The Span o' Life: A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec. William McLennan
callant's safety, in a week or so at most, I hope. I will take ship from Harwich, and you shall journey with us as my servant, my courier.”
“Do you think that is absolutely necessary, cousin?”
“Hughie, Hughie, how long will you continue to walk with Vanity?”
“Just so long as I must lie down with Adversity, cousin. Cannot you understand it is humiliating for a man of my condition to go masquerading about the country as a lackey?”
“Not so readily as I can understand the awkwardness of being laid by the heels, Master Hughie. Now don't have any more nonsense! Do you start off this very night for Huntingdon, and lie at the Bell Inn there, until you hear from me. It will not be for more than a week. Let me see, yes, 'Simpkin' will be a good name for you.”
“Do I look like Simpkin?” I returned, indignantly.
“My certes, no! You look more like the Grand Turk at the moment,” she answered, laughing. “But you must conceal your rank, my lord, by your modesty and 'Mr. Simpkin,' until I can offer it a more effective covering in a suit of bottle-green livery.”
“I trust your ladyship will not require any reference as to character?”
“It is written on your face, sir. There! I will countersign it for you,” whereat she put her two hands on my cheeks and kissed me.
“'Pon my soul, Cousin Jane, I don't wonder the men raved over you!” I said, in admiration.
“No, poor things, it doesn't take much to set them off at the best of times. But do not begin your flatteries, Hughie; even age is no warrant for common-sense when it meets with old gratifications. Be off, now, and get back here for supper, ready for your travels.”
I hurried off to my old lodgings, and soon made such preparation for my journey as was necessary.
When I parted from Mistress Routh I said: “I have learned during the time spent under your roof how irrevocable your resolve is, and have accepted it as absolutely as yourself, but now that I am going away from England, which I shall probably never set foot in again, and it is still more probable that we may never meet, I have one promise to exact which you cannot refuse. It is presumable my way in life will be in some degree successful, and that my son may some day need such aid as I may be able to give him; he is yours while you live, but promise me when your time comes you will tell him who his father is. Because you have chosen a different way of life from mine, do not be tempted to allow the boy to go to strangers when you know he has a heart waiting to love and cherish him. I have never done a dishonourable action in my life, so far as I can judge, and, if only for his sake, I will always try and keep my conscience free to make the same affirmation. A message to Mr. Drummond, the banker, in Charing Cross, will always find me. Can you refuse?”
“No; it is only justice. Your claim comes after mine. I promise I will not die without telling the boy who you are.”
For herself she resolutely refused to take a shilling more than was due for my lodging, but I succeeded in forcing her acceptance of a matter of twenty pounds, the last of my own money, not Lady Jane's, to be used for the boy. She stood beside me silent and unmoved while I kissed him in his sleep, and when I parted from her she said, “Good-bye, Captain Geraldine,” with a composure I fain would have assumed myself, but it was impossible.
The supper at Lady Jane's was gay enough, even the Vicomte contributing his modicum of entertainment, no doubt stimulated thereto by the thought of my near departure, and surely, when a man may give pleasure by his goings as well as by his comings, he is in a position to be envied. I sang Jacobite songs that evening with an expression that would have carried conviction to the Duke of Cumberland himself, and when I took my departure with the Vicomte after midnight, I left a veritable hot-bed of sedition behind.
My companion, though outwardly civil, took my little pleasantries with so ill a grace that I was in a measure prepared for his words at our parting before the coach-office.
“Chevalier, you are a man of many charming parts; I trust you will long be spared to exercise them in quarters where they may fail to give offence to any one.”
“My dear Vicomte,” I replied, “Providence has bestowed on me only my poor talents, but has not granted me the power to provide appreciation in others. Still, if you should feel at any time that I am answerable for your personal short-comings, do not, I pray, let any false delicacy stand in your way. I should be complimented in sustaining such an argument.” At which he only bowed in his stateliest manner, and wishing me a safe journey, bent his steps towards St. James's Street.
I must confess such a quarrel would have been infinitely to my taste, but unfortunately there would have been no satisfaction to me, even had I pushed it to a successful issue. My way towards Margaret was stopped by a much more serious obstacle than any man who ever drew sword. Did the Vicomte but know this, possibly my connection with Lady Jane might not have appeared to him so radical a reason for keeping the peace between us. With these thoughts and others germane to them I whiled away the time until the coach was ready, and at the dead hour of two in the morning we rolled out of London on our way to Huntingdon, where we arrived at eight the following evening.
I put up at the Bell, which was comfortable enough, and made shift to employ my time through the long week before me in some manner that would reasonably account for my stay in a dull country town which offered no attractions to a man of fashion.
At length my letters reached me, and my gorge rose at the address:
Mr. Simpkin, Lying at the Bell Inn, Huntingdon.
Now it had never cost me a second thought to travel as a pedlar when making my escape from Scotland, but this wishy-washy nonentity of a name annoyed me beyond measure. Think you, did ever “Mr. Simpkin” salute at Fontenoy, or make a leg at Marly? I doubt it. Nor is it strange that a man, with no more vanity than myself, should find some little vexation at the perversity of Lady Jane in fastening this ridicule upon me. That it was intentional I could not doubt from her letter, for she rallied me upon it at every turn she could drag in. However, I had the consolation that I was to join her forthwith at Harwich, and my journey across the country over bad roads with a pair of wretched nags gave me more material discomforts to rail at, and by these means I brought myself to a frame of mind that I could at least imagine Lady Jane's enjoyment of her childish jest.
When I reached Newmarket, I found, to my disgust, it was impossible to go forward again that night, but was on the road bright and early the next morning; however, it was evening before I was set down at a decent-looking inn beside an arm of the sea, across which I saw the spires of Harwich twinkling a welcome to me in the setting sun.
Having settled with the post-boys, I desired the land-lord to attend me within.
“I see you have boats there, which is fortunate, for I wish to be set across the water at once,” I said, on his entry.
“That is impossible, your honour; it is too late.”
“Nonsense, my man. There is for a bottle of your best, and enough to make up to you my not remaining overnight. I must set off at once!”
“But, your honour, it can't be done. No boat is allowed to cross after sunset. The frigate lying there is for no other purpose than to prevent it. 'Tis on account of the smuggling.”
“Don't talk such rank nonsense to me, sir. Do I look like a smuggler?”
“No, your honour, you do not, so far as I can judge.”
“Then come, my man, I must be put across.”
“Oh, sir, 'tis of no use; I should be a ruined man,” cried the poor-spirited creature, almost snivelling.
Seeing this, I tried him on a new tack. “You scoundrel!” said I, laying my hand on my sword and advancing towards him threateningly, “if you fail to have me on my way before half an hour is over, I'll pink the soul out of you.”
“Oh Lord, sir, have a care what you do!”