by John Buchan
“Landlord,” he cried, in a voice of importance, and a heavy man came down a trap-stair from a garret. Francis’s manner assumed the ease of politeness and good-fellowship mingled. “I have word with the Captain,” he said, “and I maun see him before I hae my breakfast. But quick, man, get something ready for me.”
“The Captain!” the landlord cried with disgust, “and whatna Captain, my lad? I’ve had eneuch o’ captains in thae fower walls this last week to mak hell ower thrang for the deil himsel’. But they’re a’ cleared noo, gone yestreen the last o’ them to fecht the Hielandmen. God, I wish them luck. They’ll find a Hieland cateran’s dirkie a wee bit less pleasin’ in their wames than my guid bannocks.”
Here was news of vexation. “But where have they gone, and can I no meet up wi’ them?” he asked.
“It’s easy to tell that,” said the sarcastic host. “They’re just in Embro and nae further. Cope has landed some way doun the Firth, and a’ King George’s lads are drawing to that airt. They say the Chevalier and his Hielanders gang oot the day to meet them. Weary fa’ them for spoilin’ an honest man’s trade! Fechtin’ tae wi’ oot breeks and wi’ nae skeel in pouther and leid! God!” And the man laughed deep and silent.
“The Chevalier?” Francis stammered.
“Ay, the Chevalier,” said the man. “Whaur hae ye been wanderin’ a’ thae days that ye havena heard o’ him? Chairlie’s king o’ the castle the day, though he may be doun wi’ a broken croun the morn.”
“I have been long in the South,” said Francis, hastily, “and forbye, I am given to doing my ain business and no heeding the clash of the country.”
“Weel, weel, maybe sae. But if I were your maister, my lad, I wad pick ane mair gleg at the uptak than yoursel’.” And the landlord went off, rolling with his heavy gait, to fetch the stranger breakfast.
Francis sat down to reflect on this state of matters with some philosophy. It meant a longer journey for himself ere he disposed of his business, and a greater risk of frustration. He thought for a moment of playing the faithful messenger after all, and casting his services at the Secretary’s feet. But the thought was scarce serious, for with it came the unpleasant consideration that his position would still be a lackey’s, and that he would be likely to have difficulties if he ever came within range of Lord Manorwater or the Secretary’s wife. Soon he was reconciled even to the twenty odd miles which still awaited him, for the holding of Edinburgh and the landing of the English general meant a crisis of war, when news would be bought and sold at a higher price. But he must be wary and quick, or any wandering loyalist might trick him. So he cried to the landlord to hurry the meal, and stretched his already wearied legs in a chair.
“Are ye for Embro?” asked the landlord.
“Even so,” said Francis, guilelessly, “since ye say the Captain is there.”
“Ye’ll hae a gey wark finding him, my lad,” said the other. “Captains will be as thick as fleas in Embro the noo, and the maist o’ them withoot the breeks. If ye’re wise ye’ll look for the man ye’re seekin’ mair east the country on the road to join the ithers. What did ye say was his name?”
“I wasna told any name,” said Francis, feeling himself on the edge of a hazard. “A’ I got was ‘The Captain at Leidburn inn’.”
The landlord laughed. “They keep ye muckle in the dark on your side tae. I had thocht that that wark was left for the Hielandmen.”
“What side do ye incline to yoursel’?” asked Francis.
“Nae side,” said the man, shortly. “I treat a’ the warld as my customers, whether they wear the breeks or no. But my faither was ane o’ the Cameronian kind, and I’m half persuaded that way mysel’.”
But at this moment a rattle at the door proclaimed another visitor. Francis turned anxious eyes, for might not this be some servant of the Murrays or Manorwaters? But the sight of the newcomer re-assured him, for there in all the dust of travel and abandon of weariness stood the deserted Starkie.
He had not prospered in these last days, for his clothing was much soiled and his face was lean with exertion. He fell back at the sight of his aforetime comrade, as if doubtful of his reception. But Francis was in the humour in which to hail his arrival with delight. Yesterday he had repented his loss, and now he was in a mood to atone for it. He greeted him with a cry of pleasure, and drew the hesitating Westlander to the fire.
“We’ve forgathered again,” said he, “and now we’ll be the better friends. In these stirring times, Mr. Stark, there’s no room for ill nature.”
“And I’m glad to see ye, Mr. Birkenshaw, for I have missed ye sair. God, I’ll ne’er forget that weary wander ower the Tweed hills. I’ve been a’ airts but the right yin since I saw ye.”
Both ate their breakfast ravenously, while mutual questioning filled the pauses. As they talked, the anomaly of their course came forcibly before each mind, and each asked the reason of this unexpected meeting-place.
“What brought ye to this part, Starkie? This is no road to Clyde and the West.”
“Oh, I’ve nae doubt it was the same reason as yoursel’. When I came by the top o’ Tweed the hale land was turned upside doun wi’ rumours o’ war, and ilka plooman gettin’ his musket and sword. They telled me Embro was gotten by the Prince, and that a’ the brave lads were rinnin’ to his flag. So, thinks I, I may as weel try my luck in my ain land as in the abroad. Forbye, I’ll pay out my faither, for gin he heard o’ siccan daeings he wad gang out o’ his mind. He bides ower near the Hieland Line to love the Hielandmen. But if ye’ve nae objections, I wad like to hear what brocht you yersel’ this gate.”
“Wheesht, Starkie,” said Francis, looking darkly at the landlord, “I’ve a ploy on hand to make both our fortunes.” And he watched the host till he had betaken himself to the far back of the kitchen. Then he leaned forward and tapped his companion on the arm. “Starkie, man, I have a letter.”
The Westlander’s eyes brightened. “That’s guid, and whae is it frae?”
“From the Secretary’s wife to the Secretary’s self.”
The announcement was made in stage tones and received with proper awe. “Mr. Birkenshaw, ye’re great,” said Starkie, and Francis’s vanity was appeased. It had been somewhat wounded by the independent tone which his companion had seen fit to assume since their severance.
Then in brief words he proceeded to unfold his plans. He would make straight for the east shore of the Firth, and meet the Government leaders. The near crisis of the war would heighten his value and gain him favour. He had heard enough of the Prince’s men to have little faith in them; time would soon work their ruin; and then would come reward for the loyal adherent. Starkie listened and approved, so both in their ignorance saw a roseate horizon to their boyish policy.
But the businesslike Westland mind had one addendum. The letter might be of the highest consequence; again it might be a trifle, which would merely expose the bearer to contempt. It would be well to inquire into its contents.
Francis pondered, hesitated, and then blankly refused. Something, he knew not what, held him from opening it. He scouted the idea of honour, — that was flung far behind, — but a sense of fitness even in the details of roguery was strong upon him. He had still some memory of the hands from which he had got the letter, and his sentiment had not utterly flown. The feeling might permit high, audacious treachery, but not so mean and small a piece of bad faith. He was on the verge of the humour in which two days before he had flung his companion into the ditch.
In his luckless way Starkie ministered to the growing repulsion. The thought of the future delighted him, and he hastened to sketch its details. Alike in his childishness and his flashes of shrewdness he was repugnant to the maturer Francis. His view of the conduct of affairs was so plainly ingenuous that it filled the other with despair, and his idea of happiness was the craziest mixture of the respectable and sillily wicked. Francis, still in the heat of a great plan, with his brain yet fired from the deeds of the night before, had
no tolerance for such a huckstering paradise.
From ill temper the two were rapidly drifting to a quarrel. These last days had found Starkie some independence, and he was scarcely disposed to bear with his comrade’s megrims. He assumed a tone of consequence, and replied to Francis’s gibes with flat rustic retorts. The landlord came up betimes and tried in vain to mediate. Francis had the grace to hold his peace, but not so the other. He sank from vituperation to complaint, and was on the verge of confiding all grievances to the open ears of the host.
Meanwhile the hours were passing, and a hot blaze of sun in the windows warned Francis that he must soon be stirring. For a second he was tempted to leave his companion then and there, but he curbed his irritation with the bridle of policy and reflected on his probable usefulness. He was in the act of conciliating him by timely concession, — by falling in with the tune of his hopes and throwing him crumbs of flattery, when a noise of hooves and wheels sounded without on the road and then stopped short at the inn-door.
Both men sprang to their feet, while the landlord hurried to clear the table. A woman’s voice was heard as if giving orders, and then a step on the threshold, and the door was opened. The blinking eyes of Mr. Stark saw a lady, tall and fair, in a travelling cloak of dark velvet, with a postilion at her back. But Francis’s breath stopped in his throat, for he knew the face of the woman he was playing false to.
“Landlord,” she cried in her clear high voice, “the right horse has gone lame, and I must be in Edinburgh in an hour. Quick, get me a fresh beast, and have the other looked to.” Then, as she haughtily cast her eyes around the place, she caught sight of the gaping Starkie and Lord Manorwater’s trusted servant. For a second her face looked bewilderment; then a quick gleam of comprehension entered, and her cheeks grew hot with anger.
“So,” said she, “I have found you at last, you cur. You thought to trick me with your tales and profession. Doubtless you are now on your way to your own master with your news. Perhaps it will please you to know that it is valueless, since the Prince’s army has taken the field. It was well that I warned you against this place, else I might have missed this proof of your fidelity. Truly my Lord Manorwater is happy in his servants.”
Plainly she still took him for a lackey, and the thought added gall to his discomfiture. To be defeated in bold treachery was bad, but to stand condemned as a lying menial was bitter to a man’s pride. For a second he tried to brazen it, but his overpowering vexation made him quail before her eyes.
But now the landlord spoke out in his harsh, obstinate voice, —
“You will get nae horse frae my stable, my leddy. I am a King’s man, and will see you and your Prince in hell ere I stir a fit to help. Ye maun e’en gang further and try your luck, mistress.”
“Do you refuse?” she cried. “Then, by Heaven, I will take it myself, and lash you round your own yard. I will burn the place over your head ere the week is out, and then you may have leisure to repent your incivility.”
The fierce rhetoric of her tone cowed the recalcitrant host, but he had no time for a second thought. “Robin,” she turned to her man, “you will get the horse while I wait here and talk to these gentlemen. But, see, give me your whip. I shall have need of it.”
The fellow went, and she turned again to the three astounded spectators.
“Stop! What the—” cried the landlord, but she checked him with uplifted arm. “I have no ill-will to you,” she said, “and would prevent you from doing yourself a hurt. I am the wife of the Secretary Murray, and you will find me hard to gainsay. So I beg you to keep out of my quarrel.”
Then she turned once more to the pair with her intolerable scorn.
“And you are men,” she cried, “made in the likeness of those who are fighting at this hour for their honour and King, while you cower in an alehouse and lay plots for women. But, bah! I waste words on you. Angry words are for men, but a whip for servants. You pair of dumb dogs, you will get a dog’s punishment.” And she struck Francis full in the face with her lash.
At the first crack of the whip, Starkie with the instinct of his kind made for the door, and had the fortune to escape. He had no stomach to encounter this avenging Amazon with her terrible beauty and cruel words. But Francis stood immovable, his mind crushed and writhing, his cheeks flaming with disgrace. This bright creature before him, with queenly air and her high tone of command, had tumbled his palace of cards about his ears. He felt with acid bitterness the full ignominy, the childish, servile shame of his position. The charm of her young beauty drove him frantic; her whole mien, as of a world unknown to him and eternally beyond his reach, mocked him to despair. For a moment he was the blacksmith’s grandson, with the thought to rush forward, wrest the whip from her hands, and discomfit this proud woman with his superior strength. But some tincture of the Birkenshaw blood held him back. In that instant he knew the feebleness of his renunciation of virtue. Some power not himself forbade the extremes of disgrace, — some bequest from more gallant forbears, some lingering wisp of honour. He stood with bowed head, not daring to meet her arrogant eyes, careless of the lash which curled round his cheek and scarred his brow. Marvellous the power of that slender arm! He felt the blood trickle over his eyes and half blind him, but he scarce had a thought of pain.
Then she flung down the whip on the floor.
“Go,” she cried, “I am done with you. You may think twice before you try the like again.”
He moved dumbly to the door, and as he passed lifted his eyes suddenly to her face. Dimly he saw that her gaze was fixed on his bleeding forehead, and in her look he seemed to see a gleam of pity and at her mouth a quiver of regret. Then with crazy speed he ran blindly to the open moor.
CHAPTER VII. Of a Lady on a Grey Horse.
The sun was far up in the sky and the world lay bathed in the clear light of noon. The long rough expanse of bog lay flat before him with its links of moss-pools and great hags of peat. But he ran as on open ground, leaping the water, springing from tussock to tussock of heather, with his cheeks aflame and his teeth set in his lips. He drove all thoughts from his mind; the bitterness of shame weighed upon him like a mount of lead; when he looked back at times and saw the inn still in view, the sight maddened him to greater speed. So keen was his discomfiture that he scarcely felt weariness, though he had been travelling for a day and a night, with no sleep. When at last he came to the limit of the desert and emerged on fields of turf he ran the faster, till a ridge of hill hid the hateful place from his sight, and he sank on the ground.
In a little he sat up, for though utterly tired, his whirling brain did not suffer him to rest. Now, when the scene of his disgrace was no more before his eyes, he strove to take the edge from his mental discomfort. Drearily he conjured back every detail, and for a little it seemed as if his shame would be driven out by the more bearable passion of anger. But the attempt failed lamentably. He had wholly lost his old sentiment of bravado; he saw his flimsy schemes wither before the bright avenging presence and himself a mere knavish servant in her eyes. In his misery the sight of her obstructed all his vision. At one moment he hated her with deadly vehemence; at the next he would have undergone all humiliation for a sight of her face. The inflated romance which had first driven him out on his travels was centred for the time on this one woman, and with it there followed the bitterness of despair.
Then he feebly clutched at his wits and set himself to review his position. It was black, black, without a tincture of hope. He had failed in his treachery, and something within him made him dimly conscious that this form of roguery was somehow or other shut to him henceforth. The rôle of the high-handed adventurer could not be his; even in a simple matter how dismally he had failed. And yet he could scarcely regret it, for at the moment the part had lost its charm. He must follow his first intentions and sail abroad, but with what altered hopes and spirit! For at that hour Mr. Francis Birkenshaw in his youth and strength felt that already he was verging on the dull confines of age. But w
ith it all the thought of that foreign journey was unpleasing. He had ruined his life in his own land, but yet he was loth to leave it, for the vague sentiment which was working in his heart was all associated with this barren country and the impending wars. He had the sudden thought that his services might still be worth their price in either army, but again he found no comfort. King George’s forces, alien in race and unglorified by any fantastic purpose, did not attract him; the other side was a dream, a chimæra, and moreover his breach of faith had cut him off from it for ever. An acceptable recruit he would appear, when Murray of Broughton was a leader!
So with hopeless purpose he set out over the well-tilled country for the shores of the Firth. This new ferment would make Edinburgh as safe for him as a foreign city, and it was an easier task to sail from the Firth than from a western port. He tried hard to recover his attitude of scorn for fate and firm self-confidence. But it was little use. No casuistry could persuade him to see his folly in a brighter light; he had lost his grip on the world, and now was driven about like a leaf where aforetime he had purposed to hew a path.
It was well on in the afternoon ere he struck a track, for he had taken his course at right angles to the main highway and found himself mazed in a country of sheepwalks. Thence the road ran down into a broad lowland vale, set with clumps of wood and smoking houses, with a gleam of water afar among low meadows. Autumn was tinging leaf and stalk, and her blue haze rimmed the farthest trees and the line of abrupt hills. But the golden afternoon had no soothing effect upon him; he saw all things in the light of his own grey future, and plodded on with bent head and weary footstep. The effects of his toil, too, were beginning to come over him, and he found himself at times dizzy and all but fainting. The few people he met — farmers with carts, packmen, and a half-dozen country lasses — looked curiously at the tall, dishevelled man with his weather-stained clothing. He stopped no one to ask the way, for the road ran clear to the city, and at its high places gave a prospect of roofs and steeples against the silver of the Forth. But sleep overcame him before nightfall, and he had to content himself with a lodging in the nearest village.