkinshaw's lodging that afternoon
-travelling secretary to the fat priest.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XVI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-RELATES HOW I INDULGED MY CURIOSITY AND HOW LITTLE CAME OF IT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>unkerque in these days (it may be so no longer) was a place for a man to
-go through with his nose in his fingers. Garbage stewed and festered in
-the gutters of the street so that the women were bound to walk
-high-kilted, and the sea-breeze at its briskest scarcely sufficed to stir
-the stagnant, stenching atmosphere of the town, now villainously
-over-populated by the soldiery with whom it was France's pleasant delusion
-she should whelm our isle.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardieu!</i>” cried Father Hamilton, as we emerged in this malodorous
-open, “'twere a fairy godfather's deed to clear thee out of this feculent
-cloaca. Think on't, boy; of you and me a week hence riding through the
-sweet woods of Somme or Oise, and after that Paris! Paris! my lad of
-tragedy; Paris, where the world moves and folk live. And then, perhaps,
-Tours, and Bordeaux, and Flanders, and Sweden, Seville, St. Petersburg
-itself, but at least the woods of Somme, where the roads are among
-gossamer and dew and enchantment in the early morning—if we cared to
-rise early enough to see them, which I promise thee we shall not.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His lips were thick and trembling: he gloated as he pictured me this mad
-itinerary, leaning heavily on my arm—Silenus on an ash sapling—half-trotting
-beside me, looking up every now and then to satisfy himself I appreciated
-the prospect. It was pleasant enough, though in a measure incredible, but
-at the moment I was thinking of Miss Walkinshaw, and wondering much to
-myself that this exposition of foreign travel should seem barely
-attractive because it meant a severance from her. Her sad smile, her brave
-demeanour, her kind heart, her beauty had touched me sensibly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Master Scrivener!” cried the priest, panting at my side, “art
-dumb?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I fancy, sir, it is scarcely the weather for woods,” said I. “I hope we
-are not to put off our journey till the first of April a twelvemonth.” A
-suspicion unworthy of me had flashed into my mind that I might, after all,
-be no more than the butt of a practical joke. But that was merely for a
-moment; the priest was plainly too eager on his scheme to be play-acting
-it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am very grateful to the lady,” I hastened to add, “who gave me the
-chance of listing in your service. Had it not been for her you might have
-found a better secretary, and I might have remained long enough in the
-evil smells of Dunkerque that I'll like all the same in spite of that,
-because I have so good a friend as Miss Walkinshaw in it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la!” cried out Father Hamilton, squeezing my arm. “Here's our
-young cockerel trailing wing already! May I never eat fish again if
-'tisn't a fever in this woman that she must infect every man under three
-score. For me I am within a month of the period immune, and only feel a
-malaise in her company. Boy, perpend! Have I not told thee every woman,
-except the ugliest, is an agent of the devil? I am the first to discover
-that his majesty is married and his wife keeps shop when he is travelling—among
-Jesuits and Jacobites and such busy fuel for the future fires. His wife
-keeps shop, lad, and does a little business among her own sex, using the
-handsomest for her purposes. Satan comes back to the <i>boutique</i>.
-'What!' he cries, and counts the till, 'these have been busy days, good
-wife.' And she, Madame Dusky, chuckles with a 'Ha! Jack, old man, hast a
-good wife or not? Shalt never know how to herd in souls like sheep till
-thou hast a quicker eye for what's below a Capuchin hood.' This—this
-is a sweet woman, this Walkinshaw, Paul, but a dangerous. 'Ware hawk, lad,
-'ware hawk!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I suppose my face reddened at that; at least he looked at me again and
-pinched, and “Smitten to the marrow; may I drink water and grow thin else.
-<i>Sacré nom de nom!</i> 'tis time thou wert on the highways of Europe.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How does it happen that a countrywoman of mine is here alone?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll be shot if thou art not the rascalliest young innocent in France.
-Aye! or out of Scotland,” cried Father Hamilton, holding his sides for
-laughter.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is thy infernal climate of fogs and rains so pleasant that a woman of
-spirit should abide there for ever an' she have the notion to travel
-otherwheres? La! la! la! Master Scrivener, and thou must come to an honest
-pious priest for news of the world. But, boy, I'm deaf and dumb; mine eyes
-on occasion are without vision. Let us say the lady has been an
-over-ardent Jacobite; 'twill suffice in the meantime. And now has't ever
-set eyes on Charles Edward?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I told him I had never had any hand in the Jacobite affairs, if that was
-what he meant.
-</p>
-<p>
-His countenance fell at that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he cried, losing his Roman manner, “do you tell me you have never
-seen him?”
- </p>
-<p>
-But once, I explained, when he marched into Glasgow city with his wild
-Highlanders and bullied the burgesses into providing shoes for his ragged
-army.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said he with a clearing visage, “that will suffice. Must point him
-out to me. Dixmunde parish was a poor place for seeing the great; 'tis why
-I go wandering now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton's hint at politics confirmed my guess about Miss
-Walkinshaw, but I suppose I must have been in a craze to speak of her on
-any pretence, for later in the day I was at Thurot's lodging, and there
-must precognosce again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Oh, mon Dieu, quelle espièglerie!</i>” cried out the captain. “And
-this a Greig too! Well, I do not wonder that your poor uncle stayed so
-long away from home; faith, he'd have died of an <i>ennui</i> else. Miss
-Walkinshaw is—Miss Walkinshaw; a countryman of her own should know
-better than I all that is to be known about her. But 'tis not our affair,
-Mr. Greig. For sure 'tis enough that we find her smiling, gentle,
-tolerant, what you call the 'perfect lady'—<i>n'est ce pas?</i>And
-of all the virtues, upon my word, kindness is the best and rarest, and
-that she has to a miracle.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'm thinking that is not a corsair's creed, Captain Thurot,” said I,
-smiling at the gentleman's eagerness. He was standing over me like a
-lighthouse, with his eyes on fire, gesturing with his arms as they had
-been windmill sails.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, faith! but 'tis a man's, Master Greig, and I have been happy with it.
-Touching our fair friend, I may say that, much as I admire her, I agree
-with some others that ours were a luckier cause without her. Gad! the best
-thing you could do, Mr. Greig, would be to marry her yourself and take her
-back with you to Scotland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What! byway of Paris in Father Hamilton's glass coach,” I said, bantering
-to conceal my confusion at such a notion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“H'm,” said he. “Father Hamilton and the lady are a pair.” He walked a
-little up and down the room as if he were in a quandary. “A pair,” he
-resumed. “I fancied I could see to the very centre of the Sphinx itself,
-for all men are in ourselves if we only knew it, till I came upon this
-Scotswoman and this infernal Flemish-English priest of Dix-munde. Somehow,
-for them Antoine Thurot has not the key in himself yet. Still, 'twill
-arrive, 'twill arrive! I like the lady—and yet I wish she were a
-thousand miles away; I like the man too, but a Jesuit is too many men at
-once to be sure of; and, Gad! I can scarcely sleep at nights for wondering
-what he may be plotting. This grand tour of his-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stop, stop!” I cried, in a fear that he might compromise himself in an
-ignorance of my share in the tour in question; “I must tell you that I am
-going with Father Hamilton as his secretary, although it bothers me to
-know what scrivening is to be accomplished in a glass coach. Like enough I
-am to be no more, in truth, than the gentleman's companion or courier, and
-it is no matter so long as I am moving.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and is it so?” cried Captain Thurot, stopping as if he had been
-shot. “And how happens it that this priest is willing to take you, that
-are wholly a foreigner and a stranger to the country?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Miss Walkinshaw recommended me,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh!” he cried, “you have not been long of getting into your excellent
-countrywoman's kind favour. Is it that Tony Thurot has been doing the
-handsome by an ingrate? No, no, Monsieur, that were a monstrous innuendo,
-for the honour has been all mine. But that Miss Walkinshaw should be on
-such good terms with the priest as to trouble with the provision of his
-secretary is opposed to all I had expected of her. Why, she dislikes the
-man, or I'm a stuffed fish.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Anyhow, she has done a handsome thing by me,” said I. “It is no wonder
-that so good a heart as hers should smother its repugnances (and the
-priest is a fat sow, there is no denying) for the sake of a poor lad from
-its own country. You are but making it the plainer that I owe her more
-than at first I gave her credit for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bless me, here's gratitude!” cried the captain, laughing at my warmth.
-“Mademoiselle Walkinshaw has her own plans; till now, I fancied them
-somewhat different from Hamilton's, but more fool I to fancy they were
-what they seemed! All that, my dear lad, need not prevent your enjoying
-your grand tour with the priest, who has plenty of money and the
-disposition to spend it like a gentleman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Finally I went to my Lord Clancarty, for it will be observed that I had
-still no hint as to the origin of the lady who was so good a friend of
-mine. Though the last thing in the world I should have done was to pry
-into her affairs for the indulgence of an idle curiosity, I would know the
-best of her before the time came to say farewell, and leave of her with me
-no more than a memory.
-</p>
-<p>
-The earl was at the Café du Soleil d'Or, eating mussels on the terrace and
-tossing the empty shells into the gutter what time he ogled passing women
-and exchanged levitous repartee with some other frequenters of the place.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Egad, Paul,” he cried, meeting me with effusion, “'tis said there is one
-pearl to be found for every million mussels; but here's a pearl come to me
-in the midst of a single score. An Occasion, lad; I sat at the dice last
-night till a preposterous hour this morning, and now I have a headache
-like the deuce and a thirst to take the Baltic. I must have the tiniest
-drop, and on an Occasion too. <i>Voilà! Gaspard, une autre bouteille.</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had his bottle, that I merely made pretence to help him empty, and I
-had my precognition.
-</p>
-<p>
-But it came to little in the long run. Oh yes, he understood my interest
-in the lady (with rakish winking); 'twas a delicious creature for all its
-<i>hauteur</i> when one ventured a gallantry, but somehow no particular
-friend to the Earl of Clancarty, who, if she only knew it, was come of as
-noble a stock as any rotten Scot ever went unbreeched; not but what (this
-with a return of the naturally polite man) there were admirable and
-high-bred people of that race, as instance my Uncle Andrew and myself. But
-was there any reason why such a man as Charlie Stuart should be King of
-Ireland? “I say, Greig, blister the old Chevalier and his two sons! There
-is not a greater fumbler on earth than this sotted person, who has drunk
-the Cause to degradation and would not stir a hand to serve me and my
-likes, that are, begad! the fellow's betters.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But all this,” said I, “has little to do with Miss Walkinshaw. I have
-nothing to say of the Prince, who may be all you say, though that is not
-the repute he has in Scotland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bravo, Mr. Greig!” cried his lordship. “That is the tone if you would
-keep in the lady's favour. Heaven knows she has little reason to listen to
-praise of such a creature, but, then, women are blind. She loves not
-Clancarty, as I have said; but, no matter, I forgive her that; 'tis well
-known 'tis because I cannot stomach her prince.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And yet,” said I, “you must interest yourself in these Jacobite affairs
-and mix with all that are here of that party.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Faith and I do,” he confessed heartily. “What! am I to be a mole and stay
-underground? A man must have his diversion, and though I detest the Prince
-I love his foolish followers. Do you know what, Mr. Greig? 'Tis the
-infernal irony of things in this absurd world that the good fellows, the
-bloods, the men of sensibilities must for ever be wrapped up in poor mad
-escapades and emprises. And a Clancarty is ever of such a heart that the
-more madcap the scheme the more will he dote on it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A woman passing in a chair at this moment looked in his direction;
-fortunately, otherwise I was condemned to a treatise on life and pleasure.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Egad!” he cried, “there's a face that's like a line of song,” and he
-smiled at her with unpardonable boldness as it seemed to me, a pleasant
-pucker about his eyes, a hint of the good comrade in his mouth.
-</p>
-<p>
-She flushed like wine and tried to keep from smiling, but could not
-resist, and smiling she was borne away.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do you know her, my lord?” I could not forbear asking.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is it know her?” said he. “Devil a know, but 'tis a woman anyhow, and a
-heart at that. Now who the deuce can she be?” And he proceeded, like a
-true buck, to fumble with the Mechlin of his fall and dust his stockings
-in an airy foppish manner so graceful that I swear no other could have
-done the same so well.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now this Miss Walkinshaw—” I went on, determined to have some
-satisfaction from my interview.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Confound your Miss Walkinshaw, by your leave, Mr. Greig,” he interrupted.
-“Can you speak of Miss Walkinshaw when the glory of the comet is still
-trailing in the heavens? And—hum!—I mind me of a certain
-engagement, Mr. Greig,” he went on hurriedly, drawing a horologe from his
-fob and consulting it with a frowning brow. “In the charm of your
-conversation I had nigh forgot, so <i>adieu, adieu, mon ami!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-He gave me the tips of his fingers, and a second later he was gone,
-stepping down the street with a touch of the minuet, tapping his legs with
-his cane, his sword skewering his coat-skirts, all the world giving him
-the cleanest portion of the thoroughfare and looking back after him with
-envy and admiration.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XVII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WITNESSES THE LAST OF A BLATE YOUNG MAN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd all this time it may well be wondered where was my remorse for a shot
-fired on the moor of Mearns, for two wretched homes created by my passion
-and my folly. And where, in that shifting mind of mine, was the place of
-Isobel Fortune, whose brief days of favour for myself (if that, indeed,
-was not imagination on my part) had been the cause of these my wanderings?
-There is one beside me as I write, ready to make allowance for youth and
-ignorance, the untutored affection, the distraught mind, if not for the
-dubiety as to her feelings for myself when I was outlawed for a deed of
-blood and had taken, as the Highland phrase goes, the world for my pillow.
-</p>
-<p>
-I did not forget the girl of Kirkillstane; many a time in the inward
-visions of the night, and of the day too, I saw her go about that far-off
-solitary house in the hollow of the hills. Oddly enough, 'twas ever in
-sunshine I saw her, with her sun-bonnet swinging from its ribbons and her
-hand above her eyes, shading them that she might look across the fields
-that lay about her home, or on a tryst of fancy by the side of Earn,
-hearing the cushats mourn in a magic harmony with her melancholy thoughts.
-As for the killing of young Borland, that I kept, waking at least, from my
-thoughts, or if the same intruded, I found it easier, as time passed, to
-excuse myself for a fatality that had been in the experience of nearly
-every man I now knew—of Clancarty and Thurot, of the very baker in
-whose house I lodged and who kneaded the dough for his little bread not a
-whit the less cheerily because his hands had been imbrued.
-</p>
-<p>
-The late Earl of Clare, in France called the Maréchal Comte de Thomond,
-had come to Dunkerque in the quality of Inspector-General of the Armies of
-France, to review the troops in garrison and along that menacing coast.
-The day after my engagement with Father Hamilton I finished my French
-lesson early and went to see his lordship and his army on the dunes to the
-east of the town. Cannon thundered, practising at marks far out in the
-sea; there was infinite manoeuvring of horse and foot; the noon was noisy
-with drums and the turf shook below the hoofs of galloping chargers. I
-fancy it was a holiday; at least, as I recall the thing, Dunkerque was all
-<i>en fête</i>, and a happy and gay populace gathered in the rear of the
-maréchales flag. Who should be there among the rest, or rather a little
-apart from the crowd, but Miss Walkinshaw! She had come in a chair; her
-dainty hand beckoned me to her side almost as soon as I arrived.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now, that's what I must allow is very considerate,” said she, eyeing my
-red shoes, which were put on that day from some notion of proper
-splendour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well considered?” I repeated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Just well considered,” said she. “You know how much it would please me to
-see you in your red shoes, and so you must put them on.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was young in these days, and, like the ass I was, I quickly set about
-disabusing her mind of a misapprehension that injured her nor me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, Miss Walkinshaw,” said I, “how could I do that when I did not
-know you were to be here? You are the last I should have expected to see
-here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” she exclaimed, growing very red. “Does Mr. Greig trouble himself
-so much about the <i>convenances?</i> And why should I not be here if I
-have the whim? Tell me that, my fastidious compatriot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Here was an accountable flurry over a thoughtless phrase!
-</p>
-<p>
-“No reason in the world that I know of,” said I gawkily, as red as
-herself, wondering what it was my foot was in.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That you know of,” she repeated, as confused as ever. “It seems to me,
-Mr. Greig, that the old gentleman who is tutoring you in the French
-language would be doing a good turn to throw in a little of the manners of
-the same. Let me tell you that I am as much surprised as you can be to
-find myself here, and now that you are so good as to put me in mind of the—of
-the—of the <i>convenances</i>, I will go straight away home. It was
-not the priest, nor was it Captain Thurot that got your ear, for they are
-by the way of being gentlemen; it could only have been this Irishman
-Clancarty—the quality of that country have none of the scrupulosity
-that distinguishes our own. You can tell his lordship, next time you see
-him, that Miss Walkinshaw will see day about with him for this.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She ordered her chairmen to take her home, and then—burst into
-tears!
-</p>
-<p>
-I followed at her side, in a stew at my indiscoverable blundering, my <i>chapeau-de-bras</i>
-in my hand, and myself like to greet too for sympathy and vexation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “Heaven
-knows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your good
-opinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Go away!” she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, that
-was now being borne towards the town.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for the
-freedom,” I said, “for here's some monstrous misconception, and I must
-clear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed to me. Feeling
-like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walk deliberately by her
-side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. She dismissed the chair and
-was for going into the house without letting an eye light on young
-persistency.
-</p>
-<p>
-“One word, Miss Walkinshaw,” I pleaded. “We are a Scottish man and a
-Scottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in this
-street, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she will not
-give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and an affection, a
-chance to know wherein he may have blundered.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Respect and affection,” she said, her profile turned to me, her foot on
-the steps, visibly hesitating.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Respect and affection,” I repeated, flushing at my own boldness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?” she said, biting her nether lip and
-still manifestly close on tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How?” said I, bewildered. “His lordship gave me no tales that I know of.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And why,” said she, “be at such pains to tell me you wondered I should be
-there?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I got very red at that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig,” she said bitterly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, then,” I ventured boldly, “what I should have said was that I
-feared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. And I
-have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with me and
-would not let me explain myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” she cried, quite radiant, “and, after all, the red shoon were not
-without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tell you the
-truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only making believe to
-be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither you can see me to
-my parlour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, Bernard,” she said to the Swiss as we entered, “any news?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He informed her there was none.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! no one called?” said she with manifest disappointment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Personne, Madame</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No letters?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Nor were there any letters, he replied.
-</p>
-<p>
-She sighed, paused irresolute a moment with her foot on the stair, one
-hand at her heart, the other at the fastening of her coat, and looked at
-me with a face almost tragic in its trouble. I cannot but think she was on
-the brink of a confidence, but ere it came she changed her mind and dashed
-up the stair with a tra-la-la of a song meant to indicate her
-indifference, leaving me a while in her parlour while she changed her
-dress. She came back to me in a little, attired in a pale
-primrose-coloured paduasoy, the cuffs and throat embroidered in a pattern
-of roses and leaves, her hair unpowdered and glossy, wantoning in and out
-of a neck beyond description. The first thing she did on entrance was odd
-enough, for it was to stand over me where I lounged on her settee, staring
-down into my eyes until I felt a monstrous embarrassment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am wonderin',” said she, “if ye are the man I tak' ye for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Her eyes were moist; I saw she had been crying in her toilet room.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm just the man you see,” I said, “but for some unco' troubles that are
-inside me and are not for airing to my friends on a fine day in
-Dunkerque.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Perhaps, like the lave of folks, ye dinna ken yoursel',” she went on,
-speaking with no sprightly humour though in the Scots she was given to
-fall to in her moments of fun. “All men, Mr. Greig, mean well, but most of
-them fall short of their own ideals; they're like the women in that, no
-doubt, but in the men the consequence is more disastrous.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“When I was a girl in a place you know,” she went on even more soberly, “I
-fancied all men were on the model of honest John Walkinshaw—better
-within than without. He was stern to austerity, demanding the last
-particle of duty from his children, and to some he might seem hard, but I
-have never met the man yet with a kinder heart, a pleasanter mind, a more
-pious disposition than John Walkin-shaw's. It has taken ten years, and
-acquaintance with some gentry not of Scotland, to make it plain that all
-men are not on his model.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I could fancy not, to judge from his daughter,” I said, blushing at my
-first compliment that was none the less bold because it was sincere.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that she put on a little mouth and shrugged her shoulders with a shiver
-that made the snaps in her ears tremble.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My good young man,” said she, “there you go! If there's to be any
-friendship between you and Clementina Walkinshaw, understand there must be
-a different key from that. You are not only learning your French, but you
-are learning, it would seem, the manners of the nation. It was that made
-me wonder if you could be the man I took you for the first day you were in
-this room and I found I could make you greet with a Scots sang, and tell
-me honestly about a lass you had a notion of and her no' me. That last's
-the great stroke of honesty in any man, and let me tell you there are some
-women who would not relish it. But you are in a company here so ready with
-the tongue of flattery that I doubt each word they utter, and that's droll
-enough in me that loves my fellow creatures, and used to think the very
-best of every one of them. If I doubt them now I doubt them with a sore
-enough heart, I'll warrant you. Oh! am I not sorry that my man of Mearns
-should be put in the reverence of such creatures as Clancarty and Thurot,
-and all that gang of worldlings? I do not suppose I could make you
-understand it, Mr. Paul Greig, but I feel motherly to you, and to see my
-son—this great giant fellow who kens the town of Glasgow and dwelt
-in Mearns where I had May milk, and speaks wi' the fine Scots tongue like
-mysel' when his heart is true—to see him the boon comrade with folks
-perhaps good enough for Clementina Walkinshaw but lacking a particle of
-principle, is a sight to sorrow me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And is it for that you seek to get me away with the priest?” I asked,
-surprised at all this, and a little resenting the suggestion of youth
-implied in her feeling like a mother to me. Her face was lit, her movement
-free and beautiful; something in her fascinated me.
-</p>
-<p>
-She dropped in a chair and pushed the hair from her ears with a hand like
-milk, and laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now how could you guess?” said she. “Am I no' the careful mother of you
-to put you in the hands o' the clergy? I doubt this play-acting
-rhetorician of a man from Dixmunde is no great improvement on the rest of
-your company when all's said and done, but you'll be none the worse for
-seeing the world at his costs, and being in other company than Clancarty's
-and Thurot's and Roscommon's. He told me to-day you were going with him,
-and I was glad that I had been of that little service to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then it seems you think so little of my company as to be willing enough
-to be rid of me at the earliest opportunity,” I said, honestly somewhat
-piqued at her readiness to clear me out of Dunkerque.
-</p>
-<p>
-She looked at me oddly. “Havers, Mr. Greig!” said she, “just havers!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was thanking her for her offices, but she checked me. “You are well
-off,” she said, “to be away from here while these foolish manouvrings are
-on foot. Poor me! I must bide and see them plan the breaking down of my
-native country. It's a mercy I know in what a fiasco it will end, this
-planning. Hearken! Do you hear the bugles? That's Soubise going back to
-the caserne. He and his little men are going back to eat another dinner
-destined to assist in the destruction of an island where you and I should
-be this day if we were wiser than we are. Fancy them destroying Britain,
-Mr. Greig!—Britain, where honest John Walkinshaw is, that never said
-an ill word in his life, nor owed any man a penny: where the folks are
-guid and true, and fear God and want nothing but to be left to their
-crofts and herds. If it was England—if it was the palace of Saint
-James—no, but it's Scotland, too, and the men you saw marching up
-and down to-day are to be marching over the moor o' Mearns when the
-heather's red. Can you think of it?” She stamped her foot. “Where the wee
-thack hooses are at the foot o' the braes, and the bairns playing under
-the rowan trees; where the peat is smelling, and the burns are singing in
-the glens, and the kirk-bells are ringing. Poor Mr. Greig! Are ye no' wae
-for Scotland? Do ye think Providence will let a man like Thomond ye saw
-to-day cursing on horseback—do ye think Providence will let him lead
-a French army among the roads you and I ken so well, affronting the people
-we ken too, who may be a thought dull in the matter of repartee, but are
-for ever decent, who may be hard-visaged, but are so brave?”
- </p>
-<p>
-She laughed, herself, half bitterly, half contemptuously, at the picture
-she drew. Outside, in the sunny air of the afternoon, the bugles of
-Soubise filled the street with brazen cries, and nearer came the roar of
-pounding drums. I thought I heard them menacing the sleep of evening
-valleys far away, shattering the calm of the hearth of Hazel Den.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The cause for which—for which so many are exile here,” I said,
-looking on this Jacobite so strangely inconsistent, “has no reason to
-regret that France should plan an attack on Georgius Rex.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She shook her head impatiently. “The cause has nothing to do with it, Mr.
-Greig,” said she. “The cause will suffer from this madness more than ever
-it did, but in any case 'tis the most miserable of lost causes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Prince Charlie-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Once it was the cause with me, now I would sooner have it Scotland,” she
-went on, heedless of my interruption. “Scotland! Scotland! Oh, how the
-name of her is like a dirge to me, and my heart is sore for her! Where is
-your heart, Mr. Greig, that it does not feel alarm at the prospect of
-these <i>crapauds</i> making a single night's sleep uneasy for the folks
-you know? Where is your heart, I'm asking?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I wish I knew,” said I impulsively, staring at her, completely bewitched
-by her manner so variable and intense, and the straying tendrils of her
-hair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do you not?” said she. “Then I will tell you. It is where it ought to be—with
-a girl of the name of Isobel Fortune. Oh, the dear name! oh, the sweet
-name! And when you are on your travels with this priest do not be
-forgetting her. Oh, yes! I know you will tell me again that all is over
-between the pair of you, and that she loved another—but I am not
-believing a word of that, Mr. Greig, when I look at you—(and will ye
-say 'thank ye' for the compliment that's there?)—you will just go on
-thinking her the same, and you will be the better man for it. There's
-something tells me she is thinking of you though I never saw her, the
-dear! Let me see, this is what sort of girl she will be.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She drew her chair closer to the settee and leaned forward in front of me,
-and, fixing her eyes on mine, drew a picture of the girl of Kirkillstane
-as she imagined her.
-</p>
-<p>
-“She will be about my own height, and with the same colour of hair-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How do you know that? I never said a word of that to you,” I cried,
-astonished at the nearness of her first guess.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I'm a witch,” she cried triumphantly, “a fair witch. Hoots! do I no'
-ken ye wadna hae looked the side o' the street I was on if I hadna put ye
-in mind o' her? Well, she's my height and colour—but, alack-a-day,
-no' my years. She 'll have a voice like the mavis for sweetness, and 'll
-sing to perfection. She'll be shy and forward in turns, accordin' as you
-are forward and shy; she 'll can break your heart in ten minutes wi' a
-pout o' her lips or mak' ye fair dizzy with delight at a smile. And then”—here
-Miss Walkinshaw seemed carried away herself by her fancy portrait, for she
-bent her brows studiously as she thought, and seemed to speak in an
-abstraction—“and then she'll be a managing woman. She'll be the sort
-of woman that the Bible tells of whose value is over rubies; knowing your
-needs as you battle with the world, and cheerful when you come in to the
-hearthstone from the turmoil outside. A witty woman and a judge of things,
-calm but full of fire in your interests. A household where the wife's a
-doll is a cart with one wheel, and your Isobel will be the perfect woman.
-I think she must have travelled some, too, and seen how poor is the wide
-world compared with what is to be found at your own fire-end; I think she
-must have had trials and learned to be brave.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She stopped suddenly, looked at me and got very red in the face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A fine picture, Miss Walkinshaw!” said I, with something drumming at my
-heart. “It is not just altogether like Isobel Fortune, who has long syne
-forgot but to detest me, but I fancy I know who it is like.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And who might that be?” she asked in a low voice and with a somewhat
-guilty look.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Will I tell you?” I asked, myself alarmed at my boldness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No! no! never mind,” she cried. “I was just making a picture of a girl I
-once knew—poor lass! and of what she might have been. But she's dead—dead
-and buried. I hope, after all, your Isobel is a nobler woman than the one
-I was thinking on and a happier destiny awaiting her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That cannot matter much to me now,” I said, “for, as I told you, there is
-nothing any more between us—except—except a corp upon the
-heather.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She shuddered as she did the first time I told her of my tragedy, and
-sucked in the air again through her clenched teeth.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poor lad! poor lad!” said she. “And you have quite lost her. If so, and
-the thing must be, then this glass coach of Father Hamilton's must take
-you to the country of forgetfulness. I wish I could drive there myself
-this minute, but wae's me, there's no chariot at the <i>remise</i> that'll
-do that business for John Walkinshaw's girl.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Something inexpressively moving was in her mien, all her heart was in her
-face as it seemed; a flash of fancy came to me that she was alone in the
-world with nothing of affection to hap her round from its abrasions, and
-that her soul was crying out for love. Sweet beyond expression was this
-woman and I was young; up to my feet I rose, and turned on her a face that
-must have plainly revealed my boyish passion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Miss Walkinshaw,” I said, “you may put me out of this door for ever, but
-I'm bound to say I'm going travelling in no glass coach; Dunkerque will be
-doing very well for me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Her lips trembled; her cheek turned pale; she placed a hand upon her
-breast, and there was I contrite before her anger!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is this—is this your respect and your esteem, Mr. Greig?” she asked
-brokenly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They were never greater than at this moment,” I replied.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And how are they to be manifested by your waiting on in Dunkerque?” she
-asked, recovering her colour and some of her ordinary manner.
-</p>
-<p>
-How indeed? She had no need to ask me the question, for it was already
-ringing through my being. That the Spoiled Horn from Mearns, an outlaw
-with blood on his hands and borrowed money in his pocket, should have the
-presumption to feel any ardour for this creature seemed preposterous to
-myself, and I flushed in an excess of shame and confusion.
-</p>
-<p>
-This seemed completely to reassure her. “Oh, Mr. Greig—Mr. Greig,
-was I not right to ask if ye were the man ye seemed? Here's a nice display
-o' gallantry from my giant son! I believe you are just makin' fun o' this
-auld wife; and if no' I hae just one word for you, Paul Greig, and it's
-this that I said afore—jist havers!”
- </p>
-<p>
-She went to her spinet and ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a
-song—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Oh, what ails the laddie, new twined frae his mither?
-The laddie gallantin' roun' Tibbie and me?—
-</pre>
-<p>
-with glances coquettish yet repelling round her shoulder at me as I stood
-turning my <i>chapeau-de-bras</i> in my hand as a boy turns his bonnet in
-presence of laird or dominie. The street was shaking now with the sound of
-marching soldiers, whose platoons were passing in a momentary silence of
-trumpet or drum. All at once the trumpets blared forth just in front of
-the house, broke upon her song, and gave a heavensent diversion to our
-comedy or tragedy or whatever it was in the parlour.
-</p>
-<p>
-We both stood looking out at the window for a while in silence, watching
-the passing troops, and when the last file had gone, she turned with a
-change of topic “If these men had been in England ten years ago,” she
-said, “when brisk affairs were doing there with Highland claymores, your
-Uncle Andrew would have been there, too, and it would not perhaps be your
-father who was Laird of Hazel Den. But that's all by with now. And when do
-you set out with Father Hamilton?”
- </p>
-<p>
-She had a face as serene as fate; my heart ached to tell her that I loved
-her, but her manner made me hold my tongue on that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“In three days,” I said, still turning my hat and wishing myself
-elsewhere, though her presence intoxicated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“In three days!” she said, as one astonished. “I had thought it had been a
-week at the earliest. Will I tell you what you might do? You are my great
-blate bold son, you know, from the moors of Mearns, and I will be wae,
-wae, to think of you travelling all round Europe without a friend of your
-own country to exchange a word with. Write to me; will you?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed and I will, and that gaily,” I cried, delighted at the prospect.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and what
-you have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, and
-be sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel, I
-daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league upon the
-map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to be here at
-noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will write to you—but
-oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would I have him know
-that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. That is bad.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, but the
-problem was beyond me, and she sighed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course his reverence need not know anything about it,” she said then.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Certainly,” I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. “I will never
-mention to him anything about it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without his
-suspecting something?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, but he cannot suspect.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this Father
-Hamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves so
-innocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way that I
-shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way. But
-never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honour for
-that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over the
-bannister and cried after me:
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mr. Greig,” said she, “ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoes when
-ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to be thinkin'
-of you as traivellin' in them a' the time.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I looked up and saw her smiling saucily at me over the rail.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Would you indeed?” said I. “Then I'll never put them aff till I see ye
-again, when I come back to Dunkerque.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is kind,” she answered, laughing outright, “but fair reediculous. To
-wear them to bed would be against your character for sobriety.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XIX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A RAP IN THE EARLY MORNING AWAKENS ME AND I START IN A GLASS COACH UPON
-THE ODDEST OF JOURNEYS
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the last, for many months, I was to see of my countrywoman. Before
-the crow of the cock next morning I was on the unending roads, trundling
-in a noisy vehicle through pitch darkness, my companion snoring stertorous
-at my side, his huge head falling every now and then upon my shoulder,
-myself peering to catch some revelation of what manner of country-side we
-went through as the light from the swinging lanthorn lit up briefly
-passing banks of frosted hedge or sleeping hamlets on whose pave the hoofs
-of our horses hammered as they had been the very war-steeds of Bellona.
-</p>
-<p>
-But how came I there? How but by my master's whim, that made him
-anticipate his departure by three days and drag me from my bed incontinent
-to set out upon his trip over Europe.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had been sleeping soundly, dreaming I heard the hopper of the mill of
-Driepps at home banging to make Jock Alexander's fortune, when I awakened,
-or rather half-wakened, to discover that 'twas no hopper but a nieve at my
-door, rapping with a vigour to waken the dead.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come out! Sir Secretary, come out! or I shall pull thy domicile about
-thine ears,” cried the voice of Father Hamilton.
-</p>
-<p>
-He stood at the door when I opened, wrapped over the chin in a muffler of
-multitudinous folds, and covered by a roquelaure.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pax!</i>” he cried, thrusting a purple face into the room, “and on
-with thy boots like a good lad. We must be off and over the dunes before
-the bell of St. Eloi knocks another nail in the coffin of time.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” I said, dumbfoundered, “are we to start on our journey to-day?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Even so, my sluggardly Scot; faith! before the day even, for the day will
-be in a deuce of a hurry an' it catch up on us before we reach
-Pont-Opoise. Sop a crust in a jug of wine—I've had no better <i>petit
-déjeuner</i> myself—put a clean cravat and a pair of hose in thy
-sack, and in all emulate the judicious flea that wastes no time in idle
-rumination, but transacts its affairs in a succession of leaps.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And no time to say good-bye to anyone?” I asked, struggling into my
-toilet.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la! the flea never takes a <i>congé</i> that I've heard on,
-Master Punctilio. Not so much as a kiss o' the hand for you; I have had
-news, and 'tis now or never.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Twenty minutes later, Thurot's landlord (for Thurot himself was from home)
-lit me to the courtyard, and the priest bundled me and my sack into the
-bowels of an enormous chariot waiting there.
-</p>
-<p>
-The clocks began to strike the hour of five; before the last stroke had
-ceased to shiver the darkness we were thundering along the sea front and
-my master was already composed to sleep in his corner, without vouchsafing
-me a sentence of explanation for so hurried a departure. Be sure my heart
-was sore! I felt the blackest of ingrates to be thus speeding without a
-sign of farewell from a place where I had met with so much of friendship.
-</p>
-<p>
-Out at the window of the coach I gazed, to see nothing but the cavernous
-night on one side, on the other, lit by the lanthorn, the flashing past of
-houses all shuttered and asleep.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was dry and pleasant weather, with a sting of frost in the air, and the
-propinquity of the sea manifest not in its plangent voice alone but in the
-odour of it that at that hour dominated the natural smells of the
-faubourgs. Only one glimpse I had of fellow creatures; as we passed the
-fort, the flare of flambeaux showed an enormous body of soldiers working
-upon the walls of Risebank; it but added to the poignance of my melancholy
-to reflect that here were my country's enemies unsleeping, and I made a
-sharp mental contrast of this most dauntening spectacle with a picture of
-the house of Hazel Den dreaming among its trees, and only crying lambs
-perhaps upon the moor to indicate that any life was there. Melancholy! oh,
-it was eerie beyond expression for me that morning! Outside, the driver
-talked to his horses and to some one with him on the boot; it must have
-been cheerier for him than for me as I sat in that sombre and close
-interior, jolted by my neighbour, and unable to refrain from
-rehabilitating all the past. Especially did I think of my dark home-coming
-with a silent father on the day I left the college to go back to the
-Mearns. And by a natural correlation, that was bound to lead to all that
-followed—even to the event for which I was now so miserably remote
-from my people.
-</p>
-<p>
-Once or twice his reverence woke, to thrust his head out at the window and
-ask where we were. Wherever we were when he did so, *twas certain never to
-be far enough for his fancy, and he condemned the driver for a snail until
-the whip cracked wickedly and the horses laboured more strenuously than
-ever, so that our vehicle swung upon its springs till it might well seem
-we were upon a ship at sea.
-</p>
-<p>
-For me he had but the one comment—“I wonder what's for <i>déjeuner.</i>”
- He said it each time solemnly as it were his matins, and then slid into
-his swinish sleep again.
-</p>
-<p>
-The night seemed interminable, but by-and-by the day broke. I watched it
-with eagerness as it gradually paled the east, and broke up the black bulk
-of the surrounding land into fields, orchards, gardens, woods. And the
-birds awoke—God bless the little birds!—they woke, and started
-twittering and singing in the haze, surely the sweetest, the least sinless
-of created things, the tiny angels of the woods, from whom, walking in
-summer fields in the mornings of my age as of my youth, I have borrowed
-hope and cheer.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton wakened too, and heard the birds; indeed, they filled the
-ear of the dawn with melodies. A smile singularly pleasant came upon his
-countenance as he listened.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardieu!</i>” said he, “how they go on! Has't the woodland soul, <i>Sieur
-Croque-mort</i>? Likely enough not; I never knew another but myself and
-thine uncle that had it, and 'tis the mischief that words will not explain
-the same. 'Tis a gift of the fairies”—here he crossed himself
-devoutly and mumbled a Romish incantation—“that, having the said
-woodland spirit—in its nature a Pagan thing perchance, but <i>n'importe!</i>—thou
-hast in the song of the tiny beings choiring there something to make the
-inward tremor that others find in a fiddle and a glass of wine. No! no!
-not that, 'tis a million times more precious; 'tis—'tis the pang of
-the devotee, 'tis the ultimate thrill of things. Myself, I could expire
-upon the ecstasy of the thrush, or climb to heaven upon the lark's May
-rapture. And there they go! the loves! and they have the same ditty I
-heard from them first in Louvain. There are but three clean things in this
-world, my lad of Scotland—a bird, a flower, and a child's laughter.
-I have been confessor long enough to know all else is filth. But what's
-the luck in waiting for us at Azincourt? and what's the <i>pot-au-feu</i>
-to-day?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He listened a little longer to the birds, and fell asleep smiling, his fat
-face for once not amiss, and I was left again alone as it were to receive
-the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-We had long left the dunes and the side of the sea, though sometimes on
-puffs of wind I heard its distant rumour. Now the land was wooded with the
-apple tree; we rose high on the side of a glen, full of a rolling fog that
-streamed off as the day grew. A tolerable land enough; perhaps more lush
-than my own, with scarce a rood uncultivated, and dotted far and wide by
-the strangest farm steadings and pendicles, but such steadings and
-pendicles as these eyes never before beheld, with enormous eaves of thatch
-reaching almost to the ground, and ridiculous windows of no shape; with
-the yokings of the cattle, the boynes, stoups, carts, and ploughs about
-the places altogether different from our own. We passed troops marching,
-peasants slouching with baskets of poultry to market towns, now and then a
-horseman, now and then a caleche. And there were numerous hamlets, and at
-least two middling-sized towns, and finally we came, at the hour of
-eleven, upon the place appointed for our <i>déjeuner</i>. It was a small
-inn on the banks of the only rivulet I had seen in all the journey. I
-forget its name, but I remember there was a patch of heather on the side
-of it, and that I wished ardently the season had been autumn that I might
-have looked upon the purple bells.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Tis a long lane that has no tavern,” said his reverence, and oozed out of
-his side of the coach with groanings. The innkeeper ran forth, louted, and
-kissed his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Jour, m'sieu jour!</i>” said Father Hamilton hurriedly. “And now, what
-have you here that is worth while?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The innkeeper respectfully intimated that the church of
-Saint-Jean-en-Grève was generally considered worth notice. Its vestments,
-relics, and windows were of merit, and the view from the tower—
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mort de ma vie!</i>” cried the priest angrily, “do I look like a
-traveller who trots up belfrys in strange villages at the hour of <i>déjeuner?</i>
-A plague on Saint-Jean-en-Grève! I said nothing at all of churches; I
-spoke of <i>déjeuner</i>, my good fellow. What's for <i>déjeuner?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-The innkeeper recounted a series of dishes. Father Hamilton hummed and
-hawed, reflected, condemned, approved, all with an eagerness beyond
-description. And when the meal was being dished up, he went frantically to
-the kitchen and lifted pot-lids, and swung a salad for himself, and
-confounding the ordinary wine for the vilest piquette ordered a special
-variety from the cellar. It was a spectacle of gourmandise not without its
-humour; I was so vastly engaged in watching him that I scarce glanced at
-the men who had travelled on the outside of the coach since morning.
-</p>
-<p>
-What was my amazement when I did so to see that the servant or valet (as
-he turned out to be) was no other than the Swiss, Bernard, who had been in
-the service of Miss Walkinshaw no later than yesterday morning!
-</p>
-<p>
-I commented on the fact to Father Hamilton when we sat down to eat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why, yes!” he said, gobbling at his vivers with a voracity I learned not
-to wonder at later when I knew him more. “The same man. A good man, too,
-or I'm a Turk. I've envied Miss Walkinshaw this lusty, trusty, secret
-rogue for a good twelvemonth, and just on the eve of my leaving Dunkerque,
-by a very providence, the fellow gets drunk and finds himself dismissed.
-He came to me with a flush and a hiccough last night to ask a
-recommendation, and overlooking the peccadillo that is not of a nature
-confined to servants, Master Greig, let me tell thee, I gave him a place
-in my <i>entourage</i>. Madame will not like it, but no matter! she'll
-have time to forget it ere I see her again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I felt a mild satisfaction to have the Swiss with us just because I had
-heard him called “Bernard” so often by his late employer.
-</p>
-<p>
-We rested for some hours after <i>déjeuner</i>, seated under a tree by the
-brink of the rivulet, and in the good humour of a man satisfied in nature
-the priest condescended to let me into some of his plans.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were bound for Paris in the first place. “Zounds!” he cried, “I am all
-impatience to clap eyes again on Lutetia, the sweet rogue, and eat decent
-bread and behold a noble gown and hear a right cadenza. And though thou
-hast lost thy Lyrnessides—la! la! la! I have thee there!—thou
-canst console thyself with the Haemonian lyre. Paris! oh, lad, I'd give
-all to have thy years and a winter or two in it. Still, we shall make
-shift—oh, yes! I warrant thee we shall make shift. We shall be
-there, at my closest reckoning, on the second day of Holy Week, and my
-health being so poorly we shall not wait to commence <i>de faire les
-Pâques</i> an hour after. What's in a <i>soutane</i>, anyhow, that it
-should be permitted to mortify an honest priest's oesophagus?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I sighed in spite of myself, for he had made me think of our throwing of
-Easter eggs on the green at Hazel Den.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he cried. “Does my frugal Scot fancy we have not enough trinkgeld
-for enjoyment. Why, look here!—and here!—and here!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth numerous rouleaux—so
-many that I thought his corpulence might well be a plethora of coin.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There!” said he, squeezing a rouleau till it burst and spreading out the
-gold upon the table before him. “Am I a poor parish priest or a very
-Croesus?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then he scooped in the coins with his fat hands and returned all to his
-bosom. “<i>Allons!</i>” he said shortly; we were on the road again!
-</p>
-<p>
-That night we put up at the Bon Accueil in a town whose name escapes my
-recollection.
-</p>
-<p>
-He had gone to bed; through the wall from his chamber came the noise of
-his sleep, while I was at the writing of my first letter to Miss
-Walkinshaw, making the same as free and almost affectionate as I had been
-her lover, for as I know it now, I was but seeking in her for the face of
-the love of the first woman and the last my heart was given to.
-</p>
-<p>
-I had scarcely concluded when the Swiss came knocking softly to my door,
-and handed me a letter from the very woman whose name was still in wet ink
-upon my folded page. I tore it open eagerly, to find a score of pleasant
-remembrances. She had learned the night before that the priest was to set
-out in the morning: “I have kept my word,” she went on. “Your best friend
-is Bernard, so I let you have him, and let us exchange our billets through
-him. It will be the most Discreet method. And I am, with every
-consideration, Ye Ken Wha.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-LEADS ME TO THE FRONT OF A COFFEE-HOUSE WHERE I AM STARTLED TO SEE A FACE
-I KNOW
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he occasion for this precaution in our correspondence was beyond my
-comprehension; nevertheless I was too proud to have the patronage of so
-fine a woman to cavil at what system she should devise for its discreet
-conduct, and the Swiss that night got my first letter to frank and
-despatch. He got one next evening also, and the evening after that; in
-short, I made a diurnal of each stage in our journey and Bernard was my
-postman—so to name it—on every occasion that I forwarded the
-same to Miss Walkinshaw. He assured me that he was in circumstances to
-secure the more prompt forwardation of my epistles than if I trusted in
-the common runner, and it was a proof of this that when we got, after some
-days, into Versailles, he should bring to me a letter from the lady
-herself informing me how much of pleasure she had got from the receipt of
-the first communication I had sent her.
-</p>
-<p>
-Perhaps it is a sign of the injudicious mind that I should not be very
-mightily pleased with this same Versailles. We had come into it of a sunny
-afternoon and quartered at the Cerf d'Or Inn, and went out in the evening
-for the air. Somehow the place gave me an antagonism; its dipt trees all
-in rows upon the wayside like a guard of soldiers; its trim gardens and
-bits of plots; its fountains crying, as it seemed, for attention—these
-things hurt me as a liberty taken with nature. Here, thought I, is the
-fitting place for the raff in ruffles and the scented wanton; it should be
-the artificial man and the insincere woman should be condemned to walk for
-ever in these alleys and drink in these <i>bosquets;</i> I would not give
-a fir planting black against the evening sky at home for all this pompous
-play-acting at landscape, nor a yard of the brown heather of the hills for
-all these well-drilled flower parterres.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Eh! M. Croque-mort,” said the priest, delighted visibly with all he saw
-about him; “what think'st thou of Le Notre's gardening?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A good deal, sir,” I said, “that need never be mentioned. I feel a pity
-for the poor trees as I did for yon dipt poodle dog at Griepon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la! <i>sots raissonable</i>, Monsieur,” cried the priest. “We
-cannot have the tastes of our Dubarrys and Pompadours and Maintenons so
-called in question by an untravelled Scot that knows but the rude mountain
-and stunted oaks dying in a murrain of climate. 'Art too ingenuous, youth.
-And yet—and yet”—here he paused and tapped his temple and
-smiled whimsically—“between ourselves, I prefer the woods of Somme
-where the birds sang together so jocund t'other day. But there now—ah,
-<i>quelle gloire!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-We had come upon the front of the palace, and its huge far-reaching
-masonry, that I learned later to regard as cold, formal, and wanting in a
-soul, vastly discomposed me. I do not know why it should be so, but as I
-gazed at this—the greatest palace I had ever beheld—I felt
-tears rush irrestrainably to my eyes. Maybe it was the poor little poet in
-MacGibbon's law chamber in Lanark town that used to tenant every ancient
-dwelling with spirits of the past, cropped up for the moment in Father
-Hamilton's secretary, and made me, in a flash, people the place with kings—and
-realise something of the wrench it must have been and still would be to
-each and all of them to say adieu at the long last to this place of noisy
-grandeur where they had had their time of gaiety and splendour. Anyhow, I
-well-nigh wept, and the priest was quick to see it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Fore God!” he cried, “here's Andrew Greig again! 'Twas the wickedest
-rogue ever threw dice, and yet the man must rain at the eyes like a very
-woman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And yet he was pleased, I thought, to see me touched. A band was playing
-somewhere in a garden unseen; he tapped time to its music with his finger
-tips against each other and smiled beatifically and hummed. He seemed at
-peace with the world and himself at that moment, yet a second later he was
-the picture of distress and apprehension.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were going towards the Place d'Armes; he had, as was customary, his arm
-through mine, leaning on me more than was comfortable, for he was the
-poorest judge imaginable of his own corpulence. Of a sudden I felt him
-jolt as if he had been startled, and then he gripped my arm with a nervous
-grasp. All that was to account for his perturbation was that among the few
-pedestrians passing us on the road was one in a uniform who cast a rapid
-glance at us. It was not wonderful that he should do so, for indeed we
-were a singularly ill-assorted pair, but there was a recognition of the
-priest in the glance the man in the uniform threw at him in passing.
-Nothing was said; the man went on his way and we on ours, but looking at
-Father Hamilton I saw his face had lost its colour and grown blotched in
-patches. His hand trembled; for the rest of the walk he was silent, and he
-could not too soon hurry us back to the Cerf d'Or.
-</p>
-<p>
-Next day was Sunday, and Father Hamilton went to Mass leaving me to my own
-affairs, that were not of that complexion perhaps most becoming on that
-day to a lad from Scotland. He came back anon and dressed most
-scrupulously in a suit of lay clothing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come out, Master Greig,” said he, “and use thine eyes for a poor priest
-that has ruined his own in studying the Fathers and seeking for honesty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is not in the nature of a compliment to myself, that,” I said, a
-little tired of his sour sentiments regarding humanity, and not afraid in
-the least to tell him so.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Eh!” said he. “I spoke not of thee, thou savage. A plague on thy curt
-temper; 'twas ever the weakness of the Greigs. Come, and I shall show thee
-a house where thy uncle and I had many a game of dominoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We went to a coffee-house and watched the fashionable world go by. It was
-a sight monstrously fine. Because it was the Easter Sunday the women had
-on their gayest apparel, the men their most belaced <i>jabots</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now look you well, Friend Scotland,” said Father Hamilton, as we sat at a
-little table and watched the stream of quality pass, “look you well and
-watch particularly every gentleman that passes to the right, and when you
-see one you know tell me quickly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had dropped his Roman manner as if in too sober a mood to act.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is it a game?” I asked. “Who can I ken in the town of Versailles that
-never saw me here before?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Never mind,” said he, “do as I tell you. A sharp eye, and-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why,” I cried, “there's a man I have seen before!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Where? where?” said Father Hamilton, with the utmost interest lighting
-his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yonder, to the left of the man with the velvet breeches. He will pass us
-in a minute or two.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The person I meant would have been kenspeckle in any company by the
-splendour of his clothing, but beyond his clothing there was a haughtiness
-in his carriage that singled him out even among the fashionables of
-Versailles, who were themselves obviously interested in his personality,
-to judge by the looks that they gave him as closely as breeding permitted.
-He came sauntering along the pavement swinging a cane by its tassel, his
-chin in the air, his eyes anywhere but on the crowds that parted to give
-him room. As he came closer I saw it was a handsome face enough that thus
-was cocked in haughtiness to the heavens, not unlike Clancarty's in that
-it showed the same signs of dissipation, yet with more of native nobility
-in it than was in the good enough countenance of the French-Irish
-nobleman. Where had I seen that face before?
-</p>
-<p>
-It must have been in Scotland; it must have been when I was a boy; it was
-never in the Mearns. This was a hat with a Dettingen cock; when I saw that
-forehead last it was under a Highland bonnet.
-</p>
-<p>
-A Highland bonnet—why! yes, and five thousand Highland bonnets were
-in its company—whom had I here but Prince Charles Edward!
-</p>
-<p>
-The recognition set my heart dirling in my breast, for there was enough of
-the rebel in me to feel a romantic glow at seeing him who set Scotland in
-a blaze, and was now the stuff of songs our women sang in milking folds
-among the hills; that heads had fallen for, and the Hebrides had been
-searched for in vain for weary seasons. The man was never a hero of mine
-so long as I had the cooling influence of my father to tell me how
-lamentable for Scotland had been his success had God permitted the same,
-yet I was proud to-day to see him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is it he?” asked the priest, dividing his attention between me and the
-approaching nobleman.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's no other,” said I. “I would know Prince Charles in ten thousand,
-though I saw him but the once in a rabble of caterans coming up the
-Gallow-gate of Glasgow.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said the priest, with a curious sighing sound. “They said he passed
-here at the hour. And that's our gentleman, is it? I expected he would
-have been—would have been different.” When the Prince was opposite
-the café where we sat he let his glance come to earth, and it fell upon
-myself. His aspect changed; there was something of recognition in it;
-though he never slackened his pace and was gazing the next moment down the
-vista of the street, I knew that his glance had taken me in from head to
-heel, and that I was still the object of his thoughts.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You see! you see!” cried the priest, “I was right, and he knew the Greig.
-Why, lad, shalt have an Easter egg for this—the best horologe in
-Versailles upon Monday morning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why, how could he know me?” I asked. “It is an impossibility, for when he
-and I were in the same street last he rode a horse high above an army and
-I was only a raw laddie standing at a close-mouth in Duff's Land in the
-Gallowgate.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But all the same I felt the priest was right, and that there was some sort
-of recognition in the Prince's glance at me in passing.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton poured himself a generous glass and drank thirstily.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la!” said he, resuming his customary manner of address. “I
-daresay his Royal Highness has never clapt eyes on thy <i>croque-mori</i>
-countenance before, but he has seen its like—ay, and had a regard
-for it, too! Thine Uncle Andrew has done the thing for thee again; the
-mole, the hair, the face, the shoes—sure they advertise the Greig as
-by a drum tuck! and Charles Edward knew thy uncle pretty well so I
-supposed he would know thee. And this is my gentleman, is it? Well, well!
-No, not at all well; mighty ill indeed. Not the sort of fellow I had
-looked for at all. Seems a harmless man enough, and has tossed many a
-goblet in the way of company. If he had been a sour whey-face now—”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton applied himself most industriously to the bottle that
-afternoon, and it was not long till the last of my respect for him was
-gone. Something troubled him. He was moody and hilarious by turns, but
-neither very long, and completed my distrust of him when he intimated that
-there was some possibility of our trip across Europe never coming into
-effect. But all the same, I was to be assured of his patronage, I was to
-continue in his service as secretary, if, as was possible, he should take
-up his residence for a time in Paris. And money—why, look again! he
-had a ship's load of it, and 'twould never be said of Father Hamilton that
-he could not share with a friend. And there he thrust some rouleaux upon
-me and clapped my shoulder and was so affected at his own love for Andrew
-Greig's nephew that he must even weep.
-</p>
-<p>
-Weeping indeed was the priest's odd foible for the week we remained at
-Versailles. He that had been so jocular before was now filled with morose
-moods, and would ruminate over his bottle by the hour at a time.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was none the better for the company he met during our stay at the Cerf
-d'Or—all priests, and to the number of half a dozen, one of them an
-abbé with a most noble and reverent countenance. They used to come to him
-late at night, confer with him secretly in his room, and when they were
-gone I found him each time drenched in a perspiration and feverishly
-gulping spirits.
-</p>
-<p>
-Every day we went to the café where we had seen the Prince first, and
-every day at the same hour we saw his Royal Highness, who, it appeared,
-was not known to the world as such, though known to me. The sight of him
-seemed to trouble Father Hamilton amazingly, and yet 'twas the grand
-object of the day—its only diversion; when we had seen the Prince we
-went back straight to the inn every afternoon.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Cerf d'Or had a courtyard, cobbled with rough stones, in which there
-was a great and noisy traffic. In the midst of the court there was a
-little clump of evergreen trees and bushes in tubs, round which were
-gathered a few tables and chairs whereat—now that the weather was
-mild—the world sat in the afternoon. The walls about were covered
-with dusty ivy where sparrows had begun to busy themselves with love and
-housekeeping; lilacs sprouted into green, and the porter of the house was
-for ever scratching at the hard earth about the plants, and tying up twigs
-and watering the pots. It was here I used to write my letters to Miss
-Walkinshaw at a little table separate from the rest, and I think it was on
-Friday I was at this pleasant occupation when I looked up to see the man
-with the uniform gazing at me from the other side of the bushes as if he
-were waiting to have the letter when I was done with it.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went in and asked Father Hamilton who this man was.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he cried in a great disturbance, “the same as we met near the
-Trianon! O Lord! Paul, there is something wrong, for that was Buhot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And this Buhot?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want you
-to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into the
-hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that he passes
-the café at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest thing in the
-world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's to be done by
-you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by the
-Swiss?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is my affair,” cried the priest testily. “The Prince knows you—that
-is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have the Swiss
-with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he should have
-this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis a letter from
-his Royal Highness's most intimate friend.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address was
-in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the bosom of
-my coat!
-</p>
-<p>
-What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be
-conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must
-carry it!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very well,” I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince.
-</p>
-<p>
-The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer
-clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour
-more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my
-hat in my hand. “I beg your Royal Highness's pardon,” I said in English,
-“but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes, and
-took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction, reddened,
-and bit his lip.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the
-honour?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Greig,” I answered. “Paul Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” he cried, “of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family. <i>Charmé,
-Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance</i>. M. Andrew Greig-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of
-irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M.
-Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a—what was
-it now?—a gomeral.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness,” I said. “But I
-know that he loved you and your cause.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did,” said the Prince, flushing,
-and with a show of pleasure at my speech. “I have learned of late that the
-fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it all I liked M.
-Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur Greig's
-nephew soon again. <i>Au plaisir de vous revoir!</i>” And off he went,
-putting the letter, unread, into his pocket.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed,
-he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd now I come to an affair of which there have been many accounts
-written, some of them within a mile or two of the truth, the most but
-sheer romantics. I have in my mind notably the account of the officer
-Buhot printed two years after the events in question, in which he makes
-the most fabulous statement as to the valiancy of Father Hamilton's stand
-in the private house in the Rue des Reservoirs, and maintains that myself—<i>le
-fier Eccossais</i>, as he is flattering enough to designate me—drew
-my sword upon himself and threatened to run him through for his
-proposition that I should confess to a complicity in the attempt upon his
-Royal Highness. I have seen his statement reproduced with some extra
-ornament in the <i>Edinburgh Courant</i>, and the result of all this is
-that till this day my neighbours give me credit, of which I am loth to
-advantage myself, for having felled two or three of the French officers
-before I was overcome at the hinder-end.
-</p>
-<p>
-The matter is, in truth, more prosaic as it happened, and if these
-memorials of mine leave the shadow of a doubt in the minds of any
-interested in an old story that created some stir in its time, I pray them
-see the archives of M. Bertin, the late Lieut.-General of the police.
-Bertin was no particular friend of mine, that had been the unconscious
-cause of great trouble and annoyance to him, but he has the truth in the
-deposition I made and signed prior to my appointment to a company of the
-d'Auvergne regiment.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, to take matters in their right order, it was the evening of the day
-I had given the letter to the Prince that Father Hamilton expressed his
-intention of passing that night in the house of a friend.
-</p>
-<p>
-I looked at him with manifest surprise, for he had been at the bottle most
-of the afternoon, and was by now more in a state for his bed than for
-going among friends.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well,” he cried peevishly, observing my dubiety. “Do you think me too
-drunk for the society of a parcel of priests? <i>Ma foi!</i> it is a
-pretty thing that I cannot budge from my ordinary habitude of things
-without a stuck owl setting up a silent protest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-To a speech so wanting in dignity I felt it better there should be no
-reply, and instead I helped him into his great-coat. As I did so, he made
-an awkward lurching movement due to his corpulence, and what jumped out of
-an inner pocket but a pistol? Which of us was the more confused at that it
-would be hard to say. For my part, the weapon—that I had never seen
-in his possession before—was a fillip to my sleeping conscience; I
-picked it up with a distaste, and he took it from me with trembling
-fingers and an averted look.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A dangerous place, Versailles, after dark,” he explained feebly. “One
-never knows, one never knows,” and into his pocket hurriedly with it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I shall be back for breakfast,” he went on. “Unless—unless—oh,
-I certainly shall be back.” And off he set.
-</p>
-<p>
-The incident of the pistol disturbed me for a while. I made a score of
-speculations as to why a fat priest should burden himself with such an
-article, and finally concluded that it was as he suggested, to defend
-himself from night birds if danger offered; though that at the time had
-been the last thing I myself would have looked for in the well-ordered
-town of Versailles. I sat in the common-room or <i>salle</i> of the inn
-for a while after he had gone, and thereafter retired to my own
-bedchamber, meaning to read or write for an hour or two before going to
-bed. In the priest's room—which was on the same landing and next to
-my own—I heard the whistle of Bernard the Swiss, but I had no
-letters for him that evening, and we did not meet each other. I was at
-first uncommon dull, feeling more than usually the hame-wae that must have
-been greatly wanting in the experience of my Uncle Andrew to make him for
-so long a wanderer on the face of the earth. But there is no condition of
-life so miserable but what one finds in it remissions, diversions, nay,
-and delights also, and soon I was—of all things in the world to be
-doing when what followed came to pass!—inditing a song to a lady, my
-quill scratching across the paper in spurts and dashes, and baffled pauses
-where the matter would not attend close enough on the mood, stopping
-altogether at a stanza's end to hum the stuff over to myself with great
-satisfaction. I was, as I say, in the midst of this; the Swiss had gone
-downstairs; all in my part of the house was still, though vehicles moved
-about in the courtyard, when unusually noisy footsteps sounded on the
-stair, with what seemed like the tap of scabbards on the treads.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was a sound so strange that my hand flew by instinct to the small sword
-I was now in the habit of wearing and had learned some of the use of from
-Thurot.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was no knock for entrance; the door was boldly opened and four
-officers with Buhot at their head were immediately in the room.
-</p>
-<p>
-Buhot intimated in French that I was to consider myself under arrest, and
-repeated the same in indifferent English that there might be no mistake
-about a fact as patent as that the sword was in his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-For a moment I thought the consequence of my crime had followed me abroad,
-and that this squat, dark officer, watching me with the scrutiny of a
-forest animal, partly in a dread that my superior bulk should endanger
-himself, was in league with the law of my own country. That I should after
-all be dragged back in chains to a Scots gallows was a prospect
-unendurable; I put up the ridiculous small sword and dared him to lay a
-hand on me. But I had no sooner done so than its folly was apparent, and I
-laid the weapon down.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Tant mieux!</i>” said he, much relieved, and then an assurance that he
-knew I was a gentleman of discretion and would not make unnecessary
-trouble. “Indeed,” he went on, “<i>Voyez!</i> I take these men away; I
-have the infinite trust in Monsieur; Monsieur and I shall settle this
-little affair between us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And he sent his friends to the foot of the stair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Monsieur may compose himself,” he assured me with a profound inclination.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am very much obliged to you,” I said, seating myself on the corner of
-the table and crushing my poor verses into my pocket as I did so, “I am
-very much obliged to you, but I'm at a loss to understand to what I owe
-the honour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed!” he said, also seating himself on the table to show, I supposed,
-that he was on terms of confidence with his prisoner. “Monsieur is Father
-Hamilton's secretary?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So I believe,” I said; “at least I engaged for the office that's
-something of a sinecure, to tell the truth.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then Buhot told me a strange story.
-</p>
-<p>
-He told me that Father Hamilton was now a prisoner, and on his way to the
-prison of Bicêtre. He was—this Buhot—something of the artist
-and loved to make his effects most telling (which accounts, no doubt, for
-the romantical nature of the accounts aforesaid), and sitting upon the
-table-edge he embarked upon a narrative of the most crowded two hours that
-had perhaps been in Father Hamilton's lifetime.
-</p>
-<p>
-It seemed that when the priest had left the Cerf d'Or, he had gone to a
-place till recently called the Bureau des Carrosses pour la Rochelle, and
-now unoccupied save by a concierge, and the property of some person or
-persons unknown. There he had ensconced himself in the only habitable room
-and waited for a visitor regarding whom the concierge had his
-instructions.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You must imagine him,” said the officer, always with the fastidiousness
-of an artist for his effects, “you must imagine him, Monsieur, sitting in
-this room, all alone, breathing hard, with a pistol before him on the
-table, and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What! a pistol!” I cried, astounded and alarmed. “<i>Certainement</i>”
- said Buhot, charmed with the effect his dramatic narrative was creating.
-“Your friend, <i>mon ami</i>, would be little good, I fancy, with a
-rapier. Anyway, 'twas a pistol. A carriage drives up to the door; the
-priest rises to his feet with the pistol in his hand; there is the rap at
-the door. '<i>Entrez!</i>' cries the priest, cocking the pistol, and no
-sooner was his visitor within than he pulled the trigger; the explosion
-rang through the dwelling; the chamber was full of smoke.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good heavens!” I cried in horror, “and who was the unhappy wretch?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Buhot shrugged his shoulders, made a French gesture with his hands, and
-pursed his mouth.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Whom did you invite to the room at the hour of ten, M. Greig?” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Invite!” I cried. “It's your humour to deal in parables. I declare to you
-I invited no one.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And yet, my good sir, you are Hamilton's secretary and you are Hamilton's
-envoy. 'Twas you handed to the Prince the <i>poulet</i> that was designed
-to bring him to his fate.”
- </p>
-<p>
-My instinct grasped the situation in a second; I had been the ignorant
-tool of a madman; the whole events of the past week made the fact plain,
-and I was for the moment stunned.
-</p>
-<p>
-Buhot watched me closely, and not unkindly, I can well believe, from what
-I can recall of our interview and all that followed after it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you tell me he killed the Prince?” I cried at last.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, Monsieur,” said Buhot; “I am happy to say he did not. The Prince was
-better advised than to accept the invitation you sent to him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Still,” I cried with remorse, “there's a man dead, and 'tis as much as
-happens when princes themselves are clay.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Parfaitement</i>, Monsieur, though it is indiscreet to shout it here.
-Luckily there is no one at all dead in this case, otherwise it had been
-myself, for I was the man who entered to the priest and received his
-pistol fire. It was not the merriest of duties either,” he went on, always
-determined I should lose no iota of the drama, “for the priest might have
-discovered before I got there that the balls of his pistol had been
-abstracted.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then Father Hamilton has been under watch?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Since ever you set foot in Versailles last Friday,” said Buhot
-complacently. “The Damiens affair has sharpened our wits, I warrant you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, sir,” I said, “let me protest that I have been till this moment in
-utter darkness about Hamilton's character or plans. I took him for what he
-seemed—a genial buffoon of a kind with more gear than guidance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We cannot, with infinite regret, assume that, Monsieur, but personally I
-would venture a suggestion,” said Buhot, coming closer on the table and
-assuming an affable air. “In this business, Hamilton is a tool—no
-more; and a poor one at that, badly wanting the grindstone. To break him—phew!—'twere
-as easy as to break a glass, but he is one of a great movement and the man
-we seek is his master—one Father Fleuriau of the Jesuits. Hamilton's
-travels were but part of a great scheme that has sent half a dozen of his
-kind chasing the Prince in the past year or two from Paris to Amsterdam,
-from Amsterdam to Orleans, from Orleans to Hamburg, Seville, Lisbon, Rome,
-Brussels, Potsdam, Nuremburg, Berlin. The same hand that extracted his
-bullets tapped the priest's portfolio and found the wretch was in promise
-of a bishopric and a great sum of money. You see, M. Greig, I am curiously
-frank with my prisoner.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And no doubt you have your reasons,” said I, but beat, myself, to imagine
-what they could be save that he might have proofs of my innocence.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very well,” said M. Buhot. “To come to the point, it is this, that we
-desire to have the scheme of the Jesuits for the Prince's assassination,
-and other atrocities shocking to all that revere the divinity of princes,
-crumbled up. Father Hamilton is at the very roots of the secret; if, say,
-a gentleman so much in his confidence as yourself—now, if such a one
-were, say, to share a cell with this regicide for a night or two, and
-pursue judicious inquiries——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stop! stop!” I cried, my blood hammering in my head, and the words like
-to choke me. “Am I to understand that you would make me your spy and
-informer upon this miserable old madman that has led me such a gowk's
-errand?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Buhot slid back off the table edge and on to his feet. “Oh,” said he, “the
-terms are not happily chosen: 'spy'—'informer'—come, Monsieur
-Greig; this man is in all but the actual accomplishment of his purpose an
-assassin. 'Tis the duty of every honest man to help in discovering the
-band of murderers whose tool he has been.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then I'm no honest man, M. Buhot,” said I bitterly, “for I've no stomach
-for a duty so dirty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Think of it for a moment,” he pressed, with evident surprise at my
-decision. “Bicêtre is an unwholesome hostelry, I give you my word.
-Consider that your choice is between a night or two there and—who
-knows?—a lifetime of Galbanon that is infinitely worse.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then let it be Galbanon!” I said, and lifted my sword and slapped it
-furiously, sheathed as it was, like a switch upon the table.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/198.jpg" alt="198" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-Buhot leaped back in a fear that I was to attack him, and cried his men
-from the stair foot.
-</p>
-<p>
-“This force is not needed at all,” I said. “I am innocent enough to be
-prepared to go quietly.”
- </p>
-
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-OF A NIGHT JOURNEY AND BLACK BICETRE AT THE END OF IT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>was a long journey to the prison of Bicêtre, which is two miles to the
-south of the city of Paris, a great building that had once (they say) been
-a palace, but now in the time of my experience was little better than a
-vestibule of hell. I was driven to it through a black loud night of rain,
-a plunging troop of horse on either hand the coach as if I were a
-traveller of state, and Buhot in front of me as silent as the priest had
-been the day we left Dunkerque, though wakeful, and the tip of his
-scabbard leaning on my boot to make sure that in the darkness no movement
-of mine should go unobserved.
-</p>
-<p>
-The trees swung and roared in the wind; the glass lozens of the carriage
-pattered to the pelting showers; sometimes we lurched horribly in the ruts
-of the highway, and were released but after monstrous efforts on the part
-of the cavaliers. Once, as we came close upon a loop of a brawling river,
-I wished with all fervency that we might fall in, and so end for ever this
-pitiful coil of trials whereto fate had obviously condemned poor Paul
-Greig. To die among strangers (as is widely known) is counted the saddest
-of deaths by our country people, and so, nowadays, it would seem to
-myself, but there and then it appeared an enviable conclusion to the
-Spoiled Horn that had blundered from folly to folly. To die there and then
-would be to leave no more than a regret and an everlasting wonder in the
-folks at home; to die otherwise, as seemed my weird, upon a block or
-gallows, would be to foul the name of my family for generations, and I
-realised in my own person the agony of my father when he got the news, and
-I bowed my shoulders in the coach below the shame that he would feel as in
-solemn blacks he walked through the Sabbath kirkyard in summers to come in
-Mearns, with the knowledge that though neighbours looked not at him but
-with kindness, their inmost thoughts were on the crimson chapter of his
-son.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, we came at the long last to Bicêtre, and I was bade alight in the
-flare of torches. A strange, a memorable scene; it will never leave me.
-Often I remit me there in dreams. When I came out of the conveyance the
-lights dazzled me, and Buhot put his hands upon my shoulders and turned me
-without a word in the direction he wished me to take. It was through a
-vast and frowning doorway that led into a courtyard so great that the
-windows on the other side seemed to be the distance of a field. The
-windows were innumerable, and though the hour was late they were lit in
-stretching corridors. Fires flamed in corners of the yard—great
-leaping fires round which warders (as I guessed them) gathered to dry
-themselves or get warmth against the chill of the early April morning.
-Their scabbards or their muskets glittered now and then in the light of
-the flames; their voices—restrained by the presence of Buhot—sounded
-deep and dreadful to me that knew not the sum of his iniquity yet could
-shudder at the sense of what portended.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/203.jpg" alt="203" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-It were vain for me to try and give expression to my feeling as I went
-past these fires across the stony yard, and entered between a guard or two
-at the other side. At the root of my horror was the sentiment that all was
-foreign, that I was no more to these midnight monsters round their
-torturing flames than a creature of the wood, less, perhaps, for were they
-not at sworn war with my countrymen, and had not I a share at least of the
-repute of regicide? And when, still led by the silent officer, I entered
-the building itself and walked through an unending corridor broken at
-intervals by black doors and little barred borrowed lights, and heard
-sometimes a moan within, or a shriek far off in another part of the
-building, I experienced something of that long swound that is insanity.
-Then I was doomed for the rest of my brief days to be among these unhappy
-wretches—the victims of the law or political vengeance, the <i>forçat</i>
-who had thieved, or poisoned, perjured himself, or taken human blood!
-</p>
-<p>
-At last we came to a door, where Buhot stopped me and spoke, for the first
-time, almost, since we had left Versailles. He put his hand out to check a
-warder who was going to open the cell for my entrance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am not a hard man, M. Greig,” said he, in a stumbling English, “and
-though this is far beyond my duties, and, indeed, contrary to the same, I
-would give you another chance. We shall have, look you, our friend the
-priest in any case, and to get the others is but a matter of time. 'Tis a
-good citizen helps the law always; you must have that respect for the law
-that you should feel bound to circumvent those who would go counter to it
-with your cognisance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My good man,” I said, as quietly as I could, and yet internally with
-feelings like to break me, “I have already said my say. If the tow was
-round my thrapple I would say no more than that I am innocent of any plot
-against a man by whose family mine have lost, and that I myself, for all
-my loyalty to my country, would do much to serve as a private individual.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Consider,” he pleaded. “After all, this Hamilton may be a madman with
-nothing at all to tell that will help us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But the bargain is to be that I must pry and I must listen,” said I, “and
-be the tale-pyat whose work may lead to this poor old buffoon's and many
-another's slaughtering. Not I, M. Buhot, and thank ye kindly! It's no'
-work for one of the Greigs of Hazel Den.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I fear you do not consider all,” he said patiently—so patiently
-indeed that I wondered at him. “I will show you to what you are condemned
-even before your trial, before you make up your mind irrevocably to refuse
-this very reasonable request of ours,” and he made a gesture that caused
-the warder to open the door so that I could see within.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was no light of its own in the cell, but it borrowed wanly a little
-of the radiance of the corridor, and I could see that it was bare to the
-penury of a mausoleum, with a stone floor, a wooden palliasse, and no
-window other than a barred hole above the door. There was not even a stool
-to sit on. But I did not quail.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have been in more comfortable quarters, M. Buhot,” I said, “but in none
-that I could occupy with a better conscience.” Assuming with that a sort
-of bravado, I stepped in before he asked me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very good,” he cried; “but I cannot make you my felicitations on your
-decision, M. Greig,” and without more ado he had the door shut on me.
-</p>
-<p>
-I sat on the woollen palliasse for a while, with my head on my hands,
-surrendered all to melancholy; and then, though the thing may seem beyond
-belief, I stretched myself and slept till morning. It was not the most
-refreshing of sleep, but still 'twas wonderful that I should sleep at all
-in such circumstances, and I take it that a moorland life had been a
-proper preparation for just such trials.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I wakened in the morning the prison seemed full of eerie noises—of
-distant shrieks as in a bedlam, and commanding voices, and of ringing
-metals, the clank of fetters, or the thud of musket-butts upon the stones.
-A great beating of feet was in the yard, as if soldiers were manoeuvring,
-and it mastered me to guess what all this might mean, until a warder
-opened my door and ordered me out for an airing.
-</p>
-<p>
-I mind always of a parrot at a window.
-</p>
-<p>
-This window was one that looked into the yard from some official's
-dwelling in that dreadful place, and the bird occupied a great cage that
-was suspended from a nail outside.
-</p>
-<p>
-The bird, high above the rabble of rogues in livery, seemed to have a
-devilish joy in the spectacle of the misery tramping round and round
-beneath, for it clung upon the bars and thrust out its head to whistle, as
-if in irony, or taunt us with a foul song. There was one air it had,
-expressed so clearly that I picked up air and words with little
-difficulty, and the latter ran something like this:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Ah! ah! Pierrot, Pierrot!
-Fais ta toilette,
-Voila le barbier! oh! oh!
-Et sa charrette—
-</pre>
-<p>
-all in the most lugubrious key.
-</p>
-<p>
-And who were we that heard that reference to the axe? We were the scum,
-the <i>sordes</i>, the rot of France. There was, doubtless, no crime
-before the law of the land, no outrage against God and man, that had not
-here its representative. We were not men, but beasts, cut off from every
-pleasant—every clean and decent association, the visions of sin
-always behind the peering eyes, the dreams of vice and crime for ever
-fermenting in the low brows. I felt 'twas the forests we should be
-frequenting—the forests of old, the club our weapon, the cave our
-habitation; no song ours, nor poem, no children to infect with fondness,
-no women to smile at in the light of evening lamps. The forest—the
-cave—the animal! What were we but children of the outer dark,
-condemned from the start of time, our faces ground hard against the
-flints, our feet bogged in hag and mire?
-</p>
-<p>
-There must have been several hundreds of the convicts in the yard, and yet
-I was told later that it was not a fourth of the misery that Bicêtre held,
-and that scores were leaving weekly for the <i>bagnes</i>—the hulks
-at Toulon and at Brest—while others took their places.
-</p>
-<p>
-Every man wore a uniform—a coarse brown jacket, vast wide breeches
-of the same hue, a high sugar-loaf cap and wooden shoes—all except
-some privileged, whereof I was one—and we were divided into gangs,
-each gang with its warders—tall grenadiers with their muskets ready.
-</p>
-<p>
-Round and round and across and across we marched in the great quadrangle,
-every man treading the rogues' measure with leg-weary reluctance, many
-cursing their warders under breath, most scowling, all hopeless and all
-lost.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Twas the exercise of the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-As we slouched through that mad ceremony in the mud of the yard, with rain
-still drizzling on us, the parrot in its cage had a voice loud and shrill
-above the commands of the grenadiers and officers; sang its taunting song,
-or whistled like a street boy, a beast so free, so careless and remote,
-that I had a fancy it had the only soul in the place.
-</p>
-<p>
-As I say, we were divided into gangs, each gang taking its own course back
-and forward in the yard as its commander ordered. The gang I was with
-marched a little apart from the rest. We were none of us in this gang in
-the ugly livery of the prison, but in our own clothing, and we were, it
-appeared, allowed that privilege because we were yet to try. I knew no
-reason for the distinction at the time, nor did I prize it very much, for
-looking all about the yard—at the officers, the grenadiers, and
-other functionaries of the prison, I failed to see a single face I knew.
-What could I conclude but that Buhot was gone and that I was doomed to be
-forgotten here?
-</p>
-<p>
-It would have been a comfort even to have got a glimpse of Father
-Hamilton, the man whose machinations were the cause of my imprisonment,
-but Father Hamilton, if he had been taken here as Buhot had suggested, was
-not, at all events, in view.
-</p>
-<p>
-After the morning's exercise we that were the privileged were taken to
-what was called the <i>salle dépreuve</i>, and with three or four to each
-<i>gamelle</i> or mess-tub, ate a scurvy meal of a thin soup and black
-bread and onions. To a man who had been living for a month at heck and
-manger, as we say, this might naturally seem unpalatable fare, but truth
-to tell I ate it with a relish that had been all the greater had it been
-permitted me to speak to any of my fellow sufferers. But speech was
-strictly interdict and so our meal was supped in silence.
-</p>
-<p>
-When it was over I was to be fated for the pleasantest of surprises!
-</p>
-<p>
-There came to me a sous-officer of the grenadiers.
-</p>
-<p>
-In French he asked if I was Monsieur Greig. I said as best I could in the
-same tongue that I was that unhappy person at his service. Then, said he,
-“Come with me.” He led me into a hall about a hundred feet long that had
-beds or mattresses for about three hundred people. The room was empty, as
-those who occupied it were, he said, at Mass. Its open windows in front
-looked into another courtyard from that in which we had been exercising,
-while the windows at the rear looked into a garden where already lilac was
-in bloom and daffodillies endowed the soil of a few mounds with the colour
-of the gold. On the other side of the court first named there was a huge
-building. “Galbanon,” said my guide, pointing to it, and then made me
-understand that the same was worse by far than the Bastille, and at the
-moment full of Marquises, Counts, Jesuits, and other clergymen, many of
-them in irons for abusing or writing against the Marchioness de Pompadour.
-</p>
-<p>
-I listened respectfully and waited Monsieur's explanation. It was manifest
-I had not been brought into this hall for the good of my education, and
-naturally I concluded the name of Galbanon, that I had heard already from
-Buhot, with its villainous reputation, was meant to terrify me into a
-submission to what had been proposed. The moment after a hearty meal—even
-of <i>soup maigre</i>—was not, however, the happiest of times to
-work upon a Greig's feelings of fear or apprehension, and so I waited,
-very dour within upon my resolution though outwardly in the most
-complacent spirit.
-</p>
-<p>
-The hall was empty when we entered as I have said, but we had not been
-many minutes in it when the tramp of men returning to it might be heard,
-and this hurried my friend the officer to his real business.
-</p>
-<p>
-He whipped a letter from his pocket and put it in my hand with a sign to
-compel secrecy on my part. It may be readily believed I was quick enough
-to conceal the missive. He had no cause to complain of the face I turned
-upon another officer who came up to us, for 'twas a visage of clownish
-vacuity.
-</p>
-<p>
-The duty of the second officer, it appeared, was to take me to a new cell
-that had been in preparation for me, and when I got there it was with
-satisfaction I discovered it more than tolerable, with a sufficiency of
-air and space, a good light from the quadrangle, a few books, paper, and a
-writing standish.
-</p>
-<p>
-When the door had been shut upon me, I turned to open my letter and found
-there was in fact a couple of them—a few lines from her ladyship in
-Dunkerque expressing her continued interest in my welfare and adventures,
-and another from the Swiss through whom the first had come. He was still—said
-the honest Bernard—at my service, having eluded the vigilance of
-Buhot, who doubtless thought a lackey scarce worth his hunting, and he was
-still in a position to post my letters, thanks to the goodwill of the
-sous-officer who was a relative. Furthermore, he was in hopes that Miss
-Walkinshaw, who was on terms of intimacy with the great world and
-something of an <i>intriguante</i>, would speedily take steps to secure my
-freedom. “Be tranquil, dear Monsieur!” concluded the brave fellow, and I
-was so exceedingly comforted and inspired by these matters that I
-straightway sat down to the continuation of my journal for Miss
-Walkinshaw's behoof. I had scarce dipped the pen, when my cell door opened
-and gave entrance to the man who was the cause of my incarceration.
-</p>
-<p>
-The door shut and locked behind him; it was Father Hamilton!
-</p>
-<p>
-It was indeed Father Hamilton, by all appearance none the worse in body
-for his violent escapade, so weighty with the most fatal possibilities for
-himself, for he advanced to me almost gaily, his hand extended and his
-face red and smiling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Scotland! to my heart!” cries he in the French, and throws his arms about
-me before I could resist, and kisses me on the cheeks after the amusing
-fashion of his nation. “La! la! la! Paul,” he cried, “I'd have wanted
-three breakfasts sooner than miss this meeting with my good secretary lad
-that is the lovablest rogue never dipped a pen in his master's service.
-Might have been dead for all I knew, and run through by a brutal rapier,
-victim of mine own innocence. But here's my Paul, <i>pardieu!</i> I would
-as soon have my <i>croque-mort</i> now as that jolly dog his uncle, that
-never waked till midnight or slept till the dull, uninteresting noon in
-the years when we went roving. What! Paul! Paul Greig! my <i>croque-mort!</i>
-my Don Dolorous!—oh, Lord, my child, I am the most miserable of
-wretches!”
- </p>
-<p>
-And there he let me go, and threw himself upon a chair, and gave his vast
-body to a convulsion of arid sobs. The man was in hysterics, compounding
-smiles and sobs a score to the minute, but at the end 'twas the natural
-man won the bout, else he had taken a stroke. I stood by him in perplexity
-of opinions whether to laugh or storm, whether to give myself to the
-righteous horror a good man ought to feel in the presence of a murtherer,
-or shrug my shoulders tolerantly at the imbecile.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There!” said he, recovering his natural manner, “I have made a mortal
-enemy of Andrew Greig's nephew. Yes, yes, master, glower at Misery, fat
-Misery—and the devil take it!—old Misery, without a penny in
-'ts pocket, and its next trip upon wheels a trip to the block to nuzzle at
-the dirty end in damp sawdust a nose that has appreciated the bouquet of
-the rarest wines. Paul, my boy, has't a pinch of snuff? A brutal bird out
-there sings a stave of the <i>Chanson de la Veuve</i> so like the
-confounded thing that I heard my own foolish old head drop into the
-basket, and there! I swear to you the smell of the sawdust is in my
-nostrils now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I handed him my box; 'twas a mull my Uncle Andy gave me before he died,
-made of the horn of a young bullock, with a blazon of the house on the
-silver lid. He took it eagerly and drenched himself with the contents.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, la! la!” he cried; “I give thanks. My head was like yeast. I wish it
-were Christmas last, and a man called Hamilton was back in Dixmunde
-parish. But there! that is enough, I have made my bed and I must lie on't,
-with a blight on all militant jesuitry! When last I had this box in my
-fingers they were as steady as Mont St. Michel, now look—they are
-trembling like aspen, <i>n'est-ce pas?</i> And all that's different is
-that I have eaten one or two better dinners and cracked a few pipkins of
-better wine, and—and—well-nigh killed a police officer. Did'st
-ever hear of one Hamilton, M. Greig? 'Twas a cheery old fellow in Dixmunde
-whose name was the same as mine, and had a garden and bee-hives, and I am
-on the rack for my sins.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He might be on the rack—and, indeed, I daresay the man was in a
-passion of feelings so that he knew not what he was havering about, but
-what impressed me most of all about him was that he seemed to have some
-momentary gleams of satisfaction in his situation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have every ground of complaint against you, sir,” I said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” he interrupted. “Would'st plague an old man with complaints when
-M. de Paris is tapping him on the shoulder to come away and smell the
-sawdust of his own coffin? Oh, 'tis not in this wise thy uncle had done,
-but no matter!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have no wish, Father Hamilton, to revile you for what you have brought
-me,” I hastened to tell him. “That is far from my thoughts, though now
-that you put me in mind of it, there is some ground for my blaming you if
-blaming was in my intention. But I shall blame you for this, that you are
-a priest of the Church and a Frenchman, and yet did draw a murderous hand
-upon a prince of your own country.”
- </p>
-<p>
-This took him somewhat aback. He helped himself to another voluminous
-pinch of my snuff to give him time for a rejoinder and then—“Regicide,
-M. Greig, is sometimes to be defended when——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Regicide!” I cried, losing all patience, “give us the plain English of
-it, Father Hamilton, and call it murder. To call it by a Latin name makes
-it none the more respectable a crime against the courts of heaven where
-the curse of Babel has an end. But for an accident, or the cunning of
-others, you had a corpse upon your conscience this day, and your name had
-been abhorred throughout the whole of Europe.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He put his shoulders up till his dew-laps fell in massive folds.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Fore God!” said he, “here's a treatise in black letter from Andrew
-Greig's nephew. It comes indifferently well, I assure thee, from Andrew's
-nephew. Those who live in glass houses, <i>cher ami</i>,—those who
-live in glass houses——”
- </p>
-<p>
-He tapped me upon the breast with his fat finger and paused, with a
-significant look upon his countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, ye can out with it, Father Hamilton!” I cried, certain I knew his
-meaning.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Those who live in glass houses,” said he, “should have some pity for a
-poor old devil out in the weather without a shelter of any sort.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You were about to taunt me with my own unhappy affair,” I said, little
-relishing his consideration.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Was I, M. Greig?” he said softly. “Faith! a glass residence seems to
-breed an ungenerous disposition! If thou can'st credit me I know nothing
-of thine affair beyond what I may have suspected from a Greig travelling
-hurriedly and in red shoes. I make you my compliments, Monsieur, of your
-morality that must be horror-struck at my foolish play with a pistol, yet
-thinks me capable of a retort so vile as that you indicate. My dear lad, I
-but spoke of what we have spoken of together before in our happy chariot
-in the woods of Somme—thine uncle's fate, and all I expected was,
-that remembering the same, thou his nephew would'st have enough tolerance
-for an old fool to leave his punishment in the hands of the constitute
-authority. <i>Voilà!</i> I wish to heaven they had given me another cell,
-after all, that I might have imagined thy pity for one that did thee no
-harm, or at least meant to do none, which is the main thing with all our
-acts else Purgatory's more crowded than I fancy.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He went wearily over to the fire and spread his trembling hands to the
-blaze; I looked after him perplexed in my mind, but not without an
-overpowering pity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have come, like thyself, doubtless,” he said after a little, “over vile
-roads in a common cart, and lay awake last night in a dungeon—a
-pretty conclusion to my excursion! And yet I am vastly more happy to-day
-than I was this time yesterday morning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But then you were free,” I said, “you had all you need wish for—money,
-a conveyance, servants, leisure——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And M' Croque-mort's company,” he added with a poor smile. “True, true!
-But the thing was then to do,” and he shuddered. “Now my part is done,
-'twas by God's grace a failure, and I could sing for content like one of
-the little birds we heard the other day in Somme.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He could not but see my bewilderment in my face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You wonder at that,” said he, relinquishing the Roman manner as he always
-did when most in earnest. “Does Monsieur fancy a poor old priest can take
-to the ancient art of assassination with an easy mind? <i>Nom de nom!</i>
-I could skip to the block like a ballet-dancer if 'twere either that or
-live the past two days over again and fifty years after. I have none of
-the right stomach for murder; that's flat! 'tis a business that keeps you
-awake too much at night, and disturbs the gastric essence; calls, too, for
-a confounded agility that must be lacking in a person of my handsome and
-plenteous bulk. I had rather go fishing any day in the week than imbrue.
-When Buhot entered the room where I waited for a less worthy man and I
-fired honestly for my money and missed, I could have died of sheer
-rapture. Instead I threw myself upon his breast and embraced him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He said none of that to me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Like enough not, but 'tis true none the less, though he may keep so
-favourable a fact out of his records. A good soul enough, Buhot! We knew
-him, your uncle and I, in the old days when I was thinner and played a
-good game of chess at three in the morning. Fancy Ned Hamilton cutting
-short the glorious career of old Buhot! I'd sooner pick a pocket.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Or kill a prince!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Felicitations on your wit, M. Greig! Heaven help the elderly when the new
-wit is toward! <i>N'importe!</i> Perhaps 'twere better to kill some
-princes than to pick a pocket. Is it not better, or less wicked, let us
-say, to take the life of a man villainously abusing it than the purse of a
-poor wretch making the most of his scanty <i>livres?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then the priest set out upon his defence. It is too long here to
-reproduce in his own words, even if I recalled them, and too specious in
-its terms for the patience of the honest world of our time. With his hands
-behind his back he marched up and down the room for the space of a
-half-hour at the least, recounting all that led to his crime. The tale was
-like a wild romance, but yet, as we know now, true in every particular. He
-was of the Society of Jesus, had lived a stormy youth, and fallen in later
-years into a disrepute in his own parish, and there the heads of his
-Society discovered him a very likely tool for their purposes. They had
-only half convinced him that the death of Charles Edward was for the glory
-of God and the good of the Church when they sent him marching with a
-pistol and £500 in bills of exchange and letters of credit upon a chase
-that covered a great part of three or four countries, and ended at Lisbon,
-when a German Jesuit in the secret gave him ten crusadoes to bring him
-home with his task unaccomplished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have what amounts almost to a genius for losing the opportunities of
-which I do not desire to avail myself,” said Father Hamilton with a
-whimsical smile.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then he had lain in disgrace with the Jesuits for a number of years
-until it became manifest (as he confessed with shame) that his experience
-of leisure, wealth, and travel had enough corrupted him to make the
-prospect of a second adventure of a similar kind pleasing. At that time
-Charles, lost to the sight of Europe, and only discovered at brief and
-tantalising intervals by the Jesuit agents, scarce slept two nights in the
-same town, but went from country to country <i>incognito</i>, so that
-'twas no trivial task Father Hamilton undertook to run him to earth.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The difficulty of it—indeed the small likelihood there was of my
-ever seeing him,” he said, “was what mainly induced me to accept the
-office, though in truth it was compelled. I was doing very well at
-Dunkerque,” he went on, “and very happy if I had never heard more of
-prince or priesthood, when Father Fleuriau sent me a hurried intimation
-that my victim was due at Versailles on Easter and ordered my instant
-departure there.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The name of Fleuriau recalled me to my senses. “Stop, stop, Father
-Hamilton!” I cried, “I must hear no more.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What!” said he, bitterly, “is't too good a young gentleman to listen to
-the confession of a happy murderer that has failed at his trade?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have no feeling left but pity,” said I, almost like to weep at this,
-“but you have been put into this cell along with me for a purpose.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what might that be, M. Greig?” he asked, looking round about him, and
-seeing for the first time, I swear, the sort of place he was in. “Faith!
-it is comfort, at any rate; I scarce noticed that, in my pleasure at
-seeing Paul Greig again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You must not tell me any more of your Jesuit plot, nor name any of those
-involved in the same, for Buhot has been at me to cock an ear to
-everything you may say in that direction, and betray you and your friends.
-It is for that he has put us together into this cell.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardieu!</i> am not I betrayed enough already?” cried the priest,
-throwing up his hands. “I'll never deny my guilt.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” I said, “but they want the names of your fellow conspirators, and
-Buhot says they never expect them directly from you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He does, does he?” said the priest, smiling. “Faith, M. Buhot has a good
-memory for his friend's characteristics. No, M. Greig, if they put this
-comfortable carcase to the rack itself. And was that all thy concern?
-Well, as I was saying—let us speak low lest some one be listening—this
-Father Fleuriau-”
- </p>
-<p>
-Again I stopped him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You put me into a hard position, Father Hamilton,” I said. “My freedom—my
-life, perhaps—depends on whether I can tell them your secret or not,
-and here you throw it in my face.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And why not?” he asked, simply. “I merely wish to show myself largely the
-creature of circumstances, and so secure a decent Scot's most favourable
-opinion of me before the end.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But I might be tempted to betray you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The old eagle looked again out at his eyes. He gently slapped my cheek
-with a curious touch of fondness almost womanly, and gave a low, contented
-laugh.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Farceur!</i>” he said. “As if I did not know my Don Dolorous, my merry
-Andrew's nephew!” His confidence hugely moved me, and, lest he should
-think I feared to trust myself with his secrets, I listened to the
-remainder of his story, which I shall not here set down, as it bears but
-slightly on my own narrative, and may even yet be revealed only at cost of
-great distress among good families, not only on the Continent but in
-London itself.
-</p>
-<p>
-When he had done, he thanked me for listening so attentively to a matter
-that was so much on his mind that it gave him relief to share it with some
-one. “And not only for that, M. Greig,” said he, “are my thanks due, for
-you saved the life that might have been the prince's instead of my old
-gossip, Buhot's. To take the bullet out of my pistol was the device your
-uncle himself would have followed in the like circumstances.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But I did not do that!” I protested.
-</p>
-<p>
-He looked incredulous.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Buhot said as much,” said he; “he let it out unwittingly that I had had
-my claws clipped by my own household.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then assuredly not by me, Father Hamilton.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So!” said he, half incredulous, and a look of speculation came upon his
-countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-PHILOSOPHY IN A FELON'S CELL
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t seemed for a while as if we were fated to lie forgotten in Bicêtre till
-the crack of doom; not that we were many days there when all was done, but
-that in our natural hourly expectation at first of being called forth for
-trial the hours passed so sluggishly that Time seemed finally to sleep,
-and a week, to our fancy—to mine at all events—seemed a month
-at the most modest computation.
-</p>
-<p>
-I should have lost my reason but for the company of the priest, who, for
-considerations best known to others and to me monstrously inadequate, was
-permitted all the time to share my cell. In his singular society there was
-a recreation that kept me from too feverishly brooding on my wrongs, and
-his character every day presented fresh features of interest and
-admiration. He had become quite cheerful again, and as content in the
-confine of his cell as he had been when the glass coach was jolting over
-the early stages of what had been intended for a gay procession round the
-courts of Europe. Once more he affected the Roman manner that was due to
-his devotion to Shakespeare and L'Estrange's Seneca, and “Clarissa
-Harlowe,” a knowledge of which, next to the Scriptures, he counted the
-first essentials for a polite education. I protest he grew fatter every
-day, and for ease his corpulence was at last saved the restraint of
-buttons, which was an indolent indulgence so much to his liking that of
-itself it would have reconciled him to spend the remainder of his time in
-prison.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Tiens!</i> Paul,” he would say, “here's an old fool has blundered
-through the greater part of his life without guessing till now how easy a
-thing content is to come by. Why, 'tis no more than a loose waistcoat and
-a chemise unbuttoned at the neck. I dared not be happy thus in Dixmunde,
-where the folks were plaguily particular that their priest should be
-point-devise, as if mortal man had time to tend his soul and keep a
-constant eye on the lace of his fall.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And he would stretch himself—a very mountain of sloth—in his
-chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-With me 'twas different. Even in a gaol I felt sure a day begun untidily
-was a day ill-done by. If I had no engagements with the fastidious
-fashionable world I had engagements with myself; moreover, I shared my
-father's sentiment, that a good day's darg of work with any thinking in it
-was never done in a pair of slippers down at the heel. Thus I was as
-peijink (as we say) in Bicêtre as I would have been at large in the
-genteel world.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not,” he would admit, “but that I love to see thee in a decent habit, and
-so constant plucking at thy hose, for I have been young myself, and had
-some right foppish follies, too. But now, my good man Dandiprat, my <i>petit-maître</i>,
-I am old—oh, so old!—and know so much of wisdom, and have seen
-such a confusion of matters, that I count comfort the greatest of
-blessings. The devil fly away with buttons and laces! say I, that have
-been parish priest of Dixmunde—and happily have not killed a man nor
-harmed a flea, though like enough to get killed myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The weather was genial, yet he sat constantly hugging the fire, and I at
-the window, which happily gave a prospect of the yard between our building
-and that of Galbanon. I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining for
-freedom, while he went prating on upon the scurviest philosophy surely
-ever man gave air to.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/226.jpg" alt="226" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-“Behold, my scrivener, how little man wants for happiness! My constant
-fear in Dixmunde was that I would become so useless for all but eating and
-sleeping, when I was old, that no one would guarantee me either; poverty
-took that place at my table the skull took among the Romans—the
-thought on't kept me in a perpetual apprehension. <i>Nom de chien!</i> and
-this was what I feared—this, a hard lodging, coarse viands, and sour
-wine! What was the fellow's name?—Demetrius, upon the taking of
-Megara, asked Monsieur Un-tel the Philosopher what he had lost. 'Nothing
-at all,' said he, 'for I have all that I could call my own about me,' and
-yet 'twas no more than the skin he stood in. A cell in Bicêtre would have
-been paradise to such a gallant fellow. Oh, Paul, I fear thou may'st be
-ungrateful—I would be looking out there, and perhaps pining for
-freedom,” he went prating on, “to this good Buhot, who has given us such a
-fine lodging, and saved us the care of providing for ourselves.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis all very well, father,” I said, leaning on the sill of the window,
-and looking at a gang of prisoners being removed from one part of Galbanon
-to another—“'tis all very well, but I mind a priest that thought
-jaunting round the country in a chariot the pinnacle of bliss. And that
-was no further gone than a fortnight ago.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah!” said he, and stretched his fat fingers to the fire; “he that cannot
-live happily anywhere will live happily nowhere at all. What avails
-travel, if Care waits like a hostler to unyoke the horses at every stage?
-I tell thee, my boy, I never know what a fine fellow is Father Hamilton
-till I have him by himself at a fireside; 'tis by firesides all the wisest
-notions come to one.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I wish there came a better dinner than to-day's,” said I, for we had
-agreed an hour ago that smoked soup was not very palatable.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la! there goes Sir Gourmet!” cried his reverence. “Have I
-infected this poor Scot that ate naught but oats ere he saw France, with
-mine own fever for fine feeding from which, praise <i>le bon Dieu!</i> I
-have recovered? 'Tis a brutal entertainment, and unworthy of man, to place
-his felicity in the service of his senses. I maintain that even smoked
-soup is pleasant enough on the palate of a man with an easy conscience,
-and a mind purged of vulgar cares.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And you can be happy here, Father Hamilton?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I asked, astonished at such sentiments from a man before so ill to please.
-</p>
-<p>
-He heaved like a mountain in travail, and brought forth a peal of laughter
-out of all keeping with our melancholy situation. “Happy!” said he, “I
-have never been happy for twenty years till Buhot clapped claw upon my
-wrist. Thou may'st have seen a sort of mask of happiness, a false face of
-jollity in Dunkerque parlours, and heard a well-simulated laughter now and
-then as we drank by wayside inns, but may I be called coxcomb if the
-miserable wretch who playacted then was half so light of heart as this
-that sits here at ease, and has only one regret—that he should have
-dragged Andrew Greig's nephew into trouble with him. What man can be
-perfectly happy that runs the risk of disappointment—which is the
-case of every man that fears or hopes for anything? Here am I, too old for
-the flame of love or the ardour of ambition; all that knew me and
-understood me best and liked me most are dead long since. I have a state
-palace prepared for me free; a domestic in livery to serve my meals;
-parishioners do not vex me with their trifling little hackneyed sins, and
-my conclusion seems like to come some morning after an omelet and a glass
-of wine.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could not withhold a shudder.
-</p>
-<p>
-“But to die that way, Father!” I said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>C'est égal!</i>” said he, and crossed himself. “We must all die
-somehow, and I had ever a dread of a stone. Come, come, M. Croque-mort,
-enough of thy confounded dolours! I'll be hanged if thou did'st not steal
-these shoes, and art after all but an impersonator of a Greig. The lusty
-spirit thou call'st thine uncle would have used his teeth ere now to gnaw
-his way through the walls of Bicêtre, and here thou must stop to converse
-cursedly on death to the fatted ox that smells the blood of the abattoir—oh
-lad, give's thy snuff-box, sawdust again!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thus by the hour went on the poor wretch, resigned most obviously to
-whatever was in store for him, not so much from a native courage, I fear,
-as from a plethora of flesh that smothered every instinct of
-self-preservation. As for me I kept up hope for three days that Buhot
-would surely come to test my constancy again, and when that seemed
-unlikely, when day after day brought the same routine, the same cell with
-Hamilton, the same brief exercise in the yard, the same vulgar struggle at
-the <i>gamelle</i> in the <i>salle d'épreuve</i>—I could have
-welcomed Galbanon itself as a change, even if it meant all the horror that
-had been associated with it by Buhot and my friend the sous-officer.
-</p>
-<p>
-Galbanon! I hope it has long been levelled with the dust, and even then I
-know the ghosts of those there tortured in their lives will habitate the
-same in whirling eddies, for a constant cry for generations has gone up to
-heaven from that foul spot. It must have been a devilish ingenuity, an
-invention of all the impish courts below, that placed me at a window where
-Galbanon faced me every hour of the day or night, its horror all revealed.
-I have seen in the pool of Earn in autumn weather, when the river was in
-spate, dead leaves and broken branches borne down dizzily upon the water
-to toss madly in the linn at the foot of the fall; no less helpless, no
-less seared by sin and sorrow, or broken by the storms of circumstance,
-were the wretches that came in droves to Galbanon. The stream of crime or
-tyranny bore them down (some from very high places), cast them into this
-boiling pool, and there they eddied in a circle of degraded tasks from
-which it seemed the fate of many of them never to escape, though their
-luckier fellows went in twos or threes every other day in a cart to their
-doom appointed.
-</p>
-<p>
-Be sure it was not pleasant each day for me to hear the hiss of the lash
-and the moans of the bastinadoed wretch, to see the blood spurt, and
-witness the anguish of the men who dragged enormous bilboes on their
-galled ankles.
-</p>
-<p>
-At last I felt I could stand it no longer, and one day intimated to Father
-Hamilton that I was determined on an escape.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good lad!” he cried, his eye brightening. “The most sensible thing thou
-hast said in twenty-four hours. 'Twill be a recreation for myself to
-help,” and he buttoned his waistcoat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We can surely devise some means of breaking out if——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We!” he repeated, shaking his head. “No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky a
-task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by thyself
-and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows when he is
-well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's charming and
-commodious inn until the bill is presented.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while I
-took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day at
-least I abandoned the project.
-</p>
-<p>
-Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned
-before him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Monsieur,” he said, “is it that we have here a more discerning
-young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Just the very same, M. Buhot,” said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of his
-pen and shrugged his shoulders.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come, come, M. Greig,” he went on, “this is a <i>bêtise</i> of the most
-ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself
-whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool
-of others or himself a genius of mischief.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but
-that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man!
-he has not got the energy to kick a dog.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And—and—” said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of
-revelation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And that's all, M. Buhot,” said I, with a carriage he could not mistake.
-</p>
-<p>
-He shrugged his shoulders again, wrote something in a book on the desk
-before him with great deliberation and then asked me how I liked my
-quarters in Bicêtre.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Tolerably well,” I said. “I've been in better, but I might be in waur.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He laughed a little at the Scotticism that seemed to recall something—perhaps
-a pleasantry of my uncle's—to him, and then said he, “I'm sorry they
-cannot be yours very much longer, M. Greig. We calculated that a week or
-two of this priest's company would have been enough to inspire a distaste
-and secure his confession, but apparently we were mistaken. You shall be
-taken to other quarters on Saturday.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I hope, M. Buhot,” said I, “they are to be no worse than those I occupy
-now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His face reddened a little at this—I felt always there was some vein
-of special kindness to me in this man's nature—and he said
-hesitatingly, “Well, the truth is, 'tis Galbanon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Before a trial?” I asked, incredulous.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The trial will come in good time,” he said, rising to conclude the
-parley, and he turned his back on me as I was conducted out of the room
-and back to the cell, where Father Hamilton waited with unwonted agitation
-for my tidings.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, lad,” he cried, whenever we were alone, “what stirs? I warrant they
-have not a jot of evidence against thee,” but in a second he saw from my
-face the news was not so happy, and his own face fell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We are to be separated on Saturday,” I told him.
-</p>
-<p>
-Tears came to his eyes at that—a most feeling old rogue!
-</p>
-<p>
-“And where is't for thee, Paul?” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where is't for yourself ought to be of more importance to you, Father
-Hamilton.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, no,” he cried, “it matters little about me, but surely for you it
-cannot be Galbanon?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and it is no less.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then, Paul,” he said firmly, “we must break out, and that without loss of
-time.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Is it in the plural this time?” I asked him.
-</p>
-<p>
-He affected an indifference, but at the last consented to share the whole
-of the enterprise.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WE ATTEMPT AN ESCAPE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ather Hamilton was not aware of the extent of it, but he knew I was in a
-correspondence with the sous-officer. More than once he had seen us in the
-<i>salle dépreuve</i> in a manifest understanding of each other, though he
-had no suspicion that the gentleman was a Mercury for Miss Walkinshaw,
-whose name seldom, if ever, entered into our conversation in the cell.
-From her I had got but one other letter—a brief acknowledgment of
-some of my fullest budgets, but 'twas enough to keep me at my diurnal on
-every occasion almost on which the priest slept. I sent her (with the
-strictest injunction to secrecy upon so important a matter) a great deal
-of the tale the priest had told me—not so much for her entertainment
-as for the purpose of moving in the poor man's interests. Especially was I
-anxious that she should use her influence to have some one communicate to
-Father Fleuriau, who was at the time in Bruges, how hazardous was the
-position of his unhappy cat's-paw, whose state I pictured in the most
-moving colours I could command. There was, it must be allowed, a risk in
-entrusting a document so damnatory to any one in Bicêtre, but that the
-packet was duly forwarded to its destination I had every satisfaction of
-from the sous-officer, who brought me an acknowledgment to that effect
-from Bernard the Swiss.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest knew, then, as I say, that I was on certain terms with this
-sous-officer, and so it was with no hesitation I informed him that,
-through the favour of the latter, I had a very fair conception of the
-character and plan of this building of Bicêtre in which we were interned.
-What I had learned of most importance to us was that the block of which
-our cell was a part had a face to the main road of Paris, from which
-thoroughfare it was separated by a spacious court and a long range of iron
-palisades. If ever we were to make our way out of the place it must be in
-this direction, for on two sides of our building we were overlooked by
-buildings vastly more throng than our own, and bordered by yards in which
-were constant sentinels. Our block jutted out at an angle from one very
-much longer, but lower by two storeys, and the disposition of both made it
-clear that to enter into this larger edifice, and towards the gable end of
-it that overlooked the palisades of the Paris road, was our most feasible
-method of essay.
-</p>
-<p>
-I drew a plan of the prison and grounds on paper, estimating as best I
-might all the possible checks we were like to meet with, and leaving a
-balance of chances in our favour that we could effect our purpose in a
-night.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest leaned his chin upon his arms as he lolled over the table on
-which I eagerly explained my diagram, and sighed at one or two of the
-feats of agility it assumed. There was, for example, a roof to walk upon—the
-roof of the building we occupied—though how we were to get there in
-the first place was still to be decided. Also there was a descent from
-that roof on to the lower building at right angles, though where the
-ladder or rope for this was to come from I must meanwhile airily leave to
-fortune. Finally, there was—assuming we got into the larger
-building, and in some unforeseeable way along its roof and clear to the
-gable end—a part of the yard to cross, and the palisade to escalade.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, lad! thou takest me for a bird,” cried his reverence, aghast at all
-this. “Is thy poor fellow prisoner a sparrow? A little after this I might
-do't with my own wings—the saints guide me!—but figure you
-that at present I am not Philetas, the dwarf, who had to wear leaden shoes
-lest the wind should blow him away. 'Twould take a wind indeed to stir
-this amplitude of good humours, this sepulchre of twenty thousand good
-dinners and incomputible tuns of liquid merriment. Pray, Paul, make an
-account of my physical infirmities, and mitigate thy transport of
-vaultings and soarings and leapings and divings, unless, indeed, thou
-meditatest sewing me up in a sheet, and dragging me through the realms of
-space.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We shall manage! we shall manage!” I insisted, now quite uplifted in a
-fanciful occupation that was all to my tastes, even if nothing came of it,
-and I plunged more boldly into my plans. They were favoured by several
-circumstances—the first, namely, that we were not in the uniform of
-the prison, and, once outside the prison, could mingle with the world
-without attracting attention. Furthermore, by postponing the attempt till
-the morrow night I could communicate with the Swiss, and secure his
-cooperation outside in the matter of a horse or a vehicle, if the same
-were called for. I did not, however, say so much as that to his reverence,
-whom I did not wish as yet to know of my correspondence with Bernard.
-Finally, we had an auspicious fact at the outset of our attempt, inasmuch
-as the cell we were in was in the corridor next to that of which the
-sous-officer had some surveillance, and I knew his mind well enough now to
-feel sure he would help in anything that did not directly involve his own
-position and duties. In other words, he was to procure a copy of the key
-of our cell, and find a means of leaving it unlocked when the occasion
-arose.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A copy of the key, Paul!” said Father Hamilton; “sure there are no bounds
-to thy cheerful mad expectancy! But go on! go on! art sure he could not be
-prevailed on—this fairy godfather—to give us an escort of
-cavalry and trumpeters?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“This is not much of a backing-up, Father Hamilton,” I said, annoyed at
-his skeptic comments upon an affair that involved so much and agitated
-myself so profoundly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon! Paul,” he said hastily, confused and vexed himself at the
-reproof. “Art quite right, I'm no more than a croaker, and for penance I
-shall compel myself to do the wildest feat thou proposest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We determined to put off the attempt at escape till I had communicated
-with the sous-officer (in truth, though Father Hamilton did not know it,
-till I had communicated with Bernard the Swiss), and it was the following
-afternoon I had not only an assurance of the unlocked door, but in my hand
-a more trustworthy plan of the prison than my own, and the promise that
-the Swiss would be waiting with a carriage outside the palisades when we
-broke through, any time between midnight and five in the morning.
-</p>
-<p>
-Next day, then, we were in a considerable agitation; to that extent indeed
-that I clean forgot that we had no aid to our descent of twenty or thirty
-feet (as the sous-sergeant's diagram made it) from the roof of our block
-on to that of the one adjoining. We had had our minds so much on bolted
-doors and armed sentinels that this detail had quite escaped us until
-almost on the eve of setting out at midnight, the priest began again to
-sigh about his bulk and swear no rope short of a ship's cable would serve
-to bear him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Rope!” I cried, in a tremendous chagrin at my stupidity. “Lord! if I have
-not quite forgot it. We have none.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” he said, “perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps my heart is so light
-at parting with my <i>croque-mort</i> that I can drop upon the tiles like
-a pigeon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Parting,” I repeated, eyeing him suspiciously, for I thought perhaps he
-had changed his mind again. “Who thinks of parting?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not I indeed,” says he, “unless the rope do when thou hast got it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was no rope, however, and I cursed my own folly that I had not asked
-one from the sous-officer whose complaisance might have gone the length of
-a fathom or two, though it did not, as the priest suggested, go so far as
-an armed convoy and a brace of trumpeters. It was too late now to repair
-the overlook, and to the making of rope the two of us had there and then
-to apply ourselves, finding the sheets and blankets-of our beds scanty
-enough for our purpose, and by no means of an assuring elegance or
-strength when finished. But we had thirty feet of some sort of cord at the
-last, and whether it was elegant or not it had to do for our purpose.
-</p>
-<p>
-Luckily the night was dark as pitch and a high wind roared in the
-chimneys, and in the numerous corners of the prison. There was a sting in
-the air that drew many of the sentinels round the braziers flaming in the
-larger yard between the main entrance and the buildings, and that further
-helped our prospects; so that it was with some hope, in spite of a heart
-that beat like a flail in my breast, I unlocked the door and crept out
-into the dimly-lighted corridor with the priest close behind me.
-</p>
-<p>
-Midway down this gallery there was a stair of which our plan apprised us,
-leading to another gallery—the highest of the block—from which
-a few steps led to a cock-loft where the sous-officer told us there was
-one chance in a score of finding a blind window leading to the roof.
-</p>
-<p>
-No one, luckily, appeared as we hurried down the long gallery. I darted
-like a fawn up the stair to the next flat, Father Hamilton grievously
-puffing behind me, and we had just got into the shadow of the steps
-leading to the cock-loft when a warder's step and the clank of his chained
-keys came sounding down the corridor. He passed within three feet of us
-and I felt the blood of all my body chill with fear!
-</p>
-<p>
-“I told thee, lad,” whispered the priest, mopping the sweat from his face,
-“I told thee 'twas an error to burden thyself with such a useless carcase.
-Another moment or two—a gasp for the wind that seems so cursed ill
-to come by at my years, and I had brought thee into trouble.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I paid no heed to him, but crept up the steps and into the cock-loft that
-smelt villainously of bats.
-</p>
-<p>
-The window was unfastened! I stuck out my head upon the tiles and sniffed
-the fine fresh air of freedom as it had been a rare perfume.
-</p>
-<p>
-Luckily the window was scarcely any height, and it proved easy to aid his
-reverence into the open air. Luckily, further, it was too dark for him to
-realise the jeopardies of his situation for whether his precarious
-gropings along the tiles were ten feet or thirty from the yard below was
-indiscoverable in the darkness. He slid his weighty body along with an
-honest effort that was wholly due to his regard for my interests, because
-'twas done with groans and whispered protestations that 'twas the maddest
-thing for a man to leave a place where he was happy and risk his neck in
-an effort to discover misery. A rime of frost was on the tiles, and they
-were bitter cold to the touch. One fell, too, below me as I slid along,
-and rattled loudly over its fellows and plunged into the yard.
-</p>
-<p>
-Naturally we stopped dead and listened breathless, a foolish action for
-one reason because in any case we had been moving silently at a great
-height above the place where the tile should fall so that there was no
-risk of our being heard or seen, but our listening discovered so great an
-interval between the loosening of the tile and its dull shattering on the
-stones below that the height on which we were perched in the darkness was
-made more plain—more dreadful to the instincts than if we could
-actually measure it with the eye. I confess I felt a touch of nausea, but
-nothing compared with the priest, whose teeth began to chitter in an ague
-of horror.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good Lord, Paul!” he whispered to me, clutching my leg as I moved in
-front of him, “it is the bottomless pit.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not unless we drop,” said I. And to cheer him up I made some foolish
-joke.
-</p>
-<p>
-If the falling tile attracted any attention in the yard it was not
-apparent to us, and five minutes later we had to brace ourselves to a
-matter that sent the tile out of our minds.
-</p>
-<p>
-For we were come to the end of the high building, and twenty feet below
-us, at right angles, we could plainly see the glow of several skylights in
-the long prison to which it was attached. It was now the moment for our
-descent on the extemporised rope.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXVI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A RIMEY NIGHT ON ROOF-TOPS, AND A NEW USE FOR AN OLD KIRK BELL
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> fastened the rope about a chimney-head with some misgivings that by the
-width and breadth of the same I was reducing our chance of ever getting
-down to the lower building, as the knotted sheets from the outset had been
-dubious measure for the thirty feet of which my sous-officer had given the
-estimate. But I said never a word to the priest of my fears on that score,
-and determined for once to let what was left of honesty go before
-well-fattened age and test the matter first myself. If the cord was too
-brief for its purpose, or (what was just as likely) on the frail side, I
-could pull myself back in the one case as the priest was certainly unfit
-to do, and in the other my weight would put less strain upon it than that
-of Father Hamilton.
-</p>
-<p>
-I can hear him yet in my imagination after forty years, as he clung to the
-ridge of the roof like a seal on a rock, chittering in the cold night
-wind, enviously eyeing some fires that blazed in another yard and groaning
-melancholiously.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A garden,” said he, “and six beehives—no, 'faith! 'twas seven last
-summer, and a roomful of books. Oh, Paul, Paul! Now I know how God cast
-out Satan. He took him from his warm fireside, and his books before they
-were all read, and his pantoufles, and set him straddling upon a frozen
-house-top to ponder through eternal night upon the happy past. Alas, poor
-being! How could he know what joys were in the simplicity of a room of
-books half-read and a pair of warm old slippers?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was fair rambling in his fears, my poor priest, and I declare scarcely
-knew the half of what he uttered, indeed he spoke out so loudly that I had
-to check him lest he should attract attention from below.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Father Hamilton,” said I, when my cord was fastened, “with your
-permission I'll try it first. I want to make it sure that my seamanship on
-the sloop <i>Sarah</i>, of Ayr, has not deserted me to the extent that I
-cannot come down a rope without a ratline or tie a bowling knot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Certainly, Paul, certainly,” said he, quite eagerly, so that I was
-tempted for a second to think he gladly postponed his own descent from
-sheer terror.
-</p>
-<p>
-I threw over the free end of the cord and crouched upon the beak of the
-gable to lower myself.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Paul,” said his reverence in a broken voice. “Let us say 'good-bye'
-in case aught should happen ere we are on the same level again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh!” said I, impatient, “that's the true <i>croque-mort</i> spirit
-indeed! Why, Father, it isn't—it isn't—” I was going to say it
-was not a gallows I was venturing on, but the word stuck in my throat, for
-a certain thought that sprung to me of how nearly in my own case it had
-been to the very gallows, and his reverence doubtless saw some delicacy,
-for he came promptly to my help.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not a priest's promise—made to be broken, you would say, good
-Paul,” said he. “I promised the merriest of jaunts over Europe in a coach,
-and here my scrivener is hanging in the reins! Pardon, dear Scotland, <i>milles
-pardons</i> and good-bye and good luck.” And at that he made to embrace
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's a French ceremony just about nothing at all,” I thought, and began
-my descent. The priest lay on his stomach upon the ridge. As I sank, with
-my eyes turned upwards, I could see his hair blown by the wind against a
-little patch of stars, that was the only break in the Ethiopia of the sky.
-He seemed to follow my progress breathlessly, and when I gained the other
-roof and shook the cord to tell him so he responded by a faint clapping of
-his hands.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Art all right, lad?” he whispered down to me, and I bade him follow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good-night, Paul, good-bye, and God bless you!” he whispered. “Get out of
-this as quick as you can; 'tis more than behemoth could do in a month of
-dark nights, and so I cut my share of the adventure. One will do't when
-two (and one of them a hogshead) will die in trying to do't.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Here was a pretty pickle! The man's ridiculous regard for my safety
-outweighed his natural inclinations, though his prospects in the prison of
-Bicêtre were blacker than my own, having nothing less dreadful than an
-execution at the end of them. He had been merely humouring me so far—and
-such a brave humouring in one whose flesh was in a quaking of alarms all
-the time he slid along the roof!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are you not coming?” I whispered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“On the contrary, I'm going, dear Paul,” said he with a pretence at
-levity. “Going back to my comfortable cell and my uniformed servant and M.
-Buhot, the charmingest of hostellers, and I declare my feet are like ice.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then,” said I firmly, “I go back too. I'll be eternally cursed if I give
-up my situation as scrivener at this point. I must e'en climb up again.”
- And with that I prepared to start the ascent.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stop! stop!” said he without a second's pause, “stop where you are and
-I'll go down. Though 'tis the most stupendous folly,” he added with a
-sigh, and in a moment later I saw his vast bulk laboriously heaving over
-the side of the roof. Fortunately the knots in the cord where the
-fragments of sheet and blanket were joined made his task not so difficult
-as it had otherwise been, and almost as speedily as I had done it myself
-he reached the roof of the lower building, though in such a state he
-quivered like a jelly, and was dumb with fear or with exertion when the
-thing was done.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” he said at last, when he had recovered himself. “Art a fool to be so
-particular about an old carcase accursed of easy humours and accused of
-regicide. Take another thought on't, Paul. What have you to do with this
-wretch of a priest that brought about the whole trouble in your ignorance?
-And think of Galbanon!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Think of the devil! Father Hamilton,” I snapped at him, “every minute we
-waste havering away here adds to the chances against any of us getting
-free, and I am sure that is not your desire. The long and the short of it
-is that I'll not stir a step out of Bicêtre—no, not if the doors
-themselves were open—unless you consent to come with me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ventre Dieu!</i>” said he, “'tis just such a mulish folly as I might
-have looked for from the nephew of Andrew Greig. But lead on, good
-imbecile, lead on, and blame not poor Father Hamilton if the thing ends in
-a fiasco!”
- </p>
-<p>
-We now crawled along a roof no whit more easily traversed than that we had
-already commanded. Again and again I had to stop to permit my companion to
-come up on me, for the pitch of the tiles was steep, and he in a peril
-from his own lubricity, and it was necessary even to put a hand under his
-arm at times when he suffered a vertigo through seeing the lights in the
-yard deep down as points of flame.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Egad! boy,” he said, and his perspiring hand clutching mine at one of our
-pauses, “I thrill at the very entrails. I'd liefer have my nose in the
-sawdust any day than thrash through thin air on to a paving-stone.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A minute or two more and we are there,” I answered him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where?” said he, starting; “in purgatory?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Look up, man!” I told him. “There's a window beaming ten yards off.” And
-again I pushed on.
-</p>
-<p>
-In very truth there was no window, though I prayed as fervently for one as
-it had been a glimpse of paradise, but I was bound to cozen the old man
-into effort for his own life and for mine. What I had from the higher
-building taken for the glow of skylights had been really the light of
-windows on the top flat of the other prison block, and its roof was wholly
-unbroken. At least I had made up my mind to that with a despair benumbing
-when I touched wood. My fingers went over it in the dark with frantic
-eagerness. It was a trap such as we had come out of at the other block,
-but it was shut. Before the priest could come up to me and suffer the
-fresh horror of disappointment I put my weight upon it, and had the good
-fortune to throw it in. The flap fell with a shriek of hinges and showed
-gaping darkness. We stretched upon the tiles as close as limpets and as
-silent. Nothing stirred within.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A garden,” said he in a little, “as sweet as ever bean grew in, with the
-rarest plum-tree; and now I am so cold.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I could be doing with some of your complaint,” said I; “as for me, I'm on
-fire. Please heaven, you'll be back in the garden again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I lowered myself within, followed by the priest, and found we were upon
-the rafters. A good bit off there was a beam of light that led us,
-groping, and in an imminent danger of going through the plaster, to an
-air-hole over a little gallery whose floor was within stretch as I lowered
-myself again.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton squeezed after me; we both looked over the edge of the
-gallery, and found it was a chapel we were in!
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Sacré nom!</i>” said the priest and crossed himself, with a
-genuflexion to the side of the altar.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Lord! Paul,” he said, whispering, “if 'twere the Middle Ages, and
-this were indeed a sanctuary, how happy was a poor undeserving son of
-Mother Church! Even Dagobert's hounds drew back from the stag in St.
-Denys.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was a mean interior, as befitted the worship of the <i>misérables</i>
-who at times would meet there. A solemn quiet held the place, that seemed
-wholly deserted; the dim light that had shown through the air-hole and
-guided us came from some candles dripping before a shrine.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Heaven help us!” said the priest. “I know just such another.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was nobody in the church so far as we could observe from the little
-gallery in which we found ourselves, but when we had gone down a flight of
-steps into the body of the same, and made to cross towards the door, we
-were suddenly confronted by a priest in a white cope. My heart jumped to
-my mouth; I felt a prinkling in the roots of my hair, and stopped dumb,
-with all my faculties basely deserted from me. Luckily Father Hamilton
-kept his presence of mind. As he told me later, he remembered of a sudden
-the Latin proverb that in battles the eye is first overcome, and he fixed
-the man in the stole with a glance that was bold and disconcerting. As it
-happened, however, the other priest was almost as blind as a bat, and saw
-but two civil worshippers in his chapel. He did not even notice that it
-was a <i>soutane</i>; he passed peeringly, with a bow to our inclinations,
-and it was almost incredulous of our good fortune I darted out of the
-chapel into the darkness of a courtyard of equal extent with that I had
-crossed on the night of my first arrival at Bicêtre. At its distant end
-there were the same flaming braziers with figures around them, and the
-same glitter of arms.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now this Bicêtre is set upon a hill and commands a prospect of the city of
-Paris, of the Seine and its environs. For that reason we could see to our
-right the innumerable lights of a great plain twinkling in the darkness,
-and it seemed as if we had only to proceed in that direction to secure
-freedom by the mere effort of walking. As we stood in the shadow of the
-chapel, Father Hamilton eyed the distant prospect of the lighted town with
-a singular rapture.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Paris!” said he. “Oh, Dieu! and I thought never to clap an eye on't
-again. Paris, my Paul! Behold the lights of it—<i>la ville lumière</i>
-that is so fine I could spend eternity in it. Hearts are there, lad, kind
-and jocund-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And meditating a descent on unhappy Britain,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good neighbourly hearts, or I'm a gourd else,” he went on, unheeding my
-interruption. “The stars in heaven are not so good, are no more notably
-the expression of a glowing and fraternal spirit. There is laughter in the
-streets of her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not at this hour, Father Hamilton,” said I, and the both of us always
-whispering. “I've never seen the place by day nor put a foot in it, but it
-will be droll indeed if there is laughter in its streets at two o'clock in
-the morning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah, Paul, shall we ever get there?” said he longingly. “We can but try,
-anyway. I certainly did not come all this way, Father Hamilton, just to
-look on the lowe of Paris.”
- </p>
-<p>
-What had kept us shrinking in the shadow of the chapel wall had been the
-sound of footsteps between us and the palisades that were to be
-distinguished a great deal higher than I had expected, on our right. On
-the other side of the rails was freedom, as well as Paris that so greatly
-interested my companion, but the getting clear of them seemed like to be a
-more difficult task than any we had yet overcome, and all the more
-hazardous because the footsteps obviously suggested a sentinel. Whether it
-was the rawness of the night that tempted him to a relaxation, or whether
-he was not strictly on duty, I know not, but, while we stood in the most
-wretched of quandaries, the man who was in our path very soon ceased his
-perambulation along the palisades, and went over to one of the distant
-fires, passing within a few yards of us as we crouched in the darkness.
-When he had gone sufficiently out of the way we ran for it. So plain were
-the lights of the valley, so flimsy a thing had seemed to part us from the
-high-road there, that never a doubt intruded on my mind that now we were
-as good as free, and when I came to the rails I beat my head with my hands
-when the nature of our folly dawned upon me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We may just go back,” I said to the priest in a stricken voice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Comment?</i>” said he, wiping his brow and gloating on the spectacle
-of the lighted town.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Look,” I said, indicating the railings that were nearly three times my
-own height, “there are no convenient trap-doors here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But the cord—” said he simply.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Exactly,” I said; “the cord's where we left it snugly tied with a bowling
-knot to the chimney of our block, and I'm an ass.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, poor Paul!” said the priest in a prostration at this divulgence of
-our error. “I'm the millstone on your neck, for had I not parleyed at the
-other end of the cord when you had descended, the necessity for it would
-never have escaped your mind. I gave you fair warning, lad, 'twas a
-quixotic imbecility to burden yourself with me. And are we really at a
-stand? God! look at Paris. Had I not seen these lights I had not cared for
-myself a straw, but, oh lord! lad, they are so pleasant and so close! Why
-will the world sleep when two unhappy wretches die for want of a little
-bit of hemp?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You are not to blame,” said I, “one rope was little use to us in any
-case. But anyhow I do not desire to die of a little bit of hemp if I can
-arrange it better.” And I began hurriedly to scour up and down the
-palisade like a trapped mouse. It extended for about a hundred yards,
-ending at one side against the walls of a gate-house or lodge; on the
-other side it concluded at the wall of the chapel. It had no break in all
-its expanse, and so there was nothing left for us to do but to go back the
-way we had come, obliterate the signs of our attempt and find our cells
-again. We went, be sure, with heavy hearts, again ventured into the
-chapel, climbed the stairs, went through the ceiling, and stopped a little
-among the rafters to rest his reverence who was finding these manoeuvres
-too much for his weighty body. While he sat regaining sufficient strength
-to resume his crawling on rimey tiles I made a search of the loft we were
-in and found it extended to the gable end of the chapel, but nothing more
-for my trouble beyond part of a hanging chain that came through the roof
-and passed through the ceiling. I had almost missed it in the darkness,
-and even when I touched it my first thought was to leave it alone. But I
-took a second thought and tried the lower end, which came up as I hauled,
-yard upon yard, until I had the end of it, finished with a bell-ringer's
-hempen grip, in my hands. Here was a discovery if bell-pulls had been made
-of rope throughout in Bicêtre prison! But a chain with an end to a bell
-was not a thing to be easily borrowed.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went back to where Father Hamilton was seated on the rafters, and told
-him my discovery.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A bell,” said he. “Faith! I never liked them. Pestilent inventions of the
-enemy, that suggested duties to be done and the fleeting hours. But a
-bell-rope implies a belfry on the roof and a bell in it, and the chain
-that may reach the ground within the building may reach the same desirable
-place without the same.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That's very true,” said I, struck with the thing. And straight got
-through the trap and out upon the roof again. Father Hamilton puffed after
-me and in a little we came upon a structure like a dovecot at the very
-gable-end. “The right time to harry a nest is at night,” said I, “for then
-you get all that's in it.” And I started to pull up the chain that was
-fastened to the bell.
-</p>
-<p>
-I lowered behemoth with infinite exertion till he reached the ground
-outside the prison grounds in safety, wrapped the clapper of the bell in
-my waistcoat, and descended hand over hand after him.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were on the side of a broad road that dipped down the hill into a
-little village. Between us and the village street, across which hung a
-swinging lamp, there mounted slowly a carriage with a pair of horses.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bernard!” I cried, running up to it, and found it was the Swiss in the
-very article of waiting for us, and he speedily drove us into Paris.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXVII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WE ENTER PARIS AND FIND A SANCTUARY THERE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>f the town of Paris that is so lamentably notable in these days I have
-but the recollection that one takes away from a new scene witnessed under
-stress of mind due to matters more immediately affecting him than the
-colour, shape, and properties of things seen, and the thought I had in
-certain parts of it is more clear to me to-day than the vision of the
-place itself. It is, in my mind, like a fog that the bridges thundered as
-our coach drove over them with our wretched fortunes on that early morning
-of our escape from Bicêtre, but as clear as when it sprung to me from the
-uproar of the wheels comes back the dread that the whole of this community
-would be at their windows looking out to see what folks untimeously
-disturbed their rest. We were delayed briefly at a gate upon the walls; I
-can scarcely mind what manner of men they were that stopped us and thrust
-a lantern in our faces, and what they asked eludes me altogether, but I
-mind distinctly how I gasped relief when we were permitted to roll on.
-Blurred, too—no better than the surplusage of dreams, is my first
-picture of the river and its isles in the dawn, but, like a favourite
-song, I mind the gluck of waters on the quays and that they made me think
-of Earn and Cart and Clyde.
-</p>
-<p>
-We stopped in the place of the Notre Dame at the corner of a street; the
-coach drove off to a <i>remise</i> whence it had come, and we went to an
-hospital called the Hôtel Dieu, in the neighbourhood, where Hamilton had a
-Jesuit friend in one of the heads, and where we were accommodated in a
-room that was generally set aside for clergymen. It was a place of the
-most wonderful surroundings, this Hôtel Dieu, choked, as it were, among
-towers, the greatest of them those of Our Lady itself that were in the
-Gothic taste, regarding which Father Hamilton used to say, “<i>Dire
-gothique, c'est dire mauvais gout</i>,” though, to tell the truth, I
-thought the building pretty braw myself. Alleys and wynds were round about
-us, and so narrow that the sky one saw between them was but a ribbon by
-day, while at night they seemed no better than ravines.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Twas at night I saw most of the city, for only in the darkness did I dare
-to venture out of the Hôtel Dieu. Daundering my lone along the cobbles, I
-took a pleasure in the exercise of tenanting these towering lands with
-people having histories little different from the histories of the folks
-far off in my Scottish home—their daughters marrying, their sons
-going throughither (as we say), their bairns wakening and crying in their
-naked beds, and grannies sitting by the ingle-neuk cheerfully cracking
-upon ancient days. Many a time in the by-going I looked up their pend
-closes seeking the eternal lovers of our own burgh towns and never finding
-them, for I take it that in love the foreign character is coyer than our
-own. But no matter how eagerly I went forth upon my nightly airing in a <i>roquelaure</i>
-borrowed from Father Hamilton's friend, the adventure always ended, for
-me, in a sort of eerie terror of those close-hemming walls, those tangled
-lanes where slouched the outcast and the ne'er-do-weel, and not even the
-glitter of the moon upon the river between its laden isles would comfort
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! la! la!” would Father Hamilton cry at me when I got home with a face
-like a fiddle. “Art the most ridiculous rustic ever ate a cabbage or set
-foot in Arcady. Why, man! the woman must be wooed—this Mademoiselle
-Lutetia. Must take her front and rear, walk round her, ogling bravely.
-Call her dull! call her dreadful! <i>Ciel!</i> Has the child never an eye
-in his mutton head? I avow she is the queen of the earth this Paris. If I
-were young and wealthy I'd buy the glittering stars in constellations and
-turn them into necklets for her. With thy plaguey gift of the sonnet I'd
-deave her with ecstasies and spill oceans of ink upon leagues of paper to
-tell her about her eyes. Go to! Scotland, go to! Ghosts! ghosts! devil the
-thing else but ghosts in thy rustic skull, for to take a fear of Lutetia
-when her black hair is down of an evening and thou canst not get a glimpse
-of that beautiful neck that is rounded like the same in the Psyche of
-Praxiteles. Could I pare off a portion of this rotundity and go out in a
-masque as Apollo I'd show thee things.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And all he saw of Paris himself was from the windows of the hospital,
-where he and I would stand by the hour looking out into the square. For
-the air itself he had to take it in a little garden at the back,
-surrounded by a high wall, and affording a seclusion that even the priest
-could avail himself of without the hazard of discovery. He used to sit in
-an arbour there in the warmth of the day, and it was there I saw another
-trait of his character that helped me much to forget his shortcomings.
-</p>
-<p>
-Over his head, within the doorway of the bower, he hung a box and placed
-therein the beginnings of a bird's nest. The thing was not many hours done
-when a pair of birds came boldly into his presence as he sat silent and
-motionless in the bower, and began to avail themselves of so excellent a
-start in householding. In a few days there were eggs in the nest, and
-'twas the most marvellous of spectacles to witness the hen sit content
-upon them over the head of the fat man underneath, and the cock, without
-concern, fly in and out attentive on his mate.
-</p>
-<p>
-But, indeed, the man was the friend of all helpless things, and few of the
-same came his way without an instinct that told them it was so. Not the
-birds in the nest alone were at ease in his society; he had but to walk
-along the garden paths whistling and chirping, and there came flights of
-birds about his head and shoulders, and some would even perch upon his
-hand. I have never seen him more like his office than when he talked with
-the creatures of the air, unless it was on another occasion when two
-bairns, the offspring of an inmate in the hospital, ventured into the
-garden, finding there another child, though monstrous, who had not lost
-the key to the fields where blossom the flowers of infancy, and frolic is
-a prayer.
-</p>
-<p>
-But he dare not set a foot outside the walls of our retreat, for it was as
-useless to hide Ballageich under a Kilmarnock bonnet as to seek a disguise
-for his reverence in any suit of clothes. Bernard would come to us rarely
-under cover of night, but alas! there were no letters for me now, and mine
-that were sent through him were fewer than before. And there was once an
-odd thing happened that put an end to these intromissions; a thing that
-baffled me to understand at the time, and indeed for many a day
-thereafter, but was made plain to me later on in a manner that proved how
-contrary in his character was this mad priest, that was at once assassin
-and the noblest friend.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton was not without money, though all had been taken from him
-at Bicêtre. It was an evidence of the width and power of the Jesuit
-movement that even in the Hôtel Dieu he could command what sums he needed,
-and Bernard was habituated to come to him for moneys that might pay for
-himself and the coachman and the horses at the <i>remise</i>. On the last
-of these occasions I took the chance to slip a letter for Miss Walkinshaw
-into his hand. Instead of putting it in his pocket he laid it down a
-moment on a table, and he and I were busy packing linen for the wash when
-a curious cry from Father Hamilton made us turn to see him with the letter
-in his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was gazing with astonishment on the direction.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” said he, “and so my Achilles is not consoling himself exclusively
-with the Haemonian lyre, but has taken to that far more dangerous
-instrument the pen. The pen, my child, is the curse of youth. When we are
-young we use it for our undoing, and for the facture of regrets for after
-years—even if it be no more than the reading of our wives' letters
-that I'm told are a bitter revelation to the married man. And so—and
-so, Monsieur Croque-mort keeps up a correspondence with the lady. H'm!” He
-looked so curiously and inquiringly at me that I felt compelled to make an
-explanation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is quite true, Father Hamilton,” said I. “After all, you gave me so
-little clerkly work that I was bound to employ my pen somehow, and how
-better than with my countrywoman?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis none of my affair—perhaps,” he said, laying down the letter.
-“And yet I have a curiosity. Have we here the essential Mercury?” and he
-indicated Bernard who seemed to me to have a greater confusion than the discovery
-gave a cause for.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bernard has been good enough,” said I. “You discover two Scots, Father
-Hamilton, in a somewhat sentimental situation. The lady did me the honour
-to be interested in my little travels, and I did my best to keep her
-informed.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He turned away as he had been shot, hiding his face, but I saw from his
-neck that he had grown as white as parchment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What in the world have I done?” thinks I, and concluded that he was angry
-for my taking the liberty to use the dismissed servant as a go-between. In
-a moment or two he turned about again, eying me closely, and at last he
-put his hand upon my shoulder as a schoolmaster might do upon a boy's.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My good Paul,” said he, “how old are you?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Twenty-one come Martinmas,” I said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Expiscate! elucidate! 'Come Martinmas,'” says he, “and what does that
-mean? But no matter—twenty-one says my barbarian; sure 'tis a right
-young age, a very baby of an age, an age in frocks if one that has it has
-lived the best of his life with sheep and bullocks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sir,” I said, indignant, “I was in very honest company among the same
-sheep and bullocks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Hush!” said he, and put up his hand, eying me with compassion and
-kindness. “If thou only knew it, lad, thou art due me a civil attention at
-the very least. Sure there is no harm in my mentioning that thou art
-mighty ingenuous for thy years. 'Tis the quality I would be the last to
-find fault with, but sometimes it has its inconveniences. And Bernard”—he
-turned to the Swiss who was still greatly disturbed—“Bernard is a
-somewhat older gentleman. Perhaps he will say—our good Bernard—if
-he was the person I have to thank for taking the sting out of the wasp,
-for extracting the bullet from my pistol? Ah! I see he is the veritable
-person. Adorable Bernard, let that stand to his credit!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then Bernard fell trembling like a saugh tree, and protested he did but
-what he was told.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And a good thing, too,” said the priest, still very pale but with no
-displeasure. “And a good thing too, else poor Buhot, that I have seen an
-infinity of headachy dawns with, had been beyond any interest in cards or
-prisoners. For that I shall forgive you the rest that I can guess at. Take
-Monsieur Grog's letter where you have taken the rest, and be gone.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Swiss went out much crestfallen from an interview that was beyond my
-comprehension.
-</p>
-<p>
-When he was gone Father Hamilton fell into a profound meditation, walking
-up and down his room muttering to himself.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Faith, I never had such a problem presented to me before,” said he,
-stopping his walk; “I know not whether to laugh or swear. I feel that I
-have been made a fool of, and yet nothing better could have happened. And
-so my Croque-mort, my good Monsieur Propriety, has been writing the lady?
-I should not wonder if he thought she loved him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nothing so bold,” I cried. “You might without impropriety have seen every
-one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A seaman's log!” said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin;
-“nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! And
-I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear was
-what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she not
-caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made
-the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she
-should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest laughed consumedly at this.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Interest in her countryman!” said he. “Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me
-for thy unexpected spots of innocence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And as to that,” I said, “you must have had a sort of correspondence with
-her yourself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I!” said he. “<i>Comment!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“To be quite frank with you,” said I, “it has been the cause of some
-vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was
-directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, it
-was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate in the
-Rue des Reservoirs.” Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any time the
-terrible affair was mentioned.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is true, Paul, quite true,” said he, “but the letter was a forgery.
-I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have
-troubled me for a while back.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said he, “and your perplexities and mine are not over even now, poor
-Paul. This Bernard is like to be the ruin of me yet. For you, however, I
-have no fear, but it is another matter with the poor old fool from
-Dixmunde.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His voice broke, he displayed thus and otherwise so troubled a mind and so
-great a reluctance to let me know the cause of it that I thought it well
-to leave him for a while and let him recover his old manner.
-</p>
-<p>
-To that end I put on my coat and hat and went out rather earlier than
-usual for my evening walk.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXVIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE MAN WITH THE TARTAN WAISTCOAT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the first of May. But for Father Hamilton's birds, and some scanty
-signs of it in the small garden, the lengthened day and the kindlier air
-of the evenings, I might never have known what season it was out of the
-almanac, for all seasons were much the same, no doubt, in the Isle of the
-City where the priest and I sequestered. 'Twas ever the shade of the
-tenements there; the towers of the churches never greened nor budded; I
-would have waited long, in truth, for the scent of the lilac and the
-chatter of the rook among these melancholy temples.
-</p>
-<p>
-Till that night I had never ventured farther from the gloomy vicinity of
-the hospital than I thought I could safely retrace without the necessity
-of asking any one the way; but this night, more courageous, or perhaps
-more careless than usual, I crossed the bridge of Notre Dame and found
-myself in something like the Paris of the priest's rhapsodies and the same
-all thrilling with the passion of the summer. It was not flower nor tree,
-though these were not wanting, but the spirit in the air—young girls
-laughing in the by-going with merriest eyes, windows wide open letting out
-the sounds of songs, the pavements like a river with zesty life of
-Highland hills when the frosts above are broken and the overhanging boughs
-have been flattering it all the way in the valleys.
-</p>
-<p>
-I was fair infected. My step, that had been unco' dull and heavy, I fear,
-and going to the time of dirges on the Isle, went to a different tune; my
-being rhymed and sang. I had got the length of the Rue de Richelieu and
-humming to myself in the friendliest key, with the good-natured people
-pressing about me, when of a sudden it began to rain. There was no close
-in the neighbourhood where I could shelter from the elements, but in front
-of me was the door of a tavern called the Tête du Duc de Burgoyne shining
-with invitation, and in I went.
-</p>
-<p>
-A fat wife sat at a counter; a pot-boy, with a cry of “V'ià!” that was
-like a sheep's complaining, served two ancient citizens in skull-caps that
-played the game of dominoes, and he came to me with my humble order of a
-litre of ordinary and a piece of bread for the good of the house.
-</p>
-<p>
-Outside the rain pelted, and the folks upon the pavement ran, and
-by-and-by the tavern-room filled up with shelterers like myself and kept
-the pot-boy busy. Among the last to enter was a group of five that took a
-seat at another corner of the room than that where I sat my lone at a
-little table. At first I scarcely noticed them until I heard a word of
-Scots. I think the man that used it spoke of “gully-knives,” but at least
-the phrase was the broadest lallands, and went about my heart.
-</p>
-<p>
-I put down my piece of bread and looked across the room in wonder to see
-that three of the men were gazing intently at myself. The fourth was hid
-by those in front of him; the fifth that had spoken had a tartan waistcoat
-and eyes that were like a gled's, though they were not on me. In spite of
-that, 'twas plain that of me he spoke, and that I was the object of some
-speculation among them.
-</p>
-<p>
-No one that has not been lonely in a foreign town, and hungered for
-communion with those that know his native tongue, can guess how much I
-longed for speech with this compatriot that in dress and eye and accent
-brought back the place of my nativity in one wild surge of memory. Every
-bawbee in my pocket would not have been too much to pay for such a
-privilege, but it might not be unless the overtures came from the persons
-in the corner.
-</p>
-<p>
-Very deliberately, though all in a commotion within, I ate my piece and
-drank my wine before the stare of the three men, and at last, on the
-whisper of one of them, another produced a box of dice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, no!” said the man with the tartan waistcoat hurriedly, with a glance
-from the tail of his eye at me, but they persisted in their purpose and
-began to throw. My countryman in tartan got the last chance, of which he
-seemed reluctant to avail himself till the one unseen said: “<i>Vous avez
-le de''</i>, Kilbride.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Kilbride! the name was the call of whaups at home upon the moors!
-</p>
-<p>
-He laughed, shook, and tossed carelessly, and then the laugh was all with
-them, for whatever they had played for he had seemingly lost and the dice
-were now put by.
-</p>
-<p>
-He rose somewhat confused, looked dubiously across at me with a reddening
-face, and then came over with his hat in his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon, Monsieur,” he began; then checked the French, and said: “Have I a
-countryman here?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is like enough,” said I, with a bow and looking at his tartan. “I am
-from Scotland myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He smiled at that with a look of some relief and took a vacant chair on
-the other side of my small table.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have come better speed with my impudence,” said he in the Hielan'
-accent, “than I expected or deserved. My name's Kilbride—MacKellar
-of Kilbride—and I am here with another Highland gentleman of the
-name of Grant and two or three French friends we picked up at the door of
-the play-house. Are you come off the Highlands, if I make take the
-liberty?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My name is lowland,” said I, “and I hail from the shire of Renfrew.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah,” said he, with a vanity that was laughable. “What a pity! I wish you
-had been Gaelic, but of course you cannot help it being otherwise, and
-indeed there are many estimable persons in the lowlands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And a great wheen of Highland gentlemen very glad to join them there
-too,” said I, resenting the implication.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course, of course,” said he heartily. “There is no occasion for
-offence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Confound the offence, Mr. MacKellar!” said I. “Do you not think I am just
-too glad at this minute to hear a Scottish tongue and see a tartan
-waistcoat? Heilan' or Lowlan', we are all the same” when our feet are off
-the heather.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not exactly,” he corrected, “but still and on we understand each other.
-You must be thinking it gey droll, sir, that a band of strangers in a
-common tavern would have the boldness to stare at you like my friends
-there, and toss a dice about you in front of your face, but that is the
-difference between us. If I had been in your place I would have thrown the
-jug across at them, but here I am not better nor the rest, because the
-dice fell to me, and I was one that must decide the wadger.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, and was I the object of a wadger?” said I, wondering what we were
-coming to.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and that you were,” said he shamefacedly, “and I'm affronted to
-tell it. But when Grant saw you first he swore you were a countryman, and
-there was some difference of opinion.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what, may I ask, did Kilbride side with?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh,” said he promptly, “I had never a doubt about that. I knew you were
-Scots, but what beat me was to say whether you were Hielan' or Lowlan'.”
- “And how, if it's a fair question, did you come to the conclusion that I
-was a countryman of any sort?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-He laughed softly, and “Man,” said he, “I could never make any mistake
-about that, whatever of it. There's many a bird that's like the woodcock,
-but the woodcock will aye be kennin' which is which, as the other man
-said. Thae bones were never built on bread and wine. It's a French coat
-you have there, and a cockit hat (by your leave), but to my view you were
-as plainly from Scotland as if you had a blue bonnet on your head and a
-sprig of heather in your lapels. And here am I giving you the strange
-cow's welcome (as the other man said), and that is all inquiry and no
-information. You must just be excusing our bit foolish wadger, and if the
-proposal would come favourably from myself, that is of a notable family,
-though at present under a sort of cloud, as the other fellow said, I would
-be proud to have you share in the bottle of wine that was dependent upon
-Grant's impudent wadger. I can pass my word for my friends there that they
-are all gentry like ourselves—of the very best, in troth, though not
-over-nice in putting this task on myself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I would have liked brawly to spend an hour out any company than my own,
-but the indulgence was manifestly one involving the danger of discovery;
-it was, as I told myself, the greatest folly to be sitting in a tavern at
-all, so MacKellar's manner immediately grew cold when he saw a swithering
-in my countenance.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course,” said he, reddening and rising, “of course, every gentleman
-has his own affairs, and I would be the last to make a song of it if you
-have any dubiety about my friends and me. I'll allow the thing looks very
-like a gambler's contrivance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, no, Mr. MacKellar,” said I hurriedly, unwilling to let us part like
-that, “I'm swithering here just because I'm like yoursel' of it and under
-a cloud of my own.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Dod! Is that so?” said he quite cheerfully again, and clapping down,
-“then I'm all the better pleased that the thing that made the roebuck swim
-the loch—and that's necessity—as the other man said, should
-have driven me over here to precognosce you. But when you say you are
-under a cloud, that is to make another way of it altogether, and I will
-not be asking you over, for there is a gentleman there among the five of
-us who might be making trouble of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Have you a brother in Glasgow College?” says I suddenly, putting a
-question that had been in my mind ever since he had mentioned his name.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I have that,” said he quickly, “but now he is following the
-law in Edinburgh, where I am in the hopes it will be paying him better
-than ever it paid me that has lost two fine old castles and the best part
-of a parish by the same. You'll not be sitting there and telling me surely
-that you know my young brother Alasdair?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Man! him and me lodged together in Lucky Grant's, in Crombie's Land in
-the High Street, for two Sessions,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” said MacKellar. “And you'll be the lad that snow-balled the bylie,
-and your name will be Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-As he said it he bent to look under the table, then drew up suddenly with
-a startled face and a whisper of a whistle on his lips.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My goodness!” said he, in a cautious tone, “and that beats all. You'll be
-the lad that broke jyle with the priest that shot at Buhot, and there you
-are, you <i>amadain</i>, like a gull with your red brogues on you, crying
-'come and catch me' in two languages. I'm telling you to keep thae feet of
-yours under this table till we're out of here, if it should be the morn's
-morning. No—that's too long, for by the morn's morning Buhot's men
-will be at the Hôtel Dieu, and the end of the story will be little talk
-and the sound of blows, as the other man said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Every now and then as he spoke he would look over his shoulder with a
-quick glance at his friends—a very anxious man, but no more anxious
-than Paul Greig.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mercy on us!” said I, “do you tell me you ken all that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I ken a lot more than that,” said he, “but that's the latest of my
-budget, and I'm giving it to you for the sake of the shoes and my brother
-Alasdair, that is a writer in Edinburgh. There's not two Scotchmen
-drinking a bowl in Paris town this night that does not ken your
-description, and it's kent by them at the other table there—where
-better?—but because you have that coat on you that was surely made
-for you when you were in better health, as the other man said, and because
-your long trams of legs and red shoes are under the table there's none of
-them suspects you. And now that I'm thinking of it, I would not go near
-the hospital place again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! but the priest's there,” said I, “and it would never do for me to be
-leaving him there without a warning.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A warning!” said MacKellar with contempt. “I'm astonished to hear you,
-Mr. Greig. The filthy brock that he is!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If you're one of the Prince's party,” said I, “and it has every look of
-it, or, indeed, whether you are or not, I'll allow you have some cause to
-blame Father Hamilton, but as for me, I'm bound to him because we have
-been in some troubles together.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What's all this about 'bound to him'?” said MacKellar with a kind of
-sneer. “The dog that's tethered with a black pudding needs no pity, as the
-other man said, and I would leave this fellow to shift for himself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Thank you,” said I, “but I'll not be doing that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, well,” said he, “it's your business, and let me tell you that
-you're nothing but a fool to be tangled up with the creature. That's
-Kilbride's advice to you. Let me tell you this more of it, that they're
-not troubling themselves much about you at all now that you have given
-them the information.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Information!” I said with a start. “What do you mean by that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He prepared to join his friends, with a smile of some slyness, and gave me
-no satisfaction on the point.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You'll maybe ken best yourself,” said he, “and I'm thinking your name
-will have to be Robertson and yourself a decent Englishman for my friends
-on the other side of the room there. Between here and yonder I'll have to
-be making up a bonny lie or two that will put them off the scent of you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A bonny lie or two seemed to serve the purpose, for their interest in me
-appeared to go no further, and by-and-by, when it was obvious that there
-would be no remission of the rain, they rose to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-The last that went out of the door turned on the threshold and looked at
-me with a smile of recognition and amusement.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was Buhot!
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXIX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN THE PRIEST LEAVES ME, AND I MAKE AN INLAND VOYAGE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hat this marvel betokened was altogether beyond my comprehension, but the
-five men were no sooner gone than I clapped on my hat and drew up the
-collar of my coat and ran like fury through the plashing streets for the
-place that was our temporary home. It must have been an intuition of the
-raised that guided me; my way was made without reflection on it, at pure
-hazard, and yet I landed through a multitude of winding and bewildering
-streets upon the Isle of the City and in front of the Hôtel Dieu in a much
-shorter time than it had taken me to get from there to the Duke of
-Burgundy's Head.
-</p>
-<p>
-I banged past the doorkeeper, jumped upstairs to the clergyman's quarters,
-threw open the door and—found Father Hamilton was gone!
-</p>
-<p>
-About the matter there could be no manner of dubiety, for he had left a
-letter directed to myself upon the drawers-head.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My Good Paul (said the epistle, that I have kept till now as a memorial
-of my adventure): When you return you will discover from this that I have
-taken leave <i>a l'anglaise</i>, and I fancy I can see my secretary
-looking like the arms of Bourges (though that is an unkind imputation).
-'Tis fated, seemingly, that there shall be no rest for the sole of the
-foot of poor Father Hamilton. I had no sooner got to like a loose collar,
-and an unbuttoned vest, and the seclusion of a cell, than I must be
-plucked out; and now when my birds—the darlings!—are on the
-very point of hatching I must make adieux. <i>Oh! la belle équipée!</i> M.
-Buhot knows where I am—that's certain, so I must remove myself, and
-this time I do not propose to burden M. Paul Greig with my company, for it
-will be a miracle if they fail to find me. As for my dear Croque-mort, he
-can have the glass coach and Jacques and Bernard, and doubtless the best
-he can do with them is to take all to Dunkerque and leave them there. I
-myself, I go <i>sans trompette</i>, and no inquiries will discover to him
-where I go.”
- </p>
-<p>
-As a postscript he added, “And 'twas only a sailor's log, dear lad! My
-poor young Paul!” When I read the letter I was puzzled tremendously, and
-at first I felt inclined to blame the priest for a scurvy flitting to rid
-himself of my society, but a little deliberation convinced me that no such
-ignoble consideration was at the bottom of his flight. If I read his
-epistle aright the step he took was in my own interest, though how it
-could be so there was no surmising. In any case he was gone; his friend in
-the hospital told me he had set out behind myself, and taken a candle with
-him and given a farewell visit to his birds, and almost cried about them
-and about myself, and then departed for good to conceal himself, in some
-other part of the city, probably, but exactly where his friend had no way
-of guessing. And it was a further evidence of the priest's good feeling to
-myself (if such were needed) that he had left a sum of a hundred livres
-for me towards the costs of my future movements.
-</p>
-<p>
-I left the Hôtel Dieu at midnight to wander very melancholy about the
-streets for a time, and finally came out upon the river's bank, where some
-small vessels hung at a wooden quay. I saw them in moonlight (for now the
-rain was gone), and there rose in me such a feeling as I had often
-experienced as a lad in another parish than the Mearns, to see the road
-that led from strangeness past my mother's door. The river seemed a
-pathway out of mystery and discontent to the open sea, and the open sea
-was the same that beat about the shores of Britain, and my thought took
-flight there and then to Britain, but stopped for a space, like a wearied
-bird, upon the town Dunkerque. There is one who reads this who will judge
-kindly, and pardon when I say that I felt a sort of tenderness for the
-lady there, who was not only my one friend in France, so far as I could
-guess, but, next to my mother, the only woman who knew my shame and still
-retained regard for me. And thinking about Scotland and about Dunkerque,
-and seeing that watery highway to them both, I was seized with a great
-repugnance for the city I stood in, and felt that I must take my feet from
-there at once. Father Hamilton was lost to me: that was certain. I could
-no more have found him in this tanglement of streets and strange faces
-than I could have found a needle in a haystack, and I felt disinclined to
-make the trial. Nor was I prepared to avail myself of his offer of the
-coach and horses, for to go travelling again in them would be to court
-Bicêtre anew.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a group of busses or barges at the quay, as I have said, all
-huddled together as it were animals seeking warmth, with their bows
-nuzzling each other, and on one of them there were preparations being made
-for her departure. A cargo of empty casks was piled up in her, lights were
-being hung up at her bow and stern, and one of her crew was ashore in the
-very act of casting off her ropes. At a flash it occurred to me that I had
-here the safest and the speediest means of flight.
-</p>
-<p>
-I ran at once to the edge of the quay and clumsily propounded a question
-as to where the barge was bound for.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Rouen or thereabouts,” said the master.
-</p>
-<p>
-I asked if I could have a passage, and chinked my money in my pocket.
-</p>
-<p>
-My French might have been but middling, but Lewis d'Or talks in a language
-all can understand.
-</p>
-<p>
-Ten minutes later we were in the fairway of the river running down through
-the city which, in that last look I was ever fated to have of it, seemed
-to brood on either hand of us like bordering hills, and at morning we were
-at a place by name Triel.
-</p>
-<p>
-Of all the rivers I have seen I must think the Seine the finest. It runs
-in loops like my native Forth, sometimes in great, wide stretches that
-have the semblance of moorland lochs. In that fine weather, with a sun
-that was most genial, the country round about us basked and smiled. We
-moved upon the fairest waters, by magic gardens, and the borders of
-enchanted little towns. Now it would be a meadow sloping backward from the
-bank, where reeds were nodding, to the horizon; now an orchard standing
-upon grass that was the rarest green, then a village with rusty roofs and
-spires and the continual chime of bells, with women washing upon stones or
-men silent upon wherries fishing. Every link of the river opened up a
-fresher wonder; if not some poplared isle that had the invitation to a
-childish escapade, 'twould be another town, or the garden of a château,
-maybe, with ladies walking stately on the lawns, perhaps alone, perhaps
-with cavaliers about them as if they moved in some odd woodland minuet. I
-can mind of songs that came from open windows, sung in women's voices; of
-girls that stood drawing water and smiled on us as we passed, at home in
-our craft of fortune, and still the lucky roamers seeing the world so
-pleasantly without the trouble of moving a step from our galley fire.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sometimes in the middle of the days we would stop at a red-faced, ancient
-inn, with bowers whose tables almost had their feet dipped in the river,
-and there would eat a meal and linger on a pot of wine while our barge
-fell asleep at her tether and dreamt of the open sea. About us in these
-inns came the kind country-people and talked of trivial things for the
-mere sake of talking, because the weather was sweet and God so gracious;
-homely sounds would waft from the byres and from the barns—the laugh
-of bairns, the whistle of boys, the low of cattle.
-</p>
-<p>
-At night we moored wherever we might be, and once I mind of a place called
-Andelys, selvedged with chalky cliffs and lorded over by a castle called
-Gaillard, that had in every aspect of it something of the clash of weapons
-and of trumpet-cry. The sky shone blue through its gaping gables and its
-crumbling windows like so many eyes; the birds that wheeled all round it
-seemed to taunt it for its inability. The old wars over, the deep fosse
-silent, the strong men gone—and there at its foot the thriving town
-so loud with sounds of peaceful trade! Whoever has been young, and has the
-eye for what is beautiful and great and stately, must have felt in such a
-scene that craving for companionship that tickles like a laugh within the
-heart—that longing for some one to feel with him, and understand,
-and look upon with silence. In my case 'twas two women I would have there
-with me just to look upon this Gaillard and the town below it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Then the bending, gliding river again, the willow and the aspen edges, the
-hazy orchards and the emerald swards; hamlets, towns, farm-steadings,
-châteaux, kirks, and mills; the flying mallard, the leaping perch, the
-silver dawns, the starry nights, the ripple of the water in my dreams, and
-at last the city of Rouen. My ship of fortune went no further on.
-</p>
-<p>
-I slept a night in an inn upon the quay, and early the next morning,
-having bought a pair of boots to save my red shoes, I took the road over a
-hill that left Rouen and all its steeples, reeking at the bottom of a
-bowl. I walked all day, through woods and meadows and trim small towns and
-orchards, and late in the gloaming came upon the port of Havre de Grace.
-</p>
-<p>
-The sea was sounding there, and the smell of it was like a salutation. I
-went out at night from my inn, and fairly joyed in its propinquity, and
-was so keen on it that I was at the quay before it was well daylight. The
-harbour was full of vessels. It was not long ere I got word of one that
-was in trim for Dunkerque, to which I took a passage, and by favour of
-congenial weather came upon the afternoon of the second day.
-</p>
-<p>
-Dunkerque was more busy with soldiers than ever, all the arms of France
-seemed to be collected there, and ships of war and flat-bottomed boats
-innumerable were in the harbour.
-</p>
-<p>
-At the first go-off I made for the lodgings I had parted from so
-unceremoniously on the morning of that noisy glass coach.
-</p>
-<p>
-The house, as I have said before, was over a baker's shop, and was reached
-by a common outer stair that rose from a court-yard behind. Though
-internally the domicile was well enough, indeed had a sort of
-old-fashioned gentility, and was kept by a woman whose man had been a
-colonel of dragoons, but now was a tippling pensioner upon the king, and
-his own wife's labours, it was, externally, somewhat mean, the place a
-solid merchant of our own country might inhabit, but scarce the place
-wherein to look for royal blood. What was my astonishment, then, when, as
-I climbed the stair, I came face to face with the Prince!
-</p>
-<p>
-I felt the stair swing off below me and half distrusted my senses, but I
-had the presence of mind to take my hat off.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Bon jour, Monsieur</i>, said he, with a slight hiccough, and I saw
-that he was flushed and meant to pass with an evasion. There and then a
-daft notion to explain myself and my relations with the priest who had
-planned his assassination came to me, and I stopped and spoke.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your Royal Highness—-” I began, and at that he grew purple.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Cest un drôle de corps!</i>” said he, and, always speaking in French,
-said he again:
-</p>
-<p>
-“You make an error, Monsieur; I have not the honour of Monsieur's
-acquaintance,” and looked at me with a bold eye and a disconcerting.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Greig,” I blurted, a perfect lout, and surely as blind as a mole that
-never saw his desire, “I had the honour to meet your Royal Highness at
-Versailles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My Royal Highness!” said he, this time in English. “I think Monsieur
-mistakes himself.” And then, when he saw how crestfallen I was, he smiled
-and hiccoughed again. “You are going to call on our good Clancarty,” said
-he. “In that case please tell him to translate to you the proverb, <i>Oui
-phis sait plus se tait</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There is no necessity, Monsieur,” I answered promptly. “Now that I look
-closer I see I was mistaken. The person I did you the honour to take you
-for was one in whose opinion (if he took the trouble to think of me at
-all) I should have liked to re-establish myself, that was all.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In spite of his dissipation there was something noble in his manner—a
-style of the shoulders and the hands, a poise of the head that I might
-practise for years and come no closer on than any nowt upon my father's
-fields. It was that which I remember best of our engagement on the stair,
-and that at the last of it he put out his hand to bid me good-day.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My name,” says he, “is Monsieur Albany so long as I am in Dunkerque. <i>À
-bon entendeur salut!</i> I hope we may meet again, Monsieur Greig.” He
-looked down at the black boots I had bought me in Rouen. “If I might take
-the liberty to suggest it,” said he, smiling, “I should abide by the
-others. I have never seen their wearer wanting wit, <i>esprit</i>, and
-prudence—which are qualities that at this moment I desire above all
-in those that count themselves my friends.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And with that he was gone. I watched him descend the remainder of the
-stair with much deliberation, and did not move a step myself until the tip
-of his scabbard had gone round the corner of the close.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-A GUID CONCEIT OF MYSELF LEADS ME FAR ASTRAY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>lancarty and Thurot were playing cards, so intent upon that recreation
-that I was in the middle of the floor before they realised who it was the
-servant had ushered in.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec! Il n'y a pas de petit chez soi!</i>”
- cried Thurot, dropping his hand, and they jumped to their feet to greet
-me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll be hanged if you want assurance, child,” said Clancarty, surveying
-me from head to foot as if I were some curiosity. “Here's your exploits
-ringing about the world, and not wholly to your credit, and you must walk
-into the very place where they will find the smallest admiration.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not meaning the lodging of Captain Thurot,” said I. “Whatever my
-reputation may be with the world, I make bold to think he and you will
-believe me better than I may seem at the first glance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The first glance!” cried his lordship. “Gad, the first glance suggests
-that Bicêtre agreed with our Scotsman. Sure, they must have fed you on
-oatmeal. I'd give a hatful of louis d'or to see Father Hamilton, for if he
-throve so marvellously in the flesh as his secretary he must look like the
-side of St. Eloi. One obviously grows fat on regicide—fatter than a
-few poor devils I know do upon devotion to princes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot's face assured me that I was as welcome there as ever I had been.
-He chid Clancarty for his badinage, and told me he was certain all along
-that the first place I should make for after my flight from Bicêtre (of
-which all the world knew) would be Dunkerque. “And a good thing too, M.
-Greig,” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not so good,” says I, “but what I must meet on your stair the very man-”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stop!” he cried, and put his finger on his lip. “In these parts we know
-only a certain M. Albany, who is, my faith! a good friend of your own if
-you only knew it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I scarcely see how that can be,” said I. “If any man has a cause to
-dislike me it is his Roy—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“M. Albany,” corrected Thurot.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is M. Albany, for whom, it seems, I was the decoy in a business that
-makes me sick to think on. I would expect no more than that he had gone
-out there to send the officers upon my heels, and for me to be sitting
-here may be simple suicide.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Clancarty laughed. “Tis the way of youth,” said he, “to attach far too
-much importance to itself. Take our word for it, M. Greig, all France is
-not scurrying round looking for the nephew of Andrew Greig. Faith, and I
-wonder at you, my dear Thurot, that has an Occasion here—a veritable
-Occasion—and never so much as says bottle. Stap me if I have a
-friend come to me from a dungeon without wishing him joy in a glass of
-burgundy!”
- </p>
-<p>
-The burgundy was forthcoming, and his lordship made the most of it, while
-Captain Thurot was at pains to assure me that my position was by no means
-so bad as I considered it. In truth, he said, the police had their own
-reasons for congratulating themselves on my going out of their way. They
-knew very well, as M. Albany did, that I had been the catspaw of the
-priest, who was himself no better than that same, and for that reason as
-likely to escape further molestation as I was myself.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot spoke with authority, and hinted that he had the word of M. Albany
-himself for what he said. I scarcely knew which pleased me best—that
-I should be free myself or that the priest should have a certain security
-in his concealment.
-</p>
-<p>
-I told them of Buhot, and how oddly he had shown his complacence to his
-escaped prisoner in the tavern of the Duke of Burgundy's Head. At that
-they laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Buhot!” cried his lordship. “My faith! Ned must have been tickled to see
-his escaped prisoner in such a cosy <i>cachette</i> as the Duke's Head,
-where he and I, and Andy Greig—ay! and this same priest—tossed
-many a glass, <i>Ciel!</i> the affair runs like a play. All it wants to
-make this the most delightful of farces is that you should have Father
-Hamilton outside the door to come in at a whistle. Art sure the fat old
-man is not in your waistcoat pocket? Anyhow, here's his good health....”
- </p>
-<h3>
-=== MISSING PAGES (274-288) ===
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXI.
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE BARD OF LOVE WHO WROTE WITH OLD MATERIALS
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXII.
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THE DUEL IN THE AUBERGE GARDEN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hoever it was that moved at the instigation of Madame on my behalf, he
-put speed into the business, for the very next day I was told my
-sous-lieutenancy was waiting at the headquarters of the regiment. A
-severance that seemed almost impossible to me before I learned from the
-lady's own lips that her heart was elsewhere engaged was now a thing to
-long for eagerly, and I felt that the sooner I was out of Dunkerque and
-employed about something more important than the tying of my hair and the
-teasing of my heart with thinking, the better for myself. Teasing my
-heart, I say, because Miss Walkinshaw had her own reasons for refusing to
-see me any more, and do what I might I could never manage to come face to
-face with her. Perhaps on the whole it was as well, for what in the world
-I was to say to the lady, supposing I were privileged, it beats me now to
-fancy. Anyhow, the opportunity never came my way, though, for the few days
-that elapsed before I departed from Dunkerque, I spent hours in the Rue de
-la Boucherie sipping sirops on the terrace of the Café Coignet opposite
-her lodging, or at night on the old game of humming ancient love-songs to
-her high and distant window. All I got for my pains were brief and
-tantalising glimpses of her shadow on the curtains; an attenuate kind of
-bliss it must be owned, and yet counted by Master Red-Shoes (who suffered
-from nostalgia, not from love, if he had had the sense to know it) a very
-delirium of delight.
-</p>
-<p>
-One night there was an odd thing came to pass. But, first of all, I must
-tell that more than once of an evening, as I would be in the street and
-staring across at Miss Walkinshaw's windows, I saw his Royal Highness in
-the neighbourhood. His cloak might be voluminous, his hat dragged down
-upon the very nose of him, but still the step was unmistakable. If there
-had been the smallest doubt of it, there came one evening when he passed
-me so close in the light of an oil lamp that I saw the very blotches on
-his countenance. What was more, he saw and recognised me, though he passed
-without any other sign than the flash of an eye and a halfstep of
-hesitation.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/304.jpg" alt="304" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-“H'm,” thinks I, “here's Monsieur Albany looking as if he might, like
-myself, be trying to content himself with the mere shadows of things.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He saw me more than once, and at last there came a night when a fellow in
-drink came staving down the street on the side I was on and jostled me in
-the by-going without a word of apology.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Pardonnez, Monsieur!</i>” said I in irony, with my hat off to give him
-a hint at his manners.
-</p>
-<p>
-He lurched a second time against me and put up his hand to catch my chin,
-as if I were a wench, “<i>Mon Dieu! Monsieur Blanc-bec</i>, 'tis time you
-were home,” said he in French, and stuttered some ribaldry that made me
-smack his face with an open hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I saw his Royal Highness in the neighbourhood—”
- </p>
-<p>
-At once he sobered with suspicious suddenness if I had had the sense to
-reflect upon it, and gave me his name and direction as one George Bonnat,
-of the Marine. “Monsieur will do me the honour of a meeting behind the
-Auberge Cassard after <i>petit dejeuner</i> to-morrow,” said he, and named
-a friend. It was the first time I was ever challenged. It should have rung
-in the skull of me like an alarm, but I cannot recall at this date that my
-heart beat a stroke the faster, or that the invitation vexed me more than
-if it had been one to the share of a bottle of wine. “It seems a pretty
-ceremony about a cursed impertinence on the part of a man in liquor,” I
-said, “but I'm ready to meet you either before or after petit déjeuner, as
-it best suits you, and my name's Greig, by your leave.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Very well, Monsieur Greig,” said he; “except that you stupidly impede the
-pavement and talk French like a Spanish cow (<i>comme une vache espagnole</i>),
-you seem a gentleman of much accommodation. Eight o'clock then, behind the
-<i>auberge</i>,” and off went Sir Ruffler, singularly straight and
-business-like, with a profound <i>congé</i> for the unfortunate wretch he
-planned to thrust a spit through in the morning.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went home at once, to find Thurot and Clancarty at lansquenet. They were
-as elate at my story as if I had been asked to dine with Louis.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gad, 'tis an Occasion!” cried my lord, and helped himself, as usual, with
-a charming sentiment: “<i>A demain les affaires sérieuses</i>; to-night
-we'll pledge our friend!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot evinced a flattering certainty of my ability to break down M.
-Bonnat's guard in little or no time. “A crab, this Bonnat,” said he. “Why
-he should pick a quarrel with you I cannot conceive, for 'tis well known
-the man is M. Albany's creature. But, no matter, we shall tickle his ribs,
-M. Paul. <i>Ma foi!</i> here's better gaming than your pestilent cards.
-I'd have every man in the kingdom find an affair for himself once a month
-to keep his spleen in order.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“This one's like to put mine very much out of order with his iron,” I
-said, a little ruefully recalling my last affair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” cried Thurot, “after all my lessons! And this Bonnat a crab too!
-Fie! M. Paul. And what an he pricks a little? a man's the better for some
-iron in his system now and then. Come, come, pass down these foils, my
-lord, and I shall supple the arms of our Paul.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We had a little exercise, and then I went to bed. The two sat in my room,
-and smoked and talked till late in the night, while I pretended to be fast
-asleep. But so far from sleep was I, that I could hear their watches
-ticking in their fobs. Some savagery, some fearful want of soul in them,
-as evidenced by their conversation, horrified me. It was no great matter
-that I was to risk my life upon a drunkard's folly, but for the first time
-since I had come into the port of Dunkerque, and knew these men beside my
-bed, there intruded a fiery sense of alienation. It seemed a dream—a
-dreadful dream, that I should be lying in a foreign land, upon the eve,
-perhaps, of my own death or of another manslaughter, and in a
-correspondence with two such worldly men as those that sat there recalling
-combats innumerable with never a thought of the ultimate fearful
-retribution. Compared with this close room, where fumed the wine and weed,
-and men with never a tie domestic were paying away their lives in the
-small change of trivial pleasures, how noble and august seemed our old
-life upon the moors!
-</p>
-<p>
-When they were gone I fell asleep and slept without a break till Thurot's
-fingers drummed reveille on my door. I jumped into the sunshine of a
-lovely day that streamed into the room, soused my head in water and in a
-little stood upon the street with my companion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Bon matin</i>, Paul!” he cried cheerfully. “Faith, you sleep sur <i>les
-deux oreilles</i>, and we must be marching briskly to be at M. Bonnat's
-rendezvous at eight o'clock.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We went through the town and out upon its edge at the Calais road. The sky
-was blue like another sea; the sea itself was all unvexed by wave; a
-sweeter day for slaughtering would pass the wit of man to fancy. Thurot
-hummed an air as he walked along the street, but I was busy thinking of
-another morning in Scotland, when I got a bitter lesson I now seemed
-scandalously soon to have forgotten. By-and-by we came to the inn. It
-stood by itself upon the roadside, with a couple of workmen sitting on a
-bench in front dipping their morning crusts in a common jug of wine.
-Thurot entered and made some inquiry; came out radiant. “Monsieur is not
-going to disappoint us, as I feared,” said he; and led me quickly behind
-the <i>auberge</i>. We passed through the yard, where a servant-girl
-scoured pots and pans and sang the while as if the world were wholly
-pleasant in that sunshine; we crossed a tiny rivulet upon a rotten plank
-and found ourselves in an orchard. Great old trees stood silent in the
-finest foggy grass, their boughs all bursting out into blossom, and the
-air scent-thick-ened; everywhere the birds were busy; it seemed a world of
-piping song. I thought to myself there could be no more incongruous place
-nor season for our duelling, and it was with half a gladness I looked
-around the orchard, finding no one there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bah! our good Bonnat's gone!” cried Thurot, vastly chagrined and tugging
-at his watch. “That comes of being five minutes too late, and I cannot, by
-my faith, compliment the gentleman upon his eagerness to meet you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was mistaken but for a second; then I spied my fiery friend of the
-previous evening lying on his back beneath the oldest of the trees, his
-hat tilted over his eyes, as if he had meant to snatch a little sleep in
-spite of the dazzling sunshine. He rose to his feet on our approach, swept
-off his hat courteously, and hailed Thurot by name.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What, you, Antoine! I am ravished! For, look you, the devil's in all my
-friends that I can get none of them to move a step at this hour of the
-morning, and I have had to come to M. Greig without a second. Had I known
-his friend was Captain Thurot I should not have vexed myself. Doubtless M.
-Greig has no objection to my entrusting my interests as well as his own in
-the hands of M. le Capitaine?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I bowed my assent. Captain Thurot cast a somewhat cold and unsatisfied eye
-upon the ruffler, protesting the thing was unusual.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bonnat smiled and shrugged his shoulders, put off his coat with much
-deliberation, and took up his place upon the sward, where I soon followed
-him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Remember, it is no fool, this crab,” whispered Captain Thurot as he took
-my coat from me. “And 'tis two to one on him who prefers the parry to the
-attack.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I had been reading Molière's “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” the previous morning,
-and as I faced my assailant I had the fencing-master's words as well as
-Captain Thurot's running in my ears: “To give and not receive is the
-secret of the sword.” It may appear incredible, but it seemed physically a
-trivial affair I was engaged upon until I saw the man Bonnat's eye. He
-wore a smile, but his eye had the steely glint of murder! It was as
-unmistakable as if his tongue confessed it, and for a second I trembled at
-the possibilities of the situation. He looked an unhealthy dog; sallow
-exceedingly on the neck, which had the sinews so tight they might have
-twanged like wire, and on his cheeks, that he seemed to suck in with a
-gluttonous exultation such as a gross man shows in front of a fine meal.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said Thurot; and we nodded. “Then in guard!”
- said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-We saluted, fell into position and thrust simultaneously in tierce,
-parrying alike, then opened more seriously.
-</p>
-<p>
-In Thurot's teaching of me there was one lesson he most unweariedly
-insisted on, whose object was to keep my point in a straight line and
-parry in the smallest possible circles. I had every mind of it now, but
-the cursed thing was that this Bonnat knew it too. He fenced, like an
-Italian, wholly from the wrist, and, crouched upon his knees, husbanded
-every ounce of energy by the infrequency and the brevity of his thrusts.
-His lips drew back from his teeth, giving him a most villainous aspect,
-and he began to press in the lower lines.
-</p>
-<p>
-In a side-glance hazarded I saw the anxiety of Thurot's eye and realised
-his apprehension. I broke ground, and still, I think, was the bravo's
-match but for the alarm of Thurot's eye. It confused me so much that I
-parried widely and gave an opening for a thrust that caught me slightly on
-the arm, and dyed my shirt-sleeve crimson in a moment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Halt!” cried Thurot, and put up his arm.
-</p>
-<p>
-I lowered my weapon, thinking the bout over, and again saw murder in
-Bonnat's eye. He lunged furiously at my chest, missing by a miracle.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Scélérat!</i>” cried Thurot, and, in an uncontrollable fury at the
-action, threw himself upon Bonnat and disarmed him.
-</p>
-<p>
-They glared at each other for a minute, and Thurot finally cast the
-other's weapon over a hedge. “So much for M. Bonnat!” said he. “This is
-our valiant gentleman, is it? To stab like an assassin!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Oh, malédiction!</i>” said the other, little abashed, and shrugging
-his shoulders as he lifted his coat to put it on. “Talking of
-assassination, I but did the duty of the executioner in his absence, and
-proposed to kill the man who meditated the same upon the Prince.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Prince!” cried Thurot. “Why 'tis the Prince's friend, and saved his
-life!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know nothing about that,” said Bonnat; “but do you think I'd be out
-here at such a cursed early hour fencing if any other than M. Albany had
-sent me? <i>Pardieu!</i> the whole of you are in the farce, but I always
-counted you the Prince's friend, and here you must meddle when I do as I
-am told to do!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And you tell me, Jean Bonnat, that you take out my friend to murder him
-by M. Albany's command?” cried Thurot incredulous.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What the devil else?” replied the bravo. “'Tis true M. Albany only
-mentioned that M. des Souliers Rouges was an obstruction in the Rue de la
-Boucherie and asked me to clear him out of Dunkerque, but 'twere a tidier
-job to clear him altogether. And here is a great pother about an English
-hog!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was too busily stanching my wound, that was scarce so serious as it
-appeared, to join in this dispute, but the allusion to the Prince and the
-Rue de la Boucherie extremely puzzled me. I turned to Bonnat with a cry
-for an explanation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” I says, “does his Royal Highness claim any prerogative to the Rue
-de la Boucherie? I'm unconscious that I ever did either you or him the
-smallest harm, and if my service—innocent enough as it was—with
-the priest Hamilton was something to resent, his Highness has already
-condoned the offence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“For the sake of my old friend M. le Capitaine here I shall give you one
-word of advice,” said Bonnat, “and that is, to evacuate Dunkerque as
-sharply as you may. M. Albany may owe you some obligement, as I've heard
-him hint himself, but nevertheless your steps will be safer elsewhere than
-in the Rue de la Boucherie.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There is far too much of the Rue de la Boucherie about this,” I said,
-“and I hope no insult is intended to certain friends I have or had there.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At this they looked at one another. The bravo (for so I think I may at
-this time call him) whistled curiously and winked at the other, and, in
-spite of himself, Captain Thurot was bound to laugh.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?” said he.
-“That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. 'Tis, <i>ma foi!</i>
-to expect too much of M. Albany's complaisance. After that there is
-nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian
-work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine,” said Bonnat
-brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. “M. Blanc-bec there
-handles <i>arme blanche</i> rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the
-gallant commander of the <i>Roi Rouge</i>, but if he has a mother let me
-suggest the wisdom of his going back to her.” And with that and a <i>congé</i>
-he left us to enter the <i>auberge</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, ruminating
-upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better than I could,
-yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I pled with him
-vainly for an explanation of the Prince's objection to my person. “I
-thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the Hamilton affair,” I
-said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And so he had,” said Thurot. “I have his own assurances.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure
-me into a duel.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My dear boy,” said Thurot, “you owe him all—your escape from
-Bicêtre, which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of
-the lieutenancy in the Regiment d'Auvergne.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What! he has a hand in this?” I cried.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who else?” said he. “'Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled
-Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. It
-seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not uncommon
-with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one reason, and for
-the other he would cut your throat. M. Tête-de-fer is my eternal puzzle.
-And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, the same reason
-for favouring and hating you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what might that be?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who, rather?” said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la
-Boucherie. “Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under
-your very nose, 'tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the
-machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she were
-anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with Hamilton,
-and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and now—though
-she may not have attempted it—she has gained you the same person's
-enmity.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I stopped in the street and turned to him. “All this is confused enough to
-madden me,” I said, “and rather than be longer in the mist I shall brave
-her displeasure, compel an audience, and ask her for an explanation.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Please yourself,” said Thurot, and seeing I meant what I said he left me.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle's
-stairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!)
-responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the same
-had been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barren
-comfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiled at
-first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at the
-unresponse of mine.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is more truth
-in a menial eye than in most others, and this man's fashionable falsehood
-extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he was acting upon
-instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable for him, he saw
-that I saw.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhood till
-she returns,” I said, and leaned against the railing. This frightened him
-somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did not know when she might
-return.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It does not matter,” I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my courage
-much higher in the circumstances than I had expected. “If it's midnight
-she shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance upon
-which to consult her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon the
-door-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions had not
-gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how he was
-further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unable to get
-a glance of recognition from me, and resenting further the inconvenience
-to which I was subjecting him, he rose to an impertinence—the first
-(to do him justice) I had ever found in him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Will Monsieur,” said he, “tell me who I shall say called?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and “My good rogue,”
- said I, “if the circumstances were more favourable I should have the
-felicity of giving you an honest drubbing.” He got very red. “Come,
-Bernard,” I said, adopting another tone, “I think you owe me some
-consideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to give you
-all the information you required some time ago for your employers, tell me
-the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was saved an answer by the lady herself.
-</p>
-<p>
-“La! Mr. Greig!” she cried, coming to the door and putting forth a
-welcoming hand. “My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he should
-except my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors.” So
-much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, “My dear man
-of Mearns, you are as dour as—as dour as—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“As a donkey,” I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. “And I
-feel very much like that humble beast at this moment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I do not wonder at it,” said she, throwing herself in a chair. “To thrust
-yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am the ass—I have been the ass—it would appear, in other
-respects as well.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back her hair,
-that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caught her rather
-early in the morning; she had not even the preparation of a <i>petit lever</i>;
-and because of a certain chagrin at being discovered scarcely looking her
-best her first remarks were somewhat chilly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, at least you have persistency, I'll say that of it,” she went on,
-with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. “And for what am I
-indebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you for
-your offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d'Auvergne is
-settled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself, for it
-looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting my
-distinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month,
-and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper I
-should come in my own person to thank you for your good offices.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Do not mention it,” she said hurriedly. “I am only too glad that I could
-be of the smallest service to you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I cannot think,” I went on, “what I can have done to warrant your
-displeasure with me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Displeasure!” she replied. “Who said I was displeased?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing you
-for this past week.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig,” she said, trifling with her rings.
-“Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itself
-as a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig's ordinary intuitions.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to,” I said.
-“And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arises now, and
-how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No matter,” said she, and paused. “And so you are going to the frontier,
-and are come to say good-bye to me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Now that you remind me that is exactly my object,” I said, rising to go.
-She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, as if she
-felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet I noticed
-a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And so you go, Mr. Greig?” she said. “There's but the one thing I would
-like to say to my friend, and that's that I should like him not to think
-unkindly of one that values his good opinion—if she were worthy to
-have it. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and now
-that I'm to lose them I feel like to greet.” She was indeed inclined to
-tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of my
-annoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “You
-found me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it's a man
-that's leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than it would
-otherwise have been, and this last kindness—that forces me away from
-you—is one more I have to thank you for.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or the reverse,
-and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I owed all the little I could do to my countryman,” said she.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And I hope I have been useful,” I blurted out, determined to show her I
-was going with open eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. “I hope you will forgive
-that, Mr. Greig,” she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to my
-meaning.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There is nothing to forgive,” I said shortly. “I am proud that I was of
-service, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose house some
-more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint is that the
-person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the little share I
-had unconsciously in preserving his life.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am sure he is very grateful,” she cried hastily, and perplexed. “I may
-tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in the regiment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So I have been told,” I said, and she looked a little startled. “So I
-have been told. It may be that I'll be more grateful by-and-by, when I see
-what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitude greatly
-hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the—in the person's actings
-towards myself!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Inconsistency!” she repeated bitterly. “That need not surprise you! But I
-do not understand.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is simply that—perhaps to hasten me to my duties—his Royal
-Highness this morning sent a ruffian to fight me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have never seen a face so suddenly change as hers did when she heard
-this; for ordinary she had a look of considerable amiability, a soft, kind
-eye, a ready smile that had the hint (as I have elsewhere said) of
-melancholy, a voice that, especially in the Scots, was singularly
-attractive. A temper was the last thing I would have charged her with, yet
-now she fairly flamed, “What is this you are telling me, Paul Greig?” she
-cried, her eyes stormy, her bosom beginning to heave. “Oh, just that M.
-Albany (as he calls himself) has some grudge against me, for he sent a man—Bonnat—to
-pick a quarrel with me, and by Bonnat's own confession the duel that was
-to ensue was to be <i>à outrance</i>. But for the intervention of a
-friend, half an hour ago, there would have been a vacancy already in the
-Regiment d'Auvergne.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good heavens!” she cried. “You must be mistaken. What object in the wide
-world could his Royal Highness have in doing you any harm? You were an
-instrument in the preservation of his life.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I bowed extremely low, with a touch of the courts I had not when I landed
-first in Dunkerque.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have had the distinguished honour, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “And I
-should have thought that enough to counterbalance my unfortunate and
-ignorant engagement with his enemies.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But why, in Heaven's name, should he have a shred of resentment against
-you?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It seems,” I said, “that it has something to do with my boldness in using
-the Rue de la Boucherie for an occasional promenade.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She put her two hands up to her face for a moment, but I could see the
-wine-spill in between, and her very neck was in a flame.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, the shame! the shame!” she cried, and began to walk up and down the
-room like one demented. “Am I to suffer these insults for ever in spite of
-all that I may do to prove—to prove——”
- </p>
-<p>
-She pulled herself up short, put down her hands from a face exceedingly
-distressed, and looked closely at me. “What must you think of me, Mr.
-Greig?” she asked suddenly in quite a new key.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What do I think of myself to so disturb you?” I replied. “I do not know
-in what way I have vexed you, but to do so was not at all in my intention.
-I must tell you that I am not a politician, and that since I came here
-these affairs of the Prince and all the rest of it are quite beyond my
-understanding. If the cause of the white cockade brought you to France,
-Miss Walkinshaw, as seems apparent, I cannot think you are very happy in
-it nowadays, but that is no affair of mine.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She stared at me. “I hope,” said she, “you are not mocking me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Heaven forbid!” I said. “It would be the last thing I should presume to
-do, even if I had a reason. I owe you, after all, nothing but the deepest
-gratitude.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Beyond the parlour we stood in was a lesser room that was the lady's
-boudoir. We stood with our backs to it, and I know not how much of our
-conversation had been overheard when I suddenly turned at the sound of a
-man's voice, and saw his Royal Highness standing in the door!
-</p>
-<p>
-I could have rubbed my eyes out of sheer incredulity, for that he should
-be in that position was as if I had come upon a ghost. He stood with a
-face flushed and frowning, rubbing his eyes, and there was something in
-his manner that suggested he was not wholly sober.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll be cursed,” said he, “if I haven't been asleep. Deuce take
-Clancarty! He kept me at cards till dawn this morning, and I feel as if I
-had been all night on heather. <i>Pardieu</i>——!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He pulled himself up short and stared, seeing me for the first time. His
-face grew purple with annoyance. “A thousand pardons!” he cried with
-sarcasm, and making a deep bow. “I was not aware that I intruded on
-affairs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Miss Walkinshaw turned to him sharply.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There is no intrusion,” said she, “but honesty, in the person of my dear
-countryman, who has come to strange quarters with it. Your Royal Highness
-has now the opportunity of thanking this gentleman.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I' faith,” said he, “I seem to be kept pretty constantly in mind of the
-little I owe to this gentleman in spite of himself. Harkee, my good
-Monsieur, I got you a post; I thought you had been out of Dunkerque by
-now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The post waits, M. Albany,” said I, “and I am going to take it up
-forthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owe the
-post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should be
-addressed.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us owe her
-everything, and—egad!—are not grateful enough,” and with that
-he looked for the first time at her with his frown gone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, yes,” she cried; “we may put off the compliments till another
-occasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me that
-this gentleman, who has done so much for me—I speak for myself, your
-Royal Highness will observe—should be so poorly requited.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Requited!” cried he. “How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied.” His
-face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at his
-unshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child of
-kings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myself
-upon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergne
-office, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah!” cried he. “Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that does
-aught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none of
-your gratitude, Monsieur Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Tis just as well, M. Albany,” I cried, “for what there was of it is
-mortgaged.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Comment?</i>” he asked, uneasily.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that calls
-himself your servant,” I replied, always very careful to take his own word
-for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. “He informed
-me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing the same street
-with you, and had given him his instructions.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bonnat,” cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples. “I'll
-be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!—stay—let
-me think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner, but—but——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“After dinner! Then surely it should have been in a more favourable mood
-to myself, that has done M. Albany no harm,” I said. “I do not wonder that
-M. Albany has lost so many of his friends if he settles their destinies
-after dinner.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At first he frowned at this and then he laughed outright.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ma foi!</i>” he cried, “here's another Greig to call me gomeral to my
-face,” and he lounged to a chair where he sunk in inextinguishable
-laughter.
-</p>
-<p>
-But if I had brought laughter from him I had precipitated anger elsewhere.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here's a pretty way to speak to his Royal Highness,” cried Miss
-Walkinshaw, her face like thunder. “The manners of the Mearns shine very
-poorly here. You forget that you speak to one that is your prince, in
-faith your king!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Neither prince nor king of mine, Miss Walkinshaw,” I cried, and turned to
-go. “No, if a hundred thousand swords were at his back. I had once a
-notion of a prince that rode along the Gallowgate, but I was then a boy,
-and now I am a man—which you yourself have made me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-With that I bowed low and left them. They neither of them said a word. It
-was the last I was to see of Clementina Walkinshaw and the last of Charles
-Edward.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-OF MY WINTER CAMPAIGN IN PRUSSIA, AND ANOTHER MEETING WITH MACKELLAR OF
-KILBRIDE
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> have no intention here of narrating at large what happened in my short
-career as a soldier of the French Army, curious though some of the things
-that befell me chanced to be. They may stand for another occasion, while I
-hurriedly and briefly chronicle what led to my second meeting with
-MacKellar of Kilbride, and through that same to the restoration of the
-company of Father Hamilton, the sometime priest of Dixmunde.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Regiment d'Auvergne was far from its native hills when first I joined
-it, being indeed on the frontier of Austria. 'Twas a corps not long
-embodied, composed of a preposterous number of mere lads as soft as kail,
-yet driven to miracles of exertion by drafted veteran officers of other
-regiments who stiffened their command with the flat of the sword. As for
-my lieutenancy it was nothing to be proud of in such a battalion, for I
-herded in a mess of foul-mouthed scoundrels and learned little of the
-trade of soldiering that I was supposed to be taught in the interval
-between our departure from the frontier and our engagement on the field as
-allies with the Austrians. Of the Scots that had been in the regiment at
-one time there was only one left—a major named MacKay, that came
-somewhere out of the Reay country in the shire of Sutherland, and was
-reputed the drunkenest officer among the allies, yet comported himself, on
-the strength of his Hielan' extraction, towards myself, his Lowland
-countryman, with such a ludicrous haughtiness I could not bear the man—no,
-not from the first moment I set eyes on him!
-</p>
-<p>
-He was a pompous little person with legs bowed through years of riding
-horse, and naturally he was the first of my new comrades I introduced
-myself to when I joined the colours. I mind he sat upon a keg of bullets,
-looking like a vision of Bacchus, somewhat soiled and pimply, when I
-entered to him and addressed him, with a certain gladness, in our tongue.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Humph!” was what he said. “Another of his Royal Highness's Sassenach
-friends! Here's a wheen of the lousiest French privates ever shook in
-their breeks in front of a cannon, wanting smeddum and courage drummed
-into them with a scabbard, and they send me Sassenachs to do the business
-with when the whole hearty North of Scotland is crawling with the stuff I
-want particularly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Anyway, here I am, major,” said I, slightly taken aback at this, “and
-you'll have to make the best of me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Pshaw!” cried he vulgarly and cracked his thumb. “I have small stomach
-for his Royal Highness's recommendations; I have found in the past that he
-sends to Austria—him and his friends—only the stuff he has no
-use for nearer the English Channel, where it's I would like to be this
-day. They're talking of an invasion, I hear; wouldn't I like to be among
-the first to have a slap again at Geordie?”
- </p>
-<p>
-My birse rose at this, which I regarded as a rank treason in any man that
-spoke my own language even with a tartan accent.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A slap at Geordie!” I cried. “You made a bonny-like job o't when you had
-the chance!”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was my first and last confabulation of a private nature with Major
-Dugald MacKay. Thereafter he seldom looked the road I was on beyond to
-give an order or pick a fault, and, luckily, though a pleasant footing
-with my neighbours has ever been my one desire in life, I was not much put
-up or down by the ill-will of such a creature.
-</p>
-<p>
-Like a break in a dream, a space of all unfriended travelling, which is
-the worst travelling of all, appears my time of marching with the Regiment
-d'Auvergne. I was lost among aliens—aliens in tongue and sentiment,
-and engaged, to tell the truth, upon an enterprise that never enlisted the
-faintest of my sympathy. All I wished was to forget the past (and that, be
-sure, was the one impossible thing), and make a living of some sort. The
-latter could not well be more scanty, for my pay was a beggar's, and
-infrequent at that, and finally it wholly ceased.
-</p>
-<p>
-I saw the world, so much of it as lies in Prussia, and may be witnessed
-from the ranks of a marching regiment of the line; I saw life—the
-life of the tent and the bivouac, and the unforgettable thing of it was
-death—death in the stricken field among the grinding hoofs of
-horses, below the flying wheels of the artillery.
-</p>
-<p>
-And yet if I had had love there—some friend to talk to when the
-splendour of things filled me; the consciousness of a kind eye to share
-the pleasure of a sunshine or to light at a common memory; or if I had had
-hope, the prospect of brighter days and a restitution of my self-respect,
-they might have been much happier these marching days that I am now only
-too willing to forget. For we trod in many pleasant places even when
-weary, by summer fields jocund with flowers, and by autumn's laden
-orchards. Stars shone on our wearied columns as we rested in the meadows
-or on the verge of woods, half satisfied with a gangrel's supper and
-sometimes joining in a song. I used to feel then that here was a better
-society after all than some I had of late been habituated with upon the
-coast. And there were towns we passed through: 'twas sweet exceedingly to
-hear the echo of our own loud drums, the tarantara of trumpets. I liked to
-see the folks come out although they scarce were friendly, and feel that
-priceless zest that is the guerdon of the corps, the crowd, the mob—that
-I was something in a vastly moving thing even if it was no more than the
-regiment of raw lads called d'Auvergne.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were, for long in our progress, no part of the main army, some strategy
-of which we could not guess the reasoning, making it necessary that we
-should move alone through the country; and to the interest of our progress
-through these foreign scenes was added the ofttimes apprehension that we
-might some day suffer an alarm from the regiments of the great Frederick.
-Twice we were surprised by night and our pickets broken in, once a native
-guided us to a <i>guet-apens</i>—an ambuscade—where, to do him
-justice, the major fought like a lion, and by his spirit released his
-corps from the utmost danger. A war is like a harvest; you cannot aye be
-leading in, though the common notion is that in a campaign men are
-fighting even-on. In the cornfield the work depends upon the weather; in
-the field of war (at least with us 'twas so) the actual strife must often
-depend upon the enemy, and for weeks on end we saw them neither tail nor
-horn, as the saying goes. Sometimes it seemed as if the war had quite
-forgotten us, and was waging somewhere else upon the planet far away from
-Prussia.
-</p>
-<p>
-We got one good from the marching and the waiting; it put vigour in our
-men. Day by day they seemed to swell and strengthen, thin faces grew
-well-filled and ruddy, slouching steps grew confident and firm. And thus
-the Regiment d'Au-vergne was not so badly figured when we fought the fight
-of Rosbach that ended my career of glory.
-</p>
-<p>
-Rosbach!—its name to me can still create a tremor. We fought it in
-November month in a storm of driving snow. Our corps lay out upon the
-right of Frederick among fields that were new-ploughed for wheat and
-broken up by ditches. The d'Auvergnes charged with all the fire of
-veterans; they were smashed by horse, but rose and fell and rose again
-though death swept across them like breath from a furnace, scorching and
-shrivelling all before it. The Prussian and the Austrian guns went
-rat-a-pat like some gigantic drum upon the braes, and nearer the musketry
-volleys mingled with the plunge of horse and shouting of commanders so
-that each sound individually was indistinguishable, but all was blended in
-one unceasing melancholy hum.
-</p>
-<p>
-That drumming on the braes and that long melancholy hum are what most
-vividly remains to me of Rosbach, for I fell early in the engagement,
-struck in the charge by the sabre of a Prussian horseman that cleft me to
-the skull in a slanting stroke and left me incapable, but not unconscious,
-on the field.
-</p>
-<p>
-I lay for hours with other wounded in the snow The battle changed ground;
-the noises came from the distance: we seemed to be forgotten. I pitied
-myself exceedingly. Finally I swounded.
-</p>
-<p>
-When I came to myself it was night and men with lanterns were moving about
-the fields gathering us in like blackcock where we lay. Two Frenchmen came
-up and spoke to me, but what they said was all beyond me for I had clean
-forgotten every word of their language though that morning I had known it
-scarcely less fully than my own. I tried to speak in French, it seems, and
-thought I did so, but in spite of me the words were the broadest lallands
-Scots such as I had not used since I had run, a bare-legged boy, about the
-braes of, home. And otherwise my faculties were singularly acute, for I
-remember how keenly I noticed the pitying eye of the younger of the two
-men.
-</p>
-<p>
-What they did was to stanch my wound and go away. I feared I was deserted,
-but by-and-by they returned with another man who held the lantern close to
-my face as he knelt beside me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By the black stones of Baillinish!” said he in an unmistakable Hielan'
-accent, “and what have I here the night but the boy that harmed the bylie?
-You were not in your mother's bosom when you got that stroke!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I saw his smile in the light of his lanthom, 'twas no other than MacKellar
-of Kilbride!
-</p>
-<p>
-He was a surgeon in one of the corps; had been busy at his trade in
-another part of the field when the two Frenchmen who had recognised me for
-a Scot had called him away to look to a compatriot.
-</p>
-<p>
-Under charge of Kilbride (as, in our country fashion, I called him) I was
-taken in a waggon with several other wounded soldiers over the frontier
-into Holland, that was, perhaps, the one unvexed part of all the Continent
-of Europe in these stirring days.
-</p>
-<p>
-I mended rapidly, and cheery enough were these days of travel in a cart,
-so cheery that I never considered what the end of them might be, but was
-content to sit in the sunshine blithely conversing with this odd surgeon
-of the French army who had been roving the world for twenty years like my
-own Uncle Andrew, and had seen service in every army in Europe, but yet
-hankered to get back to the glens of his nativity, where he hoped his
-connection with the affair of Tearlach and the Forty-five would be
-forgotten.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's just this way of it, Hazel Den,” he would say to me, “there's them
-that has got enough out of Tearlach to make it worth their while to stick
-by him and them that has not. I am of the latter. I have been hanging
-about Paris yonder for a twelvemonth on the promise of the body that I
-should have a post that suited with my talents, and what does he do but
-get me clapped into a scurvy regiment that goes trudging through Silesia
-since Whitsunday, with never a sign of the paymaster except the once and
-then no more than a tenth of what was due to me. It is, maybe, glory, as
-the other man said; but my sorrow, it is not the kind that makes a
-clinking in your pouches.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had a comfortable deal of money to have so poor an account of his
-paymaster, and at that I hinted.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! Allow me for that!” he cried with great amusement at my wonder. “Fast
-hand at a feast and fast feet at a foray is what the other man said, and
-I'm thinking it is a very good observation, too. Where would I be if I was
-lippening on the paymaster?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Man! you surely have not been stealing?” said I, with such great
-innocency that he laughed like to end.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stealing!” he cried. “It's no theft to lift a purse in an enemy's
-country.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But these were no enemies of yours?” I protested, “though you happen to
-be doctoring in their midst.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Tuts! tuts, man!” said he shortly. “When the conies quarrel the quirky
-one (and that's Sir Fox if ye like to ken) will get his own. There seems
-far too much delicacy about you, my friend, to be a sporran-soldier
-fighting for the best terms an army will give you. And what for need you
-grumble at my having found a purse in an empty house when it's by virtue
-of the same we're at this moment making our way to the sea?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could make no answer to that, for indeed I had had, like the other three
-wounded men in the cart with me, the full benefit of his purse, wherever
-he had found it, and but for that we had doubtless been mouldering in a
-Prussian prison.
-</p>
-<p>
-It will be observed that MacKellar spoke of our making for the sea, and
-here it behoves that I should tell how that project arose.
-</p>
-<p>
-When we had crossed the frontier the first time it was simply because it
-seemed the easiest way out of trouble, though it led us away from the
-remnants of the army. I had commented upon this the first night we stopped
-within the Netherlands, and the surgeon bluntly gave me his mind on the
-matter. The truth was, he said, that he was sick of his post and meant to
-make this the opportunity of getting quit of it.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went as close as I dared upon a hint that the thing looked woundily like
-a desertion. He picked me up quick enough and counselled me to follow his
-example, and say farewell to so scurvy a service as that I had embarked
-on. His advices might have weighed less with me (though in truth I was
-sick enough of the Regiment d'Auvergne and a succession of defeats) if he
-had not told me that there was a certain man at Helvoetsluys he knew I
-should like to see.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And who might that be?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who but his reverence himself?” said Kilbride, who dearly loved an
-effect. “Yon night I met you in the Paris change-house it was planned by
-them I was with, one of them being Buhot himself of the police, that the
-old man must be driven out of his nest in the Hôtel Dieu, seeing they had
-got all the information they wanted from him, and I was one of the parties
-who was to carry this into effect. At the time I fancied Buhot was as keen
-upon yourself as upon the priest, and I thought I was doing a wonderfully
-clever thing to spy your red shoes and give you a warning to quit the
-priest, but all the time Buhot was only laughing at me, and saw you and
-recognised you himself in the change-house. Well, to make the long tale
-short, when we went to the hospital the birds were both of them gone,
-which was more than we bargained for, because some sort of trial was due
-to the priest though there was no great feeling against him. Where he had
-taken wing to we could not guess, but you will not hinder him to come on a
-night of nights (as we say) to the lodging I was tenanting at the time in
-the Rue Espade, and throw himself upon my mercy. The muckle hash! I'll
-allow the insolency of the thing tickled me greatly. The man was a fair
-object, too; had not tasted food for two days, and captured my fancy by a
-tale I suppose there is no trusting, that he had given you the last few <i>livres</i>
-he had in the world.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That was true enough about the <i>livres</i>,” I said with gratitude.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Was it, faith?” cried Kilbride. “Then I'm glad I did him the little
-service that lay in my power, which was to give him enough money to pay
-for posting to Helvoetsluys, where he is now, and grateful enough so far
-as I could gather from the last letters I had from him, and also mighty
-anxious to learn what became of his secretary.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I would give the last plack in my pocket to see the creature,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Would you indeed?” said Kilbride. “Then here's the road for you, and it
-must be a long furlough whatever of it from the brigade of Marshal
-Clermont.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-BRINGS ME TO HELVOETSLUYS IN WINTER WEATHER
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ilbride and I parted company with the others once we had got within the
-lines of Holland; the cateran (as I would sometimes be calling him in a
-joke) giving them as much money as might take them leisuredly to the south
-they meant to make for, and he and I proceeded on our way across the
-country towards the mouth of the River Maas.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was never my lot before nor since to travel with a more cheerful
-companion. Not the priest himself had greater humour in his composition,
-and what was more it was a jollity I was able the better to understand,
-for while much of Hamilton's <i>esprit</i> missed the spark with me
-because it had a foreign savour, the pawkiness of Kilbride was just the
-marrow of that I had seen in folks at home. And still the man was strange,
-for often he had melancholies. Put him in a day of rain and wind and you
-would hear him singing like a laverock the daftest songs in Erse; or give
-him a tickle task at haggling in the language of signs with a
-broad-bottomed bargeman, or the driver of a rattel-van, and the fun would
-froth in him like froth on boiling milk.
-</p>
-<p>
-Indeed, and I should say like cream, for this Mac-Kellar man had, what is
-common enough among the clans in spite of our miscalling, a heart of jeel
-for the tender moment and a heart of iron for the hard. But black, black,
-were his vapours when the sun shone, which is surely the poorest of
-excuses for dolours. I think he hated the flatness of the land we
-travelled in. To me it was none amiss, for though it was winter I could
-fancy how rich would be the grass of July in the polders compared with our
-poor stunted crops at home, and that has ever a cheerful influence on any
-man that has been bred in Lowland fields. But he (if I did not misread his
-eye) looked all ungratefully on the stretching leagues that ever opened
-before us as we sailed on waterways or jolted on the roads.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I do not ken how it may be with you, Mr. Greig,” he said one day as,
-somewhere in Brabant, our sluggish vessel opened up a view of canal that
-seemed to stretch so far it pricked the eye of the setting sun, and the
-windmills whirled on either hand ridiculous like the games of children—“I
-do not ken how it may be with you, but I'm sick of this country. It's no
-better nor a bannock, and me so fond of Badenoch!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed and there's a sameness about every part of it,” I confessed, “and
-yet it has its qualities. See the sun on yonder island—'tis pleasant
-enough to my notion, and as for the folk, they are not the cut of our own,
-but still they have very much in common with folks I've seen in Ayr.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He frowned at that unbelievingly, and cast a sour eye upon some women that
-stood upon a bridge. “Troth!” said he, “you would not compare these
-limmers with our own. I have not seen a light foot and a right dark eye
-since ever I put the back of me to the town of Inverness in the year of
-'Fifty-six.'”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nor I since I left the Mearns,” I cried, suddenly thinking of Isobel and
-forgetting all that lay between that lass and me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh! oh!” cried Kilbride. “And that's the way of it? Therms more than
-Clemie Walkinshaw, is there? I was ill to convince that a nephew of Andy
-Greig's began the game at the age of twenty-odd with a lady that might
-have been his mother.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I felt very much ashamed that he should have any knowledge of this part of
-my history, and seeing it he took to bantering me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come, come!” said he, “you must save my reputation with myself for
-penetration, for I aye argued with Buhot that your tanglement with madame
-was something short of innocency for all your mim look, and he was for
-swearing the lady had found a fool.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am beat to understand how my affairs came to be the topic of dispute
-with you and Buhot?” said I, astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And what for no'?” said he. “Wasn't the man's business to find out
-things, and would you have me with no interest in a ploy when it turned
-up? There were but the two ways of it—you were all the gomeral in
-love that Buhot thought you, or you were Andy Greig's nephew and willing
-to win the woman's favour (for all her antiquity) by keeping Buhot in the
-news of Hamilton's movements.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good God!” I cried, “that was a horrible alternative!” even then failing
-to grasp all that he implied.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Maybe,” he said pawkily; “but you cannot deny you kept them very well
-informed upon your master's movements, otherwise it had gone very hard
-perhaps with his Royal Highness.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Me!” I cried. “I would have as soon informed upon my father. And who was
-there to inform?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Kilbride looked at me curiously as if he half doubted my innocence. “It is
-seldom I have found the man Buhot in a lie of the sort,” said he, “but he
-led me to understand that what information he had of the movements of the
-priest came from yourself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I jumped to my feet, and almost choked in denying it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, very well, very well!” said Kilbride coolly. “There is no need to
-make a <i>fracas</i> about the matter. I am just telling you what Buhot
-told me. And troth! it was a circumstantial story he had of it; for he
-said that the Marshal Duke de Bellisle, and Monsieur Florentin, and
-Monsieur Berrier, and all the others of the Cabinet, had Fleuriau's name
-and direction from yourself, and found the plot had some connection with
-the affair of Damiens. George Kelly, the Prince's secretary, was another
-man that told me.” He gazed along the deck of the scow we sat in, as if
-thinking hard, and then turned to me with a hesitating suggestion.
-“Perhaps,” said he, “you are forgetting. Perhaps you wrote the woman and
-told her innocently enough, and that would come to the same thing.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was overwhelmed with confusion at the idea, though the possibility of my
-letters being used had once before occurred to me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, if you must know, it is true I wrote some letters to Miss
-Walkinshaw,” I confessed shamefacedly. “But they were very carefully
-transmitted by Bernard the Swiss to her, for I got her answers back.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He burst out laughing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“For simplicity you beat all!” cried he. “You sent your news through the
-Swiss, that was in Buhot's pay, and took the charge from Hamilton's
-pistols, and did his part in helping you to escape from jyle with a great
-degree of humour as those of us who knew what was afoot had to agree, and
-you think the man would swither about peeping into a letter you entrusted
-to him, particularly if it was directed to hersel'! The sleep-bag was
-under your head sure enough, as the other man said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And I was the unconscious wretch that betrayed our hiding in the Hôtel
-Dieu!” I cried with much chagrin, seeing at a flash what all this meant.
-“If I had Bernard here I could thraw his neck.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Indeed,” said he, “and what for should it be Bernard? The man but did
-what he was told, and there, by my troth! when I think of it, I'm no' so
-sure that he was any different from yourself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What do you mean?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, just that hersel' told you to keep her informed of your movements and
-you did so. In Bernard and you she had a pair of spies instead of only the
-one had she trusted in either.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And what in all the world would she be doing that for?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What but for her lover the prince?” said he with a sickening promptness
-that some way left me without a doubt he spoke with knowledge. “Foul fa'
-the day he ever clapt eyes on her! for she has the cunning of the fox,
-though by all accounts a pleasant person. They say she has a sister that's
-in the service of the queen at St. James's, and who kens but for all her
-pretended affection for Tearlach she may be playing all the time into the
-hands of his enemies? She made you and this Bernard the means of putting
-an end to the Jesuit plot upon his Royal Highness by discovering the
-source of it, and now the Jesuits, as I'm told, are to be driven furth the
-country and putten to the horn.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was stunned by this revelation of what a tool I had been in the hands of
-one I fancied briefly that I was in love with. For long I sat silent
-pondering on it, and at last unable to make up my mind whether I should
-laugh or swear. Kilbride, while affecting to pay no heed to me, was keen
-enough to see my perturbation, and had, I think, a sort of pride that he
-had been able to display such an astuteness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm afraid,” said I at last, “there is too much probability in all that
-you have said and thought. I am a stupendous ass, Mr. MacKellar, and you
-are a very clever man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not at all, not at all!” he protested hurriedly. “I have just some
-natural Hielan' interest in affairs of intrigue, and you have not (by your
-leave) had my advantages of the world, for I have seen much of the evil as
-well as the good of it, and never saw a woman's hand in aught yet but I
-wondered what mischief she was planning. There's much, I'm telling you, to
-be learned about a place like Fontainebleau or Versailles, and I
-advantaged myself so well of my opportunities there that you could not
-drive a hole but I would put a nail in it, as the other man said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well,” said I, “my hope is that I may never meet the woman again, and
-that's without a single angry feeling to her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You need not fear about that,” said he. “The thing that does not lie in
-your road will never break your leg, as the other man said, and I'll be
-surprised if she puts herself in your way again now that her need for you
-is done. A score of your friends in Dunkerque could have told you that she
-was daft about him. I might be vexed for you if I did not know from your
-own mouth of the other one in Mearns.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We'll say nothing about that,” I says, “for that's a tale that's by wi'.
-She's lost to me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He gave a little chuckle and had that turn in the eye that showed he had a
-curious thought.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What are you laughing at?” I asked. “Oh, just an old word we have in the
-Language, that with a two-deer stag-hound it will be happening often that
-a stag's amissing.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There's another thing I would like you to tell me out of your
-experience,” I said, “and that is the reason for the Prince's doing me a
-good turn with the one hand and a bad one with the other; using his
-efforts to get me the lieutenancy and at the same time putting a man on my
-track to quarrel with me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It's as plain as the nose on your face,” he cried. “It was no great
-situation he got you when it was in the Regiment d'Auvergne, as you have
-discovered, but it would be got I'll warrant on the pressure of the
-Walkinshaw one. Just because she had that interest in you to press him for
-the post, and you were in the trim to keep up a correspondence with her
-(though in his own interest, as he must know, so far as she was
-concerned), he would want you out of the road. Love is like lairdship,
-Hazel Den, and it puts up very poorly with fellowship, as the other man
-said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I thought of the occasions when his Royal Highness had seen me at night in
-front of a certain window in the Rue de la Boucherie, and concluded that
-Kilbride in this too had probably hit the mark.
-</p>
-<p>
-And so we passed through Holland in many changes of weather that finally
-turned to a black frost, which covered the canals with ice whereon skated
-the Dutch folks very pleasantly, but we were the losers, as the rest of
-our journey had to be made by post.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was well on in the winter when we got to Helvoetsluys.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXVI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-FATHER HAMILTON IS THREATENED BY THE JESUITS AND WE ARE FORCED TO FLY
-AGAIN
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he priest, poor man! aged a dozen years by his anxieties since I had seen
-him last, was dubious of his senses when I entered where he lodged, and he
-wept like a bairn to see my face again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Scotland! Scotland! beshrew me, child, and I'd liefer have this than ten
-good dinners at Verray's!” cried he, and put his arms about my shoulders
-and buried his face in my waistcoat to hide his uncontrollable tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was quartered upon a pilot of the Schelde and Hollands Deep, whose only
-child he made a shift to tutor in part payment of his costs, and the very
-moment that we had come in upon him he was full of a matter that had
-puzzled him for weeks before we came to Helvoetsluys. 'Twas a thing that
-partly hurt his pride, though that may seem incredible, and partly gave
-him pleasure, and 'twas merely that when he had at last found his
-concealment day and night in the pilot's house unendurable, and ventured a
-stroll or two upon the dunes in broad sunshine, no one paid any attention
-to him. There were soldiers and sailors that must have some suspicions of
-his identity, and he had himself read his own story and description in one
-of the gazettes, yet never a hand was raised to capture him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ma foi!</i> Paul,” he cried to me in a perplexity. “I am the most
-marvellous priest unfrocked, invisible to the world as if I had Mambrino's
-helmet. Sure it cannot be that I am too stale quarry for their hunting! My
-<i>amour propre</i> baulks at such conclusion. I that have—heaven
-help me!—loaded pistols against the Lord's anointed, might as well
-have gone shooting sparrows for all the infamy it has gained me. But
-yesterday I passed an officer of the peace that cried '<i>Bon jour</i>,
-father,' in villainous French with a smile so sly I could swear he knew my
-history from the first breeching. I avow that my hair stirred under my hat
-when he said it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-MacKellar stood by contemptuous of the priest's raptures over his restored
-secretary.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Goodness be about us!” he said, “what a pity the brock should be hiding
-when there's nobody hunting him! The first squirt of the haggis is always
-the hottest, as the other man said. If they were keen on your track at the
-start of it—and it's myself has the doubt of that same—you may
-warrant they are slack on it now. It's Buhot himself would be greatly put
-about if you went to the jail and put out your hands for the manacles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton looked bewildered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Expiscate, good Monsieur MacKellar,” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Kilbride just means,” said I, “that you are in the same case as myself,
-and that orders have gone out that no one is to trouble you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He believed it, and still he was less cheerful than I looked for. “Indeed,
-'tis like enough,” he sighed. “I have put my fat on a trap for a fortnight
-back to catch my captors and never a rat of them will come near me, but
-pass with sniffing noses. And yet on my word I have little to rejoice for.
-My friends have changed coats with my enemies because they swear I
-betrayed poor Fleuriau. I'd sooner die on the rack——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Father Hamilton!” I could not help crying, with remorse upon my
-countenance. He must have read the story in a single glance at me, for he
-stammered and took my hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What! there too, Scotland!” he said. “I forswear the company of innocence
-after this. No matter, 'tis never again old Dixmunde parish for poor
-Father Hamilton that loved his flock well enough and believed the best of
-everybody and hated the confessional because it made the world so wicked.
-My honey-bees will hum next summer among another's flowers, and my darling
-blackbirds will be all starving in this pestilent winter weather. Paul,
-Paul, hear an old man's wisdom—be frugal in food, and raiment, and
-pleasure, and let thy ambitions flutter, but never fly too high to come
-down at a whistle. But here am I, old Pater Dull, prating on foolish
-little affairs, and thou and our honest friend here new back from the
-sounding of the guns. Art a brave fighter, lad? I heard of thee in the
-grenadier company of d'Auvergne.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We did the best part of our fighting with our shanks, as the other man
-said,” cried Kilbride. “But Mr. Greig came by a clout that affected his
-mind and made him clean forget the number of his regiment, and that is
-what for the lowlands of Holland is a very pleasant country just now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Wounded!” cried the priest, disturbed at this intelligence. “Had I known
-on't I should have prayed for thy deliverance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have little doubt he did that for himself,” said Kilbride. “When I came
-on him after Rosbach he was behind a dyke, that is not a bad alternative
-for prayer when the lead is in the air.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We made up our minds to remain for a while at Helvoet, but we had not
-determined what our next step should be, when in came the priest one day
-with his face like clay and his limbs trembling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ah, Paul!” he cried, and fell into a chair; “here's Nemesis, daughter of
-Nox, a scurvy Italian, and wears a monkish cowl. I fancied it were too
-good to be true that I should be free from further trials.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Surely Buhot has not taken it into his head to move again,” I cried.
-“That would be very hirpling justice after so long an interval. And in any
-case they could scarcely hale you out of the Netherlands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, lad, not Buhot,” said he, perspiring with his apprehensions, “but the
-Society. There's one Gordoletti, a pretended Lutheran that hails from
-Jena, that has been agent between the Society and myself before now, and
-when I was out there he followed me upon the street with the eyes of a
-viper. I'll swear the fellow has a poignard and means the letting of
-blood. I know how 'twill be—a watch set upon this building,
-Gordoletti upon the steps some evening; a jostle, a thrust, and a speeding
-shade. A right stout shade too! if spirits are in any relation of measure
-to the corporeal clay. Oh, lad, what do I say? my sinner's wit must be
-evincing in the front of doom itself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I thought he simply havered, but found there was too real cause for his
-distress. That afternoon the monk walked up and down the street without
-letting his eyes lose a moment's sight of the entrance to the pilot's
-house where Father Hamilton abode. I could watch him all the better
-because I shared a room with Kilbride on the same side of the street, and
-even to me there was something eerie in the sight of this long thin
-stooping figure in its monkish garment, slouching on the stones or hanging
-over the parapet of the bridge, his eyes, lambent black and darting, over
-his narrow chafts. Perhaps it was but fancy, yet I thought I saw in the
-side of his gown the unmistakable bulge of a dagger. He paced the street
-for hours or leaned over the parapet affecting an interest in the barges,
-and all the time the priest sat fascinated within, counting his sentence
-come.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, by my faith and it is not so bad as that,” I protested on returning
-to find him in this piteous condition. “Surely there are two swords here
-that at the worst of it can be depended on to protect you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He shook his head dolefully. “It is no use, Paul,” he cried. “The poignard
-or the phial—'tis all the same to them or Gordoletti, and hereafter
-I dare not touch a drop of wine or indulge in a meagre soup.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But surely,” I said, “there may be a mistake, and this Gordoletti may
-have nothing to do with you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The man wears a cowl—a monkish cowl—and that is enough for
-me. A Jesuit out of his customary <i>soutane</i> is like the devil in
-dancing shoes—be sure his lordship means mischief. Oh! Paul, I would
-I were back in Bicêtre and like to die there cleaner than on the banks of
-a Dutch canal. I protest I hate to think of dying by a canal.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Still I was incredulous that harm was meant to him, and he proceeded to
-tell me the Society of Jesus was upon the brink of dissolution, and
-desperate accordingly. The discovery of Fleuriau's plot against the Prince
-had determined the authorities upon the demolition and extinction of the
-Jesuits throughout the whole of the King's dominion. Their riches and
-effects and churches were to be seized to the profit and emolument of the
-Crown; the reverend Fathers were to be banished furth of France for ever.
-Designs so formidable had to be conducted cautiously, and so far the only
-evidence of a scheme against the Society was to be seen in the Court
-itself, where the number of priests of the order was being rapidly
-diminished.
-</p>
-<p>
-I thought no step of the civil power too harsh against the band of whom
-the stalking man in the cowl outside was representative, and indeed the
-priest at last half-infected myself with his terrors. We sat well back
-from the window looking out upon the street till it was dusk. There was
-never a moment when the assassin (as I still must think him) was not
-there, his interest solely in the house we sat in. And when it was wholly
-dark, and a single lamp of oil swinging on a cord across the thoroughfare
-lit the passage of the few pedestrians that went along the street,
-Gordoletti was still close beneath it, silent, meditating, and alert.
-</p>
-<p>
-MacKellar came in from his coffee-house. We sat in darkness, except for
-the flicker of a fire of peat. He must have thought the spectacle curious.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My goodness!” cried he, “candles must be unco dear in this shire when the
-pair of you cannot afford one between you to see each other yawning. I'm
-of a family myself that must be burning a dozen at a time and at both ends
-to make matters cheery, for it's a gey glum world at the best of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He stumbled over to the mantel-shelf where there was customarily a candle;
-found and lit it, and held it up to see if there was any visible reason
-for our silence.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest's woebegone countenance set him into a shout of laughter. His
-amusement scarcely lessened when he heard of the ominous gentleman in the
-cowl.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let me see!” he said, and speedily devised a plan to test the occasion of
-Father Hamilton's terrors. He arranged that he should dress himself in the
-priest's garments, and as well as no inconsiderable difference in their
-bulk might let him, simulate the priest by lolling into the street.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A brave plan verily,” quo' the priest, “but am I a bowelless rogue to let
-another have my own particular poignard? No, no, Messieurs, let me pay for
-my own <i>pots cassés</i> and run my own risks in my own <i>soutane</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-With that he rose to his feet and was bold enough to offer a trial that
-was attended by considerable hazard.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was determined, however, that I should follow close upon the heels of
-Kilbride in his disguise, prepared to help him in the case of too serious
-a surprise.
-</p>
-<p>
-The night was still. There were few people in the street, which was one of
-several that led down to the quays. The sky had but a few wan stars. When
-MacKellar stepped forth in the priest's hat and cloak, he walked slowly
-towards the harbour, ludicrously imitating the rolling gait of his
-reverence, while I stayed for a little in the shelter of the door.
-Gordoletti left his post upon the bridge and stealthily followed Kilbride.
-I gave him some yards of law and followed Gordoletti.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our footsteps sounded on the stones; 'twas all that broke the evening
-stillness except the song of a roysterer who staggered upon the quays. The
-moment was fateful in its way and yet it ended farcically, for ere he had
-gained the foot of the street Kilbride turned and walked back to meet the
-man that stalked him. We closed upon the Italian to find him baffled and
-confused.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Take that for your attentions!” cried Kilbride, and buffeted the fellow
-on the ear, a blow so secular and telling from a man in a frock that
-Gordoletti must have thought himself bewitched, for he gave a howl and
-took to his heels. Kilbride attempted to stop him, but the cassock escaped
-his hands and his own unwonted costume made a chase hopeless. As for me, I
-was content to let matters remain as they were now that Father Hamilton's
-suspicions seemed too well founded.
-</p>
-<p>
-It did not surprise me that on learning of our experience the priest
-should determine on an immediate departure from Helvoetsluys. But where he
-was to go was more than he could readily decide. He proposed and rejected
-a score of places—Bordeaux, Flanders, the Hague, Katwyk farther up
-the coast, and many others—weighing the advantages of each,
-enumerating his acquaintances in each, discovering on further thought that
-each and every one of them had some feature unfavourable to his
-concealment from the Jesuits.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You would be as long tuning your pipes as another would be playing a
-tune,” said Kilbride at last. “There's one thing sure of it, that you
-cannot be going anywhere the now without Mr. Greig and myself, and what
-ails you at Dunkerque in which we have all of us acquaintances?”
- </p>
-<p>
-A season ago the suggestion would have set my heart in flame; but now it
-left me cold. Yet I backed up the proposal, for I reflected that (keeping
-away from the Rue de la Boucherie) we might there be among a good many
-friends. Nor was his reverence ill to influence in favour of the proposal.
-</p>
-<p>
-The next morning saw us, then, upon a hoy that sailed for Calais and was
-bargained to drop us at Dunkerque.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXVII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I OVERHEAR THE PLAN OF BRITAIN'S INVASION
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> began these chronicles with a homily upon the pregnancy of chance that
-gives the simplest of our acts ofttimes far-reaching and appalling
-consequences. It is clear that I had never become the Spoiled Horn and
-vexed my parents' lives had not a widow woman burned her batch of scones,
-and though perhaps the pair of shoes in the chest bequeathed to me by my
-Uncle Andrew were without the magic influence he and I gave credit for, it
-is probable that I had made a different flight from Scotland had they not
-led me in the way of Daniel Risk.
-</p>
-<p>
-And even now their influence was not ended. During the months I had spent
-at soldiering the red shoes reposed among my baggage; even when I had
-changed from the uniform of the Regiment d'Auvergne upon the frontier of
-Holland, and made myself again a common citizen of Europe, I had some
-freit (as we say of a superstition) against resuming the shoes that had
-led me previously into divers perils. But the day we left Helvoet in the
-Hollands Deep hoy, I was so hurried in my departure that the red shoes
-were the only ones I could lay hands on. As luck would have it, when I
-entered Dunkerque for the last time in my history some days after, I was
-wearing the same leather as on the first day of my arrival there, and the
-fact led, by a singularity of circumstances, to my final severance from
-many of those: companions—some of them pleasant and unforgetable—I
-had made acquaintance with in France.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was thus that the thing happened.
-</p>
-<p>
-When we entered Dunkerque, the priest, Kilbride, and I went to an inn upon
-the sea front. Having breakfasted I was deputed to go forth and call upon
-Thurot, explain our circumstances, take his counsel, and return to the hoy
-where my two friends would return to wait for me. He was out when I
-reached his lodging, but his Swiss—a different one from what he had
-before when I was there—informed me that his master was expected
-back at any moment, and invited me to step in and wait for him. I availed
-myself of the opportunity.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our voyage along the coast had been delayed by contrary winds, so that now
-it was the Sabbath; the town was by-ordinary still (though indeed Sabbath
-nor Saturday made much difference, as a rule, on the gaiety of Dunkerque),
-and wearied by the sea travel that had just concluded I fell fast asleep
-in Captain Thurot's chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-I was wakened by a loud knocking at the outer door, not the first, as it
-may be remembered, that called me forth from dreams to new twists of
-fortune, and I started to my feet to meet my host.
-</p>
-<p>
-What was my chagrin to hear the Prince's voice in converse with him on the
-stair!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here is a pretty pickle!” I told myself. “M. Albany is the last man on
-earth I would choose to meet at this moment,” and without another
-reflection I darted into the adjoining room and shut the door. It was
-Thurot's bed-chamber, with a window that looked out upon the court where
-fowls were cackling. I was no sooner in than I somewhat rued my
-precipitation, for the manlier course indubitably had been to bide where I
-was. But now there was no retreating, so I sat with what patience I could
-command to wait my discovery by the tenant of the place after his royal
-visitor was gone.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was the Sabbath day as I have said, and the chimes of St. Eloi were
-going briskly upon some papist canticle, but not so loud that I could not
-hear, in spite of myself, all that went on in the next room.
-</p>
-<p>
-At first I paid no heed, for the situation was unworthy enough of itself
-without any attempt on my part to be an eavesdropper. But by-and-bye,
-through the banging of the bells of St. Eloi, I heard M. Albany (still to
-give the man his by-name) mention the name Ecosse.
-</p>
-<p>
-Scotland! The name of her went through me like a pang!
-</p>
-<p>
-They spoke in French of course; I think I could have understood them had
-it been Chinese. For they discussed some details of the intended invasion
-that still hung fire, and from the first of M. Albany's sentences I
-learned that the descent was determined upon Scotland. 'Twas that which
-angered me and made me listen for the rest with every sense of the spy and
-deterred by never a scruple. At first I had fancied Thurot would learn
-from his servant I was in the house, and leave me alone till his royal
-guest's departure from an intuition that I desired no meeting, but it was
-obvious now that no such consideration would have induced him to let me
-hear the vast secret they discussed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Twenty thousand men are between Brest and Vannes,” said M. Albany. “We
-shall have them in frigates in a fortnight from to-day, and then, <i>mon
-Capitaine</i>, affairs shall move briskly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still,” said Thurot, who had some odd tone of dissatisfaction in his
-voice, “I had preferred it had been the South of England. Dumont has given
-us every anchorage and sounding on the coast between Beachy Head and
-Arundel, and from there we could all the sooner have thrust at the heart
-of England. This Scotland—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah! Captain Thurot,” cried his Royal Highness impatiently, “you talk
-like a fool. At the heart, indeed! With all habitable England like a fat
-about it, rich with forts and troops and no more friendship for us than
-for the Mameluke! No, no, Thurot, I cry Scotland; all the chances are
-among the rocks, and I am glad it has been so decided on.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still, with infinite deference, your Royal Highness, this same West
-of Scotland never brought but the most abominable luck to you and yours,”
- continued Thurot. “Now, Arundel Bay——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! to the devil with Arundel Bay!” cried M. Albany; “'tis settled
-otherwise, and you must take it as you find it. Conflans and his men shall
-land upon the West—<i>mon Dieu!</i> I trust they may escape its
-fangs; and measures will be there taken with more precaution and I hope
-with more success than in Seventeen Forty-five. Thence they will march to
-England, sweeping the whole country before them, and not leaving behind
-them a man or boy who can carry a musket. Thus they must raise the army to
-fifty or sixty thousand men, strike a terror into England, and carry all
-with a high hand. I swear 'tis a fatted hog this England: with fewer than
-ten thousand Highlanders I have made her thrill at the very vitals.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot hummed. Plainly there was much in the project that failed to meet
-his favour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And Conflans?” said he.
-</p>
-<p>
-His Royal Highness laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ha! Captain,” said he, “I know, I know. 'Twould suit you better if a
-certain Tony Thurot had command.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“At least,” said Thurot, “I am in my prime, while the Marshal is beyond
-his grand climacteric.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And still, by your leave, with the reputation of being yet the best—
-well, let us say among the best—of the sea officers of France. Come,
-come, Captain, there must be no half-hearts in this venture; would to
-Heaven I were permitted to enjoy a share in it! And on you, my friend,
-depends a good half of the emprise and the <i>gloire</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Gloire!</i>” cried Thurot. “With every deference to your Royal
-Highness I must consider myself abominably ill-used in this matter. That I
-should be sent off to Norway and hound-in wretched Swedes with a personage
-like Flaubert! Oh, I protest, 'tis beyond all reason! Is it for that I
-have been superseded by a man like Conflans that totters on the edge of
-the grave?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I hope 'tis England's grave,” retorted M. Albany with unfailing good
-humour, and I heard the gluck of wine as he helped himself to another
-glass. “I repeat <i>gloire</i>, with every apology to the experience of M.
-le Corsair. 'Tis your duty to advance with your French and your Swedes
-upon the North of England, and make the diversion in these parts that
-shall inconvenience the English army front or rear.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, curse your diversions!” cried Thurot. “If I have a talent at all 'tis
-for the main attack. And this Conflans——”
- </p>
-<p>
-The remainder of the discussion, so far as I remained to hear it, gave no
-enlargement upon the plan thus laid bare. But in any case my whole desire
-now was to escape from the house without discovery, for I had news that
-made my return to Britain imperative.
-</p>
-<p>
-I opened the window quietly and slipped out. The drop to the court was
-less than my own height. Into the street I turned with the sober step of
-leisure, yet my feet tingled to run hard and my heart was stormy. The
-bells of St. Eloi went on ringing; the streets were growing busy with
-holiday-makers and the soldiers who were destined to over-run my country.
-I took there and then the most dreadful hatred of them, and scowled so
-black that some of the soldiers cried after me with a jeer.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest and Kilbride I found were not at the inn where I had left them,
-having gone back to the vessel, so I hurried down to the quay after them.
-The hoy had been moved since morning, and in the throng of other vessels
-that were in the harbour at the time I lost well-nigh an hour in seeking
-her. Whether that was well for me or ill would be folly now to guess, but
-when I had no more than set a foot upon the gunwale of a small boat that
-was to take me out to her I was clapped upon the shoulder.
-</p>
-<p>
-I turned, to see Thurot and two officers of marine!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon, M. Greig, a moment,” said Thurot, with not the kindest of tones.
-“Surely you would not hurry out of Dunkerque without a <i>congé</i> for
-old friends?”
- </p>
-<p>
-I stammered some sentences that were meant to reassure him. He interrupted
-me, and—not with any roughness, but with a pressure there was no
-mistaking and I was not fool enough to resist—led me from the side
-of the quay.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Ma foi!</i>” said he, “'Tis the most ridiculous thing! I had nearly
-missed you and could never have forgiven myself. My Swiss has just
-informed me that you were in the house an hour ago while I was there
-myself. I fear we must have bored you, M. Albany and I, with our dull
-affairs. At least there was no other excuse for your unceremonious
-departure through my back window.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I was never well-equipped to conceal my feelings, and it was plain in my
-face that I knew all.
-</p>
-<p>
-He sighed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, lad,” said he, rather sorrowfully, “I'd give a good many <i>louis
-d'or</i> that you had come visiting at another hour of the day, and now
-there's but one thing left me. My Swiss did not know you, but he has—praise
-<i>le bon Dieu!</i>—a pair of eyes in his head, and he remembered
-that my visitor wore red shoes. Red shoes and a Scotsman!—the
-conjunction was unmistakable, and here we are, M. Greig. There are a score
-of men looking all over Dunkerque at this moment for these same shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Confound the red shoes!” I cried, unable to conceal my vexation that they
-should once more have brought me into trouble.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By no means, M. Greig,” said Thurot. “But for them we should never have
-identified our visitor, and a somewhat startling tale was over the Channel
-a little earlier than we intended. And now all that I may do for old
-friendship to yourself and the original wearer of the shoes is to give you
-a free trip to England in my own vessel. 'Tis not the <i>Roi Rouge</i>
-this time—worse luck!—but a frigate, and we can be happy
-enough if you are not a fool.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXVIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-THUROT'S PRISONER. MY FRIEND THE WATCH
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was plain from the first that my overhearing of the plot must compel
-Thurot to the step he took. He was not unkind, but so much depended on the
-absolute secrecy of the things he had talked to the Prince, that, even at
-the unpleasant cost of trepanning me, he must keep me from carrying my
-new-got information elsewhere. For that reason he refused to accede to my
-request for a few minutes' conversation with the priest or my
-fellow-countrymen. The most ordinary prudence, he insisted, demanded that
-he should keep me in a sort of isolation until it was too late to convey a
-warning across the Channel.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was for these reasons I was taken that Sabbath afternoon to the frigate
-that was destined to be in a humble sense his flagship, and was lying in
-the harbour with none of her crew as yet on board. I was given a cabin;
-books were furnished to cheer my incarceration, for it was no less. I was
-to all intents and purposes a prisoner, though enjoying again some of the
-privileges of the <i>salle d'épreuves</i> for the sake of old
-acquaintance.
-</p>
-<p>
-All that day I planned escape. Thurot came to the cabin and smoked and
-conversed pleasantly, but found me so abstracted that he could scarcely
-fail to think I meant a counter-sap.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Be tranquil, my Paul,” he advised; “Clancarty and I will make your life
-on ship-board as little irksome as possible, but it is your own cursed
-luck that you must make up your mind to a fortnight of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But that was considerably longer than I was ready to think of with
-equanimity. What I wished for was an immediate freedom and a ship to
-England, and while he talked I reviewed a dozen methods of escape. Here
-was I with a secret worth a vast deal to the British Government; if I
-could do my country that service of putting her into possession of it in
-time to prevent catastrophe, might I not, without presumption, expect some
-clemency from her laws for the crime I had committed in the hot blood of
-ignorant and untutored youth? I saw the most cheerful possibilities rise
-out of that accident that had made me an eavesdropper in Thurot's lodging—freedom,
-my family perhaps restored to me, my name partly re-established; but the
-red shoes that set me on wrong roads to start with still kept me on them.
-Thurot was an amiable enough gaoler, but not his best wine nor his
-wittiest stories might make me forget by how trivial a chance I had lost
-my opportunity.
-</p>
-<p>
-We were joined in the afternoon by Lord Clancarty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What, lad!” cried his lordship, pomaded and scented beyond words; fresh,
-as he told us, from the pursuit of a lady whose wealth was shortly to
-patch up his broken fortunes. “What, lad! Here's a pretty matter! Pressed,
-egad! A renegade against his will! 'Tis the most cursed luck, Captain
-Thurot, and wilt compel the poor young gentleman to cut the throats of his
-own countrymen?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I? Faith, not I!” said Thurot. “I press none but filthy Swedes. M. Greig
-has my word for it that twelve hours before we weigh anchor he may take
-his leave of us. <i>Je le veux bien</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bah! 'Tis an impolite corsair this. As for me I should be inconsolable to
-lose M. Greig to such a dull country as this England. Here's an Occasion,
-M. le Capitaine, for pledging his health in a bottle, and wishing him well
-out of his troubles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You do not stand sufficiently on your dignity, Clancarty,” laughed
-Thurot. “Here's the enemy—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Dignity! pooh!” said his lordship. “To stand on that I should need a
-year's practice first on the tight-rope. There's that about an Irish
-gentleman that makes the posturings and proprieties and pretences of the
-fashionable world unnecessary. Sure, race will show in his face and action
-if he stood alone in his shirt-sleeves on a village common juggling balls.
-I am of the oldest blood that springs in Irish kings. 'Tis that knowledge
-keeps my heart up when circumstances make the world look rotten like a
-cheese. But the curst thing is one cannot for ever be drinking and dining
-off a pedigree, and here I am deserted by M. Tête-de-mouche——”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thurot put up his hand to check one of these disloyalties to the Pretender
-that I had long since learned were common with Lord Clancarty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bah!” cried his lordship. “I love you, Tony, and all the other boys, but
-your Prince is a madman—a sotted madman tied to the petticoat tails
-of a trollope. This Walkinshaw—saving your presence, Paul Greig, for
-she's your countrywoman and by way of being your friend, I hear—has
-ruined Charles and the Cause. We have done what we could to make him send
-madame back to the place she came from, but he'll do nothing of the kind.
-'She has stuck by me through thick and thin, and lost all for me, and now
-I shall stick by her,' says foolish Master Sentiment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bravo!” cried Thurot. “'Tis these things make us love the Prince and have
-faith in his ultimate success.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You were ever the hopeful ass, Tony,” said his lordship coolly. “<i>Il
-riest pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre</i>, and you must shut
-your ears against a tale that all the world is shouting at the pitch of
-its voice. Who knows better than Tony Thurot how his Royal Highness has
-declined? Why! 'tis manifest in the fellow's nose; I declare he drinks
-like a fish—another vice he brought back from your mountain land, M.
-Greig, along with Miss Walkinshaw——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There is far too much of Miss Walkinshaw about your lordship's remarks,”
- I cried in an uncontrollable heat that the lady should be the subject of
-implications so unkind.
-</p>
-<p>
-He stared, and then kissed his hand to me with laughter and a bow, “Ha!”
- he cried, “here's another young gentleman of sentiment. Stap me if I say a
-word against the lady for your sake, Andy Greig's nephew.” And back he
-went to his bottle.
-</p>
-<p>
-In this light fashion we spent a day that by rights should have been more
-profitably and soberly occupied. The frigate lay well out from the quays
-from which Thurot had conveyed me with none of the indignities that might
-be expected by a prisoner. There was, as I have said, none of her crew on
-board save a watch of two men. Beside her quarter there hung a small
-smuggling cutter that had been captured some days previously. As I sat in
-the cabin, yawning at the hinder-end over Clancarty's sallies, I could
-hear now and then the soft thudding of the smuggler's craft against the
-fenders as the sea rocked us lightly, and it put a mad fancy into my head.
-</p>
-<p>
-How good it would be, I thought, to be free on board such a vessel and
-speeding before a light wind to Britain! Was it wholly impossible? The
-notion so possessed me that I took an occasion to go on deck and see how
-things lay.
-</p>
-<p>
-The smuggler's boat had her mast stepped, but no sails in her. Over the
-bulwark of the frigate leaned one of the watch idly looking at sea-gulls
-that cried like bairns upon the smuggler's thwarts and gunnels. He was a
-tarry Dutchman (by his build and colour); I fancy that at the time he
-never suspected I was a prisoner, for he saluted me with deference.
-</p>
-<p>
-The harbour was emptier than usual of shipping. Dusk was falling on the
-town; some lights were twinkling wanly and bells rang in the cordage of
-the quays. I asked the seaman if he knew where the hoy <i>Vrijster</i> of
-Helvoetsluys lay.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that his face brightened and he promptly pointed to her yellow hull on
-the opposite side of the harbour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Did my honour know Captain Breuer?” he asked, in crabbed French.
-</p>
-<p>
-My honour was very pleased to confess that he did, though in truth my
-acquaintance with the skipper who had taken us round from Helvoetsluys
-went scarcely further than sufficed me to recall his name.
-</p>
-<p>
-The best sailor ever canted ship! my Dutchman assured me with enthusiasm.
-How often have I heard the self-same sentiment from mariners? for there is
-something jovial and kind in the seaman's manner that makes him ever fond
-of the free, the brave and competent of his own calling, and ready to cry
-their merits round the rolling world.
-</p>
-<p>
-A good seaman certainly!—I agreed heartily, though the man might
-have been merely middling for all I knew of him.
-</p>
-<p>
-He would like nothing better than to have an hour with Captain Breuer,
-said Mynheer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And I, too,” said I quickly. “But for Captain Thurot's pressing desire
-that I should spend the evening here I should be in Breuer's cabin now.
-Next to being with him there I would reckon the privilege of having him
-here.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There might be very little difficulty about that if my honour was willing,
-said Mynheer. They were old shipmates; had sailed the Zuyder Sea together,
-and drunken in a score of ports. Dearly indeed would he love to have some
-discourse with Breuer. But to take leave from the frigate and cross to the
-hoy—no! Captain Thurot would not care for him to do that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why not have Breuer come to the frigate?” I asked, with my heart beating
-fast.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why, indeed?” repeated Mynheer with a laugh. “A hail across the harbour
-would not fetch him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then go for him,” said I, my heart beating faster than ever lest he
-should have some suspicion of my condition and desires.
-</p>
-<p>
-He reminded me that he had no excuse to leave the frigate, though to take
-the small boat at the stern and row over to the hoy would mean but a
-minute or two.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, as for excuses,” said I, “that's easily arranged, for I can give
-you one to carry a note to the care of the captain, and you may take it at
-your leisure.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At his leisure! He would take it at once and thankfully while we gentlemen
-were drinking below, for there was no pleasure under heaven he could
-compare with half an hour of good Jan Breuer's company.
-</p>
-<p>
-Without betraying my eagerness to avail myself of such an unlooked-for
-opportunity, I deliberately wrote a note in English intimating that I was
-a prisoner on the frigate and in pressing humour to get out of her at the
-earliest moment. I addressed it to Kilbride, judging the Highlander more
-likely than Father Hamilton to take rational steps for my release if that
-were within the bounds of possibility.
-</p>
-<p>
-I assured the seaman that if he lost no time in taking it over I would
-engage his absence would never be noticed, and he agreed to indicate to me
-by a whistle when he returned.
-</p>
-<p>
-With a cheerful assurance that he would have Jan Breuer on this deck in
-less than twenty minutes the seaman loosed the painter of the small boat
-and set forth upon his errand, while I returned to the cabin where Thurot
-and Clancarty still talked the most contrary and absurd politics over
-their wine. The vast and tangled scheme of French intrigue was set before
-me; at another time it might have been of the most fascinating interest,
-but on this particular occasion I could not subdue my mind to matters so
-comparatively trivial, while I kept my hearing strained for the evidence
-that the Dutchman had accomplished his mission and got back.
-</p>
-<p>
-The moments passed; the interest flagged; Clancarty began to yawn and
-Thurot grew silent. It was manifest that the sooner my Dutchman was back
-to his ship the better for my plan. Then it was I showed the brightest
-interest in affairs that an hour earlier failed to engage a second of my
-attention, and I discovered for the entertainment of my gaoler and his
-friend a hitherto unsuspected store of reminiscence about my Uncle Andrew
-and a fund of joke and anecdote whereof neither of them probably had
-thought me capable.
-</p>
-<p>
-But all was useless. The signal that the Dutchman had returned was not
-made when Lord Clancarty rose to his feet and intimated his intention
-there and then of going ashore, though his manner suggested that it would
-have been easy to induce him to wait longer. We went on deck with him. The
-night was banked with clouds though a full moon was due; only a few stars
-shone in the spaces of the zenith; our vessel was in darkness except where
-a lamp swung at the bow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mon Dieu!</i> Tony, what a pitchy night! I'd liefer be safe ashore
-than risking my life getting there in your cockle-shell,” said Clancarty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Art all right, Lord Clancarty,” said Thurot. “Here's a man will row you
-to the quay in two breaths, and you'll be snug in bed before M. Greig and
-I have finished our prayers.” Then he cried along the deck for the seaman.
-</p>
-<p>
-I felt that all was lost now the fellow's absence was to be discovered.
-</p>
-<p>
-What was my astonishment to hear an answering call, and see the Dutchman's
-figure a blotch upon the blackness of the after-deck.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bring round the small boat and take Lord Clancarty ashore,” said the
-captain, and the seaman hastened to do so. He sprang into the small boat,
-released her rope, and brought her round.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>A demain</i>, dear Paul,” cried his lordship with a hiccough. “It's
-curst unkind of Tony Thurot not to let you ashore on parole or permit me
-to wait with you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The boat dropped off into the darkness of the harbour, her oars thudding
-on the thole-pins.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There goes a decent fellow though something of a fool,” said Thurot.
-“'Tis his kind have made so many enterprises like our own have an
-ineffectual end. And now you must excuse me, M. Greig, if I lock you into
-your cabin. There are too few of us on board to let you have the run of
-the vessel.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He put a friendly hand upon the shoulder I shrugged with chagrin at this
-conclusion to an unfortunate day.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sorry, M. Greig, sorry,” he said humorously. “<i>Qui commence mal finit
-mal</i>, and I wish to heaven you had begun the day by finding Antoine
-Thurot at home, in which case we had been in a happier relationship
-to-night.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XXXIX
-</h2>
-<h3>
-DISCLOSES THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE AND HOW WE SET SAIL FOR ALBION
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hurot turned the key on me with a pleasantry that was in no accordance
-with my mood, and himself retired to the round house on deck where his
-berth was situated. I sat on a form for a little, surrendered all to
-melancholy, then sought to remove it by reading, as sleep in my present
-humour was out of the question. My reading, though it lasted for an hour
-or two, was scarcely worth the name, for my mind continually wandered from
-the page. I wondered if my note to Kilbride had been delivered, and if any
-step on his part was to be expected therefrom; the hope that rose with
-that reflection died at once upon the certainty that as the Dutch seaman
-had not signalled as he had promised he had somehow learned the true
-nature of my condition in the frigate. Had he told Thurot? If he had told
-Thurot—which was like enough—that I had communicated with any
-one outside the vessel there was little doubt that the latter would take
-adequate steps to prevent interference by Kilbride or any one else.
-</p>
-<p>
-We are compact of memories, a mere bundle of bygone days, childish
-recollections, ancient impressions, and so an older experience came to me,
-too, of the night I sat in the filthy cabin of Dan Risk's doomed vessel
-hearing the splash of illegitimate oars, anticipating with a mind scarcely
-more disturbed than I had just now the step of the officer from the prison
-at Blackness and the clutch of the chilly fetters.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a faint but rising nor'-east wind. It sighed among the shrouds
-of the frigate. I could hear it even in the cabin, pensive like the call
-of the curfew at a great distance. The waves washed against the timbers in
-curious short gluckings and hissings. On the vessel herself not a sound
-was to be heard, until of a sudden there came a scratching at my cabin
-door!
-</p>
-<p>
-It was incredible! I had heard no footstep on the companion, and I had
-ceased to hope for anything from the Dutchman!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who's there?” I asked softly, and at that the key outside was turned and
-I was fronted by Kilbride!
-</p>
-<p>
-He wore the most ridiculous travesty of the Dutchman's tarry breeks and
-tarpaulin hat and coarse wide jumper, and in the light of my candle there
-was a humorous twinkle on his face as he entered, closed the door softly
-after him, and sat down beside me.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My goodness!” he whispered, “you have a face on you as if you were in a
-graveyard watching ghosts. It's time you were steeping the withies to go
-away as we say in the Language, and you may be telling me all the story of
-it elsewhere.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Where's the Dutchman that took my letter?” I asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Where,” said Kilbride, “but in the place that well befits him—at
-the lug of an anker of Rotterdam gin taking his honest night's rest. I'm
-here guizing in his tarry clothes, and if I were Paul Greig of the Hazel
-Den I would be clapping on my hat gey quick and getting out of here
-without any more parley.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You left him in the hoy!” said I astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Faith, there was nothing better for it!” said he coolly. “Breuer gave him
-so much of the juniper for old acquaintance that when I left he was so
-full of it that he had lost the power of his legs and you might as well
-try to keep a string of fish standing.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And it was you took Clancarty ashore?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Who else? And I don't think it's a great conceit of myself to believe I
-play-acted the Dutch tarry-breeks so very well, though I was in something
-of a tremble in case the skipper here would make me out below my guizard's
-clothes. You may thank your stars the moon was as late of rising this
-night as a man would be that was at a funeral yesterday.” “And where's the
-other man who was on this vessel?” I asked, preparing to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come on deck and I'll show you,” said Kilbride, checking a chuckle of
-amusement at something.
-</p>
-<p>
-We crept softly on deck into the night now slightly lit by a moon veiled
-by watery clouds. The ship seemed all our own and we were free to leave
-her when we chose for the small boat hung at her stern.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You were asking for the other one,” said Kilbride. “There he is,” and he
-pointed to a huddled figure bound upon the waist. “When I came on board
-after landing Clancarty this stupid fellow discovered I was a stranger and
-nearly made an outcry; but I hit him on the lug with the loom of an oar.
-He'll not be observing very much for a while yet, but I was bound all the
-same to put a rope on him to prevent him disturbing Captain Thurot's sleep
-too soon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We spoke in whispers for the night seemed all ear and I was for ever
-haunted by the reflection that Thurot was divided from us by little more
-than an inch or two of teak-wood. Now and then the moon peeped through a
-rift of cloud and lit a golden roadway over the sea, enticing me
-irresistibly home.
-</p>
-<p>
-“O God, I wish I was in Scotland!” I said passionately.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Less luck than that will have to be doing us,” said Kilbride, fumbling at
-the painter of the boat. “The hoy sets sail for Calais in an hour or two,
-and it's plain from your letter we'll be best to be taking her round that
-length.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, not Calais,” said I. “It's too serious a business with me for that.
-I'm wanting England, and wanting it unco fast.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Oh, Dhe!</i>” said my countryman, “here's a fellow with the appetite
-of Prince Charlie and as likely to gratify it. What for must it be
-England, <i>loachain?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I can only hint at that,” I answered hastily, “and that in a minute. Are
-ye loyal?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“To a fine fellow called MacKellar first and to my king and country
-after?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Stuarts?” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-He cracked his thumb. “It's all by with that,” said he quickly and not
-without a tone of bitterness.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The breed of them has never been loyal to me, and if I could wipe out of
-my life six months of the cursedest folly in Forty-five I would go back to
-Scotland with the first chance and throw my bonnet for Geordie ever after
-like the greasiest burgess ever sold a wab of cloth or a cargo of Virginia
-in Glasgow.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then,” I said, “you and me's bound for England this night, for I have
-that in my knowledge should buy the safety of the pair of us,” and I
-briefly conveyed my secret.
-</p>
-<p>
-He softly whistled with astonishment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Man! it's a gey taking idea,” he confessed. “But the bit is to get over
-the Channel.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have thought of that,” said I. “Here's a smuggler wanting no more than
-a rag of sail in this wind to make the passage in a couple of days.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“By the Holy Iron it's the very thing!” he interrupted, slapping his leg.
-</p>
-<p>
-It takes a time to tell all this in writing, but in actual fact our whole
-conversation together in the cabin and on the deck occupied less than five
-minutes. We were both of us too well aware of the value of time to have
-had it otherwise and waste moments in useless conversation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What is to be done is this,” I suggested, casting a rapid glance along
-the decks and upwards to the spars. “I will rig up a sail of some sort
-here and you will hasten over again in the small-boat to the hoy and give
-Father Hamilton the option of coming with us. He may or he may not care to
-run the risks involved in the exploit, but at least we owe him the offer.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But when I'm across at the hoy there, here's you with this dovering body
-and Captain Thurot. Another knock might settle the one, but you would
-scarcely care to have knocks going in the case of an old friend like Tony
-Thurot, who's only doing his duty in keeping you here with such a secret
-in your charge.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have thought of that, too,” I replied quickly, “and I will hazard
-Thurot.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Kilbride lowered himself into the small-boat, pushed off from the side of
-the frigate, and in silence half-drifted in the direction of the Dutch
-vessel. My plans were as clear in my head as if they had been printed on
-paper. First of all I took such provender as I could get from my cabin and
-placed it along with a breaker of water and a lamp in the cutter. Then I
-climbed the shrouds of the frigate, and cut away a small sail that I
-guessed would serve my purpose, letting it fall into the cutter. I made a
-shift at sheets and halyards and found that with a little contrivance I
-could spread enough canvas to take the cutter in that weather at a fair
-speed before the wind that had a blessed disposition towards the coast of
-England. I worked so fast it was a miracle, dreading at every rustle of
-the stolen sail—at every creak of the cutter on the fenders, that
-either the captain or his unconscious seaman would awake.
-</p>
-<p>
-My work was scarcely done when the small-boat came off again from the hoy,
-and as she drew cautiously near I saw that MacKellar had with him the
-bulky figure of the priest. He climbed ponderously, at my signal, into the
-cutter, and MacKellar joined me for a moment on the deck of the frigate.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He goes with us then?” I asked, indicating the priest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“To the Indies if need be,” said Kilbride. “But the truth is that this
-accident is a perfect God-send to him, for England's the one place below
-the firmament he would choose for a refuge at this moment. Is all ready?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If my sail-making's to be relied on she's in the best of trim,” I
-answered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And—what do ye call it?—all found?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A water breaker, a bottle of brandy, a bag of bread—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Enough for a foray of fifty men!” he said heartily. “Give me meal and
-water in the heel of my shoe and I would count it very good vivers for a
-fortnight.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He went into the cutter; I released the ropes that bound her to the
-frigate and followed him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mon Dieu</i> dear lad, 'tis a world of most fantastic happenings,” was
-all the poor old priest said, shivering in the cold night air.
-</p>
-<p>
-We had to use the oars of the frigate's small-boat for a stroke or two so
-as to get the cutter round before the wind; she drifted quickly from the
-large ship's side almost like a living thing with a crave for freedom at
-last realised; up speedily ran her sail, unhandsome yet sufficient, the
-friendly air filled out the rustling folds and drove her through the night
-into the open sea.
-</p>
-<p>
-There is something in a moonlit night at sea that must touch in the most
-cloddish heart a spring of fancy. It is friendlier than the dawn that at
-its most glorious carries a hint of sorrow, or than the bravest sunset
-that reminds us life is a brief day at the best of it, and the one thing
-sempiternal yet will be the darkness. We sat in the well of the cutter—three
-odd adventurers, myself the most silent because I had the double share of
-dubiety about the enterprise, for who could tell how soon the doomster's
-hand would be on me once my feet were again on British soil? Yet now when
-I think of it—of the moonlit sea, the swelling sail above us, the
-wake behind that shone with fire—I must count it one of the happiest
-experiences of my life.
-</p>
-<p>
-The priest looked back at the low land of France receding behind us, with
-its scattered lights on the harbour and the shore, mere subjects to the
-queenly moon. “There goes poor Father Hamilton,” said he whimsically,
-“happy schoolboy, foolish lover in Louvain that had never but moonlit
-eves, parish priest of Dixmunde working two gardens, human and divine,
-understanding best the human where his bees roved, but loving all men good
-and ill. There goes the spoiled page, the botched effort, and here's a fat
-old man at the start of a new life, and never to see his darling France
-again. Ah! the good mother; <i>Dieu te bénisse!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XL
-</h2>
-<h3>
-MY INTERVIEW WITH PITT
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>f our voyage across the Channel there need be no more said than that it
-was dull to the very verge of monotony, for the wind, though favourable,
-was often in a faint where our poor sail shook idly at the mast. Two days
-later we were in London, and stopped at the Queen's Head above Craig's
-Court in Charing Cross.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now I had to make the speediest possible arrangement for a meeting
-with those who could make the most immediate and profitable use of the
-tidings I was in a position to lay before them, by no means an easy matter
-to decide upon for a person who had as little knowledge of London as he
-had of the Cities of the Plain.
-</p>
-<p>
-MacKellar—ever the impetuous Gael—was for nothing less than a
-personal approach to his Majesty.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The man that is on the top of the hill will always be seeing furthest,”
- he said. “I have come in contact with the best in Europe on that under
-standing, but it calls for a kind of Hielan' tact that—that—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That you cannot credit to a poor Lowlander like myself,” said I, amused
-at his vanity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I'm meaning no offence, just no offence at all,” he responded
-quickly, and flushing at his <i>faux pas</i>. “You have as much talent of
-the kind as the best of us I'm not denying, and I have just the one
-advantage, that I was brought up in a language that has delicacies of
-address beyond the expression of the English, or the French that is, in
-some measure, like it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well,” said I, “the spirit of it is obviously not to be translated into
-English, judging from the way you go on crying up your countrymen at the
-expense of my own.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is true enough,” he conceded, “and a very just observe; but no
-matter, what I would be at is that your news is worth too much to be
-wasted on any poor lackey hanging about his Majesty's back door, who might
-either sell it or you on his own behoof, or otherwise make a mull of the
-matter with the very best intentions. If you would take my way of it,
-there would be but Geordie himself for you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What have you to say to that?” I asked the priest, whose knowledge of the
-world struck me as in most respects more trustworthy than that of this
-impetuous Highland chirurgeon.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A plague of your kings! say I; sure I know nothing about them, for my
-luck has rubbed me against the gabardine and none of your ermined cloaks.
-There must be others who know his Majesty's affairs better than his
-Majesty himself, otherwise what advantage were there in being a king?”
- </p>
-<p>
-In fine his decision was for one of the Ministers, and at last the
-Secretary of State was decided on.
-</p>
-<p>
-How I came to meet with Mr. Pitt need not here be recorded; 'twas indeed
-more a matter of good luck than of good guidance, and had there been no
-Scots House of Argyll perhaps I had never got rid of my weighty secret
-after all. I had expected to meet a person magnificent in robes of state;
-instead of which 'twas a man in a blue coat with yellow metal buttons,
-full round bob wig, a large hat, and no sword-bag nor ruffles that met me—more
-like a country coachman or a waggoner than a personage of importance.
-</p>
-<p>
-He scanned over again the letter that had introduced me and received me
-cordially enough. In a few words I indicated that I was newly come from
-France, whence I had escaped in a smuggler's boat, and that I had news of
-the first importance which I counted it my duty to my country to convey to
-him with all possible expedition.
-</p>
-<p>
-At that his face changed and he showed singularly little eagerness to hear
-any more.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There will be—there will be the—the usual bargain, I presume,
-Mr. Greig?” he said, half-smiling. “What are the conditions on which I am
-to have this vastly important intelligence?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I never dreamt of making any, sir,” I answered, promptly, with some
-natural chagrin, and yet mixed with a little confusion that I should in
-truth be expecting something in the long run for my story.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pardon my stupid pleasantry, Mr. Greig,” he said, reddening slightly. “I
-have been so long one of his Majesty's Ministers, and of late have seen so
-many urgent couriers from France with prime news to be bargained for, that
-I have grown something of a cynic. You are the first that has come with a
-secret not for sale. Believe me, your story will have all the more
-attention because it is offered disinterestedly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-In twenty minutes I had put him into possession of all I knew of the plans
-for invasion. He walked up and down the room, with his hands behind his
-back, intently listening, now and then uttering an exclamation incredulous
-or astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You are sure of all this?” he asked at last sharply, looking in my face
-with embarrassing scrutiny.
-</p>
-<p>
-“As sure as any mortal man may be with the gift of all his senses,” I
-replied firmly. “At this moment Thurot's vessel is, I doubt not, taking in
-her stores; the embarkation of troops is being practised daily, troops are
-assembled all along the coast from Brest to Vannes, and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! on these points we are, naturally, not wholly dark,” said the
-Minister. “We have known for a year of this somewhat theatrical display on
-the part of the French, but the lines of the threatened invasion are not
-such as your remarkable narrative suggests. You have been good enough to
-honour me with your confidence, Mr. Greig; let me reciprocate by telling
-you that we have our—our good friends in France, and that for six
-months back I have been in possession of the Chevalier D'Arcy's
-instructions to Dumont to reconnoitre the English coast, and of Dumont's
-report, with the chart of the harbours and towns where he proposed that
-the descent should be made.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “The gentleman who
-gave us the information,” he went on, “stipulated for twenty thousand
-pounds and a pension of two thousand a year as the just reward for his
-loving service to his country in her hour of peril. He was not to get his
-twenty thousand, I need scarcely say, but he was to get something in the
-event of his intelligence proving to be accurate, and if it were for no
-more than to get the better of such a dubious patriot I should wish his
-tale wholly disproved, though we have hitherto acted on the assumption
-that it might be trustworthy. There cannot be alternative plans of
-invasion; our informant—another Scotsman, I may say—is either
-lying or has merely the plan of a feint.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You are most kind, sir,” said I.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh,” he said, “I take your story first, and as probably the most correct,
-simply because it comes from one that loves his country and makes no
-bagman's bargains for the sale of secrets vital to her existence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am much honoured, sir,” said I, with a bow.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then he stopped his walk abruptly and faced me again.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You have told me, Mr. Greig,” he went on, “that Conflans is to descend in
-a week or two on the coast of Scotland, and that Thurot is to create a
-diversion elsewhere with the aid of the Swedes, I have, from the most
-delicate considerations, refrained from asking you how you know all this?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I heard it from the lips of Thurot himself.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Thurot! impossible!” he murmured.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of Thurot himself, sir.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You must be much in that pirate's confidence,” said Mr. Pitt, for the
-first time with suspicion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not to that extent that he would tell me of his plans for invading my
-country,” I answered, “and I learned these things by the merest accident.
-I overheard him speak last Sunday in Dunkerque with the Young Pretender—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The Pretender!” cried the Minister, shrugging his shoulders, and looking
-at me with more suspicion than ever. “You apparently move in the most
-select and interesting society, Mr. Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“In this case, sir, it was none of my choosing,” I replied, and went on
-briefly to explain how I had got into Thurot's chamber unknown to him, and
-unwittingly overhead the Prince and him discuss the plan.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very good, very good, and still—you will pardon me—I cannot
-see how so devout a patriot as Mr. Greig should be in the intimacy of men
-like Thurot?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A most natural remark under the circumstances,” I replied. “Thurot saved
-my life from a sinking British vessel, and it is no more than his due to
-say he proved a very good friend to me many a time since. But I was to
-know nothing of his plans of invasion, for he knew very well I had no
-sympathy with them nor with Charles Edward, and, as I have told you, he
-made me his prisoner on his ship so that I might not betray what I had
-overheard.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Minister made hurried notes of what I had told him, and concluded the
-interview by asking where I could be communicated with during the next few
-days.
-</p>
-<p>
-I gave him my direction at the Queen's Head, but added that I had it in my
-mind to go shortly to Edinburgh, where my address would be best known to
-the Lord Advocate.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The Lord Advocate!” said Mr. Pitt, raising his eyebrows.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I may as well make a clean breast of it, sir,” I proceeded hurriedly,
-“and say that I left Scotland under circumstances peculiarly distressing.
-Thurot saved me from a ship called the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, that had been
-scuttled and abandoned with only myself and a seaman on board of her in
-mid-channel, by a man named Daniel Risk.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bless me!” cried Mr. Pitt, “the scoundrel Risk was tried in Edinburgh a
-month or two ago on several charges, including the one you mention, and he
-has either been hanged, or is waiting to be hanged at this moment, in the
-jail at Edinburgh.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I was nominally purser on the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, but in actual fact I
-was fleeing from justice.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Minister hemmed, and fumbled with his papers.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It was owing to a duelling affair, in which I had the misfortune to—to—kill
-my opponent. I desire, sir, above all, to be thoroughly honest, and I am
-bound to tell you it was my first intention to make the conveyance of this
-plan of Thurot's a lever to secure my pardon for the crime of manslaughter
-which lies at my charge. I would wish now that my loyalty to my country
-was really disinterested, and I have, in the last half-hour, made up my
-mind to surrender myself to the law of Scotland.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is for yourself to decide on,” said the Minister more gravely, “but
-I should advise the postponement of your departure to Edinburgh until you
-hear further from me. I shall expect to find you at the inn at Charing
-Cross during the next week; thereafter——”
- </p>
-<p>
-He paused for a moment. “Well—thereafter we shall see,” he added.
-</p>
-<p>
-After a few more words of the kindest nature the Minister shook hands with
-the confessed manslayer (it flashed on me as a curious circumstance), and
-I went back to join the priest and my fellow countryman.
-</p>
-<p>
-They were waiting full of impatience.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Hast the King's pardon in thy pocket, friend Scotland?” cried Father
-Hamilton; then his face sank in sympathy with the sobriety of my own that
-was due to my determination on a surrender to justice once my business
-with the Government was over.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have no more in my pocket than I went out with in the morning,” said I.
-“But my object, so far, has been served. Mr. Pitt knows my story and is
-like to take such steps as maybe needful. As for my own affair I have
-mentioned it, but it has gone no further than that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You're not telling me you did not make a bargain of it before saying a
-word about the bit plan?” cried MacKellar in surprise, and could scarcely
-find words strong enough to condemn me for what he described as my
-stupidity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Many a man will sow the seed that will never eat the syboe,” was his
-comment; “and was I not right yonder when I said yon about the tact? If it
-had been me now I would have gone very canny to the King himself and said:
-'Your Majesty, I'm a man that has made a slip in a little affair as
-between gentlemen, and had to put off abroad until the thing blew by. I
-can save the lives of many thousand Englishmen, and perhaps the country
-itself, by intelligence that came to my knowledge when I was abroad; if I
-prove it, will your Majesty pardon the thing that lies at my charge?'”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And would have his Majesty's signature to the promise as 'twere a deed of
-sale!” laughed the priest convulsively. “La! la! la! Paul, here's our
-Celtic Solon with tact—the tact of the foot-pad. Stand and deliver!
-My pardon, sire, or your life! <i>Mon Dieu!</i> there runs much of the old
-original cateran in thy methods of diplomacy, good Master MacKellar. Too
-much for royal courts, I reckon.” MacKellar pshawed impatiently. “I'm
-asking you what is the Secretary's name, Mr. Greig?” said he. “Fox or Pitt
-it is all the same—the one is sly and the other is deep, and it is
-the natures of their names. I'll warrant Mr. Pitt has forgotten already
-the name of the man who gave him the secret, and the wisest thing Paul
-Greig could do now would be to go into hiding as fast as he can.”
- </p>
-<p>
-But I expressed my determination to wait in the Queen's Head a week
-longer, as I had promised, and thereafter (if nothing happened to prevent
-it) to submit myself at Edinburgh. Though I tried to make as little of
-that as possible to myself, and indeed would make myself believe I was
-going to act with a rare bravery, I must confess now that my determination
-was strengthened greatly by the reflection that my service to the country
-would perhaps annul or greatly modify my sentence.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLI
-</h2>
-<h3>
-TREATS OF FATHER HAMILTON'S DEATH
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a gay place, London, in the days I write of, however it may be now,
-though Father Hamilton was prone occasionally to compare it unfavourably
-with the Paris of his fancy, the which he held a sample-piece of paradise.
-The fogs and rains depressed him; he had an eye altogether unfriendly for
-the signs of striving commerce in the streets and the greedy haste of
-clerks and merchants into whose days of unremitting industry so few joys
-(as he fancied) seemed to enter.
-</p>
-<p>
-MacKellar soon found company in it among silken bucks that held noisy
-sederunts in the evenings at a place called White's and another called (if
-my memory does not fail me) the Cocoa Nut Tree. 'Twas marvellous the
-number of old friends and fellow countrymen that, by his own account, he
-found there. And what open hands they had! But for him that was
-privileged, for old acquaintance sake, to borrow from them, we had found
-our week or two in London singularly hungry because (to tell the truth of
-it) our money was come very nearly to an end. But MacKellar, who had
-foraged so well in Silesia, was equally good at it in the city of London.
-From these night escapades he seldom failed to return richer than he went,
-and it was he who paid the piper with so much of an air of thinking it a
-privilege, that we had not the heart, even if we had the inclination, to
-protest.
-</p>
-<p>
-If I had known then, as I know now, or at least suspect, that the money
-that fed and boarded us was won through his skill at dice and cards, I
-daresay I had shifted sooner from London than I did at the last.
-</p>
-<p>
-Day after day passed, and no word from Mr. Pitt. I dared scarcely leave my
-inn for an hour's airing lest I should be asked for in my absence. There
-was, for a while, a hope that though I had refused to make any bargain
-about the pardon, something—I could not so much as guess what—might
-happen to avert the scandal of a trial at Edinburgh, and the disgrace that
-same might bring upon my family. But day after day passed, as I have said,
-and there came no hint of how matters stood.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then there came a day when I was to consider it mattered very little
-whether I heard from Pitt or not; when even my country was forgotten and I
-was to suffer a loss whose bitterness abides with me yet. It was the death
-of Father Hamilton, whom I had grown to like exceedingly. Birds have built
-and sung for many generations since then; children play in the garden
-still; there is essence at the table, there is sparkle in the wine, and he
-will never enjoy them any more. Fortune has come to me since then, so that
-I might have the wherewithal, if I had the wish, to take the road again
-with him in honesty, and see it even better than when Sin paid the bill
-for us, but it cannot be with him.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was a December day of the whitest, the city smothered in snow, its
-tumult hushed. I had been tempted to wander in the forenoon a good way
-from our lodging. Coming home in the afternoon I met Kilbride, distracted,
-setting out to seek for me. He had a face like the clay, and his hands,
-that grasped my lapels as if I meant to fly from him, were trembling.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Paul,” said he. “Here's the worst of all,” and I declare his cheeks
-were wet with tears.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What is it?” I cried in great alarm.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The priest, the priest,” said he. “He's lying yonder at the ebb, and I'm
-no more use to him than if I were a bairn. I've seen the death-thraws a
-thousand times, but never to vex me just like this before. He could make
-two or three of us in bulk, and yet his heart was like a wean's, and there
-he's crying on you even-on till I was near demented and must run about the
-streets to seek for you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But still you give me no clue!” I cried, hurrying home with him.
-</p>
-<p>
-He gave me the story by the way. It seemed his reverence had had a notion
-to see Eastcheap, round which the writer Shakespeare had thrown a glamour
-for him. He had gone there shortly after I had gone out in the forenoon,
-and after a space of walking about it had found himself in a mean street
-where a blackguard was beating a child. 'Twas the man's own child,
-doubtless, and so he had, I make no doubt, the law of it on his own side,
-but the drunken wretch outdid all reasonable chastisement, and thrashed
-her till the blood flowed.
-</p>
-<p>
-Up ran the priest and took her in his arms, shielding her from the blows
-of the father's cudgel with his arm. The child nuzzled to his breast,
-shrieking, and the father tried to pull her away. Between them she fell;
-the priest stood over her, keeping back the beast that threatened. The man
-struck at him with his stick; Father Hamilton wrenched it from him, threw
-it down that he might have no unfair advantage, and flung himself upon the
-wretch. He could have crushed him into jelly, but the man was armed, and
-suddenly drew a knife. He thrust suddenly between the priest's shoulders,
-released himself from the tottering body, and disappeared with his child
-apparently beyond all chance of identification or discovery.
-</p>
-<p>
-Father Hamilton was carried home upon a litter.
-</p>
-<p>
-“O God! Kilbride, and must he die?” I cried in horror.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He will travel in less than an hour,” said the Highlander, vastly moved.
-“And since he came here his whole cry has been for you and Father Joyce.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We went into the room that seemed unnaturally white and sunny. He lay upon
-the bed-clothes. The bed was drawn towards the window, through which the
-domes and towers and roofs of London could be seen, with their accustomed
-greyness gone below the curtain of the snow. A blotch of blood was on his
-shirt-front as he lay upon his side. I thought at first it was his own
-life oozing, but learned a little later that the stricken child had had
-her face there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Paul! Paul!” he said, “I thought thou wouldst blame me for deserting thee
-again, and this time without so much as a letter of farewell.”
- </p>
-<p>
-What could I do but take his hand, and fall upon my knees beside his bed?
-He had blue eyes that never aged nor grossened—the eyes of a boy,
-clear, clean, and brave, and round about them wrinkles played in a sad,
-sweet smile.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What, Paul!” he said, “all this for behemoth! for the old man of the sea
-that has stuck on thy shoulders for a twelvemonth, and spurred thee to
-infinite follies and perils! I am no more worth a tear of thine than is
-the ivied ash that falls untimely and decayed, eaten out of essence by the
-sins he sheltered. And the poor child, Paul!—the poor child with her
-arms round my neck, her tears brine—sure I have them on my lips—the
-true <i>viaticum!</i> The brute! the brute! Ah no! ah no! poor sinner, we
-do not know.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, father!” I cried, “and must we never go into the woods and towns any
-more?”
- </p>
-<p>
-He smiled again and stroked my hair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Not in these fields, boy,” said he, “but perhaps in more spacious, less
-perplexed. Be good, be simple, be kind! Tis all I know.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We heard the steps of Father Joyce upon the stairs.
-</p>
-<p>
-“All I know!” repeated the priest. “Fifty years to learn it, and I might
-have found it in my mother's lap. <i>Chère ange</i>—the little
-mother—'twas a good world! And Fanchon that is dead below the snow
-in Louvain—oh, the sweet world! And the sunny gardens of bees and
-children—”
- </p>
-<p>
-His eyes were dull. A pallor was on his countenance. He breathed with
-difficulty. Kilbride, who stood by, silent, put a finger on his pulse. At
-that he opened his eyes again, once more smiling, and Father Joyce was at
-the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Kiss me, Paul,” said the dying man, “I hear them singing prime.”
- </p>
-<p>
-When Father Joyce was gone I came into the room again where the priest lay
-smiling still, great in figure, in the simplicity and sweetness of his
-countenance like a child.
-</p>
-<p>
-Kilbride and I stood silent for a little by the bed, and the Highlander
-was the first to speak. “I have seen worse,” said he, “than Father
-Hamilton.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It may seem a grudging testimony, but not to me that heard it.
-</p>
-<p>
-On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news
-which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, “Have you
-heard the latest?” he cried. “It is just what I expected,” he went on.
-“They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the
-tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove him
-back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of the
-Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The invasion
-is at an end.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is gallant news!” I cried, warm with satisfaction.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Maybe,” said he indifferently, “but the main thing is that Paul Greig,
-who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in cheap
-lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. Indeed,
-perhaps he's worse off than ever he was.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How is that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, they ken where you are, for one thing, and you put yourself in
-their power. I am one that has small faith in Governments. What will
-hinder them to clap you in jail and save another reward like the first one
-Pitt told you about? I would never put it past a Sassenach of the name.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then I told him it had been in my mind ever since I had seen the Minister
-to go to Edinburgh and give myself up to the authorities.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are ye daft?” he cried, astonished.
-</p>
-<p>
-I could only shrug my shoulders at that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Perhaps you fancy this business of the invasion will help you to get your
-neck out of the loop? I would not lippen on a Government for ten minutes.
-You have saved the country—that's the long and the short of it; now
-you must just be saving your own hide. There's nothing for us but the
-Continent again, and whether you're in the key for that or not, here's a
-fellow will sleep uneasy till he has Europe under his head.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Even at the cost of parting with Kilbride I determined to carry out my
-intention of going to Edinburgh. With the priest gone, no prospect of Mr.
-Pitt taking the first step, and Kilbride in the humour for a retreat, I
-decided that the sooner I brought matters to a head the better.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a mail coach that went north weekly. It took a considerable deal
-of money and a fortnight of time to make the journey between the two
-capitals, but MacKellar, free-handed to the last, lent me the money (which
-I sent him six months later to Holland), and I set out one Saturday from
-the “Bull and Whistle” in a genteel two-end spring machine that made a
-brisk passage—the weather considered—as far as York on our way
-into Scotland.
-</p>
-<p>
-I left on a night of jubilation for the close of the war and the overthrow
-of Conflans. Bonfires blazed on the river-side and the eminences round the
-city; candles were in every window, the people were huzzaing in the
-streets where I left behind me only the one kent face—that of
-MacKellar of Kilbride who came to the coach to see the last of me. And
-everywhere was the snow—deep, silent, apparently enduring.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-I DEPART IN THE MIDST OF ILLUMINATION AND COME TO A JAIL, BAD NEWS, AND AN
-OLD ENEMY
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e carried this elation all through England with us. Whatever town we
-stopped at flags were flying, and the oldest resident must be tipsy on the
-green for the glory of the British Isles. The seven passengers who
-occupied the coach with me found in these rejoicings, and in the great
-event which gave rise to them, subjects of unending discourse as we
-dragged through the country in the wake of steaming horses. There was with
-us a maker of perukes that had found trade dull in Town (as they call it),
-and planned to start business in York; a widow woman who had buried her
-second husband and was returning to her parents in Northumberland with a
-sprightliness that told she was ready to try a third if he offered; and a
-squire (as they call a laird) of Morpeth.
-</p>
-<p>
-But for the common interest in the rejoicings it might have been a week
-before the company thawed to each other enough to start a conversation.
-The first mile of the journey, however, found us in the briskest clebate
-on Hawke and his doings. I say us, but in truth my own share in the
-conversation was very small as I had more serious reflections.
-</p>
-<p>
-The perruquier, as was natural to his trade, knew everything and itched to
-prove it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have it on the very best authority,” he would say, “indeed”—with
-a whisper for all the passengers as if he feared the toiling horses
-outside might hear him—“indeed between ourselves I do not mind
-telling that it was from Sir Patrick Dall's man—that the French
-would have been on top of us had not one of themselves sold the plot for a
-hatful of guineas.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is not what I heard at all,” broke in the squire. “I fancy you are
-mistaken, sir. The truth, as I have every reason to believe, is that one
-of the spies of the Government—a Scotsman, by all accounts—discovered
-Conflans' plans, and came over to London with them. A good business too,
-egad! otherwise we'd soon have nothing to eat at Morpeth George Inn on
-market days but frogs, and would find the parley-voos overrunning the
-country by next Lent with their masses and mistresses, and so on. A good
-business for merry old England that this spy had his English ears open.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It may be you are right, sir,” conceded the perruquier deferentially.
-“Now that I remember, Sir Patrick's gentleman said something of the same
-kind, and that it was one of them Scotsmen brought the news. Like enough
-the fellow found it worth his while. It will be a pretty penny in his
-pocket, I'll wager. He'll be able to give up spying and start an inn.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have little doubt the ideal nature of retirement to an inn came to the
-mind of the peruke maker from the fact that at the moment we were drawing
-up before “The Crown” at Bawtry. Reek rose in clouds from the horses, as
-could be seen from the light of the doors that showed the narrow street
-knee-deep in snow; a pleasant smell of cooking supper and warm cordials
-came out to us, welcome enough it may be guessed after our long day's
-stage. The widow clung just a trifle too long on my arm as I gallantly
-helped her out of the coach; perhaps she thought my silence and my
-abstracted gaze at her for the last hour or two betrayed a tender
-interest, but I was thinking how close the squire and the wig-maker had
-come upon the truth, and yet made one mistake in that part of their tale
-that most closely affected their silent fellow passenger.
-</p>
-<p>
-The sea-fight and the war lasted us for a topic all through England, but
-when we had got into Scotland on the seventh day after my departure from
-London, the hostlers at the various change-houses yoked fresh horses to
-the tune of “Daniel Risk.”
- </p>
-<p>
-We travelled in the most tempestuous weather. Snow fell incessantly, and
-was cast in drifts along the road; sometimes it looked as if we were bound
-for days, but we carried the mails, and with gigantic toil the driver
-pushed us through.
-</p>
-<p>
-The nearer we got to Edinburgh the more we learned of the notorious Daniel
-Risk, whom no one knew better than myself. The charge of losing his ship
-wilfully was, it appeared, among the oldest and least heinous of his
-crimes. Smuggling had engaged his talent since then, and he had murdered a
-cabin-boy under the most revolting circumstances. He had almost escaped
-the charge of scuttling the <i>Seven Sisters</i>, for it was not till he
-had been in the dock for the murder that evidence of that transaction came
-from the seaman Horn, who had been wrecked twice, it appeared, and far in
-other parts of the world between the time he was abandoned in the scuttled
-ship and returned to his native land, to tell how the ruffian had left two
-innocent men to perish.
-</p>
-<p>
-Even in these days of wild happenings the fame of Risk exceeded that of
-every malefactor that season, and when we got to Edinburgh the street
-singers were chanting doleful ballads about him.
-</p>
-<p>
-I would have given the wretch no thought, or very little, for my own
-affairs were heavy enough, had not the very day I landed in Edinburgh seen
-a broad-sheet published with “The Last Words and Warning” of Risk. The
-last words were in an extraordinarily devout spirit; the homily breathed
-what seemed a real repentance for a very black life. It would have moved
-me less if I could have learned then, as I did later, that the whole thing
-was the invention of some drunken lawyer's clerk in the Canongate, who had
-probably devised scores of such fictions for the entertainment of the
-world that likes to read of scaffold repentances and of wicked lives. The
-condition of the wretch touched me, and I made up my mind to see the
-condemned man who, by the accounts of the journals, was being visited
-daily by folks interested in his forlorn case.
-</p>
-<p>
-With some manoeuvring I got outside the bars of his cell.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was little change in him. The same wild aspect was there though he
-pretended a humility. The skellie eye still roved with little of the love
-of God or man in it; his iron-grey hair hung tawted about his temples.
-Only his face was changed and had the jail-white of the cells, for he had
-been nearly two months in confinement. When I entered he did not know me;
-indeed, he scarce looked the road I was on at first, but applied himself
-zealously to the study of a book wherein he pretended to be rapturously
-engrossed.
-</p>
-<p>
-The fact that the Bible (for so it was) happened to be upside down in his
-hands somewhat staggered my faith in the repentance of Daniel Risk, who, I
-remembered, had never numbered reading among his arts.
-</p>
-<p>
-I addressed him as Captain.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am no Captain,” said he in a whine, “but plain Dan Risk, the blackest
-sinner under the cope and canopy of heaven.” And he applied himself to his
-volume as before.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do you know me?” I asked, and he must have found the voice familiar, for
-he rose from his stool, approached the bars of his cage, and examined me.
-“Andy Greigs nephew!” he cried. “It's you; I hope you're a guid man?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I might be the best of men—and that's a dead one—so far as
-you are concerned,” I replied, stung a little by the impertinence of him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The hand of Providence saved me that last item in my bloody list o'
-crimes,” said he, with a singular mixture of the whine for his sins and of
-pride in their number. “Your life was spared, I mak' nae doubt, that ye
-micht repent o' your past, and I'm sorry to see ye in sic fallals o'
-dress, betokenin' a licht mind and a surrender to the vanities.”
- </p>
-<p>
-My dress was scantily different from what it had been on the <i>Seven
-Sisters</i>, except for some lace, my tied hair, and a sword.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, and I am in anything but a light frame of mind, Captain Risk,” I
-said. “There are reasons for that, apart from seeing you in this condition
-which I honestly deplore in spite of all the wrong you did me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I thank God that has been forgiven me,” he said, with a hypocritical cock
-of his hale eye. “I was lost in sin, a child o' the deevil, but noo I am
-made clean,” and much more of the same sort that it is unnecessary herp to
-repeat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You can count on my forgiveness, so far as that goes,” I said, disgusted
-with his manner.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm greatly obleeged,” said he, “but man's forgiveness doesna coont sae
-muckle as a preen, and I would ask ye to see hoo it stands wi' yersel',
-Daniel Risk has made his peace wi' his Maker, but what way is it wi' the
-nephew o' Andrew Greig?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It ill becomes a man in a condemned cell to be preacher to those outside
-of it,” I told him in some exasperation at his presumption.
-</p>
-<p>
-He threw up his hands and glowered at me with his gleed eye looking seven
-ways for sixpence as the saying goes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Dinna craw ower crouse, young man,” he said. “Whit brings ye here I canna
-guess, but I ken that you that's there should be in here where I am, for
-there's blood on your hands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had me there! Oh, yes, he had me there! Every vein in my body told me
-so. But I was not in the humour to make an admission of that kind to this
-creature.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have no conceit of myself in any respect whatever, Daniel Risk,” I said
-slowly. “I came here from France but yesterday after experiences there
-that paid pretty well for my boy's crime, for I have heard from neither
-kith nor kin since you cozened me on the boards of the <i>Seven Sisters</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He put his hands upon the bars and looked at me. He wore a prison garb of
-the most horrible colour, and there were round him the foul stenches of
-the cell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ay!” said he. “New back! And they havena nabbed ye yet! Weel, they'll no'
-be lang, maybe, o' doin' that, for I'll warrant ye've been advertised
-plenty aboot the country; ony man that has read a gazette or clattered in
-a public-hoose kens your description and the blackness o' the deed you're
-chairged wi'. All I did was to sink a bit ship that was rotten onyway,
-mak' free trade wi' a few ankers o' brandy that wad hae been drunk by the
-best i' the land includin' the very lords that tried me, and accidentally
-kill a lad that sair needed a beltin' to gar him dae his honest wark. But
-you shot a man deliberate and his blood is crying frae the grund. If ye
-hurry ye'll maybe dance on naethin' sooner nor mysel'.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was so much impotent venom in what he said that I lost my anger with
-the wretch drawing near his end, and looked on him with pity. It seemed to
-annoy him more than if I had reviled him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm a white soul.” says he, clasping his hands—the most arrant
-blasphemy of a gesture from one whose deeds were desperately wicked! “I'm
-a white soul, praise God! and value not your opinions a docken leaf. Ye
-micht hae come here to this melancholy place to slip a bit guinea into my
-hand for some few extra comforts, instead o' which it's jist to anger me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He glued his cheek against the bars and stared at me from head to foot,
-catching at the last a glance of my fateful shoes. He pointed at them with
-a rigid finger.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/407.jpg" alt="407" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-“Man! man!” he cried, “there's the sign and token o' the lot o' ye—the
-bloody shoon. They may weel be red for him and you that wore them. Red
-shoon! red shoon!” He stopped suddenly. “After a',” said he, “I bear ye
-nae ill-will, though I hae but to pass the word to the warder on the ither
-side o' the rails. And oh! abin a' repent——” He was off again
-into one of his blasphemies, for at my elbow now was an old lady who was
-doubtless come to confirm the conversion of Daniel Risk. I turned to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-He cast his unaffected eye piously heavenward, and coolly offered up a
-brief prayer for “this erring young brother determined on the ways of vice
-and folly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It may be scarce credible that I went forth from the condemned cell with
-the most shaken mind I had had since the day I fled from the moor of
-Mearns. The streets were thronged with citizens; the castle ramparts rose
-up white and fine, the bastions touched by sunset fires, a window blazing
-like a star. Above the muffled valley, clear, silvery, proud, rang a
-trumpet on the walls, reminding me of many a morning rouse in far Silesia.
-Was I not better there? Why should I be the sentimental fool and run my
-head into a noose? Risk, whom I had gone to see in pity, paid me with a
-vengeance! He had put into the blunt language of the world all the horror
-I had never heard in words before, though it had often been in my mind. I
-saw myself for the first time the hunted outlaw, captured at last. “You
-that's out there should be in where I am!” It was true! But to sit for
-weeks in that foul hole within the iron rail, waiting on doom, reflecting
-on my folks disgraced—I could not bear it!
-</p>
-<p>
-Risk cured me of my intention to hazard all on the flimsy chance of a
-Government's gratitude, and I made up my mind to seek safety and
-forgetfulness again in flight to another country.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLIII
-</h2>
-<h3>
-BACK TO THE MOORLAND
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> had seen yon remnant of a man in the Tolbooth cell, and an immediate
-death upon the gallows seemed less dreadful than the degradation and the
-doubt he must suffer waiting weary months behind bars. But gallows or cell
-was become impossible for the new poltroon of Dan Risk's making to
-contemplate with any equanimity, and I made up my mind that America was a
-country which would benefit greatly by my presence, if I could get a
-passage there by working for it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Perhaps I would not have made so prompt a decision upon America had not
-America implied a Clyde ship, and the Clyde as naturally implied a flying
-visit to my home in Mearns. Since ever I had set foot on Scotland, and saw
-Scots reek rise from Scots lums, and blue bonnets on Scots heads, and
-heard the twang of the true North and kindly from the people about me, I
-had been wondering about my folk. It was plain they had never got the
-letter I had sent by Horn, or got it only recently, for he himself had
-only late got home.
-</p>
-<p>
-To see the house among the trees, then, to get a reassuring sight of its
-smoke and learn about my parents, was actually of more importance in my
-mind than my projected trip to America, though I did not care to confess
-so much to myself.
-</p>
-<p>
-I went to Glasgow on the following day; the snow was on the roofs; the
-students were noisily battling; the bells were cheerfully ringing as on
-the day with whose description I open this history. I put up at the
-“Saracen Head,” and next morning engaged a horse to ride to Mearns. In the
-night there had come a change in the weather; I splashed through slush of
-melted snow, and soaked in a constant rain, but objected none at all
-because it gave me an excuse to keep up the collar of my cloak, and pull
-the brim of my hat well forward on my face and so minimise the risk of
-identification.
-</p>
-<p>
-There is the lichened root of an ancient fallen saugh tree by the side of
-Earn Water between Kirkillstane and Driepps that I cannot till this day
-look on without a deep emotion. Walter's bairns have seen me sitting there
-more than once, and unco solemn so that they have wondered, the cause
-beyond their comprehension. It was there I drew up my horse to see the
-house of Kirkillstane from the very spot where I had rambled with my
-shabby stanzas, and felt the first throb of passion for a woman.
-</p>
-<p>
-The country was about me familiar in every dyke and tree and eminence;
-where the water sobbed in the pool it had the accent it had in my dreams;
-there was a broken branch of ash that trailed above the fall, where I
-myself had dragged it once in climbing. The smell of moss and rotten
-leafage in the dripping rain, the eerie aspect of the moorland in the
-mist, the call of lapwings—all was as I had left it. There was not
-the most infinite difference to suggest that I had seen another world, and
-lived another life, and become another than the boy that wandered here.
-</p>
-<p>
-I rode along the river to find the smoke rising from my father's house—thank
-God! but what the better was the outlaw son for that? Dare he darken again
-the door he had disgraced, and disturb anew the hearts he had made sore?
-</p>
-<p>
-I pray my worst enemy may never feel torn by warring dictates of the
-spirit as I was that dreary afternoon by the side of Earn; I pray he may
-never know the pang with which I decided that old events were best let
-lie, and that I must be content with that brief glimpse of home before
-setting forth again upon the roads of dubious fortune. Fortune! Did I not
-wear just now the very Shoes of Fortune? They had come I knew not whence,
-from what magic part and artisan of heathendom I could not even guess, to
-my father's brother; they had covered the unresting foot of him; to me
-they had brought their curse of discontent, and so in wearing them I
-seemed doomed to be the unhappy rover, too.
-</p>
-<p>
-The afternoon grew loud with wind as I sat my horse beside the increasing
-water; I felt desolate beyond expression.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, there must be an end of it some way!” I said bitterly, and I turned
-to go.
-</p>
-<p>
-The storm opposed me as I cantered over Whig-gitlaw, and won by Brooms,
-and Bishops Offerance, and Kilree. Shepherds sheltered in the lee of
-dykes, and women hurried out and shuttered windows. I saw sheep hastening
-into the angles of the fields, and the wild white sea-gull beating across
-the sky. The tempest thrashed on me as though it could not have me go too
-soon from the country of my shame; I broke the horse to gallop, and fields
-and dykes flew by like things demented.
-</p>
-<p>
-Then of a sudden the beast grew lame; I searched for a stone or a cast
-shoe, but neither ailed him, and plainly the ride to town that night was
-impossible. Where the beast failed was within half a mile of Newton, and
-at all hazards I decided I must make for the inn there. I felt there were
-risks of recognition, but I must run them. I led the horse by a side path,
-and reached the inn no sooner than the darkness that fell that night with
-unusual suddenness. Lights were in the house, and the sound of rural
-merriment in the kitchen, where farm lads drank twopenny ale, and sang.
-</p>
-<p>
-A man—he proved to be the innkeeper—came to my summons with a
-lantern in his hand, and held it up to see what wayfarer was this in such
-a night. He saw as little of me as my hat and cloak could reveal, and I
-saw, what greatly relieved me, that he was not John Warnock, who had
-tenanted the inn when I left the country, but a new tenant and one unknown
-to me. He helped me to unsaddle the horse, discovered with me that the
-lameness would probably succumb to a night in the stall, and unburdened
-himself to the questions every unknown traveller in the shire of Renfrew
-may expect.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You'll be frae Ayr, maybe, or Irvine?”
- </p>
-<p>
-No, I was from neither; I was from Glasgow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Say ye sae, noo! Dod! it's nae nicht for travelling and nae wonder your
-horse is lamed. Ye'll be for ower Fenwick way, noo, i' the mornin'?” Nor
-was I for over Fenwick way in the morning. I was for Glasgow again.
-</p>
-<p>
-He looked from the corners of his eyes at this oddity who travelled like a
-shuttle in such weather. I was drenched with rain, and my spatter-dashes,
-with which I had thought to make up in some degree for the inadequate
-foot-wear of red shoes on horseback, were foul with clay. He presumed I
-was for supper?
-</p>
-<p>
-“No,” I answered; “I'm more in the humour for bed, and I will be obliged
-if you send to my room for my clothes in a little so that they may be dry
-by the time I start in the morning, and I shall set out at seven if by
-that time my horse is recovered.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I drank a tankard of ale for the good of the house, as we say, during a
-few minutes in the parlour, making my dripping clothes and a headache the
-excuse for refusing the proffered hospitality of the kitchen where the
-ploughboys sang, and then went to the little cam-ceiled room where a hasty
-bed had been made for me.
-</p>
-<p>
-The world outside was full of warring winds and plashing rains, into which
-the yokels went at last reluctantly, and when they were gone I fell
-asleep, wakening once only for a moment when my wet clothes were being
-taken from the room.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-CHAPTER XLIV
-</h2>
-<h3>
-WHEREIN THE SHOES OF FORTUNE BRING ME HOME
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> came down from my cam-ceiled room to a breakfast by candle-light in a
-morning that was yet stormy. The landlord himself waited on me ('twas no
-other than Ralph Craig that's now retired at the Whinnell), and he had a
-score of apologies for his servant lass that had slept in too long, as he
-clumsily set a table with his own hand, bringing in its equipment in
-single pieces.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was a nervousness in his manner that escaped me for a little in the
-candle-light, but I saw it finally with some wonder, rueing I had agreed
-to have breakfast here at all, and had not taken my horse, now recovered
-of his lameness, and pushed on out of a neighbourhood where I had no right
-in common sense to be.
-</p>
-<p>
-If the meal was slow of coming it was hearty enough, though the host
-embarrassed me too much with his attentions. He was clearly interested in
-my personality.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's not the first time ye've been in the 'Red Lion,'” said he with an
-assurance that made me stare.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And what way should you be thinking that?” I asked, beginning to feel
-more anxious about my position.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, jist a surmise o' my ain,” he answered. “Ye kent your way to the
-stable in the dark, and then—and then there's whiles a twang o' the
-Mearns in your speech.”
- </p>
-<p>
-This was certainly coming too close! I hastened through my breakfast, paid
-my lawing, and ordered out my horse. That took so long that I surmised the
-man was wilfully detaining me. “This fellow has certainly some project to
-my detriment,” I told myself, and as speedily as I might got into the
-saddle. Then he said what left no doubt:
-</p>
-<p>
-“They'll be gey glad to see ye at the Hazel Den, Mr. Greig.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I felt a stound of anguish at the words that might in other circumstances
-have been true but now were so remote from it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You seem to have a very gleg eye in your head,” I said, “and to have a
-great interest in my own affairs.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No offence, Mr. Paul, no offence!” said he civilly, and indeed abashed.
-“There's a lassie in the kitchen that was ance your mither's servant and
-she kent your shoes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I hope then you'll say nothing about my being here to any one—for
-the sake of the servant's old mistress—that was my mother.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That <i>was</i> your mither!” he repeated. “And what for no' yet? She'll
-be prood to see ye hame.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Is it well with them up there?” I eagerly asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-I rode like fury home. The day was come before I reached the dykes of
-Hazel Den. Smoke was rising from its chimneys; there was a homely sound of
-lowing cattle, and a horse was saddling for my father who was preparing to
-ride over to the inn at Newton to capture his errant son. He stood before
-the door, a little more grey, a little more bent, a little more shrunken
-than when I had seen him last. When I drew up before him with my hat in my
-hand and leaped out of the saddle, he scarcely grasped at first the fact
-that here was his son.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Father! Father!” I cried to him, and he put his arms about my shoulders.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You're there, Paul!” said he at last. “Come your ways in; your dear
-mother is making your breakfast.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I could not have had it otherwise—'twas the welcome I would have
-chosen!
-</p>
-<p>
-His eyes were brimming over; his voice was full of sobs and laughter as he
-cried “Katrine! Katrine!” and my mother came to throw herself into my
-arms.
-</p>
-<p>
-My Shoes of Fortune had done me their one good office; they had brought me
-home.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now, my dear David, and Quentin, and Jean, my tale is ended, leaving
-some folks who figured therein a space with their ultimate fortunes
-unexplained. There is a tomb in Rome that marks the end of Prince Charles
-Edward's wanderings and exploits, ambitions, follies, and passions. Of him
-and of my countrywoman, Clementina Walkinshaw, you will by-and-by read
-with understanding in your history-books. She died unhappy and disgraced,
-yet I can never think of her but as young, beautiful, kind, the fool of
-her affections, the plaything of Circumstance. Clancarty's after career I
-never learned, but Thurot, not long after I escaped from him in Dunkerque,
-plundered the town of Carrickfergus, in Ireland, and was overtaken by
-three frigates when he was on his way back to France. His ships were
-captured and he himself was killed. You have seen Dr. MacKellar here on a
-visit from his native Badenoch; his pardon from the Government was all I
-got, or all I wished for, from Mr. Pitt. “And where is Isobel Fortune?”
- you will ask. You know her best as your grandmother, my wife. My Shoes of
-Fortune, she will sometimes say, laughing, brought me first and last Miss
-Fortune; indeed they did! I love them for it, but I love you, too, and
-hope to keep you from the Greig's temptation, so they are to the fore no
-longer.
-</p>
-<h3>
-THE END
-</h3>
-<div style="height: 6em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
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