by John Buchan
This he found to be a straggling place with one great inn in the middle, and a little church in a wood of birches at the end. His limbs were so weary that he would fain have gone straight to the inn and found supper and a soft bed; but he reflected that he must husband his money and find humbler quarters in some shed of hay. But first he had need of meat, so to the inn-kitchen he went and ordered a modest meal, which he ate ravenously. The room was full of men, taling hastily in a rich haze of tobacco-smoke, and the stranger’s entrance passed unnoticed. But Francis, weary as he was, could not keep from catching scraps of their conversation. In all a note of fear seemed dominant. Words—”the Hielandmen,” “Chairlie,” and a throng of ill-pronounced Gaelic names — occurred again and again till he was perforce roused to interest. Some great event must have happened since the morning, for the taking of Edinburgh was news already old. He touched the nearest speaker on the arm, and with his best politeness asked the cause of the uproar.
“Whaur d’ ye come frae?” said the man, with the Lowland trick of answering with a new question.
“I’m frae the South,” said Francis, “a wearty traivel I have had. But I’ve heard no word of anything, so I beg ye to tell me.”
“Weel, it’s just this. The lad they ca’ the Prince has lickit Johnnie Cope and the redcoats the day at Prestonpans, and the hale land is like to be fou o’ skirlin’ Hielandmen.”
Here was news. Francis’ eye brightened, and he was for asking more. But the man had had enough of speaking to an ignorant stranger, and once more he was in the heat of debate, the subject apparently being an abstruse calculation of the time it would take this new power to give the land to the Pope.
“Sune,” said a grave old man, “sune we’ll see the fair eedifeece o’ the Kirk coupit, and the whure o’ Babylon, as ye micht say, uphaudin’ her heid amang the ruins.”
“Sune,” said a Laodicean, “we’ll see something mair serious, a wheen men wi’ red heids and naething on but sarks routin’ ilka decent man out o’ house and hame.”
Thereupon some eyes began to turn to Francis as the last comer and a probable centre of suspicion. His clothing marked him for higher quality than a countryman, and something ragged and desolate in his whole appearance might argue the Jacobite.
“What side are ye on, mannie?” one asked him.
“None. I am for my own hand,” said Francis, truly, as he thought of his ill-fated incursion into high politics; and with brief good-night he rose to go.
The night had fallen with a great air of dew and freshness, and without in the village street the smoke smelled pleasantly in the nostrils, and the noise of the stream rose loud in the silence. From afar, as from the city, came an echo of a great stir, drums beating, maybe from the Castle, or the pipers playing briskly over the victory. The sense of his desolation, his folly, the ruin of his hopes, smote heavily on Francis in this starry quiet. And with it all his weariness was so deep that it all but drowned the other; and finding a shed at the village-end he lay down on a pillow of hay and was soon asleep.
He was wakened about nine in the morning by a heavy hand pulling at his coat. He stared sleepily and saw a man in the act of yoking a cart-horse, and another pulling his pillow from below his head. They were ready to abuse him for a gangrel, but something in his appearance as he rose stopped their tongues, and they gruffly assented as he gave them good-morning and went out to the open. Half a mile further on the road he bathed head and shoulders in a passing stream, and then, with some degree of freshness, set his face to the six mile road to the town. Again the day had risen fair, and all the way, beneath the ancient trees or through fields of old pasture, was fragrant with autumn scents. The electric air quickened him against his will, and he strode briskly along the curving highway till it dipped over a shoulder of hill to the city’s edge.
That the place was in a ferment was clear from the din heard even at that distance, — the intermittent notes of bugles, the drone of pipes from different quarters, and at intervals the rattle of a drum. Francis found no guard set; doubtless in the great panic of the one party and the first jubilation of the other precautions had not yet entered men’s minds. The cluster of little hamlets which lay around the city’s extremities seemed quiet and desert; doubtless all and sundry were even now adding their share to the main confusion. But when once he had entered the streets there was a different tale to tell. Never before had he seen the Highland dress on any number of men, and now the sight of bright tartans and fierce dark faces, as with a great air of triumph Macdonalds and Camerons hastened along the causeway, affected him with wonder and delight. The honest burgesses wore woful countenances, as they saw trade gone and gains lessened. The graver and more religious deplored the abomination at street corners in muffled tones for fear of the passing victors; while the younger sort, to whom the whole was a fine stage play, talked excitedly of the deeds of yesterday, the tales which rumour had already magnified. Francis heard names occur in the snatches of talk, names of Grants, Thrieplands, and Ogilvies, linked with stories of daring. The ferment was too high to admit of formalities, and each man joined the first group of strangers and bore his part in the frightened gossip. In this way he heard the tale of the fleeing band of dragoons racing for the Castle with a single Highlandman at their heels, of the gate shut in his face and his defiant dirk stuck in the oaken panels. Confused tales of rank Hanoverian cowardice, the superhuman daring of the Prince’s men, were diversified with wild speculating on the ultimate course of things. The Prince was already on his way to the capital, and in twelve hours the world would be turned topsy-turvy.
In all the stir Francis found himself in the position of a melancholy alien. He had no share in this triumph, no share even in the consolation of defeat. In all this babble of great deeds and brave men he must remain untouched, for had he not failed lamentably alike in loyalty and knavery? He was a mere popinjay, a broken reed, and to his unquiet sight there lurked a sneer in every passer’s eye as if they divined his worthlessness. The man grew acutely miserable. This was his own city, his home; somewhere in this place his mother and sisters dwelled; the streets were sprinkled with his aforetime comrades. And he loathed them all: at the mere thought of his boyhood with its dreams of future bravado and its puerile vices, he sickened with disgust. Indeed this honest gentleman was fast approaching that attitude towards life which ends in its renouncement.
He drifted aimlessly to the end of the town where the streets were thronged to meet the coming army. The Camerons, who had marched straight from the battle, were there to meet them, and a host of great ladies and little lords with the Jacobite favours on their breasts and knots of white ribbon at bridle and sword-hilt. Even as he stood staring with lacklustre eyes at the sight, there rose through the lower gate the brisk music of the pipes and the tread of many men. No music has so dominant a note, and yet few are so adaptable. In the hour of death it rises and falls like the wail of a forlorn wind, at a feast it has the drunken gaiety of a Bacchante, and in the lost battle from it there comes the final coronach of vain endeavour. But in triumph it is supreme, a ringing call to action, a pæan over the vanquished, the chant of the heroic. Now with its note went the tramp of feet and the clatter of horses’ hooves, and then up the narrow street came the dusty, war-stained conquerors. A cry of welcome went up from God-fearing citizen and ragged Jacobite alike, for in that moment creeds and practice were forgotten in the common homage to bravery.
But Francis had no eyes for the lines of brown-faced men or the stained and ragged tartans. Among the bright crowd which greeted them were many whom he knew from old days, wits and gentlemen of the town, ladies of fashion, names linked with many tales. In some eyes shone the mere pleasure in a gallant show, some were wild with enthusiasm, some in a caustic humour. My Lord Craigforth kept up running comments with Mrs. Cranstoun of Gair, and the young and witty Miss Menteith chattered to Lady Manorwater with a vivacity too sharp for enthusiasm. Young gentlemen with French elegance in their dress flicked the du
st from their cravats, and smiled with gracious condescension to popular feeling. But others — rosy old lairds from the South and the dark retinue of Highland gentlemen — wore a different air. As the tune of “The King shall enjoy his own again” — a catch long hummed in secret — rose clear and loud in the open street, their feelings rose beyond control, and with tears running down their cheeks those honest enthusiasts joined their prayers for the true King.
But with Lady Manorwater rode another, whom Francis’ eyes followed till she was lost in the thickening crowd. She sat her grey horse and gazed on the advancing troops with eyes so honestly earnest, shining with such clear delight, that the throng on the causeway whispered her name with something like affection. Her bridle and trappings were decked with knots of white ribbon, and on her heart was pinned a cockade of white roses. The face above the dark velvet riding-cloak seemed pale with weariness, — or was it excitement? — and her hand visibly trembled on the rein. The mark of her lash was still on Francis’ cheek, but the sting on his soul smarted a thousand-fold worse. Had she been gay and lively, he would have hated her like death, this woman who had mocked him. But her white face and the glory in her eyes affected him with a sentiment too elusive for words, — a compound of pity and a hopeless emulation of a rare virtue.
He turned from the show down a little alley, and ran as if from the avenger. Soon he came to more empty streets which the people had deserted for the sight of the entering army. He felt himself starving, so at a very little tavern he ordered a meal. But the food choked him, and he left the dish almost untasted. He had no mind to think out a future course, for, at the present, emotion had broken down the last battlements of sober reason. Soon the street grew full again, and he had to bear the scrutiny of many eyes. He had no design in his walking; all he sought was to crush the hot pain of discomfiture which gnawed his heart. Once the coolest and most fearless, he grew as nervous as a woman. He fancied his life lay open like a book to every chance passer; and he detected scorn in idly curious eyes. Sometimes he passed a face he knew, but he waited for no recognition. His whole past life was so hateful to his thoughts that he shunned anything that might recall it. In his wanderings he passed by old haunts of his own, yea, under the very windows of his mother’s house. But old memories had no place in his mind; the dissolution of a scheme of life had crushed out the circumstances of his past. He had room merely for a bitter thought on the farce of this return to his native town; and then his mind was back once more in the dulness of regret.
Toward evening the stir died down, and save for the sight of armed men and the excited talk of street-corners, he felt himself back in the Edinburgh of his youth. His misery only grew the more intolerable, but it seemed to shape to a purpose. He might yet redeem all and play a manful part in life. He had tried the rôle of the adventurer and failed; there yet remained the more difficult path of honour. The portrait of the lady which filled his mind seemed not wholly adamant. He had a dim remembrance of a gleam of pity at the inn, and the white light of enthusiasm at the pageant of the morning. He thought upon his first meeting at the House of Broughton, and her graciousness, which then had roused his bitterness, seemed now his one hope of salvation. Before his pride had been his manliest attribute; now he realised clearly and mournfully that the time had come to humble himself to virtue. It was a grievous thought to the arrogant nature, but as he wandered through the streets in the late afternoon he was compelled inexorably to submit. And as a purpose shaped itself his humility grew deeper, till it brought him to unconditional surrender.
In the High Street he asked of a Highlander the way to the lodging of Murray of Broughton. The man told him, adding that the Secretary was with the Prince at the Palace of Holyrood. The news gave him hope, and in the September dusk he found the house-door with its watchful sentinel. Even now Francis’ appearance was not discreditable: his clothes were good though sore worn, and he had just the figure that a poor loyalist would bear whose intentions were better than his fortunes. So the guard suffered him to pass, and the serving-man led him down a dark passage to a hall of some size and elegance. He was told that the Secretary’s wife did much of her husband’s work, often meeting the throng of visitors who crowded at all hours to the house. Now he was taken for one of those, and the servant opened a door and let him enter.
He found himself in a long dining-room wainscotted in brown oak, and lit by a blazing fire on the hearth. Two candles burned faintly on a table, where sat a lady poring over a great map. She started at his entrance, and then lifting a candle came forward to scan his face. Meantime he was in a pitiable state of fear. He who had once been cool and self-possessed beyond the ordinary, now felt his knees sinking beneath him. Keenly and cruelly he felt the measure of his degradation, and the last rag of pride fell from the skeleton of his hopes.
She glanced at his face and stepped back. Wrath entered her eyes, to be straightway replaced by sheer perplexity. She looked again at the haggard figure before her, waiting for some word to explain his presence. But his tongue was tied, his speech halted and stammered, and he could only look with entreating eyes.
“And what is your errand, sir?” she asked. “Has Lord Manorwater discharged you? I have not yet had time to tell him of your villainy, but doubtless he has found it out elsewhere.”
The words, with the sting of a lackey’s reproach, were the needed stimulant to Francis’ brain.
“I am no servant,” he said, and then hurriedly and brokenly he stammered a word of confession.
The lady drew back with angry eyes.
“And you dare to come to me and tell me this!” she cried. “I had thought it was but greed and a servant’s temptation, and now you cut off your own apology and confess yourself doubly a liar. Do you think to get anything for this penitence? Do you think that the Prince has open arms for all the rabble of the earth? Or do you wish to frighten a woman?” And she laid her hand on a pistol, and stood erect and angry like a tragedy queen.
“I seek nothing,” said Francis, with a groan. “God knows I am not worth your thought.”
“You value yourself well, Mr. What’s-your-name. If I had known you as I know you now, no lash of mine would have touched you. A whipping is for a servant’s fault, which may yet be forgiven. But for such as yours ... And you are made in the likeness of a proper man,” and a note of wonder joined with her contempt.
The wretched Francis stood with bowed head beneath this tempest of scorn. The words fell on dulled ears. His own shame was too heavy on his mind to allow of a poignant feeling. He felt like some ineffectual knocker at a barred door, some vanquished invader trying to scale a hostile parapet. By his own folly he had fallen to a place for ever apart from this proud woman’s ken. He could but cry for pity like a child.
Then she cut short reproaches and looked at him keenly. Perhaps something in his face or his hopeless eyes struck a chord of pity. “What may be your name?” she asked, “if you say you are no servant.”
He told her shortly, though the words burned his lips.
“Birkenshaw,” she cried. “Of the Yarrow Birkenshaws?” And then she fell to musing, looking up at him ever and again with curious eyes. “I have heard the name. Maybe even it is kin to my own. I have heard the name as that of a great and honourable house. And you have lived to defile it!” And for a little she was silent.
“I would to God,” she spoke again, “that you had been Lord Manorwater’s lackey.”
The man said nothing. Deep hidden in his nature was a pride of race and name, the stronger for its secrecy. Now he saw it dragged forth and used as the touchstone for his misdeeds. It was the sharpest weapon in the whole armoury of reproach. For one second he wished himself back in his old temper of mind. Why had he thus debased his manhood to the frigid and finicking virtue of a woman? Not till he looked again at the face of his inquisitor did he find justification for his course.
Again she spoke, but in an altered voice, and Francis seemed to read a hint of mercy.
; “No,” she said, “I was wrong. I am glad you are no lackey. Had you been but a lying servant there had been no room for repentance. But you come of honest folk, you have honest blood in your veins. Gentlemen are none so common that one should be lost in the making.” And she twined her fingers, deep in meditation, looking to the fire with a face from which all anger had departed.
Francis’ clouded soul cleared at this dawn of hope. He watched the pale woman with the marvellous eyes and hair, and a sudden wild exaltation shook him. Sufficient, more than sufficient for him to do the bidding of this great lady who had drawn him from the depths.
“Take me,” he cried. “I am weak and foolish. I have no more sense than a bairn, and I have done the Devil’s work with an empty head. But I swear that this is by and done with.”
“You have made ill work of it in the past, Mr. Birkenshaw,” said the lady. “Will you serve the Prince well, think you, if you have been false to me?”
“I can say nought,” said Francis, “but I beseech you to give me trial.” And then with a touch of old bravado he added, “I am a man who has seen much and can turn my hands and head to many purposes. I will prove myself worth the trusting.”
The lady frowned and tapped with her fingers on the table, looking over his head to the wall beyond. “You have much to learn,” she said gently. “Do you think it is any merit in your services which would make me take you for the Prince?” Then, as if to herself, “It is raw stuff, but it would be a Christian act to help in the shaping of it to honesty.”
Then with a sudden impulse she walked straight up to him and looked in his eyes. “Lay your hand on mine,” she said, “and swear. It is the old oath of my house, maybe, too, of your own. Swear to be true to your word, your God, and your King, to flee from no foe and hurt no friend. Swear by the eagle’s path, the dew, and the King’s soul.”
