He was hoisted on his horse by an ostler and two local sots from the
tap-room, his valise was strapped none too securely before him, and
with a farewell, which was meant to be gracious but was only foolish,
he tittuped into the rain. He was as drunk as an owl, though he did not
know it. All afternoon he had been mixing strong Cumberland ale with the
brandy he had got from the Solway free-traders, and by five o'clock had
reached that state when he saw the world all gilt and rosy and himself
as an applauded actor on a splendid stage. He had talked grandly to his
fellow topers, and opened to their rustic wits a glimpse of the great
world. They had bowed to a master, even those slow Cumbrians who admired
little but fat cattle and blood horses. He had made a sensation, had
seen wonder and respect in dull eyes, and tasted for a moment that
esteem which he had singularly failed to find elsewhere.
But he had been prudent. The Mr. Gilbert Craster who had been travelling
on secret business in Nithsdale and the Ayrshire moorlands had not been
revealed in the change-house of Newbigging. There he had passed by the
name, long since disused, of Gabriel Lovel, which happened to be his
true one. It was a needful precaution, for the times were crooked. Even
in a Border hamlet the name of Craster might be known and since for the
present it had a Whig complexion it was well to go warily in a place
where feeling ran high and at an hour when the Jacobites were on the
march. But that other name of Lovel was buried deep in the forgotten
scandal of London by-streets.
The gentleman late re-christened Lovel had for the moment no grudge
against life. He was in the pay of a great man, no less than the lord
Duke of Marlborough, and he considered that he was earning his wages. A
soldier of fortune, he accepted the hire of the best paymaster; only he
sold not a sword, but wits. A pedant might have called it honour, but
Mr. Lovel was no pedant. He had served a dozen chiefs on different
sides. For Blingbroke he had scoured France and twice imperilled his
life in Highland bogs. For Somers he had travelled to Spain, and for
Wharton had passed unquiet months on the Welsh marches. After his
fashion he was an honest servant and reported the truth so far as his
ingenuity could discern it. But, once quit of a great man's service, he
sold his knowledge readily to an opponent, and had been like to be out
of employment, since unless his masters gave him an engagement for life
he was certain some day to carry the goods they had paid for to their
rivals. But Marlborough had seen his uses, for the great Duke sat loose
to parties and earnestly desired to know the facts. So for Marlborough
he went into the conclaves of both Whig and Jacobite, making his
complexion suit his company.
He was new come from the Scottish south-west, for the Duke was eager
to know if the malcontent moorland Whigs were about to fling their blue
bonnets for King James. A mission of such discomfort Mr. Lovel had never
known, not even when he was a go-between for Ormonde in the Irish bogs.
He had posed as an emissary from the Dutch brethren, son of an exiled
Brownist, and for the first time in his life had found his regicide
great-grandfather useful. The jargon of the godly fell smoothly from his
tongue, and with its aid and that of certain secret letters he had found
his way to the heart of the sectaries. He had sat through weary sermons
in Cameronian sheilings, and been present at the childish parades of the
Hebronite remnant. There was nothing to be feared in that quarter, for
to them all in authority were idolaters and George no worse than James.
In those moorland sojournings, too, he had got light on other matters,
for he had the numbers of Kenmure's levies in his head, had visited
my lord Stair at his grim Galloway castle, and had had a long midnight
colloquy with Roxburghe on Tweedside. He had a pretty tale for his
master, once he could get to him. But with Northumberland up and the
Highlanders at Jedburgh and Kenmure coming from the west, it had been a
ticklish business to cross the Border. Yet by cunning and a good horse
it had been accomplished, and he found himself in Cumberland with the
road open southward to the safe Lowther country. Wherefore Mr. Lovel had
relaxed, and taken his ease in an inn.
He would not have admitted that he was drunk, but he presently confessed
that he was not clear about his road. He had meant to lie at Brampton,
and had been advised at the tavern of a short cut, a moorland
bridle-path. Who had told him of it? The landlord, he thought, or the
merry fellow in brown who had stood brandy to the company? Anyhow, it
was to save him five miles, and that was something in this accursed
weather. The path was clear--he could see it squelching below him, pale
in the last wet daylight--but where the devil did it lead? Into the
heart of a moss, it seemed, and yet Brampton lay out of the moors in the
tilled valley.
At first the fumes in his head raised him above the uncertainty of his
road and the eternal downpour. His mind was far away in a select world
of his own imagining. He saw himself in a privy chamber, to which he had
been conducted by reverent lackeys, the door closed, the lamp lit, and
the Duke's masterful eyes bright with expectation. He saw the fine
thin lips, like a woman's, primmed in satisfaction. He heard words
of compliment--“none so swift and certain as you”--“in truth, a
master-hand”--“I know not where to look for your like.” Delicious
speeches seemed to soothe his ear. And gold, too, bags of it, the tale
of which would never appear in any accompt-book. Nay, his fancy soared
higher. He saw himself presented to Ministers as one of the country's
saviours, and kissing the hand of Majesty. What Majesty and what
Ministers he knew not, and did not greatly care--that was not his
business. The rotundity of the Hanoverian and the lean darkness of the
Stuart were one to him. Both could reward an adroit servant.... His
vanity, terribly starved and cribbed in his normal existence, now
blossomed like a flower. His muddled head was fairly ravished with
delectable pictures. He seemed to be set at a great height above mundane
troubles, and to look down on men like a benignant God. His soul glowed
with a happy warmth.
But somewhere he was devilish cold. His wretched body was beginning to
cry out with discomfort. A loop of his hat was broken and the loose flap
was a conduit for the rain down his back. His old ridingcoat was like a
dish-clout, and he felt icy about the middle. Separate streams of water
entered the tops of his ridingboots--they were a borrowed pair and too
big for him--and his feet were in puddles. It was only by degrees that
he realised this misery. Then in the boggy track his horse began
to stumble. The fourth or fifth peck woke irritation, and he jerked
savagely at the bridle, and struck the beast's dripping flanks with his
whip. The result was a jib and a flounder, and the shock squeezed out
the water from his garments as from a sponge. Mr. Lovel descended from
the heights of fancy to prosaic fact, and cursed.
The dregs of strong drink were still in him, and so soon as exhilaration
ebbed they gave edge to his natural fears. He perceived that it had
grown very dark and lonely. The rain, falling sheer, seemed to shut him
into a queer wintry world. All around the land echoed with the steady
drum of it, and the rumour of swollen runnels. A wild bird wailed out of
the mist and startled Mr. Lovel like a ghost. He heard the sound of men
talking and drew rein; it was only a larger burn foaming by the wayside.
The sky was black above him, yet a faint grey light seemed to linger,
for water glimmered and he passed what seemed to be the edge of a
loch.... At another time the London-bred citizen would have been only
peevish, for Heaven knew he had faced ill weather before in ill
places. But the fiery stuff he had swallowed had woke a feverish fancy.
Exaltation suddenly changed to foreboding.
He halted and listened. Nothing but the noise of the weather, and the
night dark around him like a shell. For a moment he fancied he caught
the sound of horses, but it was not repeated. Where did this accursed
track mean to lead him? Long ago he should have been in the valley and
nearing Brampton. He was as wet as if he had wallowed in a pool, cold,
and very weary. A sudden disgust at his condition drove away his fears
and he swore lustily at fortune. He longed for the warmth and the smells
of his favourite haunts--Gilpin's with oysters frizzling in a dozen
pans, and noble odours stealing from the tap-room, the Green Man with
its tripe-suppers, Wanless's Coffee House, noted for its cuts of beef
and its white puddings. He would give much to be in a chair by one
of those hearths and in the thick of that blowsy fragrance. Now his
nostrils were filled with rain and bog water and a sodden world. It
smelt sour, like stale beer in a mouldy cellar. And cold! He crushed
down his hat on his head and precipitated a new deluge.
A bird skirled again in his ear, and his fright returned. He felt small
and alone in a vast inhospitable universe. And mingled with it all was
self-pity, for drink had made him maudlin. He wanted so little--only a
modest comfort, a little ease. He had forgotten that half an hour
before he had been figuring in princes' cabinets. He would give up this
business and be quit of danger and the high road. The Duke must give him
a reasonable reward, and with it he and his child might dwell happily in
some country place. He remembered a cottage at Guildford all hung with
roses.... But the Duke was reputed a miserly patron, and at the thought
Mr. Lovel's eyes overflowed. There was that damned bird again, wailing
like a lost soul. The eeriness of it struck a chill to his heart, so
that if he had been able to think of any refuge he would have set spurs
to his horse and galloped for it in blind terror. He was in the mood in
which men compose poetry, for he felt himself a midget in the grip of
immensities. He knew no poetry, save a few tavern songs; but in
his youth he had had the Scriptures drubbed into him. He remembered
ill-omened texts--one especially about wandering through dry places
seeking rest. Would to Heaven he were in a dry place now!...
The horse sprang aside and nearly threw him. It had blundered against
the stone pillar of a gateway. It was now clear even to Mr. Lovel's
confused wits that he was lost. This might be the road to Tophet, but
it was no road to Brampton. He felt with numbed hands the face of the
gateposts. Here was an entrance to some dwelling, and it stood open.
The path led through it, and if he left the path he would without doubt
perish in a bog-hole. In his desolation he longed for a human face. He
might find a good fellow who would house him; at the worst he would
get direction about the road. So he passed the gateway and entered an
avenue.
It ran between trees which took the force of the downpour, so that it
seemed a very sanctuary after the open moor. His spirits lightened.
The infernal birds had stopped crying, but again he heard the thud of
hooves. That was right, and proved the place was tenanted. Presently
he turned a corner and faced a light which shone through the wet, rayed
like a heraldic star.
The sight gave him confidence, for it brought him back to a familiar
world. He rode straight to it, crossing a patch of rough turf, where a
fallen log all but brought him down. As he neared it the light grew till
he saw its cause. He stood before the main door of a house and it was
wide open. A great lantern, hung from a beam just inside, showed a
doorway of some size and magnificence. And below it stood a servant, an
old man, who at the sight of the stranger advanced to hold his stirrup.
“Welcome, my lord,” said the man. “All is ready for you.”
The last hour had partially sobered the traveller, but, having now come
safe to port, his drunkenness revived. He saw nothing odd in the open
door or the servant's greeting. As he scrambled to the ground he was
back in his first exhilaration. “My lord!” Well, why not? This was an
honest man who knew quality when he met it.
Humming a tune and making a chain of little pools on the stone flags
of the hall, Mr. Lovel followed his guide, who bore his shabby valise,
another servant having led away the horse. The hall was dim with
flickering shadows cast by the lamp in the doorway, and smelt raw and
cold as if the house had been little dwelt in. Beyond it was a stone
passage where a second lamp burned and lit up a forest of monstrous deer
horns on the wall. The butler flung open a door.
“I trust your lordship will approve the preparations,” he said. “Supper
awaits you, and when you have done I will show you your chamber. There
are dry shoes by the hearth.” He took from the traveller his sopping
overcoat and drew from his legs the pulpy riding-boots. With a bow which
might have graced a court he closed the door, leaving Mr. Lovel alone to
his entertainment.
It was a small square room panelled to the ceiling in dark oak, and
lit by a curious magnificence of candles. They burned in sconces on the
walls and in tall candlesticks on the table, while a log fire on the
great stone hearth so added to the glow that the place was as bright as
day. The windows were heavily shuttered and curtained, and in the far
corner was a second door. On the polished table food had been laid--a
noble ham, two virgin pies, a dish of fruits, and a group of shining
decanters. To one coming out of the wild night it was a transformation
like a dream, but Mr. Lovel, half drunk, accepted it as no more than his
due. His feather brain had been fired by the butler's “my lord,” and
he did not puzzle his head with questions. From a slim bottle he filled
himself a glass of brandy, but on second thoughts set it down untasted.
He would sample the wine first and top off with the spirit. Meantime he
would get warm.
He stripped off his coat, which was dampish, and revealed a dirty shirt
and the dilapidated tops of his small clothes. His stockings were torn
and soaking, so he took them off, and stuck his naked feet into the
furred slippers which stood waiting by the hearth. Then he sat himself
in a great brocaded arm-chair and luxuriously stretched his legs to the
blaze.
But his head was too much afire to sit still. The comfort soaked into
his being through every nerve and excited rather than soothed him. He
did not want to sleep now, though little before he had been crushed
by weariness.... There was a mirror beside the fireplace, the glass
painted at the edge with slender flowers and cupids in the Caroline
fashion. He saw his reflection and it pleased him. The long face
with the pointed chin, the deep-set dark eyes, the skin brown with
weather--he seemed to detect a resemblance to Wharton. Or was it
Beaufort? Anyhow, now that the shabby coat was off, he might well be a
great man in undress. “My lord!” Why not? His father had always told
him he came of an old high family. Kings, he had said--of France, or
somewhere... A gold ring he wore on his left hand slipped from his
finger and jingled on the hearthstone. It was too big for him, and
when his fingers grew small with cold or wet it was apt to fall off.
He picked it up and laid it beside the decanters on the table. That had
been his father's ring, and he congratulated himself that in all his
necessities he had never parted from it. It was said to have come down
from ancient kings.
He turned to the table and cut himself a slice of ham. But he found he
had no appetite. He filled himself a bumper of claret. It was a
ripe velvety liquor and cooled his hot mouth. That was the drink for
gentlemen. Brandy in good time, but for the present this soft wine which
was in keeping with the warmth and light and sheen of silver.... His
excitement was dying now into complacence. He felt himself in the
environment for which Providence had fitted him. His whole being
expanded in the glow of it. He understood how able he was, how truly
virtuous--a master of intrigue, but one whose eye was always fixed on
the star of honour. And then his thoughts wandered to his son in the
mean London lodgings. The boy should have his chance and walk some day
in silks and laces. Curse his aliases! He should be Lovel, and carry his
head as high as any Villiers or Talbot.
The reflection sent his hand to an inner pocket of the coat now drying
by the hearth. He took from it a thin packet of papers wrapped in
oil-cloth. These were the fruits of his journey, together with certain
news too secret to commit to writing which he carried in his head. He
ran his eye over them, approved them, and laid them before him on the
table. They started a train of thought which brought him to the question
of his present quarters.... A shadow of doubt flickered over his mind.
Whose house was this and why this entertainment? He had been expected,
or someone like him. An old campaigner took what gifts the gods sent,
but there might be questions to follow. There was a coat of arms on the
plate, but so dim that he could not read it. The one picture in the room
showed an old man in a conventional suit of armour. He did not recognise
the face or remember any like it.... He filled himself another bumper of
claret, and followed it with a little brandy. This latter was noble
stuff, by which he would abide. His sense of ease and security returned.
He pushed the papers farther over, sweeping the ring with them, and set
his elbows on the table, a gentleman warm, dry, and content, but much
befogged in the brain.
He raised his eyes to see the far door open and three men enter. The
sight brought him to his feet with a start, and his chair clattered on
the oak boards. He made an attempt at a bow, backing steadily towards
the fireplace and his old coat.
The faces of the new-comers exhibited the most lively surprise. All
three were young, and bore marks of travel, for though they had doffed
their riding coats, they were splashed to the knees with mud and their
unpowdered hair lay damp on their shoulders. One was a very dark man who
might have been a Spaniard but for his blue eyes. The second was a mere
boy with a ruddy face and eyes full of dancing merriment. The third was
tall and red-haired, tanned of countenance and lean as a greyhound.
He wore trews of a tartan which Mr. Lovel, trained in such matters,
recognised as that of the house of Atholl.
Of the three he only recognised the leader, and the recognition sobered
him. This was that Talbot, commonly known from his swarthiness as the
Crow, who was Ormonde's most trusted lieutenant. He had once worked with
him; he knew his fierce temper, his intractable honesty. His bemused
wits turned desperately to concocting a conciliatory tale.
But he seemed to be unrecognised. The three stared at him in wild-eyed
amazement.
“Who the devil are you, sir?” the Highlander stammered.
Mr. Lovel this time brought off his bow. “A stormstayed traveller,” he
said, his eyes fawning, “who has stumbled on this princely hospitality.
My name at your honour's service is Gabriel Lovel.”
There was a second of dead silence and then the boy laughed. It was
merry laughter and broke in strangely on the tense air of the room.
“Lovel,” he cried, and there was an Irish burr in his speech. “Lovel!
And that fool Jobson mistook it for Lovat! I mistrusted the tale,
for Simon is too discreet even in his cups to confess his name in a
changehouse. It seems we have been stalking the cailzie-cock and found a
common thrush.”
The dark man Talbot did not smile. “We had good reason to look for
Lovat. Widrington had word from London that he was on his way to the
north by the west marches. Had we found him we had found a prize, for he
will play hell with Mar if he crosses the Highland line. What say you,
Lord Charles?”
The Highlander nodded. “I would give my sporran filled ten times with
gold to have my hand on Simon. What devil's luck to be marching south
with that old fox in our rear!”
The boy pulled up a chair to the table. “Since we have missed the big
game, let us follow the less. I'm for supper, if this gentleman will
permit us to share a feast destined for another. Sit down, sir, and fill
your glass. You are not to be blamed for not being a certain Scots lord.
Lovel, I dare say, is an honester name than Lovat!”
But Talbot was regarding the traveller with hard eyes. “You called him
a thrush, Nick, but I have a notion he is more of a knavish jackdaw. I
have seen this gentleman before. You were with Ormonde?”
“I had once the honour to serve his Grace,” said Lovel, still feverishly
trying to devise a watertight tale.
“Ah, I remember now. You thought his star descending and carried your
wares to the other side. And who is your new employer, Mr. Lovel? His
present Majesty?”
His glance caught the papers on the table and he swept them towards him.
“What have we here?” and his quick eye scanned the too legible
handwriting. Much was in cipher and contractions, but some names stood
out damningly. In that month of October in that year 1715 “Ke” could
only stand for “Kenmure” and “Ni” for “Nithsdale.”
Mr. Lovel made an attempt at dignity.
“These are my papers, sir,” he blustered. “I know not by what authority
you examine them.” But his protest failed because of the instability of
his legs, on which his potations early and recent had suddenly a fatal
effect. He was compelled to collapse heavily in the arm-chair by the
hearth.
“I observe that the gentleman has lately been powdering his hair,” said
the boy whom they called Nick.
Mr. Lovel was wroth. He started upon the usual drunkard's protestations,
but was harshly cut short by Talbot.
“You ask me my warrant 'Tis the commission of his Majesty King James in
whose army I have the honour to hold a command.”
He read on, nodding now and then, pursing his mouth at a word, once
copying something on to his own tablets. Suddenly he raised his head.
“When did his Grace dismiss you?” he asked.
Now Ormonde had been the Duke last spoken of, but Mr. Lovel's precarious
wits fell into the trap. He denied indignantly that he had fallen from
his master's favour.
A grim smile played round Talbot's mouth.
“You have confessed,” he said. Then to the others: “This fellow is one of
Malbrouck's pack. He has been nosing in the Scotch westlands. Here are
the numbers of Kenmure and Nithsdale to enable the great Duke to make up
his halting mind. See, he has been with Roxburghe too.... We have a spy
before us, gentlemen, delivered to our hands by a happy incident. Whig
among the sectaries and with Stair and Roxburghe, and Jacobite among our
poor honest folk, and wheedling the secrets out of both sides to sell
to one who disposes of them at a profit in higher quarters. Faug! I know
the vermin. An honest Whig like John Argyll I can respect and fight, but
for such rats as this--What shall we do with it now that we have trapped
it?”
“Let it go,” said the boy, Nick Wogan. “The land crawls with them and
we cannot go rat-hunting when we are aiming at a throne.” He picked up
Lovel's ring and spun it on a finger tip. “The gentleman has found more
than news in the north. He has acquired a solid lump of gold.”
The implication roused Mr. Lovel out of his embarrassment. “I wear
the ring by right. I had it from my father.” His voice was tearful with
offended pride
“The creature claims gentility,” said Talbot, as he examined the trinket.
“Lovel you call yourself. But Lovel bears barry nebuly or chevronels.
This coat has three plain charges. Can you read them, Nick, for my eyes
are weak! I am curious to know from whom he stole it.”
The boy scanned it closely. “Three of something I think they are
fleur-de-lys, which would spell Montgomery. Or lions' heads, maybe, for
Buchan?”
He passed it to Lord Charles, who held it to a candle's light. “Nay, I
think they are Cummin garbs. Some poor fellow dirked and spoiled.”
Mr. Lovel was outraged and forgot his fears. He forgot, indeed, most
things which he should have remembered. He longed only to establish his
gentility in the eyes of those three proud gentlemen. The liquor was
ebbing in him and with it had flown all his complacence. He felt small
and mean and despised, and the talents he had been pluming himself on an
hour before had now shrunk to windlestraws.
“I do assure you, sirs,” he faltered, “the ring is mine own. I had it
from my father, who had it from his. I am of an ancient house, though
somewhat decayed.”
His eyes sought those of his inquisitors with the pathos of a dog.
But he saw only hostile faces--Talbot's grave and grim, Lord Charles'
contemptuous, the boy's smiling ironically.
“Decayed, indeed,” said the dark man, “pitifully decayed. If you be
gentle the more shame on you.”
Mr. Lovel was almost whining. “I swear I am honest. I do my master's
commissions and report what I learn.”
“Aye, sir, but how do you learn it? By playing the imposter and winning
your way into an unsuspecting confidence. To you friendship is a tool
and honour a convenience. You cheat in every breath you draw. And what a
man gives you in his innocence may bring him to the gallows. By God! I'd
rather slit throats on a highway for a purse or two than cozen men to
their death by such arts as yours.”
In other circumstances Mr. Lovel might have put up a brazen defence, but
now he seemed to have lost assurance. “I do no ill,” was all he could
stammer, “for I have no bias. I am for no side in politics.”
“So much the worse. A man who spies for a cause in which he believes
may redeem by that faith a dirty trade. But in cold blood you practise
infamy.”
The night was growing wilder, and even in that sheltered room its echoes
were felt. Wind shook the curtains and blew gusts of ashes from the
fire. The place had become bleak and tragic and Mr. Lovel felt the
forlornness in his bones. Something had woke in him which shivered the
fabric of a lifetime. The three faces, worn, anxious, yet of a noble
hardihood, stirred in him a strange emotion. Hopes and dreams, long
forgotten, flitted like spectres across his memory. He had something to
say, something which demanded utterance, and his voice grew bold.
“What do you know of my straits?” he cried. “Men of fortune like you! My
race is old, but I never had the benefit of it. I was bred in a garret
and have all my days been on nodding terms with starvation.... What
should I know about your parties? What should I care for Whig and Tory
or what king has his hinderend on the throne? Tell me in God's name how
should such as I learn loyalty except to the man who gives me gold to
buy food and shelter? Heaven knows I have never betrayed a master while
I served him.”
The shabby man with the lean face had secured an advantage. For a moment
the passion in his voice dominated the room.
“Cursed if this does not sound like truth,” said the boy, and his eyes
were almost friendly.
But Talbot did not relax.
“By your own confession you are outside the pale of gentility. I do not
trouble to blame you, but I take leave to despise you. By your grace,
sir, we will dispense with your company.”
The ice of his scorn did not chill the strange emotion which seemed
to have entered the air. The scarecrow by the fire had won a kind of
dignity.
“I am going,” he said. “Will you have the goodness to send for my
horse?... If you care to know, gentleman, you have cut short a
promising career.... To much of what you say I submit. You have spoken
truth--not all the truth, but sufficient to unman me. I am a rogue by
your reckoning, for I think only of my wages. Pray tell me what moves
you to ride out on what at the best is a desperate venture?”
There was nothing but sincerity in the voice, and Talbot answered.
“I fight for the King ordained by God and for a land which cannot
flourish under the usurper. My loyalty to throne, Church, and fatherland
constrains me.”
Lovel's eye passed to Lord Charles. The Highlander whistled very softly
a bar or two of a wild melody with longing and a poignant sorrow in it.
“That,” he said. “I fight for the old ways and the old days that are
passing.”
Nick Wogan smiled. “And I for neither--wholly. I have a little of Talbot
in me and more of Charles. But I strike my blow for romance--the little
against the big, the noble few against the base many. I am for youth
against all dull huckstering things.”
Mr. Lovel bowed. “I am answered. I congratulate you, gentlemen, on your
good fortune. It is my grief that I do not share it. I have not Mr.
Talbot's politics, nor am I a great Scotch lord, nor have I the felicity
to be young.... I would beg you not to judge me harshly.”
By this time he had struggled into his coat and boots He stepped to the
table and picked up the papers.
“By your leave,” he said, and flung them into the fire.
“You were welcome to them,” said Talbot. “Long ere they got to
Marlborough they would be useless.”
“That is scarcely the point,” said Lovel “I am somewhat dissatisfied
with my calling and contemplate a change.”
“You may sleep here if you wish,” said Lord Charles.
“I thank you, but I am no fit company for you. I am better on the road.”
Talbot took a guinea from his purse “Here's to help your journey,” he
was saying, when Nick Wogan flushing darkly, intervened. “Damn you,
James don't be a boor,” he said.
The boy picked up the ring and offered it to Mr. Lovel as he passed
through the door. He also gave him his hand.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The traveller spurred his horse into the driving rain, but he was
oblivious of the weather. When he came to Brampton he discovered to his
surprise that he had been sobbing. Except in liquor, he had not wept
since he was a child.