Читать книгу D. K. Broster Collection - D. K. Broster - Страница 72

Although in the weeks to come it never occurred to Ewen—who was besides well able to look after himself—that he had been abandoned to his fate on Ardgour beach (he was only to wish sometimes that he had not been quite so precipitate in leaping ashore with the rope), Hector Grant was often to feel remorse for the safety which had been bestowed on him while his brother-in-law had been left to fend for himself.

It was true that the Stewarts had kept the boat hanging about on the other side of the Narrows as long as they dared, but no figure had appeared to claim their help, and young Invernacree avowed that he hardly hoped for it, because of the presence of the soldiers on the spit. Yet since, by the last he had seen of the drama on the shore, Ardroy appeared to be outdistancing his pursuers, Ian had every confidence that he would make his way down the farther side of Loch Linnhe into Morven, and thence cross to Invernacree, for which, after relinquishing the hope of taking him off at Clovulin, the rowers had then made with what speed was left in them. At Invernacree Hector was sheltered for a night or two, during which he gave up his former project of crossing to Ireland, and so to France, for the desire to know what had happened to wreck the scheme for kidnapping the Elector was drawing him, in spite of the hazards, to London. And so here he was, this cold January evening, actually in the capital, a refuge much less safe, one would have thought, than his unlucky relative’s in the wilds of Ardgour. But Hector was a young gentleman attracted rather than repelled by danger; indeed a habit of under-estimating the odds against him seemed to carry him through them better, perhaps, than it sometimes carried others whom this trait of his was apt to involve in difficulties not of their seeking. He argued that he was less likely to be looked for in London than anywhere else.

Perhaps this was true, but Lieutenant Grant, after a couple of days in the capital, found himself facing other problems which had not previously weighed upon him: first, the problem of getting back to France from England without papers of any kind; second, the problem of remaining in London without money, of which he had exceedingly little left; and third, the problem of his reception by his colonel, Lord Ogilvie, when he did rejoin his regiment, since from the moment when he had escaped from Colonel Leighton’s clutches the blame for his continued absence could no longer be laid at that old gentleman’s door. Indeed, Hector foresaw that the sooner he returned to France the less likely would he be to find a court-martial awaiting him there.

So it was, for him, a trifle dejectedly that he walked this evening along the Strand towards his lodging in Fleet Street, wondering whether after all he could contrive to slip through at the coast without the papers which he saw no means of obtaining. He had just come from the ‘White Cock’ tavern, a noted Jacobite resort, where converse with several English adherents of that cause had neither impressed him nor been of any service. No one seemed to be able to tell him exactly why the plot had failed to mature; they had all talked a great deal, to be sure, but were obviously the last persons to help him. The young soldier thought them a pack of fainéants; if he were only back in the Highlands, Ardroy, he could wager, would have got him over to France by some means or other.

He was nearing the sculptured gateway of Temple Bar when a beggar woman, who had been following him for some time, came abreast of him, and, shivering, redoubled her whining appeal for alms. More to be rid of her than from any charitable impulse, Hector put his hand into his pocket . . . and so remained, staring with an expression of horror at the suppliant. His purse was gone. Little as he had possessed an hour ago, he now possessed nothing at all.

“I have been robbed, mother,” he stammered, and his face must have convinced the woman that here was no feigned excuse, for, grumbling, she turned and went her way.

The late passers-by looked curiously at this young man who stood so rigid under the shadow of Temple Bar. All Hector knew was that he had had his purse at the ‘White Cock’ a short time ago, for he had paid his score from its meagre contents. Had he dropped it there, or had it been stolen from him since? He must go back at once to the tavern and inquire if it had been found. Then it occurred to him, and forcibly, that to go in and proclaim his loss would reveal him as a simpleton who could not look after his property in London, or might even seem as though he were accusing the habitués of the ‘White Cock’ of the theft. Either idea was abhorrent to his proud young soul.

He glanced up. The winter moon, half-eaten away, sailed eerily over the shrivelled harvest on the spikes of Temple Bar. Townley’s head, he knew, was one of the two still left there, the commander of the doomed garrison of Carlisle. Hector’s own might well have been there too. And although those grim relics seemed to be grinning down at him in the moonlight, and though the action was not overwise, the young Highlander took off his hat before he passed onwards.

Yes, London was a hostile and an alien town. He had not met one Scot there, not even him whom he had thought certainly to meet, young Finlay MacPhair of Glenshian, the old Chief’s son, who had been in the plot. Did he know where to find him, he reflected now, he might bring himself to appeal in his present strait to a fellow Gael where he would not sue to those spiritless English Jacobites. And at the ‘White Cock’ they would know young Glenshian’s direction.

Hector turned at that thought, and began quickly to retrace his steps, lifting his hat again, half-defiantly, as he passed the heads of the seven years’ vigil, and soon came once more to the narrow entry off the Strand in which the ‘White Cock’ was situated. There were still some customers there, drinking and playing cards, and as he came down the little flight of steps inside the door an elderly Cumberland squire named Fetherstonhaugh, with whom he had played that evening, looked up and recognised him.

“Back again, Mr. Grant? God’s sake, you look as though you had received bad news! I trust it is not so?”

“There is nothing amiss with me, sir,” replied Hector, annoyed that his looks could so betray him. “But I was foolish enough to go away without inquiring the direction of my compatriot, Mr. Finlay MacPhair of Glenshian, and I have returned to ask if any gentleman here could oblige me with it.”

At first it seemed as if no one there could do this, until a little grave man, looking like an attorney, hearing what was toward, got up from an equally decorous game of picquet in the corner, and volunteered the information that Mr. MacPhair lodged not far from there, in Beaufort Buildings, opposite Exeter Street, the second house on the right.

Hector could not suppress an exclamation. He lowered his voice. “He lives in the Strand, as openly as that? Why, the English Government could put their hands on him there any day!”

“I suppose,” replied the little man, “that they do not wish to do so. After all, bygones are bygones now, and Mr. MacPhair, just because he was so promptly clapped into the Tower, never actually bore arms against the Elector. But he keeps himself close, and sees few people. Perhaps, however, as you come from the Highlands, he will receive you, sir.”

“Ay, I think he’ll receive me,” quoth Hector a trifle absently. His ear had been caught by some conversation at a little distance in which the word ‘purse’ occurred. The conversation was punctuated with laughter, whose cause was evidently the exiguous nature of the purse’s contents, and he distinctly heard a voice say, “I’ll wager ’tis his, the Scotchman’s—they are all as poor as church mice. Ask him!”

“Egad, if he is so needy he will claim it in any——” began another voice, which was briefly recommended to lower itself, or ‘the Scotchman’ would hear. And in another moment a young gentleman, plainly trying to school his features to the requisite gravity, was standing before Hector saying, “A purse has just been found, dropped doubtless by some gentleman or other, but as no one here claims it, it must be the property of one who has left. Is it by chance yours, Mr. Grant?”

And he displayed, hanging across his palm, Hector’s very lean and rather shabby green silk purse.

The colour mounted hotly into the young Highlander’s face. Do what he would he could not restrain a half-movement of his hand to take his property. But almost swifter than that involuntary movement—instantly checked—was the proud and angry impulse which guided his tongue.

“No, sir, I am not aware of having lost my purse,” he said very haughtily, and translated the tell-tale movement of his hand into one towards his pocket. He affected to search in that emptiness. “No, I have mine, I thank you. It must be some other gentleman’s.”

And, having thus made the great refusal, Hector, furiously angry but outwardly dignified, marched up the steps and out of the ‘White Cock’ as penniless as he had come in.

The door had scarcely closed behind him before Mr. Fetherstonhaugh joined the group round the purse-holder, his jolly red face puzzled. “I could have sworn that purse was Mr. Grant’s—at any rate I saw him pull forth just such another when he was here an hour ago.”

“But ’tis impossible it should be his,” said someone else. “Who ever heard of a Scot refusing money—still less his own money!”

The depleted purse passed from hand to hand until one of the company, examining its interior more closely, extracted a worn twist of paper, opened it, and burst into a laugh. “May I turn Whig if the impossible has not happened! The purse is his, sure enough; here’s his name on an old bill from some French tradesman in Lille!”

“And the lad pretended that he had his purse in his pocket all the time!” exclaimed Squire Fetherstonhaugh. “He must be crazy!”

“No, he must have overheard our comments, I’m afraid,” said a voice, not without compunction.

“Aye, that will be it,” said the elder man. “You should be less free with your tongues, young gentlemen! I have a notion where Mr. Grant lodges, and, if you’ll make over the purse to me, damme if I don’t send it to him to-morrow.”

“Take out the bill, then, sir,” advised one of the original jesters, “and he will be devilish puzzled to guess why it reached him.”

On the whole it was well that Hector did not know how fruitless was his pretence, as he walked away towards Fleet Street again with an added antipathy to London in his heart. What else could he have done, he asked himself, in the face of such insolent comment? And, after all, it was not a great sum which he had so magnificently waved from him, and the young French lady who had made the purse for him three years ago had almost passed from his memory. That somebody besides himself, the woman with whom he had found a lodging, would also be the poorer for his fine gesture, did not occur to him that night.