Читать книгу The Greatest Historical Novels & Stories of D. K. Broster - D. K. Broster - Страница 116

Its own peculiarly vehement and gusty wind was curvetting about Edinburgh this October afternoon of 1754, forerunner and abettor of the brief but wholehearted squalls of rain which now and then were let loose upon the defenceless city, and sent every pedestrian running to the nearest doorway. Yet between these cloudbursts it was fine enough, and during one of these sunny intervals a young man in black, holding on to his hat, walked quickly up the slope of the Canongate. His long stride accorded well with his fine height and build, and though his mourning was new and very deep, there was no trace of recent bereavement in his air. Indeed—despite the difficulty with his hat—he held his head with a sort of natural arrogance, and his glance at his surroundings in general was something that of a newly-crowned monarch surveying his territory and subjects. For only six weeks had elapsed since the earth had been shovelled down upon his old father’s coffin in the roofless chapel of Holyrood, and the son who bore him no particular affection was come at twenty-nine into his inheritance as thirteenth Chief of Glenshian . . . into possession of a ruined castle, an empty treasury, and immense prestige in the Western Highlands. But he already possessed some very singular assets of his own.

Just where the High Street, having succeeded the Canongate, gave way in its turn to the Lawnmarket, this Highland gentleman came to an abrupt and apparently unpremeditated halt in front of a small shop-window. It was rather a dingy window with bulging panes, evidently, from its contents, the property of a vendor of almanacs and broad-sheets; but the new Chief’s attention was pretty plainly engaged by a roughly-executed wood engraving which was propped, unframed, against a pile of books in the very centre of the window. There was nothing about this to distinguish it from any other equally bad print of the time; one could only say that it was a stock representation of a man of early middle age. But the inscription ran, “A True Effigies of Doctor Archibald Cameron, who lately suffered Death at Tyburn for High Treason.”

At this “effigies” the young man in black stood looking with a frown, and a deepening frown. Regret, no doubt, was heavy upon him (since he too was a partisan of the White Rose) and a natural if vain desire for vengeance upon the English Government which, only a year and four months before, had sent his fellow-Jacobite and compatriot to the scaffold.

It would have required a more than human insight to discover what was really causing that scowl; more insight, certainly, than was possessed by the middle-aged, down-at-heels and partially drunken Edinburgh chairman who was lounging at the entrance of the close by the shop, and looking at the tall, stationary figure with a gaze half sodden and half cunning. Once, indeed, he detached himself from the dark and greasy wall of the entry as though to accost it; then, muttering something inaudible, relapsed once more against his support.

Yet, for all that, he was to speak to the gentleman in black; the Fates would have it so, desiring no doubt to show that they at least could read the mind of Finlay MacPhair of Glenshian. Nevertheless it would not have come about but for this day’s inclement weather. For while the young Chief, his hand at his chin, yet stood looking at the dead Jacobite’s portrait, the heavens without warning opened afresh, and there descended such an unmitigated flood of water that no one, save an amphibian, would willingly have endured it. Mr. MacPhair in his new blacks uttered an exclamation, took hold of the handle of the shop door, discovered that it was fastened, cursed strongly, and turning, hurled himself into the mouth of the adjacent close, almost colliding with the lounger already there.

“A bit o’ a shooer!” observed the latter in a wheezy voice. He looked as if neither internally nor externally was he over-familiar with the fluid of which the cataract Was composed.

Mr. MacPhair gave him a contemptuous glance and said nothing. The rain flashed in sheets past the entry and drummed and bounced upon the cobbles.

“Sae ye were keekin’ at the puir Doctor’s picter in the windy,” commented the chairman, who, unlike most of his kind, was plainly a Lowlander. “Dod, yon was a fearfu’ end, a fearfu’ end! Mony’s the time Ah hae regretted it—mony’s the time Ah hae been near greetin’ ower it.”

“You must be uncommon tenderhearted,” observed Finlay MacPhair indifferently, and, looking out, cursed the downpour with precision.

“Nae mair than anither!” returned his companion in an injured tone. “Nae mair than yersel’, sir! Hendry Shand is no’ gi’en tae greetin’. But Ah’d hae ye ken that there’s whiles sic a thing as remorrse—aye, remorrse.” He sighed windily. “The worrm the Guid Buik tells o’ . . . Ye’ll be ower young, Ah’m thinkin’, tae ken it yersel’.”

“I may run the risk of knowing it very soon,” returned Glenshian meaningly. “If I have to throttle you to stop your havers, for instance. Damn this rain!”

“Ma havers!” exclaimed the chairman with deep indignation. “Havers!—me that’s been stane-dumb a’ this while, and never tellt a soul aboot the letter——”

“Continue your reticence, then,” said the Highlander, very much bored. “I have no wish to hear your reminiscences.”

This word, with which he immediately grappled, seemed to offend the toper still more deeply. “Remis—remishenshes. . . . They’re nathing o’ the sort! What for suld the Lord Justice-Clerk hae gi’en me a gowden guinea when Ah brocht him yon letter, gin it had been a matter o’ remyshish——”

But the tall gentleman in black was no longer bored, no longer even on the other side of the alley. He was beside the speaker, gripping his shoulder. “What’s that you said about the Lord Justice-Clerk? For what letter, pray, did he give you a guinea?”

The other tried to shuffle off the hand. “But that wad be tellin’,” he murmured, with a sly glance. “Forbye, sir, ye said ye werena wishfu’ for tae hear aboot ma remorrse. And indeed Ah hae nane the noo, for Ah’ve refleckit that Ah was but a puir body that was ready tae oblige the gentleman and earn a piece of siller.” He wriggled anew. “Ye’ll please tae let me gang, sir!”

For all answer his captor laid hold of his other shoulder, and thus held Hendry Shand’s unsavoury person pinned against the wall. The rain, winged by a momentary gust, blew in upon them both unheeded. “Since you have chattered of your remorse and of Doctor Cameron’s death, you’ll tell me before you leave this place of what letter you were speaking, and why Lord Tinwald gave you a guinea for it. And you shall thereby earn two . . . if you tell the truth . . . and it’s worth it,” added the young Chief in a couple of afterthoughts.

In the semi-darkness Hendry Shand’s eyes glistened. Finlay MacPhair saw the phenomenon, released him, pulled out a purse and, extracting two gold coins, held them up. Mr. Shand moistened his lips at that fair sight. But, half drunk as he was, he had not mislaid his native caution as completely as had at first appeared.

“And wha’s tae judge if it’s warth it?” he enquired. “And why sud ye be sae wishfu’—” He broke off. “Are ye for Geordie or Jamie? Ah’d like fine tae ken that first.”

“You cannot know who I am that you ask that,” replied the young man with hauteur. “I am MacPhair of Glenshian.”

“Gude hae maircy on us!” ejaculated Hendry. “Ye’ll be the new Chief, then! The auld yin was for Jamie, they say, although he never stirred for him himsel’. Aiblins then ye were a frien’ o’ puir Doctor Cameron’s?”

Finlay MacPhair bent his head. “I knew him well. And I am aware that he was informed against, and so captured. If the letter you took to Lord Tinwald had to do with that matter,”—his voice sank until it was almost drowned by the rain, “—and it had, had it not?—and if you will tell me who gave it to you, you shall know what it means to be for the rest of your days in the good graces of the Chief of Glenshian.”

There was a pause, filled by the drip of the now slackening rain from overfilled gutters. Hendry passed his hand once or twice over his mouth, his eyes fixed on him who made this promise. “Aye,” he said slowly, “and what guid will that dae me when Ah hae ma craig yerked by the next Whig, or lie shiverin’ i’ the Tolbooth? What for did Ah no’ haud ma tongue a wee while langer!”

The coins jingled in Glenshian’s impatient hand, and when the chairman spoke again his voice betrayed weakening.

“Forbye Ah canna tell ye the name, for Ah never lairnt it.”

“Nonsense!” said the young man roughly. “You are playing with me. I warn you ’tis no good holding out for more than I have offered.”

“Gin ye were tae dress me in jewels,” replied Mr. Shand earnestly and inappropriately, “Ah cudna tell ye what Ah dinna ken masel’. Bit Ah can tell ye what like the man was,” he added.

There was another pause. “I doubt ’twill not be worth the two guineas, then,” said Glenshian, in a tone which showed his disappointment. “But I’ll give you one.”

“For ae guinea Ah’ll tell ye naething,” responded Hendry with firmness. He seemed a good deal less drunk than he had been. “But—hear ye noo!—for the twa Ah’ll tell ye what was intill the letter, for Ah ken that. And aiblins when Ah describe the gentleman tae ye, ye’ll find that ye ken him yersel’.”

“It was a gentleman, then?”

“For sure it was a gentleman like yersel’.”

“Very good then,” said the new Chief, “the two guineas are yours. But”—he glanced round—“this is not a very suitable spot for you to earn them in. Is there not a more private place near?”

“Aye, there’s ma ain wee bit hoose up the close—though ’tis hardly fit for the likes o’ yersel’, Chief of Glenshian. But you an’ me wad be oor lane there.”

“Take me to it,” said Finlay MacPhair without hesitation.