Читать книгу The Span o' Life: A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec - William McLennan - Страница 7

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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.