THE SPAN O' LIFE

THE SPAN O' LIFE

A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec

By WILLIAM McLENNAN
and J. N. McILWRAITH
Illustrations by F. de Myrbach

The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld To part my Love frae me

NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

TORONTO:
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1899, by Harper & Brothers, at the Department of Agriculture.

Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

All rights reserved.

PREFACE

The reader familiar with the amusing memoirs of the Chevalier Johnstone will recognise in how far Maxwell was suggested thereby; if he be equally familiar with the detail of Canadian history of the period he will have little difficulty in discovering the originals of Sarennes and some of the secondary characters, and, in the Epilogue, the legend of the death of the celebrated missionary, le R. P. Jean Baptiste de la Brosse. But while the experience of some actual man or woman has suggested a type to be portrayed, it is only as a type, and with no intention of representing the individual in the character of the story. Nor is the attempt to set forth the respective attitude of the Canadian and the old-country Frenchman to be read as a personal expression of the authors', but as their conception of an unfortunate condition between colonist and official that obtained as fully in Canada as it did between the same classes in the English colonies.

Long habit has made the English names of many places and positions so familiar to many in Canada that to adhere to the French form in all instances would be as unnatural as to Anglicise all names throughout—which will explain the lack of uniformity in this particular.

The authors have pleasure in acknowledging their indebtedness to M. l'Abbé Casgrain, of Quebec, for valuable personal assistance in determining local detail, and to Mtre. Joseph Edmond Roy, N.P., of Lévis, for information on the period and the use of his version of the death of the père de la Brosse from his interesting monograph, “Tadoussac.”

W. McL. and J. N. McI.

CONTENTS

[PART I]

MAXWELL'S STORY

[PART II]

MARGARET'S STORY

[PART III]

MAXWELL'S STORY

[Epilogue]

ILLUSTRATIONS

[Part I]

MAXWELL'S STORY

“Better the world should know you at a sinner than God as a hypocrite.”—Old Proverb.

THE SPAN O' LIFE

[CHAPTER I]

“AFTER HIGH FLOODS COME LOW EBBS”

Every one knows of my connection with the ill-starred Rebellion of Prince Charles, and for this it was that I found myself, a few months after the disaster of Culloden, lying close in an obscure lodging in Greek Street, Soho, London.

Surely a rash proceeding, you may say, this adventuring into the lion's den! But such has not been my experience: in an escalado, he who hugs closest the enemy's wall has often a better chance than he who lies at a distance. And so I, Hugh Maxwell of Kirkconnel, Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, Captain en seconde in Berwick's Foot in the service of His Most Christian Majesty, and late Aide-de-Camp to General Lord George Murray in the misdirected affair of His Royal Highness Charles, Prince of Wales and Regent for his illustrious father, “Jacobus Tertius, Rex Angliae, Hiberniae, et Franciae, Dei Gratia”—Heaven save the mark!—found it safer and more to my taste to walk abroad in London under the nose of the usurping but victorious Hanoverian than to continue skulking under the broader heavens of the Highlands.

I will not deny there were moments when I would rather have been enjoying the clearer atmosphere of France (for it is easier to put a brave face on such dangers once they are safely overcome than bear them with an unruffled fortitude at the time); but there I was, with just enough money to discharge my most pressing necessities, with the precious Cause for which I had sacrificed my hopes of advancement in my own regiment blown to the four corners of the Highlands—more remote and unknown up to this time than the four corners of the earth, though to all appearance about to undergo such a scouring when I left them that they would be uninhabitable for any one who was not born with the Broad Arrow printed on his back.

I was lodging in the attic of a disreputable pot-house, kept by one of those scurvy Scots who traded on his reputed disloyalty as a lure to entice unfortunate gentlemen in similar plight to myself under his roof, and then job them off to the government at so much a head; but this I only knew of a certainty later.

It was not long, however, before I was relieved from my penury at least, for my cousin, Lady Jane Drummond, who since my childhood had stood towards me in the relation of a mother, hearing from me of my position, raised me above all anxiety in that respect.

I cannot help reflecting here on the inopportuneness with which Providence is sometimes pleased to bestow its gifts; the starving wretch, houseless in the streets, has an appetite and a digestion which, in this regard, make him the envy of the epicure, dowered with a wealth useless in its most cherished application. And though ingratitude has never been one of my faults, was it possible not to feel some resentment at the comparative uselessness of a blessing which fell at a time when I was debarred from any greater satisfaction than paying my mean obligations or helping some more needy unfortunate, while forced to look on those pleasures incidental to a gentleman's existence with the unsatisfied eye of forbidden indulgence?

The banker, Mr. Drummond of Charing Cross, who was an old family friend, and through whom I had received my remittance, could or would give me no definite information of the movements of my cousin, Lady Jane, or of her probable arrival at London, so I had nothing to do but await further news and occupy my time as best I might.

On my arrival I had laid aside all the outward marks of a gentleman, dressing myself in imitation of—say a scrivener's clerk—and, save for that bearing which is incorporate with one of my condition and becomes a second nature, not to be disguised by any outward cloak, I might fairly well pass for my exemplar.

It was along in the month of July, when having become habituated to my situation I was accustomed to move about with greater freedom, that being in Fleet Street, I made one of the crowd to gaze at the horrid spectacle of the heads of the unfortunate Messieurs Towneley and Fletcher displayed on Temple Bar, whose cruel fate I had only escaped by my firm resolution in withstanding the unreasonable demands of the Duke of Perth to remain behind in their company in Carlisle.

“Your Grace, though I am willing to shed the last drop of my blood for Prince Charles,” I had answered, with great firmness, “I will never allow myself to be marked out as a victim for certain destruction,” and I held to my place in the retreat.

At such times the least error in judgment is certain to be attended by a train of inevitable disaster, and apart from my own personal escape, for which I am duly thankful, it was a satisfaction to me that his Grace later on most handsomely acknowledged himself to have been in the wrong.

But to return: I was plunged in these sombre reflections when I heard a cry near me, a cry that has never appealed to my support in vain—that of a lady in distress. I turned at once, and there, in full view of my sympathising eyes, was as fair an object as I ever looked upon. An unfortunate lady, overcome by the sights and sounds about her, had fallen back on the shoulder of her maid, who supported her bravely; her black silken hood had been displaced, and her rich amber-coloured hair in some disorder framed her lovely face. Another moment and I was beside them, shifting the unconscious lady to my left arm, to the great relief of the maid, who at once recognised my quality in spite of my disguise.

“Spy 'em close, my beauty! Spy 'em close! Only a penny!” shouted a ruffian, holding a perspective-glass before the unhappy lady. “A rebel wench, lads, and must see her lover close!” But I cut his ribaldry short with a blow in the face, and with my foot pushed off a wretched hag busily engaged in trying to find the pocket of my poor charge, and made immediate move to withdraw her from the crowd.

But my efforts were met with a storm of curses and howls from the scum about us, and matters were fast growing serious, when a most genteelly dressed man pushed in beside us, and, with sword in hand, soon cleared a way, which I threaded with a determined countenance. A moment or two concluded the affair, and we were safe.

The lady recovered with surprising spirit, and turning to the new-comer, cried: “Oh, Gaston! It was horrible beyond words!” and she clasped his arm with both her shapely hands.

We hurried on without further speech, looking for a hackney-coach; and when this was found and hailed, the lady turned, and holding out her hand to me, said: “Sir, forgive the discomposure which prevented my sooner acknowledgment of your services. What would have become of me without your aid? I cannot say half what I feel;” and the lovely creature's eyes filled as she spake.

“My dear young lady,” I said, bending over and kissing her hand, “you could say nothing that would heighten the happiness I have had in being of service to you;” and in order not to add to her generous embarrassment I handed her into the coach, whereupon our common rescuer giving a direction to the man, which I did not overhear, she and her maid drove off. Then, not to be behind so fair an original, I turned and complimented the stranger upon his timely succour.

“Sir,” said he, in French, “I perceive, from some sufficient reason, which I can readily divine, it is convenient for you to appear in disguise.”

“Truly, monsieur,” I returned, “I did not hope that a disguise would protect me from a discerning eye such as yours, but it suffices for the crowd. I am certain, though, that I confide in a gentleman when I say I am Hugh Maxwell of Kirkconnel, late captain in Berwick's Foot, and am entitled to qualify myself as Chevalier.”

“And I, Chevalier,” he replied, with equal frankness, “am the Vicomte Gaston de Trincardel, at present on a diplomatic mission towards the Court.”

Being equally satisfied with each other's condition, we repaired to his lodgings in St. James's Street, where we fell into familiar conversation, in the course of which the Vicomte said,

“I suppose I am correct in my belief that you have been engaged in the affair of Charles Edward?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Is there any reliable intelligence of his whereabouts?”

“To be absolutely frank with you, my dear Vicomte, it is a matter of the most perfect indifference to me where he is, or what becomes of him.”

“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “I cannot understand such a feeling.”

“Had you seen as much of him as I did, even when he was trying to appear at his best as Fitzjames; had you been a daily spectator of the inconceivable folly with which every chance was mismanaged, every opportunity let slip; of the childish prejudice with which every true friend was estranged, and of the silly vanity which daily demanded new incense during the whole of this miserable affair—you might understand without difficulty,” I returned, with some little heat.

“But, Chevalier,” he inquired, soothingly, “may I ask why you followed his fortunes?”

“From that, Vicomte, which I doubt not has ever guided your own course in life, from the one motive that has alone influenced me—principle. My people followed the fortunes of his grandfather after the Boyne, and on both sides of my house, Maxwells and Geraldines, our name has been synonymous with loyalty to the Stuart cause abroad as well as at home.”

“I know your name and its equivalent, Chevalier. May I ask to which branch you belong?”

“I scarce know how to qualify my standing,” I answered, laughing; “we have been proscribed rebels so long that I have lost touch with those things men most value in regard to family. Just as I am a Chevalier without so much as a steed whereon to mount my knightship, so am I a Maxwell of Kirkconnel without title to a rood of ground or a kinsman within measurable distance; and my father before me held naught he could call his own save his honour, my lady mother, and my unworthy self. No! if there be a Spanish branch, I swear I'll lay claim to that, for 'tis Spain assuredly that must hold my flocks and herds, not to name my chateaux.”

“Chevalier,” he began, earnestly, “I shall esteem it a favour—”

“Not for the world, my dear Vicomte! Money is the one anxiety which seldom causes me a second thought. My habit of life is simple, and my only ambition my profession. But to go back to the happy chance of our meeting, may I inquire, without indiscretion, the name of the young lady whom you rescued?”

“Oh, come, come! Honour where honour is due. I am no more responsible for the rescue than yourself. The young lady is a Miss Grey, living with her aunt in temporary lodgings in Essex Street, off the Strand.”

“I have a suspicion, sir, that the name may be as temporary as her lodging, and that I am fortunate in applying to one who can give me reliable information.”

To this, however, the Vicomte only bowed somewhat stiffly, and being unwilling that any contretemps should arise to mar so promising an acquaintance—though the Lord only knows what umbrage any one could take from my remark—I made my adieux, the Vicomte most obligingly offering me his services should I wish to pass over to France. But of these I could not as yet avail myself, as it was necessary I should know of Lady Jane's intentions more definitely; so, with my acknowledgments, the interview ended.

[CHAPTER II]

I DISCOVER A NEW INTEREST IN LIFE

On my way back to Soho I turned over matters with interest. I had but little difficulty in placing the Vicomte; he was one of those clear, simple souls, very charming at times in woman, but less acceptable in the man of the world.

No one can admire purity of mind in a woman more than myself, but I have no hesitation in stating that at times I find it positively disconcerting when displayed in too obvious a degree by a man. In woman, it is to be desired above all things, and woman is so far superior to man in the manipulation of the more delicate qualities, that she seldom errs in her concealments, and when she reveals, she does so at the most opportune moment, and so effectively that, though it be no more than a glimpse, it suffices.

And these reflections brought me naturally to Miss Grey; indeed, in fancy I had never been away from her since we met. The Vicomte's manner absolutely confirmed me in my belief that the name was assumed.

Now if a man does not wish to tell you the truth, and the occasion be important, he has just one of two alternatives: the one, is to tell a lie with such assurance and bearing that it carries conviction with it; but, egad! if he won't do that, then the only other is to run you through.

The Vicomte not having been ready for either, I was so far in his confidence that I knew “Miss Grey” was an assumed name; and I shrewdly suspected, from the familiarity of her manner with him, that their mutual relation might be closer than he cared to admit—a suspicion I resolved to put to the touch. Accordingly, the next day I made as careful a toilet as my cursed disguise would admit of, and took my way to Essex Street.

Giving my name to the man at the door, for the lodgings were genteel beyond the ordinary, which advanced me in my surmise as to the fair one's condition, I was ushered into a drawing-room which would have been much better for a little more light than was permitted to enter through the drawn curtains.

In a few moments the door opened and an elderly lady entered, whom I conjectured to be the aunt.

“Madam,” I said, bowing low, “it was my good fortune to be of some slight service to your niece yesterday, and I have ventured to call and inquire if the shock has proved at all serious. My name, madam, is—”

“Tut, tut, boy! None of your airs and graces with me! Your name is Hughie Maxwell, and many's the time I've skelped you into good manners. Come here and kiss your old cousin, you scamp!” And without waiting for me to comply with her invitation, she threw her arms about me and discomposed me sadly enough with an unexpected outburst of weeping.

When she had recovered somewhat we settled down to explanations; questionings from her and answers from me, until at length she was satisfied on all my movements. Then came my turn, and I began with a definite object in view, but carefully guarding my advances, when she cut my finessing short:

“Now, Hughie, stop your fiddle-faddle, and ask me who 'my niece' is. You stupid blockhead, don't you know your curiosity is peeking out at every corner of your eyes? 'My niece' is Margaret Nairn.”

“A relation of Lord Nairne?”

“No one would count her so save a Highlander; they are from the far North, not the Perth people; but don't interrupt! Her mother and I were school-mates and friends somewhat more than a hundred years ago. I have had the girl with me in Edinburgh and Paris, and when I found she was doomed to be buried alive with her father in their lonely old house in the Highlands, and neither woman nor protector about, I took her, the child of my oldest friend, to my care, and at no time have I been more thankful than now, when the whole country is set by the ears. We are in London masquerading as 'Mistress Grey and her niece,' as her only brother, Archie, an officer in the French service, is mixed up in this unfortunate affair, and it is probably only a matter of time until he gets into trouble and will need every effort I may be able to put forth in his behalf. No, you have not come across him, for he was on some secret mission; and it is possible he may not have set foot in Scotland at all. We can but wait and see. Now that your curiosity is satisfied, doubtless you are longing to see the young lady herself; but let me warn you, Master Hughie, I will have none of your philandering. Margaret is as dear to me as if she were my own daughter born, and I may as well tell you at once I have plans for her future with which I will brook no interference.”

“May I ask, cousin, if your plans include M. de Trincardel?”

“My certes! But it is like your impudence to know my mind quicker than I tell it. Yes, since you must know, a marriage is arranged between them, and I have pledged myself for Margaret's fitting establishment. There it is all, in two words; and now I am going for the young lady herself. See that you congratulate her.”

Do not imagine that her conditions cost me a second thought, nor the declaration of her future intentions a pang. My cousin was a woman, and as such was privileged to change her mind as often as she chose, and I was still young enough not to be worried by the thought that some day I might not be the one called upon to step into her comfortable shoes. As for the Vicomte, he must play for his own hand. So I awaited with impatience the appearance of my fair supplanter.

She was much younger than I had supposed, not more than sixteen; but if I had been mistaken in her age, I had not over-estimated her beauty. Her hair was really the same rich amber-colour that had awakened my admiration; her forehead was broad and low; her eyes between hazel and gray, with clear, well-marked brows; her nose straight and regular; and her mouth, though not small, was beautifully shaped, with the least droop at the corners, which made her expression winsome in the extreme. Her face was a little angular as yet, but the lines were good, and her slightly pointed chin was broken by the merest shadow of a dimple. She was taller than most women, and if her figure had not rounded out to its full proportion, her bearing was noble and her carriage graceful.

Difficult as it is for me to give even this cold inventory of her charms, the sweet witchery of her manner, the fall of her voice, the winning grace that shone in her every look, are beyond my poor powers of description. I felt them to my very heart, which lay in surrender at her feet long before I realized it was even in danger.

Our friendship began without the usual preliminaries of acquaintance. My sacrifices in the Prince's cause were known to her through Lady Jane; indeed, when I saw her noble enthusiasm, it fired me till I half forgot my disappointments, and was once more so fierce a Jacobite that I satisfied even her sweeping enthusiasm.

If anything further was needed to heighten our mutual interest, it was forthcoming in the discovery that I had been aide-de-camp to Lord George Murray, whom she rightly enough regarded as the mainspring of the enterprise, and to whom she may, in Highland fashion, have been in some degree akin.

Naught would satisfy her but that I should tell the story of my adventures, should describe the Prince a thousand times—which I did with every variation I could think of to engage her admiration—should relate every incident and conversation with Lord George, which I did the more willingly that I loved him from my heart, and it required but little effort to speak of a man who had played his part so gallantly.

With Lady Jane as moved as Margaret herself, we sat till late, and, like Othello, I told to the most sympathising ears in the world the story of my life. They forgot the hour, the place, and all but the moving recital; and I saw only the glistening eyes, sometimes wide with horror, sometimes welling over with tears, and sometimes sparkling with humour, until, like the Moor, I could almost persuade myself that

“She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them.”

“Come, come, Hughie! We'll have no more of this! The child will never close her eyes this night, and you should be ashamed, making an exhibition of an old fool of a woman!” suddenly cried Lady Jane, rising and wiping her eyes when I had finished telling of the death of young Glengarry at Falkirk. And half laughing, half crying, she kissed me and pushed me out of the room, before I had opportunity to take a fitting farewell of Margaret, Pearl of all Women.

“If the Vicomte can make any running that will count against this, I'll be much surprised,” I thought to myself as I picked my way home under a warm drizzle through the dirty, ill-lighted streets. But outward discomforts mattered not a whit to me, for I had eaten of the fruit of the gods, and that night I journeyed in the sunlight of the Pays-du-Tendre, bearing in my heart the idol to which my soul did homage, as I hummed over the song of some dead and forgotten but valiant-hearted lady of my own house:

“When day was deid I met my Dear On fair Kirkconnel Lea, Though fause een spied, I knew no fear, His love was over me. He kissed me fu' upon the mou', He looked me in the ee, An' whispered low, 'Nor life nor death Shall part my Love frae me!'

“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld To part my Love frae me!

“Though mony an' mony a day hath died On fair Kirkconnel Lea Sin' I stood by my True Love's side An' melted 'neath his ee, Yet ilka wind that fans my cheek Kissed his in Germanie, An' bids me bide; for what shall make To part my Love frae me?

“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld To part my Love frae me!”

Do I need to relate the story of the next day, or of each one which succeeded? Dear as it is to me, clearly as every fond remembrance stands out before me, it might but weary a reader to whom I cannot possibly convey even a conception of the sweet witchery of my Margaret's engaging manner. Mine, though I might never possess her, for I was too sincerely attached to Lady Jane to think of standing in the way of her plans should she finally determine against me; mine most of all, when I saw how eagerly the dear girl turned to me whenever I appeared.

The Vicomte often formed one of our party, and it was with some distress that I saw he was inclined to interfere with the friendship so happily begun. I have a natural inclination against giving pain; there is already so much in this world which we cannot prevent, it seems cruel to add to it intentionally, and it was not without regret that I saw my innocent endeavours towards the entertainment of Margaret caused him grave uneasiness. Still, as a man of breeding he could not admit that his position in her affections was endangered, and so kept on his way, though his evident disturbance told against the effectiveness of his advances towards her, and at times rendered his attack on me singularly unskilful. Exempli gratia: Margaret was so visibly moved one day by the effect of my singing, for I then possessed a voice justly admired by those best qualified to judge, that he was indiscreet enough to remark on my choice of a song, which was Jacobite to an extreme.

“Chevalier, only an artist could act a part so thoroughly.”

It was embarrassing, but I was saved all necessity of a reply by Margaret's generous outburst:

“Oh, Gaston, for shame! You can never understand what it means to have lost all for your Prince!”

A somewhat more forceful rejoinder than I should have been able to make, seeing I had so unguardedly revealed my sentiments on this very subject to him at our first meeting. Therefore I at once accepted her defence in the same spirit as it was given; indeed, I had almost forgotten I had any rancour against the unfortunate Charles, so completely was I dominated by her enthusiasm.

“Let me sing you another,” I exclaimed, “written when our hopes were still high.”

“Yes, yes,” she cried, eagerly, clapping her hands. “Let us forget it has all passed.”

And I sang:

“In far Touraine I'd watched each lagging day Drag on to weary night, I'd broke my heart when homing birds Winged o'er me in their flight; But a Blackbird came one golden eve And rested on the wing, And these were the heartsome words I heard The bonnie Blackbird sing:

“'Go bid your love bind in her hair The blue of Scotland's Kings, Go bid her don her bravest gown And all her gauds and rings, And bid her shine all maids above As she can shine alone; For the news was whispered in the night, And the night hath told the day, And the cry hath gone across the land From Lochaber to the Tay! From Lochaber far beyond the Tay The glorious news hath flown— So bid her don her best array, For the King shall have his own Once more! The King shall have his own!”

“Beyond the Tweed I know each bonnie bird That lilts the greenwood through, I know each note from the mavis sweet To the crooning cushie-doo; But I ne'er had heard a song that gar'd My very heart-strings ring Till I heard that eve in far Touraine The bonnie Blackbird sing:

“'Go bid your love bind in her hair The blue of Scotland's Kings, Go bid her don her bravest gown And all her gauds and rings, And bid her shine all maids above, As she can shine alone;— For the news was whispered in the night, And the night hath told the day, And the cry hath gone across the land From Lochaber to the Tay! From Lochaber far beyond the Tay The glorious news hath flown— So bid her don her best array, For the King shall have his own Once more! The King shall have his own!'”

Lady Jane was in tears, and my Margaret was little better, though smiling at me from the spinet, while the Vicomte sat the only composed one in the room—I being affected, as I always am when I hear a fine effort, whether by myself or another—when Mr. Colvill, who was Lady Jane's man of business, entered to us, and without any preamble began:

“Mr. Maxwell, I have certain information that your lodgings will be searched to-night, and I have a suspicion that you are the person sought for.”

My poor Margaret cried out and nearly swooned with terror, but Lady Jane was herself at once. “Give over your nonsense, Peggy, this instant! Hughie is not a mewling baby to be frightened, with a warning before him! Colvill, you have acted with the discretion I should have expected in you, and I thank you in my cousin's name and my own. Hughie, do you find out some new place at once; I marked a little sempstress who has a shop in Wych Street only the other day, and I would apply there if you know of no other. Do not go back to your old lodgings on any account. When I hear where you are, I will supply you with everything needful.”

The Vicomte very obligingly offered me the shelter of his roof for the night, but I answered I could not think of exposing him, when on diplomatic business, to the charge of sheltering a rebel, and was pleased to have so handsome an excuse to cover my unwillingness to lie under an obligation towards him.

In a moment the whole aspect of our little party was changed, and I took my way to seek for a new shelter, leaving anxious hearts behind me.

[CHAPTER III]

“THE DEAD AND THE ABSENT ARE ALWAYS WRONG”

I myself was not greatly disturbed over the turn things had taken, for I had begun to be suspicious of my thrifty Scot in Greek Street, and, as I had left behind me neither papers nor effects which could compromise myself or others when he laid his dirty claws upon them, I turned my back on him without regret.

The hour was late to enter upon a search for new lodgings without arousing suspicion, and this determined me to try the sempstress indicated by Lady Jane.

I found the street without difficulty, and, what was better, without questioning, and soon discovered the little shop with a welcome gleam of light shewing through the closed shutters. The street was empty, so I advanced, and, after knocking discreetly, tried the door, which, to my surprise, I found open, and so entered.

In a low chair behind the counter sate a solitary woman, sewing by the indifferent light of a shaded candle. She looked at me keenly and long, but without alarm.

“Madam,” said I, closing the door behind me and slipping in the bolt, “have no fear. My name is Captain Geraldine.”

“That is a lie,” she said, calmly, raising her face so the full light of the candle should fall upon it.

Great heavens! It was that of my wife!

I sank down on a settle near the wall and stared at her, absolutely speechless with surprise and horror, while she continued her sewing without a second look, though I could mark her hands were trembling so she could hardly direct her needle.

“Good God! Lucy! Is it really you?” I cried, scarce believing the evidence of my senses.

“I am she whom you name.”

“And you know me?”

“I know that you are Hugh Maxwell,” she answered, in the same steady voice.

“And you know that I am your husband.”

“I have no husband. My husband is dead.”

“Lucy, do not break my heart! I am not a scoundrel! Do you think for a moment I could abandon the girl who trusted and married me? I had the most positive intelligence of your death. Lucy, Lucy, for God's sake speak, and do not torture me beyond endurance. Tell me what has happened.”

But the trembling hands went on with their task, though she neither raised her head nor spake. My brain was in a whirl, and I did not know what to think or how to act, so I preserved at least an outward quiet for a time, trying to imagine her position.

I was but eighteen when I had married her, a tradesman's daughter, but my uncertain allowance, as well as the certain wrath of my family, prevented me acknowledging her as my wife, and no one except her mother knew of our union.

As I sate trying to find some light, I heard the cry of a lusty child: “Mother! Mother!” At this her face contracted as with sudden pain, and saying only, “Wait where you are,” she left the shop.

I noticed she had still the same quick, light way of moving, “like a bird,” I used to tell her in the old days: it was but the dull, ungenerous colour and shape of her stuff gown that hid the dainty figure I had known, and only some different manner of dressing her hair that prevented the old trick of the little curls that would come out about her ears and forehead.

While she was away I thought it all out, and my heart melted with pity for the poor soul, forced to these years of loneliness, to this daily struggle for the support of herself and her child—our child—and, more than all else, to the torturing thought that the love which had been the sum of her existence was false. What should I do? Could I be in doubt for a moment? I would make up to her, by the devotion of a heart rich in feeling, all the sorrows of the past.

Here she entered again, but now collected and herself as at first. I rose and advanced to meet her, but she waved me off, and took up her sewing again in her former position.

“Lucy,” I said, standing over her, “does not the voice of our child—for I cannot doubt it is our child—plead for me? Listen a moment. When I returned from that ill-starred Russian voyage, I flew at once to join you. You had been in my heart during all my absence, and my return home was to be crowned with your love. But, to my consternation, I found strangers occupying the old rooms, and the woman told me with every circumstance of harrowing detail the story of your death by typhus, and that your mother followed you to the grave scarce a day later. Heartbroken as I was, I never sought for further confirmation than the nameless graves she pointed out to me by your parish church. She told me, too, your effects were burned by order of the overseers, and I took it for granted she had stolen anything of value that might have been left. When I found at my banker's that a lieutenancy in Berwick's was awaiting my application, I only too eagerly seized the opportunity of escaping from a country where I should be constantly reminded of my ruined past, and since that day I have never set foot in London till the present. Oh, Lucy! Lucy! I see it all now. The birth of our child was approaching. You, poor soul, were an unacknowledged wife; I was wandering, a shipwrecked stranger beyond all means of communication, and you fled from the finger of shame that cruel hands would hare pointed at you. Why that hag should have gone to such lengths to deceive me I cannot even guess. But now, my dear love, my dearest wife, it is at an end! I have a position—at least I am a captain, with fair chance of promotion—I no longer have a family to consider, and once I get out of this present trap I will acknowledge you before the whole world, and we will wipe out the cruel past as if it had never existed.”

“I have no past,” she said, quietly.

“Then, Lucy darling, as truly as I am your husband I will make you a future.”

“I have no husband,” she answered, in the same quiet tone: “my husband died the day my boy was born.”

“But, Lucy, my wife, you have love?”

“Not such love as you mean. My love, such as it is here, is for my boy. All else is for something beyond.”

“But, Lucy, have you nothing left for me? Surely you do not doubt my word?”

“No,” she answered, slowly. “You have never deceived me that I know of. Until to-night I believed you had left me, but I know now, it is I who have left you. There never can be anything between us.”

“Why, Lucy? Tell me why! Do not sit there holding yourself as if you were apart from me and mine.”

“You have just said the very words which explain it all,” she answered. “I am indeed 'apart from you and yours.' Your explanation now makes clear why you did not seek me out on your return, and I accept it fully. But think you for a moment that this wipes out all I have suffered through these years? Can you explain away, by any other statement, save that I was 'apart from you and yours.' the cruel wrong you did when you left me, a helpless girl without experience, in a position where I was utterly defenceless against evil tongues in the hour of my trial; so that what should have been my glory was turned into a load of disgrace which crushed me and killed my mother? To say you intended to return is no answer, no defence. You knew all about a world of which I was ignorant, and you should have shielded me by your knowledge.

“Do not think I am unhuman, I am simply unfeeling on the side to which you would appeal. I have lived too long alone, I have suffered too much alone, to look to any human creature for such help or such comfort as you would bring. I know you were honest, I know you were loving and tender, but that has all passed for me. You do not come into my life at any point; I can look on you without a throb of my heart either in love or in hate—”

“But, Lucy, I am not changed. I am the same Hugh Maxwell you knew.”

“You are Hugh Maxwell—but there is no question of likeness, of being the same, for there is no Lucy. She is as really dead to you to-day as you thought when you mourned her six years ago. The 'Mistress Routh' who speaks now is a widow, by God's grace a member of the Society of Methodists, and you need never seek through her to find any trace of the girl you knew. She is dead, dead, dead, and may the Lord have mercy on her soul!”

It was like standing before a closed grave.

Against this all my prayers, my tears, my entreaties, availed nothing, until at last I ceased in very despair at the firmness of this unmovable woman, whom I had left a pretty, wilful, changeable girl a few years before.

The candle had long since burned itself out, and the gray of the morning was beginning to struggle in at every opening when I gave up the contest.

“Mistress Routh,” said I, smiling at the odd address, “I have been overlong in coming to my business. I am a proscribed rebel with a price set on my head, and I seek a new lodging, my old one being unsafe. I was directed here almost by chance. Can you give me such room as you can spare? There is but little or no danger in harbouring me, for I am reported to be in Scotland with the Prince, 'the Young Pretender,' if you like it so. I will be as circumspect in my movements as possible. Above all, I will never shew by word or sign that I knew you before, even when we are alone, nor will I betray your secret to our boy. You are free to refuse me, and should you do so, I will seek shelter elsewhere; but whether I go or stay, I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that your secret rests where it lies in my heart until such time as you see fit to proclaim it yourself. Will you, then, consent to let me have a room under your roof until such time as I can get over to France?”

After a little she said: “Yes; I can take your word. But remember, from this night you are a stranger to me. You will pay as a stranger, and come and go as a stranger.”

And so this unnatural treaty was ratified. My hostess made such preparation for my comfort as I would allow, and when alone I sate on my couch trying to put my thoughts in order.

It was only then that Margaret came back to me. During my long struggle with my poor wife no thought of another had entered my mind, my whole endeavour being directed towards making such amends for the cruelties of an undeserved fate as were possible; but now, when alone, the realisation of what it meant in my relation towards Margaret overwhelmed me. All unwittingly I had been playing the part of a low scoundrel towards the fairest, purest soul in the whole world; I had been living in a Fool's Paradise, drinking the sweetest draught that ever intoxicated a human soul, and now, without an instant's warning, the cup was dashed from my lips.

Poor Margaret! Poor Lucy! Poor Hugh! My heart was aching for them all.

[CHAPTER IV]

IN WHICH I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE WITH ONE NEAR TO ME

I stretched myself out at length, with my cloak over me, and dozed uneasily until awakened by a soft knocking at the door, which was slowly pushed open, and a brown head made its appearance in the room.

“Come in!” I cried, and there entered to me as handsome a boy of six as ever delighted a man's eyes.

I would have given the world to take him to my heart, but I was on parole. So we stared at each other, and I can only hope he was as well satisfied with his inspection as I was with mine.

“Does your mother know of your coming?” I asked, for I was determined to take no unfair advantage.

“She told me I could come,” he answered, without any backwardness, yet with modesty.

“Good. Well, what do you think?”

“Why do you sleep in your clothes?”

“Oh, a soldier often sleeps in his clothes.”

“But I don't think you're a soldier.”

“Why?”

“Where is your sword?”

“I'll get that by-and-by.”

“If I was a soldier I'd sleep with my sword.”

“Well, you'd find it a mighty uncomfortable bedfellow,” I answered, laughing. At which he laughed too, and we were fast becoming friends.

“Will you be a soldier?” I went on.

“I don't know. What's your name?”

“One moment, my young diplomat. Do you never answer a question but by asking another? Surely you're not a Scotchman?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, what do you think you are?”

“I think I'm a Methodist.”

“So you are. But that may be much the same thing, for aught I know. My name's Captain Geraldine. Now tell me yours.”

“Christopher. Can you sing?”

“I can sing, my boy, like a mavis, like a bird-of-paradise. Would you like to taste my quality?” and without more ado I sang to him.

“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld To part my Love frae me.”

“I like that,” he said, gravely, when I had made an end. “You sing well.”

“So I have been informed, sir; and I am most sensible of your confirmation of the favourable verdict, which is flattering beyond my poor deserts.”

But he did not find this at all to his taste, and I was sorry to see my untimely nonsense caused him to shrink somewhat from me, which hurt me to a degree I could not have believed possible.

But my embarrassment was relieved by his mother's voice calling us from the foot of the stairs, and hand in hand we went down together.

I looked at my hostess with much curiosity, and found her quiet and serene, though the traces of the anxiety of overnight were visible in her pale face and tired eyes.

“Good-morning, Mistress Routh.”

“Good-morning, Captain Geraldine. I see my boy has taken to you; it is a good sign.”

The words were like balm to me, and I looked at her searchingly to see expected signs of relenting, but I recognised only too clearly it was the kindly civility of an entire stranger, and I felt more strongly than at any moment before that the door of the past was irrevocably closed between us.

I sate down at the table, but she remained standing, and folding her hands, repeated a long grace. It was so utterly strange, so utterly foreign to all I had ever known of her, that it deepened the impression tenfold that I belonged to a world apart from hers. In a sense it shocked my feeling of what was proper. Her Protestantism had never been any barrier in our life together, for I have known too many different ways to happiness not to believe there may be more than one to heaven. I have known too many devout Protestants to have a shadow of doubt as to their sincerity; but I have always been a believer in the established order of things, and for a woman to take any part in matters religious, beyond teaching her children their hymns and prayers, was foreign to my experience.

We ate our breakfast to the accompaniment of the boy's chatter, and if there were any embarrassment, I am free to confess it was on my side alone. I could perfectly understand her courage and resolution of the night before, but this wonderful acting was simply marvellous; it was, as far as I knew, no more possible to the Lucy I had known than talking Castilian; but, upon my soul, I never admired her more in my life. This, however, I took good care not to shew in word or gesture: if she had so utterly renounced all vanities and pomps, why should she have the incense of admiration? She would probably consider it an offering to idols.

“Mistress Routh, if my presence will not discommode you, I purpose to lie quiet for a day or two, until I can get such clothes as may serve both as a change of character and a more fitting appearance for myself. Do you happen to know of so rare a bird as a periwig-maker who can keep his counsel? If I could have such an one attend me here, I could at least do away with this lanky hair and fit myself to a decent wig; then I could venture out under cover of a cloak, and find a tailor to complete the transformation. But I take it you may know but little of these manlike fripperies.”

“I do know a man who may be trusted, who, though a member of our Society, is forced to gain his living by like vanities,” she returned.

“Madam,” said I, “you evidently do not estimate the quality of vanity at its proper value. Now I hold it in reality to be the eighth of the Cardinal Virtues. I have known it to keep men from being slovenly through their regard for the outward respect of others, and cleanliness comes very near to godliness. I have known it to keep men out of low company through their desire to catch a reflected glory from their superiors, and company is an informant of character. I have even known it to make men open-handed through a dislike to appear niggardly in public, and—” But I saw a look of such evident distress on the face before me that I checked my flight in very pity. A man with any sensibility will find himself constantly curbed by his regard for the feelings of others.

When Mistress Routh's assistant appeared I took the opportunity of sending a note to Lady Jane, telling of my whereabouts, and that I would present myself in a day or two when I had effected sufficient change in my appearance.

This I was enabled to do by the help of the wig-maker—who was clever enough with what he put outside other men's heads, though I could not think so highly of what he had got into his own—and by a liberal supply of gold pieces to my tailor.

I was now dressed with some approach to my ideas of what was fitting, and my own satisfaction was only equalled by that of little Christopher.

“Ah, Kit, my boy,” I admonished him, for I felt it incumbent on me to contribute somewhat to the general morality of such a household, “I am no more Captain Geraldine in these fine feathers than I was in the scurvy black of the lawyer's clerk.”

“But you feel more like Captain Geraldine,” the boy said, pertinently enough.

“I do, my boy, I do, for I am still subject to the vanities of the flesh.”

“Don't say that!” the boy cried, half angrily—“that is like they talk at meeting,” and I felt ashamed I should have let slip anything before the child that could hurt his sense of my bearing towards what his mother respected, though I was puzzled to rightly estimate his own expression.

“I won't, my lad, but listen!” and I gave my sword a flourish and began the rattling air,

“Dans les gardes françaises J'avais un amoureux—”

and then I suddenly reflected I had no right to sing these ribald songs before the boy, even though he might not understand a word, and again I was ashamed, so fell a-story-telling, and I told him tales that made even his favourites of Agag and Sisera seem pale, and the singing was forgotten.

Though these constant talks with Kit, who would scarce be kept a moment from my side, were entertaining enough, and my heart warmed more and more to him as I saw his strong young feeling blossom out, I could not help the time dragging most wearisomely. The evenings were intolerable, and I felt the atmosphere absolutely suffocating at times. Mistress Routh was so completely Mistress Routh I soon realised that the Lucy in her was of a truth not only dead but buried out of my sight forever. Now if I have a failing, it is of too keen an enjoyment of the present, rather than an indulgence in unavailing regrets for the past, so that in a little I began to speculate if the Hugh Maxwell who was the Hugh Maxwell of this buried Lucy had not vanished also. Certainly I was not the Hugh Maxwell she knew. She said so herself; she showed only too plainly I had neither plot nor lot in her present life; and, after all, the life that is lived is the life that is dead. So I accepted what I had done my best to refuse, and turned again to the only life that was open before me—I went to Lady Jane's that very evening.

[CHAPTER V]

I ASSIST AT AN INTERVIEW WITH A GREAT MAN

I found the household in Essex Street in a state of perturbation which was soon explained. News had come that Margaret's brother Archibald had been arrested, as Lady Jane had foreseen, and was now confined in Fort William. Margaret, though distressed greatly, was such an ardent Jacobite that I verily believe she would rather have seen her brother in some danger of losing his head than have had him out of the business altogether.

She was neither so distressed nor elated, however, that she was oblivious to my altered appearance, and I could see Lady Jane herself was well pleased that her Hughie should cut somewhat of a figure in the eyes of her protégée. She had a natural desire to justify her affections.

But I simply mark this in passing; the real business in hand was to devise some means for young Nairn's safety. This was the less serious inasmuch as he certainly had never been in arms for the Prince, and had been prudent enough to destroy all evidence of his secret mission—in fact, his letter informed us that the one man capable of giving evidence against him was withheld by circumstances so disgraceful to himself there was no danger of any direct testimony on this point.

The position could not be more favourable, and it was only a question of the most judicious plan of succour.

The Vicomte, though desirous of alleviating Margaret's anxiety, was debarred by his position from taking any active part, a circumstance of which I was not backward in taking advantage; for though the late distressing revelation—I refer to my meeting with Mistress Routh—prevented my making any personal advances towards Margaret, common humanity prompted me to my utmost efforts for her relief.

Finally it was determined that Lady Jane should obtain a private interview with the Duke of Newcastle, and, accompanied by Margaret, make a personal appeal, which, from Lady Jane's connections, we flattered ourselves had some hopes of success.

“Cousin,” I said, “I have a proposal. Let me go with you. I am quite unknown, my accent at least is not that of a Scotchman, so I shall not in any way imperil your success, and I have had some small experience with my superiors which may not be without its use.”

“Well, Hughie, I may not have the same admiration as yourself for your accent, but I have the firmest belief in your confidence: that will not betray you in any strait. And I am as firm a believer in having a man about; they are bothersome creatures often, but have their uses at times. At all events, I feel safer in their company; they bring out the best in me. Yes, on the whole, I think you had better come.”

The following week, through the services of the Vicomte, we were enabled to arrange for a meeting with the Duke at his house, and accordingly one morning we took our way by coach to Lincoln's Inn Fields.

We were ushered into his presence with marvellously little ceremony, and found him seated at a desk covered with a litter of papers before a blazing fire, for it was early in January.

He did not pay the slightest attention to the announcement of our names, beyond raising his head and saying rapidly, without even returning our salutation, “Yes, yes, yes; be seated, be seated,” with such a hurried, stuttering stammer that I felt reassured at once, though I could see both my companions were somewhat overawed now they were in the presence of the Great Man.

As he kept shuffling over his papers, now reading a few words from one, then throwing it down, and mixing a dozen others up in hopeless confusion, now writing a bit, and then frowning and waving his pen, I felt still more assured, for it all went to show he was only an ordinary human creature under all his titles and dignities, and was no more free from little affectations than any other mortal might be.

At length he ceased his pretence of work, for it was nothing else, and took notice of us.

“Ladies, I ask your pardon—your pardon. Yes, yes, let me see, you have some appointment with me. Eh, what was it again? Oh, I remember, you are Lady Enderby. Yes, yes—”

“No, your Grace; I am Lady Jane Drummond; this is my ward, Miss Margaret Nairn, and this my cousin, Captain Geraldine; our business is to implore your Grace's assistance towards the release of her brother, Captain Nairn, arrested in error, and now confined in Fort William.”

“Awkward, eh? Mistakes like that might be very awkward—very awkward indeed. No doubt he is one of these pestilent rebels—eh?”

“Indeed, your Grace, he has never drawn sword in the matter at all; and what is more, he is an officer in the French service, holding his full commission therein.”

“Oh, I have no doubt he is the most innocent creature in the world! but will you explain, madam, what he was doing in Scotland just when the rebels happened to be in full swing—eh?”

“Indeed, your Grace, he never put foot in Scotland until this unhappy business was ended at Culloden.”

“That's a pity, now, a great pity. As the vulgar say, he came 'just a day too late for the fair.' Had he only come in time, his Majesty might have had one rebel less to deal with, and—”

But he was cut short by poor Margaret, who, unable to stand the torture any longer, wailed out: “Oh, your Grace, do not say that! My father was buried only a few months before my brother was arrested, and he is the only one near to me now left.”

Even the abominable flippancy of the man before us was arrested by the sight of the anguish of this dear soul, and with some approach to sensibility he said:

“There, there, my dear! We cannot mend matters now.” And for some minutes he heard and questioned Lady Jane with some shew of decency, but evidently with an effort, for it was not long before he broke out again: “How much simpler it would all be if you did not interfere, madam!”

This angered her beyond control, and she replied: “Your Grace may have no feeling for the sorrow that breaks the hearts of others, but this is only a case for common justice.”

“You, you, you have a keen sense of justice, madam,” he stammered, much nettled. “You are not wanting in courage, either; 'tis a pity you could not have turned your talents to some account.”

Poor Margaret, seeing the turn things were taking, now advanced, and throwing herself at his feet, poured forth her heart to him in entreaties with the tears running down her lovely face. At first he seemed much moved, and shifted himself in his chair most uncomfortably, fairly squirming like a worm on a pin; but, to my disappointment, I soon saw he was coming back to his usual humour, even as she was entreating—“Oh, your Grace, your Grace, he is all I have left in the world! I have been a motherless girl since I can remember; I have been away from my father, at school for years; and my brother whom I played with, the one person whom I have prayed for more than all others, is now in danger of his life”—and she ended in a burst of sobs.

For answer he merely yawned, and said, turning to me, “What did you say your name was—eh?”

“Geraldine, your Grace.”

“Oh! No particular family, I suppose?”

“No, your Grace, of no family in particular,” I answered.

“He! he! he!” cackled his Grace. “Oh, I can see farther than I get credit for! You, you, you'll remedy that some day—eh? Miss—Miss— What did you say your name was?”

“Nairn, your Grace,” answered poor Margaret, still sobbing, while Lady Jane stood glowering behind her. My gorge rose at his heartlessness.

“Nairn. Umph! That's an evil-smelling name these days for any such petition,” he grumbled.

Then suddenly turning to face me, “Now I suppose you had nothing to do with this barelegged rebellion?” he went on, to my dismay, but answered it himself with a self-satisfied chuckle: “But no, of course not. You never would have come here if you had. No, no! No man of sense would.”

“I should think not!” snorted Lady Jane, fairly beside herself.

“Quite right, madam, quite right. You are a woman, of perspicacity,” answered his lordship, without a ruffle. Then he turned to me again:

“And pray what did bring you here, sir?”

“Your Grace, it was at my earnest recommendation these ladies were moved to appear in person to lay their case before the most powerful nobleman in the Three Kingdoms. They come here, your Grace, not to plead, but to explain. Their explanation is now made, and they are satisfied it is in the hands of one who is ever ready to listen to the suit of innocence, whose whole life is a guarantee for the exercise of justice, and whose finger need but be lifted to relieve the unfortunate from unmerited disgrace.”

To my surprise, he did not seem so taken with my effort as I had hoped. Even as I was speaking he had thrown himself back in his chair, and sate resting his elbows on the arms, staring at me over his finger-tips in the most disconcerting fashion without moving a muscle of his face. I was positively afraid to venture a word more under the spell of that equivocal gaze.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he broke out, suddenly, drawing himself close up to his desk and seizing a pen, with which he began making slow notes on the paper before him.

“What did you say the young man's name was?” he muttered. “Oh, yes, Nairn—Archibald Nairn. Yes. Fort William—eh? French officer in active service. And you can give me your word he was not in arms— eh?”

“I can, your Grace, without hesitation.”

The moment I had spoken I saw my mistake. So did his Grace, who wheeled round on me like a flash.

“Then, sir, I take it you are in a position to know!”

My blood fairly ran cold, for I saw only too clearly his folly of manner was but a cloak, and that now it was quite as much a question of myself as of Nairn.

“I am, your Grace,” I answered, in my most assured tones.

“Perhaps you are able to produce a muster-roll of the rebel forces—eh, Captain Fitzgerald? That would be highly satisfactory in more ways than one.”

“Surely, your Grace, this is no laughing matter. Your Grace has my word of honour that Captain Nairn was not in Scotland until after Culloden was fought—”

“—And lost—Captain Fitzgerald? Surely that is not the way for a loyal subject to put it.”

“I cannot cross swords with your Grace,” I returned, with a low bow to cover my trepidation; “even if our positions did not make it an impossibility, it would be too unequal a contest.”

The flattery was gross, and only my apprehensions could excuse its clumsiness, but to my intense relief it availed, and he turned to his desk again, while I held my breath expectant of his next attack. But none came. He muttered and mumbled to himself, while we stood stock-still, scarce venturing to look at each other, for the fate of Nairn was hanging in the balance, and a straw might turn it either way. At length he picked up his pen and wrote rapidly for a few moments; then carefully sanding the paper he read it over slowly, still muttering and shaking his head; but at last, turning to Margaret, who all this time had remained on her knees, he handed it to her, saying:

“There, miss; take it, take it. Get married; get your brother married; but for Heaven's sake don't bring up any little rebels! And Captain Fitzgerald,” he added, meaningly, “don't imagine I can't see as far as other men! No thanks! No! I hate thanks, and tears—and—and—Good-morning, ladies, good-morning!” whereupon he rose and shuffled over in front of the fire, where he stood rubbing his hands, leaving us to bow ourselves out to a full view of his back, which, upon my soul, was a fairer landscape than his face—but with Margaret holding fast the order for her brother's release.

[CHAPTER VI]

HOW I TAKE TO THE ROAD AGAIN, AND OF THE COMPANY I FALL IN WITH

I fully expected an outburst from Lady Jane the moment we were in the coach, but all she said was:

“Such a man! I have known women silly and vain; I have known women cruel and brainless; but such a combination of the qualities I never expected to meet in man; it makes me blush for the vices of my sex!”

“Do not scold him, dear, do not scold him!” cried Margaret, joyously. “My heart is too full of thankfulness to hear a word against him.”

“My dear Mistress—Margaret,” said I, “I would not for the world dash your joy, but there is still much to do, for I doubt if even the King could give a pardon off-hand in this fashion. Remember, England is not France.”

“Oh, do not say it is useless!” she cried, in sudden alarm.

“Not useless, certainly. I doubt, however, if the presentation of that scrap of paper before the gates of Fort William would reward you with anything more than the most bitter of disappointments and a broken heart. It was an easy way enough for his Grace to rid himself of our importunities, but we'll make it more effective than he guesses. Now is the time for the Vicomte to play his part. He is in a position where, with many anxious to do him favours, he can readily place this in the proper channel where it will go through the necessary hands, of which we know nothing, and could not reach if we did; he can so place it without reflection on his position, without suspicion of his motive, and I'm certain you can count upon his best efforts in your service.”

“Come, come, Hughie!” broke in Lady Jane; “you needn't be trying to take credit to yourself for what Gaston is only too ready to do. That your flattering and ready tongue stood us in good stead with this silly noddy I'll not dispute, but I can readily see as clearly as he says he can; and though your suggestion is good, it should end there. Let Gaston make his offers himself.”

So I laughed, and at once abandoned that line of approach. Lady Jane might not always have control of her temper, but she knew every move a man might make, even before he realised it himself, as in the present instance; possibly this was the reason she was so tolerant of my sex.

However, I had but little time for such reflections. The more I thought over the end of our interview with the Duke the less I liked it, and on comparing impressions with Lady Jane on our arrival at Essex Street, she quite agreed that I was in a ticklish position. London was then infested with spies, most of whom had a keen scent for what the failure of our late enterprise had now fixed as treason, and despite my precaution in keeping out of questionable resorts and company, I knew that in my case 'twas little more difficult to smoke the Jacobite, than the gentleman, in whatever disguise I might assume.

“Hughie, I'm not one for silly alarms,” said Lady Jane, “but I mistrust that doddering old pantaloon, and 'you must build a high wall to keep out fear.' You've done all you can here, and I doubt but you've got yourself in a rare coil in the doing of it. Now to undo it as best we may.”

“I'll not deny that things look 'unchancy,' as we say in the North, Cousin Jane; but, for the life of me, I don't see how they are to be bettered by anything I can do now.”

“My heart! But men are slow to see ahead! We will be away out of this the moment we are assured of this young callant's safety, in a week or so at most, I hope. I will take ship from Harwich, and you shall journey with us as my servant, my courier.”

“Do you think that is absolutely necessary, cousin?”

“Hughie, Hughie, how long will you continue to walk with Vanity?”

“Just so long as I must lie down with Adversity, cousin. Cannot you understand it is humiliating for a man of my condition to go masquerading about the country as a lackey?”

“Not so readily as I can understand the awkwardness of being laid by the heels, Master Hughie. Now don't have any more nonsense! Do you start off this very night for Huntingdon, and lie at the Bell Inn there, until you hear from me. It will not be for more than a week. Let me see, yes, 'Simpkin' will be a good name for you.”

“Do I look like Simpkin?” I returned, indignantly.

“My certes, no! You look more like the Grand Turk at the moment,” she answered, laughing. “But you must conceal your rank, my lord, by your modesty and 'Mr. Simpkin,' until I can offer it a more effective covering in a suit of bottle-green livery.”

“I trust your ladyship will not require any reference as to character?”

“It is written on your face, sir. There! I will countersign it for you,” whereat she put her two hands on my cheeks and kissed me.

“'Pon my soul, Cousin Jane, I don't wonder the men raved over you!” I said, in admiration.

“No, poor things, it doesn't take much to set them off at the best of times. But do not begin your flatteries, Hughie; even age is no warrant for common-sense when it meets with old gratifications. Be off, now, and get back here for supper, ready for your travels.”

I hurried off to my old lodgings, and soon made such preparation for my journey as was necessary.

When I parted from Mistress Routh I said: “I have learned during the time spent under your roof how irrevocable your resolve is, and have accepted it as absolutely as yourself, but now that I am going away from England, which I shall probably never set foot in again, and it is still more probable that we may never meet, I have one promise to exact which you cannot refuse. It is presumable my way in life will be in some degree successful, and that my son may some day need such aid as I may be able to give him; he is yours while you live, but promise me when your time comes you will tell him who his father is. Because you have chosen a different way of life from mine, do not be tempted to allow the boy to go to strangers when you know he has a heart waiting to love and cherish him. I have never done a dishonourable action in my life, so far as I can judge, and, if only for his sake, I will always try and keep my conscience free to make the same affirmation. A message to Mr. Drummond, the banker, in Charing Cross, will always find me. Can you refuse?”

“No; it is only justice. Your claim comes after mine. I promise I will not die without telling the boy who you are.”

For herself she resolutely refused to take a shilling more than was due for my lodging, but I succeeded in forcing her acceptance of a matter of twenty pounds, the last of my own money, not Lady Jane's, to be used for the boy. She stood beside me silent and unmoved while I kissed him in his sleep, and when I parted from her she said, “Good-bye, Captain Geraldine,” with a composure I fain would have assumed myself, but it was impossible.

The supper at Lady Jane's was gay enough, even the Vicomte contributing his modicum of entertainment, no doubt stimulated thereto by the thought of my near departure, and surely, when a man may give pleasure by his goings as well as by his comings, he is in a position to be envied. I sang Jacobite songs that evening with an expression that would have carried conviction to the Duke of Cumberland himself, and when I took my departure with the Vicomte after midnight, I left a veritable hot-bed of sedition behind.