Читать книгу The Span o' Life: A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec - William McLennan - Страница 10

“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.