boots and muddy breeches, and all that might recall the wintry roads.
He was dressed as on that night at Cornbury when he had kept Sir
Christopher Lacy company--in flowered waistcoat, and plum-coloured
coat, and canary stockings, and buckled shoes that shone like
well-water. He was humming a little tune as he entered, his eye bright
and content, his heavy figure tautened and refined by hard travelling,
his shapely face rosy as a winter's eve. It was the entrance of a great
man to a company where he expects to be acclaimed, for there was
self-consciousness in the primness of his mouth. He lifted his genial
eyes and saw Alastair.
The man was a superb actor, for though Alastair was watching him like a
hawk he could see no start of surprise, no flicker of disappointment or
fear.
"Captain Maclean, upon my soul!" he cried. "And who would have expected
it? Man, I did not know you were acquaint here. But 'tis a joyful
meeting, my dear sir, and I'm _felix opportunitate coenae_ the day." He
held out a cordial hand, which the young man left unnoticed.
"I am happy to repay hospitality," he said. "You welcomed me some weeks
back at a wayside inn, and it is my turn now to provide the
entertainment. Let us sit down to supper, Mr Kyd. There are other
guests," and he stretched a hand to the bell-rope.
"I confess I was expecting a wheen more," said Mr Kyd, and there was
just the faintest quiver of his eyelids.
"Sir John Norreys begged to be excused. He was summoned into
Nottinghamshire somewhat suddenly--so suddenly that I fear he will take
a catarrh, for he has forgotten his hat and cloak. The ladies of the
house are detained in their chamber, and the master, as we know, has
been bed-ridden these many years. But there are others to take their
place." Again he stretched out his hand, but Kyd interrupted him.
"What is the meaning of it?" he asked in a low voice. "What does this
pleasantry betoken, Captain Maclean?"
"It betokens that _Menelaus_ has come to Phaeacia to see his old crony
_Alcinous_. The two will have much to say to each other, but they will
regret that _Achilles_ is not here to make it a three-handed crack."
The mention of _Achilles_ seemed to perturb the other. He narrowed his
eyes, and into them came the shadow of that look which Alastair had
surprised on the evening at the inn. Then he stepped to the table,
filled a glass of claret and drank it off, while Alastair rang the bell.
The Spainneach entered with Hay on his heels. Kyd regarded them with
puzzled eyes, as if striving to recapture a memory.
"I present to you Mr Charles Hay of Tinnis," said Alastair, "who
commands a troop in His Highness's Lowland Horse. The other gentleman
is of the Nameless Clan. Sit you down, sirs."
Kyd obeyed, but his eyes were not on the food and wine, for he was
thinking hard. He had a stout heart and had often faced peril, so he
forced his mind to consider the situation's possibilities, when a
weaker man would have been a-flutter. Would the horsemen he had asked
for from Kingston arrive in time?--that was the main point. Beyond
doubt they would, and meantime he would confuse this Highland
jackanapes, who seemed to have stumbled on some damaging truths. But
the appearance of Alastair, whom he had utterly written off from his
list of obstacles, worried him in spite of all his robust philosophy.
He made pretence to eat, but he only crumbled his bread and toyed with
his meat, though he drank wine thirstily. The servants who moved about
the room, too, perturbed him. There was his own man Edom acting as
butler, but the others were strange folk, outlandishly dressed and with
dark secret faces, and one, a trooper of Hay's, had a belt with pistols
round his middle and that at his shoulder which might be a white
cockade.
Alastair read his thoughts.
"I fear, sir, that your entertainment is not what you hoped, but I have
done my best to provide a recompense. Since his Grace of Kingston could
not send a garrison, I have brought Mr Hay's Scots. Since Sir John
Norreys is summoned elsewhere, I have provided Mr Hay in his stead. And
since the ladies upstairs cannot honour us, I have bidden another lady,
who will shortly arrive."
The news seemed to move Kyd to action. Hope from Kingston's horse was
over, and the only chance lay in carrying matters with a high hand, and
bluffing his opponent who must be largely in the dark. His plans had
been too deep-laid to be discovered by a casual moss-trooper.
"Most considerate, I'm sure," he said. "But let's have an end of these
riddles. I come here to a well-kenned house, expecting to meet an old
friend, and find him mysteriously departed, and you in his place
talking like an oracle. I venture to observe that it's strange conduct
between gentlemen of the same nation. What's the meaning of it, sir?"
He pushed back his chair, and looked squarely at the young man.
"The meaning of it is that Judas has come to judgment."
Kyd laughed, with an excellent semblance of mirth, and indeed he felt
relieved. This was a mere random general charge, for which he could
readily invent a defence. "Oh, sits the wind that airt? It's most
extraordinary the way we of the honest party harbour suspicions. I've
done it myself many's the time. Weel-a-weel, if I've to thole my
assize, so be it. I've a quiet conscience and a good answer to any
charge. But who is to sit in judgment?"
The man's composure was restored. He filled himself a glass of claret,
held it to the light, and savoured its bouquet before he sipped.
As if in answer to his question the door opened to admit two newcomers.
One was a small lady, with a black silk mask from her brow to her lips,
so that no part of her face was visible. A velvet hood covered her
hair, and her dress was hidden from sight by a long travelling-robe of
fur. Behind her shambled a tall man, whose big hands strayed nervously
to his dusty cravat and the threadbare lapels of his coat.
"Here is your judge," said Alastair. "Madam, will you sit in the seat
of justice?"
He pulled forward a high-backed Restoration chair, and placed before it
a footstool. Solemnly like a cardinal in conclave the little lady
seated herself.
"Who is the prisoner?" she asked. "And what bill does the Prince's
attorney present against him?"
The servants had moved to the back of the room, and stood in the shadow
like guards at attention. By a strange chance the place seemed to have
borrowed the similitude of a court--Kyd at one end of a table with the
guards behind him, Mr Johnson like a justice's clerk sprawling beside
the lady's chair.
"His name, madam," said Alastair, "is Nicholas Kyd of Greyhouses in the
Merse, the principle doer of his Grace of Queensberry, and likewise a
noted Jacobite and a member of His Highness's Council."
"And the charge?"
"That this Nicholas Kyd has for many months betrayed the secrets of his
master, and while professing to work for the Cause has striven to
defeat it by withholding vital information. Further, that the same
Nicholas Kyd has sought for his own gain to bring about the ruin of
divers honest gentlemen, by inducing them to pledge their support to
His Highness and then handing such pledges to King George's Government."
"Heard you ever such havers?" said Kyd boisterously. This was what he
had hoped for, a wild general accusation, the same he had heard brought
against Balhaldy and Traquair and a dozen others, but never
substantiated. "You'll have a difficulty in proving your case, Mr
Attorney."
Then Alastair told his tale from that hour when in the ale-house he met
Kyd. He told of Kyd's advice to go by Flambury and his troubles there,
of the message given him in error, of Edom and his mission, of Sir John
Norreys and his suspected doings, of his own kidnapping and
imprisonment and the confession of Ben the Gypsy in the moorland farm.
"Your proofs, sir," said the judge.
"They are here," he replied, and drew from his breast a sheaf of
papers. "There, madam, is the full account of the Duke of Beaufort's
purpose in Wales, written out and inscribed to the Duke of Kingston,
for transmission to Mr Pelham. There you have another document
narrating conversations with the trusting Jacobites of the Marches.
There you have a letter from Beaufort to his Prince, which would appear
from its superscription to be directed afresh to the Duke of
Cumberland."
The lady looked at the papers shown her, knitted her brows and returned
them. She glanced at Kyd, whose face was set in a mask which he strove
to make impassive.
"Proceed with your second and graver charge, sir," she said.
Alastair told of his conversation with General Oglethorpe and of Kyd's
visit to the General's room at midnight. He told of the two hags
upstairs who were in partnership. "And for proof," he cried, "here are
the rolls of three counties taken from the man's saddle-bags, giving a
list of the gentlemen who are liable to fines for their political
action, and noting the shares which will come to each of the
conspirators. Do you require further evidence, madam?"
The room had grown very still, and no one of the company stirred, till
Kyd brought his fist down on the table. His face had whitened.
"What says the prisoner?" the lady asked.
"Lies, madam, devilish lies--and these papers a common forgery. Some
enemy--and God knows I have many--has put them in my baggage."
"You are acquainted with the handwriting, madam?" Alastair asked.
She studied the papers again. "I have seen it a thousand times. It is a
well-formed and capable style, clerkly and yet gentlemanlike. Nay,
there can be no doubt. His hand wrote these lists and superscriptions."
Kyd's face from pallor flushed scarlet. "God's curse, but am I to have
my fame ruined by a play-acting wench! What daftness is this? What
knows this hussy of my hand of write?"
"Do you deny the authorship, sir?" Alastair asked.
The man had lost his temper. "I deny and affirm nothing before a court
that has no sort of competence. I will answer to the Prince, when he
calls for an answer, and I can promise a certain gentleman his kail
through the reek on that day."
"I should be happy to be proved in error. But if the papers should
happen to be genuine you will admit, sir, that they bear an ugly
complexion."
"I'll admit nothing except that you're a bonny friend to lippen so
readily to a clumsy fabrication. Ay, and you've the damned insolence to
bring in a baggage from the roads to testify to my hand of write.
You'll have to answer to me for that, my man."
There was a low laugh from the mask. He had not recognised her, partly
because of his discomposure and fear and partly because he had never
dreamed of her presence in that countryside. When, therefore, she
plucked the silk from her face and looked sternly down on him, he
seemed suddenly to collapse like a pricked bladder. His stiff jaw
dropped, his eyes stared, he made as if to speak and only stammered.
"Your face condemns you, sir," she said gravely. "I have seen your
writing too often to mistake it, and I have lived long enough in the
world to recognise the sudden confusion of crime in a man's eyes. I
condemn you, sir, as guilty on both charges, and fouler and shamefuller
were never proven."
Kyd's defence was broken; but there was a resolute impudence in the man
which made him still show fight. He looked obstinately at the others,
and attempted a laugh; then at the Duchess, with an effrontery as of a
fellow-conspirator.
"It seems we're both in an ugly place," he said. "You ken my secret,
madam, which I had meant to impart to you when an occasion offered.
Here's the two of us honest folks at the mercy of the wild Jacobites
and wishing sore that the Duke of Kingston would make better speed up
the water."
"That is not my wish," she said, with stony eyes.
It was those eyes which finally unnerved him.
"But, madam," he cried, "your Grace--you are of the Government party,
the party I have served--I have letters from Mr Pelham . . . you
winna suffer the rebels to take vengeance on me for loyalty to King
George."
"I am a Whig," said she, "and will not condemn you for political
conduct, base though I must judge it. The Prince's Attorney must hale
you to another court. You will take him to your master--" this to
Alastair--"and leave him to that tribunal."
"With your assent, madam, I do not ask for judgment on the first
charge, and I do not propose that he should go to the Prince. The
penalty for his treason is death, and I am unwilling to saddle His
Highness before he has won his throne with the duty of putting an end
to a rascal."
She nodded. "I think you are wise, sir. But the second charge is the
more heinous, for it offends not against the law of men's honour, but
the law of human kindness and the law of God. There I find him the
chief of sinners. What penalty do you ask for?"
"I ask that your Grace pronounce sentence of perpetual exile."
"But where--and how?"
"It matters not, so long as it is forth of Britain."
"But you cannot be eternally watching the ports."
"Nay, but he will not come back. There is a brotherhood which has
already aided me--your Grace knows nothing of them, but they know
everything of your Grace. It is the brotherhood of Old England, and is
sure as the judgment of God. To that charge we will commit him. They
will see him forth of England, and they will make certain that he does
not return."
Kyd's face had lightened, as if he saw a prospect of avoiding the full
rigours of the sentence. The Duchess marked it and frowned, but he
misread her mood, which he thought one of displeasure at Alastair's
plan. He adopted an air of humble candour.
"Hear me, your Grace," he implored. "It's a queer story mine, but a
juster than you think. I'm not claiming to be a perfect character, and
I'm not denying that I take a canny bit profit when I find it, like an
eident body. The honest truth is that I don't care a plack for politics
one side or the other, and it's nothing to me which king sits on the
throne. My job's to be a trusty servant of His Grace, and no man can
say that I'm not zealous in that cause. Ay, and there's another cause
I'm sworn to, and that's Scotland. I'm like auld Lockhart o'
Carnwath--my heart can hold just the one land at a time. I call God
Almighty to witness that I never did ill to a kindly Scot, and if I've
laboured to put a spoke in the Chevalier's coach-wheels, it's because
him and his wild caterans are like to play hell with my puir auld
country. Show me what is best for Scotland, and Nicholas Kyd will spend
his last bodle and shed his last drop of blood to compass it."
There was an odd earnestness, even a note of honesty, in the man's
appeal, but it found no acceptance. The lady shivered.
"If you can get him abroad, sir," she addressed Alastair, and her voice
was hard as granite, "I think I can promise you that he will not
return. My arm is a weak woman's, but it strikes far. His services will
be soon forgotten by Mr Pelham, but Kitty of Queensberry does not
forget his offences. Though I live for fifty years more, I will make it
my constant business to keep the rogue in exile."
The man seemed to meditate. Doubtless he reflected that even the malice
of a great lady could not keep him for ever out of the country. She
might die, or her husband lose his power, and politics would be
politics to a Whig Government. One of those who looked on divined his
thoughts, for a soft voice spoke.
"I do not think that Greyhouses will ever again be a pleasant
habitation for the gentleman. Has he forgotten the case of the laird of
Champertoun?"
Kyd started violently.
"Or the goodman of Heriotside?" The voice was gentle and soothing, but
it seemed to wake acute terror in one hearer.
"Men die and their memories, but when all of us are dust the
Bog-blitters will still cry on Lammermuir. I think that Mr Kyd has
heard them before at Greyhouses. He will not desire to hear them again."
The Spainneach had risen and stood beside Kyd, and from the back of the
room two of the Spoonbills advanced like guardian shadows. The big man
in the rich clothes had shrunk to a shapeless bundle in the chair, his
face grey and his eyes hot and tragic. "Not that," he cried, "don't
banish me from my native land. I'll go anywhere you please in the
bounds o' Scotland--to St Kilda, like Lady Grange, or to the wildest
Hielands, but let me feel that I'm in my own country. I tell you my
heart's buried aneath Scots heather. I'll die if you twine the
Lammermuirs and me. Anything you like, my lady, but let me bide at
home."
He found only cold eyes and silence. Then he seemed to brace himself to
self-command. His face was turned to the Duchess, and he sat up in his
chair, settled his cravat, and with a shaking hand poured himself a
glass of wine. His air was now ingratiating and sentimental, and he
wiped a tear from his eye.
"_Nos patriae fines et dulcia liquimus arva_," he said. "I'll have to
comfort myself with philosophy, for man's life is more howes than
heights. Heigho, but I'll miss Scotland. I'm like the old ballad:
'Happy the craw
That biggs i' the Totten Shaw
And drinks o' the Water of Dye,
For nae mair may I.'"
The words, the tone, the broken air gave to Alastair a moment of
compunction. But in Mr Johnson they roused another feeling. Half
raising himself from his chair, he shook his fist at the speaker.
"Sir," he cried, "you are worse than a rogue, you are a canting rogue.
You would have driven twenty honest men into unmerited exile by your
infamies and had no pity on them, but you crave pity for yourself when
you are justly banished. I have sympathy with many kinds of rascal, but
none with yours. Your crimes are the greater because you pretend to
sensibility. With you, sir, patriotism is the last refuge of the
scoundrel."
Alastair picked the saddle-bag from below the table, and emptied its
remaining contents in the fire.
"Except what I keep for His Highness's eye, let ashes be the fate of
this treason. There is your baggage, sir. You may want it on your long
journey."
The hand that lifted it was Edom's.
"I'll get the other pockmantie ready, sir," he said to Kyd in the grave
tone of a good servant. "Your horse is no just in the best fettle for
the road, but I ride lichter nor you, and ye can take mine."
"But you do not propose to continue in his service?" Alastair cried in
astonishment. "See, man, you have saved my life, and I will take charge
of your fortunes."
Edom halted at the door. "I thank ye, sir, for your guidwill. But I was
born at Greyhouses, and my faither and his faither afore him served the
family. It's no a sma' thing like poalitics that'll gar a Kyd and a
Lowrie take different roads."
_XVI_ _Bids Farewell to an English Lady_
Duchess Kitty descended from her chair of justice and came to the
fireside, where she let her furs slip from her and stood, a figure of
white porcelain, warming her feet at the blaze.
"There was some word of a lady," she said.
Johnson, too, had risen, and though the man's cheeks were gaunt with
hunger he had no eye for the food on the table. His mind seemed to be
in travail with difficult thoughts.
"The lady, madam," he groaned. "She is in her chamber, unsuspecting.
Her husband should be here also. He may enter at any moment."
"He has fled," said Alastair. "Fled, as I take it, to the Whig Dukes
for his reward. The man is revealed at last, and his wife must disown
him or be tainted by his guilt."
The news seemed to affect Johnson painfully. He cast himself into a
chair, which creaked under his weight, and covered his eyes with his
hands.
"Why in God's name did you suffer it?" he asked fiercely of Alastair.
"I had another plan. . . . I would have brought the dog to
repentance."
"I will yet bring him to justice," said Alastair grimly. "I have a
forewarning of it, and to-morrow or next week or next year he will
stand up before my sword."
The words gave no comfort to Johnson. He rolled his melancholy eyes and
groaned again. "'Twill break her heart," he lamented. "She will know of
his infamy--it cannot be hid from her. . . . Oh, why, why!"
Alastair spoke to the Duchess. "You will tell Lady Norreys that her
husband has gone to the Prince. No more. I will make certain that he
does not return to Weston, though I have to drag him with my own hands
out of Cumberland's closet. . . . Forgive me, madam, if I appear to
command, but this is a tangled matter. Pray take her with you to
Amesbury, and keep her out of Oxfordshire, till I send word that it is
safe. She must not go to Weston or Chastlecote till she has the news of
his death. I will contrive that he die, and 'tis for you to contrive
that she thinks his death a hero's."
The Duchess mused. "You are a singular pair of gentlemen, and wondrous
tender to the child's feelings. I can see you are both in love with
her. Prithee lead me at once to this enchainer of hearts."
The Spainneach's face appeared in the doorway, and his hand beckoned to
Alastair.
"My lady's woman has descended and is distracted by the sight of
strange servants. It seems her mistress desires Sir John's company,
which was promised for this hour, and the maid will not return without
a clear answer."
"Say that he is detained," said Alastair, "and add that the Duchess of
Queensberry begs the lady's permission to wait upon her."
He turned to the two at the fireplace. "Madam, 'tis time for your
mission of charity."
"Repeat me my lesson," she said, standing before him as demure as a
schoolgirl.
"You will inform the lady that Sir John Norreys has been summoned in
great haste to join his Prince, and has left incontinent, trusting to
her loyal heart to condone his seeming heartlessness. Say that he will
find means to keep her informed of his welfare. Then press her to
travel southward with you, pointing out to her that the war moves
southward and she will be travelling the same way as Sir John."
"'Tis a parcel of lies," said the Duchess, "and I am a poor dissembler."
Alastair shrugged his shoulders. "The cause is good and your Grace is a
finished actress, when you please."
"But is it not cruel kindness?" she asked. "Were it not better that she
should know the truth of her husband, that she might grieve the less
when she has news of his end, which I see writ plain in your eyes, sir?"
Johnson broke in. "A thousand times no, madam. If she learns that her
trust has been ill placed, her heart will break. She can bear sorrow
but not shame. Believe me, I have studied that noble lady."
"So be it. Have the goodness, Captain Maclean, to escort me to this
paragon."
Alastair gave her his arm, and, instructed by Johnson--who followed in
the wake--conducted the Duchess up the first flight of the staircase to
a broad gallery from which the main bedrooms opened. At the end, where
were Claudia's rooms, the maid, Mrs Peckover, stood with a lighted
candle to receive them.
But suddenly they halted and stood motionless, listening. A voice was
singing, the voice which had sung "Diana" at the Sleeping Deer. The
door must have been ajar, for the song rose clear in the corridor, sung
low but with such a tension of feeling that every word and bar seemed
to vibrate in the air. The Duchess, clinging to Alastair's arm, stood
rigid as a statue. "O Love," the voice sang--
"O Love, they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter.
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest treasure is,
I do adore thee."
The voice hung on the lines for an instant in a tremor of passion. Then
it continued to a falling close--
"I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee."
"I think you do well to be tender of her," the Duchess whispered.
"Adieu! I will descend presently and report."
The heavy hand of Johnson clutched his arm before he had reached the
foot of the staircase.
"Did you hear that?" the tutor questioned savagely. "She sings of love
like an angel of God, and her love is betrayed." He forced Alastair
before him, and shut the door of the dining-room behind them. The
candles still burned brightly amid the remains of supper, but the logs
on the hearth had smouldered low.
Johnson was become the strangest of figures, his sallow face flushed,
his eyes rolling like a man in a fit, and a nervousness like palsy
affecting his hands and shoulders. But Alastair saw none of these
things, for his attention was held by something masterful and noble in
the man's face.
"Sit down, Alastair Maclean," he said, "and listen to one who loves you
as a brother. Sir, we are both servants of one lady and that is a bond
stricter than consanguinity. I am poor and diseased and disconsidered,
but I have a duty laid upon me which comes direct from Omnipotence.
Sir, I command you to examine into your heart."
He laid a hand on the young man's arm, a hand that trembled violently.
"What are your intentions toward Sir John Norreys?"