The Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle lay a year in the future. Yet in Paris,
under certain conditions and auspices, Scot or Englishman might dwell
in security enough. The Jacobite remnant, foe to the British
government, found France its best harbor. A quietly moving Scots
laird, not Jacobite, yet might be lumped by the generality with those
forfeited Scots gentlemen who, having lost all in a cause urged and
supported by France, now, without scruple, took from King Louis a
pension that put food in their mouths, coats on their backs, roofs
over their heads. Alexander Jardine, knowing the city, finding quiet
lodgings in a quiet street, established himself in Paris. It was
winter now, cold, bright weather.
In old days he had possessed not a few acquaintances in this city. A
circle of thinkers, writers, painters, had powerfully attracted him.
Circumstances brought him now again into relation with one or two of
this group. He did not seek them as formerly he had done. But neither
could he be said to avoid companionship when it came his way. It was
not his wish to become singular or solitary. But he was much alone,
and while he waited for Ian he wandered in the rich Paris of old,
packed life. Street and Seine-side and market knew him; he stood in
churches, and before old altarpieces smoked by candles. Booksellers
remarked him. Where he might he heard music; sometimes he would go to
the play. He carried books to his lodging. He sat late at night over
volumes new and old. The lamp burned dim, the fire sank; he put aside
reading and knowledge gained through reading, and sat, sunk deep into
a dim desert within himself; at last got to bed and fell to sleep and
to dreams that fatigued, that took him nowhere. When the next day was
here he wandered again through the streets.
One of his old acquaintances he saw oftener than he did others. This
was a scholar, a writer, an encyclopedist of to-morrow who liked the
big Scot and to be in his company. One day, chance met, they leaned
together upon the parapet of a bridge, and watched the crossing
throng. "One's own particles in transit! Can you grasp that,
Deschamps?"
"I have heard it advanced. No. It is hard to hold."
"It is like a mighty serpent. You would think you had it and then it
is gone.... If one could hold it it would transform the world."
"Yes, it would. At what are you staring?"
"The serpent is gone. I thought that I saw one whom I do not hold to
be art and part with me." He gazed after a crossing horseman. "No!
There was merely a trick of him. It is some other."
"The man for whom you are waiting?"
"Yes."
Deschamps returned to the subject of a moment before. "It is likely
that language bewrays much more than we think it does. I say 'the
man.' You echo it. And I am 'man.' And you are 'man.' 'Man'--'Man'!
Every instant it is said. Yet the identity that we state we never
assume!"
"I said that we could not hold the serpent."
Ten days afterward he did see Ian. The latter, after a slow and
difficult progress through France, came afoot into Paris. He sought,
and was glad enough to find, an old acquaintance and sometime
fellow-conspirator--Warburton.
"Blessed friendship!" he said, and warmed himself by Warburton's fire.
Something within him winced, and would, if it could, have put forward
a different phrase.
Warburton poured wine for him. "Now tell your tale! For months those
of us who remained in Paris have heard nothing but Trojan woes!"
Ian told. Culloden and after--Edinburgh--Lisbon--Vigo--travel in
Spain--Señor Nobody--
"That was a curious adventure! And you don't know the ransomer's
name?"
"Not I! Señor Nobody he rests."
"Well, and after that?"
Ian related his wanderings from the Pyrenees up to Paris. Scotland,
Spain, and France, the artist in him painted pictures for
Warburton--painted with old ableness and abandon, and, Warburton
thought, with a new subtlety. The friend hugged his knees and enjoyed
it like a well-done play. Here was Rullock's ancient spirit, grown
more richly appealing! Trouble at least had not downed him. Warburton,
who in the past year had been thrown in contact with a number whom it
had downed, and who had suffered depression thereby, felt gratitude to
Ian Rullock for being larger, not smaller, than usual.
At last, the fire still burning, Ian warmed and refreshed, they
wheeled from retrospect into the present. Warburton revealed how
thoroughly shattered were Stewart hopes.
"I begin to see, Rullock, that we've simply passed those things by. We
can't go back to that state of mind and affairs."
"I don't want to go back."
"I like to hear you say that. I hear so much whining the other way!
Well, as a movement it's over.... And the dead are dead, and the
scarred and impoverished will have to pick themselves up."
"Quite so. Is there any immediate helping hand?"
"King Louis gives a pension. It's not much, but it keeps one from
starving. And as for you, I've in keeping a packet for you from
England. It reached me through Goodworth, the India merchant. I've a
notion that your family will manage to put in your hand some annual
amount. Of course your own fortune is sequestered and you can return
neither to England nor to Scotland."
"My aunt may have had faith that I was living. She would do all that
she could to help.... No, I'll not go back."
"Your chance would lie in some post here. Take up old acquaintances
where they have power, and recommend yourself to new ones with power.
Great ladies in especial," said Warburton.
"We haven't passed that by?"
"Not yet, Rullock, not yet!"
Ian dreamed over the fire. At last he stretched his arms. "Let us go
sleep, Warburton! I have come miles...."
"Yes, it is late. Oh, one thing more! Alexander Jardine is in Paris."
"Alexander!"
"I don't know what he is doing here. In with the writing, studying
crew, I suppose. I came upon him by accident, near the Sorbonne. He
did not see me and I did not speak."
"I'll not avoid him!"
"I remember your telling me that you had quarreled. That was the eve
of your leaving Paris in the springtime, before the Prince went to
Scotland. You haven't made it up?"
"No. I suppose we'll never make it up."
"What was it over?"
"I can't tell you that.... It had a double thread. Did he come to
Paris, I wonder, because he guessed that I would bring up here?" He
rose and stood staring down into the fire. "I think that he did so.
Well, if he means to follow me through the world, let him follow! And
now no more to-night, Warburton! I want sleep--sleep--sleep!"
The next day and the next and the next began a new French life. He had
luck, or he had the large momentum of a personality not negligible, an
orb covered with a fine network of enchanter's symbols. The packet
from England held money, with an engagement to forward a like sum
twice a year. It was not a great sum, but such as it was he did not in
the least scorn it. It had come, after all, from Archibald
Touris--but Ian knew the influence behind that.
Warburton presented his name to the Minister who dispensed King
Louis's fund for Scots gentlemen concerned in the late attempt, losers
of all, and now destitute in France. So much would come out of that!
The two together waited upon monseigneur in whose coach they had once
crossed the Seine. He had blood ties with Stewart kings of yesterday,
and in addition to that evidenced a queer, romantic fondness for lost
causes, and a willingness to ferry across rivers those who had been
engaged in them. Now he displayed toward the Englishman and the Scot a
kind of eery, distant graciousness. Ah yes! he would speak here and
there of Monsieur Ian Rullock--he would speak to the King. If there
were things going _ces messieurs_ might as well have some good of
them! Out of old acquaintances in Paris Ian gathered not a few who
were in position to further new fortunes. Some of these were men and
some were women. He took a lodging, neither so good nor so bad.
Warburton found him a servant. He obtained fine clothes, necessary
working-garb where one pushed one's fortune among fine folk. The more
uncertain and hazardous looked his fortunes the more he walked and
spoke as though he were a golden favorite of the woman with the wheel.
All this moved rapidly. He had not been in Paris a week ere again, as
many times before, he had the stage all set for Success to walk forth
upon it! But it had come December--December--December, and he looked
forward to that month's passing.
He had not seen Alexander. Then, in the middle of the month he found
himself one evening in a peacock cluster of fine folk, at the
theater--a famous actress to be viewed in a comedy grown the rage. The
play was nearly over when he saw Alexander in the pit, turned from the
stage, gazing steadily upon him. Ian placed himself where he might
still see him, and returned the gaze.
Going out when the play was over, the two met face to face in the
lighted space between the doors. Each was in company of others--Ian
with a courtier, decked and somewhat loudly laughing group, Glenfernie
with a painter of landscape, Deschamps, and an Oriental, member of
some mission to the West. Meeting so, they stopped short. Their
nostrils dilated, there seemed to come a stirring over their bodies.
Inwardly they felt a painful constriction, a contraction to something
hard, intent, and fanged. This was the more strongly felt by
Alexander, but Ian felt it, too. Did Glenfernie mean to dog him
through life--think that he would be let to do so? Alone in a forest,
very far back, they might, at this point, have flown at each other's
throat. But they had felled many forests since the day when just that
was possible.... The thing conventionally in order for such a moment
as the present was to act as though that annihilation which each
wished upon the other had been achieved. All that they had shared
since the day when first they met, boys on a heath in Scotland, should
be instantaneously blotted out. Two strangers, jostled face to face in
a playhouse, should turn without sign that there had ever been that
heath. So, symbolically, annihilation might be secured! For a moment
each sought for the blank eyes, the unmoved stone face.
As from a compartment above sifted down a dry light with great power
of lighting. It came into Alexander's mind, into that, too, of Ian....
How absurd was the human animal! All this saying the opposite left the
truth intact. They were not strangers, each was quite securely seated
in the other. Self-annihilation--self-oblivion!... All these farcical
high horses!... Men went to see comedies and did not see their own
comedy.
The laird of Glenfernie and Ian Rullock each very slightly and coldly
acknowledged the other's presence. No words passed. But the slow
amenity of life bent by a fraction the head of each, just parted the
lips of each. Then Alexander turned with an abrupt movement of his
great body and with his companions was swallowed by the crowd.
On his bed that night, lying straight with his hands upon his breast,
he had for the space of one deep breath an overmastering sense of the
suaveness of reality. Crudity, angularity, harshness, seemed to
vanish, to dissolve. He knew dry beds of ancient torrents that were a
long and somewhat wide wilderness of mere broken rock, stone piece by
stone piece, and only the more jagged edges lost and only the surface
worn by the action, through ages, of water. It was as though such a
bed grew beneath his eyes meadow smooth--smoother than that--smooth as
air, air that lost nothing by yielding--smooth as ether that, yielding
all, yielded nothing.... The moment went, but left its memory. As the
moment was large so was its memory.
He fought against it with tribes of memories, lower and dwarfish, but
myriads strong. The bells from some convent rang, the December stars
blazed beyond his window, he put out his arms to the December cold.
Ian, despite that moment in the playhouse, looked for the arrival of a
second challenge from Glenfernie. For an instant it might be that they
had seen that things couldn't be so separate, after all! That there
was, as it were, some universal cement. But instants passed, and,
indubitably, the world was a broken field! Enmity still existed,
full-veined. It would be like this Alexander, who had overshot another
Alexander, to send challenge after challenge, never to rest satisfied
with one crossing of weapons, with blood drawn once! Or if there was
no challenge, no formal duel, still there would be duel. He would
pursue--he would cry, "Turn!"--there would be perpetuity of encounter.
To the world's end there was to be the face of menace, of old
reproach--the arrows dropped of pain of many sorts. "In short,
vengeance," said Ian. "Vengeance deep as China! When he used to deny
himself revenge in small things it was all piling up for this!... What
I did slipped the leash for him! Well, aren't we evened?"
What he looked for came, brought by Deschamps. The two met in a field
outside Paris, with seconds, with all the conventionally correct
paraphernalia. The setting differed from that of their lonely fight on
a Highland mountain-side. But again Ian, still the better swordsman,
wounded Alexander. This time he gave--willed perhaps to give--a slight
hurt.
"That is nothing!" said Glenfernie. "Continue--" But the seconds,
coming between them, would not have it so. It was understood that
their principals had met before, and upon the same count. Blood had
been drawn. It was France--and mere ugly tooth-and-claw business not
in favor. Blood had flowed--now part!
"'Must' drives then to-day," said Alexander. "But it is December
still, Ian Rullock!"
"Turn the world so, if you will, Glenfernie!" answered the other. "And
yet there is June somewhere!"
They left the field. Alexander, going home in a hired coach with
Deschamps, sat in silence, looking out of the window. His arm was
bandaged and held in a sling.
"They breed determined foes in Scotland," said Deschamps.
"That Scotland is in me," Glenfernie answered. "That Scotland and that
December."
Three days later he wandered alone in Paris, came at last to old stone
steps leading down to the river, in an unpopulous quarter. A few boats
lay fastened to piles, but the landing-place hung deserted in the
winter sunlight. There lacked not a week of Christmas. But the season
had been mild. To-day was not cold, and stiller than still.
Glenfernie, his cloak about him, sat upon the river steps and watched
the stream. It went by, and still it stood there before him. It came
from afar, and it went to afar, and still it shone where his hand
might touch it. It turned like a wheel, from the gulf to the height
and around again. He followed its round--ocean and climbing vapor,
cloud, rain, and far mountain springs, descent and the mother sea. The
mind, expanding, ceased to examine radius by radius, but held the
whole wheel. Alexander sat in inner quiet, forgetting December.
Turning from that contemplation, he yet remained still, looking now at
the sunshine on the steps.... There seemed to reach him, within and
from within, rays of color and fragrance, the soul of spice pinks,
marigolds, and pansies.... Then, within and from within, Elspeth was
with him.
Dead! She was not dead.... Of all idle words--!
It was not as a shade--it was not as a memory, or not as the poor
things that were called memory! But she came in the authority and
integrity of herself, that was also, most dearly, most marvelously,
himself as well--permeative, penetrative, real, a subtle breath named
Elspeth! So subtle, so wide and deep, elastic, universal, with no
horizons that he could see.... To and fro played the tides of
knowledge.
Elspeth all along--sunshines and shadows--Elspeth a wide, living
life--not crushed into the two moments upon which he had brooded--not
the momentary Elspeth who had walked the glen with him, not the
momentary Elspeth lifted from the Kelpie's Pool, borne in his arms,
cold, rigid, drowned, a long, long way! But Elspeth, integral,
vibrant, living--Elspeth of centillions of moments--Elspeth a
beautiful power moving strongly in abundant space....
His form stayed moveless upon the river steps while the wave of
realization played.
The experience linked itself with that of the other night when the
stony bed of existence, broken, harsh, irregular, had suddenly
dissolved into connections myriad wide, deep, and fine.... He had
prated with philosophers of oneness. Then what he had prated of had
been true! There was a great difference between talking of and
touching truth....
But he could not hold the touch. The wings flagged, he fell into the
jungle of words. His body turned upon the steps. The caves and dens of
his being began to echo with cries and counter-cries.
Hurt? Had she not been hurt at all? But she _was_ hurt--poisoned,
ruined, drawn to death! Had she long and wide and living power to heal
her own harm? Still was it not there--he would have it there!
Ian Rullock! With a long, inward, violent recoil Alexander shrank into
the old caves of himself. All, the magic web of color and fragrance
dwindled, came to be a willow basket filled with White Farm flowers
placed upon the kirkyard steps.
Ian Rullock had stolen her--Ian, not Alexander, had been her lover,
kissed her, clasped her, there in the glen! Ian, the Judas of
friendship--thief of a comrade's bliss--cheat, murderer, mocker, and
injurer!
The wave of oneness fled.
Glenfernie, looking like the old laird his father, his cloak wrapped
around him, feeling the December air, left the river steps, wandered
away through Paris.
But when he was alone with the night he tried to recover the wave. It
had been so wonderful. Even the faint, faint echo, the ghostly
afterglow, were exquisite; were worth more than anything he yet had
owned. He tried to recover the earlier part of the wave, separating it
from the later flood that had seemed critical of righteous wrath, just
punishment. But it would not come back on those terms.... But yet he
wanted it, wanted it, longed for it even while he warred against it.