Читать книгу The Greatest Historical Novels & Stories of D. K. Broster - D. K. Broster - Страница 93

The trees of St. James’s Park this May afternoon made a bright green canopy over the hooped and powdered beauties who sailed below, over the gentlemen in their wide-skirted coats and embroidered satin waistcoats, the lap-dogs, the sedan-chairs, the attendant black boys and footmen, and also, since spring leaves flutter equally above the light heart and the heavy, over a tall, quietly dressed young man in a brown tie-wig who was making his way, with the air of looking for someone, among the loungers in the Birdcage Walk. Of the glances which, despite his plain attire, more than one fine lady bestowed upon him he was completely unconscious; he was too unhappy.

The weeks of Ewen’s convalescence at Glenbuckie had been bad, but this was worse—to come to London directly one was physically fit for it, only to find that no scheme of real value was on foot to save Archibald Cameron from the fate which seemed to be awaiting him. Taken from Inversnaid to Stirling, and from Stirling to Edinburgh Castle, Doctor Cameron had been brought thence with a strong escort to London, arriving in the capital on the sixteenth of April, the very anniversary of Culloden. He had been examined the next day before the Privy Council at Whitehall, but it was common knowledge that they had got from him neither admissions nor disclosures, and he had been taken back a close prisoner to the Tower. That was nearly a month ago.

At first, indeed, his bandaged head on the pillow which had been Archie’s, Ewen had known little about past or present. Mrs. Stewart, aided by Peggy (so Peggy herself was convinced), had nursed him devotedly, and the task had perhaps helped her to forget her own anxiety on her husband’s account, for Duncan Stewart had been arrested as he was returning from Perth. Luckily, however, for Ewen, once Mr. Stewart’s person was secured his house had not been searched. But a considerable harvest of suspects had been reaped, as Ewen was to find when he came perfectly to himself, for his own cousin John Cameron of Fassefern, Lochiel’s and Archie’s brother, had been imprisoned, and Cameron of Glenevis as well, and there was glee in Whig circles, where it was recognised what a blow to a dying cause was Archibald Cameron’s capture. Of Lochdornie there was no news, but a warrant had been issued against him.

Ewen himself, who had arrived in London but the day previously, had now come to St. James’s Park merely to search for a Scottish Jacobite gentleman of his acquaintance, one Mr. Galbraith, who, on inheriting a small estate from an English relative, had settled in England and had a house in Westminster. Had he not been told that Mr. Galbraith was walking here with a friend Ewen would not have chosen so gay a promenade. It was the first time that he had ever been in London, and though he was not unaccustomed to cities, knowing Paris well, not to speak of Edinburgh, he seemed to feel here, and to resent, an unusual atmosphere of well-to-do assurance and privilege. Even the trees had not to struggle out with difficulty in this place, as in the North.

None too soon for his wishes, he caught sight of the elderly Mr. Galbraith at a distance, talking earnestly to a tall, thin gentleman with a stoop. Just before the Highlander reached them this gentleman took his leave, and Mr. Galbraith came on alone, his head bent, his hands holding his cane behind his back, so deep in thought that he almost ran into Ewen.

“I beg your pardon, sir . . . why, it is Mr. Cameron of Ardroy!” He held out his hand. “What are you doing in London? I am very glad to see you again, however, very glad!”

Ewen glanced round. No one was within earshot. “I have come to try what I can do for my unfortunate kinsman in the Tower. It must be possible to do something! You have studied law, Galbraith; you can tell me of what worth is any evidence which can be brought against him at his trial.”

“At his trial!” repeated Mr. Galbraith with an intonation which Ewen found strange. But then some noisy beaux went past, and he stopped, took Ewen’s arm, and piloted him to a more secluded spot where a hawthorn-tree invited to a seat on the bench below it. But they did not sit down.

“Doctor Cameron will not be so fortunate as to have a trial,” resumed Mr. Galbraith. “You have not heard that—but no, I have only just heard it myself this afternoon. I was even now discussing it with a friend from the Temple.”

“No trial!” stammered Ewen. “But, Mr. Galbraith, in Great Britain an accused man must have a trial . . . it is illegal . . . it——”

“It is perfectly legal in this case,” said Mr. Galbraith gravely. “Have you forgotten that Doctor Cameron’s attainder of 1746 has never been reversed? He will be brought up quite soon now, it is thought, for sentence to be pronounced . . . and the sentence will probably take its course.”

A gust of wind shook down some hawthorn petals between them. Ewen’s eyes followed them to the ground.

“You mean to say,” and he found a difficulty in speaking, “that he will be put to death on a charge seven years old for a course of action on account of which so many have since made their peace and been amnestied?”

“But he has never made his peace nor been amnestied. He was exempted from the Act of Indemnity, as you know, because he did not surrender himself in time. Surely if he is your kinsman you must always have known that, Ardroy?”

“I knew, naturally, that he was exempted from the Act. But to proceed to this extremity is iniquitous,” said Ewen hotly, “—unworthy even of the Elector and his parasites! To deny a man a fair trial——”

Mr. Galbraith put his hand on his arm. “My dear Ardroy, remember where you are, and be careful of your language! You will not help your kinsman by getting yourself arrested. Come home with me now, and we will talk the matter over quietly.”

They left St. James’s Park and its throngs in silence. The beauty of the trees in the sunlight was hateful to Ewen; the sunlight itself was hateful, and these laughing, careless men and women in their bright clothes more hateful still. They were of the same race, too, as the Crown lawyers who were going to do this heartless thing under a show of legality.

And yet, for all the resentment in his heart, through which throbbed the long-memoried and vengeful Celtic blood, there was also a voice there to which he did not wish to listen, appealing to the innate sense of justice which had come to him from some other strain, telling him that the English could hardly be blamed for using this weapon ready to their hand if they considered Archibald Cameron so dangerous a foe to their peace. And again another, as sombre and hollow as the wind in a lonely corrie, whispering that this was what he had always feared.

In Mr. Galbraith’s comfortable, dark-panelled house in Westminster Ardroy talked little; he listened. No, said his compatriot, there had not been a great deal of interest shown when Doctor Cameron was brought to London in April, so many people being out of town with the Duke, horse-racing at Newmarket. Should popular feeling be sufficiently aroused; it was possible that pressure might be brought to bear on the Government. As to why the authorities preferred to rely upon the old sentence of attainder rather than to try Doctor Cameron for treason, it was said very secretly—and here Mr. Galbraith, in his own library, dropped his voice and glanced round—it was said that the Government had sufficient evidence to hang him if he were brought to trial, but did not wish to use it because to do so would probably reveal the source through which it was acquired.

“I should not have thought their hands so clean that they need hold back for that!” commented Ewen scornfully.

His host shook his head. “That is not the reason for their reluctance—yet, mind you, Ardroy, this is but a theory, and whispered only in corners at that! The Government are said to have the evidence from an informer whose identity they do not wish known. Whoever he may be, he is either too highly placed or too useful to expose.”

Disgust and wrath fought together in his hearer. “An informer! Pah! But, yes, there has been treachery; I know that well. I wish I had the wringing of the scoundrel’s neck; but he is, I think, some man up in Perthshire—in Scotland at any rate. And the Government are so tender of him that they do not wish his identity disclosed! If Doctor Cameron is sacrificed I think it will not be impossible to find him, protected or no! But that’s for . . . later on. Now, Mr. Galbraith, what do you think of the chances of a rescue from the Tower?”

“I think nothing of them,” said the Scot emphatically. “A rescue is impossible; an escape only feasible by some such stratagem as Lady Nithsdale employed to save her husband after the ’Fifteen, and such a stratagem has a very small chance of succeeding the second time. No, the only hope is that, for whatever reason, the Government should see fit to commute the sentence which is, I fear, sure to be pronounced. . . . You’ll stay and sup with me, I hope, Ardroy, for I have some friends bidden with whom I should like to make you acquainted. To-morrow evening, if you will allow me, I shall take you to the ‘White Cock’ in the Strand, and present you to some of those who frequent it. It may be,” said Mr. Galbraith somewhat doubtfully, “that in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom. . . .”