The Span o' Life: A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec

THE SPAN O' LIFE

THE SPAN O' LIFE

A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec

By WILLIAM McLENNAN
and J. N. McILWRAITH
Illustrations by F. de Myrbach

NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

TORONTO:
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1899, by Harper & Brothers, at the Department of Agriculture.

Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

All rights reserved.

PREFACE

The reader familiar with the amusing memoirs of the Chevalier Johnstone will recognise in how far Maxwell was suggested thereby; if he be equally familiar with the detail of Canadian history of the period he will have little difficulty in discovering the originals of Sarennes and some of the secondary characters, and, in the Epilogue, the legend of the death of the celebrated missionary, le R. P. Jean Baptiste de la Brosse. But while the experience of some actual man or woman has suggested a type to be portrayed, it is only as a type, and with no intention of representing the individual in the character of the story. Nor is the attempt to set forth the respective attitude of the Canadian and the old-country Frenchman to be read as a personal expression of the authors', but as their conception of an unfortunate condition between colonist and official that obtained as fully in Canada as it did between the same classes in the English colonies.

Long habit has made the English names of many places and positions so familiar to many in Canada that to adhere to the French form in all instances would be as unnatural as to Anglicise all names throughout—which will explain the lack of uniformity in this particular.

The authors have pleasure in acknowledging their indebtedness to M. l'Abbé Casgrain, of Quebec, for valuable personal assistance in determining local detail, and to Mtre. Joseph Edmond Roy, N.P., of Lévis, for information on the period and the use of his version of the death of the père de la Brosse from his interesting monograph, “Tadoussac.”

W. McL. and J. N. McI.

CONTENTS

PART I

MAXWELL'S STORY

• I. “After High Floods Come Low Ebbs”
• II. I Discover a New Interest in Life
• III. “The Dead and the Absent are Always Wrong”
• IV. In Which I Make Acquaintance with One Near to Me
• V. I Assist at an Interview with a Great Man
• VI. How I Take to the Road Again, and of the Company I Fall in With
• VII. How I Come to Take a Great Resolve
• VIII. How I Make Both Friends and Enemies in New France
• IX. “Joy and Sorrow are Next-door Neighbours”
• X. “He who Sows Hatred Shall Gather Rue”
• XI. “A Friend at One's Back is a Safe Bridge”

PART II

MARGARET'S STORY

• XII. What Happened in the Baie des Chaleurs
• XIII. Le Père Jean, Missionary to the Indians
• XIV. I am Directed into a New Path
• XV. The Marquis de Montcalm-Gozon de St. Véran
• XVI. At Beaulieu
• XVII. I Find Myself in a False Position
• XVIII. I am Rescued from a Great Danger
• XIX. On the Isle Aux Coudres
• XX. At Quebec
• XXI. I Awake from my Dream
• XXII. I am Tortured by Myself and Others
• XXIII. The Heights of Quebec
• XXIV. Reconciliation
• XXV. A Forlorn Hope

PART III

MAXWELL'S STORY

• XXVI. I Close One Account and Open Another
• XXVII. I Find a Key to my Dilemma
• XXVIII. I Make a False Move
• XXIX. I Put my Fortune to the Touch

Epilogue

ILLUSTRATIONS

• “'A REBEL WENCH, LADS, AND MUST SEE HER LOVER CLOSE!'”
• “'THAT IS A LIE!' SHE SAID, CALMLY, RAISING HER FACE”
• “'WHY DO YOU SLEEP IN YOUR CLOTHES?'”
• “'OH, YOUR GRACE, YOUR GRACE, HE IS ALL I HAVE LEFT IN THE WORLD!'”
• “HE ORDERED HIS MEN TO GIVE WAY IN A VOICE THAT SUGGESTED THE CLAP OF A PRISON DOOR”
• “HOW I MADE THEM LAUGH OVER MY APPEARANCE!”
• “SHE STOOD ERECT, HER FACE WHITE WITH EMOTION”
• “'M. LE LIEUTENANT, YOU HAVE MY SINCEREST SYMPATHY!'”
• “I CRAWLED OUT BRUISED, BUT OTHERWISE UNHURT”
• “'CHEVALIER, I KNOW YOU NOW'”
• “AND LAID THEM GENTLY ON THE STREAM”
• “THE PRIEST RECITED THE HOLY OFFICE OF THE MASS”
• “'THERE IS LITTLE I WOULD NOT DO TO PLEASE LE PÈRE JEAN'”
• “'THESE LETTERS CHANGE A DUTY INTO A PLEASURE'”
• “THE TWO MEN STOOD FACING EACH OTHER IN SILENCE”
• “A STRAIGHT PILLAR OF FIRE WENT LEAPING UP INTO THE NIGHT”
• “HE CARRIED ME THROUGH MUD AND WATER, AND SET ME IN HIS SHALLOP”
• “AND, BOWING LOW, ANSWERED HER LIVELY GREETING”
• “TANTUM ERGO SACRAMENTUM VENEREMUR CERNUI”
• “WE MADE A SAD LITTLE PROCESSION”
• “'KEEP UP, MY LAD; YOU ARE AMONG FRIENDS!'”
• “WITH HAT IN HAND CAME SPURRING ON”
• “'HE THAT DWELLETH IN THE SECRET PLACE OF THE MOST HIGH'”
• “SHE SHORTENED UP STRAPS AND ADJUSTED BUCKLES”
• “'CALL OFF YOUR MEN, CAPTAIN NAIRN!'”
• “HE THREW UP HIS HANDS WITH A WEAK CRY AND COVERED HIS FACE”
• “LIFTING HIS LANTHORN, HE HELD IT SO THAT THE LIGHT SHONE FULL UPON HER”
• “'I TAKE IT FOR GRANTED YOU ARE A NON-COMBATANT'”
• “'THE SPAN O' LIFE'S NAE LANG ENEUGH,' ETC.”

Part I

MAXWELL'S STORY

“Better the world should know you at a sinner than God as a hypocrite.”—Old Proverb.

THE SPAN O' LIFE

CHAPTER I

“AFTER HIGH FLOODS COME LOW EBBS”

Every one knows of my connection with the ill-starred Rebellion of Prince Charles, and for this it was that I found myself, a few months after the disaster of Culloden, lying close in an obscure lodging in Greek Street, Soho, London.

Surely a rash proceeding, you may say, this adventuring into the lion's den! But such has not been my experience: in an escalado, he who hugs closest the enemy's wall has often a better chance than he who lies at a distance. And so I, Hugh Maxwell of Kirkconnel, Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, Captain en seconde in Berwick's Foot in the service of His Most Christian Majesty, and late Aide-de-Camp to General Lord George Murray in the misdirected affair of His Royal Highness Charles, Prince of Wales and Regent for his illustrious father, “Jacobus Tertius, Rex Angliae, Hiberniae, et Franciae, Dei Gratia”—Heaven save the mark!—found it safer and more to my taste to walk abroad in London under the nose of the usurping but victorious Hanoverian than to continue skulking under the broader heavens of the Highlands.

I will not deny there were moments when I would rather have been enjoying the clearer atmosphere of France (for it is easier to put a brave face on such dangers once they are safely overcome than bear them with an unruffled fortitude at the time); but there I was, with just enough money to discharge my most pressing necessities, with the precious Cause for which I had sacrificed my hopes of advancement in my own regiment blown to the four corners of the Highlands—more remote and unknown up to this time than the four corners of the earth, though to all appearance about to undergo such a scouring when I left them that they would be uninhabitable for any one who was not born with the Broad Arrow printed on his back.

I was lodging in the attic of a disreputable pot-house, kept by one of those scurvy Scots who traded on his reputed disloyalty as a lure to entice unfortunate gentlemen in similar plight to myself under his roof, and then job them off to the government at so much a head; but this I only knew of a certainty later.

It was not long, however, before I was relieved from my penury at least, for my cousin, Lady Jane Drummond, who since my childhood had stood towards me in the relation of a mother, hearing from me of my position, raised me above all anxiety in that respect.

I cannot help reflecting here on the inopportuneness with which Providence is sometimes pleased to bestow its gifts; the starving wretch, houseless in the streets, has an appetite and a digestion which, in this regard, make him the envy of the epicure, dowered with a wealth useless in its most cherished application. And though ingratitude has never been one of my faults, was it possible not to feel some resentment at the comparative uselessness of a blessing which fell at a time when I was debarred from any greater satisfaction than paying my mean obligations or helping some more needy unfortunate, while forced to look on those pleasures incidental to a gentleman's existence with the unsatisfied eye of forbidden indulgence?

The banker, Mr. Drummond of Charing Cross, who was an old family friend, and through whom I had received my remittance, could or would give me no definite information of the movements of my cousin, Lady Jane, or of her probable arrival at London, so I had nothing to do but await further news and occupy my time as best I might.

On my arrival I had laid aside all the outward marks of a gentleman, dressing myself in imitation of—say a scrivener's clerk—and, save for that bearing which is incorporate with one of my condition and becomes a second nature, not to be disguised by any outward cloak, I might fairly well pass for my exemplar.

It was along in the month of July, when having become habituated to my situation I was accustomed to move about with greater freedom, that being in Fleet Street, I made one of the crowd to gaze at the horrid spectacle of the heads of the unfortunate Messieurs Towneley and Fletcher displayed on Temple Bar, whose cruel fate I had only escaped by my firm resolution in withstanding the unreasonable demands of the Duke of Perth to remain behind in their company in Carlisle.

“Your Grace, though I am willing to shed the last drop of my blood for Prince Charles,” I had answered, with great firmness, “I will never allow myself to be marked out as a victim for certain destruction,” and I held to my place in the retreat.

At such times the least error in judgment is certain to be attended by a train of inevitable disaster, and apart from my own personal escape, for which I am duly thankful, it was a satisfaction to me that his Grace later on most handsomely acknowledged himself to have been in the wrong.

But to return: I was plunged in these sombre reflections when I heard a cry near me, a cry that has never appealed to my support in vain—that of a lady in distress. I turned at once, and there, in full view of my sympathising eyes, was as fair an object as I ever looked upon. An unfortunate lady, overcome by the sights and sounds about her, had fallen back on the shoulder of her maid, who supported her bravely; her black silken hood had been displaced, and her rich amber-coloured hair in some disorder framed her lovely face. Another moment and I was beside them, shifting the unconscious lady to my left arm, to the great relief of the maid, who at once recognised my quality in spite of my disguise.

“Spy 'em close, my beauty! Spy 'em close! Only a penny!” shouted a ruffian, holding a perspective-glass before the unhappy lady. “A rebel wench, lads, and must see her lover close!” But I cut his ribaldry short with a blow in the face, and with my foot pushed off a wretched hag busily engaged in trying to find the pocket of my poor charge, and made immediate move to withdraw her from the crowd.

But my efforts were met with a storm of curses and howls from the scum about us, and matters were fast growing serious, when a most genteelly dressed man pushed in beside us, and, with sword in hand, soon cleared a way, which I threaded with a determined countenance. A moment or two concluded the affair, and we were safe.

The lady recovered with surprising spirit, and turning to the new-comer, cried: “Oh, Gaston! It was horrible beyond words!” and she clasped his arm with both her shapely hands.

We hurried on without further speech, looking for a hackney-coach; and when this was found and hailed, the lady turned, and holding out her hand to me, said: “Sir, forgive the discomposure which prevented my sooner acknowledgment of your services. What would have become of me without your aid? I cannot say half what I feel;” and the lovely creature's eyes filled as she spake.

“My dear young lady,” I said, bending over and kissing her hand, “you could say nothing that would heighten the happiness I have had in being of service to you;” and in order not to add to her generous embarrassment I handed her into the coach, whereupon our common rescuer giving a direction to the man, which I did not overhear, she and her maid drove off. Then, not to be behind so fair an original, I turned and complimented the stranger upon his timely succour.

“Sir,” said he, in French, “I perceive, from some sufficient reason, which I can readily divine, it is convenient for you to appear in disguise.”

“Truly, monsieur,” I returned, “I did not hope that a disguise would protect me from a discerning eye such as yours, but it suffices for the crowd. I am certain, though, that I confide in a gentleman when I say I am Hugh Maxwell of Kirkconnel, late captain in Berwick's Foot, and am entitled to qualify myself as Chevalier.”

“And I, Chevalier,” he replied, with equal frankness, “am the Vicomte Gaston de Trincardel, at present on a diplomatic mission towards the Court.”

Being equally satisfied with each other's condition, we repaired to his lodgings in St. James's Street, where we fell into familiar conversation, in the course of which the Vicomte said,

“I suppose I am correct in my belief that you have been engaged in the affair of Charles Edward?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Is there any reliable intelligence of his whereabouts?”

“To be absolutely frank with you, my dear Vicomte, it is a matter of the most perfect indifference to me where he is, or what becomes of him.”

“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “I cannot understand such a feeling.”

“Had you seen as much of him as I did, even when he was trying to appear at his best as Fitzjames; had you been a daily spectator of the inconceivable folly with which every chance was mismanaged, every opportunity let slip; of the childish prejudice with which every true friend was estranged, and of the silly vanity which daily demanded new incense during the whole of this miserable affair—you might understand without difficulty,” I returned, with some little heat.

“But, Chevalier,” he inquired, soothingly, “may I ask why you followed his fortunes?”

“From that, Vicomte, which I doubt not has ever guided your own course in life, from the one motive that has alone influenced me—principle. My people followed the fortunes of his grandfather after the Boyne, and on both sides of my house, Maxwells and Geraldines, our name has been synonymous with loyalty to the Stuart cause abroad as well as at home.”

“I know your name and its equivalent, Chevalier. May I ask to which branch you belong?”

“I scarce know how to qualify my standing,” I answered, laughing; “we have been proscribed rebels so long that I have lost touch with those things men most value in regard to family. Just as I am a Chevalier without so much as a steed whereon to mount my knightship, so am I a Maxwell of Kirkconnel without title to a rood of ground or a kinsman within measurable distance; and my father before me held naught he could call his own save his honour, my lady mother, and my unworthy self. No! if there be a Spanish branch, I swear I'll lay claim to that, for 'tis Spain assuredly that must hold my flocks and herds, not to name my chateaux.”

“Chevalier,” he began, earnestly, “I shall esteem it a favour—”

“Not for the world, my dear Vicomte! Money is the one anxiety which seldom causes me a second thought. My habit of life is simple, and my only ambition my profession. But to go back to the happy chance of our meeting, may I inquire, without indiscretion, the name of the young lady whom you rescued?”

“Oh, come, come! Honour where honour is due. I am no more responsible for the rescue than yourself. The young lady is a Miss Grey, living with her aunt in temporary lodgings in Essex Street, off the Strand.”

“I have a suspicion, sir, that the name may be as temporary as her lodging, and that I am fortunate in applying to one who can give me reliable information.”

To this, however, the Vicomte only bowed somewhat stiffly, and being unwilling that any contretemps should arise to mar so promising an acquaintance—though the Lord only knows what umbrage any one could take from my remark—I made my adieux, the Vicomte most obligingly offering me his services should I wish to pass over to France. But of these I could not as yet avail myself, as it was necessary I should know of Lady Jane's intentions more definitely; so, with my acknowledgments, the interview ended.

CHAPTER II

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

“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:

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:

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.

CHAPTER III

“THE DEAD AND THE ABSENT ARE ALWAYS WRONG”

I myself was not greatly disturbed over the turn things had taken, for I had begun to be suspicious of my thrifty Scot in Greek Street, and, as I had left behind me neither papers nor effects which could compromise myself or others when he laid his dirty claws upon them, I turned my back on him without regret.

The hour was late to enter upon a search for new lodgings without arousing suspicion, and this determined me to try the sempstress indicated by Lady Jane.

I found the street without difficulty, and, what was better, without questioning, and soon discovered the little shop with a welcome gleam of light shewing through the closed shutters. The street was empty, so I advanced, and, after knocking discreetly, tried the door, which, to my surprise, I found open, and so entered.

In a low chair behind the counter sate a solitary woman, sewing by the indifferent light of a shaded candle. She looked at me keenly and long, but without alarm.

“Madam,” said I, closing the door behind me and slipping in the bolt, “have no fear. My name is Captain Geraldine.”

“That is a lie,” she said, calmly, raising her face so the full light of the candle should fall upon it.

Great heavens! It was that of my wife!

I sank down on a settle near the wall and stared at her, absolutely speechless with surprise and horror, while she continued her sewing without a second look, though I could mark her hands were trembling so she could hardly direct her needle.

“Good God! Lucy! Is it really you?” I cried, scarce believing the evidence of my senses.

“I am she whom you name.”

“And you know me?”

“I know that you are Hugh Maxwell,” she answered, in the same steady voice.

“And you know that I am your husband.”

“I have no husband. My husband is dead.”

“Lucy, do not break my heart! I am not a scoundrel! Do you think for a moment I could abandon the girl who trusted and married me? I had the most positive intelligence of your death. Lucy, Lucy, for God's sake speak, and do not torture me beyond endurance. Tell me what has happened.”

But the trembling hands went on with their task, though she neither raised her head nor spake. My brain was in a whirl, and I did not know what to think or how to act, so I preserved at least an outward quiet for a time, trying to imagine her position.

I was but eighteen when I had married her, a tradesman's daughter, but my uncertain allowance, as well as the certain wrath of my family, prevented me acknowledging her as my wife, and no one except her mother knew of our union.

As I sate trying to find some light, I heard the cry of a lusty child: “Mother! Mother!” At this her face contracted as with sudden pain, and saying only, “Wait where you are,” she left the shop.

I noticed she had still the same quick, light way of moving, “like a bird,” I used to tell her in the old days: it was but the dull, ungenerous colour and shape of her stuff gown that hid the dainty figure I had known, and only some different manner of dressing her hair that prevented the old trick of the little curls that would come out about her ears and forehead.

While she was away I thought it all out, and my heart melted with pity for the poor soul, forced to these years of loneliness, to this daily struggle for the support of herself and her child—our child—and, more than all else, to the torturing thought that the love which had been the sum of her existence was false. What should I do? Could I be in doubt for a moment? I would make up to her, by the devotion of a heart rich in feeling, all the sorrows of the past.

Here she entered again, but now collected and herself as at first. I rose and advanced to meet her, but she waved me off, and took up her sewing again in her former position.

“Lucy,” I said, standing over her, “does not the voice of our child—for I cannot doubt it is our child—plead for me? Listen a moment. When I returned from that ill-starred Russian voyage, I flew at once to join you. You had been in my heart during all my absence, and my return home was to be crowned with your love. But, to my consternation, I found strangers occupying the old rooms, and the woman told me with every circumstance of harrowing detail the story of your death by typhus, and that your mother followed you to the grave scarce a day later. Heartbroken as I was, I never sought for further confirmation than the nameless graves she pointed out to me by your parish church. She told me, too, your effects were burned by order of the overseers, and I took it for granted she had stolen anything of value that might have been left. When I found at my banker's that a lieutenancy in Berwick's was awaiting my application, I only too eagerly seized the opportunity of escaping from a country where I should be constantly reminded of my ruined past, and since that day I have never set foot in London till the present. Oh, Lucy! Lucy! I see it all now. The birth of our child was approaching. You, poor soul, were an unacknowledged wife; I was wandering, a shipwrecked stranger beyond all means of communication, and you fled from the finger of shame that cruel hands would hare pointed at you. Why that hag should have gone to such lengths to deceive me I cannot even guess. But now, my dear love, my dearest wife, it is at an end! I have a position—at least I am a captain, with fair chance of promotion—I no longer have a family to consider, and once I get out of this present trap I will acknowledge you before the whole world, and we will wipe out the cruel past as if it had never existed.”

“I have no past,” she said, quietly.

“Then, Lucy darling, as truly as I am your husband I will make you a future.”

“I have no husband,” she answered, in the same quiet tone: “my husband died the day my boy was born.”

“But, Lucy, my wife, you have love?”

“Not such love as you mean. My love, such as it is here, is for my boy. All else is for something beyond.”

“But, Lucy, have you nothing left for me? Surely you do not doubt my word?”

“No,” she answered, slowly. “You have never deceived me that I know of. Until to-night I believed you had left me, but I know now, it is I who have left you. There never can be anything between us.”

“Why, Lucy? Tell me why! Do not sit there holding yourself as if you were apart from me and mine.”

“You have just said the very words which explain it all,” she answered. “I am indeed 'apart from you and yours.' Your explanation now makes clear why you did not seek me out on your return, and I accept it fully. But think you for a moment that this wipes out all I have suffered through these years? Can you explain away, by any other statement, save that I was 'apart from you and yours.' the cruel wrong you did when you left me, a helpless girl without experience, in a position where I was utterly defenceless against evil tongues in the hour of my trial; so that what should have been my glory was turned into a load of disgrace which crushed me and killed my mother? To say you intended to return is no answer, no defence. You knew all about a world of which I was ignorant, and you should have shielded me by your knowledge.

“Do not think I am unhuman, I am simply unfeeling on the side to which you would appeal. I have lived too long alone, I have suffered too much alone, to look to any human creature for such help or such comfort as you would bring. I know you were honest, I know you were loving and tender, but that has all passed for me. You do not come into my life at any point; I can look on you without a throb of my heart either in love or in hate—”

“But, Lucy, I am not changed. I am the same Hugh Maxwell you knew.”

“You are Hugh Maxwell—but there is no question of likeness, of being the same, for there is no Lucy. She is as really dead to you to-day as you thought when you mourned her six years ago. The 'Mistress Routh' who speaks now is a widow, by God's grace a member of the Society of Methodists, and you need never seek through her to find any trace of the girl you knew. She is dead, dead, dead, and may the Lord have mercy on her soul!”

It was like standing before a closed grave.

Against this all my prayers, my tears, my entreaties, availed nothing, until at last I ceased in very despair at the firmness of this unmovable woman, whom I had left a pretty, wilful, changeable girl a few years before.

The candle had long since burned itself out, and the gray of the morning was beginning to struggle in at every opening when I gave up the contest.

“Mistress Routh,” said I, smiling at the odd address, “I have been overlong in coming to my business. I am a proscribed rebel with a price set on my head, and I seek a new lodging, my old one being unsafe. I was directed here almost by chance. Can you give me such room as you can spare? There is but little or no danger in harbouring me, for I am reported to be in Scotland with the Prince, 'the Young Pretender,' if you like it so. I will be as circumspect in my movements as possible. Above all, I will never shew by word or sign that I knew you before, even when we are alone, nor will I betray your secret to our boy. You are free to refuse me, and should you do so, I will seek shelter elsewhere; but whether I go or stay, I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that your secret rests where it lies in my heart until such time as you see fit to proclaim it yourself. Will you, then, consent to let me have a room under your roof until such time as I can get over to France?”

After a little she said: “Yes; I can take your word. But remember, from this night you are a stranger to me. You will pay as a stranger, and come and go as a stranger.”

And so this unnatural treaty was ratified. My hostess made such preparation for my comfort as I would allow, and when alone I sate on my couch trying to put my thoughts in order.

It was only then that Margaret came back to me. During my long struggle with my poor wife no thought of another had entered my mind, my whole endeavour being directed towards making such amends for the cruelties of an undeserved fate as were possible; but now, when alone, the realisation of what it meant in my relation towards Margaret overwhelmed me. All unwittingly I had been playing the part of a low scoundrel towards the fairest, purest soul in the whole world; I had been living in a Fool's Paradise, drinking the sweetest draught that ever intoxicated a human soul, and now, without an instant's warning, the cup was dashed from my lips.

Poor Margaret! Poor Lucy! Poor Hugh! My heart was aching for them all.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE WITH ONE NEAR TO ME

I stretched myself out at length, with my cloak over me, and dozed uneasily until awakened by a soft knocking at the door, which was slowly pushed open, and a brown head made its appearance in the room.

“Come in!” I cried, and there entered to me as handsome a boy of six as ever delighted a man's eyes.

I would have given the world to take him to my heart, but I was on parole. So we stared at each other, and I can only hope he was as well satisfied with his inspection as I was with mine.

“Does your mother know of your coming?” I asked, for I was determined to take no unfair advantage.

“She told me I could come,” he answered, without any backwardness, yet with modesty.

“Good. Well, what do you think?”

“Why do you sleep in your clothes?”