by John Buchan
“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.”1
1 “Patriotism having become one of our topicks, Johnson suddenly uttered, in a strong determined tone, an apophthegm, at which many will start: ‘Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.’ But let it be considered, that he did not mean a real and generous love of our country, but that pretended patriotism which so many, in all ages and countries, have made a cloak for self-interest.” — Boswell’s Life of Johnson.
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 f
aither 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.”
CHAPTER 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?”
“I mean to find him, and, when found, to fight with him and kill him.”
“For what reason?”
“Because he is a traitor to my Prince.”
“And yet you did not press for the death of the man Kyd, who was the principal whereas Sir John was but the tool. Come, sir, be honest with me; why is the extreme penalty decreed to the less guilty?”
Alastair did not answer at first. Then he said —
“Because Sir John Norreys is the husband of a lady to whom the knowledge of his true nature would be death.”
“That reply is nearer the truth, but still far from complete honesty.”
Alastair had a sudden flame of wrath. “Do you accuse me of lying?” he asked angrily.
Johnson’s face did not change. “Sir, all men are liars,” he said. “I strive to make you speak truth to your own soul. The death of Sir John is intended merely to save the lady from the pain of disgrace? On your honour, for no other purpose?”
Alastair did not reply. The other sank his harsh voice to a gentler and kindlier pitch, and the hand on the young man’s arm from a menace became a caress.
“I will answer for you. You love the lady. Nay, I do not blame you, for all the world must love her. I love her most deeply, but not as you, for you love with hope, and look some day to make her yours. Therefore you would slay Sir John, and to yourself you say that ‘tis to save her from shame, but before God, you know that ‘tis to rid yours
elf of a rival.”
The man’s eyes were compelling, and his utter honesty was like a fire that burned all shamefastness from the air. Alastair’s silence was assent.
“Sir, a lover seeks above all things the good of his mistress. If indeed you love her — and it is honourable that you should — I implore you to consider further in the matter. We are agreed that it is necessary to save her from the shame of the knowledge of her husband’s treason, for it is a proud lady who would feel disgrace sharper than death. If that were all, I would bid you god-speed, for Sir John’s death would serve that purpose, and you and she are fit mates, being alike young and highly born. After the natural period of mourning was over, you might fairly look to espouse her. But ah, sir, that is not all.”
He got to his feet in his eagerness and stood above the young man, one hand splayed on the table, as he had stood that afternoon at the Sleeping Deer.
“Listen, sir. I have watched that child in her going out and coming in, in her joys and melancholies, in her every mood of caprice and earnestness — watched with the quick eye of one who is half lover, half parent. And I have formed most certain conclusions about that high nature. She trusts but once and that wholly; she will love but once, and that with a passion like a consuming fire. If she knew the truth about Sir John, she would never trust mankind again. On that we are agreed. But I go further, sir. If she lost him, she would never love another, but go inconsolable to her grave. It is the way of certain choice spirits.”
Alastair made a gesture of dissent.
“Sir, did you not hear her singing?” Johnson asked. “Answer me, heard you ever such a joy of surrender in a mortal voice?”
Alastair could not deny it, for the passionate trilling was still in his ear.
“But your reasoning is flawed,” he said. “Granted that my Lady Norreys has given her love once and for all; yet if Sir John remain alive she will presently discover his shame, and for the rest of her days be tormented with honour wounded through affection.”
