by John Buchan
“I have considered it, my lord,” said Francis, though with a whitening face.
“Yet, supposing the lad to have a great spirit, he would deem his neck’s safety a small thing compared with the honour of his friends?”
“Doubtless he would,” said Francis, between closed teeth.
At this the Lord President rose and gathered his papers together. “I have to tell ye, sir,” he said gravely, “that I honour ye for a very gallant gentleman.” Then, as he conducted him to the door of his lodging, he spoke quietly in his ear, “I would recommend the third night from this if any one thought of putting the supposititious theory into practice.”
Hitherto a certain gentleman has come but little into our tale; now he must enter for an hour ere taking a long farewell. Times had changed with John Murray of Broughton, and it was a careworn, peevish man who sat in his prison chamber looking forth at the evening sky from a barred slit in the massive stone. He still wore the stained clothes he had travelled in, and what with the bare furnishing and the high, shadowy vaulting the scene and the man looked dismally comfortless. Most of his time he spent in pacing the length of his chamber, with knitted brow and lips that muttered ceaselessly. The toil had soon worn him thin; he had lost his old florid colour; and what with his past privations and his present disquietude, it was a mere shade of his old self that sat moodily in the dusk of the evening.
Suddenly the door was opened by a turnkey and a visitor was ushered in. The warder left without locking the door, and the stranger advanced to his side. He had risen and stood inquiringly regarding a tall man, dressed plainly, and with a great horseman’s jacket turned up about his ears. Not till he had advanced some paces to the light did he see clearly, and then he went forward to greet him with outstretched hands. For it was a mark of the Secretary that no name or face which he once heard or saw was ever forgotten.
“God bless you, Mr. Birkenshaw, and I am blithe to get a sight of an old face. I am dying in these walls for some token that my friends have not forgotten me. But how comes it that you are admitted? for they keep me here as close as a mad tyke. I trust you have run into no grave personal risk on account of my worthless self?”
“It matters little how I came in, sir, and be assured I am running no risk. I have come to have some talk with you on a little private matter. But I would inquire after your health. How do you bear the mournful events of these latter days?” Francis spoke shortly but not uncivilly, for indeed the man’s old rank and present discomfort impelled him to some politeness.
“Alas for a poor people!” cried the Secretary, sinking back in his chair. “It is the way of all great causes, when brave hearts perish and senseless force crushes out loyalty and honour. You saw the saddest day in Scotland’s history, unless there have been more awful crimes since I last saw the open sky.” He spoke in the style of Lovat, but to Francis, knowing the man only too shrewdly, the words seemed void of meaning.
“Many honest fellows have been swinging on Hairibee,” said he, “and two great lords have met their doom on the Tower hill.”
The Secretary shut his lips to hide the quivering. “Even so,” he said, “death is the end of all our desires. Did you bring any message from our friends in the North?”
“None,” said Francis, “for my errand was but a matter of personal satisfaction. I came to ask if you fulfilled my request before the unhappy day at Culloden?” And he looked hard at the other.
“Why, yes,” said Murray, simply. “The letters have long perished. But what makes you so eager to ken?”
“The Lord Lovat is now in his enemies’ hands,” said Francis, “and, as there is like to be much brought against him, I wished to have no sad reflections that remissness of mine had brought him to his undoing. I do not hint anything of blame to you in the matter, but if perchance the thing had been mislaid, it would be a formidable article in the charge.”
Murray ignored the slur and fastened on the mere statement, but it was clear that the words moved him.
“Lovat is taken, you say?” he cried. “God, that is the end of the Cause with a vengeance, for they have gotten the greatest intellect in all Scotland or France. Have they brought him here?”
“It is some days since,” said Francis.
“But what can they prove against him?” he asked excitedly. “He wasna out with the rest no more than Traquair and the Macleods. They’re safe enough in their hidy-holes, and wherefore no Lovat? Ye say they will have much matter to bring against him, but it beats me to tell where they’ll get a boddle’s worth. I tell ye, sir, it will be a glorious acquittal.” And he looked on Francis with keen, sagacious little eyes.
To his hearer every word was offensive, so clearly did it argue a black purpose. No doubt the man acted his part cunningly, but there was a trip in his tongue, a falter in his readiness which belied him. Francis stared on him with gathering brows.
“And how is it with yourself, Mr. Murray? Are you too to have a glorious acquittal, or are ye deep in the black books of the Government, like the honest gentlemen who are gone?”
The Secretary shook his head and passed his hand over his eyes.
“My days are numbered,” he said, “numbered like the rest. I cannot look for mercy, for I have been at my master’s side in all his calamities, and my name is near as well kenned as his own. Think you they will let me go now they have got me?” and even in his fright his breast seemed to swell with importance. “I could have wished to die in my own land by the side of the brave Keppoch at Culloden or among the heather hills; but I have screwed my courage to the cauld death which awaits me. After all, it is but a short and easy passage to a better world.”
Francis sat in silence, his eyes scanning him up and down so intently that the voice quavered in the last words.
“It is of this chiefly that I came to speak,” he said. “Your friends in the North, me among the rest, and many others whom it would not be well to name, have considered that you, as the Prince’s best friend, would be a sore loss to the Cause. So by perilous ways we have contrived a means whereby you may escape and get safely over the water.”
Murray lifted his head, and looked with wild eyes upon the speaker.
“It’s a device of little subtilty, and it has been used before with some success. You and I are much of a height. You have only to change clothes with me, wrap this same riding-cloak about your ears, and take your leave. I have purposely made the clothing somewhat kenspeckle, that the men may notice it and pay less heed to the face. The warders are picked men, and more than one are in the secret. At the last gate you will meet one of our own countrymen, an Argyle Campbell, who will give you the word, ‘To which passage?’ You have but to answer, ‘To the Fords of Tyne,’ and he will follow you beyond the bounds, and see you safely to the door of your wife’s lodging. There all is ready for flight this very evening, and ere morn you may be on the high seas. But you must hasten, Mr. Murray, for the hours pass.”
But the Secretary’s face showed no joyful surprise, no eagerness, only discomfort, timidity, and doubt. He rose stammering from his chair.
“I am grateful, Mr. Birkenshaw, grateful to you and all the good friends. Be sure I am grateful;” and he walked hastily up and down. “But, my lad, it canna be. You purpose to stay in my place. Do ye not see that it means that your life will be forfeit, that you alone will be left to bear the wrath of a tricked government? I may be soured and ill-grained, but God knows I have not come to such a depth as to allow such a cruel sacrifice. A young life,” he repeated. “It canna be.”
“But I am willing,” cried Francis. “Think what the thing involves. I am a landless, kinless man, and no one will mourn my end. Nay, it would be a matter of highest satisfaction to myself that I could die so well. But you have a wife, you are a member of a great house, above all, you are one of the few props of a feeble cause.” Even as he spoke the words disgusted him. He saw treachery written so plainly on this man’s face that he would have been glad to catch him by the neck an
d drive him out perforce. Something of his feelings must have been apparent, for Murray asked suddenly, —
“Had Meg anything to do with this errand? It would be like one of her daft games.”
“Surely your wife has a hand in the matter,” said Francis, “seeing that even now she is waiting to carry you with her to France.”
“I might have guessed it,” he said. “But what sort of scheme is it? How could you think it so easy to win aboard when the sea-shore is watched by the King’s dragoons like the Tower courtyard? It is mere madness, Mr. Birkenshaw; I canna consent.”
Now in these last words the true reason of all lay apparent. He had some plan on hand which would bring him certain safety, and he had no mind to change this security for the difficult chance of a midnight flight. He was so stripped to the framework of his nature that Francis could all but read his thoughts in his eye, and at the sight the young man’s blood ran hot with rage.
Then of his own accord Murray brought the farce to its close. He sat down squarely in his chair, and looked guilelessly at the other. “You have my best thanks, but the thing is beyond my power. I cannot hold my safety, nay, even the safety of a great cause, dearer than my honour, and if I consented to your plan my conscience would never give me another moment’s peace. I am no coward, sir, to fear death, and in waiting here I but await the doom of many of my own kinsmen and kindest friends.”
He stopped abruptly, for Francis stood over him, a fury of hate. “My God, sir,” he cried, “if you value your soul, stop this canting talk. I will tell you why you will not leave this place. You have some Judas secret to tell to our enemies which you hope may save your own coward neck and give you back your possessions. That is the hell’s trick you would play, and may the Lord in heaven have pity on you, you lying dog, for I will have none.”
For a second the Secretary’s life hung in the balance. The “Birkenshaw glower,” once famed over Tweeddale, burned deep in the eyes of this young avenging fury. His fingers twitched at his sword’s handle. The thought of slaying this man and so putting an end to all the difficulty, had occurred to him once and again, and had always been put from him. Now it rose uppermost in his mind. The thought of a woman’s tears drove him frantic, and Francis for one instant was on the verge of murder, while Murray lay back gasping in his chair.
But the white, weak, unwholesome face deterred him. The man seemed worn with toils, seemed spiritless, friendless, and feeble. He could not draw upon him any more than upon a woman. With a cry of despair he turned upon his heel and left the room.
At the last gate the Campbell hailed him. “To what passage?” he asked.
“To the Fords—” said Francis, mechanically, while the man made as if to join him. Then, recollecting himself, “No, no, Heaven knows where,” he cried almost with tears, and hastened out into the darkness.
* * * * *
As Margaret sat watching by the window in a pitiful state of anxiety, Francis came roughly into the room. She ran swiftly forward and laid a hand on his arm, for such little tendernesses had been common in her ways of late.
“Why, you are back!” she cried, “and I had never thought to see you again;” and with all her striving she could not keep a ring of exultation from her words.
“It is all up, my dear lady,” said Francis, hoarsely. “I was a useless messenger. The Secretary has scruples about leaving his present quarters, and I was unable to persuade him bye them.” And with a foolish smile he laid his horseman’s cloak on the table.
Margaret stood looking with sad, drooped eyes. “Nevertheless you have done your most, Francis.”
But he was not listening. He had set himself down before the table, and had leaned his head on both hands. “Oh,” he cried, “I have no gift of success. Whatever I take up miscarries. I am but a poor sort of fushonless creature, meant to be guided by stronger men. All that I do ends in moonshine. I can see no light in the whole black pit of this life.”
“Nay, Francis,” said she, “surely there is some comfort, for though you could not save others, you have brought yourself back unharmed.”
It was a silly woman’s argument, but he, lifting his eyes carelessly at the words, saw something in the lady’s face which made him redden and stare hard out of the window.
CHAPTER XIX. The Last of the Secretary.
Amid a crowd of notables and fashionables, where the wits of the coffee-houses rubbed elbows with the beaus of the Mall, Francis pressed to hear the last scene in the drama which had been played athwart his own life. The Lord President had gained him admission, and so this morning he stood in the great hushed Westminster chamber, watching the lords in their robes, the frowning bench of judges, and at the bar the huddled figure of the old lord with his two piercing eyes still mocking at the world.
It was a farce even to his layman’s eye, — a cruel, fantastic farce, with death waiting to pull down the curtain. Lovat had no aid but his own tongue, and for days he had toiled, cross-questioning witnesses on the other side, putting the necessary inquiries to his own supporters, till his face had grown ashen grey and he had swooned at the bar. His four counsel were of the most ineffectual cast, and would have turned the whole affair into an ugly mimicry by catching at points of form but for the old man’s restraining voice. At first he did his work well, even jocularly, but as his weariness grew greater his questions lost all their pith and he relapsed into dignity and silence. The bearing of the old traitor struck Francis with admiration, — at once deferential and free, defiant and courteous. He had his compliments for the Lords, his tags of quotation, his excellent sentiments; but the certainty of death seemed to give a nobility to what had seemed before a silly farrago.
But as Francis listened and waited, the finishing touch was added to the picture; for into the witness-box came a shamefast figure, the very one he had held at his mercy in that Tower chamber, and to which he had shown a way of life it would have none of. Every eye in the assembly turned to these square feet of wood where the witness stood meekly, looking with conciliating eyes to the benches of Lords and nervously fingering his cravat. Every face was eager with curiosity, some dark with ill-concealed disgust, while among the few friends of the prisoner there were twitching lips and hands hard at side.
Lovat had sunk in a stupor of weakness, and had not noticed the new arrival. Murray answered questions glibly and precisely in a tone of utmost cheerfulness. Then the clerk read the statement wherein he, John Murray, umquhile of Broughton, with the deepest penitence for past errors, with promise of amends and hope of his Majesty’s infinite clemency, told to his gracious captors the full tale of the late lamentable events, more especially the part played by Simon Fraser, called the Lord Lovat, certain documents being adduced in clear proof of such statements. As the soft voice of the witness and then the hard clerk-like tones fell on his ear the old lord roused himself to interest. The shaggy head grew erect, and the eyes played with the unhappy man as he shifted his balance from one foot to the other and sought in all that place for a friendly glance. Ere the thing was finished he had hazarded a look at the man he had ruined and then drawn back in terror. He could not face the silent mockery of those eyes, the eyes of the wisest head in Scotland. Much they had seen, those eyes, at home and abroad, at the King’s court and in the wild Stratherick. And now, with no fear of man, they looked through the one who had lent the chief hand to his overthrow.
The Lord High Steward asked if he would question the witness.
Lovat bowed politely. “Nay, my lord,” he said, “I think Mr. Murray and I already understand each other;” and the smile on his lips was caught by the rest till Francis found himself all but laughing at the singular comedy.
The clerk rose according to custom, to read the portion of the defence which had been set in writing against Murray’s charges. It was excellent rhetoric, stinging words under which the unfortunate gentleman cowered in some misery.
“Murray, the most abandoned of mankind,” ran the paper, “who hath sought like
another Catiline to patch up a broken fortune upon the ruin and distress of his native country; stealing into France to enter upon engagements upon, your Lordships may believe, the most sacred oaths of fidelity, and now appearing at your Lordships’ bar to betray these very secrets, which he confessed he had drawn from the person he called his lord, his prince and master, under the greatest confidence.” So the clerk read, while the assembly grinned, and Lovat smacked his lips at his own invective.
Francis had no heart for more, but as he turned to push his way back, he caught a glimpse of the Lord President in the crowd. He also seemed about to leave, and the two met in the great corridor.
“This is the work of your friends,” said Francis, wildly.
“It is the wark of my friends, and I am bitter ashamed. The fules! To set an auld man on a pinnacle to mock at till he gets him an appearance of virtue he never could have worn elsewhere. I have been Sim Fraser’s neist neighbour all my days, and though I could not help but like the man, I kenned him ower weel to trust him with a boddle. But I think shame to see him worried like a rabbit in a dyke, and him wi’ his grey hairs. Be sure, Mr. Birkenshaw, the Fraser will come out of the game with the maist credit.”
“I want a further favour, my lord,” said Francis, “and it is that I be allowed to visit Lord Lovat before his end. There are some matters that I would like to talk over, and certain passages between us want redding up.”
Forbes knit his brows. “It canna be till the trial’s ower,” he said. “They keep him ower close. But after — it is possible. Maybe you might win to him the last night.”
Francis thanked him and hurried out to the cheerful life of the street. The place was full of cries and the rattle of vehicles, the shouts of chairmen, and the hum of voices. It was a fresh, breathing world, and above was the infinite unchangeable blue of sky. For a second the cobwebs of miserable intrigue were cleared from his brain. He saw the littleness of man’s schemes, the ease of death, the cataclysm of hopes and fears, as in a sharp moment of time. But again he was back at his sad memories. Here in this alien place the last blow was being struck at a cause he had stood for. Tush! It was little he cared about the Cause, it was the people he had served and loved, the old memories and sentiments of the few against the many, which were being swallowed up in this callous present.